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 manoeuvre 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.]

Chaplain. [Sings.]

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.]

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.

[Exeunt.