MOLLY PITCHER
1754-1832
Mary Ludwig, the daughter of a German settler, was born on a small farm
between Princeton and Trenton in New Jersey. Her father was a dairyman
and Molly, like other children of her parentage, was brought up to work
hard. A typical German peasant girl, heavy-set, strong and sturdy, she
toiled in the fields, she milked the cows, and drove them to pasture.
The story is that she could swing a three-bushel sack of wheat to her
shoulder and carry it to the upstairs room of the granary; and this
strength and endurance stood her in good stead years later, for after
the battle of Princeton she picked up a wounded soldier, carried him
two miles to a farmhouse, and there nursed him back to health.
A Mrs. Irvine from Carlisle, visiting in Trenton, wished to take a
young girl home with her to help in the housework. She saw buxom Molly
Ludwig, liked her honest face and wholesome, energetic appearance, and
on her return took the German girl with her. For some years Molly lived
with Doctor and Mrs. Irvine, and proved to be a valuable assistant in
their home. She did not like sewing, but she was expert at scrubbing
and scouring and washing--any kind of violent exercise!
Near the Irvines’ house was a little barber shop kept by an Irishman,
John Hays. Whenever Molly was scrubbing the front steps or scouring
the door-knocker, the young barber was sure to be watching from his
window. When the girl was about sixteen years old, this courting ended
in marriage.
Then suddenly Carlisle heard the news of Lexington, nothing but war
was talked of. Doctor Irvine, who had served in the French and Indian
campaigns, was colonel of a Pennsylvania regiment. Hays went as gunner
in the artillery, and when his time was out reenlisted under Colonel
Irvine.
“I’m proud to be a soldier’s wife,” was Molly’s answer when he told
her he must go. “I’ll stand by you!” But neither of them guessed that
this would literally come true. No slacker, she waved him a cheerful
good-by, and went on with her household duties for Mrs. Irvine. But
when a few months later Hays sent her word to go back to her father’s,
as the troops were encamped near by and he could see her occasionally,
she too said, “I must go,” and rode off behind the messenger. At home
again Molly donned her rough farm garments, helping with the cattle,
working in the fields as before. And frequently John Hays paid a flying
visit to the little farm, and Molly occasionally went to visit him in
camp.
During the Revolution it was not unusual for wives to accompany their
soldier husbands, not to fight, but to wash and mend and cook, to care
for the sick and wounded. Once while Molly was cooking for the men,
she had a large kettle over the fire which she wanted to remove, so
she called to a passing soldier to help her. His prompt compliance and
kindness of manner made her ask his name, and she was so astonished
that she almost dropped the kettle when she heard his reply, “I am
General Washington.”
Hays and Doctor Irvine were both soldiers. Molly’s heart was with them
and with the country, fighting for independence. All she needed was
the opportunity to show of what mettle she was made. This came at the
battle of Monmouth Court House.
After the winter’s drilling at Valley Forge, Washington followed
closely behind Clinton, who was marching across New Jersey from
Philadelphia. The British had an enormous amount of baggage and their
line was twenty miles long. The Americans waited for the chance to
attack. Cornwallis brought his men into line of action opposite Lee,
who ordered a retreat. Washington’s angry rebuke to Lee, plus the
splendid work of Mad Anthony Wayne and Lafayette and Knox and Greene,
saved the day for the patriot army. Lee’s record was stained by this
traitorous action. The outstanding hero of the day was Molly Hays.
It was a very hot June Sunday. The blazing sun beat down on both
armies with scorching, record-breaking heat. Men and horses were
well-nigh overcome. The Americans, however, had the advantage, for
they were dressed for summer weather and had left their packs by the
meeting-house at Freehold. The British had heavy woolen uniforms and
full knapsacks. The Hessians carried in addition to all this the load
of decorations which Frederick the Great thought necessary for his
soldiers.
The air was sultry. Not a leaf stirred on the maple trees. Men dropped
fainting to the earth, from sunstroke. Yet the American guns were fired
vigorously, sending their sh’ot across the swamp into the British
ranks, and until night the battle went on. Sometimes under shelter,
sometimes under fire, Molly Hays went back and forth to the spring,
carrying water for the suffering men, and for wetting the sponges to
swab out the cannon. And the weary thirsty soldiers, welcoming the
sight of her with the sparkling water, would call out gratefully, “Here
comes Molly with her pitcher!” a call soon shortened to “Molly Pitcher!”
On one of her trips from the well Molly saw her husband fall suddenly.
Accounts differ as to whether he was wounded, or had a sunstroke
working in the blistering heat near the cannon. General Knox, in
charge of the battery, had no competent man to put in Hays’ place and
was about to withdraw the gun, when Molly sprang forward, seized the
rammer and fired. A moment was sufficient to show that she could fill
her husband’s position, that she had the strength and nerve for his
task. The men cheered as she loaded and fired shot after shot, with
the skill of a veteran gunner. Her hair disheveled, her eyes blazing,
her hot face begrimed with powder and smoke and dust, barefooted like
many of the soldiers, she kept on with her perilous work. That night
the British stole silently away, leaving their dead and wounded, with
Washington in possession of the field. This victory was the last battle
of importance in the North, the beginning of a brighter period for the
Americans.
The story of Molly Pitcher’s brave act spread through the camp. General
Greene thanked her, “in the name of the army.” The next morning in her
dusty, torn, powder-stained dress, she was presented to Washington.
With such honor as he would have shown to one of his gallant men,
he spoke a few words of sympathy and praise, gave her a sergeant’s
commission, and later placed her name on the list of half-pay officers
for life.
An old Revolutionary rhyme tells the story:
“Moll Pitcher she stood by her gun
And rammed the charges home, sir;
And thus on Monmouth’s bloody field
A sergeant did become, sir.”
Hays was the proudest man in the army, at Washington’s praise of his
wife, when he heard the soldiers cheer her to the echo. Lafayette asked
if his men “might have the pleasure of giving Madame a trifle,” and
invited Molly to review his troops. Between two long lines of French
officers she passed, and at the end her hat was filled with gold crowns.
Until the close of the Revolution, Molly Hays, or Molly Pitcher, as
she was always called, remained with the army; and following her
husband’s death, shortly after the war ended, she lived for many
years at the Carlisle barracks, cooking and washing for the soldiers.
In 1794 she saw General Washington again, for when he was traveling
through Pennsylvania, he stopped near Carlisle, and Molly Pitcher made
a pilgrimage on foot to see him. When her story was recalled to the
general he greeted her most cordially.
In 1822 the legislature of Pennsylvania, without a dissenting voice,
voted her the sum of forty dollars, and an annuity of that amount
during her lifetime. When she died ten years later, she was buried with
military honors, a company of soldiers firing a salute. On the Fourth
of July, 1876, there was unveiled at her grave a white marble monument
inscribed to “Molly Pitcher, the heroine of Monmouth.” And each year
on the thirtieth of May, along with the score of Revolutionary graves
in the churchyard, hers is decorated with flowers by the people of
Carlisle.
In the little park at Freehold a monument was erected to commemorate
the victory of Monmouth Court House, and on one of its five panels
Molly Pitcher is shown, barefooted, ramming home the charge, her
husband lying exhausted at her feet. She was a real heroine, when the
need came, a true and courageous soldier.