WOMAN IN THE ARMY
In the great wars of American history, there are, in immediate connection
with the army, two situations in which woman more prominently appears: the
former is where, in her proper person, she accompanies the army as a
_vivandiere_, or as the daughter of the regiment, or as the comrade
and help-meet of her husband; the latter, and less frequent capacity, is
that of a soldier, matching in the ranks and facing the foe in the hour of
danger. During the war for Independence a large number of brave and devoted
women served in the army, principally in their true characters as wives of
regularly enlisted soldiers, keeping even step with the ranks upon the
march, and cheerfully sharing the burdens, privations, hardships, and
dangers of military life.
In some cases where both wife and husband took part in the struggle for
independence, the wife even surpassed her husband in those heroic virtues
which masculine vanity arrogates as its exclusive possession. The name of
Mrs. Jemima Warner has been embalmed in history as one of those remarkable
women in whom was seen at once the true wife, the heroine, and the patriot.
She appears to have been a native of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and became
the wife of James Warner, a private in Captain Smith's company, of Daniel
Morgan's rifle corps.
In 1775 she followed her husband to the north, and joined him at Prospect
Hill, Cambridge, in the fall of that year. Morgan's riflemen were picked
men, and were sure to be placed in the posts where the greatest danger
threatened.
But James Warner, though a stalwart man in appearance, possessed none of
the qualities demanded in extraordinary emergencies. If ever man needed, in
hardship and danger, a constant companion, superior to himself, it was
private James Warner, and such a companion was his wife Jemima. She is
described as gifted with the form and personal characteristics of a true
heroine, and the heroic qualities which she displayed through all the
romantic and tragic campaign against Canada proves that her spirit
corresponded to the frame which it animated.
The Canadian campaign was in many respects the severest and most trying of
any during the Revolution. General Arnold's march through the woods of
Maine was attended with delays, misfortunes, and losses which would have
discouraged any but the bravest, and most determined and hardy. The
strength, and fortitude of the men was tried to the utmost, by wearisome
marches, floods, winter's cold and famine, and in these crises private
Warner was one of those few whose soldiership failed to stand the test.
The advanced guard of the army of the wilderness was composed of Morgan's
troops, who, with incredible labor and hardship, ascended the Dead river
and crossed the highlands into the Canadian frontier, one hundred and
twenty miles from Quebec, with their last rations in their knapsacks, and
with their passage obstructed by a vast swamp overflowed with water from
two to three feet deep. Smith's and Hendrick's companies reached it first,
and halted to wait for stragglers. Mrs. Warner came up with another woman,
the wife of Sergeant Grier, of Hendrick's company--as much a heroine as
herself, though less unfortunate in her experience. The soldiers were
entering the water, breaking the ice as they went with their gun-stocks,
and the women courageously wading after them, when some one shouted, "Where
is Warner?" Jemima, who had not noticed her husband's disappearance,
started back in search of him. Warner was no more enfeebled in body than
many of the other men, but his fortitude had given out. Begging his
comrades to delay their march for a while, she hurried back in search of
her husband, but an hour passed, and his company marched without him.
Utterly destitute of that forethought which is so necessary an element of
endurance and resolution in extremity, he had eaten all his rations, which
should have lasted him two days. Knowing that the supplies of the army were
exhausted, his faint heart saw no hope ahead. His brave wife had had a sad
trial with him. From the day that provisions had began to be scarce he had
been the same improvident laggard. Familiar with his failings, she was in
the habit of hoarding food, the price of her own secret fastings, against
such need as this. She now exerted herself to the utmost to rouse him, and
induce him to press on and rejoin his comrades. It was long before she
prevailed, and at last, when they started, the army had gone on, and Warner
and his heroic wife were forced to make their way through the wilderness
alone. She realized that her husband's safety depended entirely upon
herself, and took care of him as she would have taken care of a child.
Refusing to entertain, for a moment, the thought of perishing in the
wilderness, she did her best to cheer her husband and drive such thoughts
from his mind. It was a thankless task, but her love and devotion were
equal to everything. Endowed with a strong constitution, and free from
disease, the young soldier could have survived the terrible march to
Canada, had he possessed but a little of her courage and good sense. Taking
the lead in the bitter journey, through swamps and snows, threading the
tangled forests, climbing cliffs, and fording half-frozen creeks,--day
after day the heroic woman pushed her faint-hearted husband on, feeding him
from her own little store of ember-baked cakes, and eating almost nothing
herself till they were more than half way to Sertigan on the Chaudiere
river, toward Quebec.
Here Warner dropped down, completely discouraged, and resisted all his
wife's entreaties to rise again. It was in vain that she appealed to every
motive that could nerve a soldier, every sentiment that could inspire and
stimulate a man. Relief, she said, _must_ be before them, and not far
away; for her sake, would he not try once more? Her pleadings and her tears
were wasted. The faint-hearted soldier had made his last halt. Weak he
undoubtedly was, but comparing the nourishment each had taken, she should
have been physically worse off than he. It was the superiority of her
mental and moral organization that kept her from sinking as low as her
husband. Failing to stir him to make another effort to save himself, she
filled his canteen with water, and placing that and the little remnant of
her wretched bread between his knees, she turned away and went down the
river, with a heavy but dauntless heart, in search of help. On her way she
met a boat coming up the river, and in it were two army officers and two
friendly Indians. Hailing the party, she told them of her distress and
begged them to take her husband on board. They replied that it was
impossible. They had been sent after Lieutenant Macleland, a sick officer
left behind with an attendant, at Twenty-foot Falls, and the little birch
bark canoe would only carry two more men. They could only spare her food
enough to keep herself alive. Weeping, she turned back and sadly followed
the canoe up the stream till it was lost to view. When she again reached
the spot where she had left her discouraged husband, she found him alive
but helpless, and sinking fast. While the devoted wife sat by his side,
doing what little she could for his comfort, the canoe party came down the
river, bearing the gallant Macleland, their loved but dying officer. Again
the hapless wife begged, with piteous tears, that they would take her
husband in. No! All her prayers were useless. Macleland was worth more than
Warner.
