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  Title Page

  Code Page

  Hystorian File

  Unchained

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

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  Hystorian File #1788034151

  Not so long after its American colonies had risen up in revolt, the United Kingdom set its sights on a new “new world” — the faraway continent of Australia. In January of 1788, the ships of the First Fleet arrived in New South Wales, where the passengers would establish Australia’s first European colony.

  But this was to be a very particular sort of colony: a penal colony. It was a way to relocate Britain’s criminals to a far-off land, where they would pay for their crimes through hard labor instead of prison terms or death.

  More than half of the one thousand colonists of the First Fleet were convicts. But among them were also military men, who brought their wives and children with them.

  Margaret was one such child. Leaving her comfortable life in London behind for the difficult and uncertain life of a pioneer, it seemed to Margaret as though the entire world had turned upside down.

  But things would get worse before they got better.

  MARGARET LOOKED over the Australian countryside and frowned. It was flat, wide, and brown, like a hotcake. The thought made her stomach growl. It had been only two weeks since she and the other families were allowed to step off the boats and onto the land they would call home: New South Wales, the first British colony of the new Southern Continent.

  From her father’s excitement, Margaret had expected a garden world: blossoms reaching from the coast, as if begging to be smelled. Fruit hanging low from the trees, falling into her hand with the slightest brush of her fingers. There was greenery all around, for sure, but the plants had sharp edges that warned against touching. Hummock grasses grew like pillows made of green needles, and all the trees were a straight, tall variety her father called eucalyptus.

  The great explorer Captain James Cook had called the area they first landed in Botany Bay. Margaret had thought it was such an inviting name. She wasn’t so sure now.

  Margaret readjusted her cap. The day dress her mother insisted she wear was completely impractical for exploration. It was too warm outside for a cape, and the skirt got tangled in Margaret’s legs with almost every step. Not that her mother would be pleased to hear she was exploring. But Margaret tended to take her orders from her father anyway. He’d been the one to announce they were all leaving London for a voyage at sea, perhaps never to return. He’d been the one that wiped Margaret’s eyes when she cried over the loss of her friends, her teachers, and her home . . . her whole life. And it was he that told her to try and look at it like an adventure from one of the books she loved to read. So here she was. Adventuring.

  Margaret hiked up her skirt and stepped up onto a wide flat stone jutting up from the earth. From there she hopped carefully to the ground and leaned against a nearby eucalyptus tree trunk. She looked back at the outline of the settlement behind her. She wouldn’t have much more time for exploring. She’d finished her embroidering for the day, but if she didn’t reappear to help her mother with supper preparation soon, there would be trouble.

  The sky was huge and bright and cloudless that day, as it had been the day before, and nearly every day the previous two weeks. Margaret wondered if it ever rained here at all. This place was so different from London.

  Sniff.

  Margaret turned her head sharply at a sound. Without thinking, she crouched low and moved to hide behind the tree, as if she wouldn’t still stick out from the landscape like . . . well, like a girl in a poofy silk dress.

  It wasn’t long before she spotted the source of the noise. About six meters away, a boy not much older than she was stood alone in the brush. Margaret watched curiously as the boy bent low, his attention on something that she couldn’t see tucked between two tufts of hummock grass. He was dark haired and dirty — obviously a laborer. The thought made Margaret nervous.

  The settlers of New South Wales were different from those of usual colonies. There were men like her father, military officers who were loyal to the British crown, and marines and free settlers who’d come with skills helpful for building a community.

  But the majority of their fleet was populated by convicts. These were men and women who had been given death sentences for their various crimes, only to have their sentences reduced from execution to transportation. That was the word her father used. It meant a life of servitude far away from the overcrowded city of London. Margaret’s father assured her that most of the convicts were not there for violent crimes — mostly thievery and political discord. No murderers were allowed to have their sentences reduced. Still, the thought of being alone in the open with a convict . . .

  Margaret took a tentative step backward, hoping to sneak far enough away that she could then turn and run home. Her leg immediately became tangled in her dress, however. She tried grabbing out for the tree to balance herself, but with no branches to grab on to, her hand slid through the air and she fell backward, landing on her rear end with a loud “Whoop!” She’d fallen right onto the stone that she had stood on earlier, giving her fall the appearance of having just sat down on the rock for a comfortable rest.

  Margaret heard the boy curse quietly, and watched as he peeked around the tree at her. When he saw her, his eyes widened. At first he seemed at a loss for what to do. That made two of them.

  “Er, hello,” Margaret said.

  The boy nodded, eyes still wide. “M-miss,” he said.

  “I don’t suppose you could . . . help me up?” Margaret ventured. “My legs are tangled in this awful thing.”

