When the infamous Tryon succeeded Arthur Dobbs, as Colonial Governor of
North Carolina, in 1766, he found the inhabitants of the upper part of
the State in the highest state of excitement—almost in open rebellion—on
account of the passage of the Stamp Act, which, to them, was like piling
Pelion upon Ossa, for they had suffered for years from the rapacity of
public officers, the oppression of the courts, and exorbitant taxes
levied to support a venal government. They had petitioned the Governor
and Council for a redress of grievances, until they found that each
petition was followed by increased extortion—until their situation
became so oppressive, that they resolved to take matters into their own
hands. A solemn league was thereupon formed, called the "REGULATION,"
and the members of it "_Regulators_." The leader of this movement was
Herman Husband, a quaker, a man of strong mind and great influence.
These Regulators resolved to pay no more taxes, unless satisfied of
their legality; to pay no more fees than the strict letter of the law
allowed; to select the proper men to represent them, and to petition for
redress until their object—a retrenchment of the exorbitant expenditure
of the Government, and the consequent high rate of taxes—was obtained.
The exasperated feelings of the people were somewhat calmed by the
repeal of the odious Stamp Act; but soon after that event, which had
quieted and put to rest the stormy, riotous assemblies of the "Sons of
Liberty," as the Regulators were sometimes called, Governor Tryon
succeeded in obtaining, first, an appropriation of twenty-five thousand
dollars to erect a gubernatorial palace, "suitable for the residence of
a Colonial Governor," and a further sum of fifty thousand dollars to
complete the same. This, together with the expense of running the
boundary line between the State and the Cherokee nation, which was
incurred by the vanity of the Governor in calling out the militia, and
marching at their head into the Cherokee country, with the ostensible
object of protecting the surveyors, and that, too, in time of peace, had
the effect to excite the indignation of the Regulators, and they
determined to resist the imposition of the tax for these objects. Tryon,
observing the threatening storm, sent a proclamation by his Secretary,
David Edwards, and a lawyer named Edmund Fanning, to be read and
enforced among the people. Fanning was a man who was detested by the
Regulators, for his extortions; but he managed to cajole them into the
belief that justice was about to be done them, and they agreed to meet
him, to heal all difficulties and settle the existing differences. While
waiting the time of meeting, however, they were astonished and highly
exasperated by the arrest of Husband and a number of friends, who were
thrown into jail by Fanning's orders. A rising of the people followed,
and a large body of Regulators marched to Hillsborough to release the
prisoners. They were induced, however, by the solemn assurance of
Edwards, that their grievances should be redressed, to retire without
committing any overt act. From this time forward, the temporizing policy
of the Governor, and the rankling hatred of the Regulators, caused
frequent and serious outbreaks, until the former, determined to crush
the spirit of disaffection, collected the militia, and marched into the
disaffected district. He was met by a large body of the Regulators, and
a serious battle was fought, in which nine of the Regulators and
twenty-seven of the militia were killed, and a great number on both
sides wounded. The Regulators had no acknowledged leader, and all was
confusion after the first fire from the militia, every man fighting on
his own account, and in his own way. The result was a victory for the
Governor, who took a number of prisoners, upon whom he vented the
implacable revenge which was as a consuming fire within him. His conduct
was more like that of a small-minded, vain, and vindictive man, than
that of a Royal Governor.
