# The Part Taken by Women in American History/Women of the Revolution

THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.
Women of the Revolution.
ESTHER REED.
Esther De Bredt was born in the city of London, on the 22nd of October, 1746, and died on the 18th of September, 1780, in the city of Philadelphia. Her thirty-four years of life were adorned by no adventurous heroism, but her self-sacrifice, her brave endurance, and her practical aid during the short years she was permitted to dedicate to the young country in the throes of a great and devastating war, earned for her a place among the women who have helped to form the nation.
Her father, Dennis De Bredt, was a British merchant, and his house, owing to his large business relations with the Colonies, was the home of many young Americans who at that time were attracted by pleasure or business interests to the imperial metropolis. Among these visitors, in or about the year 1763, was Joseph Reed, of New Jersey, who had come to London to finish his professional studies among British barristers (such being the fashion of the times). There the young English girl met the American stranger, and the intimacy, thus accidentally begun, soon produced its natural fruits. The young couple came to America in November, 1770, and from the first, as in all the years of turmoil that came with the war, the English girl, who had been reared in luxury, threw her heart and her fortunes into the conflict in which her husband's country was involved. Under her urging, her husband joined Washington's army, and, inexperienced as he was, he earned military fame of no slight eminence. Washington peculiarly honored him, and the correspondence between Mrs. Reed and ​ the Commander-in-Chief on the subject of the mode of administering to the poor soldiers has been published and is of the greatest interest as showing how the influence of woman was felt even in those times when she is popularly supposed to have been considered "an afterthought and a side issue." Her letters are marked by business-like intelligence and sound feminine common sense, on subjects of which, as a secluded woman, she could have had personally no previous knowledge, and Washington, as has been truly observed, "writes as judiciously on the humble topic of soldiers' shirts, as on the plan of a campaign or the subsistence of an army."
La Fayette refers to Mrs. Reed's efforts in behalf of the suffering soldiers as those of "the best patriot, the most zealous and active, and the most attached to the interests of her country."
All this time, it must be remembered, it was a feeble, delicate woman who was writing and laboring; her husband away from her with the army and her family cares and anxieties daily multiplying. As late as August, 1780, she wrote from her country place on the banks of the Schuylkill, where she had been forced to retreat with her three babies: "I am most anxious to get to town, because here I can do little for the soldiers." But the body and the heroic spirit were alike overtasked, and in the early part of the next month an alarming disease developed itself, and soon ran its fatal course. Esther Reed died as much a martyr to the cause of her country's liberty as any of General Washington's soldiers who met death on the battlefield.
ELIZA LUCAS.
To have been a genuine "New Woman" in the New World, and a society woman in the highest circles of the Old World, is the somewhat unique distinction of Eliza Lucas, afterwards ​ the wife of Chief Justice Charles Pinckney. She was born on the West Indian Island of Antigua, in 1723, but most of her childhood was passed in England, where she was sent with her two little brothers to be educated. She had barely returned to the Island of Antigua, where her father, Lieutenant Colonel George Lucas, an officer in the English army was stationed, when it became necessary for them to go in search of a climate that would suit her mother's delicate health. Eliza was a girl of sixteen when they finally settled upon South Carolina as a place of residence. The balmy climate of Carolina formed a welcome contrast to the languishing tropical heat they had endured, and Colonel Lucas started extensive plantations in Saint Andrew's parish near Ashley River, about seventeen miles from Charleston.
​ From the time of her coming to Carolina, Eliza Lucas' letters tell the story of her life, and they portray a fullness and usefulness and activity remarkable in so young a girl; they also show a charming, unaffected personality, and are, moreover, a splendid reflection of the living, working and social conditions of the times. In the midst of the busy life she found time to cultivate her artistic tastes. She tells us that she devoted a certain time every day to the study of music, and we find her writing to ask her father's permission to send to England for "cantatas, Weldon's Anthems, and Knollyss' Rules for Tuning." Her fondness for literature, it seems, quite scandalized one old gentlewoman in the neighborhood, who took such a dislike to her books that, "She had liked to have thrown my Plutarch's Lives into the fire. She is sadly afraid," writes the amazed young lady, "that I might read myself mad." All through her letters we catch glimpses of grain fields, pleasant groves of oak and laurel, meadows mingling with young myrtle and yellow jasmine, while to the sweet melodies of the birds she listened and learned to identify each.
There is another sort of music quite different from that of the birds, mentioned now and then in her letters. It is the humming of the fiddles floating down to her through the maze of years in the solemn measures of the minuet, the gay strains of the reel and the merry country dances; for this industrious young daughter of the Colonial days could be frivolous when occasion demanded it and she could trip the dance as charmingly as any city belle. Her letters give vivid pictures of society in Charleston and the festivities at the country seats near her home.
When Miss Lucas went to a party she traveled in a post-chaise which her mother had imported from England, and her escort rode beside her on a "small, spirited horse of the Chickasaw breed." If she went by water she was carried down the ​ dark Ashley River a la Elaine in a canoe hollowed from a great cypress and manned by six or eight negroes, all singing in time to the swing of their silent paddles. It appears there was always good cheer awaiting the guest at the memorable houses along the Ashley River. After the feast, the men lingered over their wine and the women gossiped in the drawing-room until the riddles began to play. Then the men left their cups, and with laughter, bows and elaborate compliments invited their partners to the dance. Such were the good social times in which Eliza Lucas took part. But, although she enjoyed them and entered into them with spirit, she did not dwell much upon them; she was engaged with more serious matters. She was also very much worried by the dangers of the West Indian campaign, in which her father was engaged, and longed for the war to end. "I wish all the men were as great cowards as myself," she wrote, "it would then make them more peaceably inclined."
Among all the friends she made in the Colony, there was one to whom she could turn for earnest talk, good counsel and fatherly advice. This was Colonel Charles Pinckney. He and Mrs. Pinckney had done much to help the young girl in her early struggle to establish plantations, and at Mrs. Pinckney's death we find Eliza Lucas writing sadly of her personal loss in the event. The story is told that Mrs. Pinckney had once said that rather than have her favorite young friend Eliza Lucas lost to Carolina, she would herself be willing to step down and let her take her place. She probably never imagined that fate would take her so thoroughly at her word. But so it happened. Some time after her death John Lucas sent his son George to Carolina, to bring Mrs. Lucas and the girls back to Antigua to meet him. But Eliza was not destined to make that voyage, and it was her old friend Colonel Pinckney who prevented her departure. He was then speaker of the House of the Colonial Assembly, a distinguished lawyer and wealthy planter, and a ​ man of "charming temper, gay and courteous manners, well looking, well educated and of high religious principles," and when this gentleman offered himself to Miss Lucas the joys of a single life seemed to lose their charm for her, and she smilingly agreed to become Mrs. Pinckney the second. Accordingly on a warm, sunshiny day in May, of the year 1744, she was married to Mr. Pinckney, "with the approbation of all my friends," as she proudly declared.
The new life brought new responsibilities, for Colonel Pinckney, or Chief Justice Pinckney, as he came to be, occupied a high position in the Colony, and his wife's social duties were not slight. On many nights the Pinckney mansion was brilliantly lighted, and the halls and drawing-rooms crowded with gentlemen in satin coats and knee-breeches, and ladies in rustling brocaded growns. But there were other times when the house was quiet except for the patter of children's feet upon the stairways, and the echo of children's voices through the halls. There were three children — two boys and their pretty sister, Harriott, who resembled her mother, it is said, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a touch of her mother's spirit and energy.
Then there came a day when Mrs. Pinckney no longer gave her parties to the people of Carolina, for one March morning, in the year 1753, Chief Justice Pinckney, the new Commissioner of the Colony, and his family sailed away and arrived in England with the springtime. Five years the Pinckneys remained in England, living sometimes in London, sometimes in Richmond, sometimes in Surrey, the Garden County of England, with sometimes an occasional season at Bath. The Pinckneys certainly found favor everywhere; even Royalty opened its doors to them, and they were entertained by the widowed Princess of Wales and her nine little princes and princesses. Among them was the future George III, who, of course, could not know ​ that his guests would some day be rebels against his sovereignty. But pleasant days in England had to end, and when the war between France and England was renewed, and the English colonies in America became endangered, Justice Pinckney instantly decided to return to Carolina to settle his affairs there. The two boys were left at school in England, and it was a sad good-bye for the mother parting from her sons. Fortunately, she could not know that when she next saw her little boys she would be a widow and they would be grown men.
Her widowhood began soon after her arrival in Carolina. Then there were long sorrowful days when she was, as she expressed it, "Seized with the lethargy of stupidity." But her business ability and her love for her children brought her back to an interesting life, and in time she was able to look after her plantation affairs with the same splendid efficiency of her earlier "New Woman" days. Mrs. Pinckney's last days were clouded with shadows of war. There had always been more or less of war in her life. First in her girlhood it was the Spanish War, which threatened her own home and filled her heart with anxiety for her father ; then in later years occurred the terrible Indian raids in which many a brave Carolina soldier lost his life, and finally in her old age, came the American Revolution.
Mrs. Pinckney's position at the beginning of the Revolution was a hard one, for she was, like her own state of Carolina, part rebel and part Tory. Among the English people she numbered many of her dearest friends, and she remembered her fair-haired English mother and her father in his English regimentals, while her heart turned loyally to England and the King. But her boys, in spite of fourteen years in England were, as their father had been, thorough rebels. Even as a boy at school Tom Pinckney had won the name of "Little Rebel," and in one of Charles Cotesworth Pinckney's earliest portraits he ​ is presented as declaiming against the Stamp Act. When the test came their mother's sympathy went with the cause for which her boys were fighting, naturally making their country her country. And she never regretted her choice. She was rewarded for her brave life by living to see America free and at peace, and her sons most highly respected citizens. And so her old age was happy — happier indeed she declared than her youth had been, for she writes, "I regret no pleasures that I can enjoy, and I enjoy some that I could not have had at an earlier season. I now see my children grown up and, blessed be God, I see them such as I hoped." What is there in youthful enjoyment preferable to this?
CATHERINE GREENE.
Catherine Littlefield, the eldest daughter of John Littlefield and Phebe Ray, was born in New Shoreham, on Block Island, in 1753. When very young she came with her sister to reside in the family of Governor Greene, of Warwick, a lineal descendant of the family, whose wife was her aunt. It was here that Miss Littlefield's very happy girlhood was passed; and it was here also that she first knew Nathaniel Greene. Their marriage took place July 20, 1774, and the. young couple removed to Coventry. Looking at that bright, volatile, coquettish girl of this time, no one could dream of her future destiny as a soldier's wife and comrade; nor that the broad-brimmed hat of her young husband covered brows that should one day be wreathed with the living laurels won by genius and patriotism.
But when Nathaniel Greene's decision was made, and he stood forth a determined patriot, separating himself from the community in which he had been born and reared, by embracing a military profession, his spirited wife did her part with ​ enthusiasm to aid and encourage him in his ambition and efforts for the success of the patriots. When the army before Boston was inoculated with smallpox, she voluntarily gave up her beautiful house for a hospital.
When the army went into winter quarters, she always set out to rejoin her husband, sharing cheerfully the narrow quarters and hard fare of a camp, bearing heroically her part in the privations of the dreary winter at Valley Forge, in that "darkest hour of the Revolution." It appears that there, as at home, her gay spirit shed light around her even in such scenes, softening and enlivening the gloom which might have weighed many a bold heart into despondency. There are extant some interesting little notes of Kosciuszko, in very imperfect English, which show her kindness to her husband's friends, and the pleasure she took in alleviating their sufferings.
Mrs. Greene joined her husband in the South after the close of the active campaign of 1781, and remained with him till the end of the war, residing on the islands during the heat of summer, and the rest of the time at headquarters. In the spring of 1783, she returned North, where she resided till the General completed his arrangements for removing to the South. They then established themselves at Mulberry Cove, on a plantation presented to General Greene by the state of Georgia. Mrs. Greene's first impression of southern life and manners are painted in lively colors in her letters to northern friends. The following passage is from one to Miss Flagg:
"If you expect to be an inhabitant of this country, you must not think to sit down with your netting pins; but on the contrary, employ half your time at the toilet, one quarter to paying and receiving visits, the other quarter to scolding servants, with a hard thump every now and then over the head, or singing, dancing, reading, writing or saying your prayers."
After the death of General Greene, she removed with her ​ family of four children to some lands she owned on Cumberland Island, and while occasionally visiting the North in the summer, she continued to look upon the South as her home.
A letter from her about this time gives the incident of Colonel Aaron Burr's requesting permission to stop at her house when he came South after his duel with General Hamilton. She would not refuse the demand upon her hospitality, but his victim had been her friend and she could not receive as a guest one whose hands were crimsoned with Hamilton's blood. She gave Burr permission to remain, but at the same time ordered her carriage and quitted the house; returning as soon as he had taken his departure. This incident is strongly illustrative of her impulsive and generous character.
Her discipline was remarkably strict and none of her children ever thought of disobeying her. Yet, she would sometimes join with child-like merriment in their sports. A friend has related how one day, after the close of the war, passing General Greene's house in Newport, she saw the General and his wife playing "puss in the corner" with the children.
It was while she lived at Mulberry Cove that she became instrumental in introducing to the world an invention which has covered with wealth the fields of the South.
Late in 1792, her sympathies were enlisted in behalf of a young man, a native of Massachusetts, who having come to Georgia to take the place of a private teacher in a gentleman's family, had been disappointed in obtaining the situation and found himself without friends or resources in a strange land. Mrs. Greene and her family treated him with great kindness. He was invited to make his home in her house while he pursued the study of law, to which he had determined to devote himself. At one time a party of gentlemen on a visit to the family spoke of the want of an effective machine for separating the cotton from the seed, without which it was mournfully agreed there ​ could be no more profitable cultivation of this special product of the Southland. Mrs. Greene spoke of the mechanical genius of her young protege—who was, of course, Eli Whitney—introduced him to the company and showed little specimens of his skill in tambour frames and articles for the children. The result of this introduction to interested men was the equipment of a basement room, into which no one else was admitted, and which was appropriated for the young student's workshop. There he labored day after day, making the necessary tools and persevering with unwearied industry for the perfection of his invention. By spring the cotton gin was completed and exhibited to the wonder and delight of planters invited from different parts of Georgia to witness its successful operation.
Mr. Phineas Miller entered into an agreement with Whitney to bear the expense of maturing the invention and to divide the future profits. He was a man of remarkably active and cultivated mind. Mrs. Greene married him some time after the death of General Greene. She survived him several years, dying just before the close of the second war with England. Her remains rest in the family burial ground at Cumberland Island, where but a few years afterwards the body of one of her husband's best officers and warmest friends—the gallant Lee—was also brought to molder by her side.
CATHARINE SCHUYLER.
Catharine Schuyler was the only daughter of John Van Rensselaer, called the Patroon of Greenbush, a patriot in the Revolutionary struggle, and noted for his hospitality and for his kindness and forbearance towards the tenants of his vast estates during the war. Many families in poverty remember with gratitude the aid received from the daughter of this household. After her marriage to Philip Schuyler, General Schuyler ​ of Revolutionary War renown, she came to preside over the Schuyler mansion in Albany as well as his beautiful country seat near Saratoga, and by her graceful courtesy did much to soften the miseries of the war. Nor was she wanting in resolution and courage; she proved equal to every great emergency. When the Continental army was retreating from Fort Edward before Burgoyne, Mrs. Schuyler herself went in her chariot from Albany to Saratoga to see to the removal of her household goods and gods. While there she received directions from the General to set fire with her own hands to his extensive fields of wheat rather than suffer them to be reaped by the enemy. The injunction shows the soldier's confidence in her spirit, firmness and patriotism, and, as she literally obeyed his commands, proved that "the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her."
This elegant country-seat was immediately after (lestroyed by General Burgoyne, and it is related how, after the surrender of Burgoyne, General Schuyler being detained at Saratoga, where he had seen the ruins of his beautiful villa, wrote thence to his wife to make every preparation for giving the best reception to the conquered General. It was certainly one of the most picturesque incidents of the war, that the captive British general, with his suite, should be received and entertained by those whose property he had wantonly laid waste. A writer has said in this connection, "All her actions proved that at sight of the misfortune of others, she quickly forgot her own." This delicacy and generosity drew from Burgoyne the observation to General Schuyler, "You are too kind to me, who have done so much to injure you." The reply was characteristic of the noble-hearted host: "Such is the fate of war; let us not dwell on the subject."
Many of the women of this illustrious family appear to have been remarkable for strong intellect and clear judgment, ​ but none lived more brightly in the memories of all those who knew her than the wife of General Philip Schuyler.
Catherine Schuyler died in 1803.
Such instances were exemplified after the Civil War in innumerable instances; conquered vied with the conquerors in magnanimity toward each other.
ELIZABETH SCHUYLER.
In the family Bible of young Philip Schuyler, when a captain under General Bradstreet, the Quartermaster of the English army, appears this entry: "Elizabeth, born August 9, 1757. Do according to Thy will with her." Thus entered into the world Elizabeth Schuyler, afterwards the wife of Alexander Hamilton.
When she was only two months old the frightful massacre of the German Flats occurred and the refugees fled to Albany. In the big barn on the Schuyler estate they found shelter and the little Schuyler babies, Elizabeth and Angelica, had to be set aside while their young mother, Catharine Schuyler, with the other women of the house, helped administer to the needs of the poor destitute people. At this time, too, the town of Albany was filled with rapacious army troops. A detachment of redcoats, under General Charles Lee, lay in the "Indian Field" adjoining the ground of the Schuyler mansion, and they did not hesitate to lay hands on whatever suited their purpose. Abercrombie, Lee, and kindly, courteous Lord Howe, were all visitors there during this period.
Later, when the defeat of Ticonderoga came, the Schuyler barn again opened its hospitable doors. This time it was converted into a hospital and the wounded British and provincial soldiers lay beneath the rafters, fed by the negro slaves and nursed by the women of the Schuyler homestead. So, in the ​ midst of war scenes, Elizabeth Schuyler passed her early childhood. As the daughter of so worthy and distinguished a man as General Schuyler, she received an education superior to that of most Colonial girls, she with her sisters being sent to New York to school. Afterwards returning to the Schuyler house at Albany, on a memorable afternoon, in October, 1777, she met young Alexander Hamilton, the brilliant aid-de-camp on her father's staff. The friendship so formed between "Betsy" Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton during his short stay in Albany was not destined to end there, although it was a period of almost two years before they met again.
When news of the battle of Lexington came "Betsy" was at Saratoga with the rest of the family. War had begun and in the days that followed she lived in the midst of army talk and army doings, for generals, officers and aids-de-camp were coming and going continually at the Schuyler mansion. But later on, John Schuyler was appointed to Congress and went to live at Philadelphia with his family. The headquarters of the army during the campaign of 1779-80, were at Morristown, some fifty miles from the Schuyler's Philadelphia home, and to Morristown Betsy Schuyler very shortly journeyed to visit her aunt. Headquarters were gay at that time, Washington's household being composed of a brilliant company. Washington and his wife sat opposite each other in the center of the board, and on both sides of them almost continually, were ranged many distinguished visitors. Impetuous young Aaron Burr was of the party, the elegant Baron Steuben and the splendid Duke Lauzun. In this illustrious group of men Alexander Hamilton shone as the bright particular star, and naturally the one of whom Betsy Schuyler saw the most during her visit to Morristown was Alexander Hamilton. As it happened, her stay at Morristown was happily prolonged, her father being invited by the commander-in-chief to come to headquarters as his ​ military adviser. The Schuyler family were soon established at Morristown, and their home became one of the centers of social life, and Hamilton spent most of his evenings there.
On December 14, 1780, Elizabeth Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton were married in the ample and handsome drawing-room of the Schuyler mansion at Albany, where three years before, if reports be true, they had met and loved. Elizabeth Schuyler's story of Colonial days ends with her marriage. The merry, light-hearted Betsy Schuyler became Mrs. Alexander Hamilton, one of the most prominent leaders of official society. She was eminently fitted for her high position. In her father's home she had been accustomed to entertaining great people of the day, and from her mother she had learned the ways of a large and ever-ready hospitality, while her natural grace and ability assured her own success. We may judge how great a lady Betsy Schuyler had become when we read that at the Inaugural Ball the President distinguished Mrs. Hamilton, and one other woman, by dancing with them. She and her husband were included constantly in Washington's dinner and theatre parties.
The Hamiltons were not rich. "I have seen," writes Talleyrand, "one of the marvels of the world. I have seen the man who made the fortune of a Nation laboring all night to support his family." Hamilton, however, was not merely the most brilliant statesman of his day, and his wife was not only a charming society woman. There are glimpses of a beautiful home life set apart from official duties and social obligations. Hamilton's reason for resigning his seat in the Cabinet has become historic. In it we see a proof of his love for his wife and children. In this life of "domestic happiness," for which Hamilton resigned his career as a statesman, Elizabeth Hamilton was a bright and cheerful influence. She entered warmly into her husband's plans and sympathies and heartily into the ​ interests of her children. The sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart which, in her girlhood, had so endeared her to her friends made her relations as wife and mother very beautiful.
The peace and gladness of the Hamilton home were cruelly ended on that fatal July morning, in 1804, when Hamilton lost his life. At his untimely death all America mourned and the terrible sorrow of his family cannot be described. His wife, the "dear Betsy" of his boyhood, survived her husband for fifty, long, lonesome years. When she died, at ninety-seven, a pleasant, sweet-faced old lady, praised for her sunny nature and her quiet humor, a pocketbook was found in her possession. Within it lay a yellow, time-worn letter. It was written on the morning of the duel, and was Hamilton's farewell to his "Beloved Wife."
MARY BUCKMAN BROWN.
The wife of Francis Brown is one of the unsung heroines of the Revolutionary War. She was born in 1740, and died in Lexington in 1824. The only biography of her merely states that she was "small in stature, quiet and retiring, of great refinement and of considerable culture." But the descendants of Mr. and Mrs. Francis Brown are many and they have always been prominent or representative citizens in that part of New England. Her husband traced his descent back to earliest Colonial ancestry in the persons of "John Brown and Dorothy his wife," who came to the New World in 1630. The knowledge of the Lexington Minute Men is such as to show that Francis Brown was a man of great decision of character, and well fitted by nature and training to meet the impending crises of that time. In letters treasured by his descendants we find the highest tribute to the true courage of his wife, and of her heroic conduct, when during the war her house was attacked, and after a hasty concealment of her household treasures, she was obliged to retreat to the woods and care for her children there for several days.
SARAH HULL.
Sarah Hull, the wife of Major William Hull, was one of those women who followed their husbands in the response to the Revolutionary call to arms and partook of their dangers and privations. She was the daughter of Judge Fuller of Newton, Massachusetts, and was born about 1755.
While with the army at Saratoga, she joined the other American women ​ there in kind and soothing attentions to the wives and families of the British officers who were held prisoners, after Burgoyne's surrender. For several years after the close of the war General Hull held the office of Governor of Michigan Territory, and in her eminent station, Mrs. Hull displayed so much good sense with more brilliant accomplishments, that she improved the state of society in this neighborhood, which was at that time a pioneer tract, without provoking envy by her superiority. Those who visited the then wild country about them found a generous welcome at her hospitable mansion, and departed with admiring recollections of her and her daughters.