  The boy stood where he was for a long moment, seeming unsure how to proceed. Finally, he took a couple of nervous steps forward and extended his hand, standing as far away from Margaret as he could while still within arm’s reach. Margaret took his hand and used it to right herself, then quickly let go. The boy took a step backward as she dusted off her skirt.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m Margaret.”

  “John, miss. John Hudson.”

  “How old are you, John?”

  “I’m thirteen.”

  Just a year older than herself! Margaret had heard that some of the convicts were young. There were even rumors among the few officers’ children of a girl convict who was only eleven. Margaret just couldn’t believe that.

  John didn’t seem so scary, though. If anything, he appeared to be more nervous than she was. Margaret suddenly realized that convicts probably weren’t supposed to be out on their own like this. If John were caught, he might be brutally lashed as punishment. It made a scolding from her mother seem trivial.

  “What were you doing over there?” Margaret asked, nodding to the hummock grass.

  John’s eyes flashed with fear. He kept silent.

  “Oh, I won’t tell anyone you were out here, if that’s what you’re worried about. You have my word,” Margaret said.

  “Can’t . . . not supposed to tell,” he said.

  “Oh, come on,” Margaret said. “I just promised I’d keep your secret.” She hiked up her skirt and began walking to the hummock. John practically fell out of her way as she brushed past him.

  There, between the two tufts of grass, she found a small cross stuck into the dirt. The cross was made of two frayed bits of white-painted wood with a nail between them.

  “Is this . . . a grave?” Margaret asked.

  Behind her, John exhaled. “My master’s. Another convict on the ship. He died on the way. The marines said it was scurvy, but . . .”

  Margaret turned to him. “But what?”

  John’s face became firm. “He was poisoned. By an officer. I saw it.”

  “Which officer?”

  John shook his head. “Didn’t catch his name. But . . . he was from the SQ.”

  Margaret’s mouth fell open. The SQ was the most powerful organization in the world, with branches throughout Europe, Africa, Asia . . . even the far-off Americas.

  There had been two SQ agents stationed with the colony in New South Wales. One stayed with the officers and one monitored the convicts. The man who had been on her ship, an officer named Clements, gave her the shivers. He had a menacing stare and ate far too much food for his share, while even the marines’ families went hungry.

  “Which ship was this on?” she asked.

  “The Friendship,” John said, making a face like the word had a sour taste.

  “You probably shouldn’t go around telling people all this,” Margaret admitted. “The SQ is dangerous.”

  John nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  Margaret turned her attention back to the small, empty grave. If his master had died on the ship, his body would have been tossed overboard while they were at sea. Margaret had seen it done to the body of a sailor on her own vessel. The memory made her uneasy. She’d never see n a dead body before that day, but her father had told her that there could be many more to come, and asked her to be brave for him.

  “You said this man was your master. What’s your trade, John?”

  “Er . . . well, I was . . . a chimney sweep. Sometimes.”

  Margaret looked up in surprise. She quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “So he was a master chimney sweep, then?”

  John’s face flushed. “No. I only just met him on the boat, but before he died he in-duct-ed me into his brotherhood, real enough. Said they’d need a man on the new continent. That’s why he got hisself arrested, he said. ’Cause it was the best way to get onto the First Fleet unnoticed by the SQ. So much for that.”

  Margaret tried not to laugh. “What brotherhood is this,” she asked, “that gets themselves arrested and shipped off to nowhere, all to hide from the SQ?”

  Margaret could see she was making John angry. His mouth became a hard line. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “My master made me swear I’d keep it a secret. But we’re going to save the world one day.”

  “Save the world? From what?”

  For a long moment John was quiet. Finally, he ventured a question. “You ever had a memory that wasn’t a memory? Like you was standing somewhere, not doing nothing, and suddenly you had a feeling that everything was wrong. That it should be different. Like maybe someone or something was missing?”

  Margaret startled. She knew exactly the feeling John was describing. This talk was suddenly making her uncomfortable. “Something was missing? It sounds like you’re talking about a thieves’ guild. I suppose I should have guessed.”

  Now it was John who crossed his arms. “You think you know all about me ’cause you’re rich and prob’ly went to some fancy London school, but you don’t know me. Let me tell you something, then. Most of us convicts are here ’cause we didn’t have nothing at all, and the only way to survive was to pinch a bit here and there. Some didn’t even do that. Or haven’t you heard that it’s a crime just to be poor in London anymore? We’re people like you, only without the dresses and silver and the warm meal to look forward to. But I’m a part of something bigger now, something good, and I don’t need you to believe me to make it real.”

  “John —”

  The boy spat and glared at her. “I’ll thank you for keeping my secret, miss, but I should be on my way now. If I’m caught out here with you, it’s me that’ll get the lash — not you.”