Among others whom fortune had thrown into his hands, was Captain Messer,
one of the most influential of the Regulators, and the father of an
interesting family. Tryon could not wait the tardy course of trial for
this man, but sentenced him to be hung the day after the battle. He must
sate his desire for revenge in the blood of some of his victims, or his
victory would be incomplete. Messer begged to see his family before he
died; but this boon was denied him, and he was told to prepare for
death. Information of his captivity, however, was conveyed to his wife
by the fugitives from the field, and she repaired at once to the spot,
with her eldest boy, a lad ten years old, to comfort him in his
confinement. She did not know that he had been condemned to die, until
she reached the scene of the late encounter, where she was informed of
it by seeing the preparations made for his execution. In an agony of
mind which threatened to unseat her reason, she flew to Tryon, and
besought him on her knees to spare her husband's life. Every argument
and appeal which her affection could command, was used in vain; the
stony heart of the victorious Governor was not to be touched, and he
spurned her from him in disdain, telling her that her husband should
die, though the _King_ should intercede in his behalf. The poor woman
fell weeping to the ground, while her little son, with the spirit of his
father beaming in his eyes, endeavored to console her by assuring her
that Tryon would yet relent. While this was passing, the Captain was led
forth to die. Mrs. Messer, on seeing her husband in the hands of the
executioner, uttered a shriek of agony, which seemed to sever the cords
of her heart, and swooned away. The noble-hearted boy at her side,
instead of giving way to grief, determined to make another appeal to
Tryon, who stood near viewing the proceedings. Throwing himself at the
Governor's feet, he said:
"Sir, hang me, and let my father live."
"Who told you to say that?" asked Tryon.
"Nobody," was the reply.
"And why do you ask it?"
"Because," replied the lad, "if you hang father, my mother will die, and
the children will perish."
The Governor's heart was touched, and he replied:
"Your father shall not be hanged to-day."
The execution was stayed; while the noble boy went to his mother, and
restored her to consciousness by the news.
The unfeeling tyrant, however, annexed a condition to his reprieve,
which was, that Messer should be set at liberty only on condition that
he should arrest and bring before him the person of Husband, who had
fled before the battle commenced. Reflecting that success might attend
his efforts, and, at worst, he could but suffer if he failed, he
consented, while his wife and son were detained as hostages for his
fidelity. He pursued Husband to Virginia, where he overtook him, but
could not persuade him to return, and was obliged to surrender himself
again to the tender mercies of his captor. He was bound in chains with
the other prisoners, and in this condition was marched through the
various towns and villages on the route toward Newbern. At Hillsborough,
a court-martial was held, and twelve of the captive Regulators were
sentenced to be hung. Six of these were reprieved, and the others
suffered death on the scaffold. Among the latter was Captain Messer, who
met his fate with the resignation of one who felt that he died in the
cause of liberty. His broken-hearted wife returned to her home, now
rendered desolate by her husband's death; while the tyrannical Governor
marched in triumph to Newbern, from whence he was soon after called to
the head of colonial affairs in New York.
The execution of Colonel Isaac Hayne, which took place later in the
history of the Carolinas, presents a still more touching picture of the
devotion of a child and the tyranny of a British minion. After
Charleston had fallen into the hands of the British, many of the Whigs
of South Carolina were induced to take the protections which were
offered by Lord Cornwallis. They were led to this step by the belief
that in the South the cause was hopeless, and were promised, by virtue
of these protections, to be allowed to remain quietly in their homes and
take no part in the contest. Their surprise was great, when, soon after,
they were called upon to take up arms under the British commanders and
against their countrymen. Conceiving that faith had been broken with
them, and their promises of neutrality no longer binding, they tore up
their protections, and at once ranked themselves under the Continental
leaders. Among those was Colonel Hayne, a man of unblemished reputation,
fine talents and lofty patriotism. Indignant at the course pursued by
the British, he hastened to the American army, and began to take active
part in the contest. Unfortunately, he fell into the enemy's hands, was
conveyed to Charleston, submitted, by order of Rawdon, to a mock trial,
and, to the horror of all, was condemned to death. He received his
sentence with calmness, but the whole country was horrified. Both
English and Americans interceded for his life, and the ladies of
Charleston immortalized themselves by the spirited address which they
framed and delivered to his captors in his behalf. All was of no avail.
The cruel heart of Rawdon could not be moved; not even the captive's
motherless children, with bended knees and tearful prayers, could move
his obdurate nature.
Hayne's eldest child was a boy of thirteen, who was permitted to remain
in prison with him up to the time of his execution. This boy was
actuated by an affection for his father of the most romantic earnestness
and fervor. Beholding him loaded with irons and condemned to die, he was
overwhelmed with consternation and sorrow; nothing could alleviate his
distress. In vain did his parent endeavor to console him by reminding
him that this unavailing grief only heightened his own misery—that he
was only to leave this world to be admitted into a better—that it was
glorious to die for liberty. The boy would not be comforted.
