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Note to Readers
Crouching down, George Fitzgerald took a handful of earth and let it trickle through his fingers. The earth here wasn’t like anywhere else in the world—and he’d stopped off in many countries during the long voyage back to Australia. It was thick and fertile and smelt of home. It felt good to be home, good to have the warmth of the sun on his face and the sound of the sea behind him. Three long years he’d been gone and now he was eager to get back to his farm, to get back to a normal life.
Sydney had changed in the time he’d been away. There were more buildings, more people, and as he walked away from the port he felt an optimism for his country that he hadn’t for a long time. It was as though people had finally realised this fledgling colony was here to stay and one day might be more than just a place to send those England had sentenced to transportation.
George was just crossing the road, heading north-west to start the long and dusty journey out of Sydney and back to his farm when he heard a scream so piercing it made him stop in his tracks. Five seconds passed and then ten, then there was another cry, even more desperate than the last. Another and another passed in quick succession, each followed by a loud sob.
Quickly he ran down the street, dodging the children playing and the women bustling through the town, rounding the corner just as he heard another agonised scream. He slowed as he came up against a small crowd, gathered around watching the spectacle in front of them, muttering uneasily. This time the crack of the whip was unmistakable, coming just a fraction of a second before the woman’s cry of pain.
George took in the scene. Tied to a post was a young woman, her age difficult to tell as her head was lolling forward, her face covered by thick tresses of hair. Her dress had been ripped at the back, exposing pale skin crisscrossed with the marks of the whip. Some of the lashes had broken the skin and blood dripped down in crimson droplets. The guard brandishing the whip had a serious expression on his face, but as he drew back his arm for another lash George could see he was relishing the power he held over the woman tied in front of him. She would get no mercy from that quarter.
Before the rational part of his brain could stop him, George sprang forward, parting the crowd and placing himself between the guard and the woman. He shot out a hand, grabbing the whip just before the guard could flick it, stopping it in mid-air. His hand was wrenched forward, but he managed to stand his ground, planting his feet firmly and bracing his shoulders.
For a moment the guard just looked at him with surprise.
‘Move away,’ he growled after a few seconds.
‘She’s had enough,’ George said, his voice calm and his manner polite, but he knew the guard would see the steel in his eyes.
‘What