  With that, John turned and stomped off, leaving Margaret alone and ashamed.

  Margaret sat quietly at supper that night. She’d taken off the silk day dress, hoping to hide the stain of her fall from her mother, and now wore a more comfortable indoor skirt. On her plate was a meager portion of wild goose and bread, with a cup of tea beside it. Though Margaret thought of it as hardly enough food, she knew that John the convict boy was probably eating even less. If he had any supper at all. Lately, she’d been overhearing her father and mother whispering urgently about the food shortage. If they didn’t get a stable crop in the ground soon, and a bit of rain to water it, things would get very bad.

  Margaret couldn’t stop thinking about something the boy had said, about memories that weren’t memories, and the feeling that something was missing. Ever since she was a girl, she had experienced moments that sounded eerily similar to this. Back in their home in London, Margaret would sometimes feel the strangest urge to enter one of the storage rooms. When she opened the door, she would catch an unusual smell: perfume, like the kind a young lady of London would wear. But her mother never wore perfumes. Sometimes she could even hear a voice in her own mind — like that of a young woman saying her name and calling her over. Then, just as quickly as they’d happened, the sensations would fade away, and Margaret would find herself alone in the dusty room, with the oddest feeling of longing for an older sister who didn’t exist.

  “How is the construction going, dear?” Margaret’s mother asked, breaking her out of her thoughts.

  Margaret’s father was overseeing the building of the first real structures for the colony. Among those structures would be a bigger home for their family than the wooden cottage they currently lived in.

  “Oh, fine, fine,” said Margaret’s father. “I don’t think it will be much longer. The timber here is suitable for building. It’s the soil that’s the problem, and the lack of any real farmers.”

  Margaret’s mother cast a nervous glance in her direction.

  “It’s all right,” Margaret said. “I know all about the shortage. It’s a small colony.”

  “In terms of gossip, perhaps,” said her father. “But when it comes to feeding all those chattering mouths, you find the numbers feel much larger.”

  “Then why do the SQ officers get so much food?” Margaret asked. “All our meals today combined would only feed one of them for supper.”

  Margaret’s mother set down her fork and stared hard at her daughter. “Margaret . . .” she said.

  “The convicts are hungry. Some are even dying,” Margaret said matter-of-factly. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  “They’re convicts, dear,” her mother said.

  “Because they were starving in London, and had to steal to survive. Some are barely older than I am.”

  “Well, Margaret,” her father said, “you aren’t wrong. But the good Governor Phillip is a kind man, who sees the plight of these poor souls. Believe me when I tell you that he feels for them, and will do everything he can to improve their lot here. The majority will be free men and women after they serve their seven-year sentences.”

  “If they can survive that long, with Clements gobbling up all the food,” Margaret mumbled.

  “Margaret, the SQ officers are very important men,” Margaret’s mother said, sounding more nervous than stern. “You must not speak unkindly toward them.”

  “Your mother’s right, dearest,” her father said, an edge of worry in his voice, too.

  “Sorry,” Margaret said, spearing a piece of goose with her fork. “I know. I’ll be good.”

  As Margaret ate, there came the sound of voices from outside. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Margaret’s father stood and walked to it, opening it slightly.

  “Oh, er, Clements, hello. I don’t even have my wig on. What can I do for you?”

  Margaret felt the hairs on her arm stick straight out. Speak of the devil . . .

  “Charles, I’m sorry to disturb your supper, but there’s been an incident. One of the convicts, a boy named John Hudson, has escaped tonight. We believe he may be trying to find refuge with the native population.”

  “That is very troubling news indeed. You say the convict is a boy?”

  “Thirteen years old,” Clements said. “Just barely older than your Margaret.”

  Margaret didn’t like the way her name sounded coming from Clements. No matter how important he was, he still made her uneasy.

  “Well, I hope the boy is all right,” her father said. “And that he’s brought back safely. But I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “Well — and I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, Charles — I myself saw the boy speaking with Margaret just this afternoon. They were alone, out away from the settlement.”

  Margaret’s mother let out a little gasp, and put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

  Her father turned to look at her, his face white. “Is this true, Margaret?”

  “Well,” she said sheepishly, “it was . . . sort of an accident. I was out for a walk and ran into him. We only spoke for a few moments, and then I came right back here.”

  Clements stepped farther into the cabin, forcing Margaret’s father to step back out of his way. It was then that Margaret noticed the man wasn’t alone. Behind him entered another glowering figure, even taller and scarier than Clements. Margaret didn’t know him by name, but he was the second SQ officer — the one John had mentioned.

  “You were aware,” Clements said, his attention on her, “that the boy was a dangerous convict out of sight of a supervisor?”

  “He didn’t seem dangerous. I’d fallen, and John helped me up. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

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