The man beyond was a soldier, a straight, athletic fellow, with crinkly black beard, who kept his eyes front, paying no heed to the cries.

The guard pressed the people back as we shuffled along, but there was no way of keeping them still.

I heard cries of encouragement, shouts of recognition, sobs of pity, and occasionally a roar of anger as we passed.
"Good lads! God be with yer!" "Thet one thar is sore hurted--it's a damn shame." "Thar's Teddy--poor laddie! Luck go with yer, Teddy." "Ter hell with Black Jeffries, say I!" "Hush, mon, er ye'll be next ter go--no, I don't know who sed it." "See thet little chap, Joe; lots ther lad bed ter do with the war." "They all look mighty peaked--poor devils, four months in gaol." "Stand back there now.

Stand back!" The guards prodded them savagely with the butts of their musketoons, thus making scant room for us to shuffle through, out upon the far end of the wharf, where we were finally halted abreast of a lumping brig, apparently nearly ready for sea.

There were more than forty of us as I counted the fellows, and we were rounded up at the extremity of the wharf in the full blaze of the sun, with a line of guards stretched across to hold back the crowd until preparations had been completed to admit us aboard.