June 1st, 1776
Last days spent in building fortifications.
The rebels, so close it seems one could shy pebbles and strike, build their own fortifications across the channel. Their redoubt is upon the slope of a hillside, and thus commands a view some ten or fifteen feet higher than ours; and yet no objection is made to our labor, which is constantly transacted beneath their view.
Beneath their gaze, upon the point closest to them, we have raised up a breastwork and a stockade, which fort we call Fort Hamond. Beneath their gaze, we have dug a trench to divide our peninsula from the island, that our encampment may be more agreeably defended. Beneath their gaze, we have cut low forest groves and hauled logs. We have raised up gun emplacements. Beneath their sardonic gaze, at the extreme eastern end of the isle, we build a lazaretto which shall receive those afflicted with the smallpox and the flux, which unfortunates have been confined this week aboard the Adonis hospital brig. We fear the enemy shall come to know how many of our number are riddled with disease.
Our forces being so sickly, the Marines have been landed again and prevailed upon to assist with guard details.
We are all suffering from our labors. There is no jesting or speech among us. Bono and I labor together, but sit silent at meals. Slant hath an hard, angry look in his eye, which I can little credit when I then see him, returning from our drills, stop to feed the sheep by tearing up grass with his hand, whispering to them with nary a stutter, I’ll be bound.
All of our drills and our fatigue duties are transacted under the insolent glare of rebel pickets. I cannot abide their scrutiny. At every moment they stand silently observing us, I am sensible of their scorn for our Africk number, as if we merely play in mud like children while they do the work of men to contain us upon this island and wait to taunt us with ruin of our sand-pile. I wish to prove to them that we have not flown here, so much as settled upon a firm place, from which we shall sally forth. From such an isle, we may storm the land.
I must confess to weariness. How many ditches, in this one year, have I dug? How many revetments and scarps have I raised? And none seem to hold off these devils who wish to belabor us with their tethers and paddles and speeches on the rights of man.