soldiers, as part of the entrenchments, during Washington's occupation
of Manhattan in the spring of 1776. Little did these young men think
that they were, in some cases, literally digging a grave for
themselves.

More than a hundred and thirty years have passed since the victims of
Cunningham's cruelty and rapacity were starved to death in churches
consecrated to the praise and worship of a God of love. It is a tardy
recognition that we are giving them, and one that is most imperfect,
yet it is all that we can now do. The ditches where they were interred
have long ago been filled up, built over, and intersected by
streets. Who of the multitude that daily pass to and fro over the
ground that should be sacred ever give a thought to the remains of the
brave men beneath their feet, who perished that they might enjoy the
blessings of liberty?

Republics are ungrateful; they have short memories; but it is due to
the martyrs of the Revolution that some attempt should be made to tell
to the generations that succeed them who they were, what they did, and
why they suffered so terribly and died so grimly, without weakening,
and without betraying the cause of that country which was dearer to
them than their lives.

We have, for the most part, limited ourselves to the prisons and
prison ships in the city and on the waters of New York. This is
because such information as we have been able to obtain concerning the
treatment of American prisoners by the British relates, almost
entirely, to that locality.

It is a terrible story that we are about to narrate, and we warn the