But it was in the cloud of misfortune that the energy of Mrs. Hull's character was most clearly shown. Governor Hull having been appointed Major-General in the war of 1812, met with disasters which compelled his surrender and subjected him to suspicion of treason. His protracted trial and his defense belong to history. His wife sustained these evils with patient, trustful serenity, believing that the day would come when all doubts would be cleared away, and her husband restored to public confidence. The loss of her son in battle was also borne with the same Christian fortitude, her quiet demeanor and placid face betraying no trace of the suffering that had wrung her heart. Happily she lived to see her hopes realized in the General's complete vindication, and died in 1826, in less than a year after his decease.
SUSAN LIVINGSTON.
Susan, the eldest daughter of William Livingston, Governor of New Jersey at the time of the Revolution, is accredited with two strategic moves against the enemy, which were distinctly clever and which could have been effected only by a woman.
On the 28th of February, 1779, a party of British troops from New York landed at Elizabethtown Point for the purpose of capturing the Governor of New Jersey and annihilating the force stationed in that village. One detachment marched at night to "Liberty Hall," the executive mansion, and forced an entrance. Governor Livingston, however, happened to have left home some hours previously, hence they were disappointed in not securing their prisoner. The British officer demanded the Governor's papers. Miss Livingston, the embodiment of modest and charming young womanhood, readily assented to the demand, but, appealing to him as a gentleman, requested ​ that a box standing in the parlor which she claimed contained her private belongings, should be unmolested. The gallant young British officer, flattered by her appeal, stationed a guard over it, while the library was given over to the soldiers for sacking. They forthwith filled their foraging bags with worthless papers and departed, little suspecting that the box which had been so sedulously guarded contained all the Governor's correspondence with Congress, with the commander-in-chief and the state officers, and that the strategy of Susan Livingston had thus preserved what would have proved a most valuable prize to the plunderers.
Again, when New Jersey was once more invaded by the British, and all the neighboring villages were seen in flames, the Governor's house, the historic "Liberty Hall" in Elizabethtown, was left untouched, and its inmates, the women of the family, the Governor being absent, were treated with the greatest courtesy. The explanation lies in the romantic fact that just as the soldiers were advancing upon the house, one of the British officers received a rose from Miss Susan Livingston as a memento of a promise of protection he had made the fascinating young woman at the time when hostilities merely hung fire.
It was a younger sister of Miss Livingston who figures in the national tapestry as the recipient of the favor of General Washington, as expressed in the following very human note written amid the hardships of that most desolate of all American camps in the Revolution.
"General Washington having been informed lately of the honor done him by Miss Kitty Livingston in wishing for a lock of his hair, takes the liberty of inclosing one, accompanied by his most respectful compliments.
"Camp Valley Forge, March 18th, 1778."
All the letters of Governor Livingston to his daughters ​ show the sympathy that existed between them, and his confidence in the strength of their Republican principles. His opinions and wishes on all subjects are openly expressed to them, showing how thoroughly women of this period of struggle and stress were taken into partnership, not only, as was necessary, in the dangers, but in sharing the ambition and confidences of the men, when the exigencies of the times demanded that they should know how to fight as well as to pray.
ELIZABETH CLAY.
Elizabeth Clay, the mother of Henry Clay, was born in the county of Hanover, in Virginia, in 1750. Her early education was such as was attainable at that period in the colony. She was the younger of two daughters who were the only children of George and Elizabeth Hudson, and before she was fifteen years old she had married John Clay, a preacher of the Baptist denomination. She became the mother of eight children and Henry Clay was among the elder of these. Her husband died during the Revolution, and some years after Mrs. Clay contracted a second marriage with Mr. Henry Watkins, and in course of time eight more children were added to her family. The cares devolving upon her in the charge of so many children and the superintendence of domestic concerns naturally occupied her time to the exclusion of any participation in matters of public interest. She must, however, have borne her share in the agitations and dangers of the time, in behalf of those who claimed her maternal solicitude and guidance. She died in 1827, having survived most of her children.
DOROTHY HANCOCK.
Mrs. Hancock was one of those who, by her courtesies to the officers and ladies of the British army when Burgoyne was under the convention of surrender, made Cambridge a brilliant center of hospitality and fashion. She was the daughter of Edmund Quincy, of Massachusetts, and was born in 1750. At the age of twenty-four she married John Hancock, one of the great men of the age, and, aided by the lustre of his fortunes, she became a leader in society, filling her station with rare dignity and grace. At her table there might be seen all classes; the grave clergy, the veteran and the gay, the gifted in song, or anecdote or wit. The dinner hour was at one or two o'clock; three was the latest for formal occasions. The evening amusement was usually a game of cards, and dancing was much in vogue. There were concerts, but theatrical productions were prohibited. Much attention was paid to dress; coats of various colors were worn by the men. All of which shows that the new country was capable of a salon and much pretentious social intercourse, notwithstanding the war they had just passed through and the hardships they had endured. ​ During the life of her husband Mrs. Hancock was of necessity much in the gay world, in which she occupied a position of unusual distinction. After Hancock's death, she married Captain Scott, with whom she passed a less brilliant yet no less happy life. Her later years were spent in seclusion. She was still, however, surrounded by friends who felt themselves instructed and charmed by her superior mind. She went but little into society, yet, whenever she appeared she was received with great attention. La Fayette, on his visit to this country, called upon her and many spoke of the interesting interview witnessed between "the once youthful chevalier and the splendid belle." She died in her seventy-eighth year, a woman of whose brilliant life and beautiful poise her countrymen may well be proud.
MERCY WARREN.
The name of Mercy Warren belongs to American History. In the influence she exercised she was, perhaps, the most remarkable woman who lived during the Revolutionary period. Seldom has one woman in any age acquired such an ascendency over the strongest by mere force of a powerful intellect. She is said to have supplied political parties with their arguments; and she was the first of her sex in America who taught the reading world in matters of state policy and history.
​ There existed between them a strong attachment, which nothing ever impaired. Even in the wildest moods of that insanity with which, late in life, the great patriot was afflicted, her voice had power to calm him, when all else failed.
When about twenty-six, Miss Otis became the wife of James Warren, then a merchant of Plymouth, Massachusetts, and in him she found a partner of congenial mind.
It was during the occasional visits of a few weeks at a time to their farm near Plymouth, which she called "Clifford," that most of her poetical productions were written.
With a fondness for historical studies, and the companionship of such a brother and husband, it is not strange that the active and powerful intellect of Mrs. Warren should have become engaged with interest in political affairs. How warmly Mrs. Warren espoused the cause of her country, how deeply her feelings were enlisted, appears in her letters to the great spirits of that era. This rich correspondence has been preserved by her descendants. It includes letters, besides those from members of her own family,—and letters were dissertations, not a hodgepodge of trivialities in those days — from Samuel and John Adams, Jefferson, Dickinson, Gerry, Knox and others. These men asked her opinion in political matters, and acknowledged the excellence of her judgment. Referring to some of her observations on the critical state of affairs after the war, General Knox writes: "I should be happy, Madam, to receive your communications from time to time, particularly on the subject enlarged on in this letter. Your sentiments shall remain with me."
During the years that preceded the Revolution and after its outbreak, Mrs. Warren's house appears to have been the resort of much company. As she herself says, "by the Plymouth fireside were many political plans discussed and digested." Although her home was in Plymouth, her place of ​ residence was occasionally changed during the war. At one time she lived in the house at Milton, which Governor Hutchinson had occupied. Wherever she was, the friends of America were always welcomed to the shelter of her roof, and the hospitalities of her table. In different passages of her letters to John Adams, the officers with whom she became acquainted are described. The following extract is interesting:
"The Generals, Washington, Lee, and Gates, with several other distinguished officers, dined with us three days since. The first of these, I think, is one of the most amiable and accomplished gentlemen, both in person, mind, and manners, that I have met. The second, whom I never saw before, I think plain in his person to a degree of ugliness, careless even to impoliteness, his garb ordinary, his voice rough, his manners rather morose ; yet sensible, learned, judicious, and penetrating; a considerable traveler, agreeable in his narrations, and a zealous, indefatigable friend of the American cause, but much more for a love of freedom and an impartial sense of the inherent rights of mankind at large, than from any attachment or disgust to particular persons or countries. The last is a brave soldier, a high republican, a sensible companion, and an honest man, of unaffected manners and easy deportment."
And La Fayette is praised in this laconic fashion: "Penetrating, active, sensible, judicious, he acquits himself with the highest applause in the public eye, while the politeness of his manners and sociability of his temper insure his welcome at every hospitable board."
Every page from the pen of Mrs. Warren is remarkable for clearness and vigor of thought. Thus, her style is not vitiated by the artificial tastes of the day; yet, her expression is often studiously elaborated, in accordance with the prevalent fashion, and smothered in classic allusion. This is the case in her letters written with most care; while in others, her ardent ​ spirit pours out its feelings with irrepressible energy, portraying itself in the genuine and simple language of emotion. Mrs. Warren kept a faithful record of occurrences during the dark days of her country's affliction, through times that engaged the attention of both the philosopher and the politician. She did this with the design of transmitting to posterity a faithful portraiture of the most distinguished characters of the day. Her intention was fulfilled in her history of the American Revolution. This work exhibits her as a writer in advance of her age. Its sound judgment and careful research, with its vigorous style, give it a high and lasting value. Her portraiture of Mr. Adams gave offense to the great statesman, which, for a time, threatened to interrupt the affectionate relations between the two families. But after a sharp correspondence, it was amicably settled, and as a token of reconciliation, Mrs. Adams sent her friend a ring containing her own and her husband's hair. This is now in possession of one of Mrs. Warren's descendants.
The several satirical dramatic pieces that Mrs. Warren wrote criticising the follies of her day and humorously introducing the leading Tory characters, produced a marked sensation, and a strong political influence is ascribed to the bold and keen satire in these poems.
​ Altogether, the literary workmanship and the political influence of Mercy Warren appears an anachronism in time and place, for a new country at war is not supposed to shape its course by literature, and surely the Puritan forbearance had shown little disposition to abide by the counsels of women, though ofttimes acting unconsciously under the influence of some brainy woman, who was too clever to let on that she recognized the conceptions of her fertile brain expressed by some man over whom she had subtle power.
In her last illness, her constant fear was that she might lose her mental faculties as death approached. She prayed effectively to be spared this dreaded condition. To her latest breath her mind was unclouded, and with an expression of thankfulness and peacefulness, she passed to the rest that awaits the faithful Christian, October 19, 1814, in the eighty-seventh year of her remarkably forceful life.
MARY DRAPER.
Mary Draper, who was the wife of Captain Draper of Revolutionary fame, deserves to be classed with Putnam and Stark whose rough-and-ready and instantaneous response to their country's appeal has become a matter of historic tradition. When the news reached Connecticut that blood had been shed, Putnam, who was at work in the field, left his plow in the furrow, and started for Cambridge without changing his coat. Stark was sawing pine logs without a coat ; he shut down the gate of his mill and began his journey to Boston in his shirt sleeves. And Mary Draper, from her farm in Dedham, Massachusetts, was not one whit less active in her patriotic zeal. When the first call to arms sounded throughout the land, she exhorted her husband to lose no time in hastening to the scene of action; and with her own hands bound knapsack and ​ blanket on the shoulders of her only son, a stripling of sixteen, bidding him depart and do his duty. To the entreaties of her daughter that her young brother might remain at home to be their protector, she answered that every arm able to aid the cause belonged to the country. "He is wanted and must go. You and I, Kate, have also service to do. Food must be prepared for the hungry; for before to-morrow night hundreds, I hope thousands, will be on their way to join the Continental forces. Some who have traveled far will need refreshment, and you and I, with Molly, must feed as many as we can." This speech has not come down to history with the sententious utterances of great generals and yet it was the basis of homely action that was of inestimable succor in the starting of that terrific struggle for liberty. Captain Draper was a thriving farmer; his granaries were filled and his wife's dairy was her special care and pride. All these resources she made contribute to her benevolent purpose. Assisted by her daughter and the domestic, she spent the whole day and night, and the succeeding day, in baking brown bread. The ovens of that day were suited for such an occasion, each holding bread sufficient to supply a neighborhood. These were soon in full blast and the kneading trough was plied by hands that shrank not from the task.
At that time of hurry and confusion, Mary Draper realized that none could stop long enough to dine, so she prepared to dispense her stores even as the men hurried along to join the army. With the aid of a disabled veteran of the French wars, who had been a pensioner in her family, she erected a long form by the roadside; large pans of bread and cheese were placed upon it and replenished as often as was necessary, while old John brought cider in pails from the cellar, which, poured into tubs, was served out by two lads who volunteered their services. Unquestionably if it had not been for this aid to the weary ​ patriots, many of them, who, under the influence of strong excitement, had started without rations of any sort, would have fallen by the way, exhausted from want of food.
Then, ere long, after the battle of Bunker Hill, came the startling intelligence of a scarcity of ammunition, and General Washington called upon the inhabitants to send to headquarters every ounce of lead or pewter at their disposal, saying that any quantity, however small, would be gratefully received. Now, it is difficult at this day to estimate the value of pewter then, as an ornament as well as an indispensable convenience. The more precious metals had not then found their way to the tables of New Englanders, and throughout the country, services of pewter, scoured to the brightness of silver, covered the board, even in the mansions of the wealthy.
Mrs. Draper was rich in a large stock of pewter, which she valued of course, as an excellent housewife would, but also much of it was precious to her as the gift of a departed mother. But the call of General Washington reached her patriotic heart and she delayed not obedience, thankful only that she was able to contribute so largely to the requirements of her suffering country. Nor was she satisfied with merely giving the material required. Her husband before joining the army had purchased a mold for casting bullets, and Mrs. Draper herself now transformed her platters, pans, and dishes into balls for the guns of the Continental Army. Such was the aid rendered by this woman whose deeds of disinterested generosity were never known beyond her own immediate neighborhood.
MRS. RICHARD CRANCH.
Mary Smith, the elder sister of Abigail Adams, was married in 1762 to Richard Cranch, afterwards Judge of the Court of Common Pleas in Massachuchusetts. In 1775 the family moved from Boston to Quincy, then a part of Braintree, where they continued to reside till 1811. In October of that year both Mr. and Mrs. Cranch died and were buried on the same day. Mrs. Cranch is remembered for the work she accomplished in collecting supplies and clothing for the ragged army in the Revolution. Judge William Cranch was her son.
SABRINA ELLIOTT.
In times of national stress a turn of wit has often done more to strengthen the spirit of a cause than a deed of spectacular resistance. The following anecdote of Sabrina Elliott's wit illustrates the point. Living a widow, and unprotected, her home was raided by the enemy's soldiers, and the British officer in command personally supervised the plundering of her poultry houses. Afterward, in surveying the wreck, she observed straying about the premises an old muscovy drake which had escaped the general search. She immediately had him caught, and mounting a servant on horseback, ordered him to follow and deliver the bird to the officer, with her compliments and to express her grief that in the hurry of departure he had left such an important acquisition behind.
This story, laughed over by grim camp fires, did more to hearten the discouraged American soldiers than hysterical resistance to the enemy on the woman's part could possibly have done.
MARTHA WILSON.
Mrs. Wilson was the daughter of Colonel Charles Stewart, of New Jersey. She was born December 20, 1758, at "Sidney," the residence of her maternal grandfather, Judge Johnston, in the township of Kingwood and county of Hunterdon in that state. This old mansion was at that time one of the most stately and aristocratic of the colonial residences in that section of New Jersey. Constructed while the border settlements of the province were still subject to treacherous visits from the Indian, its square and massive walls and heavy portals were not only an expression of "the pride of life," but had reference as well to protection and defence, and for many years in its earlier use it was not only the stronghold of the wealthy proprietor, his ​ family and dependents, but the refuge in alarm for miles around to the settlers whose humbler abodes were more assailable by the rifle and firebrand of the red men. "The big stone house," as it was designated in the common parlance of the people, was thus long noted as a place of refuge in danger and not less, in later times, as one of redress for wrongs and their punishment, Judge Johnston having been, for more than thirty years previous to the Revolution, the chief magistrate of that section of the colony, holding court on Monday of every week in one of the halls of his dwelling.
Such was the birthplace and home in childhood of Mrs. Wilson, but her girlhood and young womanhood, passed in the home of her father, was in no less beautiful and interesting surroundings. Previous to the Revolution, Colonel Stewart resided chiefly at "Lansdowne," a beautiful property immediately adjoining the estate of his father-in-law; and here, when she was thirteen, her mother having died, Mrs. Wilson already giving proof of mental attainments and maturity of character, entertained for her father the most distinguished men of the day. The hospitality of Colonel Stewart was unbounded. His friend, Chief Justice Smith, of New Jersey, expressed this trait of character in the epitaph upon his tomb: "The friend and the stranger were almost compelled to come in." And it was at his table and fireside in association with the choice spirits in intellect and public influence that his daughter imbibed the principles of patriotism and the love of liberty which entitles her name and character to a prominent place among women of the Revolution.
Colonel Stewart had, by energy of character and enlarged enterprise, secured both private and public influence, and the first breath of the "spirit of '76" which passed over the land fanned into flame his zeal for freedom and honor of his country, which no discouragement could dampen and which no toil, nor ​ danger, nor disaster could extinguish. One of his daughter's strongest recollections was of being told, on his return from the first general meeting of the Patriots of New Jersey for a declaration of rights, an incident relating to himself and highly characteristic of the times. Many of the most distinguished royalists were his personal and intimate friends and when it became evident that a crisis in public feeling was about to occur, great efforts were made by some of those holding office under the crown to win him to their side. Tempting promises of ministerial favor and advancement were made to induce him to at least withhold his influence from the cause of the people, even if he would not take part in the support of the King. Such overtures were in vain, and at this meeting he rose and was one of the first boldly to pledge "his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor," in defence of the rights of freemen against the aggressions of the throne. The attorney-general, approaching and extending his hand, said to him in saddened tones, "Farewell, my friend Charles, when the halter is about your neck, send for me. I'll do what I can to save you." Colonel Stewart eventually became one of the Staff of Washington, as Commissary General of Issues, by Commission of the Congress of 1776.
Thus, Mrs. Wilson, who again became the head of her father's household, when her young husband, Robert Wilson, himself an ardent American adherent, died after barely two years of married life, was given an opportunity for more favorable observation and knowledge of important movements and events than that of any other woman certainly in her native state. Her father, at the head of an important department, from necessity became acquainted with the principal officers of the army, and headquarters being most of the time within twenty or thirty miles of her residence, she not only had constant intercourse in person and by letter with him, but fre​ quently and repeatedly entertained at her house many of his military friends. Among these were Washington, La Fayette, Hamilton, Wayne, Greene, Maxwell, Lincoln, Henry Lee, Stevens, Walter Stewart, Ethan Allen, Pulaski, Butler, Sinclair, Woodward, Varnum, Paul Jones, Cochrane, Craik and many others.
General and Mrs. Washington were several times her guests, and the hospitality which Mrs. Wilson had the privilege thus repeatedly to extend to these illustrious guests was not forgotten by them, but most kindly acknowledged by very marked attentions to Mrs. Wilson's daughter and only child on her entrance into society in Philadelphia, during the presidency of Washington. By personal calls and invitations to her private parties, Mrs. Washington distinguished the young woman by consideration rarely shown to youthful persons.
It was not alone for friends and acquaintances and persons of distinction and known rank that Mrs. Wilson kept open house in the Revolution. Such was the liberality of her patriotism that her gates in the public road bore in conspicuous characters the inscription: "Hospitality within to all American officers and refreshment for their soldiers," an invitation not likely to be allowed to remain a mere form of words on the regular route of communication between northern and southern posts of the army.
From the commencement of the struggle for freedom till its close, Mrs. Wilson was a personal witness and participator in scenes of more than ordinary interest. She was in Philadelphia on the day the Declaration of Independence was made, and made one of a party—embracing the elite of the beauty, wealth and fashion of the city and neighborhood—to be entertained at a brilliant fete given in honor of the event, on board the frigate "Washington" at anchor in the Delaware, by ​ Captain Reed, the Commander. The magnificent brocade which she wore on the occasion, with its hooped petticoat, flowing train, laces, gimp and flowers, remained in its wardrobe unaltered for years, but was eventually cut up to become the victim of that taste of descendants for turning the antique frocks of grandmammas into eiderdown bedspreads and drawing-room chair covers.
Till the death of Colonel Stewart, in 1800, Mrs. Wilson continued at the head of his family, the wise, benevolent, energetic and universally admired manager of a house proverbial in her native state and extensively out of it, for generous and never changing hospitality. For a period of nearly fifteen years after the death of her father, much of Mrs. Wilson's time became necessarily devoted to the settlement of a large and widely scattered landed estate, and the clearness of judgment, practical knowledge and firmness of purpose and character witnessed in her by much of the finest talent at the bar and on the bench, not only in New Jersey, but in the adjoining states during the legal investigations of claims, titles and references, were such as to secure to her in general estimation a degree of respect for talent and ability not often accorded her sex in that day.
Not long after she had been called to the management of her father's estate, two orphan sons of her brother were left in their childhood to Mrs. Wilson's guardianship and maternal care. A series of letters written by her to one of these adopted sons, while a boy in school and college, have been given to the public, and their deep appreciation of the spirit of youth, and at the same time the inspiring guidance of their text makes them not only a striking exhibition of the fidelity with which she fulfilled her trust, but a contribution to literature.
The marriage of her only daughter and child, in 1802, to John M. Bowers, of Bowerstown, Otsego County, New York, ​ led Mrs. Wilson to change her home from New Jersey to Cooperstown, New York, in which village for a long period afterward she had a home, but eventually she went to live with her daughter at the latter's beautiful home "Lakelands" in the immediate vicinity. Her end in the peaceful prosperity of her country was in marked contrast to her thrilling experiences during its struggle for Independence.
REBECCA MOTTE.
The manorial style of living, together with the slave labor, bred in the South during Colonial times developed a type of grande dame such as the more rigorous living in the northern colonies had not evolved at the time of the Revolution. But that the heroic strain existed in the women of social grace and softened loves, as well as in the stern Puritan Mothers, is fully illustrated in the sacrifice and heroism of Rebecca Motte. A few incidents of her life told without the least attempt at ornament show forth the rare energy and firmness of this woman, and her disinterested devotion to the American cause, as no rhetorical encomium could.
In 1758 she married Jacob Motte, one of the wealthiest men of the South and an ardent patriot, but his life was sacrificed early in the struggle for Independence, and having no son to perform his duty to the country, Mrs. Motte showed herself equal to the courage of men together with the dignity and diplomacy of the highest type of womanhood.
At different times during the first part of the war, it was her lot to encounter the presence of the enemy, and, surprised by the British at one of her country residences on the Santee, her son-in-law, General Pinckney, who happened to be with her at the time, barely escaped capture by taking refuge in the swamps. It was to avoid such annoyances that she removed to ​ "Buckhead," the then new and large mansion house between Charleston and Camden, to be known afterwards as Fort Motte because of the patriotism so strikingly displayed there by this daughter of South Carolina.
