FOOTNOTES:
[7] See Wedderburne's Speech.
[8] Alluding to North-Briton, Number forty-five.
ACT III.
Scene I. In Boston.
Selectman, Citizen.
Selectman.
At length, it seems, the bloody flag is hung out, the ministry and parliament, ever studious in mischief, and bent on our destruction, have ordered troops and ships of war to shut our ports, and starve us into submission.
Citizen. And compel us to be slaves; I have heard so. It is a fashionable way to requite us for our loyalty, for the present we made them of Louisburg, for our protection at Duquesne, for the assistance we gave them at Quebec, Martinico, Guadaloupe and the Havannah. Blast their councils, spurn their ingratitude! Soul of Pepperel! whither art thou fled?
Selectman. They seem to be guided by some secret demon; this stopping our ports and depriving us of all trade is cruel, calculated to starve and beggar thousands of families, more spiteful than politic, more to their own disadvantage than ours: But we can resolve to do without trade; it will be the means of banishing luxury, which has ting'd the simplicity and spotless innocence of our once happy asylum.
Citizen. We thank heaven, we have the necessaries of life in abundance, even to an exuberant plenty; and how oft have our hospitable tables fed numbers of those ungrateful monsters, who would now, if they could, famish us?
Selectman. No doubt, as we abound in those temporal blessings, it has tempted them to pick our pockets by violence, in hopes of treasures more to their minds.
Citizen. In that these thirsters after gold and human blood will be disappointed. No Perus or Mexicos here they'll find; but the demon you speak of, tho' he acts in secret, is notoriously known. Lord Paramount is that demon, that bird of prey, that ministerial cormorant, that waits to devour, and who first thought to disturb the repose of America; a wretch, no friend to mankind, who acts thro' envy and avarice, like Satan, who 'scap'd from hell to disturb the regions of paradise; after ransacking Britain and Hibernia for gold, the growth of hell, to feed his luxury, now waits to rifle the bowels of America.
Selectman. May he prove more unsuccessful than Satan; blind politics, rank infatuation, madness detestable, the concomitants of arbitrary power! They can never think to succeed; but should they conquer, they'll find that he who overcometh by force and blood, hath overcome but half his foe. Capt. Preston's massacre is too recent in our memories; and if a few troops dar'd to commit such hellish unprovok'd barbarities, what may we not expect from legions arm'd with vengeance, whose leaders harbour principles repugnant to freedom, and possess'd with more than diabolical notions? Surely our friends will oppose them with all the power heaven has given them.
Citizen. Nothing more certain; each citizen and each individual inhabitant of America are bound by the ties of nature; the laws of God and man justify such a procedure; passive obedience for passive slaves, and non-resistance for servile wretches who know not, neither deserve, the sweets of liberty. As for me and my house, thank God, such detestable doctrine never did, nor ever shall, enter over my threshold.
Selectman. Would all America were so zealous as you.—The appointment of a general Continental Congress was a judicious measure, and will prove the salvation of this new world, where counsel mature, wisdom and strength united; it will prove a barrier, a bulwark, against the encroachments of arbitrary power.
Citizen. I much approve of the choice of a congress; America is young, she will be to it like a tender nursing mother, she will give it the paps of virtue to suck, cherish it with the milk of liberty, and fatten it on the cream of patriotism; she will train it up in its youth, and teach it to shun the poison of British voluptuousness, and instruct it to keep better company. Let us, my friend, support her all in our power, and set on foot an immediate association; they will form an intrenchment, too strong for ministerial tyranny to o'erleap.
Selectman. I am determined so to do, it may prevent the farther effusion of blood.
Scene II.
Enter a Minister.
Minister.
My friends, I yet will hail you good morrow, tho' I know not how long we may be indulg'd that liberty to each other; doleful tidings I have to tell.
Selectman. With sorrow we have heard it, good morrow, sir.
Minister. Wou'd to God it may prove false, and that it may vanish like the dew of the morning.
Citizen. Beyond a doubt, sir, it's too true.
Minister. Perhaps, my friends, you have not heard all.
Selectman. We have heard too much, of the troops and ships coming over, we suppose you mean; we have not heard more, if more there be.
Minister. Then worse I have to tell, tidings which will raise the blood of the patriot, and put your virtue to the proof, will kindle such an ardent love of liberty in your breasts, as time will not be able to exterminate—
Citizen. Pray, let us hear it, I'm all on fire.
Selectman. I'm impatient to know it, welcome or unwelcome.
Minister. Such as it is, take it; your charter is annihilated; you are all, all declared rebels; your estates are to be confiscated; your patrimony to be given to those who never labour'd for it; popery to be established in the room of the true catholic faith; the Old South, and other houses of our God, converted perhaps into nunneries, inquisitions, barracks and common jails, where you will perish with want and famine, or suffer an ignominious death; your wives, children, dearest relations and friends forever separated from you in this world, without the prospect of receiving any comfort or consolation from them, or the least hope of affording any to them.
Selectman. Perish the thought!
Citizen. I've heard enough!—To arms! my dear friends, to arms! and death or freedom be our motto!
Minister. A noble resolution! Posterity will crown the urn of the patriot who consecrates his talents to virtue and freedom; his name shall not be forgot; his reputation shall bloom with unfading verdure, while the name of the tyrant, like his vile body, shall moulder in the dust. Put your trust in the Lord of hosts, he is your strong tower, he is your helper and defense, he will guide and strengthen the arm of flesh, and scatter your enemies like chaff.
Selectman. Let us not hesitate.
Citizen. Not a single moment;—'tis like to prove a mortal strife, a never-ending contest.
Minister. Delays may be dangerous.—Go and awake your brethren that sleep;—rouse them up from their lethargy and supineness, and join, with confidence, temporal with spiritual weapons. Perhaps they be now landing, and this moment, this very moment, may be the last of your liberty. Prepare yourselves—be ready—stand fast—ye know not the day nor the hour. May the Ruler of all send us liberty and life. Adieu! my friends.
[Exeunt.
Scene III. In a street in Boston.
Frequent town-meetings and consultations amongst the inhabitants;—Lord Boston arrives with the forces and ships;—lands and fortifies Boston.
Whig and Tory.
Whig. I have said and done all that man could say or do.—'Tis wrong, I insist upon it, and time will show it, to suffer them to take possession of Castle William and fortify Boston Neck.
Tory. I cannot see, good sir, of what advantage it will be to them;—they've only a mind, I suppose, to keep their soldiers from being inactive, which may prejudice their health.
Whig. I wish it may prove so, I would very gladly confess your superior knowledge in military manœuvres; but till then, suffer me to tell you, it's a stroke the most fatal to us,—no less, sir, but to cut off the communication between the town and country, making prisoners of us all by degrees, and give 'em an opportunity of making excursions, and in a short time subdue us without resistance.
Tory. I think your fears are groundless.
Whig. Sir, my reason is not to be trifled with. Do you not see or hear ev'ry day of insults and provocations to the peaceable inhabitants? This is only a prelude. Can men of spirit bear forever with such usage? I know not what business they have here at all.
Tory. I suppose they're come to protect us.
Whig. Damn such protectors, such cut-throat villains; protect us? from what? from whom?—
Tory. Nay, sir, I know not their business;—let us yet bear with them till we know the success of the petition from the Congress;—if unfavourable, then it will be our time.
