Prologue
Pitt Town, New South Wales, 1846
The old man’s hand lay open on the blanket.
Harry Kable had seen that hand on reins and rope, on account books, pewter mugs, axe handles, timber, paper, coin, a woman’s hand, a child’s shoulder and, long ago, the rail of the ship that had carried them to the far side of the world. Now it lay still, the fingers bent a little from age and use, the nails thickened, the skin darkened by sun and weather.
Outside, a magpie called from the fence post. Somewhere beyond the house a cow struck its hoof against a rail. The sound came through the thin wall with the morning light and the smell of damp earth.
Harry sat beside the bed and listened to his father breathe.
It was not a grand sound. Not a founder’s sound. Not the sound men used when they told stories in inns and parlours about convicts becoming landholders, about ships and money and government stores. It was a wet pull low in his chest, followed by a pause that made Harry lean forward each time.
Henry Kable Senior had outlived his sentence, his country, his enemies, most of his strength and the woman who had known him before any of it had a name.
Father.
The old man’s eyelids moved, but did not open.
Harry waited. Caring for him now was mostly waiting: for the cough to pass, for the water to go down, for one clear word to come through the old man’s confusion. Once, Henry Kable had filled rooms by refusing to be ignored. Now, if Harry stepped outside, his father seemed to sink back into the bedclothes and disappear.
On the small table near the bed stood a cup of water, a candle burned down into a slumped collar of wax, and a folded cloth. Beside them lay a paper Harry had brought from the box that morning. The old man had not asked for it. Harry had wanted to see it again.
It was not the original court paper. The original was long gone from their keeping, if it had ever been theirs to keep. This was a later copy, creased and worn soft at the fold, carrying names that had followed Harry all his life.
Henry Cable. Susannah Cable. Duncan Sinclair. Alexander Transport. Fifteen pounds.
The spelling shifted from clerk to clerk, Cable to Kable and back again. Harry had hated that when he was younger. Now he ran his thumb over the soft crease and let the ink be wrong. His father had survived worse than a clerk’s spelling.
His father stirred.
Harry put the paper down and took the cup.
Water?
The old man’s mouth opened slightly. Harry lifted his head and touched the cup to his lips. Most of the water ran into his beard. A little went in. Henry swallowed with effort, then turned his face away, offended by the labour of being helped.
You always did hate being helped.
The old man’s eyes opened.
For a moment they cleared enough to find Harry’s face.
Where’s your mother?