Ingrat.i.tude! no curse like thee is found Throughout this jarring world's extended round, Their hearts with malice to our country swell Because in former days we us'd them well!-- This pierces deep, too deeply wounds the breast; We help'd them naked, friendless, and distrest, Receiv'd their vagrants with an open hand, Bestow'd them buildings, privilege, and land-- Behold the change!--when angry Britain rose, These thankless tribes became our fiercest foes, By them devoted, plunder'd, and accurst, Stung by the serpents whom ourselves had nurs'd.

But such a train of endless woes abound, So many mischiefs in these hulks are found, That on them all a poem to prolong Would swell too high the horrors of my song-- Hunger and thirst to work our woe combine, And mouldy bread, and flesh of rotten swine, The mangled carcase, and the batter'd brain, The doctor's poison, and the captain's cane, The soldier's musquet, and the steward's debt, The evening shackle, and the noon-day threat.

That juice destructive to the pangs of care Which Rome of old, nor Athens could prepare, Which gains the day for many a modern chief When cool reflection yields a faint relief, That charm, whose virtue warms the world beside, Was by these tyrants to our use denied, While yet they deign'd that healthy juice to lade The putrid water felt its powerful aid; But when refus'd--to aggravate our pains-- Then fevers rag'd and revel'd through our veins; Throughout my frame I felt its deadly heat, I felt my pulse with quicker motions beat: A pallid hue o'er every face was spread, Unusual pains attack'd the fainting head, No physic here, no doctor to a.s.sist, My name was enter'd on the sick man's list; Twelve wretches more the same dark symptoms took, And these were enter'd on the doctor's book; The loathsome _Hunter_ was our destin'd place, The _Hunter_, to all hospitals disgrace; With soldiers sent to guard us on our road, Joyful we left the _Scorpion's_ dire abode; Some tears we shed for the remaining crew, Then curs'd the hulk, and from her sides withdrew.

[A] Commissary of Prisoners at New-York.--_Freneau's note._

CANTO III.--THE HOSPITAL PRISON SHIP

Now tow'rd the _Hunter's_ gloomy sides we came, A slaughter-house, yet hospital in name;[31]

For none came there (to pa.s.s through all degrees) 'Till half consum'd, and dying with disease;-- But when too near with labouring oars we ply'd, The Mate with curses drove us from the side; That wretch who, banish'd from the navy crew, Grown old in blood, did here his trade renew; His serpent's tongue, when on his charge let loose, Utter'd reproaches, scandal, and abuse, Gave all to h.e.l.l who dar'd his king disown, And swore mankind were made for George alone: Ten thousand times, to irritate our woe, He wish'd us founder'd in the gulph below; Ten thousand times he brandish'd high his stick, And swore as often that we were not sick-- And yet so pale!--that we were thought by some A freight of ghosts from Death's dominions come-- But calm'd at length--for who can always rage, Or the fierce war of endless pa.s.sion wage, He pointed to the stairs that led below To damps, disease, and varied shapes of woe-- Down to the gloom I took my pensive way, Along the decks the dying captives lay; Some struck with madness, some with scurvy pain'd, But still of putrid fevers most complain'd!

On the hard floors these wasted objects laid, There toss'd and tumbled in the dismal shade, There no soft voice their bitter fate bemoan'd, And Death strode stately, while the victims groan'd; Of leaky decks I heard them long complain, Drown'd as they were in deluges of rain, Deny'd the comforts of a dying bed, And not a pillow to support the head-- How could they else but pine, and grieve, and sigh, Detest a wretched life--and wish to die?

Scarce had I mingled with this dismal band When a thin spectre seiz'd me by the hand-- "And art thou come, (death heavy on his eyes) "And art thou come to these abodes," he cries; "Why didst thou leave the _Scorpion's_ dark retreat, "And hither haste a surer death to meet?

"Why didst thou leave thy damp infected cell?

