Volume 2 / Part 2 — 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 pass 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 hell 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 passion 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 hell— "We, too, grown weary of that horrid shade, "Petitioned 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 asserted, 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 shore; "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 shore, "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 God 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 hell, 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 gods!—with such a load of steel He came, we thought, to murder, not to heal— Hell 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 titles 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 damn'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, damn'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 shore; 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 passing 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 sex from lust and murder free, And, black as night, the hell 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 hellish 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 hell, 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 damn the first.

Sir Henry. André, 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 circumstances 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. Maj. André. I have been thinking Some time, Sir Henry, what we should be doing. 'Tis yet but early in the active season; The summer scarce has finished her career, And in this mild, this pleasing temperate climate Three months as yet are open for campaigns; But then our worn-out, dying, wounded soldiers Demand our pity. Those who came from Charlestown Have brought with them a lingering hectic fever Which hardly one survives. Our soldiers here Who do the duty of the garrison, With constant watching, unremitted labor, Cannot be spared from hence. Were we sufficient In horse and foot to combat with the foe, I forthwith would advise your Excellency Once more to try the force of Washington, That so, by killing and by captivating Him and his troops, we totally might ruin This only stay, this bulwark of rebellion. But since our circumstances don't allow With open force t' attack the hostile lines, Let's try the witching power of bribery. We read the Prince of Macedon declared That those strong gates his javelins could not pierce Nor battering ram effect a breach upon, Were open still to gold. [Pauses Sir Henry. Speak on, my friend, For I approve the motion to my soul If any project likely to succeed, Or well-planned scheme thou canst impart to me, Gold shall not be deficient. Millions lie Appropriated to this very purpose, And often have I sent to sound some chiefs Whose qualities and influence are great In yonder hostile camp, but their stern souls Are so well armed with more than Spartan virtue That there corruption seems to have no power, And all my schemes and plans are come to nothing. Maj. André. I know a man Who, wouldst thou think it, by his chieftain trusted, And even this moment placed in high command, And honoured to profusion by his country— The Americans in truth almost adore him— That I do correspond with daily. O Britain, Britain, That one descended from thy true-born sons Should plot against the soil that gave him birth, And for the value of a little gold Betray its dearest rights. But traitors are the growth of every country And Arnold is our own! Sir Henry. What say you? Arnold? Can Arnold then be bought? I greet you now! Arnold, in chief command at West Point fort? Arnold, who galled our sides in Canada? Arnold, who took and plundered Montreal? Gold shall not here be scarce if gold can buy him; Ten thousand sterling pounds are at his service, And twice ten thousand more if he deliver This West Point fort with its dependencies Into the hand of Clinton. Maj. André. If we can gain the fort we all things gain, The country round must at our mercy lie; Then may our shipping sail to Albany, Disbark the troops that march for Saratoga, Who, taking thence the route to Lake Champlain, May soon reduce the forts, and in a month Open a new acquaintance with the north, Communicated free to Canada.— Another great advantage we shall gain: By being masters then of Hudson's river, We shall cut off all intercourse and passage Between the eastern and the southern states, Which I conceive will be of consequence Toward the speedy ending of the war. Sir Henry. And so you say that we can buy the fort; Then happy I—my fame and fortune sure; This service will be of such eminence That Britain never can requite Sir Henry. Maj. André. I do report that you can buy the fort, For well I know the man I have to deal with; For just ten thousand guineas The troops, the fort, and Arnold are your own. And to this man, altho' he be a rascal, You must consider we are obligated. He quits his friends, his honour, and his country, The fame of all his great and brilliant actions, And the encomiums both of France and Spain, Perhaps all Europe, Britain not excepted, Sold for ten thousand guineas and to serve us. Sir