Whig. Then, I fear, it will be too late; all that time we lose, and they gain ground; I have no notion of trusting to the success of petitions, waiting twelve months for no answer at all. Our assemblies have petitioned often, and as often in vain; 't would be a miracle in these days to hear of an American petition being granted; their omnipotences, their demi-godships (as they think themselves) no doubt think it too great a favour done us to throw our petitions under their table, much less vouchsafe to read them.
Tory. You go too far;—the power of King, Lords and Commons is uncontroulable.
Whig. With respect to tyrannising they would make it so, if they could, I know, but there's a good deal to be said and done first; we have more than half the bargain to make.
Tory. Sure you would not go to dispute by arms with Great-Britain.
Whig. Sure I would not suffer you to pick my pocket, sir.
Tory. If I did, the law is open for you—
Whig. I have but a poor opinion of law, when the devil sits judge.
Tory. What would you do then, sir, if I was to pick your pocket?
Whig. Break your head, sir—
Tory. Sure you don't mean as you say, sir—
Whig. I surely do—try me, sir—
Tory. Excuse me, sir, I am not of your mind, I would avoid every thing that has the appearance of rashness.—Great-Britain's power, sir—
Whig. Great-Britain's power, sir, is too much magnified, 't will soon grow weak, by endeavouring to make slaves of American freemen; we are not Africans yet, neither bond-slaves.—You would avoid and discourage every thing that has the appearance of patriotism, you mean.—
Tory. Who? me, sir?
Whig. Yes, you, sir;—you go slyly pimping, spying and sneaking about, cajoling the ignorant, and insinuating bugbear notions of Great-Britain's mighty power into weak people's ears, that we may tamely give all up, and you be rewarded, perhaps, with the office of judge of the admiralty, or continental hangman, for ought I know.
Tory. Who? me, sir?
Whig. Aye, you, sir;—and let me tell you, sir, you've been long suspected—
Whig. For a rank Tory, sir.
Tory. What mean you, sir?
Whig. I repeat it again—suspected to be an enemy to your country.
Tory. By whom, sir? Can you show me an instance?
Whig. From your present discourse I suspect you—and from your connections and artful behaviour all suspect you.
Tory. Can you give me a proof?
Whig. Not a point blank proof, as to my own knowledge; you're so much of a Jesuit, you have put it out of my power;—but strong circumstances by information, such as amount to a proof in the present case, sir, I can furnish you with.
Tory. Sir, you may be mistaken.
Whig. 'Tis not possible, my informant knows you too well.
Tory. Who is your informant, sir?
Whig. A gentleman, sir; and if you'll give yourself the trouble to walk with me, I'll soon produce him.
Tory. Another time; I cannot stay now;—'tis dinner time.
Whig. That's the time to find him.
Tory. I cannot stay now.
Whig. We'll call at your house then.
Tory. I dine abroad, sir.
Whig. Be gone, you scoundrel! I'll watch your waters; 'tis time to clear the land of such infernal vermin.
[Exeunt both different ways.
Scene IV. In Boston, while the Regulars were flying from Lexington.
Lord Boston surrounded by his guards and a few officers.
Lord Boston. If Colonel Smith succeeds in his embassy, and I think there's no doubt of it, I shall have the pleasure this ev'ning, I expect, of having my friends Hancock and Adams's good company; I'll make each of them a present of a pair of handsome iron ruffles, and Major Provost shall provide a suitable entertainment for them in his apartment.
Officer. Sure they'll not be so unpolite as to refuse your Excellency's kind invitation.
Lord Boston. Shou'd they, Colonel Smith and Major Pitcairn have my orders to make use of all their rhetoric and the persuasive eloquence of British thunder.
Enter a Messenger in haste.
Messenger. I bring your Excellency unwelcome tidings—
Lord Boston. For heaven's sake! from what quarter?
Messenger. From Lexington plains.
Lord Boston. 'Tis impossible!
Messenger. Too true, sir.
Lord Boston. Say—what is it? Speak what you know.
Messenger. Colonel Smith is defeated, and fast retreating.
Lord Boston. Good God!—What does he say? Mercy on me!
Messenger. They're flying before the enemy.
Lord Boston. Britons turn their backs before the Rebels!—The Rebels put Britons to flight?—Said you not so?
Messenger. They are routed, sir;—they are flying this instant;—the Provincials are numerous, and hourly gaining strength;—they have nearly surrounded our troops. A reinforcement, sir—a timely succour may save the shatter'd remnant Speedily! speedily, sir! or they're irretrievably lost!
Lord Boston. Good God! What does he say? Can it be possible?
Messenger. Lose no time, sir.
Lord Boston. What can I do?—Oh dear!
Officer. Draw off a detachment—form a brigade; prepare part of the train; send for Lord Percy; let the drums beat to arms.
Lord Boston. Aye, do, Captain; you know how, better than I. (Exit Officer.) Did the Rebels dare to fire on the king's troops? Had they the courage? Guards, keep round me.
Messenger. They're like lions; they have killed many of our bravest officers and men; and if not checked instantly, will totally surround them, and make the whole prisoners. This is no time to parley, sir.
Lord Boston. No, indeed; what will become of me?
Enter Earl Percy.
Earl Percy. Your orders, sir.
Lord Boston. Haste, my good Percy, immediately take command of the brigade of reinforcement, and fly to the assistance of poor Smith!—Lose no time, lest they be all cut off, and the Rebels improve their advantage, and be upon us; and God knows what quarter they'll give.—Haste, my noble Earl!—Speedily!—Speedily!—Where's my guard?
Earl Percy. I'm gone, sir.
[Exeunt Percy and Officers—drums beating to arms.
Lord Boston. What means this flutt'ring round my heart? this unusual chilness? Is it fear? No, it cannot be, it must proceed from my great anxiety, my perturbation of mind for the fate of my countrymen. A drowsiness hangs o'er my eyelids;—fain would I repose myself a short time;—but I must not;—I must wait;—I'll to the top of yon eminence,—there I shall be safer. Here I cannot stay;—there I may behold something favourable to calm this tumult in my breast.—But, alas! I fear—Guards, attend me.
[Exeunt Lord Boston and Guards.
Scene V. Lord Boston and Guards on a hill in Boston, that overlooks Charlestown.
Lord Boston. Clouds of dust and smoke intercept my sight; I cannot see; I hear the noise of cannon—Percy's cannon—Grant him success!
Officer of Guard. Methinks, sir, I see British colours waving.
Lord Boston. Some ray of hope.—Have they got so near?—Captain, keep a good lookout; tell me every thing you see. My eyes are wondrous dim.
Officer. The two brigades have join'd—Now Admiral Tombstone bellows his lower tier on the Provincials. How does your Excellency?
Lord Boston. Right;—more hope still.—I'm bravely to what I was. Which way do our forces tend?
Officer. I can distinguish nothing for a certainty now; such smoke and dust!
Lord Boston. God grant Percy courage!
Officer. His ancestors were brave, sir.
Lord Boston. Aye, that's no rule—no rule, Captain; so were mine.—A heavy firing now.—The Rebels must be very numerous—
Officer. They're like caterpillars; as numerous as the locusts of Egypt.
Lord Boston. Look out, Captain, God help you, look out.
Officer. I do, sir.
Lord Boston. What do you see now? Hark! what dreadful noise!
One of the Guard. [Aside.] How damn'd afraid he is.
Another of the Guard. [Aside.] He's one of your chimney corner Generals—an old granny.
Officer. If I mistake not, our troops are fast retreating; their fire slackens; the noise increases.
