THE JOURNAL OF DR. ELIAS CORNELIUS--BRITISH PRISONS IN THE SOUTH
We must now conduct our readers back to the Provost Prison in New York,
where, for some time, Colonel Ethan Allen was incarcerated. Dr. Elias
Cornelius, a surgeon’s mate, was taken prisoner by the British on the
22nd of August, 1777. On that day he had ridden to the enemy’s advanced
post to make observations, voluntarily accompanying a scouting party. On
his way back he was surprised, over-powered, and captured by a party of
British soldiers.
This was at East Chester. He seems to have lagged behind the rest of
the party, and thus describes the occurrence: “On riding into town (East
Chester) four men started from behind a shed and took me prisoner. They
immediately began robbing me of everything I had, horse and harness,
pistols, Great Coat, shoe-buckles, pocket book, which contained over
thirty pounds, and other things. The leader of the guard abused me very
much. * * * When we arrived at King’s Bridge I was put under the Provost
Guard, with a man named Prichard and several other prisoners.” They were
kept at the guard house there for some time, and regaled with mouldy
bread, rum and water, and sour apples, which were thrown down for them
to scramble for, as if they were so many pigs. They were at last marched
to New York. Just before reaching that city they were carried before a
Hessian general to be “made a show of.” The Hessians mocked them, told
them they were all to be hung, and even went so far as to draw their
swords across their throats. But a Hessian surgeon’s mate took pity on
Cornelius, and gave him a glass of wine.
On the march to New York in the hot summer afternoon they were not
allowed to stop even for a drink of water. Cornelius was in a fainting
condition, when a poor woman, compassionating his sad plight, asked to
be allowed to give them some water. They were then about four miles from
New York. She ran into her house and brought out several pails of
beer, three or four loaves of bread, two or three pounds of cheese, and
besides all this, she gave money to some of the prisoners. Her name was
Mrs. Clemons. She was from Boston and kept a small store along the road
to New York.
Cornelius says: “We marched till we come to the Bowery, three quarters
of a mile from New York. * * * As we come into town, Hessians, Negroes,
and children insulted, stoned, and abused us. * * * In this way we were
led through half the streets as a show. * * * At last we were ordered to
the Sugar House, which formerly went by the name of Livingstone’s
Sugar House. Here one Walley, a Sergeant of the 20th Regiment of Irish
traitors in the British service, had the charge of the prisoners. This
man was the most barbarous, cruel man that ever I saw. He drove us into
the yard like so many hogs. From there he ordered us into the Sugar
House, which was the dirtiest and most disagreeable place that I ever
saw, and the water in the pump was not better than that in the docks.
The top of the house was open * * * to the weather, so that when it
rained the water ran through every floor, and it was impossible for us
to keep dry. Mr. Walley gave thirteen of us four pounds of mouldy bread
and four pounds of poor Irish pork for four days. I asked Mr Walley if
I was not to have my parole. He answered ‘No!’ When I asked for pen and
ink to write a few lines to my father, he struck me across the face with
a staff which I have seen him beat the prisoners.” (with)
On the next morning Cornelius was conveyed to the Provost Guard. “I was
then taken down to a Dungeon. The provost marshal was Sergeant
Keith” (Cunningham appears to have been, at this time, murdering the
unfortunate prisoners in his power at Philadelphia).
“There was in this place a Captain Travis of Virginia, and Captain of
a sloop of war. There were also in this dismal place nine thieves,
murderers, etc. A Captain Chatham was taken sick with nervous fever.
I requested the Sergeant to suffer me to send for some medicine, or I
believed he might die, to which he replied he might die, and if he did
he would bury him.
“All the provisions each man had was but two pounds meat and two pounds
bread for a week, always one and sometimes both was not fit to eat. *
* * I had no change of linen from the 25th of August to the 12th of
September.”
It seems that the father of Cornelius, who lived on Long Island, was an
ardent Tory. Cornelius asked Sergeant O’Keefe to be allowed to send
to his father for money and clothing. But this was refused. “In this
hideous place,” he continues, “I was kept until the 20th of September;
when Sergeant Keath took Captains C., and Travis, and myself, and led us
to the upper part of the prison, where were Ethan Allen, Major Williams,
Paine and Wells and others. Major Williams belonged at Maryland and was
taken prisoner at Fort Washington. * * *
“While at this place we were not allowed to speak to any friend, not
even out of the window. I have frequently seen women beaten with canes
and ram-rods who have come to the prisons’ windows to speak to their
Husbands, Sons, or Brothers, and officers put in the dungeon just for
asking for cold water.”