Henry. And obligated we confess ourselves. This West Point fort—for this a long campaign I spent along the shores of Hudson's river, And failed at last with loss of Stony Point, The works, the stores, and twice three hundred soldiers, The prime of all my pack;—yes, powerful gold, I own thy aid in this extremity. Tho' Britain be the greatest in the world In ships and men with genius for the sea, Yet cannot her stout navy take this fort By open force with all its weight of cannon. It stands upon a craggy eminence, All fenced around with towers and battlements, The works of mighty nature. To these subjoined the nicest aids of art— Glacis and bastions, flanks and counter scarps, Horn works and moat, half moons and covert way, Trenches and mines, tenaille and battery, With guns of every size and every bore, And such a host of desperadoes there, Who to the last drop of their blood would hold it, That none but devils, I presume, can take it. Beside, in sailing up the Hudson river, When from this fort you're yet a full mile distant, You turn a point at whose extremity So high the mountains swell above the flood That in a moment all your sails are lifeless; The southern breezes die that blew with vigor, And there you lie at mercy of the fort, Your ships raked fore and aft and ruin around you. But all these difficulties cease if Arnold Betray the place, as you would fain assure me. Now tell me, friend, the manner, how and when You did entice this champion from his duty. Maj. André. From some connection I have had with him, I found the leading feature of his soul Was avarice. He could feign and counterfeit, Persuade you black was white or white was black, And swear, as interest prompted, false or true. This known, I reasoned thus: If his base soul Can toil and fret and browbeat death itself, Endure the summer suns and winter snows In tedious route through hyperborean wilds, And sordid wealth alone incites him to it, Why may not British gold have some effect On such a slavish soul? I wrote him straight (Your pardon, sir, it was without your leave) And by a trusty lad I sent the letter, Sewed in a jacket, to the following import: That if he would forego his present station, Betray the fortress and the garrison, And he himself come over to our interest, He should be recompensed in such a manner That he might sit him down at ease in England, Up to the eyes in wealth and laugh at rebels. Sir Henry. And, pray, what answer did he send to this? Maj. André. One that almost outdid my expectation. He wrote me back that if I would adventure To trust myself within the Americ lines, He would, by means of secret friends and passports, Gain me admittance to his residence; Or meeting close in personal interview In some lone place hereafter to be fixed on, Confer with me upon the fittest means Of rendering up his charge. He further added That he was weary of this damned rebellion, For ten thousand guineas would be yours, That doing thus he meant his country's good, And would pursue it to his utmost power. Sir Henry. Upon a lucky hour you thought of Arnold. But, friend, I charge you, if this scheme succeed, Take not the merit of it to yourself; But let the world imagine it was Clinton Who schemed, who plotted, and seduced the villain; That by this deed more honour I may gain Than if I had defeated Washington By dint of blows on yonder Jersey plain. Your recompense shall not be wanting, André; My trusty friend, go make haste toward the highlands. A frigate shall be ready to convey you. Accept the proffered conference, and bring Plans of the fort and all its avenues, The number of the soldiers that defend it, And whate'er else may be of service to us; That tho' if by chance his treason be discovered, And his designments lose their consummation, We may have somewhat to facilitate— Some bold attack that may hereafter be Upon this proud and self-sufficient fortress. Maj. André. But, sir, consider. If I undertake So bold a stroke as this, I risk my life, Perhaps may meet an ignominious death. When once I pass the British lines, that instant Do I become a spy. That character Ever belongs to common, vulgar men, To suttlers and to pedlars, desperate wretches, The rubbish and the scourings of the world; Can I descend to so desperate an office? Sir Henry. But, then, your country!— Consider what it is you owe your country. Distressed she combats with revolted nations, And can't by force reduce them to subjection; Assist her while you can, and take my word, You need not fear an apprehension. I charge you, be not found within their lines; Remember still to keep on neutral ground, Unless a flag of truce be sent from Arnold That will secure your person and the plot. But if by chance you should be questioned By any scouting parties of militia, A purse of shillings scattered to the wretches Will soon procure a passage unmolested. I long to hear the upshot of this meeting, The Vulture man-of-war is at your service, And shall to-morrow take you up the river As far as she with safety may adventure. Maj. André. Then for the sake of Britain and of you Will I to Arnold haste away, Sir Harry. If things succeed, as I expect they shall, Within three days will I be back to tell you The means we fall upon to gain the fort.