Considering her extreme youthfulness, it was a hard and toilsome life
that had now begun for Ethel. Day and night she had charge of her little
brother and sisters; she must wash and dress them—or teach them to do
those things for themselves, and see in every way to their comfort and
amusement; also teach Nannette and Harry their little lessons. Besides
she must learn her own, keep their room in order, and spend an hour or
two every day in the use of her needle, under the instruction of Mrs.
Coote, who was very strict and exacting, though she occasionally
bestowed a few words of warm praise when she considered it to have been
well earned.
On such occasions Ethel’s cheek would flush and her eyes brighten as she
listened, a feeling akin to love for the usually cold-mannered woman
tugging at her heart strings; but ere she could summon up courage for
the expression of her pleasure and budding affection, the cold, distant
manner had returned, and chilled and disappointed she could say no more
than, “Yes, ma’am; thank you for praising my work. I mean to try always
to do it as well as ever I can.”
Meantime the intimacy between the Eldons and little Mary Keith grew and
increased. From the first they seemed to take great pleasure in each
other’s society, and would play together in unbroken harmony by the
hour; generally in Mr. Keith’s grounds as Mrs. Coote was entirely
willing to have them there, Mary’s mother and grandmother no less so;
and when Ethel’s tasks were finished she was allowed to join the others.
Her gentle, quiet, ladylike manner made her a great favorite with the
ladies and she was sometimes allowed to do her stint of needlework
there, sitting quietly with them while the younger children romped and
played about the garden or on the porches.
There were some pictures on the wall of the pretty sitting room where
the ladies spent most of their time, one of which particularly attracted
Ethel’s attention; it was a woodland scene—a little valley, a small
creek with a dam, running through, it, near by a horse tethered to a
sapling, and at a little distance, partly hidden by a thicket, a noble
looking man in Continental uniform, on his knees in prayer.
“Mrs. Weston, who is that gentleman praying there in the woods?” Ethel
at length ventured to ask.
“That is a picture of our Washington at Valley Forge,” answered the
lady, bestowing a look of loving admiration upon the kneeling figure.
“Washington?” repeated Ethel enquiringly. “I think I never heard of him
before. He was a good man, I suppose?”
“Yes, my dear, and a great one also. I think there was never a better or
greater mere man. He is called the father of his country because, with
the help of God, he did more to gain her liberties than any other man.”
“Oh, if it isn’t too much trouble, will you please tell me about him and
what he did?” Ethel asked eagerly, adding, “I’m only a little girl, you
know, ma’am, and haven’t lived in America very long; so I don’t know
much about its history.”
The lady smiled, and softly stroking the child’s hair, “Do you call
yourself English, my dear?” she asked in a pleasant tone.
“No-o, ma’am,” returned Ethel doubtfully; “papa was English but—but
mamma, you know, was born on this side of the ocean, so I suppose I’m
only half English, and Cousin George told me I’d have to be an American
now, as I’ve come to live in this country.”
“And you don’t object?”
“Oh, no, ma’am; America seems a very good country and my cousins are all
Americans, because they were born here.”
“Yes; the generality of us Americans think these United States, taken
all together, make the best land the sun shines on, as it certainly is
the freest.”
“Are all the people in it good, ma’am?” queried Ethel innocently.
“No, my dear, I am sorry to have to acknowledge that that is far from
being the case. True very many of the wicked ones—burglars, murderers,
and the like—are of foreign birth or parentage, but some are natives and
the children of natives. But I must answer your question about
Washington. He was the great-grandson of a gentleman named John
Washington, who came over from England and settled in Virginia, which
was then an English colony, as were the other twelve States. There were
thirteen in all of those that formed the Union in the beginning. Do you
know anything about how the colonies were settled in the first place?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, then, I must tell you that one of these days. But now you want to
know about the picture. What you see there occurred during the first war
with England, the war which set us free and made the colonies States.
