I opened up a leather pouch I kept hidden under me shirt and laid out the silver coins I been saving. Threw the coins down on top of the map, and they landed smack right in the middle of me plot of land. Too late to turn back.

A few days later, just before dawn, I was off, leaving the town of Goulburn behind, sitting high up in front of a wooden cart, packed down with me meagre belongings, pulled by two old horses, nags I bargained for in the Sunday market. Paid a small price since nobody else wanted them. Spent time talking kindly to them, gave them a good feed and a strong brushing, just like how James Smith showed me to do. Still a bit frail, but I know how to make them better and the cart not so heavy so everything going be all right.

It took us a whole day to travel halfway along the Great South Road, till was too dark to see, so I set up camp, bedded down for the night. Slept fitfully with the musket by me side. Woke to the sound of magpies warbling, feeding them squawking young. Drank tea and watched as the night sky started to wane and the sun lifted himself up to start another day.

Hitching up the horses, I set out early, eager to see if I gambled on a seller honest and true, or if Archie Wilson going turn out to be a cheating, lying one. The second day dragged on and I started to see less and less homesteads, made me start to worry and fret. Started to talk to the horses as they clopped along, except after a while even the talking and the clopping no longer soothed me.

In the fading light, I finally saw a signpost. Reined the horses in. Jumped down to see if the words matched the words on the paper Wilson gave me. Mullins Creek. At last!

The third day me spirits lifted even higher when I passed the ravine Wilson told me bout, came to a track veering off to the left. Travelled along it, scouring the landscape from me wooden perch for any sign of red. Had to stop a few times to tie down me belongings that got loose and rattled round in the cart as I creaked along on what turned into a dusty dirt trail, scarcely even a bullock track, a track meant to be a road.

Me spirits were low when in the distance I saw at long last the abandoned homestead. And there, standing a little way away, just like Wilson said, the windmill came into view, broken down and beaten by the weather, but still with its slash of red paint.

I stirred up the horses even though, like me, them was very tired and in need of resting.

‘Just a little more, me beauties,’ I cooed to them. ‘Just a little further till we reach our new home.’