In that deadly season of the year, when
the dog-star rages with relentless fury, when a pure air is especially
necessary to health, the British locked their prisoner, after long
marches, in the dungeons of ships affected with contagion, and reeking
with the filth of crowded captives, dead and dying. * * * No
reasoning, no praying could obtain from his stern tyrants the smallest
alleviation of his fate.
"In South Carolina the British officer called Fraser, after trying in
every manner to induce the prisoners to enlist, said to them: 'Go to
your dungeons in the prison ships, where you shall perish and rot, but
first let me tell you that the rations which have been hitherto
allowed for your wives and children shall, from this moment, cease
forever; and you shall die assured that they are starving in the
public streets, and that _you_ are the authors of their fate.'
"A sentence so terribly awful appalled the firm soul of every
listening hero. A solemn silence followed the declaration; they cast
their wondering eyes one upon the other, and valor, for a moment, hung
suspended between love of family, and love of country. Love of
country at length rose superior to every other consideration, and
moved by one impulse, this glorious band of patriots thundered into
the astonished ears of their persecutors, 'The prison-ships and Death,
or Washington and our country!'
"Meagre famine shook hands with haggard pestilence, joining a league
to appall, conquer, and destroy the glorious spirit of liberty.
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