Lord Boston. Oh, Captain, don't say so!
Officer. 'Tis true, sir, they're running—the enemy shout victory.
Lord Boston. Upon your honour?—say—
Officer. Upon my honour, sir, they're flying t'wards Charlestown. Percy's beat;—I'm afraid he's lost his artillery.
Lord Boston. Then 'tis all over—the day is lost—what more can we do?
Officer. We may, with the few troops left in Boston, yet afford them some succour, and cover their retreat across the water; 'tis impossible to do more.
Lord Boston. Go instantly; I'll wait your return. Try your utmost to prevent the Rebels from crossing. Success attend you, my dear Captain, God prosper you! [Exit Officer.] Alas! alas! my glory's gone; my honour's stain'd. My dear guards, don't leave me, and you shall have plenty of porter and sour-crout.
Scene VI. Roger and Dick, two shepherds near Lexington, after the defeat and flight of the Regulars.
Roger. Whilst early looking, Dick, ere the sun was seen to tinge the brow of the mountain, for my flock of sheep, nor dreaming of approaching evil, suddenly mine eyes beheld from yon hill a cloud of dust arise at a small distance; the intermediate space were thick set with laurels, willows, evergreens, and bushes of various kinds, the growth of wild nature, and which hid the danger from my eyes, thinking perchance my flock had thither stray'd; I descended, and straight onward went; but, Dick, judge you my thoughts at such a disappointment: Instead of my innocent flock of sheep, I found myself almost encircled by a herd of ravenous British wolves.
Dick. Dangerous must have been your situation, Roger, whatever were your thoughts.
Roger. I soon discovered my mistake; finding a hostile appearance, I instantly turn'd myself about, and fled to alarm the shepherds.
Dick. Did they pursue you?
Roger. They did; but having the start, and being acquainted with the by-ways, I presently got clear of their voracious jaws.
Dick. A lucky escape, indeed, Roger; and what route did they take after that?
Roger. Onwards, t'wards Lexington, devouring geese, cattle and swine, with fury and rage, which, no doubt, was increased by their disappointment; and what may appear strange to you Dick (tho' no more strange than true), is, they seem'd to be possessed of a kind of brutish music, growling something like our favourite tune Yankee Doodle (perhaps in ridicule), till it were almost threadbare, seeming vastly pleased (monkey-like) with their mimickry, as tho' it provoked us much.
Dick. Nature, Roger, has furnish'd some brute animals with voices, or, more properly speaking, with organs of sound that nearly resemble the human. I have heard of crocodiles weeping like a child, to decoy the unwary traveller, who is no sooner within their reach, but they seize and devour instantly.
Roger. Very true, Dick, I have read of the same; and these wolves, being of the canine breed, and having the properties of blood-hounds, no doubt are possess'd of a more acute sense of smelling, more reason, instinct, sagacity, or what shall I call it? than all other brutes. It might have been a piece of cunning of theirs, peculiar to them, to make themselves pass for shepherds, and decoy our flocks; for, as you know, Dick, all our shepherds both play and sing Yankee Doodle, our sheep and lambs are as well acquainted with that tune as ourselves, and always make up to us whene'er they hear the sound.
Dick. Yes, Roger; and now you put me in mind of it I'll tell you of something surprising in my turn: I have an old ram and an old ewe, that, whenever they sing Yankee Doodle together, a skilful musician can scarcely distinguish it from the bass and tenor of an organ.
Roger. Surprising indeed, Dick, nor do I in the least doubt it; and why not, as well as Balaam's ass, speak? and I might add, many other asses, now-a-days; and yet, how might that music be improved by a judicious disposition of its various parts, by the addition of a proper number of sheep and young lambs; 't would then likewise resemble the counter, counter tenor, treble, and finest pipes of an organ, and might be truly called nature's organ; methinks, Dick, I could forever sit and hear such music,
Where all the parts in complication roll,
And with its charming music feast the soul!
Dick. Delightful, indeed; I'll attempt it with what little skill I have in music; we may then defy these wolves to imitate it, and thereby save our flocks: I am well convinced, Roger, these wolves intended it rather as a decoy than by way of ridicule, because they live by cunning and deception; besides, they could never mean to ridicule a piece of music, a tune, of which such brutes cannot be supposed to be judges, and, which is allowed by the best masters of music to be a composition of the most sublime kind, and would have done honour to a Handel or a Correllius. Well, go on, Roger, I long to hear the whole.
Roger. When they came to Lexington, where a flock of our innocent sheep and young lambs, as usual, were feeding and sporting on the plain, these dogs of violence and rapine with haughty stride advanc'd, and berated them in a new and unheard of language to us.
Dick. I suppose learn'd at their own fam'd universities—
Roger. No doubt; they had teachers among them—two old wolves their leaders, not unlike in features to Smith and Pitcairn, as striving to outvie each other in the very dregs of brutal eloquence, and more than Billingsgate jargon, howl'd in their ears such a peal of new-fangled execrations, and hell-invented oratory, till that day unheard in New-England, as struck the whole flock with horror, and made them for a while stand aghast, as tho' all the wolves in the forest had broke loose upon them.
Dick. Oh, shocking!—Roger, go on.
Roger. Not content with this, their murdering leaders, with premeditated malice, keen appetite, and without provocation, gave the howl for the onset, when instantly the whole herd, as if the devil had entered into them, ran violently down the hill, and fixed their talons and jaws upon them, and as quick as lightning eight innocent young lambs fell a sacrifice to their fury, and victims to their rapacity; the very houses of our God were no longer a sanctuary; many they tore to pieces, and some at the very foot of the altar; others were dragged out as in a wanton, gamesome mood.
Dick. Barbarity inexpressible! more than savage cruelty! I hope you'll make their master pay for 'em; there is a law of this province, Roger, which obliges the owner of such dogs to pay for the mischief they do.
Roger. I know it, Dick; he shall pay, never fear, and that handsomely too; he has paid part of it already.
Dick. Who is their master, Roger?
Roger. One Lord Paramount; they call him a free-booter; a fellow who pretends to be proprietor of all America, and says he has a deed for it, and chief ranger of all the flocks, and pretends to have a patent for it; has been a long time in the practice of killing and stealing sheep in England and Ireland, and had like to have been hang'd for it there, but was reprieved by the means of his friend George—I forgot his other name—not Grenville—not George the Second—but another George—
Dick. It's no matter, he'll be hang'd yet; he has sent his dogs to a wrong place, and lugg'd the wrong sow by the ear; he should have sent them to Newfoundland, or Kamchatka, there's no sheep there—But never mind, go on, Roger.
Roger. Nor was their voracious appetites satiated there; they rush'd into the town of Concord, and proceeded to devour every thing that lay in their way; and those brute devils, like Sampson's foxes (and as tho' they were men), thrice attempted with firebrands to destroy our corn, our town-house and habitations.
Dick. Heavens! Could not all this provoke you?
Roger. It did; rage prompted us at length, and found us arms 'gainst such hellish mischief to oppose.
Dick. Oh, would I had been there!
Roger. Our numbers increasing, and arm'd with revenge, we in our turn play'd the man; they, unus'd to wounds, with hideous yelling soon betook themselves to a precipitate and confused flight, nor did we give o'er the chase, till Phœbus grew drowsy, bade us desist, and wished us a good night.
Dick. Of some part of their hasty retreat I was a joyful spectator, I saw their tongues lolling out of their mouths, and heard them pant like hunted wolves indeed.
