The interpreter turned to the Englishman, began to speak, but Crowell interrupted him. ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ he said. The tribes were upping the price; they had come to realise the value of the preserved heads and sought better remuneration. Their tribal wars had become intense, all over the island, and the trade in smuggled rifles had proliferated. There’d been lots of rumours, of missing and murdered traders who’d attempted to swindle them. And there was no doubting the aggressive, distrustful mood here. Behind James Crowell, the nervousness of his men was palpable.

‘Sir,’ one of them said, ‘just give ’em the bloody rifles and let’s get back to the ship.’

Crowell adjusted the figures in his mind; there was still money to be made. Not as much, but profit nonetheless. And better he was around to spend it.

He smiled at the Māori chief and indicated the musket crates stacked on the ground near his men.

‘Ask the great chief if he requires any instruction in their use.’

‘It will not be necessary,’ the interpreter said.

The heads were wrapped in oilskins and canvas, stowed on the ship in a waterproof trunk. Later that year, Claus von Rolt passed through Customs House in Sydney. Baked head was recorded in the inventory ledger.

HOBART TOWN GAOL IS FULL OF HOLES

Into the cell, over the troubled dream-breathing of the shackled men, came the sound of breaking waves. Punchy but small, a rushed gravel splash. River waves, not really waves at all.

Lying on the wooden pallet, John Myer turned his head to listen. They seemed at once close and then suddenly distant. But in the night dark, in the agitated silence, they were enough.

He closed his eyes and remembered the beach in San Sebastián, where he’d slept on the coarse yellow sand. He lay on the pallet and longed for the roar of those Basque sea waves, the long rolling crush. His toes in the cold sand, the moon, the stars, the vastness in every direction, starving but free. Salt and sea mist, cool over his arms and face.

Better not to think it. He knew you only ever came back to where you were. But the taste remained sweet on his lips.

The guard’s boots now, down the corridor, the slow clip, the oiled clack of a musket over his shoulder.

John Myer dropped his reverie.

There was the sound of keys, the dry clatter of the lock. The shuddering creak of hinges, the heavy door swung open.

A whisper. ‘Turner?’

‘Aye,’ the whisper back.

‘Now.’

The one called Turner said, ‘Let’s go, boys.’