"If that was purgatory, this is h.e.l.l-- "We, too, grown weary of that horrid shade, "Pet.i.tioned early for the doctor's aid; "His aid denied, more deadly symptoms came, "Weak, and yet weaker, glow'd the vital flame; "And when disease had worn us down so low "That few could tell if we were ghosts or no, "And all a.s.serted, death would be our fate-- "Then to the doctor we were sent--too late.

"Here wastes away Autolycus the brave, "Here young Orestes finds a wat'ry grave, "Here gay Alcander, gay, alas! no more, "Dies far sequester'd from his native sh.o.r.e; "He late, perhaps, too eager for the fray, "Chac'd the vile Briton o'er the wat'ry way "'Till fortune jealous, bade her clouds appear, "Turn'd hostile to his fame, and brought him here.

"Thus do our warriors, thus our heroes fall, "Imprison'd here, base ruin meets them all, "Or, sent afar to Britain's barbarous sh.o.r.e, "There die neglected, and return no more: "Ah! rest in peace, poor, injur'd, parted shade, "By cruel hands in death's dark weeds array'd, "But happier climes, where suns unclouded shine, "Light undisturb'd, and endless peace are thine."-- From Brookland groves a Hessian doctor came, Not great his skill, nor greater much his fame; Fair Science never call'd the wretch her son, And Art disdain'd the stupid man to own;-- Can you admire that Science was so coy, Or Art refus'd his genius to employ!-- Do men with brutes an equal dullness share, Or cuts yon' grovelling mole the midway air?

In polar worlds can Eden's blossoms blow?

Do trees of G.o.d in barren desarts grow?

Are loaded vines to Etna's summit known, Or swells the peach beneath the torrid zone?-- Yet still he doom'd his genius to the rack, And, as you may suppose, was own'd a quack.

He on his charge the healing work begun With antimonial mixtures, by the tun, Ten minutes was the time he deign'd to stay, The time of grace allotted once a day-- He drencht us well with bitter draughts, 'tis true, Nostrums from h.e.l.l, and cortex from Peru-- Some with his pills he sent to Pluto's reign, And some he blister'd with his flies of Spain; His cream of Tartar walk'd its deadly round, Till the lean patient at the potion frown'd, And swore that hemlock, death, or what you will, Were nonsense to the drugs that stuff'd his bill.-- On those refusing he bestow'd a kick, Or menac'd vengeance with his walking stick; Here uncontroul'd he exercis'd his trade, And grew experienced by the deaths he made; By frequent blows we from his cane endur'd He kill'd at least as many as he cur'd; On our lost comrades built his future fame, And scatter'd fate, where'er his footsteps came.

Some did not seem obedient to his will, And swore he mingled poison with his pill, But I acquit him by a fair confession, He was no Englishman--he was a Hessian,[32]-- Although a dunce, he had some sense of sin, Or else the Lord knows where we now had been; Perhaps in that far country sent to range Where never prisoner meets with an exchange-- Then had we all been banish'd out of time Nor I return'd to plague the world with rhyme.

Fool though he was, yet candour must confess Not chief Physician was this dog of Hesse-- One master o'er the murdering tribe was plac'd, By him the rest were honour'd or disgrac'd;-- Once, and but once, by some strange fortune led He came to see the dying and the dead-- He came--but anger so deform'd his eye, And such a faulchion glitter'd on his thigh, And such a gloom his visage darken'd o'er, And two such pistols in his hands he bore!

That, by the G.o.ds!--with such a load of steel He came, we thought, to murder, not to heal-- h.e.l.l in his heart, and mischief in his head, He gloom'd destruction, and had smote us dead, Had he so dar'd--but fate with-held his hand-- He came--blasphem'd--and turn'd again to land.