Roger. Did you not hear how their mirth was turn'd into mourning? their fury into astonishment? how soon they quitted their howling Yankee Doodle, and chang'd their notes to bellowing? how nimbly (yet against their will) they betook themselves to dancing? And he was then the bravest dog that beat time the swiftest, and footed Yankee Doodle the nimblest.
Dick. Well pleased, Roger, was I with the chase, and glorious sport it was: I oft perceiv'd them tumbling o'er each other heels over head; nor did one dare stay to help his brother—but, with bloody breech, made the best of his way—nor ever stopped till they were got safe within their lurking-holes—
Roger. From whence they have not the courage to peep out, unless four to one, except (like a skunk) forc'd by famine.
Dick. May this be the fate of all those prowling sheep-stealers, it behooves the shepherds to double the watch, to take uncommon precaution and care of their tender flocks, more especially as this is like to be an uncommon severe winter, by the appearance of wolves, so early in the season—but, hark!—Roger, methinks I hear the sound of melody warbling thro' the grove—Let's sit a while, and partake of it unseen.
Roger. With all my heart.—Most delightful harmony! This is the First of May; our shepherds and nymphs are celebrating our glorious St. Tammany's day; we'll hear the song out, and then join in the frolic, and chorus it o'er and o'er again—This day shall be devoted to joy and festivity.
Song.
[Tune. The hounds are all out, &c.]
1.
Of St. George, or St. Bute, let the poet Laureat sing,
Of Pharaoh or Pluto of old,
While he rhymes forth their praise, in false, flattering lays,
I'll sing of St. Tamm'ny the bold, my brave boys.
2.
Let Hibernia's sons boast, make Patrick their toast;
And Scots Andrew's fame spread abroad.
Potatoes and oats, and Welch leeks for Welch goats,
Was never St. Tammany's food, my brave boys.
3.
In freedom's bright cause, Tamm'ny pled with applause,
And reason'd most justly from nature;
For this, this was his song, all, all the day long:
Liberty's the right of each creature, brave boys.
4.
Whilst under an oak his great parliament sat,
His throne was the crotch of the tree;
With Solomon's look, without statutes or book,
He wisely sent forth his decree, my brave boys.
5.
His subjects stood round, not the least noise or sound,
Whilst freedom blaz'd full in each face:
So plain were the laws, and each pleaded his cause;
That might Bute, North and Mansfield disgrace, my brave boys.
6.
No duties, nor stamps, their blest liberty cramps,
A king, tho' no tyrant, was he;
He did oft'times declare, nay, sometimes wou'd swear,
The least of his subjects were free, my brave boys.
7.
He, as king of the woods, of the rivers and floods,
Had a right all beasts to controul;
Yet, content with a few, to give nature her due:
So gen'rous was Tammany's soul! my brave boys.
8.
In the morn he arose, and a-hunting he goes,
Bold Nimrod his second was he.
For his breakfast he'd take a large venison steak,
And despis'd your slip-slops and tea, my brave boys.
9.
While all in a row, with squaw, dog and bow,
Vermilion adorning his face,
With feathery head he rang'd the woods wide:
St. George sure had never such grace, my brave boys?
10.
His jetty black hair, such as Buckskin saints wear,
Perfumed with bear's grease well smear'd,
Which illum'd the saint's face, and ran down apace,
Like the oil from Aaron's old beard, my brave boys.
11.
The strong nervous deer, with amazing career,
In swiftness he'd fairly run down;
And, like Sampson, wou'd tear wolf, lion or bear.
Ne'er was such a saint as our own, my brave boys.
12.
When he'd run down a stag, he behind him wou'd lag;
For, so noble a soul had he!
He'd stop, tho' he lost it, tradition reports it,
To give him fresh chance to get free, my brave boys.
13.
With a mighty strong arm, and a masculine bow,
His arrow he drew to the head,
And as sure as he shot, it was ever his lot,
His prey it fell instantly dead, my brave boys.
14.
His table he spread where the venison bled,
Be thankful, he used to say;
He'd laugh and he'd sing, tho' a saint and a king,
And sumptuously dine on his prey, my brave boys.
15.
Then over the hills, o'er the mountains and rills
He'd caper, such was his delight;
And ne'er in his days, Indian history says,
Did lack a good supper at night, my brave boys.
16.
On an old stump he sat, without cap or hat.
When supper was ready to eat,
Snap, his dog, he stood by, and cast a sheep's eye
For ven'son, the king of all meat, my brave boys.
17.
Like Isaac of old, and both cast in one mould,
Tho' a wigwam was Tamm'ny's cottage,
He lov'd sav'ry meat, such that patriarchs eat,
Of ven'son and squirrel made pottage, brave boys.
18.
When fourscore years old, as I've oft'times been told,
To doubt it, sure, would not be right,
With a pipe in his jaw, he'd buss his old squaw,
And get a young saint ev'ry night, my brave boys.
19.
As old age came on, he grew blind, deaf and dumb,
Tho' his sport, 'twere hard to keep from it,
Quite tired of life, bid adieu to his wife,
And blazed like the tail of a comet, brave boys.
20.
What country on earth, then, did ever give birth
To such a magnanimous saint?
His acts far excel all that history tell,
And language too feeble to paint, my brave boys.
21.
Now, to finish my song, a full flowing bowl
I'll quaff, and sing all the long day,
And with punch and wine paint my cheeks for my saint,
And hail ev'ry First of sweet May, my brave boys.
Dick. What a seraphic voice! how it enlivens my soul! Come away, away, Roger, the moments are precious.
[Exeunt Dick and Roger.
Scene VII. In a chamber, near Boston, the morning after the battle of Bunkers-Hill.
Clarissa. How lovely is this new-born day!—The sun rises with uncommon radiance after the most gloomy night my wearied eyes ever knew.—The voice of slumber was not heard—the angel of sleep was fled—and the awful whispers of solemnity and silence prevented my eye-lids from closing.—No wonder—the terrors and ideas of yesterday—such a scene of war—of tumult—hurry and hubbub—of horror and destruction—the direful noise of conflict—the dismal hissing of iron shot in volleys flying—such bellowing of mortars—such thund'ring of cannon—such roaring of musketry—and such clashing of swords and bayonets—such cries of the wounded—and such streams of blood—such a noise and crush of houses, steeples, and whole streets of desolate Charlestown falling—pillars of fire, and the convulsed vortex of fiery flakes, rolling in flaming wreaths in the air, in dreadful combustion, seemed as tho' the elements and whole earth were envelop'd in one general, eternal conflagration and total ruin, and intermingled with black smoke, ascending, on the wings of mourning, up to Heaven, seemed piteously to implore the Almighty interposition to put a stop to such devastation, lest the whole earth should be unpeopled in the unnatural conflict—Too, too much for female heroism to dwell upon—But what are all those to the terrors that filled my affrighted imagination the last night?—Dreams—fancies—evil bodings—shadows, phantoms and ghastly visions continually hovering around my pillow, goading and harrowing my soul with the most terrific appearances, not imaginary, but real—Am I awake?—Where are the British murderers?—where's my husband?—my son?—my brother?—Something more than human tells me all is not well: If they are among the slain, 'tis impossible.—I—Oh! [She cries.]
Enter a Neighbour [a spectator of the battle].
Neighbour. Madam, grieve not so much.