Dried peas were given out to the prisoners, without the means of cooking
them.
When Fort Montgomery was taken by the British the American officers who
had been in command at that post were brought to the Provost and
put into two small rooms on the lower floor. Some of them were badly
wounded, but no surgeon was allowed to dress their wounds. Cornelius
asked permission to do so, but this was refused. “All of us in the
upper prison,” he continues, “were sometimes allowed to go on top of the
house. I took this opportunity to throw some Ointment and Lint down the
chimney to the wounded in the lower rooms with directions how to use it.
I knew only one of them--Lt. Col. Livingstone.”
At the time of Burgoyne’s surrender a rumor of the event reached the
prisoners, and women passing along the street made signs to assure them
that that general was really a captive. Colonel Livingstone received a
letter from his father giving an account of Burgoyne’s surrender. “Soon
we heard hollooing and other expressions of joy from him and others in
the (lower) rooms. * * * He put the letter up through a crack in
the floor for us to read. * * * The whole prison was filled with joy
inexpressible. * * * From this time we were better treated, although
the provision was bad, but we drew rather larger quantities of it. Some
butter, and about a gill of rice and some cole were dealt out to us,
which we never drew before.
“About this time my father came to see me. I was called down to the
grates. My heart at first was troubled within me; I burst into tears,
and did not speak for some minutes. I put my hand through the grates,
and took my father’s and held it fast. The poor old gentleman shed many
tears, and seemed much troubled to see me in so woeful a place. * * *
He asked me what I thought of myself now, and why I could not have been
ruled by him. * * * Soon the Provost Marshal came and said he could not
allow my father to stay longer.
“* * * Toward the latter part of December we had Continental bread and
beef sent us, and as much wood as we wished to burn. A friend gave me
some money which was very useful.
“Jan. 9th, 1778. This day Mr. Walley came and took from the prison
myself and six others under guard to the Sugar House. * * * At this time
my health was bad, being troubled with the scurvy, and my prospects for
the winter were dark.”
He describes the Sugar House as a dreadful place of torment, and
says that thirty disorderly men were allowed to steal from the other
prisoners the few comforts they possessed. They would even take the sick
out of their beds, steal their bedding, and beat and kick the wretched
sufferers. The articles thus procured they would sell to Mr. Walley (or
Woolley) for rum.
On the 13th of January Cornelius was sent to the hospital. The Brick
Meeting House was used for the sick among the prisoners.
“Here,” he continues, “I stayed until the 16th. I was not much better
than I was in the Sugar House, no medicine was given me, though I had a
cough and a fever. The Surgeon wished me as soon as I got better to take
the care of the sick, provided I could get my parole.
“Jan. 16th. On coming next morning he (the surgeon) said he could get
my parole. I was now determined to make my escape, though hardly able to
undertake it. Just at dusk, having made the Sentinel intoxicated, I with
others, went out into the backyard to endeavor to escape over the fence.
The others being backward about going first, I climbed upon a tombstone
and gave a spring, and went over safe, and then gave orders for the
others to do so also. A little Irish lad undertook to leap over, and
caught his clothes in the spikes on the wall, and made something of a
noise. The sentinel being aroused called out ‘Rouse!’ which is the same
as to command the guards to turn out. They were soon out and surrounded
the prison. In the mean time I had made my way to St. Paul’s Church,
which was the wrong way to get out of town.
“The guards, expecting that I had gone towards North River, went in that
direction. On arriving at the Church I turned into the street to go by
the College and thus go out of town by the side of the river. Soon after
I was out of town I heard the eight o’clock gun, which * * * was the
signal for the sentinels to hail every man that came by. I wished much
to cross the river, but could not find any boat suitable. While going
along up the side of the river at 9 P.M., I was challenged by a sentinel
with the usual word (Burdon), upon which I answered nothing, and on
being challenged the second time I answered ‘Friend.’ He bade me advance
and give the countersign, upon which I fancied (pretended) I was drunk,
and advanced in a staggering manner, and after falling to the ground he
asked me where I was going. I told him ‘Home,’ but that I had got lost,
and having been to New York had taken rather too much liquor, and become
somewhat intoxicated. He then asked me my name which I told him was
Matthew Hoppen. Mr. Hoppen lived not far distant. I solicited him to
put me in the right direction, but he told me I must not go until the
Sergeant of the guard dismissed me from him, unless I could give him the
countersign. I still entreated him to let me go. Soon he consented and
directed my course, which I thanked him for. Soon the moon arose and
made it very light, and there being snow on the ground, crusted over,
and no wind, therefore a person walking could be heard a great distance.
