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jot what we chose to do with his offer.
    Almost immediately I regretted not taking the money. After all, it made no difference to my fate.
    Then we were manhandled off the
Franklyn
and into the boat, and pushed off towards the Navy tender. I knew a little of what awaited me, and what I knew was enough to make me feel very afraid.
    As the boat rowed closer to the tender, I wondered if I should jump into the sea and try to swim for shore. But it looked a formidable distance, and it was a cold morning – the kind of late summer day when the sunshine feels tired, and a chill wind blows in to remind you that autumn is coming. Besides, I was sat facing a marine with a bayonet pointed right at my stomach. I would almost certainly be run through before my head hit the water. Silas had even less chance of escape with his hands tied behind his back.
    As we approached the tender I could see that she was perhaps half the size of the
Franklyn
. About her upperdeck there were several more red-coated marines, all of them carrying muskets with fixed bayonets.
    We pulled up alongside, and Silas and I were told to climb aboard. A marine untied his hands, and up the boarding ladder we clambered, bayonets to greet us, bayonets to prod us on our way. There were only a few souls on deck, but I could hear the low murmur of a large number of men coming up from below – like a strange human hive. A ghastly stench rose up to greet us.
    We were swiftly ushered below, to a ladder which led to a large holding pen in the bowels of the vessel. Peering down through a hatch I could see scores of upturned faces – the hold was crammed with the most desperate bunch of men I had ever seen. Silas and I made our way down the small ladder and tried to find a place to stand. Although it was a cold day, the hold felt unbearably airless and hot. There was straw on the floor, and among the forest of arms and legs I could make out the occasional overflowing bucket. The smell was vile. Along with the usual human waste were pools of vomit from seasick men. I felt sick myself, but managed to control the urge to empty my stomach. There must have been a hundred men in the hold – certainly not enough room for all of us to sit or lie down at the same time. Some had managed to slump against the wall and sleep. Others had passed out, for want of air, I imagined.
    The hatch closed over our heads and Silas and I stoodstaring at each other. By the look on his face I guessed he was as dumbfounded as me. At first nobody talked to us – everyone seemed wrapped up in his own little bubble of misery. I saw that there was a large barrel of water at one end of the hold, and pushed my way over to drink from it.
    Then, after half an hour, the hatch opened again, and the same lieutenant who had picked me out from the crew of the
Franklyn
called down. ‘I want four volunteers to come up, two at a time, with the buckets of waste.’ Immediately there was a score of men raising their hands to be chosen, hoping for a moment of fresher air away from the hold. The Lieutenant announced we would be given a midday meal – ship’s biscuits. Each man had to come up separately to be presented with his ration. The process took nearly two hours. The Lieutenant then called down again. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said with a quaint formality, ‘we have a good wind behind us and intend to reach Portsmouth by this evening, so you will not have to wait in the hold for much longer.’
    The news seemed to brighten everyone’s mood, and Silas and I began to talk to some of the other prisoners near to us. From what I could gather, most of the men in the hold came from Weymouth, where the press gang had descended with a vengeance. But several, like Silas and me, had been lifted from merchant ships.
    One fellow with thinning blond hair and several days’growth of beard told us he and three of his companions had been returning from a French prison.
    â€˜Three years,