Clarissa. Am I wont to grieve without a cause? Wou'd to God I did;—mock me not—What voice is that? methinks I know it—some angel sent to comfort me?—welcome then. [She turns about.] Oh, my Neighbour, is it you? My friend, I have need of comfort. Hast thou any for me?—say—will you not speak? Where's my husband?—my son?—my brother? Hast thou seen them since the battle? Oh! bring me not unwelcome tidings! [Cries.]
Neighbour. [Aside. What shall I say?] Madam, I beheld them yesterday from an eminence.
Clarissa. Upon that very eminence was I. What then?—
Neighbour. I saw the brave man Warren, your son and brother.
Clarissa. What? O ye gods!—Speak on friend—stop—what saw ye?
Neighbour. In the midst of the tempest of war—
Clarissa. Where are they now?—That I saw too—What is all this?
Neighbour. Madam, hear me—
Clarissa. Then say on—yet—Oh, his looks!—I fear!
Neighbour. When General Putnam bid the vanguard open their front to the—
Clarissa. Oh, trifle not with me—dear Neighbour!—where shall I find them?—say—
Neighbour. [Aside. Heavens! must I tell her!] Madam, be patient—right and left, that all may see who hate us, we are prepar'd for them—
Clarissa. What then?—Can you find 'em?—
Neighbour. I saw Warren and the other two heroes firm as Roxbury stand the shock of the enemy's fiercest attacks, and twice put to flight their boasted phalanx.—
Clarissa. All that I saw, and more; say—wou'd they not come to me, were they well?—
Neighbour. Madam, hear me—
Clarissa. Oh! he will not speak.
Neighbour. The enemy return'd to the charge, and stumbling o'er the dead and wounded bodies of their friends, Warren received them with indissoluble firmness, and notwithstanding their battalious aspect, in the midst of the battle, tho' surrounded with foes on ev'ry side—
Clarissa. Oh, my Neighbour!—
Neighbour. Madam—his nervous arm, like a giant refresh'd with wine, hurl'd destruction where'er he came, breathing heroic ardour to advent'rous deeds, and long time in even scale the battle hung, till at last death turn'd pale and affrighted at the carnage—they ran—
Clarissa. Who ran?
Neighbour. The enemy, Madam, gave way—
Clarissa. Warren never ran—yet—oh! I wou'd he had—I fear—[Cries.]
Neighbour. I say not so, Madam.
Clarissa. What say ye then? he was no coward, Neighbour—
Neighbour. Brave to the last. [Aside. I forgot myself.]
Clarissa. What said you? O Heavens! brave to the last! those words—why do you keep me thus?—cruel—
Neighbour. [Aside. She will know it.] I say, Madam, by some mistaken orders on our side, the enemy rallied and return'd to the charge with fresh numbers, and your husband, son, and brother—Madam—
Clarissa. Stop!—O ye powers!—What?—say no more—yet let me hear—keep me not thus—tell me, I charge thee—
Neighbour. [Aside. I can hold no longer, she must know it.] Forgive me, Madam—I saw them fall—and Michael, the archangel, who vanquish'd Satan, is not more immortal than they. [Aside. Who can relate such woes without a tear?],
Clarissa. Oh! I've heard enough—too—too much [Cries.] yet—if thou hast worse to tell—say on—nought worse can be—O ye gods!—cruel—cruel—thrice cruel—cou'd ye not leave me one—[She faints, and is caught by her friend, and placed in a chair; he rings the bell, the family come in, and endeavour to bring her to.]
Neighbour. With surprising fortitude she heard the melancholy relation, until I came to the last close—she then gave me a mournful look, lifted up her eyes, and immediately sunk motionless into my arms.
Woman. Poor soul!—no wonder—how I sympathize with her in her distress—my tender bosom can scarcely bear the sight! A dreadful loss! a most shocking scene it was, that brothers should with brothers war, and in intestine fierce opposition meet, to seek the blood of each other, like dogs for a bare bone, who so oft in generous friendship and commerce join'd, in festivals of love and joy unanimous as the sons of one kind and indulgent father, and separately would freely in a good cause spend their blood and sacrifice their lives for him.
Neighbour. A terrible black day it was, and ever will be remembered by New-England, when that vile Briton (unworthy the name of a Briton), Lord Boston (curse the name!), whose horrid murders stain American soil with blood; perish his name! a fratricide! 'twas he who fir'd Charlestown, and spread desolation, fire, flames and smoke in ev'ry corner—he was the wretch, that waster of the world, that licens'd robber, that blood-stain'd insulter of a free people, who bears the name of Lord Boston, but from henceforth shall be called Cain, that pillag'd the ruins, and dragg'd and murder'd the infant, the aged and infirm—(But look, she recovers.)
Clarissa. O ye angels! ye cherubims and seraphims! waft their souls to bliss, bathe their wounds with angelic balsam, and crown them with immortality. A faithful, loving and beloved husband, a promising and filial son, a tender and affectionate brother: Alas! what a loss!—Whom have I now to comfort me?—What have I left, but the voice of lamentation: [She weeps.] Ill-fated bullets—these tears shall sustain me—yes, ye dear friends! how gladly wou'd I follow you—but alas! I must still endure tribulation and inquietudes, from which you are now exempt; I cannot cease to weep, ye brave men, I will mourn your fall—weep on—flow, mine eyes, and wash away their blood, till the fountain of sorrow is dried up—but, oh! it never—never will—my sympathetic soul shall dwell on your bosoms, and floods of tears shall water your graves; and since all other comfort is deny'd me, deprive me not of the only consolation left me of meditating on your virtues and dear memories, who fell in defense of liberty and your country—ye brave men—ye more than friends—ye martyrs to liberty!—This, this is all I ask, till sorrow overwhelms me.—I breathe my last; and ye yourselves, your own bright spirits, come and waft me to your peaceful abode, where the voice of lamentation is not heard, neither shall we know any more what it is to separate.
Eager the patriot meets his desperate foe
With full intent to give the fatal blow;
The cause he fights for animates him high,
His wife, his children and his liberty:
For these he conquers, or more bravely dies,
And yields himself a willing sacrifice.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
Scene I. Near Norfolk, in Virginia, on board a man-of-war, Lord Kidnapper, in the state-room; a boat appears rowing towards the ship.
Sailor and Boatswain.
Sailor. Boatswain!
Boatswain. Holla.
Sailor. Damn my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, but here's a black flag of truce coming on board.
Boatswain. Sure enough—where are they from?
Sailor. From hell, I suppose—for they're as black as so many devils.
Boatswain. Very well—no matter—they're recruits for the Kidnapper.
Sailor. We shall be all of a colour by and by—damn me—
Boatswain. I'll go and inform his Lordship and his pair of doxies of it; I suppose by this time they have trim'd their sails, and he's done heaving the log.
[Exit Boatswain.
Scene II. Near the state-room.
Boatswain. Where's his Lordship?
Servant. He's in the state-room.
Boatswain. It's time for him to turn out; tell him I want to speak to him.
Servant. I dare not do it, Boatswain; it's more than my life is worth.
Boatswain. Damn your squeamish stomach, go directly, or I'll go myself.
Servant. For God's sake! Boatswain—
Boatswain. Damn your eyes, you pimping son of a bitch, go this instant, or I'll stick my knife in your gammons.
Servant. O Lord! Boatswain. [Servant goes.]
Boatswain [solus]. What the devil—keep a pimp guard here, better station the son of a bitch at the mast head, to keep a look out there, lest Admiral Hopkins be upon us.
Enter Kidnapper.
Kidnapper. What's your will, Boatswain?