This country was then far smaller and poorer than it is now; for we have
now many large and flourishing States; more than three times as many as
there were then.”
“Yes, ma’am; Cousin George told me I ought to be glad to be an American,
because this was the very best and freest country in the world.”
Mrs. Weston gave the little girl a pleased smile. “I entirely agree with
Cousin George,” she said, “and ever since I can remember have been glad
and thankful that God gave me my birth in this dear, Christian land,
many of whose people came here when it was but a desolate wilderness, in
order that they might be free to worship God according to the dictates
of their own consciences.
“But I must tell you about the picture. Washington was the
commander-in-chief of our armies during the war of the Revolution, which
ended in making us free States.
“That war began in the year 1775; the Declaration of Independence was
made in the summer of 1776; but it took years of fighting to induce the
King of England and his Cabinet to acknowledge that we were actually a
free and independent people, no longer subject to their oppressive acts;
a long and terrible struggle was necessary to bring that about.
“By the fall of 1777 a good many battles had been fought; one of
them—the battle of Saratoga—won a great victory for the Americans; but
things had not gone so well for us farther south. Washington had
suffered defeat at the battle of the Brandywine and in consequence the
British had got possession of Philadelphia. Our troops must if possible
be kept together through the cold winter, and that in some place from
which the British could be watched and prevented from getting away to
any great distance, to do mischief to the people of the land.
“There was no town that would answer the purpose, and the place that
suited best was Valley Forge on the Schuylkill River, twenty-one miles
above Philadelphia. It was a little valley lying between two ridges or
hills and covered by a thick forest. The poor soldiers had no tents and
were in sore need of clothes, also of blankets and shoes. They—even the
officers—were astonished when Washington ordered the trees cut down and
log huts built of them. But they spent their Christmas holidays at the
work and were much surprised and delighted at their success, when they
found that they had changed the forest into cabins thatched with boughs,
in the order of a regular encampment.
“But oh, what suffering they still had to undergo for lack of food and
clothing! Many were almost, some entirely, naked.
“For more than two years the war had been going on and for four months
they had been fighting the enemies of their country, marching and
counter-marching day and night in order to baffle the designs of the foe
against their dear native land; and they had come to this spot with
naked, bleeding feet and destitute of supplies of every kind.
“It was a dreadful winter for that poor army. Washington did all he
could, but it was out of his power to relieve anything like all the
suffering; and Congress was strangely apathetic, and slow to do what it
might have done to give relief.
“Because of their sad neglect the condition of the poor, patient
soldiers grew worse and worse so that men died for want of straw or
other bedding to raise them at night from the damp, cold earth; and
sometimes they had no fuel to make fires, for want of shoes and
stockings to enable them to go through the snow and cut it in the woods
near at hand; often they had no meat, sometimes no bread, and there was
danger that they would perish with famine or have to disperse in search
of food.”
“And why didn’t they?” asked Ethel. “I should think anything would be
better than staying there freezing and starving to death.”
“Because they loved their country and her liberties better than they
loved themselves,” replied Mrs. Weston. “They were fighting for her, for
their own homes, wives, and children, yet, as I have said, Congress was
most shamefully neglecting them, while most of the people in the
vicinity of their camp were Tories—that is in favor of the British,
unwilling to do anything for the cause of freedom, and ready to help the
foes of their country, for which these poor, starving, bleeding,
freezing men were willing to lay down their lives.
“But Washington was their friend, doing all in his power for them,
showing a fatherly concern and fellow-feeling for all their troubles and
privations, exerting himself in every way to help and encourage them,
and urging Congress to come to their relief.
“Washington was a Christian man; so he carried the troubles and
distresses of his poor soldiers, and the woes of his bleeding country to
God, who is the hearer and answerer of prayer. Probably the woods were a
more private place than any other to which he had access at that time;
and I presume he never knew that any earthly creature had ever seen him
at his devotions.”