​ The smile, however, with which the communication was received gave instant relief to the embarrassed officer. Mrs. Motte not only assented, but declared that she was "gratified with the opportunity of contributing to the good of her country, and should view the approaching scene with delight." Moreover, shortly after, seeing by accident the bow and arrows which had been prepared to carry the balls of blazing rosin and brimstone to the shingled roof of the mansion, Mrs. Motte sent for Lee, and presented him with a bow and its apparatus, which had been imported from India, and was better adapted for the object than those provided.
The scorching rays of the noonday sun had prepared the roof for the conflagration, and, despite the efforts of McPherson's men to tear off the shingles as they caught fire, it soon became evident that the place could not be held against the flames, and the commandant hung out the white flag and surrendered the garrison.
"If ever a situation in real life afforded a fit subject for poetry," remarks one historian, "it was that of Mrs. Motte contemplating the spectacle of her home in flames, and rejoicing in the triumph secured to her countrymen — the benefit to her native land by her surrender of her own interest to the public service."
After the captors had taken possession of the fortified house, McPherson and his officers accompanied the victorious Generals to Mrs. Motte's dwelling, where they all sat down to a sumptuous dinner. Here again the value of their hostess' character shone. She showed herself prepared not only to give up her splendid mansion to insure victory to the American arms, but to do her part toward obliterating the recollection of her loss, and at the same time to remove from the minds of the prisoners the weight of their misfortune.
To her example of dignified, courteous and graceful con​ duct toward the defeated is doubtless due much of the magnanimity exercised by the visitors towards those who, according to strict rule, had no right to expect mercy. While the mingled party was still at the table, it was whispered in Marion's ear that Colonel Lee's men were even then engaged in hanging certain of the Tory prisoners. Marion instantly hurried from the table, seized his sword and, running with all haste, reached the place of execution in time to rescue one poor wretch from the gallows. With drawn sword and a degree of indignation that spoke more than words, Marion threatened to kill the first man that made any further attempt in such diabolical proceedings. Mrs. Motte's gentle kindness in the face of personal loss had pointed the way to Christian warfare.
When an attack upon Charleston was apprehended, and every man able to render service was summoned to aid in throwing up intrenchments for the defense of the city, Mrs. Motte dispatched a messenger to her plantation, and ordered down to Charleston every male slave capable of work, providing each, at her own expense, with proper implements and a soldier's rations. The value of this unexpected aid was enhanced by the spirit which prompted the patriotic offer.
When, indeed, the British took possession of Charleston, the house in which Mrs. Motte resided was selected as the headquarters of the English colonels in command, but she determined not to be driven out, and with inimitable grace and tact, she continued to preside at the head of her own table in a company of thirty British officers, who may have been disconcerted at being treated as guests, but who certainly could not complain of her hospitality. The duties forced upon her were discharged with exquisite tact, yet she always replied with spirit to the discourteous taunts frequently uttered in her presence against her "rebel countrymen." In many scenes of danger and disaster her fortitude was put to the test, yet, through all, this noble​ spirited woman regarded not her own advantage, but always and ever the public good.
Perhaps one of the "biggest little" things Rebecca Motte ever did was the assumption of the responsibility of certain claims against her husband's depleted estate, he having become deeply involved by securities undertaken for his friends. Despite her friends' warning of the apparent hopelessness of such a task, she set about determinedly to devote the rest of her life to the task of honorably discharging those obligations, and steadfast in the principles that had governed all her conduct, she persevered. She procured on credit a valuable body of rice land, then an uncleared swamp, on the Santee, built houses for her negroes, and took up her abode on the plantation. Living in an humble dwelling and sacrificing all her habitual comforts, she so devoted herself with untiring industry to the problem before her that, in spite of the distracted state of the country, following the war, she eventually triumphed over every difficulty, and not only succeeded in paying her husband's debts, but secured for her children and descendants a handsome and unencumbered estate. As her biographer said: "Such an example of perseverance, under adverse circumstances, for the accomplishment of a high and noble purpose, exhibits in yet brighter colors the heroism that shone in her country's peril."
This woman of whom her state and country should be so justly proud, died in 1815 on the plantation on which her long years of retirement since the war had been passed, the seventy-seven years of her splendid life having embraced the most thrilling period of our Nation's life.
SUSANNAH ELLIOTT.
Closely connected with the better-known name and personality of Rebecca Motte, there lies in the memory of South Carolina history a proud recollection of ​ Susannah Elliott. She was the daughter of Benjamin Smith, for many years Speaker of the Assembly of the province, but left young an orphan and an heiress, she was brought up by her aunt, Mrs. Rebecca Motte, with whom she lived until her marriage. She seems to have absorbed much of Mrs. Motte's spirit of patriotism, and to history she is known principally through an incident that illustrates the effects of this inspiration. This was after her marriage to Colonel Barnard Elliott, when she presented a pair of colors embroidered by her own hand to the second South Carolina regiment of infantry, commanded by Colonel Moultrie, in commemoration of their illustrious bravery during the attack on Fort Moultrie, Sullivan's Island, which took place June 28, 1776. The colors, one of fine blue and the other of red silk, were received from Mrs. Elliott by the Colonel and Lieutenant-Colonel, and a solemn vow registered by the Colonel in the name of the soldiers that they should be honorably supported and never tarnished by a discreditable record of the second regiment. And this pledge was nobly fulfilled. Three years afterwards they were planted on the British lines at Savannah and the two officers who bore them having lost their lives just before the retreat was ordered, the gallant Sergeant Jasper in planting them on the works received a mortal wound and fell into the ditch. One of the standards was brought off in the retreat, and Jasper, having succeeded in regaining the American camp, said in his last moments: "Tell Mrs. Elliott I lost my life supporting the colors she presented to our regiment." The colors were afterwards taken at the fall of Charleston and were deposited in the Tower of London.
Mrs. Elliott was, moreover, most resourceful in her patriotism. While at her plantation called "The Hut," she had at one time some American officers as guests in the house, and when surprised by the sudden approach of the British, she calmly showed them into a closet, and opening a secret door disclosed a large opening back of the chimney known only to herself and contrived for a hiding place. The enemy, convinced that they had cornered their quarry, searched the house thoroughly but unsuccessfully, and failing further in all their attempts to induce Mrs. Elliott to reveal their place of retreat, the officers then demanded her silver. They discovered some mounds of earth not far off and began excavation, although the woman protested against the desecration. To their great chagrin, a coffin was disinterred from the first mound and Mrs. Elliott remarked that it was the grave of one of their countrymen, to whom she had endeavored to give decent burial. On opening the coffin the truth was at once made manifest, and the British soldiers then departed in extreme mortification, so that the silver which was buried close at hand escaped discovery.
ANN ELLIOTT.
Ann Elliott, too, the wife of Lewis Morris, won her fame and gave inspiration through a mere incident in her life. She was one of the belles of Charleston, when that city was occupied by the British, and she always insisted upon wearing a bonnet decorated with thirteen small plumes in order to flaunt her devotion to the struggling colonies, and for her patriotic spirit she was called "the beautiful rebel." At one time, while Colonel Morris, to whom she was then engaged, was on a visit to her, the attention of the family was drawn to the windows by an unusual noise and they perceived that the house was surrounded by the Black Dragoons, who had been informed of the young American's presence in the city. The American officer had no time to escape, but Ann Elliott went to one of the windows and calmly presenting herself to the view of the British Dragoons demanded what they wanted. "We want the — rebel," was the reply. "Then go and look for him in the American Army," answered the young girl. "How dare you disturb a family under the protection of both armies?" Her firmness and resolution conquered the day, and the enemy, somewhat confused, departed without pressing their search.
Later in life, Mrs. Lewis Morris received the praise of a prominent American General, who said: "She has ever been one of the most cheering examples of patriotic spirit; the influence of her active, courageous life has been felt deeply among the soldiers."
She died in New York on the 29th of April, 1848, at the age of eighty-six.
BEHETHLAND FOOTE BUTLER.
Behethland Moore was born on the 24th of December, 1764, in Fauquier County, Virginia. Her father, Captain Frank Moore, commanded as lieutenant one of the Virginia troops at Braddock's defeat. Her mother was Frances Foote. About 1768, her parents removed to South Carolina and settled on Little River, in Laurens District, where Captain Moore died two years afterwards. His widow then married Captain Samuel Savage, who in 1774 removed to a plantation just above what was then known as Saluda Old Town. Here Miss Moore and her two brothers, William and George, lived with her mother and stepfather.
On one occasion a band of Tories came to the house of Captain Savage and were taking off a Negro boy, who had been a personal attendant of Miss Moore's father in the Indian Wars. With no thought of risk to herself, she hastened after them to rescue him. The men finally compromised on being shown where the horses were and appropriating certain of them for their use. One horse proving refractory, they ordered the black servant to catch it for them, and when, at Miss Moore's direction, he refused, the Tory swore he would beat the servant for his disobedience, but the intrepid young girl threw herself between them and the grumbling Tory was forced to withdraw the intended violence.
When the Revolutionary War was in progress, it became necessary at one time to convey intelligence of danger to Captain Wallace, who was in command of a small force on the other aide of the Saluda River just above her home. No ​ male messenger could be procured, but Miss Moore, then but fifteen years of age, volunteered to undertake the mission. Accompanied by her little brother and a friend named Fanny Smith, she went up the river in a canoe in the middle of the night, gave warning to Captain Wallace and through him to Colonel Henry Lee, and thus a disastrous attack on our feeble troops was averted. The next morning a young American officer, who had been below this point on some reconnoitering service, rode up to the house to make a few inquiries. These were answered by the young lady who apparently appeared as pleasing to the young officer as this handsome fellow in dragoon uniform did to her, for this was the first occasion on which Miss Moore saw her future husband, Captain William Butler. The marriage took place in 1784 and the young people took possession of a small farm near Willing which Captain Butler had inherited.
General Butler was almost constantly engaged in public service, and was necessarily absent from home a great part of the time. In Congress from 1801 to 1814, and commanding the South Carolina forces in Charleston as Major-General during 1814 and 1815, naturally the whole care not only of the large family but of his plantation devolved upon Mrs. Butler. Never were such varied responsibilities more worthily met and discharged. The support of the family depended mainly upon the produce of the small farm and in the energetic toil of wringing profit from the soil. Mrs. Butler evinced a wonderful fertility of resource. Moreover, she superintended her children's education and did what few modern mothers with all their leisure accomplish, impressed upon them the moral point of view which always gives tone to character in after life. "With a singular power of command and stern energy," it has been said of her, "she combined the softest and most womanly qualities. In her it might be seen that a superior mind, rigidly disciplined, may belong to a woman without the development of any harsh or unfeminine lineaments, and that a heart the most tender and affectionate may prompt to all generous charities of life without being allied to weakness."
Her sons did illustrious service for their country and one of them is said to have declared on the occasion of his public honor that he deserved no credit since it had been his mother who instilled in his and his brothers' minds the old Greek idea that they were born but for their country.
DEBORAH SAMSON.
It has been said that in the early days of this Republic "men learned to fight and pray; the women to endure," but there are several instances in the history of the Revolutionary War in which a woman's courage was displayed by the actual adoption of man's work on the battle field. The resolution of Congress is on record in which honorable mention is made of the services of Margaret Corbin, the gunner's wife ​ who took her husband's place when he was killed, at the battle of Monmouth, and did such execution that, after the engagement, she was rewarded with a commission. And there were many other examples, though generally of women who, having suffered incredibly from the spoliations of the enemy, lost patience, and fought manfully for the last loaf of bread or the last bed quilt for their children. But, in one case, the heroism and deeds, exploits and adventures of a woman soldier make her life seem a figment of pure imagination. This was Deborah Samson.
Deborah Samson was the youngest child of poor parents who lived in the colony of Plymouth, in Massachusetts. Poverty was the least of the evils suffered by the unfortunate children and, at length, their parents becoming so degraded that intervention was necessary, they were removed from the destructive influences, and placed in different families. Deborah found a home in the house of a respectable farmer, whose wife bestowed upon her as much attention as was usual in the case of any poor girl "bound out." The friendless and destitute girl was treated kindly, and, in exchange for her work, was provided with clothes and food, but no advantages of education. There was none to teach her, but she seized every opportunity for acquiring knowledge, even borrowing books from the children who passed the house on their way to and from school, and persevered with untiring exertion until she had learned to read quite well. Then, the law releasing her from her indenture, she found a place where, by working one-half time in payment for her board and lodging, she was able to attend the common district school in the neighborhood. In a few months she had acquired more knowledge than many of her schoolmates had done in years.
But the Revolutionary struggle had swept upon the country—the sound of the cannon at Bunker Hill had reached every ​ hearthstone and vibrated in the heart of every patriot in New England, and the zeal which urged men to quit their homes for the battlefield found its way to the bosom of lonely Deborah Samson.
Much effort has been expended by historians and women annalists to extenuate the conduct of this woman who claimed the privilege of shedding her blood for her country, but, after all, it was a most natural decision. It is likely her youthful imagination was kindled by the rumor of the brave deeds possible in that varied war life, and it must be borne in mind, too, that she was alone in the world, with few to care for her fate, and so she felt herself accountable to no human being. Be that as it may, she took the scant twelve dollars she had earned by teaching the district school, and purchased a quantity of coarse fustian and, working at intervals, made up a suit of men's garments—each article as it was finished being hidden in a stack of hay. Having completed her preparations, she announced her intention of going where she might obtain better wages for her labor. The lonely girl departed, but probably only to the shelter of the nearest wood, before putting on the disguise she was so anxious to assume. Her features were animated and pleasing, and her figure, tall for a woman, was finely proportioned. As a man, she might have been called handsome—her general appearance said to have been prepossessing, and her manner calculated to inspire confidence.
She pursued her way to the American army where, in October, 1778, she was received and enrolled by the name of Robert Shircliffe, a young man anxious to join his efforts to those of his countrymen in their endeavors to oppose the common enemy. She was one of the first volunteers in the company of Captain Nathan Thayer, of Medway, Massachusetts, and the captain gave her a home in his family until his company should be ready to join the main army. In performing the ​ duties and enduring the fatigues of military life, her sex passed unsuspected. Accustomed to labor, from childhood, upon the farm and in out-of-door employment, she had acquired unusual vigor of constitution; her frame was robust and of masculine strength, and she was enabled to undergo what a woman delicately nurtured would have found it impossible to endure.
For three years Deborah Samson appeared in the character of a soldier, and during that time the fidelity with which her duties were performed gained her the approbation and confidence of the officers. She was a volunteer in several hazardous enterprises, and was twice wounded, the first time by a sword cut on the left side of the head. About four months after this first wound she was again severely injured, being this time shot through the shoulder. Her first emotion, when the ball entered, she described to be a sickening terror at the probability that her sex would be discovered, but, strange as it may seem, she escaped unsuspected, and soon recovering her strength, was able again to take her place at the post of duty, as well as in the deadly conflict. Unfortunately, however, she was soon seized with brain fever, and for the few days when reason struggled against the disease her sufferings were indescribable, haunted by the terrible dread, as she was, lest consciousness should desert her and the secret so carefully guarded be revealed. She was carried to the hospital with a great number of soldiers similarly stricken, and, her case being considered hopeless, and partly owing to the negligent manner in which all patients were attended, she actually escaped detection for some days. But at length the physician of the hospital, inquiring "How is Robert?" received from the nurse in attendance the answer, "Poor Bob is gone." The doctor went to the bed and, taking the hand of the youth supposed to be dead, found that the pulse was still feebly beating, and attempting to place his hand on the heart, he perceived that a bandage was fastened ​ tightly around the breast. This was removed and, to his uttter astonishment, he discovered in this fever-racked youth, a woman patient.
With prudence, delicacy and generosity of the highest order, this physician, Dr. Binney, of Philadelphia, kept his discovery to himself, but paid the patient every attention, and provided every comfort her perilous condition required. As soon as she could be moved with safety, he had her taken to his own house, where she could receive better care, his family wondering not a little at the unusual interest manifested in this particular invalid soldier.
But, once her health was restored, the physician had a long conference with the commanding officer of the company in which Robert had served, and this was followed by the issuing of an order to the youth, "Robert Shircliffe," to carry a letter to General Washington.
Deborah Samson's worst fears were now confirmed. From the time of her removal into the doctor's family she had misgivings that the doctor had discovered her deception, yet, in conversation, as she anxiously watched his countenance, not a word or look had indicated suspicion, and she had again begun to assure herself that she had escaped. When the order came for her to deliver a letter into the hands of the commander-in-chief, however, she could no longer deceive herself. There was nothing for it but to obey, but when she presented herself at Washington's headquarters she trembled as she had never done before the enemy's fire. When she was ushered into the presence of the chief, she was almost overpowered with dread and uncertainty. Washington noticed the extreme agitation, and bade her retire with an attendant, who was directed to offer the soldier some refreshment while he read the communication of which she had been the bearer.
Within a short time she was again summoned into the pres​ ence of Washington. The great man said not a word, but handed her in silence a discharge from the service, putting into her hand at the same time a notice containing advice and a sum of money sufficient to bear her expenses to some place where she might find a home. The delicacy and forbearance thus observed affected her sensibly. "How thankful," she is said to have often explained, "was I to that great and good man who so kindly spared my feelings. He saw me ready to sink from shame; one word from him at that moment would have crushed me to the earth. But he spoke no word, and I blessed him for it." This is an interesting sidelight on the character of Washington, wherein he is shown to have had the fine instinct of tact and sympathy even in his warrior days.
After the war had ended, Deborah Samson married Benjamin Gannett, of Sharon, and when Washington was President she received a letter inviting "Robert Shircliffe," or Mrs. Gannett, to visit the seat of the government. Congress was then in session, and during her stay in the Capital a bill was passed granting, her a pension in addition to certain lands which she was to receive, as an acknowledgment of her services to the country in a military capacity. She was invited to the houses of several of the officers and to parties given in the city, attentions which manifested the high esteem in which she was held.
Deborah Samson-Gannett, in the capacity of wife and mother, lived to a comfortable old age, and finally yielded up her soul as any prosaic and worthy matron might, with no hint of mystery nor adventure in her past.
It has been well said: "Though not comparable, certainly, to the 'Prophetess' in whom France triumphed — for the dignity with which the zeal of a chivalrous age and the wonderful success of her mission invested her — yet it cannot be denied that this romantic girl exhibited something of the same spirit of the lowly herdmaid who. even in the round of her humble duties, ​ felt herself inspired to go forth and do battle in her country's cause, exchanging her peasant's garb for the mail, the helmet, and the sword." At least Deborah Samson is a figure of brave strength and intrepid daring in the hour of her country's greatest peril.
MARGARET GASTON.
Heroism and strength of character, which in peaceful times would have remained latent in a serene personality, were often brought forth to shine most illustriously through pressure of cruelty in the Revolutionary War. Such was the case of Margaret Gaston. She was born Margaret Sharpe into a quiet old England household in the county of Cumberland, England, about 1755, and her parents desiring her to have every advantage of education in the Catholic faith, sent her to France when a very young girl. She was brought up in the seclusion and calm of convent life. Her two brothers, however, were extensively engaged in commerce in this country and she came out to visit them. Then began for this retiring, timid young woman, a tumultuous era of New World romance and soul-trying grief. It was during her sojourn that she met Dr. Alexander Gaston, a native of Ireland, of Huguenot ancestry, to whom she was married at Newbern, in the twentieth year of her age. But the happy married life of these two young people was destined to be of brief duration and tragic end.
Doctor Gaston was one of the most zealous patriots in North Carolina, and while his devotion to the cause of liberty won for him the confidence of the Whigs, it also gained him the implacable enmity of the opposite party. At length, so actively expressed was his patriotism and so great was his influence, a price was placed on his head by the loyalists.
On the 20th of August, 1781, a body of Tories entered Newbern, being some miles in advance of the regular troops, who had come by forced marches with a view to taking possession of the town. The Americans, taken by surprise, were driven to capitulation after an ineffectual resistance. Gaston, unwilling to surrender to the foe, hurried his wife and children across the river from their home, hoping to escape with them and proceed to a plantation eight or ten miles distant. "He reached the wharf with his family," the old account runs, "and seized a light scow for the purpose of crossing the river; but before he could stow his wife and children on board, the Tories, eager for his blood, came galloping in pursuit. There was no resource but to push off from the shore, where his wife and little ones stood — the wife alarmed only for him against whom the rage of the enemies was directed. Throwing herself in agony at their feet, she implored his life, but in vain. Their cruelty sacrificed him in the midst of her cries for mercy—and the musket which found his heart was levelled over her shoulder."
It is wonderful that the convent-bred girl did not go distraught, but, instead, a fierce heroic strength seemed to animate her whole being. Even the indulgence of grief was denied to the bereaved wife for she was compelled to exert herself to protect the remains of her murdered husband while her ears rang with the ​ inhuman threats that the "rebel should not even have the rest of the grave." After she had found men brave enough to aid her in carrying the body home, she was obliged to protect the beloved lifeless form from desecration, and by its side she watched constantly until it was deposited in the earth through a midnight burial.
Margaret Gaston was now left alone in a foreign land—both her brothers and her eldest son having died before the tragic taking of her husband. A boy three years of age and an infant daughter demanded all the care and protection she could get for them in the pioneer country. Many women possessed of her sensibility and shrinking nature would have been overwhelmed, but the severe trials only served to develop the admirable energy of her character. She never laid aside the habiliments of sorrow; the anniversary of her husband's murder was kept as a day of fasting and prayer; and to the great object of her life—the support and education of her children, she devoted herself with a firmness and constancy which wrested success despite the most adverse conditions.
When she had finally sent her son to Princeton College, where he was soon bearing away the first honors, it happened that her house and furniture were destroyed by fire, yet her letters to him breathe not one word of the calamity which, with her slender resources must have been severely felt, because she feared he might feel called to abandon his studies and rally to her support. The fact that this son, William Gaston, became a distinguished citizen of the country, was to his mother a sufficient reward for all she had borne with deep piety and stoic reserve.
Those who spoke of Margaret Gaston invariably named her as the most dignified as well as the most devout woman they had ever seen. She survived the husband she had seen murdered thirty-one years, in which time she never made a visit save to the suffering poor. Her home life was yet one of great activity, attending the sick and indigent, and the poor sailors who came to New-bern looked to her as a ministering angel. She passed away in this town where she had stepped from the convent to become a bride.
SARAH BACHE.