When all hope had fled, Jemima staid faithfully by her husband till he had
breathed his last. She could only close his eyes and try to cover his body
from the wolves. Then, when love had done its best, she strapped his powder
horn and pouch to her person, shouldered his rifle, and set out on her
weary tramp toward Quebec. Melancholy as it was, one sees a certain
sublimity in the woman's act of selecting and carrying with her those
warlike keepsakes. It was in perfect keeping with those tragic times.
Tender thoughtfulness of her poor husband's martial honor outlived her
power to inspire him again to her heroism, and made her grand in the
forlornness of her sorrow. She was determined that his arms should go to
the war, if he could not.
The same brave mind that had made her so admirable as a soldier's helpmeet,
upheld her through tedious hardships and continued perils on her lonely way
to the settlement. Once there, it was necessary for her to wait till she
could recover her exhausted strength. Her triumph over the severe tasking
of all those bitter days in the wilderness, without chronic injury, or even
temporary sickness, would be called now, in a woman, a miracle of
endurance.
As she passed on from parish to parish, the simple Canadian peasant, always
friendly to the American cause, welcomed with warm hospitality the handsome
young woman, the story of whose singular bravery and devotion had reached
their ears.
Her subsequent life and history is shrouded in obscurity. We know not
whether she married a husband worthier of such a partner in those trying
times, or whether she retired to brood alone over a sorrow with which shame
for the object of her grief must have mingled. Whatever her lot may have
been, her name deserves a place on the golden roll of our revolutionary
heroines.
As we have already remarked, only a few instances are on record where women
served in the army of the revolution as enlisted soldiers. Occasional
services performed under the guise of men, were more frequent. As bearers
of dispatches and disguised as couriers, they glided through the enemy's
lines. Donning their father's or brother's overcoats and hats, they
deceived the besiegers of the garrison into the belief that soldiers were
not lacking to defend it, and even ventured in male habiliments to perform
more perilous feats; such, for example, as the following:
Grace and Rachel Martin, the wives of two brothers who were absent with the
patriot army, receiving intelligence one evening that a courier under guard
of two British officers, would pass their house on a certain night with
important dispatches, resolved to surprise the party and obtain the papers.
Disguising themselves in their husband's outer garments, and providing
themselves with arms, they waylaid the enemy. Soon after they took their
station by the roadside, the courier and his escort made their appearance.
At the proper moment the disguised ladies sprang from their bushy covert,
and presenting their pistols, ordered the party to surrender their papers.
Surprised and alarmed, they obeyed without hesitation or the least
resistance. The brave women having put them on parole, hastened home by the
nearest route, which was a bypath through the woods, and dispatched the
documents to General Greene.
Perhaps the most remarkable case of female enlistment and protracted
service in the patriot army, was that of Deborah Samson. The career of this
woman shows that her motive in adopting and following the career of a
soldier was a praiseworthy one. The whole country was aglow with patriotic
fervor, and in no section did the flame burn with a purer luster than in
that where Deborah was nurtured. It was not idle curiosity nor mere love of
roving, that incited her, in those straitlaced days, to abandon her home
and join in the perilous fray where the standard of freedom was "full high
advanced." She had evidently counted the cost of the extraordinary step
which she was about to take, but found in the difficulties and dangers
which it entailed nothing to obstruct or daunt her purpose.
Her parents were in humble circumstances, and lived in Plymouth,
Massachusetts, where Deborah grew up with but slender advantages for
anything more than a practical education; and yet such was her diligence in
the acquisition of knowledge, that before she was eighteen she had shown
herself competent to take charge of a district school, in which duty she
displayed some of the same qualities which made her after-career
remarkable.
She seems for several months to have cherished the secret purpose of
enlisting in the American army, and with that view laid aside a small sum
from her scanty earnings as a school-teacher, with which she purchased a
quantity of coarse fustian; out of this material, working at intervals and
by stealth, she made a complete suit of men's clothes, concealing in a
hay-stack each article as it was finished.
When her preparations had been completed, she informed her friends that she
was going in search of higher wages for her labor. Tieing her new suit of
men's attire in a bundle, she took her departure. She probably availed
herself of the nearest shelter for the purpose of assuming her disguise.
Her stature was lofty for a woman, and her features, though finely
proportioned, were of a masculine cast. When at a subsequent period she had
donned the buff and blue regimentals and marched in the ranks of the
patriot army, she is said to have looked every inch the soldier.
Pursuing her way she presented herself at the camp of the American army as
one of those patriotic young men who desired to assist in opposing the
British, and securing the independence of their country.
Her friends, supposing that she was engaged at service at some distant
point, made little inquiry as to her whereabouts, knowing her
self-reliance, and her ability to follow out her own career without the aid
of their counsel or assistance. Those who were nearest to her appear to
have never made such a search for her as would have led to her discovery.
Having decided to enlist for the whole term of the war, from motives of
patriotism, she was received and enrolled as one of the first volunteers in
the company of Captain Nathan Thayer, of Medway, Massachusetts, under the
name of Robert Shirtliffe. Without friends and homeless, as the young
recruit appeared to be, she interested Captain Thayer, and was received
into his family while he was recruiting his company. Here she remained some
weeks, and received her first lessons in the drill and duties of the young
soldier.