“Who was it that saw him, Mrs. Weston?” asked Ethel.
“The man at whose house he was lodged: Mr. Isaac Potts. He owned the
dam, and one day was strolling toward it, along the bank of the creek,
when he heard a solemn voice, and walking quietly in the direction of
the sound, he saw Washington’s horse tied to a sapling and near by, in a
thicket, the dear man himself on his knees in prayer, with the tears
coursing down his cheeks.”
“Did Washington see him—Mr. Potts?” asked Ethel, gazing with eager
interest into the lady’s face.
“No; doubtless his eyes were closed, and Mr. Potts, feeling that he was
on holy ground, stole quietly away, back to his own house, with eyes
full of tears. His wife noticed them as he entered and asked what was
the matter. Then he told her what he had just seen, adding, ‘If there is
anyone on this earth whom the Lord will listen to, it is George
Washington; and I feel a presentiment that under such a commander there
can be no doubt of our eventually establishing our independence, and
that God in his providence has willed it so.’”
“And that’s what the picture is about?” Ethel said musingly, gazing upon
it with redoubled interest. “I’m glad the Americans had such a good man
for their general, and that God helped them to get free.”
“Yes, as one of our poets has said:
“Oh, who shall know the might
Of the words he utter’d there?
The fate of nations there was turned
By the fervor of his prayer.
“But wouldst thou know his name
Who wandered there alone?
Go, read enroll’d in Heaven’s archives,
The prayer of Washington.”
“Ah, I like those verses,” Ethel said, her eyes shining. Then turning
them again upon the picture, “He was praying for his poor soldiers then,
wasn’t he? I think you said so.”
“No doubt; I know his heart bled for them in their sore extremities, for
they were sore indeed. I have read that one day a foreign officer was
walking with Washington among the huts where his soldiers were
quartered, when they heard voices coming from between the logs of which
they were built: ‘No pay, no provisions, no rum!’ and one poor fellow
whom they saw going from one hut to another, was naked except that he
had a dirty blanket wrapped about him. Then that officer despaired of
ever seeing the Americans gain their freedom.”
“They did though, and I’m ever so glad of it!” Ethel said with
satisfaction. “But—but you said they wanted rum. Were they drunkards,
Mrs. Weston?”
“In those days, my dear, almost everybody took a little and did not
think it wrong,” replied the lady, adding, “though now we think it is.”
“I hope God heard Washington’s prayer and soon made that bad Congress
take better care of the poor soldiers who were fighting for them,” Ethel
said enquiringly, still gazing earnestly at the picture.
“I am sorry to have to say that it was some time before Congress did
much for their relief,” returned Mrs. Weston. “Indeed two winters later
they—the poor soldiers—were in much the same condition at Morristown,
where they were encamped at that time, having only beds of straw on the
ground and but a single blanket to each man; while still their clothing
was very poor and some had no shoes.
“It was a very severe winter, the snow early in January being from four
to six feet deep and so obstructing the roads that they could not travel
back and forth to get provisions, and in consequence were often for days
at a time without bread, then again as long without meat; and the cold
and hunger made the poor fellows so weak that they were hardly fit for
fighting or for building their huts.”
“Oh, the poor, poor things!” exclaimed Ethel, tears starting to her
eyes. “Did they ever try to run away or to steal something from the
farmers to eat, when they were so dreadfully hungry?”
“Yes, they sometimes did steal sheep, hogs, and poultry; but since they
were starving and their just wages kept back from them, one can hardly
feel like blaming them very severely for taking a little food from those
whom they were defending.
“There was only one decided mutiny; that was on the 1st of January,
1781, by about two thousand men of the Pennsylvania troops, stationed at
Morristown and under the command of General Wayne.
“They had made their preparations secretly, appointing a sergeant major
their commander, calling him major-general. At a preconcerted signal
all, excepting a part of three regiments, paraded under arms without
officers, marched to the magazines and supplied themselves with
ammunition and provisions; then they seized six fieldpieces and took
horses from General Wayne’s stables to draw them.”
