of red and green or white birds instead of sparrows and pigeons.
Most of the trees in the gardens were fruit trees from home, but there were a few of the ‘bush’ trees, blue-green with high thin tops. The smoke from the chimneys smelt different too. Wood smoke, he reckoned, not coke or coal like London. You could hardly see it against the too-blue sky once it left the chimneys.
Here and there people with dark skins and black hair, their feet bare and their clothes in rags, squatted against fences. Billy looked at them curiously. He’d heard there were naked savages called Indians in New South Wales. But the rags these people wore were the remains of clothes you’d see on any East London street.
At first the street was filled with traffic: bullock drays like their own, carts and horses. The horses looked better fed than most of the ones Billy had known. Most of ‘em were good quality nags, draughthorses with good strong hocks, or gentlemen’s hacks well groomed and shiny. Billy tried to see Jem’s cart among the others, but it was either too far ahead or had gone up one of the side roads.
The houses grew grander the further they travelled. They had gardens with flowers in ‘em now, and paddocks for horses or milk cows or goats. Dogs barked; horses looked curiously over sapling fences.
The bullocks plodded hypnotically. Billy’s eyes closed. He didn’t want to sleep; after so many months of blackness he wanted to drink in everything he could see and smell and hear. But his body was weak.
He slept.
Dusk was falling when he opened his eyes again. He’d been pillowed on the lumpy sacks. He felt stiff; his eyes were sore; his body ached; and his skin felt hot from so much sunlight.
But the air were cool. It smelt different from the harbour here, of trees and bullocks, not the salt smell of the sea and whale oil from the ships. He sat up and stretched.
The dray were no longer moving. The bullocks had been unhitched, and were drinking at a stream. He could see a hut not far away, with smoke coming from its chimney. There were other drays stopped in front of them and behind, the animals grazing or drinking.
Where were Roman John? And then he saw him, sitting at a small fire by the dray.
‘Finally woke up, have you? It’s all right, boy. It’ll take you a few weeks to get your strength back. You’re young, at least. Some of the older men never get over the voyage. Hungry?’
Billy nodded, and slid off the dray. His legs still felt unsteady. He sat next to the welcome warmth of the flames. The fire smelt odd. It must be the wood, he thought. A different land, and different trees.
‘Where are we?’
‘Springwood. We camp here for the night. The animals need to be fresh for the haul up the mountain tomorrow. Here.’ Roman John used a stick to poke something from the edge of the fire toward him.
It was a potato, the skin black but the inside warm and floury. If it had been cooler he’d have gulped it down. Billy nibbled it, tossing it from hand to hand so it didn’t burn him, grateful for both the heat and food.
‘Plenty more.’ Roman John poked another across to him. ‘I put in enough for breakfast and tomorrow’s lunch too. Can’t be bothered making damper.’ He nodded at the hut. ‘The driver’s in there, and more fool him. His plate of stew and tankard of rotgut’ll cost him as much as a good sow, then as soon as he’s drunk they’ll try to pick his pockets. We’re better off out here, where I can keep an eye on the dray.’
Billy nodded. He wondered if there were aught in the driver’s pockets worth nabbing. But they’d know it were him, sure as eggs. He felt his eyes closing again.
‘Sleep, boy. There’s empty sacks. Wrap yourself up and get underneath the dray. Reckon it’s going to rain tonight.’ He sighed. ‘Just what we don’t need—rain and mountains. But you can’t choose the weather. I’ll sit here a while before I join you.’
A strange bird was sitting on a