"Accustomed to labor from childhood upon the farm and in outdoor
employment, she had acquired unusual vigor of constitution; her frame was
robust and of masculine strength; and, having thus gained a degree of
hardihood, she was enabled to acquire great expertness and precision in the
manual exercise, and to undergo what a female, delicately nurtured, would
have found it impossible to endure. Soon after they had joined the company,
the recruits were supplied with uniforms by a kind of lottery. That drawn
by Robert did not fit, but, taking needle and scissors, he soon altered it
to suit him. To Mrs. Thayer's expression of surprise at finding a young man
so expert in using the implements of feminine industry, the answer was,
that, his mother having no girl, he had been often obliged to practice the
seamstress's art."
While in the family of Captain Thayer, she was thrown much into the society
of a young girl then visiting Mrs. Thayer. She soon began to show much
partiality for Deborah (or Robert), and as she seemed to be versed in the
arts of coquetry, Robert felt no scruples in paying close attention to one
so volatile and fond of flirtation; she also felt a natural curiosity to
learn within how short a time a maiden's fancy might be won.
Mrs. Thayer regarded this little romance with some uneasiness, as she could
not help perceiving that Robert did not entirely reciprocate her young
friend's affection. She accordingly lost no time in remonstrating with
Robert, and warning him of the serious consequences of his folly in
trifling with the feelings of the maiden. The remonstrance and caution were
good-naturedly received, and the departure of the blooming soldier soon
after terminated all these love passages, though Robert received from his
fair young friend some souvenirs, which he cherished as relics in after
years.
For three years, and until 1781, our heroine appears as a soldier, and
during this time she gained the approbation and confidence of the officers
by her exemplary conduct and by the fidelity with which her duties were
performed. When under fire, she showed an unflinching boldness, and was a
volunteer in several hazardous enterprises. The first time she was wounded,
was in a hand-to-hand fight with a British dragoon, when she received a
severe sword-cut in the side of her head, laying bare her skull.
About four months after the first wound, she was again doomed to bleed in
her country's cause, receiving another severe wound in her shoulder, the
bullet burying itself deeply, and necessitating a surgical examination.
She described her first emotion when the ball struck her, as a sickening
terror lest her sex should be discovered. The pain of the wound was
scarcely felt in her excitement and alarm, even death on the battle-field
she felt would be preferable to the shame that would overwhelm her in case
the mystery of her life were unveiled. Her secret, however, remained
undiscovered, and, recovering from her wound, she was soon able again to
take her place in the ranks.
Some time after, she was seized with a brain fever, which was then
prevalent in the army. During the first stages of her malady, her greatest
suffering was the dread that consciousness would desert her and her
carefully guarded secret be disclosed to those about her. She was carried
to the hospital, where her case was considered a hopeless one. One day the
doctor approached the bed where she lay, a corpse, as every one supposed.
Taking her hand, he found the pulse feebly beating, and, attempting to
place his hand on the heart, he discovered a female patient, where he had
little expected one. The surgeon said not a word of his discovery, but with
a prudence, delicacy, and generosity ever afterwards appreciated by the
sufferer, he provided every comfort her perilous condition required, and
paid her those medical attentions which soon secured her return to
consciousness. As soon as her condition would permit, he had her removed to
his own house, where she could receive the better care.
After her health was nearly restored, Doctor Binney, her generous
benefactor, had a long conference with the commanding officer of the
company in which Robert had served, and this was followed by an order to
the youth to carry a letter to General Washington.
Ever since her removal into the doctor's family, she had entertained the
suspicion that he had discovered the secret of her life. Often while
conversing with him, she watched his face with anxiety, but never
discovered a word or look to indicate that the physician knew or suspected
that she was other than what she represented herself to be. But when she
received the order to carry the letter to the commander-in-chief, her long
cherished misgivings became at last a certainty.
The order must be obeyed. With a trembling heart she pursued her course to
the headquarters of Washington. When she was ushered into the presence of
the Chief, she was overpowered with dread and uncertainty, and showed upon
her face the alarm and confusion which she felt. Washington, noticing her
agitation, and supposing it to arise from diffidence, kindly endeavored to
re-assure her. She was soon bidden to retire with an attendant, while he
read the communication of which she had been the bearer.
In a few moments, she was again summoned to the presence of Washington, who
handed her in silence a discharge from the service, with a note containing
a few brief words of advice, and a sum of money sufficient to bear her
expenses to some place where she might find a home. To her latest hour, she
never forgot the delicacy and forbearance shown her by that great and good
man.
After the war was over, she became the wife of Benjamin Gannet, of Sharon.
During the presidency of General Washington, she was invited to visit the
seat of government, and, during her stay at the capital, Congress granted
her a pension and certain lands in consideration of her services to the
country as a soldier.
In the War of 1812, woman shared more or less in the hard and perilous
duties of a soldier, especially upon the Canadian border, and on the
western frontier, where Indian hostilities now broke out afresh. She stood
guard in the homes exposed to attack all along the thin line, which the
savage or the British soldier threatened to break through, and on more than
one battle-field proved her lineal descent from the brave mothers of the
Revolution.
To the female imagination, the war with Mexico must have been clothed with
peculiar hardships and dangers. The length of the marches, the vast
distance from home, the torrid heats, fell diseases that prevailed in that
clime, and the nature of the half-civilized enemy, all conspired to warn
the gentler sex against taking part in that conflict. And yet all these
appalling difficulties and perils could not damp the martial ardor of Mrs.
Coolidge. She was born in Missouri, where, at St. Louis, she married her
husband, who was a Mexican trader. Accompanying him on one of his yearly
journeys to Santa Fe, she had the misfortune to see him meet his death, at
the hands of a Mexican bravo, in the outskirts of that city.
Her life had been a stirring one from her early girlhood, and, when war
broke out with Mexico, she attired herself in manly garments, and by her
stature and rather masculine appearance readily passed muster with the
recruiting officer. Under the name of James Brown, she was duly entered on
the rolls of a Missouri company, which soon after took steamboat for Fort
Leavenworth, the rendezvous. From this point, on the 16th of June, 1846, a
force of sixteen hundred and fifty-eight men, including our heroine (or
hero), took up their line of march to Santa Fé.