From this poor vessel, and her sickly crew An English ruffian all his t.i.tles drew, Captain, esquire, commander, too, in chief, And hence he gain'd his bread, and hence his beef, But, sir, you might have search'd creation round Ere such another miscreant could be found-- Though unprovok'd, an angry face he bore, We stood astonish'd at the oaths he swore; He swore, till every prisoner stood aghast, And thought him Satan in a brimstone blast; He wish'd us banish'd from the public light, He wish'd us shrouded in perpetual night!

That were he king, no mercy would he show, But drive all rebels to the world below; That if we scoundrels did not scrub the decks His staff should break our d.a.m.n'd rebellious necks; He swore, besides, that if the ship took fire We too should in the pitchy flame expire; And meant it so--this tyrant, I engage, Had lost his breath to gratify his rage.-- If where he walk'd a captive carcase lay, Still dreadful was the language of the day-- He call'd us dogs, and would have us'd us so, But vengeance check'd the meditated blow, The vengeance from our injur'd nation due To him, and all the base, unmanly crew.

Such food they sent, to make complete our woes, It look'd like carrion torn from hungry crows, Such vermin vile on every joint were seen, So black, corrupted, mortified, and lean That once we try'd to move our flinty chief, And thus address'd him, holding up the beef: "See, captain, see! what rotten bones we pick, "What kills the healthy cannot cure the sick: "Not dogs on such by Christian men are fed, "And see, good master, see, what lousy bread!"

"Your meat or bread (this man of flint replied) "Is not my care to manage or provide-- "But this, d.a.m.n'd rebel dogs, I'd have you know, "That better than you merit we bestow; "Out of my sight!"----nor more he deign'd to say, But whisk'd about, and frowning, strode away.

Each day, at least three carcases we bore, And scratch'd them graves along the sandy sh.o.r.e; By feeble hands the shallow graves were made, No stone memorial o'er the corpses laid; In barren sands, and far from home, they lie, No friend to shed a tear, when pa.s.sing by; O'er the mean tombs insulting Britons tread, Spurn at the sand, and curse the rebel dead.

When to your arms these fatal islands fall, (For first or last they must be conquer'd all) Americans! to rites sepulchral just, With gentlest footstep press this kindred dust, And o'er the tombs, if tombs can then be found, Place the green turf, and plant the myrtle round.

Americans! a just resentment shew, And glut revenge on this detested foe; While the warm blood exults the glowing vein Still shall resentment in your bosoms reign, Can you forget the greedy Briton's ire, Your fields in ruin, and your domes on fire, No age, no s.e.x from l.u.s.t and murder free, And, black as night, the h.e.l.l born refugee!

Must York forever your best blood entomb, And these gorg'd monsters triumph in their doom, Who leave no art of cruelty untry'd; Such heavy vengeance, and such h.e.l.lish pride!

Death has no charms--his realms dejected lie In the dull climate of a clouded sky; Death has no charms, except in British eyes, See, arm'd for death, the infernal miscreants rise; See how they pant to stain the world with gore, And millions murder'd, still would murder more; This selfish race, from all the world disjoin'd, Perpetual discord spread throughout mankind, Aim to extend their empire o'er the ball, Subject, destroy, absorb, and conquer all, As if the power that form'd us did condemn All other nations to be slaves to them-- Rouse from your sleep, and crush the thievish band, Defeat, destroy, and sweep them from the land, Ally'd like you, what madness to despair, Attack the ruffians while they linger there; There Tryon sits, a monster all complete, See Clinton there with vile Knyphausen meet, And every wretch whom honour should detest There finds a home--and Arnold with the rest.

Ah! traitors, lost to every sense of shame, Unjust supporters of a tyrant's claim; Foes to the rights of freedom and of men, Flush'd with the blood of thousands you have slain, To the just doom the righteous skies decree We leave you, toiling still in cruelty, Or on dark plans in future herds to meet, Plans form'd in h.e.l.l, and projects half complete: The years approach that shall to ruin bring Your lords, your chiefs, your miscreant of a king, Whose murderous acts shall stamp his name accurs'd, And his last triumphs more than d.a.m.n the first.

