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Knave though he was, yet candor must confess
Not chief physician was this man of Hesse:
One master o’er the murdering tribe was placed,
By him the rest were honored or disgraced
Once, and but once, by some strange fortune led,
He came to see the dying and the dead.
He came, but anger so inflamed his eye,
And such a faulchion glittered on his thigh,
And such a gloom his visage darkened o’er,
And two such pistols in his hands he bore,
That, by the gods, with such a load of steel,
We thought he came to murder, not to heal.
Rage in his heart, and mischief in his head,
He gloomed destruction, and had smote us dead
Had he so dared, but fear withheld his hand,
He came, blasphemed, and turned again to land

THE BENEVOLENT CAPTAIN

From this poor vessel, and her sickly crew
A british seaman all his titles drew,
Captain, Esquire, Commander, too, in chief,
And hence he gained his bread and hence his beef:
But sir, you might have searched creation round,
And such another ruffian not have found
Though unprovoked an angry face he bore,–
All were astonished at the oaths he swore
He swore, till every prisoner stood aghast,
And thought him Satan in a brimstone blast
He wished us banished from the public light;
He wished us shrouded in perpetual night;

* * * * *

He swore, besides, that should the ship take fire
We, too, must in the pitchy flames expire–
That if we wretches did not scrub the decks
His staff should break our base, rebellious necks;

* * * * *

If, where he walked, a murdered carcase lay,
Still dreadful was the language of the day;
He called us dogs, and would have held us so,
But terror checked the meditated blow
Of vengeance, from our injured nation due,
To him, and all the base, unmanly crew
Such food they sent to make complete our woes
It looked like carrion torn from hungry crows
Such vermin vile on every joint were seen,
So black, corrupted, mortified, and lean,
That once we tried to move our flinty chief,
And thus addressed 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 death replied,
“Tis not my care to manage or provide
But this, base rebel dogs I’d have you know,
That better than you merit we bestow–
Out of my sight!” nor more he deigned to say,
But whisked about, and frowning, strode away

CONCLUSION

Each day at least six carcases we bore
And scratched 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 conquered, 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

This poem was written in 1780, the year that Freneau was captured. He was on board the Scorpion and Hunter about two months, and was then exchanged. We fear that he has not in the least exaggerated the horrors of his situation. In fact there seem to have been many bloody pages torn from the book of history, that can never be perused. Many dark deeds were done in these foul prisons, of which we can only give hints, and the details of many crimes committed against the helpless prisoners are left to our imaginations. But enough and more than enough is known to make us fear that inhumanity, a species of cruelty unknown to the lower animals, is really one of the most prominent characteristics of men. History is a long and bloody record of battles, massacres, torture chambers; greed and violence; bigotry and sin. The root of all crimes is selfishness. What we call inhumanity is we fear not inhuman, but human nature unrestrained. It is true that some progress is made, and it is no longer the custom to kill all captives, at least not in civilized countries. But war will always be “horrida bella,” chiefly because war means license, when the unrestrained, wolfish passions of man get for the time the upper hand. Our task, however, is not that of a moralist, but of a narrator of facts, from which all who read can draw the obvious moral for themselves.