We been working down at the harbour breaking rocks. The governor want to build a semicircular quay, a long wall that going reach from The Rocks all the way to Sydney Cove. One day while we worked, the wind changed, bring with it cold air, one of the southerly them. Not just cold air, but plenty rain that came down sudden, made it hard to pack up tools, forced us to find shelter. A few hours later, the rain still coming, thankfully no more work that day. But the overseer made us clank our way back to the barracks, the raggedy clothes we wearing soaked through, wet to the skin. And every time after that, when we got sent out to work, the wind came up and the rain started in again. James began to look very poorly, but him said nothing, just kept on working.

When James don’t move out him hammock, the overseer come over, prod him in the foot with him baton.

‘What’s the matter with you, man? Feigning sickness today, is it?’

‘Sick, bad,’ James say, before him start to cough, shiver and shake again.

The overseer keep shouting at him to get up, but James can’t, just beg for water. The overseer come to see him really sick, order me to take him next door to the hospital.

I get very troubled when I see how weak James is. It take a long time to help him down the three floors into the courtyard, specially with all the other convicts rushing down the stairs, shoving us aside. When we get outside I let him slip off me shoulder into a little patch of sunlight on the step while I go in search of a wheelbarrow. Must be a funny sight, me pushing the barrow down the road with James curled up all sweating, shaking inside. It take me mind back to little Pell, him funny smiling face, all battered and bruised as I pushed him in that wheelbarrow up the hill to Calla hut. Him must be long time dead by now.

When we reach the hospital, the doctor put James in a sick bed, lock me up in a cell, in case I catch whatever sickness James carrying. The next day, nothing wrong with me, so I get sent back to the barracks.

A week go by, still no sight of James. I start to worry. Ask the overseer if him know anything. All him do is shout at me to get back to work.

Night after night, laying in me hammock, waiting to see if James going live or die, the shadow fear rise up, make him presence known, sit deep in me bowels. Make me toss and turn, fill up me insides with a worry that gnaw at the jagged edges. Every time that number clock strike, the fear get bigger, tighten its grip, and I can’t shake it.