I could remember seeing but few of them before, yet as I observed them more closely now, realized that these were not criminals being punished for crime, but men caught, as I had been, and condemned without fair trial, through the lies of paid informers.  I could even read in their actions and words the simple stories of their former lives—­the farm laborer, the sailor, the store-keeper, now all on one common level of misfortune and misery—­condemned alike to exile, to servitude in a strange land, beyond seas.

The ticket given me called by number for a certain berth, and I sought until I found this, throwing within the small bundle I bore, and then finding a chance to sit down on the deck beneath.  The last of the bunch of prisoners dribbled down the ladder, each in turn noisily greeted by those already huddled below.  I began to recognize the increasing foulness of air, and to distinguish words of conversation from the groups about me.  There was but little profanity but some rough horse-play, and a marked effort to pretend indifference.  I could make out gray-beards and mere boys mingling together, and occasionally a man in some semblance of uniform.  A few bore wounds, and the clothes of several were in rags; all alike exhibited marks of suffering and hardship.  The butcher from Harwich, and the white-faced lad who had marched beside me down the wharf, were not to be seen from where I sat, although beyond doubt they were somewhere in the crowd.  The hatch was not lowered, and gazing up through the square opening, I obtained glimpse of two soldiers on guard, the sunlight glinting on their guns.  Almost immediately there was the sound of tramping feet on the deck above, and the creaking of blocks.  Then a sudden movement of the hull told all we were under way.  This was recognized by a roar of voices.

CHAPTER II

THE PRISON SHIP

The greater portion of that voyage I would blot entirely from memory if possible.  I cannot hope to describe it in any detail—–­the foul smells, the discomfort, the ceaseless horror of food, the close companionship of men turned into mere animals by suffering and distress, the wearisome days, the black, sleepless nights, the poisonous air, and the brutality of guards.  I can never forget these things, for they have scarred my soul, yet surely I need not dwell upon them now, except as they may bear some direct reference to this tale I seek to tell.  As such those weeks cannot be wholly ignored, for they form a part of the events to follow—­events which might not be clearly understood without their proper picturing.