There were six of them waiting in the barn. The old man who came was burly and short, a thick-forearmed man, serious and intent on his task. He said, ‘There,’ and pointed to where a lamp glowed on the ground. He didn’t want to know their names and kept his own to himself, and all he did was point to the spot on the chopping block where he wanted them to drape their chains.

He held the heavy chisel over the locked clasps, carefully adjusting the blunt tip with his knotted fingers, then suddenly wielded the hammer (an ugly, rusty cube of iron that seemed to grow out of his fist), swung it with such speed and concentrated power that each man flinched and the horse whinnied and stamped in his stall. He struck powerfully with three successive plink plink plinks (all it took) and the locks burst open under blows that would have crushed all the bones in their feet or severed their hands from their wrists, if not for the iron around them and the man’s precision.

‘Jesus!’

John Myer had his turn and was released. He felt the exhilaration of the shackles cracking like eggs and sliding to the ground, the instant lightness in his arms and legs. Now he was a man again and it was almost as though he were light enough to fly.

Turner was the last who needed unshackling and balanced a foot on the block. Ankles first, then down on his knees for the wrists. He was blue-eyed and sunken-cheeked, scrawly tattoos down his back and arms. They said he’d tried to sail a jolly boat up the New South Wales coast, except the waves tipped him out and then the sun scorched him dry. And then they sent him down here, but he was having none of it.

‘Bless me, Father,’ he said, ‘for I have sinned.’

‘Thou art wicked and unworthy.’

‘Aim straight, you old bastard.’

‘Best you hold still then, pumpkin.’

Their tone was warm: they knew each other. And there was a young girl there too, who stood among them all, holding another lamp and a shawl tight at her chest. She smiled and Turner gave her a wink. The old man busted the last shackles, a few drops of sweat at his temples now. Turner stood up and flexed his wrists, then took a jacket the young girl brought over to him, punched his fists into the sleeves.

‘When’s the master and his family back?’ Turner said.

‘In the morning,’ the girl said.

Turner looked at the old man. ‘Drop the hammer and chisel there, leave the chains as they’ve fallen.’

‘I’m not stupid, laddie.’ The old man’s fingerprints were baked into the bricks that were the Hobart Town Gaol. He was no stranger to shackles or running.

Turner grinned. ‘Rum?’

‘I’ve bread and some bacon,’ the girl said.

‘And there’s rum,’ her father said.