Perhaps the best estimate of a woman who might otherwise shine only in the reflected glory of a distinguished father, may be obtained by a private view of her and her work through the eyes of a contemporary. The Marquis de Chastellux in a letter wrote the following description of Mrs. Bache, the daughter of Benjamin Franklin: "After a slight repast, we went to visit the ladies, agreeable to the Philadelphia custom, where morning is the most proper hour for paying visits. We began by Mrs. Bache. She merited all the anxiety we had to see her, for she is the daughter of Dr. Franklin. Simple in her manners, like her respected father she also possesses his benevolence. She conducted us into a room filled with work, lately finished by the ladies of Philadelphia. This work consisted neither of embroidered tambour waistcoats nor of artwork edging, nor gold and silver brocade. It was a quantity of shirts for the soldiers of Pennsylvania. The ladies bought the linen from their own private purses, and took a pleasure in cutting them out and sewing them themselves. On each shirt was the name of the married or ​ unmarried lady who made it and they amounted to twenty-two hundred." To this picture illustrating how a woman of Mrs. Bache's standing found means to aid the struggling country may be added the commendatory words of Marquis de Marbois to Dr. Franklin, in the succeeding year—who speaks thus of the distinguished man's daughter: "If there are in Europe any women who need a model of attachment to domestic duties and love for their country, Mrs. Bache may be pointed out to them as such. She passed a part of the last year in exertions to rouse the zeal of the Pennsylvania ladies, and she made on this occasion such a happy use of the eloquence which you know she possesses, that a large part of the American army was provided with shirts, bought with their money or made by their hands. In her applications for this purpose, she showed the most indefatigable zeal, the most unwearied perseverance, and a courage in asking which surpassed even the obstinate reluctance of the Quakers in refusing."
Such is the outside impression of the worthy and charming daughter of Benjamin Franklin. Her own letters to her father and others show much force of character and an ardent, generous and impulsive nature. When in 1764 her father was sent to Europe in a representative capacity, she writes girlish, light-hearted observations and clever chatter, but in 1777, when the British army's approach had driven her and her young husband from their Philadelphia home, her letters to Dr. Franklin, then sent to France by the American Congress, are strong accounts of events, sound philosophy, and even some correct prophecy on the Nation's future—letters which must have been really helpful to the statesman abroad.
Mrs. Bache lived through stirring experiences, for the Revolution did not spare those of gentle breeding or station. On the 17th of September, 1777, four days after the birth of her second daughter, Mrs. Bache left town, taking refuge at first in the home of a friend near Philadelphia but afterward going up into the state, where they remained until the evacuation of the Quaker City by the British forces. The letters written to her father after her return to the Franklin house which had been used in the meantime as headquarters for Captain Andre, give a splendid picture of the prohibitive prices that existed in the Colonies at this time. "There is hardly such a thing as living in town, everything is so high," she writes. "If I was to mention the prices of the common necessaries of life, they would astonish you. I have been all amazement since my return; such an odds have two years made, that I can scarcely believe that I am in Philadelphia. They really ask me six dollars for a pair of gloves, and I have been obliged to pay fifteen pounds for a common calamanco petticoat without quilting that I once could have got for fifteen shillings."
These prices were owing to the depreciation of the Continental money; it subsequently was much greater. The time came when Mrs. Bache's domestics were obliged to take two baskets with them to market, one empty, to contain the provisions they purchased, the other full of Continental money to pay for them.
​ The brilliant Sallie Franklin was born on the nth of September, 1744. It was on the 29th of October, 1767, that she was married to Richard Bache, a merchant of Philadelphia, and a native of Seattle, in Yorkshire, England; 1807 marks the sad date when the still charming woman was attacked by cancer and removed to the city once more for the benefit of medical attendance. Her disease proved incurable, and on the 5th of October, 1808, she died in the historic house in Franklin Square, where Dr. Franklin had spent his last years.
In person Mrs. Bache was rather above the middle height, and in the latter years of her life she became very stout. Her complexion was uncommonly fair, with much color ; her hair brown and her eyes blue like those of her father. Strong good sense, and a ready flow of wit, were among the most striking features of her mind. Her benevolence was very great and her generosity and liberality were apparently limitless. Her friends ever cherished a warm affection for her. It has been related that her father, with a view to accustoming her to bear disappointments with patience, was given to requesting her to remain at home and spend the evening over the chess-board, when she was on the point of going out to some meeting of her young friends. The cheerfulness which she displayed in every turn of fortune proves that this discipline was not without its good effect—also that Benjamin Franklin could teach his own family as well as the public, which has not always been demonstrated in the lives of statesmen.
ELIZA WILKINSON.
A vivid picture of the part borne by many women through Revolutionary trials and privations may be found in the letters of a young and beautiful widow living in the city of Charleston at the time of its occupation by the British under Prevost and the approach of Lincoln to its relief. The period was one of almost continual skirmishing and of harrowing the inhabitants by the British, and the young woman's graphic description of the occurrences makes one no less interested in her personality than in the stirring events of which she writes.
This was Eliza Wilkinson. Her father was an emigrant to America from Wales named Francis Yonge. He took possession of an island some thirty miles south of Charleston, calling it Yonge's Island. Mrs. Wilkinson was his only daughter. She had been married only six months when her husband died, and when the Revolutionary warfare swept down into her section of the country, exciting days came to her in protecting her property and escaping before British invasion and aiding our own wretched soldiers. At one time, when she had taken refuge in an inland plantation, she writes of the distressing condition of refugees passing that way. A large boatload of women and children hurrying for safety to Charleston stayed with them for a day or two and presented a sad spectacle of the miseries brought in the train of war. One woman with seven children, the youngest but two weeks old, preferred venturing her own life and that of her tender infant to captivity at the hands of a merciless foe.
"The poorest soldier," says another letter, "who would call at any time for a drink of water, I would take pleasure in giving it to him myself; and many a dirty, ragged fellow have I attended with a bowl of milk, for they really merit ​ everything who will fight from principle alone; for from what I could learn, these poor creatures had nothing to protect and seldom got their pay; yet with what alacrity will they encounter danger and hardships of every kind."
At another time, two men belonging to the enemy rode up to the house and asked many questions, saying that Colonel McGirth and his soldiers were coming and that the inmates might expect no mercy. The family remained in a state of cruel suspense for many hours. Then, as Mrs. Wilkinson writes to a friend: "The horses of the inhuman Britons were heard coming in such a furious manner that they seemed to tear up the earth, the riders at the same time bellowing out the most horrid curses imaginable—oaths and imprecations chilled my whole frame. 'Where are these women rebels?' That was their first salutation." Nor was the fear of the household unfounded for Mrs. Wilkinson continues: "They plundered the house of everything they thought valuable or worth taking; our trunks were split to pieces and each mean, pitiful wretch crammed his bosom with the contents, which were our apparel." And when Mrs. Wilkinson ventured to beg that just a few articles be left to her, the soldier she addressed, so far from relenting, cast his eyes on her shoes and immediately knelt at her feet but to wrench the buckles from them. "While he was busy doing this," the letter continues, "a brother villain bawled out 'Shares there, I say shares.' So they divided the buckles between them. The other wretches were employed in the same way, taking not only buckles from the other women but ear-rings and rings, and when one protested against surrendering her wedding ring, they presented a pistol at her and swore if she did not deliver it immediately they would fire." But the ready wit of Mrs. Wilkinson appears to have suffered no eclipse even in such dire straits and she closes this letter with a quip: "So they mounted their horses— but such despicable figures! Each wretch's bosom stuffed so full, they appeared to be all afflicted with some dropsical disorder. Had a party of rebels (as they call us) appeared, we should have seen their circumference lessen."
After such unwelcome visitors, it is not surprising that the unprotected women could not sleep or eat. They went to bed without undressing and started up at the least noise, while the days were spent in anxiety. And yet one morning when Mrs. Wilkinson with her eyes fixed on the window—for she was continually on the watch— saw a party of Whigs dragging along seven Royalist prisoners, notwithstanding the injuries she had received from some of these very men, her kind heart relented at the sight of their worn-out condition, and, when the American soldiers had brought one of the Tory officers into her house, she took from her neck the only remaining handkerchief the British marauders had left her and with it bound up a wound in his arm.
The siege and capitulation of Charleston brought the evils under which the land had groaned to their height. Mrs. Wilkinson was in the city at this time and her letters tell of the hardships borne by those in the beleaguered community—the gloomy resignation to inevitable misfortunes and the almost abandonment of hope for relief. Yet with indomitable patriotism, Mrs. Wilkinson's independent spirits would find vent in sarcastic sallies at the enemy's expense. "Once," she writes, "I was asked by a British officer to play the guitar."
"I cannot play, I am very dull," she replied. ​ "How long do you intend to continue so, Mrs. Wilkinson?"
"Until my countrymen return, sir."
"Return as what, madam, prisoners or subjects?"
"As conquerors, sir."
The officer affected a laugh. "You will never see that, madam."
"I live in hopes, sir, of seeing the thirteen stripes hoisted once more on the bastions of this garrison."
"Do not hope so, but come, give us a tune on the guitar."
"I can play nothing but rebel songs."
"Well, let us have one of them."
"Not to-day—I cannot play—I will not play; besides, I suppose I should be put into the Prevost for such a heinous crime as chanting my patriotism!"
Like many others, Mrs. Wilkinson refused to join in the amusements of the city while in possession of the British but gave her energies to the relief of her friends. The women were the more active when military efforts were suspended, and we learn through Mrs Wilkinson's letters of the many ingenious contrivances they adopted to carry supplies from the British garrison to the gallant defenders of their country. Sometimes cloth for a military coat, fashioned into an appendage to feminine attire would be borne away unsuspected by the vigilant guards whose business it was to prevent smuggling, the cloth afterwards being converted into regimental shape. Boots "a world too wide" for the small feet that passed the sentry in them were often conveyed to the partisan who could not procure them for himself. A horseman's helmet has been concealed under a well-arranged head-dress, and epaulettes delivered from the folds of a matron's ample cap. Other articles in demand for military use were regularly brought away by some stratagem or other. And one can well imagine the cheer diffused about a desolate camp by the visits of women as sprightly and courageous as Mrs. Wilkinson.
The last of her letters of public interest is joyous with congratulations on the glorious victory of Washington over Cornwallis, so that the woman who had lived a brave, helpful life, through the darkest trial of her country, lived to know the glory of its independence and peace.
LYDIA DARRAH.
All who admire examples of courage and patriotism, especially those who enjoy the fruits thereof, must honor the name of Lydia Darrah. In 1777 she was living in Philadelphia—then under British occupation—with her brother. They were both members of the Society of Friends. Their house, selected, perhaps, on account of the unobtrusive character of its inmates, whose religion inculcated meekness and forbade them to practice the arts of war, had been chosen by the superior officers of the British army for private conference, whenever it was necessary to hold consultations on subjects of importance. On the second of December of that year the order to prepare her house for such a meeting concluded with these words: "And be sure that your family are all in bed at an early hour. We shall expect you to attend to this request. When our guests are ready to leave ​ the house, you will be called, that you may let us out and extinguish the fire and candles." This injunction to retire early rang in her ears and, being intensely loyal to her country, the young girl determined that some move of importance was on foot against the Continental army. The evening closed in and the officers came to the place of meeting. Lydia had ordered her family to bed, and herself admitted the guests, after which she retired to her own apartments and threw herself upon the bed without undressing. In a short time she was listening at the keyhole of the room where the officers were assembled. There was a confused murmur of voices, but at length came silence, broken shortly by a voice reading a paper aloud. This proved to be an order for the English troops to quit the city on the night of the fourth and march out in secret to an attack upon the American army, then encamped at White Marsh. The young girl had heard enough. She stole back to her bed and lay there, listening to the beating of her own heart. She feigned sleep and let the officer knock thrice before she pretended to rouse up and go with the men to the door.
She thought of the danger that threatened the lives of thousands of her countrymen and at once determined to apprise General Washington of the danger. In the morning, under the pretense that it was necessary for her to go to Frankfort to procure flour for the household, she set out, stopping first at the British headquarters to secure from General Howe his written permission to pass the British lines. Fully realizing the dangers of her undertaking, she walked the five miles to Frankfort through the snow, and, having deposited her bag at the mill, pressed on toward the outposts of the American Army. At length she was met by an American officer, who had been selected by General Washington to gain information respecting the movements of the enemy. This was Lieutenant-Colonel Craig, and he immediately recognized Lydia Darrah. To him she disclosed the secret, after having obtained from him a solemn promise not to betray her individually, since the British might take vengeance upon her family. The officer took her timely warning to his Commander-in-Chief, and preparations were immediately made to give the enemy a fitting reception. Lydia Darrah pursued her way home through the snow, but with a lighter heart, carrying the bag of flour which had served as the ostensible object of her journey. Her heart beat anxiously as, late on the appointed night, she watched from her window the departure of the army — on what secret expedition bound she knew too well! She listened breathlessly to the sound of their footsteps and the trampling of horses, until they died away in the distance, and silence reigned through the city.
The next morning a sudden and loud knocking at her door brought her face to face with the British officer who had ordered the meeting at her house. His face was clouded and his expression stern.
"Were any of your family up, Lydia," he said, "on the night when I and my brother officers were in this house?"
"No," was the unhesitating reply; "they all retired at eight o'clock."
"It is very strange," mused the officer. "You, I know, were asleep, for I knocked at your door three times before you heard me; yet it is certain that we were betrayed, for, on arriving near the encampment of General Washington, we found his cannon mounted, his troops under arms and so prepared at every point ​ to receive us that we were compelled to march back, without injuring our enemy, like a parcel of fools."
It is not known whether the officer ever discovered to whom he was indebted for the disappointment. None about her suspected the demure Quakeress, Lydia Darrah, of having snatched from the English the anticipated victory.
As for the intrepid woman herself, she went on leading her grave, quiet, subdued life, blessing God for her preservation, and no doubt rejoicing that it had not been necessary to utter an untruth in order to save the defenders of her country a cruel blow.
ELIZABETH MARTIN.
Nowhere in the history of the Revolution do we find greater piety and heroism displayed than in the life of Elizabeth Martin. Her maiden name was Elizabeth Marshall, and, a native of Carolina County, Virginia, she was probably one of the family from which descended Chief Justice Marshall, since of the same neighborhood. After her marriage to Abram Martin she removed to his settlement bordering on the Indian nation, in what was called District "Ninety-six," in South Carolina. The country at that time was sparsely settled, most of its inhabitants being pioneers from other states. Their proximity to the Indians had caused the adoption of some of the latter's savage habits, and for a time life was very crude indeed. Yet this district was among the foremost in sending to the Revolutionary field its hearty and enterprising troops to oppose the British.
At the commencement of the contest Elizabeth Martin had nine children, seven of whom were sons old enough to bear arms. When the first call for volunteers sounded through the land the mother encouraged patriotic zeal in them. "Go, boys," she said, "fight for your country, fight till death if you must, but never let your country be dishonored. Were I a man I would go with you."
At another time when Colonel Cruger, commanding the British at Augusta, stopped with several British officers at her house for refreshment, and one of them asked how many sons she had, she answered, "Eight." To a question as to their whereabouts she replied promptly, "Seven of them are engaged in the service of their country." "Really, Madame," observed the officer sneeringly, "You have enough of them." "No, sir," retorted the matron, "I wish I had fifty."
At the time of the siege of Charleston the sound of the cannon could be heard clearly in that part of the state and Mrs. Martin knew they must come from the besieged city. As report after report reached her ears she became more and more fearful lest each sound might be the knell of her sons, three of whom were then in Charleston. Their wives were with her and shared the same heart-chilling fears. They stood still for a few minutes, each wrapped in her own painful and silent reflections. At length the mother, lifting her hands and eyes toward heaven, exclaimed fervently "Thank God they are the children of the Republic!" Of the seven patriot brothers six were spared through all the dangers of partisan warfare in that region of dark and bloody ground. But the eldest. William M. Martin, was killed at the siege of Augusta, just after he had obtained a favorable position for his cannon by elevating it on one of the towers constructed by General Pickens. It is related that not long after his death a British officer, anxious to gratify his ​ hatred of the Whigs by carrying fatal news of these gallant young men, called at the house of Mrs. Martin and asked if she had not a son in the army at Augusta. She replied in the affirmative. "Then I saw his brains blown out on the field of battle," said this monster, who anticipated triumph in the sight of a parent's agony. The effect of the startling announcement was, however, other than he had expected. Terrible as was the, shock and aggrieved by the ruthless cruelty with which her bereavement was made known, no woman's weakness was yet allowed to appear. After listening to the dreadful recital, the only reply made by Elizabeth Martin was, "He could not have died in a nobler cause." The evident chagrin of the officer as he turned and rode away was treasured as a family tradition.
GRACE AND RACHEL MARTIN.
HANNAH WESTON.
Hannah Weston, who was a granddaughter of the famous Hannah Dustin, was born in Haverhill, Massachusetts, on the 27th day of November, 1758, and died on the 12th of December, 1856, living very nearly a hundred years. Her father, Captain Samuel Watts, gentleman, received his title as Captain by the royal concession of King George III, on the fourth day of May, 1756, under the hand of Governor Wentworth and Seal-at-Arms of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. In 1775 Hannah Weston was living with her husband and his sister, Rebecca, in a humble cottage in Jonesboro, Maine, with no thought of heroism or fame in the minds of any of the three. But word was brought to Josiah Weston that there was danger threatening their neighbors in Machias, who were about to strike a bold blow against England's tyranny and for American liberty. The people of Machias had erected a liberty pole which was plainly visible to the English warship "Margaretta" lying in the harbor. They had been ordered, in the name of the King, to take down the pole or suffer an attack by the British soldiers from the warship, commanded by Captain Moore. The Americans, under a young man known as Jerry O'Brien, determined to anticipate the attack and a messenger was sent to Josiah Weston's cottage for help and ammunition. Weston rallied a goodly number of men to go to the rescue, but there was little ammunition for them to take with them. As the recruits passed down the road, Hannah Weston sighed, for she believed her husband had gone on an almost desperate venture; there was to be much fighting and the American troops had each hardly enough powder to shoot a partridge. But suddenly a new thought flashed through her brain, and hastily putting on her shawl and bonnet she hastened out of the cottage. At twilight the young woman returned carrying in her arms a bag of something that appeared both bulky and heavy. 'Why whatever have you got there?" asked Rebecca Weston, her husband's sister, in a voice that expressed querulous surprise. "Bullets," said Hannah Weston triumphantly. She emptied the bag of its contents. Out they tumbled and clattered—pewter mugs, platters, saucers and all sorts and sizes of spoons before the round-eyed maiden. "Quick, Rebecca!" continued Hannah, "We must melt these and make bullets for the men at Machias." "Machias!" gasped the girl, "Machias is a good sixteen miles away." "Never mind that; they must have ammunition. If there be not time to melt them, these pewter dishes must go as they are."
By the time the first streaks of light were showing under the Eastern sky the two women were ready to start out upon their journey. The pewter platters and spoons were secured in Hannah's strongest pillow-case, which made a burden of forty pounds to be borne over a distance of forest and marsh little traveled save by the Indians and the wolves. Shouldering the pillow-case full of material for ammunition, Hannah Weston, followed by Rebecca who carried a smaller bundle of food, set out upon her perilous enterprise with that confidence in God's protection that animated the women of those dark days with courage and upheld them with fortitude. It was necessary to leave the path at frequent intervals, and the masses of tangled woods and briers rendered progress so slow that the day was far advanced before they had reached one half of the journey's length that lay before them. Rebecca was almost fainting from fatigue, and Hannah, whose courage had ​ stimulated the younger girl to unwonted exercise, was now given to fear the consequences of a night's exposure in the woods and its attending dangers. She made the younger woman sit down while she took up her burden and went forward to explore. After much wandering she at length reached the crest of a knoll, toward which she bent her faltering footsteps. Looking downward she saw a stretch of land before her, and not far in the distance a house. Her heart gave a great bound, for she knew that the humble dwelling lay on the outskirts of Machias. Hurrying back she aroused the sleeping Rebecca and they headed forward to the cottage which Hannah had seen from the hilltop. Here they rested until morning, for the kind inmates declared that they were fit for nothing but their beds. The next morning they pressed forward, but the sun was high in the sky when the two women made their way into the little town of Machias, which wore a very bustling and important expression. The first words which reached their ears were: "'Margaretta' was captured by brave Jerry O'Brien and his men, and they say the young English captain is like to die from a shot fired by Sam Weston."
Hannah Weston heard the news with joy but some disappointment. "We came to bring this ammunition to the men," she said, "but we have had our pains for nothing." "No," answered Jerry O'Brien, on hearing this, "This pewter is in the nick of time, for I warn you before many days be passed the English will be upon us again. And, Mistress Weston, I promise your bullets shall do good work when our visitors come." History will tell you that Jerry O'Brien was right. In the attack by the British which followed, the pewter, which Hannah Weston's midnight journey through the woods had brought, was passed in bullets from the muskets of the Americans into the ranks of the attackers with bitter and defeating effect.
A merchant presented Hannah and Rebecca with twelve yards of "camlet," which was divided between them and made into two gowns. This was a small pattern for two gowns, but the fashions of our great-grandmothers' days were very simple. Girls of our times would turn up their noses at such a gift, but Hannah and Rebecca Weston were greatly pleased, and for a hundred years their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren kept bits of these famous "camlet" gowns, handing down from one generation to another scraps of the narrow petticoats and short bodices as their most cherished heirlooms.
During the ninety-eight years of her life this heroine of Machias had seen much of toil, sorrow and privation. But neither toil nor hardship nor sorrow quenched her brave spirit or hardened the heart that made this woman always brave to entreat and ready to help and comfort when danger threatened or sorrow came near. For many years the grave of this historic woman lay unmarked in the little sea-coast village of Jonesboro, Maine. Some six years ago her descendants from all parts of the United States joined their efforts with the people of the remote town and at last erected a monument fitting to commemorate the brave Hannah Weston.
SALLIE WISTER.
On the twenty-fifth day of September, 1777, just two weeks after the battle of the Brandywine, the British Army entered Germantown. On the same day, but ​ a few miles distant from the place, Sallie Wister, a bright and charming Quaker girl, sixteen years of age, began to keep a sort of journal of her observations and experiences. It was evidently written with the object of keeping her dearest friend, young Deborah Norris, informed of the exciting happenings of this period. But strangely it never reached the hands for which it was intended until years after the death of the writer. It was published as one of the most interesting and valuable records that has come down to us. Its clever descriptions of persons and events, its naive confessions of likes and dislikes, it roguishness and genial good humor and withal its dramatic spirit, make it an extremely illuminating human document. Instances are here depicted which are nowhere supplied by the published records. And this diary of a bright Quaker girl is a historical picture of social conditions in the midst of the most important scenes of the Revolutionary times. In the nine months covered by this account occurred the British capture of Philadelphia, the battle of Germantown, the surrender of Burgoyne, the skirmishes before Washington's intrenchments of White Marsh and the acknowledgment of American Independence by France. All these with many sidelights pass in review before us, over the pages of Sallie Wister's diary. At length when the British had really decamped, and Philadelphia was once more open to its rightful citizens, she exclaims, "The Red Coats have gone, the Red Coats have gone, and may they never, never, never return!"
With this happy cry Sallie's diary closes and our little Quaker, with her humors and follies, vanishes from our sight. Little is known of Sallie Wister's later days. History only tells us that she grew to womanhood, that she became "quite serious" and that she "died unmarried, April 21, 1804." We are left to wonder about the rest. Why did Sallie Wister grow serious and why did she never marry? All sorts of romantic reasons suggest themselves, for the Sallie Wister of her diary was the very girl to have "an interesting story." But we can get no further than surmise, and it is better, perhaps, not to puzzle with what came after, but to think of her always as the light-hearted mischievous Sallie Wister, who though only a little Quaker made a valuable contribution to American history through her diary.
BETTY ZANE.
