I assumed Mansell’s order did not apply to my father and me, and indeed, he next addressed us directly. ‘This more o’ your lot?’ he asked, looking out and up the path.

I peered around the doorjamb. Masts in the bay, a brig at anchor, the same rigging I had seen on the brig that pursued us at Passage Island. They’d anchored it close in, arrogantly. A longboat larger than our jolly-boat had been pulled up on the beach beside it.

‘Not us,’ I shook my head.

In the foreground, approaching us, came a group of men. They were curiously dressed, formal but not naval, and armed with muskets that they were wise enough, at least, to leave lowered. Their clothes hinted at prosperity; even those whose trousers were wet to the thighs from bringing the boat up were well turned out. At their head was a young man, square-jawed and handsome. His face was set in a resolute smile, a smile that said both I will be pleasant and I will get my way.

He smiled his way to Mansell, who now looked old and tattered. Order had arrived, apparently, in this debased society.

‘Good day, sir,’ the man began. ‘I am James Parish, official emissary of Mister George Augustus Robinson. I carry with me the authority of the lieutenant-governor of Van Diemen’s Land, Colonel George Arthur, and I am, additionally, empowered by my commission to do the healing work of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.’

‘Fuck,’ said Mansell.

They stood in awkward stalemate for a moment, but Parish’s smile never faltered. He took a hand from the pocket of his trousers and I saw that the pocket was lined with fine satin of Prussian blue. Mansell had brandished his spike when the men approached. Now he lowered it reluctantly and shook the hand.

‘May I enter?’ Parish asked.

‘Go on, then.’

He came in, ducking under the sill. He looked around, looked at me and at my father and did not see anything there that aroused his civic instincts: just a blind man and his keeper. Tight trousers, clean boots. He tilted his hips so that one thigh projected my way. ‘Where are the rest of the men?’

Mansell didn’t answer, but Mother Brown did. ‘There’s been an upset, honey.’ Something about the pomposity of his bearing had brought her sense of humour back to life. ‘The boys’ll be with you shortly.’

Parish mislaid his composure, just for a second. He looked uncertainly at the handful of his men who had come in behind him, and indicated with a lift of the chin that they should retreat. They stood outside in the sunshine, lighting pipes and murmuring among themselves. Mother Brown went back to sweeping broken glass off the floor, taking her time, and when she was finished she stood commandingly with her hands on her hips.