He answered that he would make inquiries and call. He was intelligibly punctual, because he had to receive ten guineas, but he brought me what I wanted to know, and to my joy I learned that I was at liberty to visit Tom next day, and that he would be brought on board to see me if he was ashore when I arrived. The morning following I dressed with care. I wore black clothes. I had worn black ever since my sweetheart was taken from me. I put on a black veil, and going into the street, walked till I met with a coach, and drove to Blackwall. I had not visited those parts since Tom and I and the others had seen Will Johnstone off, and I dared not glance in the direction of the hotel in which my sweetheart had made love to me and asked me to marry him. Indeed, my heart needed all the fortitude my spirit could give it. It was a bright, hot day. The sky was high with delicate, frostlike cloud, and the running river blue with the reflection of the heavens. The wind was a light summer breeze and blew from London, and many ships of many rigs floated before it, some of them lifting lofty fabrics of swelling breasts of canvas, some of them dark with a weather-stained look, like my father’s coasters. Here at Blackwall I took a boat, and told the man to row me to the _Warrior_ hulk. ‘You know her?’ said I. He was an elderly man, dressed in a tall hat and jersey; he exposed a few yellow fangs as he lay back on his oars and said: ‘Know her? Yes. Know the _Warrior_! Yah might as well ask me if I know St. Paul’s. Going aboard?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Friend aboard?’ I inclined my head. ‘I had a nevvey locked up in that there hulk,’ said the man. ‘He had six year. Now’s out and doon well. He drove a light cart drawn by a nag as could trot, and called hisself a pig-dealer. Do ’spectable pig-dealers break into houses o’ night? The _Warrior_ cured my nevvey. He ain’t above talking of that ship. Get him in the mood, and he’ll spin yah some queer yarns about her.’ ‘How are the prisoners treated?’ ‘Sights o’ stone-breaking and stacking o’ timber. They put my nevvey to draw carts. They sunk his name and caa’d him a number. A man doan’ feel a man when he’s a number. But the job my nevvey least enjoyed was scraping shot.’ ‘How are they fed?’ ‘By contract. Yah knows what that means. Beef all veins. Ever heard of “smiggins,” miss?’ ‘No.’ ‘It’s hulk soup: convicts’ name for greasy warm water. Call it twenty year ago, I was passing a hulk stationed afore the _Defence_ came up; a boat was ’longside with provisions for the day; what d’ye think? With my own eyes I see the prisoners as was hoisting the grub out of the boat chuck it overboard. Was they flogged?’ He shook his head, grinning horribly. His manners and answers shocked and depressed me, and I asked him no more questions. ‘Ain’t it rather sing’ler,’ said he, after a few minutes’ pause, ‘that there’s only one flower as ’ll grow upon a convict’s grave?’ ‘Is that so?’