"To-morrow," said the unhappy father, "I set out for immortality. You
will accompany me to the place of my execution, and when I am dead, take
my body and bury it beside your poor mother."
In an agony of grief the child fell weeping on his father's neck,
crying:
"Oh, my father, my father, I die with you!"
The chains which bound the prisoner prevented his returning the embrace,
but he said, in reply:
"Live, my son—live to honor God by a good life—live to take care of your
brothers and sisters."
The next morning the son walked beside his father to the place of
execution. The history of the war scarcely affords a more heart-rending
incident. There was not a citizen of Charleston whose bosom did not
swell with anguish and indignation. There was sorrow in every
countenance, and when men spoke with each other, it was in accents of
horror.
[Illustration:
The Implacable Governor.—_Page_ 14.
]
When the two came within sight of the gallows, the parent strengthened
himself, and said to the weeping boy:
"Tom, my son, show yourself a man! That tree is the boundary of my life
and all my life's sorrow. Beyond that the wicked cease from troubling,
and the weary are at rest. Don't lay too much at heart our separation—it
will be short. 'Twas but lately your mother died; to-day I die; and you,
though young, must shortly follow."
"Yes, my father," replied the broken-hearted boy, "I shall soon follow
you; for, indeed, I feel that I can not live long."
And this melancholy anticipation was fulfilled in a manner far more
dreadful than is implied in the mere extinction of life. When his father
was tom from his side, his tears flowed incessantly, and his bosom was
convulsed with sobs; but when he saw that beloved parent in the hands of
the executioner, the halter adjusted to his neck, and then his form
convulsively struggling in the air, the fountain of his tears was
suddenly stanched, and he stood transfixed with horror. He never wept
again. When all was over he was led from the scene, but there was a
wildness in his look, a pallor in his cheek, which alarmed his friends.
The terrible truth was soon made known. His reason had fled forever. It
was not long before he followed his parents to the grave, but his death
was even sadder than his father's. In his last moments he often called
the beloved name in accents of such anguish that the sternest hearted
wept to hear him. But the merciful all-Father took him home and restored
him forever to the side of that parent, the shock of whose rude death
sundered the tender strings of a child's heart.
Lord Rawdon should have been proud of this noble feat. He was one of
those who
"Stand, to move the world, on a child's heart."
The outrageous oppression of Governor Tryon and Lord Rawdon were only a
few among many instances of the spirit shown by Government officials,
until the people of the Colonies were driven to that universal rebellion
which resulted in the establishment of our independence. And when that
struggle was begun, British arrogance and cruelty asserted itself, in
her officers and minions, in those equivocal shapes which ought to make
British history blush with shame along the ensanguined record. It has
been truly said that a wrong begun is only maintained by a wrong
continued.
The first contest of England with America sprang from tyranny; she was
the aggressor, the offending party: and it seems to have been a moral
consequence, that a war, thus unrighteous, should have been
characterized by a violation of every humane and honorable purpose. The
extent to which British cruelty was carried in the memorable contest of
the Revolution, is scarcely appreciated by us. Nothing equals the
vindictive, bloodthirsty fury which characterized it in some quarters of
the Union. It was almost a war of extermination in the South. There,
lads were often shot down, that they might not live to be full-grown
rebels, and mothers murdered, that they might bring forth no more
enemies to the king. Among the people in villages, and in the open
country, existed the greatest suffering, and often was manifested the
loftiest patriotism and the grandest fortitude. With such ferocity were
they pursued by the British soldiery, that their only retreat became the
army. At no moment were they safe. Neither in their beds, nor by their
firesides, nor on the highways. Daily and nightly murders frightened the
time with their atrocities. Reckless marauders traversed the country in
all directions, sparing neither sex, age, nor infancy. Nightly, the red
flame glared on the horizon, and houseless children hung over the
desecrated, butchered forms of their parents.
But of all atrocities, those committed in the prisons and prison-ships
of New York were most execrable; there is nothing in history to excel
the barbarities there inflicted. It is stated that nearly twelve
thousand American prisoners "suffered death by their inhuman, cruel and
barbarous usage on board the filthy and malignant prison-ship, called
the _Jersey_, lying in New York."