Most of this little army were mounted men, and of this number was Mrs.
Coolidge, who was an admirable horsewoman. Their course lay over the almost
boundless plains that stretch westward to the foothills of the Rocky
Mountains, a distance of nearly one thousand miles.
In fifty days they reached Santa Fe, of which they took possession without
opposition. The soldierly bearing and quick intelligence of Mrs. Coolidge
soon attracted the attention of Col. Kearney, the commanding officer, and
she was selected by him to be one of the bearers of dispatches to the war
department.
A picked mustang, of extraordinary mettle and endurance, was placed at her
disposal; a strong and fleet horse of the messenger stock, crossed with the
mustang, was selected for her guide, a sturdy Scotchman, formerly in the
Santa Fé trade; and one bright day, early in September, they set out on
their long and perilous journey for Leavenworth. The first sixteen miles,
over a broken and hilly country, was void of incident. They had passed
through Arroyo Hondo and reached the Cañon, (El Boca del Cañon,) one of the
gateways to Santa Fé; as they were threading this narrow pass, they saw, on
turning a short angle of the precipice that towered three hundred feet
above them, four mounted Mexicans, armed to the teeth and prepared to
dispute their passage. One of them dismounted, and, advancing towards our
couriers, waved a white handkerchief, and demanded in Spanish and in broken
English their surrender. The guide replied in very concise English, telling
him to go to a place unmentionable to polite ears. The envoy immediately
rejoined his companions and mounted his horse; the party then turned and
trotted forward a few paces as if they were about to give Mrs. Coolidge and
the guide a free passage, when they suddenly wheeled their horses, and,
discharging their pieces, seized their lances and dashed down full tilt
upon our heroine and her guide. A shot from the guide's rifle hurled one of
the Mexicans out of his saddle, like a stone from a sling. Mrs. Coolidge
was less fortunate in her aim; missing the rider, her bullet struck a horse
full in the forehead, but such was the speed with which it was approaching,
that it was carried within twenty paces of the spot where she stood before
it fell; the rider, uninjured, quickly extricated himself, and, seizing
from his holster a horse-pistol, shot Mrs. Coolidge's horse, which
nevertheless still kept his legs, and, as her assailant rushed towards her
with his _machete_, or large knife, she leveled a pistol and sent a
ball through one of his legs, breaking it and bringing him to the ground.
Dismounting from her horse, which was reeling and staggering with loss of
blood, she held her other pistol to the head of the prostrate guerrilla,
who surrendered at discretion.
Meanwhile, the guide had dispatched one of the two remaining Mexicans, and,
though he had a shot in the fleshy part of his leg, he had succeeded in
compelling the other to surrender by shooting his horse.
Mrs. Coolidge now, for the first time, discovered blood dripping from a
wound made by a musket-ball in her bridle-arm. Hastily winding her scarf
about it, she bound the arms of her prisoner with a piece of rope, and
broke his lance and the locks of his pistols and carbine. The other
prisoner was served in the same fashion. The arms of the two dead Mexicans
were also broken or disabled. The fleetest and best of the two remaining
horses was taken by Mrs. Coolidge in lieu of her own gallant little
mustang, which was now gasping out his life on the rocky bottom of the
pass. Our gallant couriers then paroled the two prisoners, and galloped
rapidly down the cañon, taking the other mustang with them, and leaving the
guerrillas to find their way home as they best might. As they mounted their
horses, the guide remarked to Mrs. Coolidge that he had heretofore
entertained the suspicion that she might be a woman, but that now he knew
she was a man.
A swift ride brought them to old Pecos, a distance of ten miles, where they
supped and passed the night. Their wounds were mere scratches and did not
necessitate any delay, and the next day, after a long, slow gallop, they
reached Los Vegas. Then, keeping their course to the northwest and pushing
rapidly forward, they passed the present site of Fort Union, and, having
secured a large supply of dried buffalo meat, crossed the wonderful
_mesa_ or table-land west of the Canadian River, and encamped for a
night and day on the east bank of that stream.
The next stretch for two hundred miles lay through a country infested with
Utah and Apache Indians. Three or four days of swift riding would carry
them through this dangerous region to a place of security on the Arkansas
River. If they should meet a hostile band, it was agreed that they would
trust for safety in the swiftness of their steeds, which had already proved
themselves capable of both speed and endurance.
They had crossed Rabbit ear Creek and reached the Cimarron, without seeing
even the sign of a foe, when, early one morning, the guide, looking
eastward over the vast sandy plain, from the camp where they had passed the
night, saw far away a body of fifty mounted Indians, whom, after examining
with his glass, he pronounced to be Utahs coming rapidly towards them.
There was no escape, and, in accordance with their programme, they mounted
their horses and rode slowly to meet them.
The Indians, spying them, formed a semicircle and galloped towards the
fearless couple, who put their horses to a canter, and, riding directly
against the center of the line of warriors, dashed through it on the run.
The Indians, quickly recovering from the astonishment produced by this
daring manoeuver, wheeled their horses and dashed after them. All but ten
of the Indians were soon distanced; these ten continued the pursuit, but in
an hour and a half this number was reduced to seven, and in another hour
only five remained. They were evidently young braves, who were hoping to
distinguish themselves by taking two American soldiers' scalps.
On they sped--the pursuers and the pursued--over the wild plain. A space of
barely half a mile divided them. The horses, however, of each party seemed
so evenly matched in speed and endurance that neither gained on the other.
The mustangs, the one ridden by our heroine, the other with only a ninety
pound pack on its back, though glossy with sweat, and their nostrils
crimson and expanded with the terrible strain upon them, showed no sign of
flagging. The guide's horse, a heavier animal, began at length to show
symptoms of fatigue. If there had been time, he would have shifted his
saddle on the pack-mustang, but this was not to be thought of. By dint of
spurring and lashing the smoking flanks of the now drooping steed, he
barely kept his place by the side of his companion.
