‘Dear Lord.’ Munro gawked at our square-jawed leader in his feminine garb as we nudged the sand. ‘This is new.’

The dog was brindle, as tall as my waist and of no breed or perhaps all of them. It was beside itself with rage at our incursion, pacing back to the far end of its rope then hurtling forward to the near end, nearly whipping itself off its feet. The ferocious barking turned to a brief yelp of pain, and Munro picked up a stick from the sand. He waved it threateningly at the animal so it cowered and slunk back along the slack rope.

Campbell introduced each of us to Munro. He neither bowed nor sought to shake my hand, but eyed me bluntly. Then he turned and yelled over his shoulder towards the house.

‘Louisa!’

There was no response, so he called again and swore under his breath. A woman appeared over the rise: native but dressed English. Her face was weathered like the rocks, her hair a wiry nest of white, dark and copper.

Behind her came another woman, then another, and finally a third. These three were slightly younger, their hair still a deep brown, bodies slenderer than the first woman. She eyed Munro before she looked to us, and remained standing at a distance with the others at her back.

‘Isnae them, love,’ he said.

On hearing this, the woman’s entire demeanour changed. She received our greetings with a confidence I had not seen in the Sydney natives. She came forward and laid a gentle hand on my father, who was still sitting in the boat: he raised his chin and adopted his attitude of information-gathering. She had perceived his blindness from where she stood and now she helped him out of the boat and onto the sand. He thanked her formally and stood with a hand slightly raised until I came beside him and took it.

Despite his assurance to his wife, Munro’s suspicion did not immediately pass.

‘Your business here?’ he asked abruptly.

My father spoke, which I was grateful for, because I did not know the answer. ‘We are looking for evidence of a wreck. Some months ago.’

‘Which one?’ Munro narrowed his eyes.

‘The Howrah. Hundred-foot barque, two-forty-three tons burthen.’

Munro’s face was inscrutable.

‘Ten-gun sloop of war for the Royal Navy,’ my father continued. ‘Converted over to trade. Dudman’s Yard. You know them—they made a hundred or more. Flush-decked, sharp-bottomed barque.’

‘Difficult thing to lose, you would think.’

‘Quite so,’ said my father. ‘Especially with thirty people on board.’

‘Hmm. You might’ve been told, I am the special constable for these islands.’

‘This fella,’ said Louisa, ‘boss round these parts.’

Munro nodded. The title sat well with him.

‘I was aware,’ said Argyle, and again Munro cast a look over his garments as, behind him, Campbell shrugged.