The scenes enacted within the prisons almost exceed belief. There were
several prisons in the city; but the most terrible of them all was the
Provost (now the Hall of Records), which was under the charge of
Cunningham, that wretch, the like of whom the world has not many times
produced. He had a love for inflicting torture; it was his passion, his
besotted appetite; he seemed to live upon the agony of human beings;
their groans were his music, their sufferings his pastime. He took an
eager delight in murder. He stopped the rations of the prisoners and
sold them, to add to the luxuries of his own table, while his victims
were starving to death. They were crowded into rooms where there was not
space to lie down, with no blankets to protect them from the cold, to
which the unglazed windows exposed them, while they were suffering from
fevers, thirst, and hunger. In the summer, epidemics raged among them,
while they were denied medicine or attendance, and compelled to breathe
the damp and putrid air. But, hear what Cunningham himself says of his
acts, in his dying speech and confession, when brought to the gallows,
in London, for a forgery of which he was convicted:
"I shudder to think of the murders I have been accessory to, both with
and without orders from the Government, especially in New York, during
which time, there was more than two thousand prisoners starved in the
different prisons, by stopping their rations, which I sold. There were
also two hundred and seventy-five American prisoners and obnoxious
persons executed, out of all which number, there was only about a dozen
public executions, which consisted chiefly of British and Hessian
deserters. The mode for private executions, was this: a guard was
despatched from the Provost, about half-past twelve, at night, to the
barrack, and the neighborhood of the upper barracks, to order the people
to close their window-shutters and put out their lights, forbidding
them, at the same time, to look out, on pain of death; after which, the
unfortunate victims were conducted, gagged, just behind the upper
barracks, and hung without ceremony, and there buried by the Black
Pioneer of the Provost."
These murders were common, nightly pastime of this monster.
The saddest of the tragedies in which Cunningham bore his ignominious
part, was the execution of that glorious young martyr, whose name shall
glow brighter and brighter on the record of his country's heroes, as the
ages roll away.
The impartial reader will question the justice of history, which has
done so much for the memory of André, and left that of Hale in
comparative oblivion. And yet we can discover but little difference in
their cases. Both were possessors of genius and taste, both were endowed
with excellent qualities and attainments, and both were impelled by a
desire to serve the cause they respectively espoused, and both suffered
a similar death, but under vastly different circumstances. And yet a
magnificently sculptured monument in Westminster Abbey, perpetuates the
name of the English officer, while none know where sleep the ashes of
Hale, and neither stone nor epitaph tells us of the services rendered by
him; while the first is honored in every quarter where the English
language is spoken, the name of the latter is unknown to many of his
countrymen. "There is something more than natural in this, if philosophy
could find it out."[3]
Footnote 3:
About ten years since, the ladies of Windham and Tolland Counties,
Conn., caused a handsome monument to be erected to the memory of the
young martyr.
Nathan Hale was not twenty years of age, when the first gun of the
revolution broke upon the ears of the colonists. The patriotic cause at
once aroused his enthusiastic love for liberty and justice, and without
pausing for a moment to consider the prudence of such a step, his ardent
nature prompted him at once, to throw himself into the ranks of his
country's defenders. Distinguished as a scholar, and respected, by all
who knew him, for his brilliant talents, he was at once tendered a
Captain's commission in the light infantry. He served in the regiment
commanded by Colonel Knowlton, and was with the army in its retreat
after the disastrous battle of Long Island.
After the army had retreated from New York, and while it was posted on
the Hights of Harlem, the Commander-in-Chief earnestly desired to be
made acquainted with the force and contemplated movements of the enemy,
and for this purpose, applied to Colonel Knowlton to select some
individual capable of performing the hazardous and delicate service.
Knowlton applied to Hale, who, on becoming acquainted with the wishes of
Washington, immediately volunteered his services. He stated that his
object in joining the army, was not merely for fame, but to serve the
country; that as yet, no opportunity had offered for him to render any
signal aid to her cause, and when a duty so imperative and so important
as this was demanded of him, he was ready to sacrifice not only life,
but all hope of glory, and to suffer the ignomy which its failure would
cast upon his name. His friends endeavored to dissuade him from the
undertaking, but lofty considerations of duty impelled him to the step.