Boatswain. I beg your Lordship's pardon [Aside. But you can soon fetch up Leeway, and spread the water sail again.], please your honour, here's a boat full of fine recruits along side for you.
Kidnapper. Recruits, Boatswain? you mean soldiers from Augustine, I imagine; what reg'mentals have they on?
Boatswain. Mourning, please your honour, and as black as our tarpawling.
Kidnapper. Ha, ha, well well, take 'em on board, Boatswain, I'll be on deck presently.
Boatswain. With submission to your honour, d' ye see, [Scratching his head.] I think we have gallows-looking dogs enough on board already—the scrapings of Newgate, and the refuse of Tyburn, and when the wind blows aft, damn 'em, they stink like polecats—but d' ye see, as your honour pleases, with submission, if it's Lord Paramount's orders, why it must be so, I suppose—but I've done my duty, d' ye see—
Kidnapper. Ha, ha, the work must be done, Boatswain, no matter by whom.
Boatswain. Why, aye, that's true, please your honour, any port in a storm—if a man is to be hang'd, or have his throat cut, d' ye see—who are so fit to do it as his own slaves? especially as they're to have their freedoms for it; nobody can blame 'em, nor your honour neither, for you get them for half price, or nothing at all, d' ye see me, and that will help to lessen poor Owld England's taxes, and when you have done with 'em here, and they get their brains knock'd out, d' ye see, your honour can sell them in the West-Indies, and that will be something in your honour's pocket, d' ye see—well, ev'ry man to his trade—but, damn my impudence for all, I see your honour knows all about it—d' ye see.
[Exit Boatswain.
Scene III. Lord Kidnapper returns to his state-room; the Boatswain comes on deck and pipes.
All hands ahoy—hand a rope, some of you Tories, forward there, for his worship's reg'ment of black guards to come aboard.
Enter Negroes.
Boatswain. Your humble servant, Gentlemen, I suppose you want to see Lord Kidnapper?—Clear the gangway there of them Tyburn tulips. Please to walk aft, brother soldiers, that's the fittest birth for you, the Kidnapper's in the state-room, he'll hoist his sheet-anchor presently, he'll be up in a jiffin—as soon as he has made fast the end of his small rope athwart Jenny Bluegarter and Kate Common's stern posts.
First Sailor. Damn my eyes, but I suppose, messmate, we must bundle out of our hammocks this cold weather, to make room for these black regulars to stow in, tumble upon deck, and choose a soft berth among the snow?
Second Sailor. Blast 'em, if they come within a cable's length of my hammock, I'll kick 'em to hell through one of the gun ports.
Boatswain. Come, come, brothers, don't be angry, I suppose we shall soon be in a warmer latitude—the Kidnapper seems as fond of these black regulars (as you call 'em, Jack) as he is of the brace of whores below; but as they come in so damn'd slow, I'll put him in the humour of sending part of the fleet this winter to the coast of Guinea, and beat up for volunteers, there he'll get recruits enough for a hogshead or two of New-England rum, and a few owld pipe-shanks, and save poor Owld-England the trouble and expense of clothing them in the bargain.
First Sailor. Aye, Boatswain, any voyage, so it's a warm one—if it's to hell itself—for I'm sure the devil must be better off than we, if we are to stay here this winter.
Second Sailor. Any voyage, so it's to the southward, rather than stay here at lazy anchor—no fire, nothing to eat or drink, but suck our frosty fists like bears, unless we turn sheep-stealers again, and get our brains knock'd out. Eigh, master cook, you're a gentleman now—nothing to do—grown so proud, you won't speak to poor folks, I suppose?
Cook. The devil may cook for 'em for me—if I had any thing to cook—a parcel of frozen half-starv'd dogs. I should never be able to keep 'em out of the cook room, or their noses out of the slush-tub.
Boatswain. Damn your old smoky jaws, you're better off than any man aboard, your trouble will be nothing,—for I suppose they'll be disbursted in different messes among the Tories, and it's only putting on the big pot, cockey. Ha, ha, ha.
Cook. What signifies, Mr. Boatswain, the big pot or the little pot, if there's nothing to cook? no fire, coal or wood to cook with? Blast my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, if I disgrease myself so much, I have had the honour, damn me (tho' I say it that shou'dn't say it) to be chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, on board of which was Lord Abel-Marl and Admiral Poke-Cock.
Boatswain. Damn the liars—old singe-the-devil—you chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, eigh? you the devil, you're as proud as hell, for all you look as old as Matheg'lum, hand a pair of silk stockings for our cook here, d' ye see—lash a handspike athwart his arse, get a ladle full of slush and a handful of brimstone for his hair, and step one of you Tories there for the devil's barber to come and shave and dress him. Ha, ha, ha.
Cook. No, Mr. Boatswain, it's not pride—but look 'e (as I said before), I'll not disgrease my station, I'll throw up my commission, before I'll stand cook for a parcel of scape gallows, convict Tory dogs and run-away Negroes.
Boatswain. What's that you say? Take care, old frosty face—What? do you accuse his worship of turning kidnapper, and harbouring run-away Negroes?—Softly, or you'll be taken up for a Whig, and get a handsome coat of slush and hog's feathers for a christmas-box, cockey: Throw up your commission, eigh? throw up the pot-halliards, you mean, old piss-to-windward? Ha, ha, ha.
Cook. I tell you, Mr. Boatswain—I—
Boatswain. Come, come, give us a chaw of tobacco, Cook— blast your eyes, don't take any pride in what I say—I'm only joking, d' ye see——
Cook. Well, but Mr. Boatswain——
Boatswain. Come, avast, belay the lanyards of your jaws, and let's have no more of it, d' ye see. [Boatswain pipes.] Make fast that boat along side there.
[Exeunt ev'ry man to his station.
Scene IV. Lord Kidnapper comes up on the quarter-deck.
Kidnapper. Well, my brave blacks, are you come to list?
Cudjo. Eas, massa Lord, you preazee.
Kidnapper. How many are there of you?
Cudjo. Twenty-two, massa.
Kidnapper. Very well, did you all run away from your masters?
Cudjo. Eas, massa Lord, eb'ry one, me too.
Kidnapper. That's clever; they have no right to make you slaves, I wish all the Negroes wou'd do the same, I'll make 'em free—what part did you come from?
Cudjo. Disse brack man, disse one, disse one, disse one, disse one, come from Hamton, disse one, disse one, disse one, come from Nawfok, me come from Nawfok too.
Kidnapper. Very well, what was your master's name?
Cudjo. Me massa name Cunney Tomsee.
Kidnapper. Colonel Thompson—eigh?
Cudjo. Eas, massa, Cunney Tomsee.
Kidnapper. Well then I'll make you a major—and what's your name?
Cudjo. Me massa cawra me Cudjo.
Kidnapper. Cudjo?—very good—was you ever christened, Cudjo?
Cudjo. No massa, me no crissen.
Kidnapper. Well, then I'll christen you—you shall be called Major Cudjo Thompson, and if you behave well, I'll soon make you a greater man than your master, and if I find the rest of you behave well, I'll make you all officers, and after you have serv'd Lord Paramount a while, you shall have money in your pockets, good clothes on your backs, and be as free as them white men there. [Pointing forward to a parcel of Tories.]
Cudjo. Tankee, massa, gaw bresse, massa Kidnap.
Sailor. [Aside.] What a damn'd big mouth that Cudjo has—as large as our main hatch-way——
Cook. [Aside.] Aye, he's come to a wrong place to make a good use of it—it might stand some little chance at a Lord Mayor's feast.
