lothes
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.

We were fifty-three days at sea, driven once so far to the southward
by a severe storm, which struck us the second day out, as to sight the
north coast of Africa before we were able to resume our westward
course. To those of us who were tightly shut into those miserable
quarters below these facts came only as floating rumors, yet the
intense suffering involved was all real enough. For forty-two hours we
were battened down in darkness, flung desperately about by every mad
plunge of the vessel, stifled by poisoned air and noxious odors, and
all that time without a particle of food. If I suffered less than
some others it was simply because I was more accustomed to the sea. I
was not nauseated by the motion, nor unduly frightened by the wild
pitching of the brig. Lying quietly in my berth, braced to prevent
being thrown out, amid a darkness so intense as to seem a weight,
every sound from the deck above, every lift of the vessel, brought to
my mind a sea message, convincing me of two things--that the _Romping
Betsy_ was a staunch craft, and well handled. Te