The girl stood at the rail of the May Queen in the great harbour of Sydney Town. Under her grandfather's old plaid, she clutched a cloak bag containing all she had in the world.
   There was some stramash down below on the dock. Someone was shouting a welcome - but it couldn't be for her. Mistress Stewart was dead, and she knew no-one in this strange land. Doubtfully, she looked down. Among the crowd she saw something that turned her knees to porridge - a Scotsman in the green plaid of the Campbells. He was quite old, forty or more, for his shaggy black hair was touched with grey. He had a bent, high-bridged nose and remarkable eyes that burned like the flints beneath heavy brows. He was standing foursquare, staring up at the ship, his arms lifted in welcome. But it could not be for her.
   "Lassie? Can you no come down?" The Scotsman's voice was strong and resonant, and the familiar accent fell with warmth on her ears. And finally, as the bright gaze caught and held hers, she accepted that the incredible had happened. Someone was pleased to welcome her to this strange land.
   She took a deep breath and leaned over the rail to call an answer; "Aye, Campbell, that I can."
   It took almost half an hour to work her way through the crowds and down the gangplank. Long enough for her to recover from the madness and reflect that, after all, the man was a stranger. He could be laird or ghillie, cotter or dominie, shipwright or thief. He could be wed with a dozen bairns and a sonsy wife, or he could be a widower on the look-out for a nursemaid. And yet - it could do no harm to ask him advice as she would have asked it of the minister or the dominie back home.
   As she hastened down from the ship, she glanced at the place where the man had stood. It was empty, and she felt a pang of disappointment. He had not waited, after all. Blindly, she tottered the last few steps and, for the first time in many months, set her foot on solid ground. It pitched sickeningly under her feet and the girl, whose stomach had remained staunch through the worst the ocean had to offer, felt ill. The heat beat up from the docks and perspiration started out on her forehead. She swayed again, and a hand the size of a griddle touched her shoulder in support, a curiously tentative touch. "Lassie? Are you ill?"
   "No' ill," she gasped. "Just ..." She took another step away from the gangplank and again the ground heaved alarmingly. She thought she might faint, but that was ridiculous. Healthy Scotswomen did not faint. That was for the English in their over-tight whalebones and stays. She looked up to assure the Campbell that she was perfectly well, but he seemed to have decided otherwise, for he picked her up as if she had been a bairn or a stricken ewe and carried her away back from the ship, plaid, cloak bag and all. "Is someone meeting you, lassie?" he asked.
   "No," she said faintly. "My - my mistress is dead. There was fever aboard the ship."
   There was a dray standing nearby, the nag half asleep. The Scotsman set his burden down on the tail-board and looked down appraisingly. "Take off the plaid, lassie."
   Obediently, she unwrapped it from her shoulders to reveal a light-coloured gown, well-worn and stained with salt. The cloak bag she was still clutching showed rubbed patches and the corners were threadbare.
   "You have no man o' your own, lassie?" he asked.
   "I have no," she said.
   "Your father hasna come with you?"
   "My father is dead," she answered.
   The Scotsman nodded, apparently well pleased. "Then it would be as well if ye come wi' me to Van Diemens Land," he said. "We'll build a house on a brae. A braw house o' stone."
   The girl looked at him doubtfully. She felt better now; there was a faint flush of colour in her cheeks which he noted with apparent approval. "Can you cook?" he enquired.
   A doubtful cough made him turn about to frown at one of the Sassenach soldiers who cluttered up the colony. "Have you the permission of the owner to occupy said vehicle?" asked the soldier.
   "Please," broke in the girl, "I was feeling a little faint, sir and this gentleman set me here to rest a wee while. I am better now, we shall move on."
   The soldier hesitated, then nodded curtly. "See you do," he said, and stood watching until the girl slid down from the dray.
   The Scotsman frowned. "What ships are set for Van Diemen's Land?" he asked.
   "The Lithgow is to sail this afternoon," said the soldier.
   "Aye. Then we take passage on that."
   "What if they ha' no room?" ventured the girl.
   "They'll ha' room for me lassie, and for you if I gi'e the word," said the Scotsman.
   "And - and why should I come wi' you?"
   He looked honestly taken aback. It seemed that he'd thought it all settled. "We'll be wed when we get there," he assured her.
   "Oh." The girl laughed, a little hysterically. "Shall we indeed, Campbell?"
   "Unless you've other plans?"
   "No," she admitted. "I havena but ...I could be a nursemaid, perhaps, i' a grand house. I ha' a fair hand wi' the bairns."
   "Wed wi' me and nurse my bairns in a house o' your ain," he said.
   The girl came to a decision. "My name is Agnes McCleod," she said gravely, dropping a small, unsteady curtsy and holding out her hand.
   "Hector Campbell." He shook the hand gingerly. It was small, but not, he was glad to note, overly soft or brittle. "It pleases you to wed me?" he asked.
   "Aye," she said, and now her voice was sure. "It pleases me."  

(Sally Odgers born in Latrobe, Tasmania, in the 1950s, grew up there in the 1960s, married there in the 1970s had 2 kids there in the 1980s still lives there in the 1990s, has written 160+ (published) books there. Interests - reading, writing, names, fantasy, cockatoos. Other hobbies - you gotta be joking! Writing takes up most of my time. The story is an extract (recast as short story) from a novel that has been with an agent for 2 years.)

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