a dumb anguish of despair.  Beyond him marched Grover, one time butcher at Harwich, a stocky, big-fisted fellow, with a ghastly sword wound, yet red and unhealed on his face, extending from hair to chin, his little pig eyes glinting ugly, and his lips cursing.  The man beyond was a soldier, a straight, athletic fellow, with crinkly black beard, who kept his eyes front, paying no heed to the cries.  The guard pressed the people back as we shuffled along, but there was no way of keeping them still.  I heard cries of encouragement, shouts of recognition, sobs of pity, and occasionally a roar of anger as we passed.

“Good lads!  God be with yer!”

“Thet one thar is sore hurted—­it’s a damn shame.”

“Thar’s Teddy—­poor laddie!  Luck go with yer, Teddy.”

“Ter hell with Black Jeffries, say I!”

“Hush, mon, er ye’ll be next ter go—­no, I don’t know who sed it.”

“See thet little chap, Joe; lots ther lad bed ter do with the war.”

“They all look mighty peaked—­poor devils, four months in gaol.”

“Stand back there now.  Stand back!”

The guards prodded them savagely with the butts of their musketoons, thus making scant room for us to shuffle through, out upon the far end of the wharf, where we were finally halted abreast of a lumping brig, apparently nearly ready for sea.  There were more than forty of us as I counted the fellows, and we were rounded up at the extremity of the wharf in the full blaze of the sun, with a line of guards stretched across to hold back the crowd until preparations had been completed to admit us aboard.  As those in front flung themselves down on the planks, I got view of the brig’s gangway, along which men were still busily hauling belated boxes and barrels, and beyond these gained glimpse of the hooker’s name—­romping Betsy of Plymouth.  A moment later a sailor passed along the edge of the dock, dragging a coil of rope after him, and must have answered some hail on his way, for instantly a whisper passed swiftly from man to man.

“It’s Virginia, mate; we’re bound fer Virginia.”

The ugly little pig eyes of the butcher met mine.

“Virginia, hey?” he grunted.  “Ye’re a sailorman, ain’t ye, mate?  Well, then, whar is this yere Virginia?”

The boy was looking at me also questioningly, the terror in his face by no means lessened at the sound of this strange word.

“Yes, sir, please; where is it, sir?”

I patted him on the shoulder, as others near by leaned forward to catch my answer.

“That’s all right, mates,” I returned cheerfully.  “It’s across the blue water, of course, but better than the Indies.  We’ll fall into the hands of Englishmen out there, and they’ll be decent to us.”

“But whar is the bloomin’ hole?”

“In America.  That is where all the tobacco comes from; likely that will be our job—­raising tobacco.”