They were now near a small creek, an affluent of the Arkansas, when the
guide, turning his eyes, saw that only three of the Indians were on their
trail, the two others were galloping slowly back. Just as he announced this
fact to Mrs. Coolidge, his tired horse fell heavily, throwing him forward
upon his head and stunning him senseless.
Our heroine, dismounting, dragged her unconscious comrade to the bank of
the creek, and, throwing water in his face, quickly restored him to his
senses; but, before he could handle his gun, the Indians had come within a
hundred paces, whooping fiercely to call back their companions, who just
before abandoned the pursuit. They were luckily only armed with bows and
arrows, and, circling about the fearless pair, they launched arrow after
arrow, though without doing any execution. One of them fell before the
rifle of Mrs. Coolidge. A second was brought to earth by the guide, who had
by this time revived sufficiently to join in the fight. The third turned
and galloped off towards his two companions, who were now hastening to the
scene of conflict.
This gave our heroine and her associate in danger time to reload their
rifles and to shield their horses behind the bank of the creek. Then, lying
prostrate in the grass, they completely concealed themselves from sight.
The three Indians, seeing them disappear behind the bank of the creek, and
supposing that they had taken to flight again, rode unguardedly within
range, and received shots which tumbled two of them from their saddles. The
only remaining warrior gave up the contest and galloped away, leaving his
comrades dead upon the field. One of the Indian mustangs supplied the place
of the guide's horse, which was wind broken, and the two now pursued their
journey at a moderate pace, reaching Fort Leavenworth without encountering
any more dangers.
Mrs. Coolidge (under her pseudonym of James Brown), after delivering her
despatches, was promoted to the rank of sergeant, and was, at her own
request, detached from the New Mexican division of the army and ordered to
Matamoras, where she did garrison duty without any suspicion being awakened
as to her sex. She afterwards entered active service, and accompanied the
army on the march to the city of Mexico. She took part in the storming of
Chepultepec, and never flinched in that severe affair, covering herself
with honor, and proving what brave deeds a woman can do in the severest
test to which a soldier can be put.
During the recent war between the North and the South woman's position on
the frontier was similar to that which she occupied in the war of 1812. The
greater part of the army of the United States, which, in time of peace, was
stationed along the vast border line from the Red River of the North to the
Rio Grande, had been withdrawn. The outposts, by means of which the
blood-thirsty Sioux, the savage Comanches, the remorseless Apaches, and
numerous other fierce and war like tribes had been kept in check, were
either abandoned, or so poorly garrisoned that the settlements upon the
border were left almost entirely unprotected from the treacherous savage,
the lawless Mexican bandit, and the American outlaw and desperado.
What made their position still more unguarded and dangerous was the absence
of their fathers, husbands, and brothers, as volunteers in the armies. The
war fever raged in both the North and the South, and nowhere more hotly
than among the pioneers from Minnesota to Texas. This brave and hardy class
of men, accustomed as they were to the presence of danger, obeyed the call
to arms with alacrity, and the women appear to have acquiesced in the
enlistment of their natural protectors, trusting to God and their own arms
to guard the household during the absence of the men of the family.
The women were thus left alone to face their human foes, and the thousand
other perils which beset them. They were, to all intents and purposes,
soldiers. They belonged to the home army, upon which the frontier would
have mainly to rely for security. Ceaseless vigilance by night and day, and
a steady courage in the presence of danger, had to be constantly exercised.
Sometimes the savage foe came in overwhelming numbers, and in such cases
the only safety lay in flight, during which all woman's address and
fortitude was called into requisition, either to devise means of
successfully eluding her pursuers, or to endure the toils and hardships of
a rapid march. Sometimes she stood with loaded gun in her household
garrison, and faced the enemy, either repelling them, or dying at her post,
or, what was worse than death, seeing her loved ones butchered before her
eyes, and their being led into a cruel captivity.
On the Texas border, in 1862, one of these home-warriors, during the
absence of her husband in the Southern army, was left alone not far from
the Rio Grande, and ten miles from the house of any American settler. Three
Mexican horse thieves came to the house and demanded the key of the stable,
in which two valuable horses were kept, threatening, in case of refusal, to
burn her house over her head. She stood at her open door, with loaded
revolver, and told them that not only would she not surrender the property,
but that the first one that dared to lay violent hands upon her should be
shot down. Cowed by her intrepid manner, the bandits slunk away.
On another occasion she was attacked by two American outlaws, while riding
on the river bank. One of them seized the bridle of the horse, and the
other attempted to drag her from the saddle. Turning upon the latter, she
shot him dead, and the other, from sheer amazement at her daring, lost his
self-possession and begged for mercy. After compelling him to give up his
arms, she allowed him to depart unmolested, as there was no tribunal of
justice near by where he could be punished for his villainy. These exploits
gained for the borderer's wife a wide reputation throughout the region, and
either through fear of her courage, or through an admiring respect for such
heroism, when displayed by a lone woman, she was never again troubled by
marauders.
The Sioux war in Minnesota, in 1862, was remarkable for the sufferings
endured and the bravery displayed by women whose husbands had left them to
join the army.
A notable instance of this description was that of two married sisters who
lived in one house on the Minnesota River, some eighty miles above Mankato.
One morning in the spring of that year their house was surrounded by Sioux
Indians, but was so bravely defended that the savages withdrew without
doing much damage. Two weeks of perfect peace passed away, and the two
sisters renewed their outdoor work as fearlessly as ever, as their secluded
situation prevented them from hearing of the ravages of the Indians in the
eastern settlements.
