February 6th, 1776
At four this morning, all at once, at a signal, the rebels — stationed in yards and by windmills, in tanneries and shops across the ruined town of Norfolk — in one moment — set fire to all of the buildings remaining in the district and fled.
There were alarums. We were awakened and scrambled to the ladders. We were not admitted to the upper decks. Across the river, the bugles cried up warning.
We clamored for news and were scolded; heard firing from shore; smelled smoke.
After fifteen minutes, those of us who do not suffer the sickness were admitted up on the quarterdeck with our muskets. We saw the flames; and what gnawed most at our vitals was the message delivered us by that captured rebel: that all of this desolation, this looting and despoiling — all shall be blamed upon Lord Dunmore and us his troops.
It shall not stand as a record of the rebels’ inhumanity; it shall not raise indignation in the breast of the righteous; none shall commend us for our efforts; but instead, it shall be noised abroad that these crimes were ours; and we shall be reviled for what our enemies have done.
Nothing is gained.
So we watched that final conflagration on this cold morn. Firing began from the shore, and we were once again ordered below.
I have not seen the sun today. I am not on watch, nor is there any duty which should take me above.
They tell me that the rebels stream out of their encampments by the ruins. They abandon the site forever and leave that useless bauble to their foe.
We are left, our fleet, the last vestige of royal power in this benighted Colony, guarding a town that is ash entire, under siege from none, delectable to none, strategic for none; and we sit at anchor, uncertain.
I can scarcely breathe for anger.