“And nobody tried to stop them?” exclaimed Ethel enquiringly.
“Yes; hearing what was going on their officers tried to do so, calling
on the men who did not join in the revolt to help. But the mutineers
fired, killing a captain and wounding several others; then they ordered
the men who had not revolted to come over to their side, threatening
that if they did not they would kill them with their bayonets; and they
went over. Then General Wayne tried his influence with the men, who all
loved him, using both persuasion and threats to bring them back to their
duty. But they refused to listen even to him, and when he cocked his
pistol at them they pointed their bayonets at his breast, saying, ‘We
respect and love you; you have often led us into the field of battle,
but we are no longer under your command; we warn you to be on your
guard, for if you fire your pistol or attempt to force us to obey your
commands we will instantly put you to death.’
“Wayne then tried to persuade them, speaking to them of their love for
their country. They answered by reminding him how shamefully Congress
was treating them. He spoke of the pleasure and encouragement their
conduct would give to the enemy. In reply to that they called his
attention to their tattered garments and how thin they themselves were
from starvation; they told him they dearly loved the cause of freedom
and wanted to fight its battles, if only Congress would see to it that
their sore need was relieved.”
“I don’t think that was asking too much, do you, Mrs. Weston?” asked
Ethel.
“No, not at all.”
“And did General Wayne give them what they asked and had a right to
ask?”
“He could not do that, but he supplied them with provisions and then
marched them to Princeton, where he heard their demands and referred
them to the civil authority of Pennsylvania.
“In the mean time the British general, Sir Henry Clinton, heard the
story of the revolt, and not understanding the spirit and motives of the
troops, sent a British sergeant and a New Jersey Tory named Ogden, with
a written offer to them that if they would lay down their arms and march
to New York they should receive in hard cash the money owed them by the
American Congress, be well clothed, and have free pardon for having
fought against the King of England; and not be required to fight on his
side and against their country, unless they chose to do so of their own
accord.”
Ethel looked intensely interested. “And did they do it?” she asked half
breathlessly.
“No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Weston; “they were not fighting for money,
but for liberty, their homes, their wives and little ones; but the money
Congress owed them, the food and clothes, were necessary even to keep
them alive, so that they felt justified in using their weapons in
redressing their grievances while still looking with horror upon the
armed oppressors of their country, and feeling that they would rather
die than prove traitors to her. ‘See, comrades,’ one of them said to the
others, ‘he takes us for traitors. Let us show him that America can
furnish but one Arnold, and that America has no truer friends than
ourselves.’
“The others approved his sentiments. They immediately seized Clinton’s
spies and papers and took them to General Wayne, stipulating that the
men should not be executed till their own affairs with Congress were
settled, and that if their complaints were not attended to the prisoners
should be delivered up to them again when they demanded them.”
“Did Congress do what they asked of them?” inquired Ethel.
“Yes; then the spies were executed, and the reward which it appears had
been offered for their apprehension, would have been given to the men
who had seized them, but the brave, patriotic fellows refused to accept
it, poor as they were, saying that necessity had forced them to demand
justice from Congress, but they wanted no reward for doing their duty to
their bleeding country.”
“I like them for that!” exclaimed Ethel, “and I don’t think they were at
all to blame for making that Congress pay them what they had earned by
working and fighting so long and so hard.”
“No, nor do I,” returned Mrs. Weston, “and I am proud to own them as my
countrymen.”
“It is a very interesting story; thank you for telling it to me, Mrs.
Weston,” said Ethel. “I’d like to know more about that good General
Washington and that war. All the English people didn’t want the
Americans abused so, did they?”
“Oh, no, my dear! Some of them tried hard to have their wrongs
redressed. Some day I will tell you more about it, but now I hear Mrs.
Coote calling you.”