Bill Whiting achieved a laugh. “Just think how lucky we are! We puke on those below us but they cannot puke on us.”

“Good point,” said Neddy Perrott, and leaned his head over. “Hey, Tommy Crowder!”

Crowder’s head appeared. “What?”

“We get to puke on you.”

“Do, and I will personally fuck ye!”

“In fact,” said Richard cheerfully, interrupting this exchange, “there is a lot of beam vacant—all the way to the starboard cots. We may be able to build some sort of shelf off it on either side to hold spare stuff—even our boxes, certainly our sacks of books and spare dripstones. Yon Sergeant Knight looks as if he would not say no to an extra pint of rum, so he might be willing to gift us with planks, brackets and rope for trussing. We will manage, boys.”

“Ye’re right, Richard,” said Ike, poking his head around the partition. “We will manage. Better this than the nubbing cheat.”

“The hangman’s rope is the end, I agree. This will not last forever,” said Richard, glad that Ike and his boys were listening.

The prison was almost pitch-black; its only light came from the open hatch to the deck above. And the stench was frightful, a stale foulness that was a mixture of rotting flesh, rotting fish and rotting excrement. Time passed, how much of it was impossible to tell. Eventually the hatch was closed with an iron grille that permitted some light and a hatch in the forward end of the chamber was opened. From where they huddled this extra illumination still did not tell them what their prison was like. Another stream of convicts dribbled in, voices muffled, attenuated; many wept, a few started to scream and were suddenly silenced—with what and by whom, the six in Richard’s cot had no idea. Except that what they felt, everybody obviously felt.

“Oh, God!” came Will Connelly’s voice, loud in despair. “I will not be able to read! I will go mad, I will go mad!”

“No, you will not,” said Richard strongly. “Once we settle in and stow our things properly, we will think of things to do with the only instruments we have left—our voices. Taffy and I can sing, so I am sure can others. We will have a choir. We can play at riddles and conundrums, tell stories, jests.” He had made his men change places so that he now sat against Ike’s partition. “Listen to me, all of you who can hear! We will learn to pass the time in ways we have not yet dreamed of, and we will not go mad. Our noses will get used to the smell and our eyes will become sharper. If we go mad they win, and I refuse to allow that. We will win.”

No one spoke for a long while, but no one wept either. They will do, thought Richard. They will do.

Two strange marines came aft from the forward hatch to take off their waist bands and the chain connecting them together, though the manacles remained on. Free to move now, Richard came down off the platform to see if he could locate the night buckets. How many were there? How long would they have to last between emptyings?

“Under our platform,” said Thomas Crowder. “I think there is one for each six men—at least there are two beneath this cot. Cot! What a divine description of something Procrustes would have been proud to invent!”

“Ye’re educated,” said Richard, perching his rump on the edge of the lower tier and stretching his legs out with a sigh.

“Aye. So is Aaron. He is a Bristolian, I am not. I was—er—apprehended in Bristol after I escaped from the Mercury, is all. Got snabbled doing some dirty work there. Our accomplice—Aaron was in it too—was a snitch. We tried a bit of hush money—would have done the trick in London, but not in Bristol. Too many Quakers and other autem cacklers.”

“Ye’re a Londoner.”

“And ye’re a Bristolian, judging by the accent. Connelly, Perrott, Wilton and Hollister I know, but I never saw you in the Bristol Newgate, cully.”

“I am Richard Morgan and I am from Bristol, but I was tried and convicted at Gloucester.”

“I was listening to what ye said about passing the time. We will do it too if there is not enough light for cards.” Crowder sighed. “And I thought Mercury was Satan’s ferry! Alexander will be hard going, Richard.”

“Why did ye think it would be otherwise? These things were built to house slaves, and I doubt they could have jammed many more slaves in than they have us. Save that we do have those three long tables there, so I presume they feed us seated.”

Crowder sniffed. “Marine cooks!”

“Surely ye did not expect the cook at the Bush Inn?” Richard went up to impart the news of the night buckets and got his dripstone out. “Now more than ever we have to filter our water, though we need not fear anyone will encroach on our space or steal our things.” His white teeth flashed in a smile. “Ye were right about Crowder and Davis, Neddy. True villains.”

They were fed by lamplight and two surly private marines who seemed extremely disgruntled. Though each table was 40 feet long and a total of six narrow benches was provided, the three tables were men from end to end; counting heads, Richard thought that Alexander had taken about 180 men aboard that sixth day of January, 1787. That was 30 short of the total Lieutenant Shairp had mentioned. Not all were from Ceres; there were a few from Censor and rather more from Justitia, though not all the Justitia men managed to drag themselves to the tables. Some kind of sickness was among them, marked by a low fever and aching bones. Not the gaol fever, then. It was there too, however, because it always was.

Each man was issued with a wooden bowl, a tin spoon and a tin dipper which held two quarts* comfortably; two quarts were the day’s ration of water per man. The food consisted of very hard, dark bread and a small chunk of boiled salt beef. Those with poor teeth fared badly, were reduced to trying to break up their bread with their spoons, which bent and twisted.

* The modern imperial liquid measures of pint, quart and gallon are larger than the American, but in the eighteenth century are likely to have been the same as the modern American; leaving the British fold in 1776 meant that the United States of America kept many of the old British ways, probably including measures. Thus Richard’s quarts were likely to have contained 32 fluid ounces, not the modern imperial 40 fluid ounces.

But there were advantages to being near the after hatch of the prison. I will now, Richard decided, risk a flogging by standing up and offering to help these young marines do a task they have no skill at whatsoever.

“May I give ye a hand?” he asked, smiling deferentially. “I used to be a tavern-keeper.”

The sullen face nearest him looked startled, was suddenly quite attractive. “Aye, it would be appreciated. Two of us to feed near two hundred men ain’t enough, that is certain.”

Richard passed bowls and dippers down for some time in silence, having deftly established a routine between himself, the youth he had addressed and his equally young confrere. “Why are you marines so unhappy?” he asked then, voice low.

“’Tis our quarters—they are lower down than yours are and nigh as crowded. We do not eat no better either. Hard bread and salt beef. Except,” he added fairly, “that we get flour and a half-pint of drinkable rum.”

“But ye’re not convicts! Surely—”

“On this ship,” said the other marine, snarling, “there is little difference between convicts and marines. The sailors are quartered where we should be. The only light and air we get comes through a hatch in the floor of their place—they are abaft of this bulkhead in steerage, while we are down in the hold. Alexander is supposed to be a two-decker, but no one mentioned that the second deck is being used as a hold because Alexander carries a lot of cargo and has no proper hold.”