When Ebenezer Zane of Berkley County, Virginia, pushed his way through the wilderness to the banks of the Ohio River he took with him to a rough-hewn log cabin just above Wheeling Creek not only his wife and family but a younger sister, Betty Zane. This was in 1772, and Betty Zane was then only sixteen years of age. It was a wild spot where the Zane cabin stood and perhaps the little maiden was lonely now and then, but restlessness and discontent were not among the ailments of the girls of Revolutionary days. The fact of surrounding danger and possibility of having to flee from their homes at a moment's notice made them cling all the more closely to the fireside and knit them all the more closely in the bands of family love and life.
Now in the year 1764 the Six Nations of the great Indian Confederacy in the American colonies had made a treaty by the terms of which warfare for a time came to an end. But English folly at last overtook the treaty after ten years of ​ peace—a blunder for which the colonists had to pay dearly. "Cornstalk," the great Indian chief, had been killed by the Whites who suspected him unjustly, and the savages had begun a terrible war on the Virginia border. To protect these frontier settlers, in 1774, under the superintendence of Ebenezer Zane, Fort Henry, at first called Fort Fincastle, was built. The Fort was built in an open space and its main entrance was through a gateway on its eastern side, joining the struggling hamlet of Wheeling which consisted of about twenty-five log houses. It was three years before the Wheeling Creek pioneers had to use their Fort as a place of refuge and defence. Then one day in September, 1777, Sheppard, who was the military commander of Fort Henry, noticed scores of Indians in the neighborhood and felt sure that an attack would be made on the garrison. He ordered the settlers to shut themselves in the block houses within the fortification. Next morning the savages approached, and from the little garrison force of only forty-two fighting men thirteen were led out by Captain Samuel Mason to repulse the Indian attack. From the loopholes of the block house the besieged saw Mason's men cut down one by one until not a white man of the little band of fourteen was left. Reduced now to twenty-six defenders with a force of from three to five hundred Indians hemming them in on three sides, the garrison was in a desperate plight, yet they fought on day after day, always hoping for the help that did not come. And during this time little Betty Zane was running bullets, as were the other women in the fort, and sometimes firing the muskets to relieve the weary men. Then one day the commander stood with white, tight-drawn lips before the dauntless band. The horrible truth must at last come out. The ammunition was nearly exhausted. In a few hours there would not be a bullet for those brave hands to load with. What was to be done? Outside the palisades sixty feet from the fort stood Ebenezer Zane's log house, and in it was a keg of ammunition. Who would dare risk death from bullets, tomahawks or by torture in the face of five hundred foes. Several men stepped out and offered themselves. But every man's life possessed a hundredfold value that day and it was a hard matter to decide. While the volunteers stood in silence before their leader, Betty Zane laid her hand on the commander's arm. "I will go," she said simply. "You !" he exclaimed in amazement, "Oh no, you're not strong enough or fleet enough, besides . . ." "Sir," said the brave girl firmly, "it is because of the danger that I offer, if I, a woman, should be killed, 'twere not so great a loss as if one of these men should fall. You cannot spare a man, sir. Let me go." And so the matter was settled. The gate was opened and swift as a deer sped the girl out beyond the pickets towards the little log cabin. Courage was the thing most admired by the North American Indians, and as five hundred Wyandottes saw the fleeing figure of the daring girl pass directly before them not a hand was raised to bow or musket. Not a man of them fired at Betty Zane. She passed into the cabin, seized up the keg of ammunition, wrapped her apron about it, and then once more ran the gauntlet of the enemy's fire. And this time there was need for desperate haste, for the Indians guessed her burden and a shower of arrows and shot was sent after her flying figure. But the messengers of death fell harmlessly about her or broke vainly against the walls of Fort Henry as Betty gained the entrance. The great gateway flew open and a dozen strong arms were stretched out to take the precious keg. Women wept and men sobbed as they realized ​ that Betty Zane had saved the fort. The next morning at daybreak Colonel McCulloch marched with a small force from Short Creek to the relief of the gar- rison and completed the work of its salvation begun by Betty Zane.
MOLLY PITCHER.
Among the true stories of the history of the American nation in the making none touches the blood with a warmer thrill of admiration than that of brave Molly Pitcher, whose heroism on Monmouth field has found lasting record in the pages of American history.
Some time during the middle of the eighteenth century there came to America from Germany an immigrant by the name of John Gurex Ludwig, who settled in the colony of Pennsylvania. Here in the town of Carlisle was born to the wife of John Gurex Ludwig, October 13, 1744, a little daughter, whom he called Mary. The Ludwigs being poor, Mary became a servant girl in the family of Doctor William Irvine, a gentleman living in Carolina. It was while employed in Doctor Irvine's household, no doubt, that "Molly," as she was familiarly known, first learned to love the country of her birth, and there she developed that patriotism and loyalty that was one day to make the humble servant girl a soldier and heroine.
​ Through the din of battle, the heat of summer and the difficulty of winter the gunner and his wife followed the fortunes of the American army. But it was not until the retreat of our forces at Fort Clinton that Molly's first deed of daring became a by-word in tent and camp. Finding that it was necessary to leave the enemy in Pennsylvania, Hays started to fire his gun as a parting salute to the British, but in the rush and confusion of the moment he dropped his lighted match. There was no time to lose, and there was danger of being captured, so he did not stop, but Molly, who was behind him, seized the match from the ground, ran to the gun, touched it off, and then scampered down the hill as fast as her legs could carry her, to join the soldiers. This happened some months before the famous battle of Monmouth.
Down in Monmouth Mountain the people never dreamed that there would be any fighting in their midst. The murmur of the sea on one side and the murmur of the pine forest on the other made a melody of sound that shut out the roar of warfare, so that the tramp, tramp, tramp of the British army that suddenly aroused them must have been a very great surprise. Sir Henry Clinton had succeeded to the command of the British army, with orders to New York and a line of march through the Jerseys. And so it happened that Monmouth became the scene of conflict, Washington, with his troops, having pressed forward to head them off. Halting at a little place called Allentown, the English commander found the American forces at his front. He pushed on, however, and on the twenty-seventh of June encamped at Monmouth Courthouse, on rising ground, hemmed in on all sides by woods and marshes. General Washington, with grave deliberation, decided to risk the fight, and although the battle was heartily contested, the American army was victorious. That memorable Sunday, the twenty-eighth of June, 1778, was the hottest day that year. Yet, ​ through the dust and heat and smoke, Molly, the gunner's wife, parried water to her husband and the soldiers on the field all day. The little spring from which she fetched the water was at the bottom of the hill and, instead of a pail, she brought it in a pitcher, and this was the origin of her name, "Molly Pitcher," among the soldiers—a name that, from that day has become historic. There had been a fierce charge of the enemy's cavalry on Hays' gun, and just as she was returning with a refreshing draught for the almost perishing men, she saw her husband fall, mortally wounded. Rushing forward, she heard an officer say, "Wheel back the gun, there is no one here to serve it!" Checking the blinding rush of tears, Molly threw down her pitcher and seized the rammer of the gun. "I will fire it," she said, and taking her place beside the dead gunner's cannon she filled his place during the rest of the day.
The next day General Greene sent for Molly and brought her up to General Washington, who praised her for her courage, and presented her then and there with the commission of sergeant in the Continental army. As the half-dazed Molly stood before the great General in her soldier's coat and cap cheer after cheer for "Sergeant Molly Pitcher" went up from ten thousand throats. It must have been a stirring picture. Stately Washington and the blood-stained, smoke-begrimed figure of the gunner's wife.
The battle of Monmouth was the only battle of the Revolution in which every one of the thirteen colonies was represented, so Sergeant Molly's heroism is a matter of National as well as local pride. For eight years she did her part in the great struggle and when the war was over she went back to her old home in Carlisle, where she engaged employment as a nurse, and where in later years she kept a little shop. To the soldiers she was always Captain Molly Pitcher and the French officers and soldiers admired the woman soldier so ​ much that whenever she passed their lines her sergeant's cocked hat was always filled with French coins. By a special act of state legislature she was given a pension of eighty dollars a year.
There is more than a thrilling story in this woman's life; there is a lesson of loyalty and courage; a lesson of a life not to be spoiled by praise and popularity.
"Oh Molly, Molly with eyes so blue,
Oh Molly, Molly here's to you,
Sweet honor's role will aye be richer
To hold the name of Molly Pitcher."
MARY SLOCUMB.
If a plain, unvarnished narrative of the sayings and doings of the actors in our Revolutionary times—those unknown by name save in the neighborhood where they lived—could by some miraculous means be gathered and published, it would surpass in thrilling interest any romance ever written. And one of the most remarkable chapters of such a volume undoubtedly would be the career of Mary Slocumb. Her maiden name was Hooks and she was born in North Carolina in 1760. When she was about ten years old, her father moved into a region called Goshen, famous for years in North Carolina for the frank simplicity of its inhabitants and for their profuse and generous hospitality. Here were nurtured some of the noblest spirits of the Revolution. The constant presence of the Loyalists and Tories in the neighborhood and their depredations called for vigilance as well as bravery. Sometimes the barn or dwelling of an unfortunate Whig wrapt in flames lighted up the darkness; sometimes his fate was to be hung to a sapling and not infrequently similar atrocities were in like manner avenged upon the aggressors.
Accustomed to hear of such things and inured to scenes of danger, it is not to be wondered at that the gay and sprightly Mary Hooks should acquire a degree of masculine energy and independence with many really manly accomplishments, all of which stood her in good stead in the days to follow when her strength as well as her spirit were tried as the wife of a fighting patriot. Soon after the removal of the family to Goshen, her mother died and in 1777 her father married the widow of John Charles Slocumb, whose eldest son, Ezekiel Slocumb, eventually took her as an eighteen-year-old bride to his large plantation on the Neuse. To prevent and punish the frequent incursions of the Tories, her husband joined a troop of light-horse who, acting on their own responsibility, performed the duty of scouts, scouring the coantry wherever they had notice of any necessity for their ​ presence. In these prolonged absences, young Mary Slocumb took the entire charge of the plantation. She used to say laughingly that she had done in those perilous times all that a man ever did, except "mauling rails," and to take away even that exception she went out one day and split a few!
While her husband was away on one of his excursions, General Tarleton and a large division of the British army took possession of his plantation, and the young wife was torn with anxiety lest Lieutenant Slocumb, who was known to be somewhere in the vicinity, should return to his home all unsuspecting and walk into the enemy's ambush. Yet her conduct betrayed none of this; with splendid dignity, rare in one so young, she received these invaders of her home and she addressed herself immediately to preparing a dinner of much elaborateness for the uninvited guests, but dispatching in secret a messenger to warn the American scouts.
Before the messenger could discover Lieutenant Slocumb's whereabouts in the wood, a party of British soldiers, whom Tarleton had sent out to reconnoiter, blundered upon the American scouters and in the skirmish that ensued, the sounds of which were heard with sinking heart by Mrs. Slocumb, more than half the British company was shot down, and suddenly, before the astonished British officers and the terrified wife, the owner of the plantation dashed into sight in hot pursuit of the retreating Tory who had been in command of the British troop. Mrs. Slocumb's messenger, an old negro, known as "Big George," sprang directly in front of his horse, shouting "Hold on, massa, de debbil here. Look you!" The imprudent young officer at once perceived the peril into which he had ridden. A gesture from his wife indicated the great encampment of some eleven hundred men in occupancy of his plantation and, quick as thought, he dashed down the avenue directly towards the house, calling the few Americans who were with him. On reaching the garden fence—a rude structure formed of a kind of lath and called a wattle fence—they leaped that and the next, amid a shower of balls, crossed a stream at one tremendous leap and scoured away across an open field and were in the shelter of the wood before their pursuers could clear the fence of the inclosure. A platoon had begun the pursuit but the trumpets sounded the recall before the flying Americans had crossed the stream, for the presence of mind and lofty language of the heroic wife had convinced the British Colonel that the daring men who so fearlessly dashed into his camp were supported by a formidable force near at hand. Had Mrs. Slocumb not so diplomatically concealed the truth, and the fugitives pursued, nothing could have prevented the destruction not only of the four who fled but the rest of the pitifully slender company of American scouts on the other side of the plantation.
As Tarleton walked into the house, he observed to the brave woman: "Your husband made us a short visit, madam, I should have been happy to make his acquaintance."
"I have little doubt," replied the wife, "that you will meet again the gentleman and he will thank you for the polite treatment you have afforded his wife!"
The Colonel mumbled an apology that necessity compelled them to occupy her property, but it is worthy of remark that he removed his troops before long and when the British army broke up their encampment at her plantation, a ser​ geant was ordered by Colonel Tarleton to stand in the door till the last soldier had gone out, to insure protection to a woman whose noble spirit had inspired him with the most profound respect.
The most remarkable occurrence in the career of this patriotic wife was the dream which led to her being the heroine of the battle at Moore's Creek, one of the bloodiest battles of the Revolution. Her husband, now Colonel Slocumb, was accustomed to dwell lightly on the gallant part borne by himself in that memorable action but he would give abundant praise to his associates, and he would add: "My wife was there." She was indeed; but the story is best told in her own words. "The troop left from this house with my husband Sunday morning and they got off in high spirits; every man stepping high and light. I slept soundly and quietly that night and worked hard all the next day, but I kept thinking where they got to—how far; when and how many Tories they would meet and all that, I could not keep myself from the study, and when I went to bed at the usual time I could not sleep for it. As I lay—whether waking or sleeping I know not, I had a dream; yet it was not all a dream. I saw distinctly a body wrapped in my husband's guard cloak—bloody—dead; and other dead and wounded all about him. I uttered a cry and sprang to my feet, and so strong was the impression on my mind that I rushed in the direction in which the vision appeared and came up against the side of the house. Seated on the bed I reflected a few moments; then said aloud: T must go to him.' I told my woman that I could not sleep and would ride down the road, and although she appeared in great alarm, I reassured her, telling her merely to lock the door after me and look after my little child. I went to the stable, saddled my mare, and in one minute we were tearing down the road at full speed. Again and again I was tempted to turn back. I was soon ten miles from home and my mind became stronger every mile I rode. That I should find my husband dead or dying was as firmly my presentiment and conviction as any fact of my life. When day broke I was thirty miles from home. I knew the general route our little army was to take and followed them without hesitation. Again I was skimming over the ground through a country thinly settled but neither my spirit nor my beautiful nag's failed in the least. We followed the well-marked trail of the troops.
"The sun must have been well up, say eight or nine o'clock, when I heard a sound like thunder which I knew must be a cannon. I stopped still; when presently the cannon thundered again—I spoke to my mare and dashed on in the direction of the fighting, and the shots and shouts now grew louder than ever. The blind path I had been following brought me into the Wilmington road leading to Moore's Creek Bridge a few hundred yards below the bridge, and a little distance from the road were lying perhaps twenty men. They were all wounded. Suddenly I knew the spot; the very trees and the position of the men I knew as if I had seen it a thousand times. I had seen it all night—it was my dream come true. In an instant my whole soul was centered upon one spot, for there, wrapped in his bloody guard-cloak, was, I was sure, my husband's body. I remember uncovering the head and seeing a face clothed with blood from a dreadful wound across the temple. I put my hand on the bloody face, and found it warm, but suddenly an unknown voice begged for water. A small camp-kettle was lying ​ near and a stream of water was nearby. I brought it; poured some in his mouth; washed his face and behold it was Frank Cogdell—not my husband. He soon revived and could speak, and as I washed the wound in his head he said: 'It is not that; it is that hole in my leg that is killing me.' I took his knife, cut away his trousers and stocking and found that the blood came from a shot-hole through and through the fleshy part of his leg. I looked about and could see nothing that looked as if it would do for dressing wounds but heart-leaves, so I gathered a handful and bound them tight to the holes, and the bleeding stopped. I then went to the others and dressed the wounds of many a brave fellow who did good fighting long after that day. When the General appeared, he seemed very much surprised and was with his hat in his hand about to pay me some compliment when I interrupted him by asking: 'Where is my husband?' 'Where he ought to be, madam, in pursuit of the enemy. But pray,’ said he, 'How came you here?'
"'Oh, I thought,' replied I, 'you would need nurses as well as soldiers. See! I have already dressed many of these good fellows, and there is one'—going to Frank Cogdell and lifting him up with my arm under his head so that he could drink some more water—'who would have died before any of you men could have helped him.'
"'I believe you,' said Frank. Just then I looked up and, my husband as bloody as a butcher and as muddy as a ditcher, stood before me.
"'Why Mary,' he exclaimed. 'What are you doing there ? Hugging Frank Cogdell, the greatest reprobate in the army?'
"'I don't care,' I cried. 'Frank is a brave fellow, a good soldier and a true friend to Congress.'
"'True, true, every word of it,' said the General with the lowest kind of a bow.
"I would not tell my husband of my dream that had brought me; I was so happy, and so were all. It was a glorious victory. I knew my husband was surprised but I could see he was not displeased with me. It was night again before our excitement had at all subsided. But in the middle of the night I again mounted my mare and started for home. The General and my husband wanted me to stay until the next morning and they would send a party with me; but no, I wanted to see my child and I told them they could send no party that could keep up with me! What a happy ride I had back. And with what joy did I embrace my child as he ran to meet me."
In these days of railroads and steam, it can scarcely be credited that a woman actually rode alone in the night through a wild, unsettled country, a distance—going and coming—of a hundred and twenty-five miles; and in less than forty hours and without any interval of rest. Yet such was the feat of Mary Slocumb, and such was the altogether natural manner of relating her heroic deed, that it is as a modern woman might speak of having attended a social function of a somewhat exciting nature.
Of course, there are various explanations to be offered for the vision that produced an impression so powerful as to determine this resolute wife upon her nocturnal expedition to the battlefield, but the idea of danger to her husband, which banished sleep, was sufficient to call up the illusion to her excited imagination. ​ Mrs. Slocumb possessed a strong and original mind, a commanding intellect and clear judgment which she retained unimpaired to the time of her death. Her characteristic fortitude in the endurance of bodily pain—so great that it seemed absolute stoicism — should be noticed. In her seventy-second year she was afflicted with a cancer on her hand which the surgeon informed her must be removed with a knife. At the time appointed for the operation, she protested against being held by the assistants, telling the surgeon: "It was his business to cut out the cancer; she would take care of the arm," and bracing her arm on the table, she never moved a muscle nor uttered a groan during the operation.
At the age of seventy-six, on the sixth of March, 1836, she sank quietly to rest in the happy home on the plantation "Pleasant Green," where all these exciting scenes and stiring events of the Revolution had taken place.
SARAH REEVE GIBBES.
No better picture of the distress and, indeed, the cataclysm that the later campaigns of the Revolution brought into southern life can be offered than the story of the experiences of Sarah Reeve Gibbes. She was married when about eighteen to Robert Gibbes, a man considerably older than herself, but who possessed wealth and was in every case one of those gentlemen of the old school of whom South Carolina has justly made her boast. He had a house in Charleston, which had been the girlhood home of Miss Sarah Reeve, but they both preferred to spend most of the year at his country seat and plantation on John's Island, about two hours sail from the city. This was a splendid place, the various clusters of buildings resembling a settlement rather than one estate, while the beautifully laid-out grounds and shaded walks gave a most inviting aspect, and earned for its large, square, ancient-looking stone mansion the name of "Peaceful Retreat." Here the young wife devoted herself with earnestness to the duties before her. The children that came to them were many and strong, but before they were fully grown she assumed the care of seven orphan children of the sister of Mr. Gibbes, who at her death had left them and their estate to his guardianship. Two other children were before long added to her charge. Then she saw her husband gradually become a chair-ridden invalid with gout, and the management of the estate, with the writing on business it required, devolved absolutely upon Mrs. Gibbes. The multiplied cares involved in meeting all these responsibilities, together with the superintendence of household concerns, required a rare degree of energy and activity, yet the mistress of this well-ordered establishment dispensed the hospitality of "Peaceful Retreat" with such grace that it became famous. Unable by reason of his affliction to take active part in the war, the feelings of Robert Gibbes were nevertheless warmly enlisted on the republican side and their house was ever open for the reception and entertainment of the friends of liberty. It was doubtless the fame of the luxurious living at this delightful country-seat which attracted the attention of the British during the invasion of Prevost, while the Royal army kept possession of the seaboard about Charleston. A battalion of British and Hessians determining to quarter themselves in so desirable a spot, arrived at the landing at the dead of night, and marching up in silence, surrounded the house. ​ The day had not begun to dawn when an aged and faithful servant tapped softly at the door of "Miss Gibbes'" apartment. The whisper "Mistress, the redcoats are all around the house," was the first intimation of their danger. "Tell no one, Caesar, but keep all quiet," she replied promptly, and her preparations for receiving the intruders were instantly begun. Having dressed herself quickly she went upstairs, waked several women guests and requested them to dress with all haste. In the meantime the domestics had waked the children, of whom with her own and those under her care, there were sixteen, the eldest being only fifteen years old. Mrs. Gibbes then assisted her husband as was her custom, to rise and dress and had him placed in his rolling chair. All these arrangements were made without the least confusion and so silently that the British had no idea any one was yet awake within the house. The object of all this preparation, by the clever woman, was to prevent violence on the enemy's part, by showing them at once that the mansion was inhabited only by those who were unable to defend themselves. The impressive manner in which Mrs. Gibbes drew the curtain on her pathetic drama produced its effect even on the hardened soldiers. The invaders had no knowledge that the inmates were aware of their presence till daylight, when the heavy rolling of Mr. Gibbes' invalid chair across the great hall toward the front door was heard. Supposing the sound to be the rolling of a cannon, the soldiers advanced and stood prepared, with pointed bayonets to rush in when the signal for assault should be given.
As the door was thrown open and the stately, though helpless form of the invalid was presented, surrounded by women and children, they drew back and, startled into an involuntary expression of respect, presented arms. Mr. Gibbes addressed them, and for a moment the pathos of his words seemed to halt the intended invasion. The British officers, however, soon took possession of the house, leaving the premises to their men, and making no proviso against pillage; so the soldiers roved over the place at their pleasure, helping themselves to whatever they chose, breaking into the wineroom, drinking to intoxication and seizing upon and carrying off the negroes.
Within the mansion, the energy and self-possession of Mrs. Gibbes still protected her family. The appearance of fear or confusion might have tempted the invaders to incivility; but it was impossible for them to treat otherwise than with deference a lady whose calm, quiet deportment commanded their highest respect. Maintaining her place as mistress of the household and presiding at her table, she treated her uninvited guests with a dignified courtesy that insured civility while it prevented presumptuous familiarity. The boldest and rudest among them bowed willingly to an influence which fear or force could neither have secured.
When the news of the occupation of the Gibbes Plantation—no longer, alas! in reality "Peaceful Retreat"—by the British reached Charleston, the authorities dispatched two galleys to dislodge them. The men were given strict instructions not to fire on the house for fear of injury to any of the helpless family, but it could not be known to Mrs. Gibbes that such a caution was to be taken, and as soon as the Americans began to fire, she decided that she must seek a place of safety for her family. The horses being in the enemy's hands, they had no means of conveyance, but Mrs. Gibbes, undaunted and desperate, to secure shelter for ​ her helpless charges, set off to walk with the children and her husband—the latter pushed in his chair by a faithful servant—to an adjoining plantation. A drizzling rain was falling, and the weather was extremely chilly; moreover the firing from the boats was incessant and in a direction which was in range with the course of the fugitives. The shot falling around them cut the bushes and struck trees on every side. Exposed each moment to this imminent danger, they continued their flight with as much haste as possible for about a mile when they were at least beyond reach of the shot.