Late one afternoon, while both the women were sitting in a small grove, not
far from the house, they heard the war-whoop, and, stealing through the
bushes, saw ten savages, who had dragged the three children from the house
and cut their throats, and, after scalping them, were dancing about their
mangled corpses. They then set fire to the house and barns, and, butchering
the cow, proceeded to prepare a great feast.
Not knowing how long the monsters would remain, and having no food nor
means to procure any, the hapless women set out for the nearest house,
which was situated ten miles to the east. They succeeded in reaching the
spot at ten o'clock that night, but found nothing but a heap of ashes and
two mangled bodies of a woman and her child.
Grief, fear, and fatigue kept them from obtaining that rest they so much
needed, and before daylight they resumed their march towards the next
house, eight miles farther east. This had also been destroyed. The younger
sister, who was the mother of the three children who had been butchered,
now gave up in grief and despair, and declared that she would die there.
But she was at length induced to proceed by the urgent persuasions of the
older and stronger woman.
The borders of the river at this point were covered with woods rendered
impervious to the rays of the sun by the herbs, and shrubs that crept up
the trunks, and twined around the branches of the trees. They resumed their
melancholy journey; but observing that following the course of the river
considerably lengthened their route, they entered into the wood, and in a
few days lost their way. Though now nearly famished, oppressed with thirst,
and their feet sorely wounded with briars and thorns, they continued to
push forward through immeasurable wilds and gloomy forests, drawing
refreshment from the berries and wild fruits they were able to collect.
At length, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, their strength failed them, and
they sunk down helpless and forlorn. Here they waited impatiently for death
to relieve them from their misery. In four days the younger sister expired,
and the elder continued stretched beside her sister's corpse for
forty-eight hours, deprived of the use of all her faculties. At last
Providence gave her strength and courage to quit the melancholy scene, and
attempt to pursue her journey. She was now without stockings, barefooted,
and almost naked; two cloaks, which had been torn to rags by the briars,
afforded her but a scanty covering. Having cut off the soles of her
sister's shoes, she fastened them to her feet, and went on her lonely way.
The second day of her journey she found water; and the day following, some
wild fruit and green eggs; but so much was her throat contracted by the
privation of nutriment, that she could hardly swallow such a sufficiency of
the sustenance which chance presented to her as would support her emaciated
frame.
That evening she was found by a party of volunteers who had been in pursuit
of the Indians, and she was brought into the nearest settlement in a
condition of body and mind to which even death would have been preferable.
Notwithstanding the dangers and distractions of this quasi-military life
led by wives and mothers on the frontier they did not neglect their other
home duties.
When the scarred and swarthy veterans returned to their homes on the border
there were no marks of neglect to be erased, no evidences of dilapidation
and decay. "They found their farms in as good a condition as when they
enlisted. Enhanced prices had balanced diminished production. Crops had
been planted, tended, and gathered, by hands that before had been all
unused to the hoe and the rake. The sadness lasted only in those
households--alas! too numerous--where no disbanding of armies could restore
the soldier to the loving arms and the blessed industries of home."
These women of the frontier during the late war may be called the irregular
forces of the army, soldiers in all respects except in being enrolled and
placed under officers. They fought and marched, stood on guard and were
taken prisoners. They viewed the horrors of war and were under fire
although they did not wear the army uniform nor walk in files and platoons.
All these things they did in addition to their work as housewives, farmers,
and mothers.
Many others took naturally to the rough life of a soldier, and enlisting
under soldiers' guise followed the drum on foot or in the saddle, and
encamped on the bare ground with a knapsack for a pillow and no covering
from the cold and rain but a brown army blanket.
One of these heroines was Miss Louisa Wellman of Iowa. Born and nurtured on
the border, habituated from childhood to an outdoor life, a fine rider, as
well as a good shot with both a rifle and a pistol, it was quite natural
that she should have felt a martial ardor when the war commenced, and
having donned her brother's clothes, should have enlisted as she did in one
of the Iowa regiments. Her most serious annoyance was the rough language
and profanity of the soldiers. While in camp she managed to associate with
the sober and pious soldiers, of whom there were several in the company.
This was afterwards known as "the praying squad;" but she did not in
consequence of her reluctance to associate with the others lose her
popularity, owing to her unvarying cheerfulness, her generosity and her
disposition to oblige often at the greatest inconvenience to herself. If a
comrade was taken sick she was the first to tender her services as watcher
and nurse, and in this way came to be known as "Doctor Ned."
She took part in the storming of Fort Donelson where she was slightly
wounded in the wrist. Afterwards she served often in the picket line and
distinguished herself by her courage, vigilance, and shrewdness. The
boldness with which she exposed herself on every occasion, led to such a
catastrophe as might have been expected. The battle of Pittsburgh Landing
was an affair in which she figured with a cool bravery that kept her
company steady in spite of the terrible fire which was decimating the ranks
of the Federal Army. The pressure, however, was at last too great. Slowly
driven towards the river, and fighting every inch of ground, the regiment
in which she served seemed likely to be annihilated. They had just reached
the shelter of the gun-boats when a stray shell exploded directly in the
faces of the front rank, and Miss Wellman was struck and thrown violently
to the earth, but instantly sprang to her feet and was able to walk to the
temporary hospital which had been established near the river bank.
Like Deborah Samson, her sex was discovered by the surgeon who dressed her
wound. The wound was in the collar bone and was made by a fragment of
shell. Although not a dangerous one it required immediate attention. When
the surgeon desired her to remove her army jacket she demurred, and not
being able to assign any good reason for her refusal, the surgeon coupling
this with the modest blush which suffused her features when he made his
requisition for the removal of her outside garment, immediately guessed the
truth. With chivalrous delicacy he immediately dispatched her with a note
to the wife of one of the Captains who was in the camp at the time,
recommending the maiden soldier to her care, and begging that she would
dress the wound in accordance with a prescription which he sent. Although
Miss Wellman begged that her secret might not be disclosed and that she
might be permitted to continue to serve in the ranks, it was judged best to
communicate the fact to the commanding officer, who, though he admired the
bravery and resolution of the maiden, judged best that she should serve in
another capacity if at all, and having notified her parents and obtained
their consent she was allowed to do service in the ambulance department.
