She was a clipper built for speed and few vessels could match her. A former opium runner, the Maid, as she was affectionately known, served a more respectable master these days, working the British trade routes for a wealthy merchant company. Past Cape Direction and on up the Derwent the Maid had sped, her skipper eager to make dock before afternoon became dusk. Then off the port bow, beyond the endless masts of ships at anchor, the hustle and bustle that was Hobart Town suddenly came into view. To Mick O’Callaghan it was a magic sight. ‘There she is, Mick.’ Seamus gave him a nudge. ‘You’ve made it, you lucky young bastard.’ ‘I certainly have,’ Mick responded with a grin, ‘and most obliged I am for your help, Seamus.’ I’ve made it all right, he thought. And as far as luck went, Seamus didn’t know the half of it. Arriving in Hobart Town was perhaps not remarkable, but arriving as a free man was little short of a miracle. He should have been one of those poor bastards dragging their chains off a transport ship.
