CHAPTER IX.

THE RISING.

Tom Barker, the coachman, had just given the word to the hostler to
"let 'em go!" when Judson came running out of the lighted doorway of
the inn with something in his hand.

"Here's a hare and a brace of pheasants the squire wants delivered to
Dr. Plumer of Castlefield, Tom," he said. "They may as well go on by
you. I'll hang 'em on the lamp iron."

"All right," muttered Barker, and off we went. To sit beside the
driver was in those days considered a very privileged position, and I
felt not a little proud of the honour, in spite of the fact that I was
filled with a feeling of uneasiness and astonishment at what I had just
discovered with regard to my fellow-travellers. The good-natured
driver must have guessed my thoughts, for he turned to me, remarking,--

"I suppose you know what sort of a load we've got to-night, sir?"

"Well, no--not exactly," I replied.

"Why, it's the jail delivery off to Botany Bay," was the answer.

"And what's the 'jail delivery'?" I asked, remembering that I had heard
the words before, but still in doubt as to their exact meaning.

"Why, these is all jail-birds off to a warmer climate like the
swallers," answered Tom, chuckling at his own grim joke, and skilfully
winding up the long lash of his whip. "They've all been condemned to
transportation at Welmington Assizes, and now they're on their way from
jail to the hulks at Portsmouth."

Any doubt as to the correctness of this statement was dispelled by the
convicts themselves, who launched out once more into their uproarious
song, "We're off to Botany Bay," accompanying their chant with a weird
jingling of their chains. This last sound sent a momentary thrill of
horror through me, for I had never before seen human beings chained
like brute beasts.

"They're all right!" continued Tom. "They've got the ruffles on, and
they're all fast to the rail," he added, referring to an iron rail
which ran across the coach behind the seat on the roof, to keep the
luggage from slipping forward. "They can't do no harm. All the same,
I've carried loads I liked better."

"How many are there?" I inquired.

"Ten, and two warders--one inside, and t'other out. There's one
they've got inside, a regular highflier--Rodwood his name is. He's
sentenced for life, I believe. The only wonder is he's escaped being
hung."

"What was his crime?"

"Forgery--at least that's what they've got him for; but they say h