[26] First published in Philadelphia, by Francis Bailey, in 1781.

Freneau wrote the poem during the summer of 1780, immediately after his exchange. The original ma.n.u.script is in the possession of Miss Adele M.

Sweeney, a great-granddaughter of the poet. The text follows the edition of 1786.

On May 25, 1780, Freneau, in the ship _Aurora_, started from Philadelphia as a pa.s.senger for Santa Cruz. The next day, while off Cape Henlopen, the ship was captured by the British frigate _Iris_, Capt.

Hawkes, and the crew and pa.s.sengers sent to New York as prisoners. For Freneau's account of his capture and captivity, see _Some Account of the Capture of the Ship Aurora_, 1899.

[27] Freneau was placed on board the _Scorpion_, June 1, and was exchanged July 12, 1780.

[28] "The weather was very stormy and the river uncommonly rough. The ship rolled considerably, and the water gushed into some of the lower ports, which made some of the landsmen who slept in the cable tier imagine she was sinking. In a moment the alarm became general. 'The ship is sinking! the ship is sinking!' was echoed fore and aft. I expected every moment to feel myself afloat in the berth where I lay; but at the same time considering it would be a folly to drown between decks when I perhaps might get on sh.o.r.e somehow, I jumped up and hurried toward the main hatchway, where a mult.i.tude was endeavouring to get out; the sentries at the same time beating on their heads with their drawn swords and marquets without mercy.... Some lamented that they should never see their wives and children again; others begged by the love of G.o.d to be let upon deck and they would bind themselves slaves forever on board a man-of-war, or any other service.... After some trouble we got a light, and examining the pump-well, found the ship dry and tight."--_Freneau's Journal._

[29] "One, Gauzoo, was steward of the ship--one of the most brutal of mankind, who abused us continually. It is impossible for words to give his character; it seemed as though he could not give any of us a civil word upon the most indifferent occasion. When he was not cursing us, he kept in his cabin in gloomy reserve, the most vile and detestable of mortals."--_Freneau's Journal._

[30] "At sundown we were ordered down between the decks, to the number of nearly three hundred of us. The best lodgings I could procure this night was on a chest, almost suffocated with the heat and stench. I expected to die before morning, but human nature can bear more than one would at first suppose."--_Freneau's Journal._

[31] "The _Hunter_ had been very newly put to the use of a hospital-ship. She was miserably dirty and cluttered. Her decks leaked to such a degree that the sick were deluged with every shower of rain.

Between decks they lay along struggling in the agonies of death; dying with putrid and bilious fevers; lamenting their hard fate to die at such a fatal distance from their friends; others totally insensible, and yielding their last breath in all the horrors of light-headed frenzy....

Our allowance in the _Hunter_, to those upon full diet, was one pound of bread and one pound of fresh beef per diem; to those upon half diet, one pound of bread and one-half pound of beef or mutton per diem. Every other day we had a cask of spruce beer sent on board. Our fresh meat was generally heads or shanks, and would just answer to make soup."--_Freneau's Journal._

[32] "A German doctor attended every morning at eight o'clock and administered such remedies as were thought proper. Thus things went on, two or three dying every day, who were carried on sh.o.r.e and buried in the bank, till three of our crew, who had got pretty hearty, stole the boat one night and made their escape. This occasioned new trouble. The doctor refused to come on board, and as he rowed past us next morning to see somebody in the _Jersey_, which lay near us, some of the sick calling to him for blisters, he told them to put tar on their backs, which would serve as well as anything, and so rowed away. However, after two or three days his wrath was appeased, and he deigned to come on board again."--_Freneau's Journal._

THE SPY[33]

Sir Henry Clinton, Major Andre, Lucinda, Amelia, Arnold, Gen.

Green, Servants to Arnold, Peasants, Knyphausen, Gen. Robertson.

