American Prisoners of the Revolution — A Reader’s Guide
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This digital edition of American Prisoners of the Revolution — A Reader’s Guide is described by source-level measurements including 143,284 words, 10 hr 23 min estimated reading time, and 19 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 25.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Prisoners and prisons,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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Cunningham’s quarters were in the Provost Prison, and on the right hand of the main door of entry. On the left of the hall was the guard room. Within the first barricade was the apartment of his assistant, Sergeant O’Keefe. Two sentinels guarded the entrance day and night; two more were stationed at the first and second barricades, which were grated, barred, and chained.
“When a prisoner was led into the hall the whole guard was paraded, and he was delivered over to Captain Cunningham or his deputy, and questioned as to his name, age, size, rank, etc., all of which was entered in a record book. These records appear to have been discreetly destroyed by the British authorities.
“At the bristling of arms, unbolting of locks and bars, clanking of enormous iron chains in a vestibule dark as Erebus, the unfortunate captive might well sink under this infernal sight and parade of tyrannical power, as he crossed the threshold of that door which probably closed on him for life.
“The north east chamber, turning to the left on the second floor, was appropriated to officers of superior rank, and was called Congress Hall. * * * In the day time the packs and blankets used by the prisoners to cover them were suspended around the walls, and every precaution was taken to keep the rooms clean and well ventilated.
“In this gloomy abode were incarcerated at different periods many American officers and citizens of distinction, awaiting with sickening hope the protracted period of their liberation. Could these dumb walls speak what scenes of anguish might they not disclose!
“Cunningham and his deputy were enabled to fare sumptuously by dint of curtailing the prisoners’ rations, selling good for bad provisions, etc., in order to provide for the drunken orgies that usually terminated his dinners. Cunningham would order the rebel prisoners to turn out and parade for the amusement of his guests, pointing them out with such characterizations as ‘This is the d----d rebel, Ethan Allen. This is a rebel judge, etc.’”
Cunningham destroyed Nathan Hale’s last letters containing messages to his loved ones, in order, as he said, that “the rebels should not know that they had a man in their army who could die with such firmness.”
From Elias Boudinot’s “Journal of Events” during the Revolution we extract the following account of his interview with Cunningham in New York. “In the spring of 1777 General Washington wrote me a letter requesting me to accept of a Commission as Commissary General of Prisoners in the Army of America. I waited on him and politely declined the task, urging the wants of the Prisoners and having nothing to supply them.”
Washington, however, urged him not to refuse, saying that if no one in whom he could trust would accept the office, the lot of the prisoners would be doubly hard. At last Boudinot consented to fill the position as best he could, and Washington declared that he should be supplied with funds by the Secret Committee of Congress. “I own,” he says, “that after I had entered on my department, the applications of the Prisoners were so numerous, and their distress so urgent, that I exerted every nerve to obtain supplies, but in vain--Excepting £600 I had received from the Secret Committee in Bills of exchange, at my first entrance into the Office--I could not by any means get a farthing more, except in Continental Money, which was of no avail in New York. I applied to the General describing my delicate Situation and the continual application of the Officers, painting their extreme distress and urging the assurance they had received that on my appointment I was to be furnished with adequate means for their full relief. The General appeared greatly distressed and assured me that it was out of his power to afford me any supplies. I proposed draining Clothing from the public stores, but to this he objected as not having anything like a sufficient supply for the Army. He urged my considering and adopting the best means in my power to satisfy the necessities of the Prisoners, and he would confirm them. I told him I knew of no means in my Power but to take what Monies I had of my own, and to borrow from my friends in New York, to accomplish the desirable purpose. He greatly encouraged me to the attempt, promising me that if I finally met with any loss, he would divide it with me. On this I began to afford them some supplies of Provisions over and above what the Enemy afforded them, which was very small and very indifferent.
