The press-gangs did not confine their activities to the men of the mercantile marine.

From the streets after dusk they caught and brought in, often after ill-treatment, torn from their wives and sweethearts, knocked on the head for resisting, tradesmen with businesses, young men studying for the professions, idlers, debtors, out-of-work men.

The marvel is that the British fleets fought as well as they did.
Poverty and sorrow, loss and bereavement, were in every street, peeped mournfully out of every window, lurked at street corners.

From all parts of the world adventurers came to renew their fortunes in the turmoil of London, and every street was a kaleidoscope of faces and clothes and colours, not British, not patriot, not national.
Among these outlanders were Dyck Calhoun and Michael Clones.

They had left Ireland together in the late autumn, leaving behind them the stirrings of the coming revolution, and plunging into another revolt which was to prove the test and trial of English character.
Dyck had left Ireland with ninety pounds in his pocket and many tons' weight of misery in his heart.