“Miss Hazel,” he said, while the color flashed through his dark skin, “I am siding with the Yankees very fast.”
“I do not blame you very much, Flutters; I never heard of anything like it;” which was quite a concession for so loyal a little Red-Coat as Hazel.
“But, Harry,” asked Josephine, who could scarcely bear to hear of such barbarous treatment at the hands of her own kinsmen, “do you think King George and the English nation, generally, knew about it?”
“No, I don't, nor do I believe they know it now; but they will some day. It was their business to know it, Josephine, and not to leave thousands of human beings at the mercy of a few merciless British seamen. Your own father would scarcely credit all I could tell him of our treatment, nor many another English officer; but it was the clear duty of some of them to have looked into the matter.”
“You don't mean it was my papa's duty, do you?” Hazel asked, bristling up a little; she was not going to allow even “Cousin Harry” to utter a word that would seem to reflect upon her father even for a moment.
“No, of course, I don't mean anything of the kind. If I thought Captain Boniface in any way responsible for those horrors, do you think I could be on such friendly terms with him? No, Hazel, your father is a true, brave man, and no one knows better than I how much he has given up in King George's service. It was not his duty to inspect the prison-ships. Furnishing supplies for the English troops called for every moment of his thought and time, and taxed all his strength and energy; but there are some men—men whom your father knows—whose names we need not mention, who are very culpable in the matter, if you know what that means?”
“I suppose it means very much to blame,” sighed Hazel.
“Oh, I wish you would just go on telling about things!” urged Flutters, beseechingly, for to him the story itself was far more interesting than any side remarks.
Harry remained silent a moment. Since Josephine and Hazel “cried very easy,” he had need to be careful just where he began again. “I must not forget to tell you,” he said, “something about 'Dame Grant,' as we called her, for her visits to the old 'Jersey' constituted almost our greatest blessing. She was a fat old woman, who dealt in sugar and tea, pipes and combs, needles and pins, and a few other of the necessaries of life. Every day or two her little boat would push out from the Brooklyn shore, and, rowed by two boys, over she would come to the ship's side. Those of us who were fortunate enough to have any money were then allowed to go to the foot of the ladder and make some little purchases, obtaining everything—so she always assured us—'at cost price.' But sometimes I was almost sorry that I had a cent to spend. It was so terrible to see the longing in the faces of the poor fellows who had no money. I will say this much in our favor, however; I think there was hardly a man among us who did not share with some one else fully half of whatever he had bought. But suddenly the visits came to an end. One morning the little boat put out from the shore as usual, but with no one in it save one of the boys who used to row it, and he brought us the sad news that the old 'Dame' had caught the fever from the hulk of the 'Jersey' and died. After that no one else was ever willing to run the risk of contagion for the sake of the profits of our little purchases. But one of the happiest experiences that ever came to us in those long, dreary days, was to be allowed to become a member of the 'Working Party.' It was composed of twenty men, and all the prisoners who had any strength left were always eager to join it. It was the duty of these men to wash down the upper deck and gangway, to spread the awning, and to hoist wood, water, and other supplies on board, from the boats that came alongside. Then, in the case of any deaths—and there were often three or four during a single night—some of the party would be assigned the duty of burial, and sent to the shore for that purpose, but always closely watched by two or three guards. Strange as it may seem, this sad duty was considered the most desirable of all. It meant setting ones foot on dear old Mother Earth again, for, at least, a little while, and even the mournful work in hand could not quite offset that pleasure. Only once was I so fortunate as to be chosen, and so keen was my delight in treading the ground again, that I actually took off my shoes for the sake of feeling the sand fall away from my feet as we pushed along with our sad burden. Now and then it would happen that, notwithstanding the watchfulness of the guards, a prisoner would succeed in making his escape when sent ashore with one of these interment parties. Near the spot where most of the 'Jersey's' prisoners were buried was a comfortable homestead belonging to a miller. The men used to call it the 'Old Dutchmans, and always looked toward it with a sort of veneration as they passed, particularly as they knew that the miller's daughter was deeply interested in us. She kept account of all the poor fellows who were brought to the shore to be buried, and I think many of us cherished a vain sort of hope that deliverance might possibly come through her some day.”
“That was strange about caring to feel the sand against your feet,” remarked Starlight; “that is the last sort of thing you'd think a fellow would ever really care for.”