“At this time the tumor in my lungs broke, and being afraid to cough for
fear of being heard, prevented me from relieving myself of the pus that
was lodged there.
“I had now to cross lots that were cleared and covered with snow, the
houses being thick on the road which I was to cross, and for fear of
being heard I lay myself flat on my stomach and crept along on the
frozen snow. When I come to the fence I climbed over, and walked down
the road, near a house where there was music and dancing. At this time
one of the guards came out. I immediately fell down upon my face. Soon
the man went into the house. I rose again, and crossed the fence into
the field, and proceeded towards the river. There being no trees or
rocks to prevent my being seen, and not being able to walk without being
heard, and the dogs beginning to bark, I lay myself down flat again, and
crept across the field, which took me half an hour. I at length reached
the river and walked by the side of it some distance, and saw a small
creek which ran up into the island, and by the side of it a small house,
and two Sentinels one on each side of it. Not knowing what to do I crept
into a hole in the bank which led in between two rocks. Here I heard
them talk. I concluded to endeavor to go around the head of the creek,
which was about half a mile, but on getting out of the hole I took
hold of the limb of a tree which gave way, and made a great noise. The
sentinel, on hearing it said, ‘Did you not hear a person on the creek?’
“I waited some minutes and then went around the head of the creek and
came down the river on the other side to see if I could not find a boat
to cross to Long Island. But on finding sentinels near by I retreated
a short distance back, and went up the river. I had not gone more than
thirty rods when I saw another sentinel posted on the bank of the river
where I must pass. * * * I stood some time thinking what course to
pursue, but on looking at the man found he did not move and was leaning
on his gun. I succeeded in passing by without waking him up. After this
I found a Sentinel every fifteen or twenty rods until I came within two
miles of Hell Gate. Here I stayed until my feet began to freeze, and
having nothing to eat I went a mile further up the river. It now being
late I crept into the bushes and lay down to think what to do next.
I concluded to remain where I was during the night, and early in the
morning to go down to New York and endeavor to find some house to
conceal myself in.
“In the morning as soon as the Revelry Beating commenced I went on my
way to New York which was eight miles from this place. After proceeding
awhile I heard the morning guns fired from New York, though I was four
miles from it. I passed the sentinels unmolested down the middle of
the road, and arrived there before many were up. I met many British and
Hessian soldiers whom I knew very well, but they did not know me.
“I went to a house, and found them friends of America, and was kindly
received of them, and (they) promised to keep me a few days.
“I had not been here but three quarters of an hour when I was obliged to
call for a bed. After being in bed two or three hours I was taken with
a stoppage in my breast, and made my resperation difficult, and still
being afraid to cough loud for fear of being heard. The good lady of the
house gave me some medicine of my own prescribing, which soon gave
me relief. Soon after a rumor spread about town among the friends of
America of my confinement, and expecting soon to be retaken, they took
measures to have me conveyed to Long Island, which was accordingly done.
“Feb. 18th, 1778. The same day I was landed I walked nine miles, and put
up at a friend’s house, during my walk I passed my Grandfather’s house,
and dare not go in for fear he would deliver me up to the British. Next
morning I started on my journey again, and reached the place I intended
at 12 o’clock, and put up with two friends. The next morning I and
two companions started from our friends with four days provisions, and
shovels and axes to build us a hut in the woods. We each of us had a
musket, powder, and balls. After going two miles in the woods we dug
away the snow and made us a fire. After warming ourselves we set to work
to build ourselves a hut; and got one side of it done the first day,
and the next we finished it. It was tolerably comfortable. We kept large
fires, and cooked our meat on the coals. In eight or ten days we had
some provisions brought us by our friends. At this time we heard that
Captain Rogers was cast away on Long Island, and concealed by some of
his friends. We went to see him, and found him. We attempted to stay in
the house in a back room. At about ten A. M. there came in a Tory, he
knowing some of us seemed much troubled. We made him promise that he
would not make known our escape. The next day our two comrades went back
to their old quarters, and Captain Rogers and myself and a friend
went into the woods and built us a hut, about ten miles from my former
companions, with whom we kept up a constant correspondence. Soon a man
was brought to us by our friends, whom we found to be John Rolston, a
man who was confined in the Provost Jail with us, and was carried to
the Hospital about three weeks after I was, and made his escape the same
way, and by friends was brought to Long Island.
