Underneath was a black and dismal cellar. The
pale and shrunken faces of prisoners filled the openings at the windows
by day and by night, seeking a breath of air. They were so jammed
together that there was by no means room at the windows for all. So
these wretched men divided themselves into groups, each group crowding
close to the windows for ten minutes, then giving place to another
group. They slept on straw that was never changed, and the food given
them was scarcely enough to keep them alive. Those who suffered this
living death might have been free at any time had they been willing to
go over to the British, but few of the patriots, even in this dread
hour, deserted their cause. To while away the hours of their captivity,
they carved their names upon the walls with rusty nails. Fevers raged
constantly and they died by scores, leaving their half-finished initials
on the walls as their only relics. Their bodies were thrown out of
doors, and every morning gathered up in carts and carried to the
outskirts of the city to be buried in a trench without ceremony.
This was only one of a dozen such prison-houses. There was one other
that, if anything, was worse. It was the New Jail, and it still
stands in City Hall Park and is now the Hall of Records.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122