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?’