Having disguised himself as a schoolmaster, he crossed the Sound at
Fairfield, to Huntingdon, and proceeded thence to Brooklyn. This was in
September, 1776. When he arrived at Brooklyn, the enemy had already
taken possession of New York. He crossed over to the city, his disguise
unsuspected, and pursued the objects of his mission. He examined all
their fortifications with care, and obtained every information relative
to the number of the enemy, their intentions, etc. Having accomplished
all that he could, he left the city, and retraced his steps to
Huntingdon. While here, waiting for a boat to convey him across the
Sound, his apprehension was effected. There are great discrepancies in
the various accounts which are given of his arrest, but all agree that
it was through the means of a refugee cousin, who detected his disguise.
According to one account, while he was at Huntingdon, a boat came to the
shore, which he at first supposed to be one from Connecticut, but which
proved to be from an English vessel lying in the Sound. He incautiously
approached the boat, and was recognized by his Tory relative, who was in
the boat at the time. He was arrested, and sent to New York.
There can not be a more striking proof of the different value set upon
the services of André and Hale by their respective nations, than the
fact afforded by the different manner of their arrest. There was not a
single circumstance connected with the capture of André, but what is
known to every reader of history, but in the case of Hale, who stands
André's equal in every particular, it is not even known with certainty
how he was apprehended. We have a few uncertain legends relative to it,
but these are widely different, some making him arrested on the Sound,
some on the island, and others on the outskirts of the city. But there
was one circumstance connected with Hale's capture, which should enhance
our sympathy for him. André fell into the American hands by means of the
sagacity, watchfulness, and fidelity of our own soldiers; but Hale was
betrayed by the base perfidy and treason of a renegade relative. And
what two opposite phases of human nature does the contrast between these
two incidents afford! In the first, we find three men, three poor men,
so fixed in principle and determined in right, that the most tempting
offers—offers when an assent would have given them wealth, ease, and
luxury—were refused. Strong honesty overcame temptation, and they were
content to struggle on in poverty, oblivion, and privation, with
unsullied hearts, rather than feast and riot in luxury. But in the
latter incident, we find one of the most execrable acts recorded in
history. The betrayal of Hale by his relative, contrasted with the stem
integrity of André's captors, affords a most striking picture.
We are all aware of what followed the capture of André. He was tried
before an honorable court, and while strict justice demanded his life,
the necessity was deplored by his judges, and his fate aroused in every
heart the keenest sympathy and the deepest sorrow. But how widely
different was the unhappy end of the noble Hale! He was surrendered to
the incarnate fiend, Cunningham, the Provost-Marshal, and ordered to
immediate execution, without even the formality of a trial.
The twenty-first of September, 1776, was a day to be remembered in New
York. From Whitehall to Barclay Street, a conflagration raged along both
sides of Broadway, in which, four hundred and ninety-three houses, or
about one-third of the city, was laid in ashes. The College Green, and a
change of wind, only arrested the swift destruction. On that day, the
dignified, harsh, cold, and courtly Howe, had his head-quarters at the
Beekman House, (now standing at the corner of Fifty-first Street and
First Avenue) on the East River, about three and a quarter miles from
the Park. The conflagration, checked, but not subdued, still clouded the
air, when a generous youth, of high intelligence, kindly manners, and
noble character, was brought into the presence of this stern dignitary.
That youth was charged with being a spy, and the allegation was
substantiated by some military sketches and notes found on his person.
In this court of last resort, Hale dropped all disguises, and at once
proclaimed himself an American officer and a spy. He attempted no plea
of extenuation; he besought no pardoning clemency; he promised no
transfer of allegiance. He waited calmly, with no unmanly fears, the too
evident sentence which was to snap his brittle thread of life. Howe kept
him not long waiting, but at once wrote a brief order, giving to William
Cunningham, Provost Marshal of the Royal army, the care and custody of
the body of Nathan Hale, Captain in the rebel army, this day convicted
as a spy, and directing him to be hung by the neck until dead,
"to-morrow morning at daybreak."
