fter rounding Cape Raoul with a blustering south-erly at her stern, the
Maid of Canton
had fairlyraced up Storm Bay. She was a clipper built forspeed and few vessels could match her. A former opiumrunner, the
as she was affectionately known, serveda more respectable master these days, working the Britishtrade routes for a wealthy merchant company.Past Cape Direction and on up the Derwent the
had sped, her skipper eager to make dock before afternoonbecame dusk.Then off the port bow, beyond the endless masts of ships at anchor, the hustle and bustle that was HobartTown suddenly came into view.To Mick O’Callaghan it was a magic sight.‘There she is, Mick.’ Seamus gave him a nudge. ‘You’vemade it, you lucky young bastard.’‘I certainly have,’ Mick responded with a grin, ‘and mostobliged I am for your help, Seamus.’ I’ve made it all right,he thought. And as far as luck went, Seamus didn’t knowthe half of it. Arriving in Hobart Town was perhaps notremarkable, but arriving as a free man was little short of amiracle. He should have been one of those poor bastardsdragging their chains off a transport ship.‘Happy to have been of service,’ Seamus replied. And he
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