No one had words of comfort; best ignore her question. “Is Botany Bay in Africa?” asked Jimmy Price to break the silence.

“It seems not,” Richard said. “Farther away than Africa or America. Somewhere in the Eastern Ocean.”

“The East Indies,” said Ike Rogers, grimacing. “Heathens.”

“No, not the East Indies, though they cannot be too far away. It is south, very south, and but newly discovered by a Captain Cook. Jem says it is a land of milk and honey, so I daresay it will not be too bad.” He groped for a geographical anything. “It must be on the way to or from Otaheite. Cook was going there.”

“Where is Otaheite?” asked Betty Mason, as devastated as Bess; Johnny the gaoler would not be going to Botany Bay.

“I do not know,” Richard confessed.

The next day—New Year’s Day of 1786—the convicted felons of both sexes were marched to the gaol chapel, where they found Old Mother Hubbard, Parsnip Evans and three men they recognized only because they occasionally accompanied the mystery men from London who examined the construction work. John Nibbet was the Gloucester sheriff; the other two rejoiced in the appellation of Gentlemen Sheriffs—John Jefferies and Charles Cole.

Nibbet had been appointed spokesman. “The city of Gloucester in the county of Gloucestershire has been notified by the Home Department and its Secretary of State, Lord Sydney, that certain of the prisoners held in the gaol under sentence of transportation to Africa are to be transported elsewhere than Africa!” he bellowed.

“He did not draw a breath,” muttered Whiting.

“Do not court a thrashing, Bill,” Jimmy whispered.

Nibbet continued, apparently not needing to draw breath. “And further to this, the city of Gloucester in the county of Gloucestershire has been notified by said Home Department that it is to act as collecting agent for male transportees from Bristol, Monmouth and Wiltshire. When all have been assembled here, they will be joined by the following prisoners already in the Gloucester gaol: Joseph Long, Richard Morgan, James Price, Edward Pugh, Isaac Rogers and William Whiting. The entire group will then proceed to London and Woolwich, there to wait on the King’s pleasure.”

A long wail terminated the Sheriff’s proclamation. Bess Parker ran forward, stumbling in her fetters, to throw herself at Nibbet’s feet, wringing her hands together and weeping wildly. “Sir, sir, honored sir, please, sir, I beg you! Ned Pugh is my man! See my belly? I am to have his child, sir, and any day! Please, sir, do not take him away from me!”

“Cease this caterwauling, woman!” Nibbet turned to Old Mother Hubbard with a direful frown. “Does the prisoner Pugh have a permanent connection with yon yowling female?” he demanded.

“Aye, Mr. Nibbet, for some years. There was an earlier child, but it died.”

“My instructions from Under Secretary Nepean specifically state that only male felons without wives or wives at common law imprisoned with them are to be sent to Woolwich. Therefore Edward Pugh will remain in Gloucester Gaol with the female transportees,” he announced.

“Damned considerate,” said Gentleman Sheriff Charles Cole, “but I do not see the need for it.”

Old Mother Hubbard murmured into Nibbet’s ear.

“Prisoner Morgan, d’ye have a permanent connection with one Elizabeth Lock?” barked the Sheriff.

Every part of Richard’s being longed to say that he had, but his papers would be examined and they would inform these men that he had a wife. The fate Annemarie had given him lived on. “I do have a permanent connection with Elizabeth Lock, sir, but she is not my wife even in common law. I am already married,” he said.

Lizzie Lock mewed.

“Then ye’ll proceed to Woolwich, Morgan.”

The Reverend Mr. Evans said a prayer for their souls, and the meeting was over. The prisoners were escorted by a very glad Johnny the gaoler back to the felons’ common-room. Where Lizzie lost no time in hauling Richard into a fairly private corner.

“Why did you not tell me you are married?” she demanded, her plumes nodding and bouncing.

“Because I am not married.”

“Then why did ye tell the Sheriff ye were?”

“Because my papers say I am.”

“How can that be?”

“Because it is.”

She took him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously. “Oh, damn you, Richard, damn you! Why do you never tell me anything? What point is there in being so close?”

“I am not intentionally close, Lizzie.”

“Yes, you are! You never tell me a thing!”

“But you never ask,” he said, looking surprised.

She shook him again. “Then I am asking now! Tell me all about yourself, Richard Morgan. Tell me everything. I want to know how ye can be married yet not married, damn you!”

“Then I may as well tell the lot of you.”

They gathered around the table and heard a very edited story relating only to Annemarie Latour, Ceely Trevillian and a distillery. Of Peg, little Mary, William Henry and his other family he told them nothing because he could not bear to.

“Weeping Willy said more than that,” Lizzie stated sourly.

“It is all I am prepared to say.” Richard assumed a worried look and neatly changed the subject. “It sounds as if we are to be moved very soon. I pray that my cousin James gets here in time.”

By the 4th of January the number of men in the felons’ section of Gloucester Gaol had swollen. Four men came in from Bristol and two from Wiltshire. Two of the Bristol men were very young, but two were in their early thirties and had been close friends since childhood.

“Neddy and I got drunk one night in the Swan on Temple Street,” said William Connelly, slapping Edward Perrott companionably on the shoulder. “Not sure what happened, but the next thing we were in the Bristol Newgate and got seven years’ transportation to Africa at last February’s quarter sessions. Seems we stole clothes.”

“Ye look well for spending a year in that place. I was there for three months just before,” said Richard.

“Ye’re a Bristol man?”

“Aye, but tried here. My crime was committed in Clifton.”

William Connelly was obviously of Irish extraction; thick auburn hair, short nose and cheeky blue eyes. The more silent Edward Perrott had the bumpy big nose, prominent chin and mousy fairness of a true Englishman.

The two Wiltshire men, William Earl and John Cross, were at most twenty years old, and had already struck up a friendship with the two Bristol youngsters, Job Hollister and William Wilton. Joey Long was so simple that he gravitated naturally to this young group from the moment they clanked into the felons’ common-room, and—which Richard found strange at first—Isaac Rogers elected to join these five. A few hours saw Richard change his mind—no, not at all strange. Oozing glamour and seniority, the highwayman could retrieve some of the clout he had lost among his Gloucester fellows when he had funked at the prospect of hanging.

Then the Monmouth man arrived to make the twelfth for Woolwich and informed them that he was William Edmunds.

“Christ!” cried Bill Whiting. “There are twelve of us for Woolwich and five of us are fucken Williams! I lay claim to Bill, and that is that. Wilton from Bristol, ye remind me of Weeping Willy Insell, so ye’re Willy. Connelly from Bristol, ye’re Will. Earl from Wiltshire, ye’re Billy. But what the devil are we to do with the fifth? What did you do to get here, Edmunds?”

“Stole a heifer at Peterstone,” said Edmunds with a Welsh lilt.

Whiting roared with laughter and kissed the outraged Welshman full on his lips. “Another bugger, by God! I borrowed a sheep for the night—only wanted to fuck it. Never thought of a heifer!”

“Do not do that!” Edmunds scrubbed at his mouth vigorously. “You can fuck whatever ye like, but ye’ll not fuck me!”

“He is a Welshman and a thief,” said Richard, grinning. “We call him Taffy, of course.”