“I can’t stop thinking about poor Leenie, tumbling over,” Olive said, looking down at Ruby as she nursed. “I see her in this one’s face and it breaks me heart.”

After a few minutes, Dunne made his way over to them. He brought the Quakers’ bundle, the needle and thread and Bible that Hazel had left in the surgeon’s quarters. “I didn’t know if you wanted these.”

She shrugged. “I don’t have much use for a Bible, to be honest.”

“Maybe you’ll find some use for this.” He handed her his copy of The Tempest.

She looked at him with surprise. “It breaks up your set, Dr. Dunne.”

“Perhaps I shall get it back one day.”

“Ye do know where to find me,” she said.

The sky lightened, washing everything in a grayish tinge. Rain fell steadily. From her seat in the rowboat, Hazel gazed back across the water at the ship. It looked small and ordinary from this distance—no longer the terrifying hulk that loomed over her when she’d seen it from the skiff in London. As she sat there, contemplating how far she’d come, she saw a wiry man in shackles being led down the ramp to the boats. Buck, she realized. Following them ashore.

She nudged Olive, sitting beside her. “Look who’s out here.”

“Should’ve murdered him when we had the chance,” Olive said under her breath.

Hobart Town, 1840

Hazel’s legs wobbled when she stepped out of the boat and onto the dock. She hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to the rhythm of the waves until she was on solid ground, unable to find her footing. Afraid of losing her balance and dropping Ruby, she fell to her knees. All around her, women were doing the same.

By the time all 192 women and children had been ferried over and marched across the rickety causeway to the wharf, it was midmorning. Hazel looked at the gulls circling overhead, the fog wallowing on the sea behind them. Listened to the tide ramp against the shore, a low, rhythmic roar. A cool breeze came off the water, twisting up her skirt and winding between her legs. She tucked the blanket around Ruby and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

As they made their way across the slick cobblestones of the wharf, Hazel became aware of a strange whooping noise. A crowd of rough-looking men was moving toward them. Coming closer, they leered at the women, grabbing their skirts, waving hats in their faces, calling them names Hazel had never heard before, even on the streets of Glasgow.

“Look a’ that flash bit o’ mutton! . . . nasty bunters . . . stinkin’ fish drabs . . . moon-eyed hens . . . dirty cracks . . .”

“Droolin’ animals,” Olive muttered, behind Hazel. “Can’t abide that we’re heading to prison instead of warming their beds.”

The women shuffled along, looking down, trying to avoid the muddy puddles in the dirt road, pushing the men back with their elbows. Behind them, soldiers in scarlet uniforms carrying muskets on their shoulders stood watching. “Let’s go, pick it up!” they yelled. The soldiers pushed the women roughly if they got out of line and pulled them to their feet if they tripped and fell, their hands lingering too long on waists and backsides.