Kidnapper. Now go forward, give 'em something to eat and drink there. [Aside.] Poor devils, they look half starved and naked like ourselves.
Cook. [Aside.] I don't know where the devil they'll get it: the sight of that fellow's mouth is enough to breed a famine on board, if there was not one already.
Sailor. Aye, he'd tumble plenty down his damn'd guts and swallow it, like Jones swallow'd the whale.
Kidnapper. To-morrow you shall have guns like them white men—Can you shoot some of them rebels ashore, Major Cudjo?
Cudjo. Eas, massa, me try.
Kidnapper. Wou'd you shoot your old master, the Colonel, if you could see him?
Cudjo. Eas, massa, you terra me, me shoot him down dead.
Kidnapper. That's a brave fellow—damn 'em—down with them all—shoot all the damn'd rebels.
Serjeant. [Aside.] Brave fellows indeed!
Kidnapper. Serjeant!
Serjeant. I wait your Lordship's commands.
Kidnapper. Serjeant, to-morrow begin to teach those black recruits the exercise, and when they have learn'd sufficiently well to load and fire, then incorporate them among the regulars and the other Whites on board; we shall in a few days have some work for 'em, I expect—be as expeditious as possible. [Aside to him.] Set a guard over them every night, and take their arms from them, for who knows but they may cut our throats.
Serjeant. Very true, My Lord, I shall take particular care.
[Exit Kidnapper; Serjeant and Negroes walk forward.
Scene V.
Serjeant. Damn 'em, I'd rather see half their weight in beef.
Boatswain. Aye, curse their stomachs, or mutton either; then our Cook wou'dn't be so damn'd lazy as he is, strutting about the deck like a nobleman, receiving Paramount's pay for nothing.
Serjeant. Walk faster, damn your black heads. I suppose, Boatswain, when this hell-cat reg'ment's complete, they'll be reviewed in Hyde park?——
Boatswain. Aye, blast my eyes, and our Chaplain with his dirty black gown, or our Cook, shall be their general, and review 'em, for he talks of throwing up his pot-halliards commission, in hopes of it.
Serjeant. Ha, ha, ha.——
Cook. I'd see the devil have 'em first.——
[Exeunt Serjeant, &c.
Scene VI. In the cabin.
Lord Kidnapper, Captain Squires, and Chaplain.
Kidnapper. These blacks are no small acquisition, them and the Tories we have on board will strengthen us vastly; the thoughts of emancipation will make 'em brave, and the encouragement given them by my proclamation, will greatly intimidate the rebels—internal enemies are worse than open foes.——
Chaplain. Very true, My Lord; David prayed that he might be preserved from secret enemies.
Kidnapper. Aye, so I've heard, but I look upon this to be a grand manœuvre in politics; this is making dog eat dog—thief catch thief—the servant against his master—rebel against rebel—what think you of that, parson?
Chaplain. A house divided thus against itself cannot stand, according to scripture—My Lord, your observation is truly scriptural.
Kidnapper. Scripture? poh, poh—I've nothing to do with scripture—I mean politically, parson.
Chaplain. I know it very well; sure, My Lord, I understand you perfectly.
Kidnapper. Faith that's all I care for; if we can stand our ground this winter, and burn all their towns that are accessible to our ships, and Colonel Connolly succeeds in his plan, there's not the least doubt but we shall have supplies from England very early in the spring, which I have wrote for; then, in conjunction with Connolly, we shall be able to make a descent where we please, and drive the rebels like hogs into a pen.
Chaplain. And then gather them (as the scriptures say) as a hen gathereth her chickens.
Kidnapper. True, Mr. Scripture.
Captain Squires. Very good, but you must take care of the hawks.
Kidnapper. What do you mean by the hawks, Captain?
Captain Squires. I mean the shirt-men, the rifle-men, My Lord.
Kidnapper. Aye, damn 'em, hawks indeed; they are cursed dogs; a man is never safe where they are, but I'll take care to be out of their reach, let others take their chance, for I see they have no respect to persons—I suppose they wou'd shoot at me, if I were within their reach.
Chaplain. Undoubtedly, they would be more fond of you than of a wild turkey; a parcel of ignorant, unmannerly rascals, they pay no more respect to a Lord than they wou'd to a devil.
Kidnapper. The scoundrels are grown so damn'd impudent too, that one can scarcely get a roasting pig now-a-days, but I'll be even with some of 'em by and by.
Chaplain. I hope we shall get something good for our Christmas dinner—so much abstinence and involuntary mortification, cannot be good for the soul—a war in the body corporal is of more dangerous consequence than a civil war to the state, or heresy and schism to the church.
Kidnapper. Very true, parson—very true—now I like your doctrine—a full belly is better than an empty sermon; preach that doctrine;—stick to that text, and you'll not fail of making converts.
Chaplain. The wisest of men said, there is nothing better, than that a man should enjoy that which he hath, namely, eat, drink, and be merry, if he can.
Kidnapper. You're very right—Solomon was no fool, they say—[He sings.]
Give me a charming lass, Twangdillo cries,
I know no pleasure, but love's sweet joys.
Chaplain. [Sings.]
Give me the bottle, says the red face sot,
For a whore I'd not give six-pence, not a groat.
Yet two is better than one, my Lord, for the scriptures further say, if one be alone, how can there be heat? You seem to be converted to that belief, for you have a brace of them, as the Boatswain says.
Kidnapper. Ha, ha. It's a pity but you were a bishop, you have the scriptures so pat—now I'll go and take a short nap, meanwhile; Captain, if any thing new happens, pray order my servant to wake me.
Captain Squires. I will, my Lord.
[Exit Kidnapper.
Chaplain. And you and I'll crack a bottle, Captain; (bring a bottle, boy!) 'tis bad enough to perish by famine, but ten thousand times worse to be chok'd for want of moisture. His Lordship and two more make three; and you and I and the bottle make three more, and a three-fold cord is not easily broken; so we're even with him.
Captain Squires. With all my heart.—Boy, bear a hand!
Tom. Coming, sir.
Chaplain. Tom, Tom!—make haste, you scoundrel!—fetch two bottles. I think we can manage it.
Enter Tom with the bottles.
Chaplain. That's right, Tom.—Now bring the glasses, and shut the door after you.
[Exit Tom.
Scene VII. In Boston. A council of war after the battle of Bunker's-Hill.
Lord Boston, Admiral Tombstone, Elbow Room, Mr. Caper, General Clinton, Earl Percy.
Lord Boston. I fully expected, with the help of the last reinforcement you brought me over, and the advice and assistance of three accomplish'd and experienc'd Generals, I should have been able to have subdued the rebels, and gain'd immortal laurels to myself—have return'd to Old England like a Roman Consul, with a score or two of the rebel Generals, Colonels and Majors, to have grac'd my triumph.
Elbow Room. You have been vastly disappointed, sir—you must not look for laurels (unless wild ones) nor expect triumphs (unless sham ones) from your own victories or conquests in America.
