Looking at John Carney’s sunken eyes, grey skin and lank, thinning hair, James Cullen wiped a tear from his eye. The lad’s health had deteriorated in the last two years. ‘Even though I’ve done most of his work and given him food from my plate, he looks like he’s dying.’
‘What’s the matter James?’
‘Nothing. Musta got something in my eye today, it’s a bit sore.’
Carney’s next comment was stifled before it left his mouth; one of the hulk’s senior guards stood outside the locked cell door calling for attention.
‘We are goin’ to be rid of ye all come tomorrow. Ye’ll be put on wagons in the mornin’ and taken to Portsmouth. Ye’ll be shackled all the way. Don’t want none of ye thinkin’ ye can make a run for it. And just in case ye haven’t got wind of it yet, the government has closed the West