Danske Dandridge's American Prisoners of the Revolution opens with a preface that establishes the book as a compilation, not an original narrative. The author states she has gathered widely scattered facts, abridging records from sources like Captain Dring's account. This editorial approach creates a distinctive dual voice: Dandridge's own measured prose frames the raw, often visceral testimony of the prisoners themselves. The excerpts reveal a work that oscillates between historical summary and immersive, first-person detail, as when a prisoner describes being "chilled almost to death" and lying "upon each other by turns" to preserve warmth. The book's structure—chapter titles like "A Boy in Prison" and "The Old Sugar House"—signals a focus on specific sites and individuals rather than a sweeping military history.
Voice and Editorial Framing
Dandridge's preface makes her method explicit: she has "abridged these records" and reprinted scarce narratives because they would "only, thereby, have lost in strength" if paraphrased. This decision shapes the book's voice. The compiler's own language is restrained and scholarly—she thanks librarians and notes months of research—but the included testimonies are anything but restrained. A prisoner's account of a failed escape, for instance, shifts abruptly into present-tense urgency: "we burst open the door, rushed out pellmell, and making a brisk use of our fists, knocked the guard heels over head." The juxtaposition of Dandridge's calm editorial tone with the prisoners' desperate, bodily language creates a jarring effect that underscores the gap between historical record and lived suffering. The reader is constantly reminded that these are mediated documents, yet the mediation does not dilute their force.
Pace and Narrative Rhythm
The excerpts show a marked variation in pace. Dandridge's own chapters move at a deliberate, cataloguing speed—listing names, prisons, and sources. But within the quoted narratives, the rhythm changes dramatically. The escape attempt described above accelerates into a staccato sequence of actions: "burst open," "rushed out," "knocked," "running." Then, just as suddenly, the pace slows to a frozen tableau: "With disappointed expectations we passed a dreary night. A cold fog, followed by rain, came on." This alternation between frantic action and static misery is a structural feature of the prisoners' accounts. The butter-firkin episode offers a different kind of pacing—a slow, almost comic buildup as prisoners "contrived to secrete a firkin" and later use the grease to "fill up the pores in our mouldy bread." These shifts in tempo prevent the narrative from becoming monotonous, even as the subject matter remains relentlessly grim.
Recurring Details and Sensory Language
Certain details recur across the excerpts, creating a sensory texture that anchors the reader in the prisoners' physical experience. Cold and wet are constants: prisoners are "exposed, without any blankets" to rain and fog, and they must "lie upon each other by turns" to generate warmth. Hunger is described with precise, almost technical specificity—"our miserable allowance reduced one third in quantity for a month"—and the butter that helps "fill up the pores in our mouldy bread" becomes a luxury. Violence is sudden and intimate: a soldier "thrust his bayonet into his body, just above his hip," and the scar from a cutlass wound "remains to this day." These details are never abstract; they are tied to specific bodies and moments. The prisoners' language is concrete, avoiding generalization. Even the act of hiding a firkin of butter is rendered as a physical sequence: "rolling it forward under the forecastle, and afterwards carrying it below in their bedding." This insistence on the tangible makes the suffering immediate and hard to dismiss.
Readers approaching American Prisoners of the Revolution should attend to the tension between Dandridge's editorial voice and the voices she includes. The book is not a seamless narrative but a collage of testimonies, each with its own rhythm and focus. Pay attention to the dates and sources Dandridge provides; they are clues to the reliability and perspective of each account. The excerpts suggest that the most powerful passages are those where the prisoners' own words break through the compiler's framing, offering unvarnished details of survival. This is a work best read slowly, with an ear for the shifts in tone and pace that mark the difference between historical summary and lived memory.
Sometimes the hardest histories aren’t told loudly but through quiet endurance, like those prison-ship voices Dandridge preserves. That same solemn patience lingers in The life of the emperor Francis Joseph — Story, Setting & Ideas, where one man’s duty becomes its own kind of captivity. Both books left me sitting still, thinking about how people survive the weight of their own times.
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