A number of the convicts spoke at once.
‘Wud at a tibe! Wud at a tibe!’ yelled Abram.
‘Let’s go home!’ shouted a man on the quarter-deck.
‘Debate it,’ said Abram.
An uneasy stir ran through the mass of the convicts, and a long, deep growl of dissent.
‘Home!’ cried Tom, passionately. ‘How’s home called in English? What’s its name? Is it Newgate or Millbank or her Majesty’s ship Warrior? Is it the Dockyard and the Arsenal and irons and handcuffs, cursing warders and carbines ready for your brains? You want my advice; I’ll counsel you.’
Some angry laughter broke from the men.
‘Who’s the madman that talks of home?’ shouted Tom. ‘Shall I sail you up the Thames and moor ye alongside the hulk? Is Plymouth your port, or do you choose Portsmouth?’
‘Why not try for the islands about Torres Straits?’ exclaimed one of the convicts who had been a seaman. Several bawled to know where Torres Straits were.
‘To the nor’ard of Australia,’ replied the convict. ‘There the sea’s thick with islands. Plenty to eat and drink, mates, and casting away a ship is as easy and safe as drawing a cork.’