In the ten years I’ve lived on this island, this is the second time I’ve seen James angrier than a female hog when we take away her babies. They’ve been talking about making us all move off the island for three or four years; James said they’d forget about it. They haven’t. Today they told James we have to pack up and go to Van Diemen’s Land at the end of this year. He’s sitting in his chair in the parlour. His head is bent over and covered by his hands. I know he’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry. He’s wiped tears from his eyes in happiness or sadness, but never fully cried.
Our youngest daughter, Elizabeth—we call her Betsy to save confusion—toddles over to her father and tries to pull his hands away from his face. He doesn’t react. I can see his shoulders moving up and down with his so