“March 19th, 1778. About 5 o’clock a friend came to us and and said we
had an opportunity to go over to New England in a boat that had just
landed with four Tories, that had stolen the boat at Fairfield, Conn.
We immediately sent word to our two friends with whom I first helped to
build a hut, but they could not be found. At sunset those that came in
the boat went off, and some of our friends guided us through the woods
to the boat, taking two oars with us, for fear we should not find any
in the boat. On arrival at the place our kind friends helped us off. We
rowed very fast till we were a great distance from land. The moon rose
soon, and the wind being fair we arrived we knew not where, about a half
hour before day. We went on shore, and soon found it was Norwalk, Conn.
We had bade farewell to Long Island, for the present, upon which I
composed the following lines:--
“O fair you well, once happy land,
Where peace and plenty dwelt,
But now oppressed by tyrants’ hands,
Where naught but fury’s felt
“Behold I leave you for awhile,
To mourn for all your sons,
Who daily bleed that you may smile
When we’ve your freedom won
“After being rested, just as the day began to dawn, we walked to a place
called the Old Mill, where we found a guard (American) who hailed us at
a distance, and on coming up to him kindly received us, and invited
us to his house to warm us. This being done we went home with Captain
Rodgers, for he lived in Norwalk. Here we went to bed at sunrise, and
stayed till 10 o’clock. After dinner we took leave of Captain Rodgers
and started for head-quarters in Pennsylvania, where the grand Army was
at that time. In seven days we arrived at Valley Forge.
“Elias Cornelius.”
This portion of the journal of Dr. Cornelius was published in the
_Putnam County Republican_, in 1895, with a short account of the author.
Dr. Cornelius was born on Long Island in 1758, and was just twenty at
the time of his capture. His ancestors came from Holland. They were
of good birth, and brought a seal bearing their coat of arms to this
country. On the 15th of April, 1777, he was appointed surgeon’s mate to
the Second Regiment of Rhode Island troops under Colonel Israel Angell.
The article in the _Republican_ gives a description of Cunningham and
the Provost which we do not quote in full, as it contains little that
is new. It says, however that “While Cunningham’s victims were dying
off from cold and starvation like cattle, he is said to have actually
mingled an arsenical preparation with the food to make them die the
quicker. It is recorded that he boasted that he had killed more rebels
with his own hand than had been slain by all the King’s forces in
America.”
Cornelius continued in the Continental service until January 1st,
1781, and received an honorable discharge. After the war he settled
at Yorktown, Westchester County, and came to be known as the “beloved
physician.” He was very gentle and kind, and a great Presbyterian. He
died in 1823, and left descendants, one of whom is Judge C. M. Tompkins,
of Washington, D. C.
As we have seen, Cunningham was not always in charge of the Provost. It
appears that, during his absence in Philadelphia and other places, where
he spread death and destruction, he left Sergeant O’Keefe, almost as
great a villian as himself, in charge of the hapless prisoners in New
York. It is to be hoped that his boast that he had killed more Americans
than all the King’s forces is an exaggeration. It may, however, be true
that in the years 1776 and 1777 he destroyed more American soldiers than
had, at that time, fallen on the field of battle.
When an old building that had been used as a prison near the City Hall
was torn down a few years ago to make way for the Subway Station of
the Brooklyn Bridge, a great number of skeletons were found _in its
cellars_. That these men starved to death or came to their end by
violence cannot be doubted. New York, at the time of the Revolution,
extended to about three-quarters of a mile from the Battery, its suburbs
lying around what is now Fulton Street. Cornelius speaks of the Bowery
as about three-quarters of a mile from New York! “St. Paul’s Church,”
says Mr. Haltigan, in his very readable book called “The Irish in the
American Revolution,” “where Washington attended divine service, is now
the only building standing that existed in those days, and that is a
veritable monument to Irish and American patriotism. * * * On the Boston
Post Road, where it crossed a brook in the vicinity of Fifty-Second
street and Second avenue, then called Beekman’s Hill, William Beekman
had an extensive country house. During the Revolution this house was the
British headquarters, and residence of Sir William Howe, where Nathan
Hale was condemned to death, and where Major Andrè received his last
instructions before going on his ill-fated mission to the traitor
Arnold.”
