Melville is an island of more than a mile in circumference, with low,
rocky shores. It lies about three miles from the town of Halifax, but not
in sight. It is connected with the main by a bridge that is thrown across
a narrow passage of something like a quarter of a mile in width. In the
centre of the island is an eminence, which was occupied by the garrison,
and had some artillery. This eminence commanded the whole island. Another
post on the main, also, commanded the prisoners' barracks. These barracks
were ordinary wooden buildings, enclosed on the side of the island with a
strong stone wall, and on the side of the post on the main, by high, open
palisades. Of course, a sufficient guard was maintained.
It was said there were about twelve hundred Americans on the island, when
I passed the gate. Among them were a few French, some of whom were a part
of the crew of the Ville de Milan, the ship that had been taken before I
first left Halifax; or more than eight years previously to this time. This
did, indeed, look like the place's being a home to a poor fellow, and I
did not relish the circumstance at all. Among our people were soldiers,
sailors, and 'long-shore-men'. There was no difference in the treatment,
which, for a prison, was good. We got only "six upon four" from the
English, of course; but our own country made up the difference here, as on
board the Centurion.
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