She was furnished with a horse, side-saddle, saddle-bags, etc., and
whenever a battle took place she would ride fearlessly to the front to
assist the wounded. Many a poor wounded soldier was assisted off the field
by her, and sometimes she would dismount from her horse, and, aiding the
wounded man to climb into the saddle, would convey him to the hospital. She
carried bandages and stimulants in her saddle-bags, and did all she was
able to relieve the sufferings of such as were too badly wounded to be
removed.
During this service she was often exposed to the enemy's fire. She was with
Grant in the Vicksburg campaign, and on one occasion; being attracted by a
tremendous firing, rode rapidly forward, and missing her way found herself
within one hundred yards of a battalion of the enemy, whose gray jackets
could be seen through the smoke of their rapid firing. Wheeling her horse
she galloped out of range, fortunately escaping the storm of bullets which
flew about her.
She shared the hardships as well as the perils of the soldiers, and in the
bivouac wrapped herself in her blanket and lay on the bare ground, with no
other shelter but the sky, rising at the sound of reveille to partake with
her comrades of the plain camp fare. All this she did cheerfully and with
her whole heart. Her sympathy was not bounded by the wants and sufferings
of the soldiers of the federal army, but embraced in its boundless
outpouring those of her countrymen who were then ranged against her as
foes. Many a sick and suffering Southerner had cause to bless the kindness
and devotion of this noble girl. Herein she showed herself a Christian
woman and a practical example of the teachings of Him who said,--"Love your
enemies." Such deeds as her's shine amid the terrible passions and carnage
of war with a heavenly radiance which time can never dim.
Either in the army or in close connection with it, woman's affectionate
devotion was illustrated in all those relations of life in which she stands
beside man. As a mother, as a wife, and as a sister, she brightly displayed
this quality. The following instance of wifely devotion is related of a
woman who came from the Red River of Louisiana with her husband, who was a
Southern officer.
In the fall of 1863, during the bombardment of Charleston by the federal
batteries, this young woman, being tenderly attached to her husband, who
was in one of the forts, begged the military authorities to allow her to
join her husband and share the fearful dangers and hardships to which he
was daily and nightly exposed. All representations of the difficulties,
privations, and perils she would encounter failed to daunt her in her
purpose. The importunities of the loving wife prevailed over military rules
and even over the expostulations of her husband, and she was allowed to
take her post beside the one whom she regarded with an affection amounting
to idolatry. Sending her two children to the care of a maiden aunt some
miles from the city, she was conveyed to her husband's battery, a large
earth-work outside of the city.
Here she remained for sixty days, during which the battery where she was,
made one of the principal targets for the federal cannon. For weeks
together she lay down in her clothes in the midst of the soldiers. The
bursting of the shells and the sound of the federal hundred-pounders, with
answering volleys from the fort, scarcely intermitted night or day. Sleep
was for several days after her arrival out of the question. But at length
she became used to the cannonade and enjoyed intermittent slumbers, from
which she was sometimes awakened by the explosion of a shell which had
penetrated the roof of the fort and strewed the earth with dead and
wounded.
Her only food was the wormy bread and half-cured pork which was served out
to the soldiers, and her drink was brackish water from the ditch that
surrounded the earth-work. The cannonading during the day was so furious
that the fort was often almost reduced to ruins, but in the night the
destruction was repaired. A fleet of gunboats joined the land batteries in
bombarding the fort, and at last succeeded in making it no longer tenable.
Guns had been dismounted, the bomb-proof had been destroyed, and the sides
of the earth-work were full of breaches where the huge ten-inch balls had
ploughed their way.
During all these terrifying and dreadful scenes, our heroine stayed at her
post of love and duty beside her husband. When the little garrison
evacuated the fort at night and retired to the city, she was carried in an
ambulance drawn by four of the soldiers in honor of her courage and
devotion.
One of the most singular and romantic stories of the late war, is that of
two young women who enlisted at the same time, and were engaged in active
service for nearly a year without any discovery being made or even a
suspicion excited as to their true sex.
Sarah Stover and Maria Seelye, for these were the names of these heroines
of real life, being homeless orphans, and finding it difficult to earn a
subsistence on a small farm in Western Missouri, where they lived,
determined to enlist as volunteers in the Federal Army. Accordingly, having
donned male attire and proceeded to St. Louis early in 1863, they joined a
company which was soon after ordered to proceed to the regiment, which was
a part of the army of the Potomac.
Within two weeks after their arrival at the scene of conflict in the East,
the battle of Chancellorsville was fought, the two girls participating in
it and seeing something of the horrors of the war in which they were
engaged as soldiers. In one of the minor battles which occurred the
following summer they were separated in the confusion of the fight, and
upon calling the muster, Miss Stover, known in the regiment as Edward
Malison, was found among the missing. Her comrade, after searching for her
among the killed and wounded in vain, at last ascertained that she had been
taken prisoner and conveyed to Richmond.
Miss Seelye, although she was well aware of the serious consequences which
might follow, decided to adopt a bold plan in order to reach her friend
whom she loved so devotedly, and who was now suffering captivity and
perhaps wounds or disease. Through an old negress she obtained a woman's
dress and bonnet, and disguising herself in these garments, deserted at the
first favorable opportunity. She reached Washington in safety and was
successful in an application for a pass to Fortress Monroe, from which
place she made her way after many difficulties to the lines of the Southern
Army. By artful representations she overcame the scruples of the officers
and passed on her way to Richmond, where she soon arrived, and overcoming
by her address and perseverance all obstacles, obtained admission to Libby
Prison, representing that she was near of kin to one of the prisoners.
