June 10th, 1776
Today — I can scarce write it for ire — today as we shoveled dirt into barrels, to erect a mortar emplacement, I happened to look down the shore of the island, and there I perceived a body of Negroes engaged at digging an artificial harbor. I believed my senses deceived me — for one was Slant.
We being released for our dinner, I ran to the place where they dug.
Slant, hands red and wet with sores, stood shirtless in the pond, great masses of insects swarming about him.
I fear I swore — I choked back horror — I asked him why he toiled there, when he should rest.
Said he, “Lord Dunmore ordered it.”
“The sick?” said I. “To dig?”
He shrugged and said, “Most of them ain’t sick yet. The . . . inoculated. They’re waiting. To be poorly. They ain’t sick yet. Most of them.” In such meandering repetitions did he speak. The mosquito-flies delighted in the corruption of his flesh. Its smell was overpowering in the heat. He swatted too slowly for insect eye at the swarms around us. His arm was sluggish. He did not complain.
I reeled at these revelations — and let it here be recorded: By Lord Dunmore’s order, that work is undertaken by a force assembled from all those who have smallpox and who can wield a shovel — and by the slaves of Loyalists, which force His Lordship has pledged to leave in bondage — for he promised freedom only to the slaves of rebels.
Slant could not close his mouth. His head twitched nearly to his shoulder with the bites. He stood, socked in grime, without a shirt upon him, in his wet pit.
“Slant,” said I, “feign collapse.”
He looked upon me with confusion, and I demanded again that he fall and wait to be led away as unproductive. “Once I am gone,” said I, “I will protest this in a letter to the Regimental commanders.”
He did not respond but with a nod, signifying no steady purpose nor comprehension. With this, I quit him and returned to my detail, where I made complaint about the circumstances.
I have spent the remainder of the day, when unengaged, in complaint, each officer chiding me and sending me away. Corporal Craigie revealed a humane disgust at the practice, but said I should speak to the Serjeant. As might be expected, Serjeant Clippinger had no interest in the case, and enjoined me to cease my prim bickering. I wrote a letter to Captain Mackay, to which I received no reply. I wrote a letter to Major Byrd, which was returned to me by his aide-de-camp, who regretted that the Major was accepting no letters from that vile, pox-ridden band of Negroes that was not first dipped in vinegar. I have no vinegar. I wrote a letter to Lord Dunmore, which I saw read by its messenger and ripped in eight before my eyes.
I have run from end of the isle to end. When I returned to our fly, evening having fallen, I found Dr. Trefusis applying cold tea to his sunburns.
Unable to contain my anger, I recalled the encounter which had transpired by the officers’ pavilions.
“Lord Dunmore,” said I, “cares not a whit for us, does he?”
Dr. Trefusis regarded me with care, then replied, “I fear generosity toward thy benighted race is not, perhaps, first among —”
“Tell me.”
He admitted, “Not a groat.”
“We cannot look to him for safety.”
“You can, so long as your safety is a strategic necessity.”
“We have hazarded our lives for his cause.”
“I fear, Octavian, you often do not account for self-interest. ’Tis only self-love and self-interest which actuates animals.”
“Which animals?”
“Mammals with titles, par exemple. The wrist-chafer.”
“Do not speak to me of his wrists. He was our hope.”
“A pity,” said Dr. Trefusis. “We do not need a hope, but a hero.”