Dare we allow our sad and sympathizing fancies to follow the young hero
to the old Provost, where one night only remained to him of earth? It is
difficult to conceive a night of greater distress, or more thronged with
memories, endurances, and anticipations. Never was prison presided over
by a more insatiate monster than this Cunningham. All the surroundings
were of the most forbidding character. The coming morning was to conduct
the prisoner, through unspeakable contumely, to the portals of eternity.
He calmly asked that his hands might be loosed, and that a light and
writing materials might be supplied, to enable him to write to his
parents and friends. Cunningham denied the request! Hale asked for the
use of a Bible, and even this was savagely refused.
Thank God, there was one there with enough of the heart and feelings of
a man, to be roused to energetic remonstrance by such malignant
inhumanity. The Lieutenant of Hale's guard earnestly and successfully
besought that these requests be granted. In the silent hours, so swiftly
bearing him on to the verge of his dear and happy life, the strong soul
of the martyr was permitted to write, for loved eyes its parting
messages. Doubtless, one of these was to the sweet Alice Adams, the
maiden to whom he was betrothed. On came the swift and fatal morning,
and with it the diabolical Cunningham, eager to luxuriate in another's
woe. Hale handed him the letters he had written; Cunningham at once read
them, and, growing furious at their high spirit, _tore them to pieces
before the writer's eyes_. He afterward gave, as his reason, "that the
rebels should never know they had a man who could die with such
firmness."
Confronted by this representative of His Majesty, cheered by no voice of
friendship, or even of sympathy, beset by the emblems and ministers of
ignominious death, Hale stood on the fatal spot. His youthful face
transfigured with the calm peace of a triumphant martyr; a life,
suffused with religious sensibilities, and blooming with holy love, then
and there culminated.
The ritual of disgrace had been performed, and a single refinement of
malice, was all that even Cunningham's ingenuity could devise; he
demanded "a dying speech and confession." Humanity had begun to assert
itself in the crowd of curious gazers, for pity was swelling up in many
hearts, finding expression in stifled sobs. Firm and calm, glowing with
purification and self-sacrifice, Hale seemed to gather up his soul out
of his body, as, with solemn emphasis, he gave answer to this last
demand of malignity:
"_I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country._"
Why have not we a sky-piercing monument, wherein is set a tablet of
solid silver, whereon those words are printed in letters of pure gold?
Honest Tunis Bogart, a witness of Hale's execution, said:
"I have never been able to efface the scene of horror from my mind—it
rises up to my imagination always." Ashar Wright, who was Hale's
personal attendant, was so completely overwhelmed by his fate, that his
understanding reeled from its throne, never to be fully reinstated.
There was such lamentation among relatives, friends, and brother
officers, when his death was learned, as betokened how he had endeared
himself to all. His memory has been quietly cherished in many hearts.
And ever, as the tide of time rolls on, his fame increases—his star
sails steadily up among the immortal crowd of illustrious dead.
A certain share of infamy attaches to Howe, on account of the
barbarities of Hale's execution. He could and should have known that
Cunningham was a devil, unfit for any earthly trust. He should, too,
have observed the due formality of a court-martial, and he certainly
should have taken care to have had the sentence executed with decency.
Howe is deeply blameworthy for his lack of humanity, and for his
unrestrained indulgence of such monsters as the Provost-Marshal. He
stands convicted of a tolerance of demoniac cruelty, not only in this
case, but in the prison-ships, and his general administration. There is
something even more damning in being an ungenerous enemy, than an
ungenerous friend. Let the disgrace which it fairly won, rest forever on
the name of Howe.
As for that sweet Alice Adams, to whom Nathan Hale was engaged, the
events of a long life, the transformation of four score and eight years,
passed over her head. In life's extremity, when shadows came and went,
and earth was receding dimly, the first loved name was the last word on
her lips. Truth and love came back to her in old age and death; perhaps
she saw him standing on the eternal shores awaiting to help her
over—love, life and youth are immortal there—and calling to him, she
passed away.