Having reached the house occupied by the negro laborers on the plantation, they stopped for a few moments to rest, and Mrs. Gibbes, wet, chilled, and exhausted by fatigue and mental anxiety, felt her strength utterly fail and she was obliged to wrap herself in a blanket and lie down upon one of the beds. Then, just when the fleeing party first drew breath freely, thankful that the fears of death were over, it was discovered, on reviewing the trembling group, that a little boy, John Fenwick, was missing. In the hurry and the terror of the flight, the child had been forgotten and left behind. Mrs. Gibbes not being equal to further effort she was obliged to see her little daughter, only thirteen years of age, set out upon the fearful peril of a return journey to the house. The girl reached the house still in possession of the enemy and persuaded the sentinel to allow her to enter. She found the child in a room in the third story, and lifting him joyfully in her arms, carried him down and fled with him to the spot where her anxious parents were awaiting her return. The shot flew thickly around her, frequently throwing up the earth in her way, but with something of her mother's intrepidity, she had pushed through in safety.
Some time after these occurrences, when the family were again inmates of their own home, a battle was fought in a neighboring field. When the struggle was over, Mrs. Gibbes sent her servants to search among the slain for her nephew who had not returned. They identified him by his clothes, his face being so covered with wounds that he could never have been recognized. Life was, however, not extinct, and under the unremitting care of his aunt, he eventually recovered.
In after years, Mrs. Gibbes was accustomed to point out the spot where her eldest son when only sixteen years old had been placed as a sentinel, while British ships were in the river and their fire was poured on him. She would relate how, with a mother's agony of solicitude, she watched the balls as they struck the earth around him, while the youthful soldier maintained his dangerous post notwithstanding the entreaties of an old negro servant who hid behind a tree.
So, we, who enjoy the liberty and peace purchased at such fearful cost, cannot fully estimate the sacrifice of the heroines of the Revolutionary War. Sarah Reeve Gibbs exhibited always the same composure and the readiness to meet every emergency with the same benevolent sympathy for all unfortunates.
Mrs. Gibbes had a cultivated mind, and in spite of her many cares, still found leisure for literary occupation. Volumes of her writings remain, filled with well-selected extracts from the many books she read and accompanied by her own comments; also essays on various subjects, poetry, and copies of letters to her friends. Most of her letters were written after the war, and beside expressing the ​ tenderest sensibility and refinement, throw interesting light on the pitiable condition of the southern sections at that time.
During the latter part of her life she resided at "Wilton," the country seat of a friend, "Peaceful Retreat" having become uninhabitable. At "Wilton" she died in 1825, at the age of seventy-nine. Her remains, however, were laid to rest in the family burial ground upon John's Island, the scene of her trials during the days of bloodshed and ruthlessness in the Revolutionary War.
HANNAH CALDWELL.
Not numbered among the heroic, the strong, the dashing or the prominent in the records of the Revolution but held in memory as one of its martyrs, is the name of Hannah Caldwell, whose barbarous murder was perpetrated not as "an act of vengeance upon an individual, but with the design of striking terror into the country and compelling the inhabitants to submission."
So far from producing this effect, however, the crime aroused the whole community to a state of belligerency before unknown. One of the journals of the day says: "The Caldwell tragedy has raised the resolution of the country to the highest pitch. They are ready almost to swear enmity to the name of Britain."
And yet, there was probably no one in all the colonies who was leading a quieter or more peaceful life than Hannah Caldwell. She was the daughter of John Ogden of Newark, and Hannah Sayre, a descendant of the Pilgrims. Her brothers were all stout Whigs, and in 1763 she married the Rev. James Caldwell, pastor of the first Presbyterian church in Elizabethtown (the Elizabeth of to-day), New Jersey, and he was one of the earliest to espouse the cause of this country. Her husband acted as chaplain of the Americans who occupied New Jersey, and his zeal in throwing the influence of his eloquence for the cause of freedom rendered him obnoxious to the enemy, and at length a price was put upon his head. It is said that while preaching the Gospel to his people he was often forced to lay his loaded pistols by his side in the pulpit. The church in which he preached became a hospital for the sick and wounded of the American army and the weary soldiers often slept upon its floor and ate their hurried and scanty meals from the seats of the pews so that worshippers were not infrequently compelled to stand through the service. But even this shelter the British and Tories, because of their anger toward the pastor of the church, determined to destroy, and accordingly it was burned with the parsonage on the night of January 25, 1780. The wife, Hannah Caldwell, fled into the interior of the state with her nine children, but even here there seemed no peace, for a body of Hessian and British troops had landed on the New Jersey coasts and were proceeding to spread devastation and terror throughout the colony. When informed of the enemy's approach, the pastor put his elder children into a baggage wagon which was in his possession as commissary, and sent them to some of his friends for protection. But three of the youngest, with an infant about eight months old, remained with their mother in the house, Mr. Caldwell having no fears for the safety of his wife and young family since he believed it impossible that "resentment could be extended to a mother watching over her little ones," He was called to join the force collecting to oppose ​ the British marauders, and early in the morning, while his wife was handing him a cup of coffee, which he drank as he sat on horseback, he saw the gleam of British arms in the distance, and he put spurs to his horse. What followed is best given in the simple terrible account of the crime. Mrs. Caldwell herself felt no alarm. She placed several articles of value in a bucket and let it down into the well, and filled her pockets with silver and jewelry. She saw that the house was put in order and then dressed herself with care that, should the enemy enter her dwelling, she might, to use her own expression, "receive them as a lady." She then took the infant in her arms, retired to her chamber, the window of which commanded a view of the road, and seated herself upon the bed. The alarm was given that the soldiers were at hand. But she felt confident that no one could have the heart to do injury to the helpless inmates of her house. Again and again she said: "They will respect a mother." She had just nursed the infant and given it to the maid. A soldier left the road and, crossing a space of ground diagonally to reach the house, came to the window of the room, put his gun close to it and fired. Two balls entered the breast of Mrs. Caldwell; she fell back on the bed and in a moment expired.
After the murder Mrs. Caldwell's dress was cut open and her pockets were rifled by the soldiers. Her remains were conveyed to a house on the other side of the road, the dwelling was then fired and reduced to ashes with all the furniture, but the ruthless soldiers evidently desired her death to be known, that such a fate might intimidate the countryside.
Some attempts were made by the Royalist party to escape the odium of the frightful outrage by pretending that Mrs. Caldwell had been killed by a chance shot. The actual evidence, however, sets beyond question the fact that one of the enemy was the murderer and there is much reason to believe that the deed was deliberately ordered by those high in authority.
It seems peculiarly sad that such an end should have been the fate of a woman known as Hannah Caldwell was for her benevolence, serenity and sweetness of disposition, but the memory of this martyr to American liberty will long be revered by the inhabitants of the land, with whose soil her blood has mingled.
REBECCA BARLOW.
Rebecca Barlow was the daughter of Eli Nathan Sanford of Reading, Connecticut. By her marriage to Aaron Barlow she became the sister-in-law of Joel Barlow, the poet, philosopher and politician who, it is believed, owed much of the formation of his mind and character to this wife of his elder brother. Much of his time in early life was spent in the society of this sister-in-law, who was a woman of strong mind, and he has admitted that he wrote the "Columbiad" and other works under her inspiration.
When the stirring scenes of the Revolution began, both brothers felt called upon to act their part. The husband of Rebecca Barlow entering the service of his country was in a short time promoted to the rank of colonel. His military duties requiring long absences from home, the young wife was left in the entire charge of their estate and of their helpless little ones. At one time a rumor came ​ that the British army was approaching and would probably reach her town that very night. The terrified inhabitants resolved on instant flight and each family, gathering together such of their effects as they could take with them, left the village and traveled the whole night to reach the only place of refuge available. Mrs. Barlow could not carry away her children and to leave them was out of the question. She therefore remained to protect them or share their fate in the deserted village. No enemy, however, was near, the groundless alarm having been excited by the firing of some guns below. The story of Mrs. Barlow's heroism in remaining alone in the village when the attack from the British was expected reached the ears of bluff General Putnam, then in command of a brigade of American troops in the vicinity. It is said that feeling a curiosity to make the acquaintance of a woman whose character so met with his strong appreciation, he took a stroll over the fields toward her house, wearing the clothes of a countryman, his ostensible errand being a neighborly request that Mrs. Barlow would be kind enough to lend him a little yeast for baking. Without ceremony he entered the kitchen, where the matron was busily engaged in preparing breakfast, and asked for the yeast. She had none to give, and told him so each time his request was repeated, without stopping her employment to look at the face of her visitor. It was not until after his departure that she was informed by her old black servant who it was who had asked the favor with such importunity. "I suppose," was her remark, "had I known him I should have treated him with rather more civility, but it is no matter now." General Putnam came away from the interview declaring that she was the proper material for the matrons of the infant nation. A few years after the war ended Colonel Barlow with his family removed to Norfolk, Virginia, where he subsequently fell a victim to the yellow fever, and after the burial of her husband and daughter Rebecca Barlow returned to her former home in Connecticut, where she died at an advanced age. Some of her sons have rendered important services to their country as statesmen. The youngest, Thomas, accompanied his uncle Joel, when serving as Minister Plenipotentiary at the court of France, as his secretary, and after the death of his uncle, in the winter of 1813 escorted his wife who had been left in Paris, to America. The remains of the Minister were brought with them and placed in the family vault at Washington.
ANNA BAILEY.
In every sense of the word Anna Bailey may be called a Daughter cf the Revolution. At the time of the burning of New London, Connecticut, a detachment of the army of the traitor Arnold was directed to attack Fort Griswold, at Groton, on the opposite bank of the river. This fort was little more than a rude embankment of earth thrown up as a breastwork for the handful of troops it surrounded. Although the garrison defending it, under the command of the brave Colonel Ledyard, stood their ground they were overwhelmed by numbers, and after a fierce and bloody encounter the result was indiscriminate butchery of the Americans. On the morning after this massacre Mrs. Anna Bailey, then a young woman, left her home three miles distant and came in search of her uncle, who had joined the volunteers on the first alarm of invasion and was known to have been ​ engaged in the disastrous conflict. His niece found him in a house near the scene of slaughter, wounded unto death. It was evident that life was fast departing. Perfect consciousness still remained and with dying energy he entreated that he might once more behold his wife and child. Such a request was sacred to the affectionate and sympathetic girl. She lost no time in hastening home, where she caught and saddled the horse used by the family, placed upon the animal the delicate wife, whose strength would not permit her to walk, and taking the child herself, bore it in her arms the whole distance and presented it to receive the blessing of its dying father.
With pictures of cruelty like the scene at Groton fresh in her memory, it is not surprising that Mrs. Bailey during the subsequent years of her life was noted for bitterness of feeling toward the enemies of her country. In those times of trial she nourished the ardent love of her native land and the energy and resolution which in later days prompted the patriotic act that has made her name so celebrated as the "Heroine of Groton." On the 13th of July, 1813, a British squadron appearing in New London Harbor, an attack, evidently the enemy's object, was momentarily expected. The most intense excitement prevailed among the crowds assembled on both sides of the river, and the ancient fort was again manned for a desperate defence. In the midst of the preparations for resistance, however, it was discovered that there was a want of flannel to make the cartridges. There being no time to cross the ferry to New London, Mrs. Bailey proposed appealing to the people living in the neighborhood, and herself went from house to house to make the collection, even taking garments from her own person to contribute to the stock. This characteristic instance of enthusiasm in the cause of her country, together with the impression produced by her remarkable character, acquired for her a degree of popularity which elevated her, as "Mother Bailey," to almost the position of patron saint in her state.
Her maiden name was Anna Marner until she married Captain Elijah Bailey of Groton. Her descendants throughout Connecticut have made a museum of Revolutionary relics from her belongings, but her gift to them has been the inheritance of strong mental faculties and ardent patriotism.
EMILY GEIGER.
In South Carolina, Emily Geiger's ride, though not as dramatic, is accorded all the eulogy of that of Paul Revere, as wrung from New England. It occurred when General Nathaniel Greene was moving his army toward Ninety-six, the most important post in the interior of South Carolina—it being his intention, to capture this place if possible. Pursued by the British army under Lord Rawdon, he withdrew northward across the Saluda river. Here he heard that Rawdon's force had been divided and therefore immediately determined to send for General Sumter a hundred miles away, so that together they might make an attack upon the General. But in order to do this a courier must be dispatched quickly, and the journey was a difficult one through forests and across many rivers. By far the greatest hazard, however, lay in the fact that British soldiers guarded all the roads and that a large portion of the people living in that region were Tories. Indeed the ​ difficulty was so great that no man would undertake the mission. At last a girl eighteen years old came to General Greene and offered her services for the desperate enterprise. This was Emily, daughter of John Geiger. The father was a true patriot, but being a cripple, was unable to serve as a soldier, and the daughter was anxious for a chance to have the family do something for the country. She was an expert horseback rider and familiar with the roads for many miles around. At first General Greene refused to send a defenseless girl on such a journey. But she insisted that being a woman she could do it with less peril than any man, and at length the General consented, giving her a letter to General Sumter. The first thing she did was to commit to memory the entire letter. Then she made ready for her journey. Unarmed, without provisions, this young girl bade the General and her friends good-bye and sped away.
She had crossed the Saluda River and was nearing Columbia when she was halted by three of Rawdon's scouts. To their questions she gave evasive answers, and observing that she came from the direction of the American army the scouts arrested her and took her directly to Lord Rawdon. She was not skilled in the art of concealing the truth and the British General became suspicious. Yet having the modesty not to search her himself, he sent for an old Tory matron who lived some distance away, as being more fitted for the purpose. Emily was not wanting in resource. As soon as the door was closed she tore the letter into bits, and one after another she chewed and swallowed the fragments. After a while the matron arrived. But although she ripped open every seam in the girl's garments she could find nothing contraband, and without further questioning Lord Rawdon permitted the girl to continue on her way. He even furnished her a guide to the house of one of her friends several miles distant. When the guide had left her she obtained a fresh horse from her patriot friend and continued her journey through swamp and forest by a circuitous road. The whole night long she rode until daylight, having been fully forty-eight hours in the saddle with the exception of the time lost at Rawdon's headquarters. After a short rest until early morning at the house of another patriot she pushed on. At three o'clock in the afternoon she rode into Sumter's camp, where almost fainting from fatigue and hunger, she delivered the message sent by General Greene. She had not forgotten one word of the letter and recited it from beginning to end as though she were reading it from the written sheet. Scarcely an hour passed before Sumter's army was ready for the march.
Two weeks after her ride of a hundred miles Emily Geiger returned home. She afterwards married a wealthy planter, and it is said that her descendants cherish a pair of ear-rings and a brooch given her by General Greene as well as a beautiful silk shawl presented to her by General Lafayette, when he was in this country in 1825.
ALICE IZARD.
Engraved by J. Rogers from the Painting by D. M. Carter.
MOLLY PITCHER AT THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH.
Chester. She was married in 1767 to Ralph Izard. Mr. Izard represented his country abroad for many years but during part of the Revolutionary War their home was in Dorchester, South Carolina. An interesting anecdote related of Mrs. Izard illustrates well to what a severe trial the courage of American women was put during this stormy period. Her husband's life was sought by the British because of his ardent support of the cause of the colonies. At one time a number of British soldiers from Charleston invaded their plantation, surrounded the house and demanded that Mr. Izard give himself up. There seemed no way of escape, but his wife hastily concealed him in a clothes-press, while she awaited the entrance of his enemies. The search was instituted, which, proving unsuccessful, the soldiers threatened to fire the house unless he surrendered himself. In their rage and disappointment they proceeded to ransack the house. They fell upon the wardrobe of Mr. Izard and the marauders arrayed themselves in his best coats. Valuable articles were seized in the presence of the mistress of the house, and an attempt was even made to tear the rings from her fingers—all of this being done to draw the fire of her temper and compel her to disclose her husband's whereabouts. But through all the trying scene Mrs. Izard preserved in a wonderful manner her self-control. So calm and dignified was she that the plunderers, doubting the correctness of the information they had received, and, perhaps, ashamed of themselves, withdrew. No sooner were they gone than Mr. Izard made his escape across the Ashley and gave notice to the Americans on the other side of the river of the approach of the enemy. The neighborhood rallied, met the British detachment, and so completely routed them that few of their party returned within their lines to relate the disaster.
After the Revolution Mr. and Mrs. Izard found their estate in a condition of lamentable dilapidation, and they would probably have come, as did many others at that period, to poverty and suffering but for the energy and good management of Mrs. Izard, who soon restored good order and rendered the "Elms," the old family residence, a seat of domestic comfort and liberal hospitality. During her husband's illness, which lasted several years, she was his devoted nurse, while the management of the estate, embarrassed by losses sustained during the war, devolved upon her. She conducted all of his business correspondence, and found time to read to him several hours every day, and notwithstanding these cares each day was marked by some deed of quiet charity. In the faithful preformance of the duties before her and in doing good for others her useful life was closed in 1832, in the eighty-seventh year of her age.
DORCAS RICHARDSON.
Dorcas Richardson, bearing more than her share of the terrible trials which fell to woman's lot in the Revolutionary War, affords a splendid example of the modest heroism and humble, cheerful faith of the women of that time. She was the daughter of Captain John Nelson, a native of Ireland, and was married at the age of twenty to Richard Richardson, with whom she went to live on a plantation on the Santee River in South Carolina. In this home of peace, contentment and abundance she enjoyed all the comforts of southern country life among the pros​ perous class until the outburst of that storm, in which the fortunes and happiness of so many patriots were wrecked. At the commencement of the war her husband was captain of a company of militia, and when the three regiments of regulars from South Carolina were raised and officered in 1775 he was made a colonel. But at the surrender of Charleston he was taken prisoner, and in violation of the terms of capitulation he was sent to a military station on Johns Island. With the aid of his wife he made his escape, and returned to the neighborhood of his home, where he concealed himself in the Santee Swamp. At this time the British troops had overrun the state, and Colonel Tarleton seized upon the house of Colonel Richardson as a station for his regiment of cavalry. The enemy lived luxuriously on the abundance of this richly-stocked plantation, but Mrs. Richardson was restricted to a single room and allowed but a scanty share of the provisions furnished from her own stores. Even here she exercised great self-denial, that the wants of the one dear to her might be supplied. Every day she sent food from her own small allowance to her husband in the swamp, by an old Negro, in whose care and discretion she could trust implicitly. Expecting the seizure of her horses and cattle by the British she had Colonel Richardson's favorite riding horse sent into the swamp for concealment. This horse was shut up in a covered pen in the woods, which had once been used for holding corn—thence his cognomen "Corncrib," a name which clung to the famous charger through the great battlefields on which he afterward figured. Mrs. Richardson not only sent provisions to her husband in his place of shelter but sometimes ventured to visit him, the stolen meetings being, of course, full of consolation to the fugitive soldier. The British being informed of Richardson's escape naturally concluded that he was somewhere in the vicinity of his family, and a diligent search was instituted, scouts being sent in every direction. It was only through the most determined efforts on the part of his wife that the searchers were frustrated. Not infrequently did the officers, in the most unfeeling manner boast in the presence of the wife of what they would do to her husband when they should capture him. On one occasion some of the officers displayed in the sight of Mrs. Richardson their swords reeking with blood, probably that of her cattle, and told her that it was the blood of her husband whom they had killed. At another time they said that he had been taken and hanged. And in this state of cruel suspense she sometimes remained for several successive days unable to learn the fate of her husband and not knowing whether to believe or distrust the horrible tales brought to her ears. Once only did she deign the reply, "I do not doubt" she said, "that men who can outrage the feelings of a woman by such threats are capable of erpetrating any act of treachery and inhumanity toward a brave but unfortunate enemy. But conquer or capture my husband if you can do so before you boast the cruelty with which you mean to mark your savage triumph. And let me tell you meanwhile that some of you, it is likely, will be in a condition to implore his favor before he will have need to supplicate or deign to accept yours." This prediction was literally verified in more than one instance during the remainder of the war.
One day, when the troops were absent on some expedition, Colonel Richardson ventured on a visit to his home, but before he thought of returning to his refuge in the forest, a patrolling party of the enemy appeared at the gate. Mrs. ​ Richardson's presence of mind and calm courage were in requisition, and proved the salvation of the hunted patriot. Seeing the British soldiers about to come in, she pretended to be intently busy about something in the front doorway and stood there retarding their entrance. The least appearance of agitation or fear, the least change of color, might have betrayed all by exciting suspicion, but with a self-control as rare as admirable she hushed even the wild beating of her heart, and continued to stand in the way till her husband had time to retire through the back door into the swamp near at hand.
Later Colonel Richardson left his retreat in the woods to go to the aid of General Marion, and together with a handful of men they made several successful sorties on the enemy. The British were not long in discovering that the Colonel had joined the force of Marion, and their conduct toward his wife was at once changed. One and all professed a profound respect for her brave and worthy husband, whose services they were desirous of securing. They endeavored to obtain her influence to prevail on him to join the Royal Army by promise of wealth and honorable promotion. The high-spirited wife treated all such offers with the contempt they deserved and refused to be made an instrument in their hands for the accomplishment of their purpose. She sent constant messages to her husband in his exile assuring him that she and the children were well, and provided with an abundance of everything necessary for their comfort. Thus with heroic artfulness did she conceal the privations and want she was suffering, lest her husband's solicitude for her and his family might tempt him to waver from strict obedience to the dictates of honor and patriotism.
When peace returned to shed its blessings over the land, Mrs. Richardson continued to reside in the same house with her family. Tarleton and his troopers had wasted the plantation and destroyed everything movable about the dwelling, but the buildings had been spared, and Colonel Richardson, who had been promoted for his meritorious service in the field, cheerfully resumed the occupation of a planter. His circumstances were much reduced by the chance of war, but a competence remained, which he and his wife enjoyed in tranquillity and happiness for many years.
Mrs. Richardson died in 1834 at the advanced age of ninety-three. She was remarkable throughout life for the calm judgment, fortitude and strength of mind, which had sustained her in the trials she suffered during the war, and protected her from injury and insult when surrounded by a lawless soldiery.
ELIZABETH FERGUSSON.
