A History of the City of Brooklyn and Kings County, Volume II.

by Stephen M. Ostrander

The infamous Cunningham was at this time provost marshal of the city. He possessed the instincts of a brute, and often seemed to own the spirit of a demon. The sick and dying received no sympathy or care from him. Healthy men were placed in the same room with those having the smallpox and other maladies. Prisoners were not allowed sufficient food or bedding, and their clothes were scanty. The food was not fit to give to the beasts. The men must have reached the verge of starvation to induce them to partake of the unwholesome mess of wormy and mouldy food dealt out to them. The allowance made to the men was a loaf of bread, one quart of peas, half a pint of rice, and one and a half pounds of pork for six days. Large numbers died from want, privation, and exhaustion. So crowded were these prisons that there was no room to lie down and rest. The impure atmosphere engendered disease. Every morning the cry was heard, "Rebels, bring out your dead." All who had died during the night were carelessly thrown into the dead-cart and carried to the trenches in the neighborhood of Canal Street, and buried without a vestige of ceremony.

But the horrors of the city prisons were more than repeated in the tragedies of the prison ships in the bend of the Wallabout. The first vessels used were the freight transports which had been employed in conveying troops to Staten Island in 1776. These transports were for a short time anchored in Gravesend Bay, and received the prisoners taken on Long Island. When New York was conquered they were removed to the city. The Good Hope and Scorpion for a while were anchored off the Battery, and subsequently were taken to Wallabout Bay, and with other vessels were used as prisons. Two vessels at a time were kept in this service. Among the vessels thus used were the Whitley, Falmouth, Prince of Wales, Scorpion, Bristol, and Old Jersey.

In 1780 one of the vessels was burned by the unhappy captives, who hoped thereby to regain their liberty. The effort was unsuccessful, and the prisoners were removed to the Old Jersey, which continued in service until the end of the war.

Wallabout Bay had the shape of a horse-shoe. The Jersey was anchored at a point which is now represented by the west end of the Cob Dock. If Cumberland Street were continued in a straight line to a point between the Navy Yard proper and the Cob Dock, it would pass over the spot where this vessel was anchored.

Historians agree in saying that the treatment on all these vessels was alike, and that the Jersey was not exceptional. The Jersey was the largest of all, and having remained in service for so long a time had the most prisoners. On that account she has attracted the most attention.

The crew on board each ship consisted of a captain, mates, steward, a few sailors and marines, and about thirty soldiers. Each prisoner on his arrival was carefully searched for arms and valuables. His name and rank were duly registered. He was allowed to retain his clothing and bedding, and to use these, but during confinement was supplied with nothing additional. The examination having been completed, he was conducted to the hold of the vessel, to become the companion of a thousand other patriots, many of whom were covered with rags and filth, and pale and emaciated from the constant inhalation of the pestiferous and noxious atmosphere which impregnated the vessel. Strong men could not long resist inroads of sickness and disease. Many were taken down with typhus fever, dysentery, and smallpox. The vessel was filled continually with the vilest malaria. The guns were removed, portholes securely fastened, and in their place were two tiers of lights to admit air. Each of these air holes was about twenty inches square, and fastened by cross-bars to prevent escape. The steward supplied each mess with a daily allowance of biscuit, pork or beef, and rancid butter. The food was of the poorest which could be obtained, and of itself was sufficient to breed disease. The biscuits were mouldy and worm-eaten, the flour was sour, and the meat badly tainted. It was cooked in a common kettle, which was never cleaned, with impure water, and became a slow but sure poison. The prisoners were kept in the holds between the two decks, and the lower dungeon was used for the foreigners who had enlisted in freedom's cause. Here again the morning salutation was, "Rebels, bring out your dead." The command was obeyed, and all who had found relief in death were brought upon deck. Prisoners were allowed to sew a blanket over the remains of their dead companions before burial. The dead were taken in boats to the shore, put in holes dug in the sand, and carelessly covered. Frequently they were washed from their resting place by the incoming tide. Often while walking along the old Wallabout road, between Cumberland Street and the Navy Yard, I have seen the remains of the gallant patriots who lost their lives on the Jersey. In the "'fifties" of the present century it was no uncommon thing for pieces of bone and human skulls to be dug up on the borders of the old road.

The only relief the prisoners had was permission to remain on deck until sunset. When the golden orb of day sunk beneath the horizon, the ears of all were saluted with the obnoxious cry, "Down, rebels, down." When all had retired to the hold, the hatchway was closed, leaving only a small trap open to admit air. At this trapdoor a sentinel was placed, with instructions to allow but one man to ascend at a time during the night. The sentinels possessed the same cruel spirit as their masters. A prisoner who had been confined on the Jersey for fourteen months said that, on occasions when the prisoners gathered at the hatchway to obtain fresh air, the sentinel repeatedly thrust his bayonet among them and killed several. These acts created a desire for revenge. Many of the men were enabled to endure their trials by the thought that the night of darkness would soon pass away, and the day dawn when they could take vengeance on the scoundrels who had treated them with so much brutality.

An instance of this determination to be revenged is narrated in the life of Silas Talbot. It appears that two brothers belonging to the same rifle corps were made prisoners and sent on board the Jersey. The elder was attacked with fever and became delirious. One night, as his end was fast approaching, reason resumed its sway, and, while lamenting his sad fate and breathing a prayer for his mother, he begged for a little water. His brother entreated the guard to give him some, but the request was brutally refused. The sick boy drew near to death, and his last struggle came. The brother offered the guard a guinea for an inch of candle to enable him to behold the last gasping smile of love and affection. This request was refused. "Now," said he, "if it please God that I ever regain my liberty, I'll be a most bitter enemy." He soon after became a free man, and, to show how well he kept his word, it is only necessary to say that when the war closed "he had 8 large and 127 small notches in his rifle stock." These notches probably represented 8 officers and 127 privates.

On one occasion 130 men were brought to the Jersey by the villain Sprout, who was commissary of prisoners. As he approached the black unsightly hulk, he pointed to her sardonically, and told his captives, "There, rebels, there is the cage for you."

The same bitter round was the daily portion of the men,—during the day a little air and sunlight, and being compelled to listen to the curses and imprecations of their captors, while at night they had to breathe the stifling air between decks, and listen to the groans of the sick and dying, without the power to give them any relief.