"Why, it's the jail delivery off to Botany Bay," was the answer.
"And what's the 'jail delivery'?" I asked, remembering that I had heard the words before, but still in doubt as to their exact meaning.
"Why, these is all jail-birds off to a warmer climate like the swallers," answered Tom, chuckling at his own grim joke, and skilfully winding up the long lash of his whip. "They've all been condemned to transportation at Welmington Assizes, and now they're on their way from jail to the hulks at Portsmouth."
Any doubt as to the correctness of this statement was dispelled by the convicts themselves, who launched out once more into their uproarious song, "We're off to Botany Bay," accompanying their chant with a weird jingling of their chains. This last sound sent a momentary thrill of horror through me, for I had never before seen human beings chained like brute beasts.
"They're all right!" continued Tom. "They've got the ruffles on, and they're all fast to the rail," he added, referring to an iron rail which ran across the coach behind the seat on the roof, to keep the luggage from slipping forward. "They can't do no harm. All the same, I've carried loads I liked better."
"How many are there?" I inquired.
"Ten, and two warders—one inside, and t'other out. There's one they've got inside, a regular highflier—Rodwood his name is. He's sentenced for life, I believe. The only wonder is he's escaped being hung."
"What was his crime?"
"Forgery—at least that's what they've got him for; but they say he's a desperate villain—one as'll stop at nothing when his blood is up, and would think no more of killing a man as came in his way than you or I might of knocking down a rat in a stable. Well, he's off safe enough now for t'other side of the world, and I hope they'll keep him there."
The convicts continued to sing and shout, then grew quieter, apparently tired by their exertions, though every now and again one or more of them burst out afresh in a forced manner, as though bent on making a display of bravado and unconcern. Once or twice, in the pauses of their singing, and amid the clatter of the horses' hoofs and the rumble of the wheels, I remember catching a slight sound, the origin of which it was impossible for even my sharp ears to clearly distinguish, but which I attributed to the swaying and grating of the lamp-iron on which the game had been hung.