Lossing tells us of the imprisonment of one of the signers of the
Declaration of Independence, in the following language: “Suffering and
woe held terrible sway after Cornwallis and his army swept over
the plains of New Jersey. Like others of the signers of the great
Declaration, Richard Stockton was marked for peculiar vengeance by the
enemy. So suddenly did the flying Americans pass by in the autumn of
1776, and so soon were the Hessian vultures and their British companions
on the trail, that he had barely time to remove his family to a place of
safety before his beautiful mansion was filled with rude soldiery. The
house was pillaged, the horses and stock were driven away, the furniture
was converted into fuel, the choice old wines in the cellar were drunk,
the valuable library, and all the papers of Mr. Stockton were committed
to the flames, and the estate was laid waste. Mr. Stockton’s place of
concealment was discovered by a party of loyalists, who entered the
house at night, dragged him from his bed, and treating him with every
indignity that malice could invent, hurried him to New York, where he
was confined in the loathsome Provost Jail and treated with the utmost
cruelty. When, through the interposition of Congress he was released,
his constitution was hopelessly shattered, and he did not live to
see the independence of his country achieved. He died at his home at
Princeton, in February, 1781, blessed to the last with the tender and
affectionate attentions of his noble wife.”
We have gathered very little information about the British prisons in
the south, but that little shall be laid before the reader. It repeats
the same sad story of suffering and death of hundreds of martyrs to the
cause of liberty, and of terrible cruelty on the part of the English as
long as they were victorious.
Mr. Haltigan tells of the “tender mercies” of Cornwallis at the south in
the following words: “Cornwallis was even more cruel than Clinton, and
more flagrant in his violations of the conditions of capitulation. After
the fall of Charleston the real misery of the inhabitants began. Every
stipulation made by Sir Henry Clinton for their welfare was not only
grossly violated, but he sent out expeditions in various sections to
plunder and kill the inhabitants, and scourge the country generally.
One of these under Tarleton surprised Colonel Buford and his Virginia
regiment at Waxhaw, N. C., and while negotiations were pending for a
surrender, the Americans, without notice, were suddenly attacked and
massacred in cold blood. Colonel Buford and one hundred of his men saved
themselves only by flight. Though the rest sued for quarter, one hundred
and thirteen of them were killed on the spot, and one hundred and fifty
more were so badly hacked by Tarleton’s dragoons that they could not
be removed. Only fifty-three out of the entire regiment were spared and
taken prisoners. ‘Tarleton’s quarter’ thereafter became the synonym for
barbarity. * * * Feeling the silent influence of the eminent citizens
under parole in Charleston, Cornwallis resolved to expatriate them to
Florida.
“Lieutenant Governor Gadsden and seventy-seven other public and
influential men were taken from their beds by armed parties, before
dawn on the morning of the 27th of August, 1780, hurried on board
the Sandwich prison ship, without being allowed to bid adieu to their
families, and were conveyed to St. Augustine.
“The pretence for this measure, by which the British authorities
attempted to justify it, was the false accusation that these men were
concerting a scheme for burning the town and massacring the loyal
inhabitants. Nobody believed the tale, and the act was made more
flagrant by this wicked calumny. Arrived at St. Augustine the prisoners
were offered paroles to enjoy liberty within the precincts of the town.
Gadsden, the sturdy patriot, refused acquiescence, for he disdained
making further terms with a power that did not regard the sanctity of a
solemn treaty. He was determined not to be deceived the second time.
“‘Had the British commanders,’ he said, ‘regarded the terms of
capitulation at Charleston I might now, although a prisoner, enjoy the
smiles and consolations of my family under my own roof; but even without
a shadow of accusation preferred against me, for any act inconsistent
with my plighted faith, I am torn from them, and here, in a distant
land, invited to enter into new engagements. I will give no parole.’
“‘Think better of it,’ said Governor Tonyn, who was in command, ‘a
second refusal of it will fix your destiny,--a dungeon will be your
future habitation.’
“‘Prepare it then,’ replied the inflexible patriot, ‘I will give no
parole, so help me God!’