Elevated by her talents and attainments to a position of great influence and an intimacy with the great men of her time, Elizabeth Fergusson's life appears to have been darkened by sadness and the cloud of a charge of having attempted by bribery to corrupt a general of the Continental Army. And yet when she died, at sixty-three years of age, there was a wide circle of adherents who believed in her independence and integrity of character. She was born in 1739 and was the daughter of Doctor Thomas Graeme, living in a palatial home in Philadelphia afterward known as the Carpenter Mansion. When she was quite young her mother's death ​ called her to manage her father's house and to preside at the entertainments given for his visitors. Later the mansion became the headquarters of the literary coterie of that day, with Miss Graeme as presiding genius. Her brilliant intellect, her extensive and varied knowledge, her vivid fancy and cutivated taste made her an authority on things literary and political. It was at one of these evenings that she first saw Hugh Henry Fergusson, a young gentleman lately arrived in this country from Scotland. They were pleased with each other at the first interview being congenial in literary tastes and a love of retirement. Their marriage took place in a few months, notwithstanding the fact that Fergusson was ten years younger than Miss Graeme. Not long after this event Doctor Graeme died bequeathing to his daughter the country seat "Graeme Park," in Montgomery County, which she had always loved. But the happiness anticipated by Mrs. Fergusson in country seclusion and her books was of brief duration. The contentions were increasing between Great Britain and America and finally they resulted in the war for independence. It being necessary for Mr. Fergusson to take part with one or the other, he decided according to the prejudices natural to his birth, and espoused the royal cause. From this time on a separation took place between him and his wife, she feeling unable to look upon the desolations and miseries of her countrymen and have any sympathy with England. In spite of this protested sympathy for the American cause, and her secret acts of charity for the benefit of suffering American soldiers and their wives, she was to be accused of trying to purchase the close of the war for England. It happened in this way: In Philadelphia she met Governor Johnson, one of the commissioners sent under parliamentary authority to settle the differences between Great Britain and America.
He expressed a particular anxiety to have the influence of General Reed exerted toward ending the war, and asked Mrs. Fergusson, should she see the General to convey the idea that provided he could, "comfortably to his conscience and view of things," exert his influence to settle the dispute "he might command ten thousand guineas, and the best post in the government." In reply to Mrs. Fergusson's question as to whether General Reed would not look upon such a mode of obtaining his influence as a bribe, Johnson immediately disclaimed any such idea and said such a method of proceeding was common in all negotiations; that one might honorably make it to a man's interest to step forth in such a cause. In the end Mrs. Fergusson seems to have been persuaded, and she sought out General Reed, who on hearing the proposition brought by her from Governor Johnson made the prompt and noble reply, "I am not worth purchasing; but such as I am, the king of Great Britain is not rich enough to do it."
General Reed laid before Congress both the written and verbal communications of Governor Johnson, withholding, however, the name of the lady. But of course an account of the transaction was also published in the papers of the day and it was useless to attempt concealment of her name ; suspicion was at once directed to her and her name was called for by a resolution of the Executive Council of Pennsylvania. Congress issued a declaration condemning the "daring and atrocious" attempts made to corrupt its members and declaring it incompatible with their honor to hold any manner of correspondence with the said George Johnson. ​ Brilliant Elizabeth Fergusson reaped a harvest of censure and humiliation. In a letter to General Reed, she says: "I own I find it hard, knowing the uncorruptness of my heart to hold out to the public as a tool of the commissioners. But the impression is now made, and it is too late to recall it." And again from her now impoverished estate she writes: "Among the many mortifying insinuations that have been hinted on the subject none has so sensibly affected me as an intimation that some thought I acted a part in consequence of certain expectations of a post or some preferment from Mr. Johnstone to be conferred on the person dearest to me on earth."
And so, a careless political transaction deprived this woman of world-wide knowledge, of marked poetical talent and of a beautiful and benevolent spirit, of all the influence she once wielded so royally. She died at the house of a friend near Graeme Park, on the twenty-third of February, 1801.
ELIZABETH PEABODY.
Elizabeth Smith, better known as Mrs. Stephen Peabody, was the sister of Abigail Adams, and was also remarkable in character and influence. She was born in 1750 and married the Reverend John Shaw, of Haverhill. Her second husband was the Reverend Stephen Peabody, at Atkinson. Like her distinguished sister, she possessed superior powers of conversation, combined with a fine person and polished and courtly manners. Her house at Haverhill was the center of an elegant little circle of society for many years after the Revolution, and the most cultivated and learned from Boston and its vicinity gathered there.
Her correspondence shows her to have been an ardent patriot and advocate for her country. "Lost to virtue, lost to humanity must that person be," she writes to her brother-in-law, John Adams, "who can view without emotion the complicated distress of this injured land. Evil tidings molest our habitations and wound our peace. Oh, my brother! Oppression is enough to make a wise people mad."
Mrs. Peabody's very useful life terminated at the age of sixty-three.
JANE THOMAS.
It is in wild and stirring times that such spirits as Jane Thomas are matured and rise in their strength. She was a native of Chester County, Pennsylvania, and the sister of the Rev. John Black of Carlisle, the first president of Dickinson College. She was married about 1740 to John Thomas, supposed to be a native of Wales, who had been brought up in the same county. Some ten or fifteen years after their marriage Mr. Thomas removed to South Carolina. Their residence for some time was upon Fishing Creek in Chester District. About the year 1762 he removed to what is now called Spartanburg District and built a home upon Fair-forest Creek, a few miles above the spot where the line dividing that district from Union crossed the stream. From being adjutant and captain of the militia, Colonel Thomas was elected to lead the regiment raised in this district. In an engagement with the British early in the Revolution he was taken prisoner and ​ sent to Charleston, where he remained in durance until the close of the war. The district about his home was then continually robbed and pillaged by British invaders. The Whigs were robbed of their horses, cattle, clothing and every article of property of sufficient value to be taken away. In this state of things Mrs. Thomas showed herself a bright example of boldness of spirit and determination. While her husband was prisoner in a local jail before his removal to Charleston she paid a visit to him and her two sons, who were his companions in rigorous captivity. By chance she overheard a conversation between some Tory women, the purport of which deeply interested her. One said to the others, "To-morrow night the Loyalists intend to surprise the Rebels at Cedar Springs." The heart of Mrs. Thomas was thrilled with alarm at this intelligence, for Cedar Springs was within a few miles of her own house, and among the Whigs posted there were some of her own children.
Her resolution was taken at once for there was no time to be lost. She determined to warn them of the enemy's intention before the blow could be struck. Bidding a hurried adieu to her husband and sons she was upon the road as quickly as possible, rode the intervening distance of nearly sixty miles the next day, and arrived in time to give information of the impending danger. The moment this body of Whigs knew what was to be expected a party of consultation was held and measures were immediately taken for defence. So successful were their strategic preparations that when the foe advanced warily upon the supposed sleeping camp sudden flashes and shrill reports of rifles revealed the hidden champions of liberty and the British finding themselves assailed in the rear by the party they had expected to strike unawares gave themselves over to overwhelming defeat. The victory thus easily achieved was due to the spirit and courage of a woman. Such were the matrons of that day! Not merely upon this occasion was Mrs. Thomas active in arousing the spirit of independence among its advocates, and another instance of her intrepid energy is still remembered. Early in the war Governor Rutledge sent a quantity of arms and ammunition to the house of Colonel Thomas to be in readiness for any emergency that might arise. These arms were under a guard of twenty-five men, and the house was prepared to resist assault. When, however, word was brought to Colonel Thomas that a large party of Tories was advancing to attack him, he and his guard deemed it inexpedient to risk an encounter with a force so much superior to their own, and they retired, carrying off as much ammunition as possible. Mrs. Thomas was left alone with only two youths and a few women to guard the considerable supply of powder and arms which was necessarily left behind. The Tories advanced and took up their station, supposing the place to be heavily guarded, and demanded the treasure. Their call for admittance was answered by a volley from the upper story which proved most effectual. The old-fashioned batten-door, strongly barricaded, resisted their efforts to demolish it. Meanwhile Mrs. Thomas urged on the youths to continue their fire from the upper windows, she loading their guns as fast as they discharged them. Believing that many men were concealed in the house and apprehending a sally, the enemy retired as rapidly as their wounds would permit, little dreaming that almost the sole defender of the house had been a woman.
Mrs. Thomas was the mother of nine children and her sons and sons-in-law ​ were active in the American service. She thus became liable to some share in the enmity exhibited by the Royalists to another matron against whom the charge, "She has seven sons in the Rebel Army," was an excuse for depredations on her property. If Jane Thomas had but five sons she saw to it that her daughters married men who were both brave and efficient patriots.
Mrs. Thomas was a woman of considerable beauty, with black eyes and hair, fair complexion and a countenance sprightly and expressive. Soon after the close of the war Colonel Thomas and she removed to the Greenville District where they resided until their death.
MARTHA BRATTON.
The year 1780 was a dark period for the patriots of Carolina, and in this time of trial none bore the distress or aided the cause with more courage and sagacity than shrewd Colonel Bratton and his wife. Mrs. Bratton was a native of Rowan County, North Carolina, where she married William Bratton, a Pennsylvanian of Irish parentage, who resided in the York District in the state of South Carolina. Although Charleston surrendered, and General Lincoln and the American army became prisoners of war, the inhabitants of York District were offered British protection if they would swear allegiance to the crown. But almost to a man they refused to give their paroles, preferring resistance and exile to subjection and inglorious peace. Many of them banded themselves together under such men as Colonel Bratton, and harassed the victorious enemy by sudden and desultory attacks. They were unpaid, and depended on their own exertions for everything necessary to carry on the warfare. British officers and troops were dispatched to every nook and corner of South Carolina to banish every Whig with the utmost disregard of conditions, but the largest detachment of these was met and attacked by the party under the command of Colonel Bratton. From that time on a price was set on this patriot's head. It was at this time that the heroism of the wife of Colonel Bratton was nobly displayed. While her husband was at the front one night a British officer rudely entered her house demanding where her husband was.
"He is in Sumter's army," was the undaunted reply. The officer then essayed persuasion and proposed to Mrs. Bratton that she induce her husband to come in and join the Royalists, promising that he should have a commission in the royal service. Mrs. Bratton answered staunchly that she would rather see him remain true to duty and his country even if he perished in the American Army. Enraged at this he sought by violence to get the information that might endanger her husband's safety. He even stood by while one of the common soldiers, seizing a reaping hook that hung near them on the piazza, brought it to her throat with the intention of killing her. She would undoubtedly have died, taking the secret of her husband's hiding place with her to the grave, had not the officer second in command interposed and compelled the soldier to release her.
Mrs. Bratton was then ordered to prepare supper for the British and it may be conceived with what feelings she saw her house occupied by the enemies of her husband and her country and found herself compelled to minister to their wants. ​ What wild and gloomy thoughts had possession of her soul is evident from the desperate idea, afterwards confessed to, which ccurred to her of playing a Roman matron's part and mixing poison, which she had in the house, with the food they had to eat. But her noble nature shrank from such an expedient. She well knew the brave spirit that animated her husband and his comrades, and that her husband would not approve of such a desperate deed. They might even now be tagging the footsteps of this enemy; they might be watching the opportunity for an attack. She would not have them owe to a cowardly stratagem the victory they should win on the battlefield. So, having calmly prepared the repast, she retired with her children to an upper apartment.
After they had eaten, the British officer drew his men to another house about half a mile off to pass the night. They lay in camp about it, the guard keeping negligent watch and little dreaming of the scene that awaited them. Mrs. Bratton had, in the meantime, dispatched a trusted messenger to her husband with word of the position and number of the enemy. He thereupon marshalled his pitiful troop of only seventy-five men and proceeded against the impromptu British encampment attacking it rear and front at the same time. The British officer failed to rally his men, and the spirit and determined fervor of the patriots carried all before them. This victory was due to the presence of mind of one loyal American woman.
About daylight, when the firing had ceased, Mrs. Bratton ventured out, fearful of finding her nearest and dearest among the dead and dying lying about the building, but none of her loved ones had fallen. She opened her house to the wounded of both sides and humanely attended the sufferers in person, giving them indiscriminately, Loyalist and Whig alike, every relief and comfort in her power to bestow. The sequel to this chapter of her courage and resolution is interesting. The leader of the British troops having been slain in the battle, the next officer in command took his place and he was among the prisoners who surrendered to the Whigs. They determined to put him to death. He entreated as a last favor to be conducted to the presence of Mrs. Bratton. She instantly recognized him as the officer who had interfered and saved her life. Gratitude, as well as the mercy natural to woman's heart, prompted her now to intercede for him. She pleaded with an eloquence which, considering the share she had borne in the common distress and danger, could not be withstood. Her petition was granted. She procured the officer's deliverance from the death that awaited him and entertained him in her own house until he was exchanged. There is hardly a situation in romance or dramatic fiction which can surpass the interest and pathos of this simple incident.
Another anecdote is related of Mrs. Bratton. Before the fall of Charleston, when resistance throughout the state was in a great measure rendered impossible by the want of ammunition, Governor Rutledge had sent on a supply to the regiment to enable them to harass the invading army. The portion given to Colonel Bratton was in his absence from home confided to the care of his wife. Some Loyalists who heard of this informed the British officer in command of the nearest station and a detachment was immediately sent forward to secure the valuable prize. Mrs. Bratton was aware that there could be no chance of saving her charge but she resolved that the enemy should not have the benefit of it. She therefore ​ immediately laid a train of powder from the depot to the spot where she stood and when the British detachment came in sight set fire to the train and blew it up. The explosion which greeted the ears of the foe informed them that the object of their expedition was frustrated. The officer in command demanded who had dared to perpetrate such' an act, and swore vengeance upon the culprit. The intrepid woman answered for herself: "It was I who did it. Let the consequence be what it will I glory in having prevented the mischief contemplated by the cruel enemies of my country."
Colonel Bratton continued in active service throughout the war, and during his lengthened absences from home he was seldom able to see or communicate with his family. Mrs. Bratton, however, never complained, although herself a sufferer from the ravages of war, but devoted herself to the care of her family, striving at the same time to aid and encourage her neighbors. On the return of peace the husband resumed the cultivation of his farm. Grateful for the preservation of their lives and property, they did everything in their power to the other homes that had been wrecked by death and devastation. Mrs. Bratton died in 1816 and is buried near the scene of her distress and suffering during the war.
MRS. SPALDING.
The wife of a patriot during the Revolution should be sufficient title to a place among the world's heroines. But it is only through the lives of those few whose cases have passed them into the class of super-woman that we call emphasis to the brave spirit which must have upheld them. Of such an embodiment of the spirit of the Revolution was Mrs. Spalding, the wife of one of the patriots who took refuge in Florida, after Colonel Campbell had taken possession of Savannah. In 1778 Mrs. Spalding left her residence with her child when flight became necessary. Twice during the war she traversed two hundred miles between Savannah and St. John's River in an open boat, with only black servants on board, and the whole country a desert without a house to shelter her and her infant son. The first of these occasions was when she visited her father and brothers while prisoners in Savannah; the second, when in 1782 she went to congratulate her brothers and uncle in their victory. At one time she left Savannah in a ship of twenty guns, built in all points to resemble a sloop of war. Without the appearance of a cargo, it was in reality a small merchantman engaged in commerce. When they had been out some days, a large ship, painted black and showing twelve guns on a side, was seen to the windward running across their course. She was obviously a French privateer. The captain announced there was no hope to out-sail her should their course be altered nor would there be wisdom in conflict, as those ships usually carried one hundred and fifty men. Yet he rather thought if no effort were made to shun the privateer the appearance of his own ship might deter an attack. Word of the peril was sent to Mrs. Spalding, who was below, and after a few minutes the captain visited her to find a most touching scene. Mrs. Spalding had placed her children and the other inmates of the cabin in the two staterooms for safety, filling the berths with cots and bedding from the outer cabin. She had then taken her own station beside the scuttle which led from the outer cabin to the magazine, ​ and there she stood ready with two buckets of water. Having noticed that the two cabin boys were heedless she had determined to keep watch herself over the magazine. This she did until the danger was passed. The captain took in his light sails, opened his ports, and stood upon his course. The privateer waited until the ship was within a mile, then fired a gun to windward and stood on her way. The ruse had saved the merchantman. The incident may serve to show the spirit of this woman, who bore her bitter part in the perils of the Revolution.
MARGARET ARNOLD.
Defence as well as eulogy is occasionally necessary in reviewing the names of women who have been prominent in American history. Certainly explanation or investigation of fact is necessary in rightly judging the character of the wife of Benedict Arnold. John Jay, writing from Madrid when Arnold's crime had first become known, says, "All the world here curses Arnold and pities his wife." Robert Morris writes, "Poor Mrs. Arnold! Was there ever such an infernal villain!" But there are others who still believe in her complicity in her husband's plot to betray his country, and point to certain significant sentences in her correspondence with Andre as denoting that she knew at least something of her husband's treachery. The facts of her life would seem to support the theory that all her sympathy would naturally lie with the Loyalist's cause. She was Margaret Shippen of Philadelphia. Her father, Daniel Shippen, afterwards chief justice of Pennsylvania, was distinguished among the aristocracy of the day. He was prominent after the commencement of the contest among those known to cherish Loyalist principles—his daughters being educated in this persuasion and having their constant associations and sympathies with those who were opposed to American independence. Margaret was the youngest, only eighteen years of age, beautiful, fascinating and full of spirit, she acted as hostess of the British officers while their army occupied Philadelphia. This gay, young creature accustomed to the display of the "Pride of Life" and the homage paid to beauty in high station, was not one to resist the lure of ambition.
Her relatives, too, would seem to have passed their estimate upon the brilliant exterior of this young American officer, without a word of information or inquiry as to his character or principles. One of them writes boastfully in a letter, "I understand that General Arnold, a fine gentlemen, lays close siege to Peggy."
Some writers have taken delight in representing this woman who married Benedict Arnold as another Lady Macbeth, an unscrupulous and artful seductress whose ambition was the cause of her husband's crime. But there seems no real foundation even for the supposition that she was acquainted with his purpose of betraying his trust. She was not the person he would have chosen as the sharer of a secret so important, nor was the dissimulation attributed to her consistent with her character. It is likely, of course, that his extravagance was encouraged by his young wife's taste for display and she undoubtedly exercised no saving influence over him. Tn the words of one of his best biographers, "He had no domestic security for doing right—no fireside guardianship to protect him from the tempter. Rejecting, as we do utterly, the theory that his wife was the insti​ gator of his crime, we still believe that there was nothing in her influence or association to overcome the persuasions to which he ultimately yielded. She was young, gay and frivolous, fond of display and admiration and used to luxury; she was utterly unfitted for the duties and privations of a poor man's wife . . . Arnold had no counsellor in his home who urged him to the assumption of homely republican principles, to stimulate him to follow the ragged path of a Revolutionary patriot. He fell, and though his wife did not tempt or counsel him to ruin, there is no reason to think she ever uttered a word or made a sound to deter him." This was the judgment of Mr. Reed. Mrs. Sparks and others, who have closely investigated the subject, are in favor of Mrs. Arnold's innocence in the matter. We cannot but have great sympathy at least for the young wife, whose husband was to go down in history as the foremost traitor to his country.
It was after the plot was far advanced and only two days before General Washington commenced his tour, in the course of which he made his visit to West Point that Mrs. Arnold came thither with her baby to join her husband, making the journey in short stages in her own carriage. Near New York she was met by General Arnold, and proceeded up to headquarters. When Washington and his officers arrived at West Point, Lafayette reminded the General that Mrs. Arnold would be waiting breakfast, to which Washington answered, "Ah, you young men are all in love with Mrs. Arnold, and wish to get where she is as soon as possible. Go breakfast with her and do not wait for me." Mrs. Arnold was at breakfast with her husband and his aid-de-camp when the letter arrived which brought to the traitor the first intelligence of Andre's capture. He left the room, immediately went to his wife's chamber, sent for her and privately informed her of the necessity of his instant flight to the enemy. This, was perhaps the first intelligence she received of what had been so long going on, and the news so overwhelmed her that when Arnold went from the room he left her lying in a faint on the floor.
Her almost frantic condition is described with sympathy by Colonel Hamilton in a letter written the next day. "The General went to see her, and she upbraided him with being in a plot to murder her child. She raved, shut the doors and lamented the fate of the infant. All the loveliness of innocence, all the tenderness of a wife, and all the fondness of a mother showed themselves in her frenzied conduct." He, too, expressed his conviction that she had no knowledge of Arnold's plan until his announcement to her that he must banish himself from his country forever. Mrs. Arnold went from West Point to her father's house, but was not long permitted to remain in Philadelphia, the traitor's papers having been seized by direction of the executive authorities and the correspondence with Andre brought to light. Suspicion rested on her, and by an order of the council, dated April 27th, she was ordered to leave the state and return no more during the continuance of the war. She accordingly departed to join her husband in New York. The respect and forbearance shown towards her on her journey through the country, notwithstanding her banishment, testified to the popular belief in her innocence. It is related that when she stopped at a village where the people were about to burn Arnold in effigy they put it off until the next night. And when she entered the carriage on the way to join her husband all expression of popular ​ indignation was suspended as if respect for the shame she suffered overcame their indignation towards Arnold.
Mrs. Arnold resided with her husband for a time in the city of St. Johns, New Brunswick, and was long remembered by persons who knew her there. She afterwards lived in England, surviving her husband by three years, and died in London in 1804, at the age of forty-three. Little is known of her after the blasting of the bright promise of her youth by her husband's crime and a dreary obscurity hangs over the close of her career. It is to her credit that her relatives in Philadelphia always cherished her memory with respect and affection.
RACHEL CALDWELL.
The history of North Carolina is in many ways identified with the life of the Reverend David Caldwell and his wife Rachel Caldwell. Mrs. Caldwell was the third daughter of the Reverend Alexander Craidhead, the pastor of what was known as the Sugar Creek congregation, and in her early life she had a share in many of the trials and hardships of the Indian War; the attacks of the savages being frequent and murderous, and her home being quite an exposed station. She often said in describing these attacks that as the family would escape out one door the Indians would come in at another. When defeat left the Virginia frontier at the mercy of the savages, Mr. Craidhead fled with some of his people, and crossing the Blue Ridge passed to the more quiet regions of Carolina, where he remained till the close of his life. Rachel married Dr. Caldwell in 1776. He was called the Father of Education in North Carolina, because his celebrated classical school was for a long time the only one of note in the state, and so great was the influence of Mrs. Caldwell in his school that it gave currency to the saying throughout the country, "Doctor Caldwell makes the scholars and Mrs. Caldwell makes the preachers."
Doctor Caldwell's pronounced preaching for freedom, however, made him an object of especial enmity to the British and Tories, and finally a reward of two hundred pounds was offered for his apprehension. This necessitated his going into hiding and leaving Mrs. Caldwell alone and unprotected during those days when every part of the country was subject to all manner of spoliation and outrage. On the eleventh of March the British army was dispatched to the Caldwell plantation and camped there, the officers taking possession of the house. They at first announced themselves as Americans and asked to see the mistress. A servant had ascertained, by standing on the fence and seeing the redcoats at a distance, that they were part of the army of Cornwallis and quickly communicated her discovery to her employer. Excusing herself by saying that she must attend to her child, Mrs. Caldwell returned to the house and immediately gave warning to two of her neighbors who happened to be there so that they escaped through another door and concealed themselves. She then returned to the gate and accused the British soldiers of masquerading as patriots. They openly demanded use of the dwelling for a day or two and immediately took possession, evicting Mrs. Caldwell, who with her children retired to the smokehouse and passed a day with no other food than a few dried peaches and apples. A physician then interfered ​ and procured for her a bed, some provisions and a few cooking utensils. The family remained in the smokehouse two days and nights being in the meantime frequently insulted by profane and brutal language. To a young officer, who came to the door for the purpose of taunting the helpless mother, by ridiculing her countrymen, whom he termed rebels and cowards, Airs. Caldwell replied, "Wait and see what the Lord will do for us." "If He intends to do anything," roughly answered the officer, "it is time He had begun."