SCENE I.--_West Point Fort._ Jeffery _and_ Pasquin, _servants to_ ARNOLD, _working in a garden_.

_Pasq._ (_Throwing down his spade_) Faith, Jeffery, I am weary of toiling among these rocks and precipices. I must e'en give o'er. Our master should have fetched his soil along with him to these savage retreats. We may work till we are gray-headed ere we can produce a turnip or a cabbage for him on these barren, unthrifty rocks.

_Jeff._ Be not discouraged, Pasquin, we shall have better soil to work in ere long.

_Pasq._ How know you that?

_Jeff._ I overheard my master t'other day telling a friend of his, whom, by the by, the people of this country call a Tory, that he had planned matters so that in a little time the war would be over, and then he would purchase one of the most fertile tracts of land in America and ent.i.tle it a Manor; that he would settle the same goodly possession with tenants and va.s.sals, and so being master among them, spend the remainder of his days in quiet.

_Pasq._ I pray for the speedy fulfilling of this design. Our master, I know, is an able general. Why, I suppose he intends to rout the enemy out of New York, retake Charleston, conquer the warships of Britain, kill the king, and so force the English nation to make peace with the Americans.

_Jeff._ Heaven only knows in what manner he intends to act or what his plan may be, but this I am sure of, he keeps it very secret, and I believe there are not above one or two of his friends that know anything of it.

_Pasq._ Well, the sooner he gets a new garden for us the better. I have worn out a dozen mattocks and as many spades on these cursed craggy rocks. One's tools to work here should be made of adamant. But, Jeffery, do you not observe how gracious and intimate our master has been for these several months past with some who are called disaffected?

_Jeff._ I have had it in my mind to make the same observation to you, and do you not perceive that their intimacy daily increases?

_Pasq._ And then, when our master is at table with some of these chosen favorites, how he sneers and hints ludicrous things against the American officers and army. One would think he heartily despised them, by his behaviour.

_Jeff._ And what was it he said of the French the other day? Did he not say they were a perfidious nation of knaves, a herd of needy scoundrels who were endeavoring to conquer this country from the king of Britain, that they might add it to their own dominions and make the people here slaves?

_Pasq._ And when the general gives a dance or an entertainment or a ball, we see none of the true-heart Americans invited. His guests are a lukewarm, half-disaffected sort of people, who say more than for their own sakes I would choose to mention to everybody.

_Jeff._ Well, this may all be true, and yet I cannot help thinking our master is a hearty friend to his country. He does these things for a feint, under a mask, as it were, to find out secrets from the enemy. In good faith, I am of opinion he will shortly drive every British soldier off the continent and then become possessed of his Lordship or Manor, or what-so you call it.

_Pasq._ Amen, I say, and so let us work on in hopes of better times.

SCENE II.--_Scene changes to New York._ SIR HENRY CLINTON _and_ MAJOR ANDRe _in a private apartment_.

_Sir Henry._ Andre, my friend and faithful confidant, Since Fortune now vouchsafes to smile again, And stubborn Charlestown bends to Britain's yoke, What shall we next attempt or next achieve?

I have transmitted home a full account Of that great capture, that important city Which long has bid defiance to our arms, With all particulars and circ.u.mstances Attending on the siege, and in the list Of British officers with honour mentioned, You, sir, are not forgot. I must confess, By your advice I planned that expedition, Which now shall set me high in royal favor, By your unconquered spirit and perseverance, A mind that laughs at toils and difficulties, I carried on the siege with fire and vigour Against a foe with hearts of adamant, And found them to submit--but princely favor Is like a fire that only burns as long As you afford it fuel. Before this conquest Of Charlestown wears away, and hardly leaves A faint impression on the royal mind, Let's hatch some great exploit, some daring action That strikes into the heart of this rebellion, That one deed, treading on the heels of t'other, May make us great indeed.