 | The death of General Montgomery, in storming the city of Quebec |  |
SCENE V.
Carletonto the Prisoners.
Now in my power disarmed and reduc'd,
I will give scope, and scorn you with my tongue,
You vile rebellious progeny of wrath,
Fierce and malignant in Don Quixotism
Of moon-mad liberty. You Bedlam-brood,
You viper-lip'd, and serpent-hearted race,
Bred on the poison of soul fraud and hate,
Scum and off-scouring of humanity,
Whom laws of government to the sure cord
Have ever destined; and were it not,
That the black vengeance of your countrymen
Might dare retaliate, and gibbet up
Some British prisoner, each soul should hang,
And die, this day, in execrable form,
The death of traitors. Yet, whatever shape
Of suffering horrible, can be devis'd,
In dreary dungeon, and in obscure jail,
Cold, dark, and comfortless, and lacking bread,
Shall be your lot, snake venom'd parricides.
And first, three victims from your shattered band,
Must, to the Savages be given up.
To glut the appetite of Indian chiefs,
Who at our cantico, at Montreal,
Drank of the ox-blood, roasting his large limbs,
Symbolical of rebels burnt with fire.
Take these three men, ye Indians warriors,
And use them wantonly, with every pain,
Which flame's fierce element can exercise.
And with the sound of each loud instrument,
The drum, the horn, in wildest symphony
With your own howlings, shall the scene be grac'd,
Save, that in terror, oftentimes, a while
The noise shall cease, and their own cries be heard.
O gentle Sir, where are the promises
Of life untouched and fair acts of love?
Where is the memory of that faith and word,
That sacred honour, which a soldier wears?
Is there no mercy in the soul of man?
But O whatever we are doom'd to feel,
Of death, or torment, let it not be fire.
The flame is terrible, and none can bear,
On the soft eye, the scorching element;
The sinewy nerve bent up and withered;
The body rolling, crisping in the flames.
Let us be sentenced to some dark pit,
Or subterranean cavity, where light
Of sun, or star shall never cast a ray:
In some lone island destitute of food,
Let us be bound, and slowly waste ourselves,
With painful hunger, and life-pinching want
O could we but obtain immediate death,
By some sharp bayonet, or musket-ball,
Even should our bodies, afterwards be burnt,
And bones reduc'd to ashes in the flame.
Carleton.
Hah, I could laugh, to see your skeletons,
Unflesh'd, and whit'ning in the light-wood blaze.
(Aside to Maclean.)
But yet, Maclean, we dare not execute,
Stern justice due; for still the rebel foe,
That part of them which with Montgomery fought,
Recruit their forces and block up the gates;
And should we urge extremity of wrath,
It may be ours to taste an equal fate.
The chance of war is various and unfix'd.
Go then Maclean, and countermand the word
Of pain and burning to the Savages.
Of mirth, and cantico, and the war song,
To be indulg'd, with many a captive burnt,
If we prevail, and drive them from the walls.
(To the Captives.)
Yes, I could laugh, to see the flame involve,
With spiral wavings, your black carcases.
For so enhanc'd and aggravate your guils,
That well its merits every horrid woe
Denounc'd to murder, sacrilege, and sin
Through all its shapes; but yet the gentleness,
And meek-ey'd majesty of Britain's King,
Will not admit all stretch of punishment.
For Heaven's long suffering imitating, still
But this receive, in certainty of faith,
That if your countrymen persist t' oppose,
The peace and order of our government,
Our long endurance shall turn into rage
Of tenfold enmity; yes, perjured brood,
If soon they crush not each rebellious thought,
Keen torture shall excruciate their joints;
And if I conquer, Hell lend every plague,
To give them torment, in all shapes of death.
How then, vile scorpion, will you bear your fate;
The deep-struck tomahawk, in the trembling heart;
The curv'd knife, ready to unroof the scull;
And body roasted in slow-scorching fires.
Morgan.
Sad thought of cruelty, and outrage dire!
Not to be parallel'd, 'mongst human kind,
Save in the tales of flesh-devouring men,
The one ey'd Cyclops, and fierce Cannibal,
For what we hear of Saracen or Turk,
Mogul, or Tartar of Siberia,
Is far behind the deed of infamy,
And horror mixt, which Britons meditate.
Nature, herself, degenerate from the fall,
In the curs'd earth, can scarcely furnish out,
So much black poison, from the beasts and herbs,
As swells the dark hearts of these Royalists.
The toads foul mouth, the snake's in venom'd bits,
Black spider, asp, or froth or rabid dog,
Is not so deadly as these murderers,
When men far off, in civilized states.
Shall know the perfidy and breach of faith,
The thought remorsless, and dire act of these,
In every language, they shall execrate,
The earth-disgracing name of Englishmen.
And at the Last Day, when the pit receives
Her gloomy brood, and seen among the rest,
Of malice, envy, and soul-griping hate,
Pointing to him, the foul and ugly Ghosts
Of Hell, shall say, “That was an Englishman.”
It may be thought by some grave people, that the speech put into the mouth of Gen. Carlston is inconsistent with his Excellency's character, who is in reality, as they believe, a mild and good natured gentleman.
I honestly confess I have not had the happiness of a very intimate acquaintance with his Excellency, either in England or America, and therefore cannot say, certainly, what be may be in his more sober hours, when the moon and the evil spirit of tyranny ceases to act upon him. In this, however, I am clear, that at least once or twice in his life, he has discovered in his language, some degree of venom and malignity. His speech, in this place, is little more than a love translation of his most famous proclamation, and his answer to the letter of the Congress addressed to him, concerning his treatment of the prisoners in Canada. We can easily remember the good-natured epithets bestowed upon us in those very extraordinary compositions. Rebels, traitors, planairers, murderers, parricides, lawless, faithless, perjured, base, ungrateful, bloody-minded men, were the smooth terms he made use of. The Congress, in his opinion, were a contemptible set of men, with whom no exchange of prisoners was to be made, from whom no flag was to be received. Nay every letter of theirs, or writing of any kind, was to be rejected with disdain, or burned by the hands of the common hangman.
Want of candour is very blameable, even in the account given of an enemy. For this reason I have been sometimes uneasy, least these words put into the mouth of General Carleton, should seem to give a colouring to his character, beyond the real complexion of his Excellency's conduct. But I find my conscience pretty much at cost in this matter, when I give my memory time to recollect the inhumanity of the officers and soldiers under his command to our prisoners, from the moment our affairs began to be on the decline in Canada. While the issue of the siege was yet doubtful, be affected to speak with great moderation, and, as some have told us, buried with the honours of war the corpse of Montgomery. As soon, however, as fortune began to shine folly out upon him, be grew warm in her rays, and like the viper in the summer, drew unusual poison from the more that usual heat, until his spirit in its every thought and purpose became virulent, and like the nature of a Devil, capable of feeding on the misery of mankind. I have conversed with those who saw the scalp; warm from the heads of our countrymen. I have had the relation from their mouth who beheld the fires lighted up, and heard, with a soul paining sympathy, the horrid shrieks and gloomy howlings of the Savage tribes in the execution of the poor captives, who according to the throat of Carleton, were burned on an island in the river St. Lawrence, after our unfortunate surrender at the Cedars.
| The death of General Montgomery, in storming the city of Quebec | |