A journal, of a young man of Massachusetts, late a surgeon on board an American privateer, who was captured at sea by the British in May, eighteen hundred and thirteen and was confined first, at Melville Island, Halifax, then at Chatham, in England, and last at Dartmoor prison : $b Interspersed with observations, anecdotes and remarks, tending to illustrate the moral and political characters of three nations. To which is added, a correct engraving of Dartmoor prison, representing the massacre ofWaterhouse, Benjamin
History
A journal, of a young man of Massachusetts, late a surgeon on board an American privateer, who was captured at sea by the British in May, eighteen hundred and thirteen and was confined first, at Melville Island, Halifax, then at Chatham, in England, and last at Dartmoor prison : $b Interspersed with observations, anecdotes and remarks, tending to illustrate the moral and political characters of three nations. To which is added, a correct engraving of Dartmoor prison, representing the massacre of
Waterhouse, Benjamin
Dartmoor Prison; United States -- History -- War of 1812 -- Prisoners and prisons
Our old men-of-wars-men suffered the most. Many of these had not set
their feet on the earth for seven years, and they had lost in a
measure, the natural operation of their feet and legs. These naval
veterans loitered behind, attended by a guard. In ascending a hill we
were some distance from the main body, and by turning a corner the
rear was concealed from the van. Two young men took advantage of this,
and jumped over a wall, and lay snug under it; but being observed, the
guard fired, which alarmed those in front, when some soldiers pursued
them, and seeing the impossibility of escaping, the young men jumped
over the wall again, and mixed in with their companions without their
being able to identify their persons. Our driver was extremely
perplexed and alarmed at our daring attempts.
On crawling up the long and ragged hill, we became wearied, and
refused to walk so fast as did the guard. No prudent officer would
have driven men on as we were driven. We should have rested every two
or three miles.--The sun was sinking below the horizon when we gained
the top of the hill which commanded a view of _Dartmoor prison_. We
passed through a small collection of houses called Princetown, where
were two inns. The weather was disagreeable after the shower, and we
saw the dark-hued prisons, whose sombre and doleful aspect chilled our
blood. Yonder, cried one of our companions, is the residence of _four
thousand five hundred_ men, and in a few minutes we shall add to the
number of its wretches. Others said, in that place will be sacrificed
the aspiring feelings of youth, and the anxious expectations of
relatives. There, said I, shall we bury all the designs of early
emulation. I never felt disheartened before. I shed tears when I
thought of home, and of my wretched situation, and I cursed the
barbarity of a people among whom we were driven more like hogs than
fellow men and Christians. I had weathered adverse gales with
fortitude; and never flinched amidst severities. "_A taught
bowstring_," was always my motto; but here I gave way for a moment, to
despair, and wished the string to snap asunder and end my misery; for
I had not even the consolation of a criminal going to execution to
brace up the cord of life and inspire hope beyond the grave. The idea
of lingering out a wretched existence in a doleful prison, dying by
piece-meals, my flesh wasting by hunger, my frame exhausting by
thirst, and my spirits broken down by a tyrant, and by jostling with
misfortunes, I could not avoid. If death, instead of knocking at my
prison door, would enter it at once, I would thank the goal deliverer.
I am now comforted with the conviction, that nothing but an early
religious education could have preserved me at this, and some other
times of my misery, from destroying myself.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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