How, Richard wondered, are we going to manage to get ourselves and our belongings up a rope ladder? Our chains will be our undoing. However, the ebullient Mr. Duncan Campbell had fitted his pride and joy with a flight of wooden steps attached to a bobbing landing. Box in his arms, two sacks of additionals slung over his shoulders, Richard found himself first over the side of the lighter behind a bludgeon-bearing guard, and mounted the steps to an opening in the rail sixteen feet above. Ceres had been a big second-rater.

“Gigger dubber!” roared the overseeing guard.

An important-looking but slovenly fellow emerged from between two wooden shacks picking his teeth; in the background Richard saw an occasional flick of a skirt, heard women’s voices, and realized that most of the guards must live in these ramshackle quarters.

“Ah?” asked the important-looking individual.

“Twelve convicts from Gloucester Gaol, Mr. ’Anks. Ain’t flash so don’t know the lingo. Mr. Campbell says they are the two new teams for the new dredges. No hum durdgeons among ’em, Doc says.”

“More ’icks!” said Mr. Hanks in disgust. “Nigh ’alf aboard are ’icks now, Mr. Sykes.” He turned to the prisoners. “Me name is ’Erbert ’Anks an I am the gigger dubber—gaol keeper to youse. Into the orlop wiv ’em, Mr. Sykes. An ’ere ye ain’t prisoners, ye’re convicts. Got it?”

They nodded wordlessly, trying to sort out an English wherein the th’s were pronounced as v’s and the f’s as th’s. Sort of.

“Prisoners,” Mr. Hanks went on conversationally, “ ’ave a chance to get theirselves unsnabbled. Convicts is convicts, in for the ’ole duration. ’Ere are the rules, so put yer lugs to listening ’cos they will not be said again. Visitors allowed on Sundees after the autem bawler’s service—autem is compulsory—that’s church to youse—an ain’t no autem quavers nor dippers nor cacklers of any Dissenting sort allowed. Just the King’s autem ’ere. All visitors will be searched, ’ave to lodge their blunt wiv me, an any grub they got will be confiscated. Why? ’Cos flash coves smuggle files aboard in their cakes an puddens.”

He paused to eye his auditors with a curious mixture of glee and severity; he was enjoying this. “When ye’re aboard, the orlop is ’ome. I am the only one can dub the gigger—open the door—an that don’t ’appen hoften. Up to work, down to sleep, Mondees to Sattidees. Weather permitting, youse work, an I mean youse work. Today, frinstance, is not a day for work ’cos the rain is too fucken ’ard. Youse eat what ye’re fed an drink what I decide. Blue tape—gin—comes very dear, an I am the only purveyor of such delights. ’Alf a borde—sixpence—a ’alf-pint.”

Another pause ensued, this time to allow Mr. Hanks to hawk and spit at their feet. “Youse mess in sixes an get yer grub from the purser. Sundees, Mondees, Wensdees, Thursdees an Sattidees the following rations are issued to each six men—one ox cheek or ox shin, three pints of pease, three pounds of vegubbles, six pounds of bread an six quarts of small beer. On Tuesdees an Fridees it is burgoo—as much aqua Thames as ye want, three pints of oatmeal wiv simples, three pounds of cheese an six pounds of bread. That is all ye get. If ye eat it all up at supper, ye go ’ungry an thirsty of a morning, got it? Mr. Campbell says youse ’ave to wash every day an shave every Sundee before the autem bawler comes aboard. When youse come up for work or autem, ye’ll bring yer night buckets wiv youse an empty ’em over the side. One bucket each mess. Ye are locked in, me dimber cullies, so what youse do inside I do not care hany more than Mr. Campbell do.”

His pleasure increased. “But first,” he said, squatting down while Mr. Sykes and his minions remained standing behind him, “I ’ave to cast me ogles over them boxes an bags, so dub ’em—now!”

This lecture having informed them that to dub was to open, the convicts unlocked their boxes, spread open their additionals.