Her singular success in accomplishing her object was due doubtless to her
intelligence, fine manners, and good looks, with great tact in using the
opportunities within her reach.
She found her friend just recovering from a wound in her arm. The secret of
her sex was still undiscovered; and after her wound was entirely healed
they prepared to attempt an escape which they had already planned. Miss
Seelye contrived to smuggle into the prison a complete suit of female
attire, in which, one night just as they were relieving the guard, she
managed to slip past the cordon of sentries, and joining her friend at the
place agreed upon, the two immediately set out for Raleigh, to which city
Miss Seelye had obtained two passes, one for herself, the other for a lady
friend. They traveled on foot, and after passing the lines struck boldly
across the country in the direction of Norfolk. When morning dawned they
concealed themselves in a wood and at night resumed their march.
On one occasion, just as they were emerging from a wood in the evening,
they were discovered by a cavalryman. Their appearance excited his
suspicions that they were spies, and he told them that he should have to
take them to headquarters. But their lady-like manners and straightforward
answers persuaded him that he was wrong, and he allowed them to proceed.
Another time they narrowly escaped capture by two soldiers who suddenly
entered the cabin of an old negro where they were passing the day.
After a tedious journey of a week, they reached the Federal pickets, and
finally were transported to Washington on the steamer. This was in the
autumn of 1863; their term of service would expire in two months, but after
great hesitation they resolved to report themselves to the headquarters of
their regiment as just escaped from Richmond. Accordingly, procuring suits
of men's attire, they again disguised their sex and proceeded to rejoin
their regiment, which was encamped near Washington.
The desertion of Miss Seelye having been explained in this manner, she
escaped its serious penalty, and both the girls were soon after regularly
discharged from service. As we have already remarked, no suspicion was
excited as to their sex, each shielding the other from discovery, and it
was only after their discharge that they themselves revealed the secret.
The stories of women who have served as soldiers often disclose motives
which would have little influence in impelling the other sex to enter the
army. Love and devotion are among the most prominent of the moving causes
of female enlistment. Sometimes a maiden, like Helen Goodridge, followed
her lover to the war; sometimes a mother enlisted in the hospital
department in order to nurse a wounded or sick husband or son. It was often
some species of devotion, either to individuals or to her country, that led
gentle woman to march in the ranks and share the dangers and privations of
army life. Such an instance as the following furnishes a singularly
striking illustration of this unselfish love and devotion of which we are
speaking.
While the hostile armies were fighting, in the summer of 1864, those
desperate battles by which the issues of the war were ultimately decided, a
small, slender soldier fighting in the ranks, in General Johnson's
division, was struck by a shell which tore away the left arm and stretched
the young hero lifeless on the ground. A comrade in pity twisted a
handkerchief around the wounded limb as an impromptu tourniquet, and thus
having staunched the flowing blood, placed the slender form of the
unfortunate soldier under a tree and passed on. Here half an hour after he
was found by the ambulance men and brought to the hospital, where the
surgeon discovered that the heroic heart, still faintly beating, animated
the delicate frame of a woman.
Powerful stimulants were administered, and as soon as strength was restored
the stump of the wounded limb was amputated near the shoulder. For a week
the patient hovered between life and death. But her vitality triumphed in
the struggle, and in a few days, with careful nursing she was able to sit
up and converse. One of those noble women, who emulated the example and the
glory of Florence Nightingale in nursing and ministering to the sick and
wounded in the army, won the maiden-soldier's confidence, and into her ear
she breathed her story.
She and a brother aged eighteen had been left orphans two years before.
They were in destitute circumstances and had no near relations. They both
supported themselves by honest toil, and their lonely and friendless
situation had drawn them together with a warmth of affection, that even
between a brother and sister has been rarely felt. They were all in all to
each other, and when, in the spring of 1864, her brother had been drafted
into the army, she learned the name of the regiment to which he had been
assigned, and unknown to him assumed male attire and joined the same
regiment.
She sought out her brother, and in a private interview made herself known
to him. Astonished and grieved at the step she had taken he begged her to
withdraw from the army, which she could easily do by disclosing the fact of
her true sex. She remained firm against all his affectionate entreaties,
informing him that if he was wounded or taken sick she would be near to
nurse him, and in case of such a disaster she would reveal her secret and
get a discharge so that she could attend constantly upon him. On the
morning of the battle in which she had been wounded they had met for the
last time, and, as they well knew the battle would be a bloody one, agreed
that each one would notify the other of their respective safety in case
they both survived. A note had reached her just after the battle, that her
brother was safe, and she on her part had sent a message to him that she
was alive and well, believing that she would recover, and not wishing to
alarm him by telling the truth. Since that time she had heard nothing from
him, and begged with streaming eyes that the lady would inquire if he had
been wounded in any of the recent severe battles. The lady hastened to
procure the much desired information. After diligent inquiries she
discovered that the brother had been shot dead in a battle which occurred
the day following that in which his sister had been wounded.
The good lady, sadly afflicted by this intelligence, and fearing its effect
upon the invalid, strove to assume a cheerful countenance as she approached
the couch. A smile of almost painful sweetness shone on the face of the
girl soldier when she first glanced at the serene face of the lady who
kindly put her off in her penetrating inquiries, but could not avoid
showing a trace of grief and anxiety over the sad message with which she
was burdened.
The smile slowly faded from the girl's face, her voice grew tremulous, her
questions more searching and direct. The lady tried to commence to break
the sad truth gently to her, but already the unfortunate maiden had
comprehended the fact. Her face grew a shade paler, then flushed; she
breathed with difficulty, they raised her up, a crimson stream gushed from
her lips, and an instant after the strong heart of the true and loving
sister was still for ever.