Friday, 16 December 1831—extremely hot
Madeleine Barker-Trent shielded her eyes against the sun and pulled at her loosely tied stays. The heat was unbearable. Peering over the heads of the twelve yoked bullocks, she sighed. How much further could it be? The bullock driver walked beside the team, patrolling up and down and constantly observing the slow-moving oxen.
‘Mr O’Brien?’ Maddy called over the sound of the creaking wheels.
His shoulders stiffened; his own sigh was loud in the sudden silence of the bush. The oxen lumbered on, but he waited until she drew level. His blue eyes met hers: eyes that were, she noted, startlingly bright in the leathered darkness of his face.
‘Bout five miles,’ he muttered and turned his attention back to the bullocks.
‘But you said five—’ Maddy began, but the snaking stockwhip swirled and cracked, echoing through the bush, and cut her off mid-sentence. She frowned—had she misunderstood? She was certain he’d said it was only five miles when she’d asked earlier.
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