“And the petty tyrant did prepare it, and for forty-two weeks that
patriot, of almost threescore years of age, never saw the light of the
blessed sun, but lay incarcerated in the dungeon of the castle of St
Augustine. All the other prisoners accepted paroles, but they were
exposed to indignities more harrowing to the sensitive soul than close
confinement. When they were exchanged, in June, 1781, they were not
allowed even to touch at Charleston, but were sent to Philadelphia,
whither their families had been banished when the prisoners were taken
to the Sandwich. More than a thousand persons were thus exiled, and
husbands and wives, fathers and children, first met in a distant State
after a separation of ten months.
“Nearly all the soldiers taken prisoners at Charleston were confined in
prison ships in the harbor, where foul air, bad food, filth, and
disease killed hundreds of them. Those confined at Haddrell’s Point also
suffered terribly. Many of them had been nurtured in affluence; now
far from friends and entirely without means, they were reduced to the
greatest straits. They were not even allowed to fish for their support,
but were obliged to perform the most menial services. After thirteen
months captivity, Cornwallis ordered them to be sent to the West Indies,
and this cruel order would have been carried out, but for the general
exchange of prisoners which took place soon afterwards.
“Governor Rutledge, in speaking before the South Carolina Assembly at
Jacksonboro, thus eloquently referred to the rigorous and unjustifiable
conduct of the British authorities:
“‘Regardless of the sacred ties of honor, destitute of the feelings
of humanity, and determined to extinguish, if possible, every spark
of freedom in this country, the enemy, with the insolent pride of
conquerors, gave unbounded scope to the exercise of their tyrannical
disposition, infringed their public engagements, and violated their most
solemn treaties. Many of our worthiest citizens, without cause, were
long and closely confined, some on board prison ships, and others in the
town and castle of St. Augustine. Their properties were disposed of
at the will and caprice of the enemy, and their families sent to
a different and distant part of the continent without the means of
support. Many who had surrendered prisoners of war were killed in cold
blood. Several suffered death in the most ignominious manner, and others
were delivered up to savages and put to tortures, under which they
expired. Thus the lives, liberties, and properties of the people were
dependent solely on the pleasure of the British officers, who deprived
them of either or all on the most frivolous pretenses. Indians, slaves,
and a desperate banditti of the most profligate characters were
caressed and employed by the enemy to execute their infamous purposes.
Devastation and ruin marked their progress and that of their adherents;
nor were their violences restrained by the charms or influence of beauty
and innocence; even the fair sex, whom it is the duty of all, and
the pleasure and pride of the brave to protect, they and their tender
offspring, were victims to the inveterate malice of an unrelenting foe.
Neither the tears of mothers, nor the cries of infants could excite pity
or compassion. Not only the peaceful habitation of the widow, the aged
and the infirm, but the holy temples of the Most High were consumed in
flames, kindled by their sacrilegious hands. They have tarnished
the glory of the British army, disgraced the profession of a British
soldiery, and fixed indelible stigmas of rapine, cruelty and peridy, and
profaneness on the British name.’”
When in 1808 the Tammany Society of New York laid the cornerstone of a
vault in which the bones of many of the prison ship martyrs were laid
Joseph D. Fay, Esq., made an oration in which he said:
“But the suffering of those unfortunate Americans whom the dreadful
chances of war had destined for the prison-ships, were far greater than
any which have been told. In that deadly season of the year, when the
dog-star rages with relentless fury, when a pure air is especially
necessary to health, the British locked their prisoner, after long
marches, in the dungeons of ships affected with contagion, and reeking
with the filth of crowded captives, dead and dying. * * * No reasoning,
no praying could obtain from his stern tyrants the smallest alleviation
of his fate.
“In South Carolina the British officer called Fraser, after trying in
every manner to induce the prisoners to enlist, said to them: ‘Go to
your dungeons in the prison ships, where you shall perish and rot, but
first let me tell you that the rations which have been hitherto allowed
for your wives and children shall, from this moment, cease forever; and
you shall die assured that they are starving in the public streets, and
that _you_ are the authors of their fate.’
“A sentence so terribly awful appalled the firm soul of every listening
hero. A solemn silence followed the declaration; they cast their
wondering eyes one upon the other, and valor, for a moment, hung
suspended between love of family, and love of country. Love of country
at length rose superior to every other consideration, and moved by one
impulse, this glorious band of patriots thundered into the astonished
ears of their persecutors, ‘The prison-ships and Death, or Washington
and our country!’
“Meagre famine shook hands with haggard pestilence, joining a league to
appall, conquer, and destroy the glorious spirit of liberty.”