Mr. Herbert Hanks was very thorough. By chance he commenced with the belongings of Ike Rogers and his team, whose boxes were smaller, not uniform, and in the case of the two Wiltshire lads, nonexistent. Rags he discarded, clothing he discarded, but each and every rag and item of clothing was nonetheless passed up to Mr. Sykes, who ran them between his hands and squeezed at every tiny swelling. This yielded nothing. Nor did any of the other articles appeal, evidently.

“Where’s yer money?” he demanded.

Ike looked respectfully surprised. “Sir, we have none. We have been in Gloucester Gaol for a year. The blunt got spent.”

“Huh.” Mr. Hanks turned to Richard’s team, eyes glistening. “Rum coves, eh? A lot of loot.” Out of Richard’s box and sacks came the clothing, the bottles and jars, the framed dripstone and several spares, the rags used as packing, the books, the ream of paper, the pens—very curious objects!—and two spare pairs of shoes. He held the shoes up and studied them in disappointment, shrugged at the equally disappointed Mr. Sykes. “Ain’t for nothing ye’re called clodhoppers. No one here got feet that size, cully, even Long Joyce. What is this, then?” he asked, displaying a bottle.

“Oil of tar, Mr. Hanks.”

“An what is this contraption?”

“A dripstone, sir. I use it to filter my drinking water.”

“Water is already filtered in ’ere. Got a big strainer under every pump. What’s yer name, big feet?”

“Richard Morgan.”

He snatched a list from one of Mr. Sykes’s offsiders and cast his ogles over it; read he could, but painfully. “Not any more it ain’t. From now on, Morgan, ye’re convict number two ’unnerd an three.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A booky cove, I note.” Mr. Hanks riffled through the pages of a few in search of salacious etchings or erotic prose, then laid each one down with a frustrated slap. “An what’s this?”

“A tonic, sir, to cure boils.”

“An this?”

“A salve, sir, for cuts and ulcers.”

“Shite, ye’re an apothecary’s shop! Why’d ye bring all this clutter?” He removed the cork from the bottle of tonic and sniffed suspiciously. “Aaaaaagh!” He slammed it down on the deck and let its cork roll away. “Smells bad enough to come from the river.”

Expression unconcerned, Richard stood while the head gaoler picked up the empty box, shook it to hear if it rattled, rapped all four sides, top and bottom. After which he felt every seam of the sacks. Nothing. He appropriated Richard’s better razor, the strop and whetstone, and Richard’s best pair of stockings. Then he moved on to Will Connelly’s box and bag. Very quietly and unobtrusively Richard knelt to retrieve his tonic, cork it and put it to one side. A glance at Mr. Sykes told him that he was probably expected to repack his things at this juncture, so he nodded to the immobile Rogers and began his task. Rogers and the youngsters followed suit.

Finished with the twelve of them, Mr. Hanks exuded pleasure. “Right, now where’s yer coach wheels? Where’s yer blunt, cullies?”

“Sir, we have none,” said Neddy Perrott. “We have been in gaol for a year and there were women. . . .” He trailed off apologetically.

“Pockets inside out!”

Every coat pocket was empty save Richard’s, Bill’s, Neddy’s and Will’s, stuffed full of books.

“Dowse yer toges—take ’em off!” snapped Mr. Hanks.

Off came greatcoats and suit coats; Mr. Sykes felt over every inch of every one. “Nowt,” he said, grinning.

“Frisk ’em, Mr. Sykes.”

This they interpreted as an order to search their persons; Mr. Sykes proceeded to feel their bodies, with obvious enjoyment when he groped around genitals and buttocks. “Nowt,” he said, exchanging a look of keen anticipation with Mr. Hanks.

“Dowse yer kicks an bend over,” said Mr. Hanks in a resigned but quivering voice. “Though I am warning youse! If Mr. Sykes ’ere finds any coach wheels up yer arses, ye’ll wash ’em in yer blood.”

Mr. Sykes was brutally, lingeringly efficient. The four young men and Joey Long wept in pain and humiliation, the others endured it without exclamation or evident discomfort. “Nowt,” said Mr. Sykes. “Fucken nowt—not nuffink, Mr. ’Anks.”