This _Nero_, now having accomplished his murderous designs, retired with his troops from the yard, and left it a horrid scene of his relentless rage! The dead and the wounded lay scattered about the yard; seven were killed dead on the spot, and six with the loss of a leg or an arm, and dangerously wounded; several were pronounced mortal. The names of every man, either killed or wounded will be given in the catalogue annexed. As it was much feared the murderers would endeavor to conceal many of the dead, Dr. Magrath, head surgeon of the Hospital, an honest skillful man, entered immediately after Shortland retired, and exerted his utmost ability in collecting the dead and wounded from the several prison yards, and conveying them to the Hospital. At the same time he sent to the neighboring towns to call in the aid of medical gentlemen that resided there; he also demanded admittance into the prisons, which were now closed, to receive the dead and wounded that had reached the inside of the prison. A despatch was immediately sent to Plymouth, to inform the Admiral and Commodore, and the Commander in Chief of the Military Department, of the fatal _sixth of April, one thousand eight hundred and fifteen_; which day must be of horrid memory to every American, whose mind will revolt with indignity at the name of SHORTLAND AND THE MASSACRE AT DARTMOOR!! _Shortland!_ thou foul monster and inhuman villain! is thy soul glutted with the blood of the innocent victims, that Fate had doomed to thy revengeful and blood-thirsty power? I appeal to the world to say whether the conduct of Warren Hastings, whether the massacre of St. Domingo, can exceed the horrid catastrophe of this ill-fated night, conducted under the immediate inspection of your murderous eye? and should the laws of your country not doom you to a death of the most severe nature as a public example for your well known crimes? Your whole nation is involved as a black accomplice in your monstrous guilt; and the blood of my unfortunate countrymen, shed by your base hand, must ever remain a stain to the character of your nation. Tell me, _ye_ bloody butchers! and _thou_ who contrived, as well as ye who executed the execrable design, how dare ye breathe that air, which wafted to the ear of Majesty the groans of the wounded and the dying? How dare ye tread that earth which is wet with the blood of the innocent, shed by your accursed hands? Do not the goads and stings of conscious guilt wound you in your daily walks? Do not the ghosts of the murdered rise before you in your nightly dreams?