Everybody sourly as we start to get transferred from the Justitia to the Moffatt, anchored in the middle of the harbour. Ten to twenty of us at a time climb down into the longboat, sit there shivering in our shirt and pants, all chained up. And when the wind come up, instead of one hour, it take more like two to row out to that great big convict ship.

When we reach the Moffatt, colder and wearier than when the day start, the sailors stare down at us like we is dirt as we claw our way up the rope ladders to come on board. The deck officer Jonas McDuff stand up on the deck, him feet astride, watching the skies, watching us with an uneasy eye. And when we all standing in line, Thomas Bolton, the captain, come out of him cabin. Walk up and down checking us over. Looking at us like him already decide all of us is trouble, and all the while the drizzle keep coming down, soaking us to the skin, freezing us to the bone.

‘Be warned,’ him shout, as the wind come up again. ‘If you expect to behave badly on my ship, think again. There will be the devil to pay and you’ll find yourself rocking on the ocean floor. Your bones picked over by fish, quicker than you can say “Yes sir, Captain Bolton”.’

After him gone back down to him cabin, McDuff start shouting, him words come in bursts as they get carried away on the wind. ‘Hurry it up!’

Lightning flash behind the clouds.

‘Hurry it up, you lazy buggers.’

Thunder rolling.

‘Haven’t got all blooming day to wait for you lot! Next convict. Step forward. Be lively now.’

Is then I see him pointing at me.

‘Buchanan, William. Prisoner number one seven nine three. Make your mark.’

I do as me told, put a mark on the paper beside the finger pointing at me name. Then him shout, ‘Move along, now. Move along, down below with the others.’

I start to head below deck, decide to take one last look round. Although I am glad to be leaving the lice-ridden, rat-crawling, foul-smelling hulk, at least it turn familiar. Know the ins and outs of it. Know how to get a little bit extra of whatever I can get. Not much time for looking though, the convict behind push me forward and I climb down a short wooden ladder that take me below deck where everybody pushing and shoving to find them spot. I notice how some of the older convicts move quick away from the bunks under the ports. So I follow suit and, after we sail, I am glad I done that. The ports always leaking, the saltwater dripping through.