Lord Boston. And yet, not more disappointed than you, sir—witness your thrasonical speeches on your first landing, provided you had but elbow room—and Mr. Caper too, to bring over Monsieur Rigadoon, the dancing-master, and Signor Rosin, the fiddler forsooth; he thought, no doubt, to have country danc'd the rebels out of their liberty with some of his new cuts—with his soft music to have fascinated their wives and daughters, and with some of 'em, no doubt, to have taken the tour of America, with his reg'ment of fine, sleek, prancing horses, that have been feeding this six months on codfish tails; he thought to have grown fat with feasting, dancing, and drinking tea with the Ladies, instead of being the skeleton he now appears to be—not to mention any thing of his letter, wherein he laments Tom's absence; for[9] "had Tom been with him (he says) he wou'd have been out of danger, and quite secure from the enemy's shot."
Percy. I think, Gentlemen, we're even with you now; you have had your mirth and frolic with us, for dancing "Yankee Doodle," as you called it, from Lexington.—I find you have had a severer dance, a brave sweat at Bunker's Hill, and have been obliged to pay the fiddler in the bargain.
Clinton. However, Gentlemen, I approve (at proper seasons) of a little joking, yet I can by no means think (as we have had such bad success with our crackers) that this is a proper time to throw your squibs.
Lord Boston. I grant you, sir, this is a very improper time for joking; for my part, I was only speaking as to my own thoughts, when Mr. Elbow Room made remarks, which he might as well have spared.
Elbow Room. I took you, sir, as meaning a reflection upon us for our late great loss, and particularly to myself, for expressing some surprise on our first landing, that you should suffer a parcel of ignorant peasants to drive you before 'em like sheep from Lexington; and I must own I was a little chagrin'd at your seeming so unconcern'd at such an affair as this (which had nearly prov'd our ruin), by your innuendoes and ironical talk of accomplish'd Generals, Roman Consuls and triumphs.
Lord Boston. My mentioning accomplish'd Generals, surely, sir, was rather a compliment to you.
Elbow Room. When irony pass current for compliments, and we take it so, I shall have no objection to it.
Mr. Caper. The affair of Lexington, My Lord Boston, at which you were so much affrighted (if I am rightly inform'd), was because you then stood on your own bottom, this of Bunker's Hill you seem secretly to rejoice at, only because you have three accomplish'd and experienc'd Generals to share the disgrace with you, besides the brave Admiral Tombstone—you talk of dancing and fiddling, and yet you do neither, as I see.
Lord Boston. And pray, sir, what did you do with the commission, the post, the Duke of Grafton gave you, in lieu of your losses at Preston election, and the expenses of your trial at the king's bench for a riot, which had emptied your pockets?—Why you sold it—you sold it, sir—to raise cash to gamble with.——
Admiral Tombstone. Damn it, don't let us kick up a dust among ourselves, to be laugh'd at fore and aft—this is a hell of a council of war—though I believe it will turn out one before we've done—a scolding and quarrelling like a parcel of damn'd butter whores—I never heard two whores yet scold and quarrel, but they got to fighting at last.
Clinton. Pray, Gentlemen, drop this discourse, consider the honour of England is at stake, and our own safety depends upon this day's consultation.
Lord Boston. 'Tis not for argument's sake—but the dignity of my station requires others should give up first.
Elbow Room. Sir, I have done, lest you should also accuse me of obstructing the proceedings of the council of war.
Mr. Caper. For the same reason I drop it now.
Lord Boston. Well, Gentlemen, what are we met here for?
Admiral Tombstone. Who the devil shou'd know, if you don't?—damn it, didn't you send for us?
Lord Boston. Our late great loss of men has tore up the foundation of our plan, and render'd all further attempts impracticable—'t will be a long time ere we can expect any more reinforcements—and if they should arrive, I'm doubtful of their success.
Clinton. The provincials are vastly strong, and seem no novices in the art of war; 'tis true we gain'd the hill at last, but of what advantage is it to us?—none—the loss of 1400 as brave men as Britain can boast of, is a melancholy consideration, and must make our most sanguinary friends in England abate of their vigour.
Elbow Room. I never saw or read of any battle equal to it—never was more martial courage display'd, and the provincials, to do the dogs justice, fought like heroes, fought indeed more like devils than men; such carnage and destruction not exceeded by Blenheim, Minden, Fontenoy, Ramillies, Dettingen, the battle of the Boyne, and the late affair of the Spaniards and Algerines—a mere cock-fight to it—no laurels there.
Mr. Caper. No, nor triumphs neither—I regret in particular the number of brave officers that fell that day, many of whom were of the first families in England.
Admiral Tombstone. Aye, a damn'd affair indeed—many powder'd beaus—petit maitres—fops—fribbles—skip jacks—macaronies—jack puddings—noblemen's bastards and whores' sons fell that day—and my poor marines stood no more chance with 'em than a cat in hell without claws.
Lord Boston. It can't be help'd, Admiral; what is to be done next?
Admiral Tombstone. Done?—why, what the devil have you done? nothing yet, but eat Paramount's beef, and steal a few Yankee sheep—and that, it seems, is now become a damn'd lousy, beggarly trade too, for you hav'n't left yourselves a mouthful to eat.
[Aside.]
"Bold at the council board,
But cautious in the field, he shunn'd the sword."
Lord Boston. But what can we do, Admiral?
Admiral Tombstone. Do?—why, suck your paws—that's all you're like to get. [Aside.] But avast, I must bowse taught there, or we shall get to loggerheads soon, we're such damn'd fighting fellows.
Lord Boston. We must act on the defensive this winter, till reinforcements arrive.
Admiral Tombstone. Defensive? aye, aye—if we can defend our bellies from hunger, and prevent a mutiny and civil war among the small guts there this winter, we shall make a glorious campaign of it, indeed—it will read well in the American Chronicles.
Lord Boston. I expect to be recalled this winter, when I shall lay the case before Lord Paramount, and let him know your deplorable situation.
Admiral Tombstone. Aye, do—and lay it behind him too; you've got the weather-gage of us this tack, messmate; but I wish you a good voyage for all—and don't forget to tell him, the poor worms are starving too, having nothing to eat, but half starv'd dead soldiers and the ships' bottoms. [Aside.] A cunning old fox, he's gnaw'd his way handsomely out of the Boston cage—but he'll never be a wolf, for all that.
Mr. Caper. I shall desire to be recalled too—I've not been us'd to such fare—and not the least diversion or entertainment of any sort going forward here—I neither can nor will put up with it.
Admiral Tombstone. I think we're all a parcel of damn'd boobies for coming three thousand miles upon a wild-goose chase—to perish with cold—starve with hunger—get our brains knock'd out, or be hang'd for sheep-stealing and robbing hen-roosts.
Lord Boston. I think, Admiral, you're always grumbling—never satisfied.
Admiral Tombstone. Satisfied? I see no appearance of it—we have been here these twelve hours, scolding upon empty stomachs—you may call it a council of war (and so it is indeed, a war with the guts) or what you will—but I call it a council of famine.
Lord Boston. As it's so late, Gentlemen, we'll adjourn the council of war till to-morrow at nine o'clock—I hope you'll all attend, and come to a conclusion.
Admiral Tombstone. And I hope you'll then conclude to favour us with one of them fine turkeys you're keeping for your sea store [Aside.] or that fine, fat, black pig you or some of your guard stole out of the poor Negroe's pen. As it's near Christmas, and you're going to make your exit—you know the old custom among the sailors—pave your way first—let us have one good dinner before we part, and leave us half a dozen pipes of Mr. Hancock's wine to drink your health, and a good voyage, and don't let us part with dry lips.
Such foolish councils, with no wisdom fraught,
Must end in wordy words, and come to nought;
Just like St. James's, where they bluster, scold,
They nothing know—yet they despise being told.
[Exeunt.