In replying to Mrs. Caldwell's application to one of the soldiers for protection, she was told that she could expect no favors, as the women were regarded as great rebels as the men. After remaining two days the army took their departure from the plantation, on which they had destroyed everything. Before leaving the officer in command gave orders that Doctor Caldwell's library and papers should be burned. A fire was kindled in the large oven in the yard and Mrs. Caldwell was obliged to look on while books, which could not at that time be replaced, and valuable manuscripts, which had cost the study and labor of years, were carried out by the soldiers, armful after armful, and ruthlessly committed to the flames.
The persecution of Doctor Caldwell continued while the British occupied that portion of the state. He was hunted as a felon and the merest pretenses were used to tear him from his hiding-places. Often he escaped captivity or death by what seemed a miracle. At one time when he had ventured home on a stolen visit the house was suddenly surrounded by men, who seized him before he could escape, intending to carry him to their British camp. One or two were left to guard him while the others searched the house for articles of any value. When they were nearly ready to depart Mrs. Caldwell came forward, and with the promptitude and presence of mind which women frequently display in sudden emergencies, stepped behind Doctor Caldwell and leaning over his shoulder, whispered to him as though intending the question for his ear alone, she asked if it were not time for Gillespie and his men to be there. One of the soldiers who stood nearest caught the words and with evident alarm demanded what men were meant. Mrs. Caldwell replied ingenuously that she was merely speaking to her husband. In a moment all was confusion; the whole party was panic-stricken! Exclamations and hurried questions followed in the consternation produced by this woman's simple manoeuvre, and the Tories fled precipitately, leaving their prisoner and their plunder. The name Gillespie was a terror to the Loyalists, and this party never doubted that he was on their trail.
Some time in the fall of 1780 a stranger appeared before Mrs. Caldwell's door, faint and worn, asking for supper and lodging for the night. He was bearing dispatches for General Greene and he had imagined that he would be free from danger under the roof of a minister of the Gospel. Mrs. Caldwell longed to offer him shelter, but she was constrained to explain that her husband was an object of peculiar hatred to the Tories and she could not tell the day or hour when an attack might be expected. She said he should have something to eat immediately but advised him to seek some safer place of shelter for the night. Before she finished preparing his meal voices were heard without, with the cries of "Surround the house," and the dwelling was presently assailed by a body of ​ Tories. With admirable calmness Mrs. Caldwell told the stranger to follow her and led him out by an opposite door. A large locust tree stood close by and the night was so dark that no object could be discerned amid its clustering foliage. She urged the man to climb the tree and conceal himself till the intruders should be absorbed in plundering her house. He could then descend on the other side and trust to the darkness for his safety. The house was pillaged, as she expected, and the man bearing the message so important to his country escaped, to remember with gratitude the woman whose prudence had saved him while undergoing the loss of her own property.
Another little incident, not without humor, illustrates how a woman's intrepidity was sometimes successful in disbanding marauders. Among such articles as the housewife so prizes, Mrs. Caldwell had an elegant tablecloth, which she valued as the gift of her mother. While the Tories on one occasion were in her house gathering plunder, one of them broke open the chest of drawers which contained it and tore out the tablecloth. Mrs. Caldwell seized and held it fast, determined not to give up her treasure. When she found that her rapacious enemy would soon succeed in wresting it from her unless she could make use of something more than muscular force to prevent him, she turned to the other men of the party and appealed to them with all a woman's eloquence, asking if some of them had not wives or daughters for whose sake they would interfere. A small man who stood at the distance of a few feet presently stepped up and with tears in his eyes said that he had a wife, and a fine little woman she was too, and that he would not allow any rudeness to be practiced toward Mrs. Caldwell. His interference compelled the depredator to restore the valued article, and then the tide of opinion turned, and the British soldiers cheered lustily for courageous Rachel Caldwell. After the war Doctor Caldwell resumed his labors as teacher and preacher. He died in the summer of 1824, in the one hundredth year of his age. The wife who had accompanied him in all the vicissitudes of his long life followed him to the grave at the age of eighty-eight. All who knew Rachel Caldwell regarded her as a woman of remarkable character and interest and she is remembered throughout her state with high respect.
CORNELIA BEEKMAN.
In the venerable Van Cortlandt mansion, the old-fashioned stone house erected upon the banks of the Croton River many years previous to the Revolution, Cornelia, the second daughter of Peter Van Cortlandt and Johanna, was born in 1752. Peter Van Cortlandt was Lieutenant-Governor of the state of New York under George Clinton from 1777 to 1795, and was distinguished for his zealous maintenance of American rights. His daughter inherited the principles to which in after ​ life she was so ardently devoted. On her marriage at about the age of seventeen, with Gerard G. Beekman, she removed to the city of New York, where her residence was in the street which still bears her name. Her husband was in mind, education and character worthy of her choice. Not many years of her married life had passed when the storm of war burst upon the land and taught her to share in aspirations for liberty. She entered into the feelings of the people with all the warmth of her generous nature. She even spoke with enthusiasm of an impressive ceremonial procession she witnessed, when the mechanics of the city brought their tools and deposited them in a large coffin made for the purpose and then marched to the solemn music of a funeral dirge and buried the coffin in Potter's Field. They returned to present themselves each with a musket in readiness for military service. Finding a residence in New York impossible in the state of popular excitement she withdrew to the Peekskill Manor House, a large brick building situated two miles north of Peekskill. Here she resided during the war marked as an object of insult by the Royalists, on account of the part taken by her relatives and friends as well as her own ardent attachment to the American cause. At times in the struggle, when portions of the British army were ranging through Westchester she was exposed to their injuries, but her high spirit, and strong will contributed to her safety, and supported her through many scenes and trials. One day, when the troops were in the neighborhood a soldier entered the house and walked unceremoniously toward the closet. Mrs. Beekman asked him what he wanted. "Some brandy," was the reply. When she reproved him for the intrusion he presented his bayonet at her breast and with many harsh epithets swore he would kill her on the spot. Although alone in the house except for an old black servant, she showed no alarm at the threats of the cowardly ​ assailant but told him that she would call her husband and send information of his conduct to his officer. Her resolution triumphed over his audacity, for seeing that she showed no fear he was not long in obeying her command to leave the house. Upon another occasion she was writing a letter to her father, when looking out she saw the enemy approaching. There was only time to secrete the paper behind the framework of the mantelpiece, where it was discovered when the house was repaired after the war.
The gist of Mrs. Beekman's contemptuous replies to the enemy under Bayard and Fanning is related by herself in a letter written in 1777. A party of Royalists commanded by those two Colonels paid a visit to her house, conducting themselves with the arrogance and insolence she was accustomed to suffer. One of them imprudently said to her, "Are you the daughter of that old Rebel, Pierre Van Cortlandt?" She replied, "I am the daughter of Pierre Van Cortlandt, but it does not become such as you to call my father a Rebel." The Tory raised his musket, but with perfect calmness she reproved him for his insolence and bade him begone. He finally turned away abashed.
The illustrations in every page of the world's history of vast results depending upon trivial things finds support in a simple incident in the life of Cornelia Beekman. It would really seem that in the Providence that disposes all human events the fate of a Nation may be found suspended upon this woman's judgment. This is the incident: John Webb, familiarly known as "Lieutenant Jack," who actively served as aid on the staff of the commander-in-chief, was much at her house during operations of the American army on the banks of the Hudson. On one occasion passing through Peekskill he rode up and requested her to take charge of a valise which contained his new suit of uniform and a quantity of gold. "I will send for ​ it whenever I want it," he added, "but do not deliver it without a written order from me or brother Sam." He then threw the valise in at the door and rode on to the tavern at Peekskill, where he stopped to dine. A fortnight or so after this departure Mrs. Beekman saw an acquaintance named Smith, whose loyalty to the Whig cause had been suspected, ride rapidly up to the house. She heard him ask her husband for Lieutenant Jack's valise and Mr. Beekman was about to direct the servant to bring it. Mrs. Beekman, however, demanded whether the messenger had a written order from either of the brothers. Smith replied that he had no written order, the officer having had no time to write one. He added, "You know me, Mrs. Beekman, and when I assure you that Lieutenant Webb sent me for the valise you will not refuse to deliver it, as he is greatly in want of his uniform." Mrs. Beekman often said that she had an instinctive antipathy toward Smith, and by an intuition felt that he had not been authorized to call for the article she had in trust, so she answered, "I do know you very well; too well to give up to you the valise without a written order from the owner or the Colonel." Greatly angered at her statement he turned to her husband urging that the fact of his knowing that the valise was there and its contents should be sufficient evidence that he came by authority. His representations had no effect upon Mrs. Beekman's resolution. Although even her husband was displeased at this treatment of the messenger she remained firm in her denial and the disappointed horseman rode away as rapidly as he had come. Results proved that he had no authority to make the application, and it was subsequently ascertained that at the very time of this attempt Major Andre was in Smith's house, and had Smith obtained possession of the uniform Andre would have made his escape through the American lines. Lieutenant Webb confessed that while dining at the tavern that night he had ​ mentioned that Mrs. Beekman had taken charge of his valise, and told what its contents were. Smith had evidently overheard and Major Andre being of the same stature and form as Lieutenant Jack, the scheme to steal the American officer's uniform as a disguise for the spy had immediately taken form, Lieutenant Webb was deeply grateful to Mrs. Beekman for the prudence which had protected him from the dire result of his own folly, had saved his property, and had prevented an occurrence which might have caused a train of national disasters.
Many of Mrs. Beekman's letters written during the war breathed the most ardent spirit of patriotism. The wrongs she was compelled to suffer in person, and the aggregation of wrongs she witnessed on every side aroused her just indignation. Her feelings were expressed in her many and frequent prayers for the success of the American armies. Although surrounded by peril and disaster she would not consent to leave her home; her zeal for the honor of her family and her country inspired her with the courage that never faltered and caused her to disregard the wrong she so continually had to bear.
Early Women of Prominence.
The influence wielded by the women in the early days of our Republic cannot be underestimated. During the colonial period in American history there are some women who shine out conspicuously by their brilliancy and mental attainments. Their influence in public affairs was conceded at that time and appreciated to-day. They were worthy helpmeets of their distinguished husbands and did their part in shaping the affairs of the nation in its infancy and crudity.
In 1749, Mrs. Jeykell was quite a leader socially in Philadelphia. Mrs. Schuyler, a niece of the first Colonel Philip Schuyler, was born in 1702, and married her cousin, Philip Schuyler. The French Canadian prisoners called her the "Good Lady, Madame Schuyler." She kept a liberal table and had much influence in the primitive society of that day. Miss Tucker, who married William Fitzhugh, and from whom the Fitzhughs in Virginia, Maryland and western New York are descended, was one of the influential women of her time.
​ Mrs. Morris, who entertained Mrs. Washington at the time of the President's inauguration in Philadelphia, was a very remarkable woman and became Mrs. Washington's intimate friend. At all of Mrs. Washington's drawing-rooms and official entertainments, Mrs. Morris sat at her right hand, and at all the dinners, both official and private, at which Mr. Morris was present, he was placed at the right hand of Mrs. Washington. The principal ladies of New York at the time the "Republican Court" was established were Mrs. George Clinton, Mrs. Montgomery, Mrs. Knox, Mrs. Robert R. Livingston, of Clermont, the Misses Livingston, Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Gary, Mrs. McComb, Mrs. Edgar, Mrs. Lynch, Mrs. Houston, Mrs. Provost, Mrs. Beekman, the Misses Bayard, etc. The President received every Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. Washington received from eight to ten every Friday evening and these levees were attended by the fashionable, elegant and distinguished people in society, and it is said Mrs. Washington was careful, in her drawing-room, to exact those courtesies to which she knew her husband was entitled. "None were admitted to the levees but those who had either a right by official station or by established merit and character; and full dress was required of all."
​ Among the other ladies intimate with Mrs. Washington besides Mrs. Morris were Mrs. Knox, Mrs. Hamilton, Mrs. Powell, Mrs. Bradford, Miss Ross and Mrs. Otis. Mrs. Otis was the wife of the Secretary of the Senate and mother of Senator Harrison Gray Otis. She was remarkable for her beauty and grace of demeanor, wit and powerful intellect, and she was a prominent figure during the administration of Washington. Mrs. Stewart was the wife of General Walter Stewart. Miss Ross was the daughter of Senator Ross, from Pennsylvania. Mrs. Bradford was the only child of Elias Boudinot and married William Bradford, who was afterward Judge of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. Their house was one of the noted social centers and they were distinguished for their cordial hospitality.
Mrs. Carroll, was Harriet Chew, daughter of Benjamin Chew, Mrs. Walcott, of Connecticut, was noted for her graceful manners, culture, intelligence and refinement. It is hardly necessary to mention the Carroll family, so well known are they. The family of Charles Carroll had been settled in Maryland ever since the time of James the Second, and Charles Carroll was among the first to sign the Declaration of Independence. His patriotism is illustrated in an incident which was told as having occurred at this time. When he had signed merely as "Charles Carroll," someone remarked: "You will get clear; there are so many of that name"; he added to his signature "of Carrollton," so there should be no question as to which Carroll had sustained the country in its fight for independence.
The wife of Thomas Jefferson was Mrs. Martha Skelton, a rich widow who, at the time of her second marriage, was but twenty-three years of age, of good family, beautiful, accomplished and greatly admired. Their (laughter Martha was entrusted to the care of Mrs. Adams when in Paris and made ​ quite an impression abroad. This daughter married Thomas Mann Randolph, of Virginia, who attained to a dignified station in the general government. The daughters of Henry White were greatly admired, their family holding a high position among the loyalists before the Revolutionary War. One of these daughters became Dowager Lady Hayes, and the widow of Peter Jay Monroe.
Another family prominent in the early history of America was the Livingston family, of New York. The original grant of land given to Robert Livingston bears the date of July 22, 1686, and comprised from 120,000 to 150,000 acres on the Hudson River. Philip Livingston, who succeeded to the estate, was born in 1686. He married Catherine Van Brugh, daughter of Peter Van Brugh, of Albany, an old Dutch family. One of her ancestors was Carl Van Brugge, Lieutenant-Governor under Peter Stuyvesant. Philip Livingston was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. William Livingston, Governor of New York, was born in 1723, and married Susannah French, of New Brunswick, in 1745, Governor Livingston's political principles were so decidedly republican that he declined to give to his country-seat at Elizabethtown any name more aristocratic than "Liberty Hall." The family of Governor Livingston was a large one. Several daughters and two sons were born to them. One daughter married John Cleve Symmes, another married Mathew Ridley, of Baltimore, another married John W. Watkins, and the last married James Linn. The sister of Governor Livingston, Sarah Livingston, on April 28th, 1774, in her eighteenth year, married John Jay, a young lawyer. Mr. Jay rapidly rose in prominence from the position of Secretary to the Royal Commission for settling the boundary between New York and New Jersey to a member of the New York Provincial Congress and of the Committee of Safety. His constant absence during this trying period of our ​ country's history brought out the splendid heroism and self-sacrifice of his wife, and her letters during this period show cheerfulness, even when heroically enduring the trials and privations and sacrifices demanded by her country. Mr. Jay later was sent to Madrid as Minister to Spain. They were shipwrecked during this voyage and again Mrs. Jay's strong courage was brought to the test. Later, Mr. Jay was associated with Dr. Franklin, Mr. Adams and Mr. Laurens in a commission to open a way for the negotiation of peace between America and England. Franklin and Jay were to arrange the preliminaries. Adams was in Holland, Jefferson in America and Laurens in London, and it is said that Mrs. Jay was almost a participant in these negotiations from her intimate association with the members of the commission.
The scenes and the society amid which Mrs. Jay lived for nearly two years presented a brilliant contrast to the trials and hardships to which she had been subjected by the war at home, as well as to her more retired life during their residence at Madrid. Among the first to congratulate Mrs. Jay on her arrival at Paris were the Marquis and the Marchioness de La Fayette, and the two circles of society where Mrs. Jay was most at home during their stay at Paris were those to be found in the "hotel La Fayette and Franklin," the residences of La Fayette and Franklin. The acquaintanceship of Mr. Jay and Madame de La Fayette ripened into a warm friendship and their letters later were marked by a tone of sincere regard and affection. Mrs. Henry E. Pierrepont, of Brooklyn, a grand-daughter of Mrs. Jay, now has in her possession the armchair embroidered by Mrs. Jay's own hands and presented by her to Madame de La Fayette. Mrs. Jay won for America the friendship and regard of many prominent officials of France and persons of influence and note, which, no doubt, aided largely in the success of her husband. In 1784 Mr. Jay returned ​ to America, and we find it said in a memoir: "Her recent association with the brilliant circles of the French capital assisted her to fill with ease the place she was now to occupy and to perform its graceful duties in a manner becoming the dignity of the republic to whose fortunes she had been so devoted." Her husband was appointed Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the Cabinet, and when Mr. Jay was appointed Chief Justice, which carried him into the New England Circuit, Mrs. Jay added fresh laurels to those won for herself and her country. One of her admirers has said of her that "she is entitled to regard on far better grounds than simply as a 'Queen of American Society,’ and her memory may be cherished as that of one who exhibited from her youth amid trial and hardship a steadfast devotion to her country."
​ Another prominent family figure in these historical days was Mrs. Knox, an intimate associate of Mrs. Washington and frequently in the camp of the army. Her influence was shown in many ways. She was the comforter of Mrs. Washington during the siege of Yorktown. When the capital was removed to Philadelphia, the home of Mrs. Knox became one of the leading social centers of the capital city. During their stay here they entertained the Due de Laincourt, Talleyrand, and our great friend, Marquis de La Fayette. She is said to have had a mind of high and powerful cast, dignified manner and calm and lofty spirit. General and Mrs. Washington always paid her the greatest deference and in every way expressed their warm friendship and admiration of her.
The wife of John Hancock, it is said, added luster to his fame. She was a leader of society in the best circles, a daughter of Judge Edmund Quincy and was born in 1748. In 1775, she married John Hancock, then Governor of Massachusetts, afterward president of the First Congress. The strength of her character is shown in an incident worded by one of her biographers. While in Philadelphia, Hancock came to his wife one day and informed her he had a most disagreeable secret to impart to her and that it must be faithfully kept. The secret was that he had received a letter from home stating it had been thought necessary to burn the city of Boston to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy. All of Hancock's wealth was centered there. He was asked would he be willing to sacrifice this for the good of his country, and he had given his consent. To his wife he acknowledged it would reduce them to absolute want, but his mind was made up and he asked her would she join him in this sacrifice. This she willingly did. When attending a Quaker meeting a few hours afterward, she showed no signs of the painful secret or terrible personal sacrifice which she had just been called upon ​ to make for her country. Fortunately, later it was found unnecessary to carry out this plan and she was spared the realization of her expected fate. This shows the kind of women who lived at this time and what they did for their country. Mrs. Greene, who was Catherine Littlefield, daughter of John Littlefield, was born on Block Island, in 1753. Her husband was Governor Greene, one of her kinsmen, to whom she was married in 1774. "The incident of her quitting her own house when Aaron Burr claimed her hospitality after his duel with Hamilton, leaving the house for his use, and only returning to it after his departure, illustrates her generous and impulsive character."
Sarah Thompson—the Countess Rumford,—is mentioned as one of the women who exercised great social influence.
Another woman of the official circle in Philadelphia may be mentioned—Mrs. Bingham. She was the daughter of Thomas Willing, and at the age of sixteen, on October 22, 1780, she married William Bingham, who was United States Senator from Pennsylvania. A few years after their marriage they went abroad and spent some years in France where they brought about them a charming circle of the best of the French capital. On their return to America in 1795, the Viscount de Noailles, brother-in-law to La Fayette, was their guest for some time.
Sarah, the only (laughter of Benjamin Franklin, was born in Philadelphia, in September, 1744, and married Richard Bache in 1767. She was a prominent figure in the best society and her house was a center for the philanthropic work which the ladies of Philadelphia carried on for the American Army. In 1792, she accompanied her husband to England, later returning and settling on their farm near the Delaware.
Rebecca Franks is mentioned as one of the leaders in ​ society in Philadelphia in the days of the Revolution. She married Lieutenant-Governor Sir Henry Johnston. General Scott visited her some years later.
Catharine Schuyler was the only daughter of John Van Rensselaer. After the surrender of Burgoyne, he and his suite were received and entertained by General and Mrs. Schuyler, though he had destroyed their elegant country seat near Saratoga. Mrs. Schuyler was remarkable for her vigorous intellect and keen judgment, and many incidents of her heroic spirit have been recorded. Her social influence was widely recognized. Her daughter Elizabeth, who married Alexander Hamilton, has been already spoken of. Mrs. Wilson was one of the most noted women in New Jersey. She was the daughter of Colonel Charles Stewart and born in 1758. In 1776, she married Robert Wilson, a young Irishman, and went with him to Philadelphia to live. She was one of the intimate friends of Mrs. Washington. Mrs. Beekman's home was near Tarrytown. She was a sister of Mrs. Van Rensselaer and her daughter became Mrs. De Peyster. Mrs. Field was the great-granddaughter of Cornelia Beekman and related to the most prominent families in America at that time — the De Peysters, Livingstons, Beekmans, Van Cortlandts and the Van Rensselaers. Miss De Peyster, in 1838, married Mr. Benjamin Hazard Field, a descendant of Sir John Field, the astronomer. Their home in New York was a leading social center.
Among the Charleston, South Carolina, ladies prominent in society may be mentioned the Misses Harvey, three sisters of remarkably beautiful personal appearance. Another was Miss Mary Roupell; also Mrs. Rivington, the widow of a wealthy planter, and Mrs. Richard Singleton, who came from the best Virginia stock and was devoted to the American cause. She is said to have occupied her time by going continually from the city to the interior, gathering reports of the signs of the times, ​ conveying intelligence and sometimes ammunition to friends in the army, or evolving schemes for the relief and deliverance of the city. Another patriotic woman who devoted herself to the American cause was Mrs. Brewton. Rebecca Motte was celebrated for her heroic conduct in giving Lee the bow and arrows to fire her dwelling when it was occupied by the British. She was a daughter of Robert Brewton and was married in 1758, and died in 1815. The name of Mrs. Barnard Elliott is familiar to everyone in South Carolina. She was a Miss Susannah Smith, the daughter of Benjamin Smith, speaker of the Provincial Assembly. She was an orphan and had been brought up by her aunt, Rebecca Motte, whose patriotism is revered to this day. Another prominent woman mentioned is Sabina, the wife of William Elliott. Her youngest daughter, Ann, married Colonel Lewis Morris, eldest son of Lewis Morris, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. One of her devoted friends and admirers was Kosciusko. She is said to have saved the life of Colonel Morris when their house was visited by the Black Dragoons. Anna Elliott, daughter of the brave patriot, Thomas Ferguson, labored constantly for her country and ministered to the poor and afflicted, and many were the favors granted at her request by the British when they held Charleston. The mother of John C. Calhoun was Martha Caldwell, whose parents emigrated to Virginia in 1749. She was one of the conspicuous figures of that day.