in appearance, can be quite as obstinate as other members of her sex.
He gazed wonderingly at the poke-bonneted woman as she left the house
and started in the direction of General Howe’s headquarters in order to
get the requisite pass to get through the British lines.
General Howe received her kindly, if not almost jovially. He knew that
the Adjutant-General of his army was quartered at the Darrah home,
and he looked on Lydia as an interesting but harmless rebel. He was
surrounded by members of his staff and they, like their superior, were
disposed to jest with the Quakeress. But finally the coveted pasteboard
was handed to her.
“Don’t stay long,” he smiled. “Your British guests will miss you.”
The moment she received the pass she hurried away and once out of
sight of the general’s headquarters she almost ran until she reached
Frankford. She left her bag at the mill, and saying she would return
for it in a little while, continued her journey to Whitemarsh.
Washington had camped at this place after resting for a few days at
Perkiomen Creek. He was reënforced by 1200 Rhode Island troops from
Peekskill, under General Varnum, and nearly 1000 Virginia, Maryland
and Pennsylvania soldiers. He was now within fourteen miles of
Philadelphia. By a resolution of Congress all persons taken within
thirty miles of any place occupied by the British troops, in the act of
conveying supplies to them, were subjected to martial law. Acting under
the resolution, Washington detached large bodies of militia to scour
the roads above the city, and between the Schuylkill and Chester, to
intercept all supplies going to the enemy.
This served a double purpose. It harassed Howe by preventing him from
receiving the supplies and gave them to the Continentals. All this time
Washington was observing a prudent policy. He was anxious to fight,
but he was only willing to do so under circumstances that would be
advantageous to himself. He had many critics of this policy, and some
of them said nasty things, but Washington held steadily to his purpose
in spite of good and evil reports.
Lydia Darrah plodded along to Whitemarsh, oblivious alike of the
inclemency of the weather and her personal discomfort. Her one thought
was to get the warning to Washington, for whom she had a respect and
reverence that bordered on veneration. After leaving the mill at
Frankford she encountered but few persons, and these looked upon the
little Quakeress with only a listless curiosity.
It was when she had almost reached her destination that she began to
feel footsore and weary. She was filled with a great desire to sit by
the roadside and rest, but she resisted the natural inclination and
kept on to the end. Within that frail body and beneath those modest and
peaceful garments there was a grim determination that was Spartan-like
in its persistence and its ignoring of pain and suffering.
Just before she reached her goal she saw a mounted Continental officer.
His back was turned to her and she debated the advisability of speaking
to him. Before she reached a conclusion he had twisted about in his
saddle and looked in her direction. The recognition was mutual. He was
a young American officer of her acquaintance, Lieutenant Colonel Craig
of the light horse. He was evidently amazed at seeing her in such a
place, and, riding over, touched his hat.
[Illustration: LYDIA DARRAH AND LIEUTENANT-COLONEL CRAIG]
“Have you lost your way?” he asked, and before she could answer he
added, “and how did you get through the British lines?”
She smiled sweetly in spite of her fatigue.
“I came to get flour at the mill in Frankford. General Howe was good
enough to give me a pass.”
“But you are beyond Frankford,” he protested.
“Perhaps,” she said hesitatingly, “I may be in search of my son who is
an officer in the American army.”
“Perhaps,” retorted Lieutenant Colonel Craig, doubtfully.
By this time several soldiers on foot came in the direction of the
speakers. Lydia became nervous and ill at ease. She plucked at his
coat.
“Dismount and walk aside with me,” she whispered. “I have something to
tell you.”
He complied with her request, wonderingly. The Lieutenant Colonel and
his companions constituted a squad that had been sent out by Washington
to watch the roads and to gather information concerning the enemy.
Little did he suspect that such important news was at hand. They walked
some yards from the soldiers.
“Now,” he commanded, “tell me what in the world you are doing so far
from home.”
“Lieutenant,” she cried in a voice that trembled in spite of herself,
“I came to warn General Washington that General Howe intends to attack
the Continental army. He hopes to find General Washington unprepared.”
“How do you know this?”
“I overheard it last night. The Adjutant-General and other officers met
at my house to make their plans. I felt that General Washington must be
warned and I walked here for that purpose.”
The eyes of the young officer almost stared out of their sockets. He
gazed down at the frail woman in amazement and admiration.
“Shall I take you to the General?”
“No, it is sufficient for you to know. It shall be your duty to tell
him. And you must agree not to reveal your source of information. If it
was known that I came here it would go hard with me—it might mean my
death.”
“I promise!” he said, solemnly.
Then and there the Quakeress told him all that had taken place in
her house at the conference among the British officers. She had an
excellent memory and was able to give him all the details of the
proposed attack. As she concluded she said:
“You must not reveal my identity—even to your men.”
“It shall be as you wish, and now you must rest and have food.”
She protested feebly, but he was not to be gainsaid, and insisted upon
escorting her to a nearby farmhouse where she might obtain food and
also rest for a while before taking the long walk back to the city.
She urged him to go to Washington at once, saying the message he had
to convey was more important than her personal comfort. But he was a
gentleman as well as a patriot and he did not leave her until she had
been safely housed and her wants attended to. On leaving he stooped and
kissed her hand.
“You have saved the army,” he said, “and you will not be forgotten as
long as liberty endures.”
She did not stay long, and, after a light meal, left for the return to
Philadelphia. She paused at Frankford to get the sack of flour, which
she carried with her as a proof of the statement that she had gone to
the mill. Fortunately she reached her home safely, and apparently the
incident after that was forgotten by the other members of the household.
But she was in a state of high nervous tension until she could be
assured of the safety of the Continental army. She waited eagerly for
the departure of the British. It was about forty-eight hours after
her return from Whitemarsh that the beating of drums and the marching
of many feet announced the departure of the troops for the purpose
of surprising Washington. Lydia Darrah stood on the sidewalk as the
glittering cavalcades passed by, apparently a non-important unit in
the mass of spectators, but actually the heroine, if not the most
important figure, of the drama that was to be enacted. After the last
of the soldiers had departed she retired to her room in a fever of
apprehension that was not to be allayed until she had received definite
news of the encounter between the two armies.
General Howe was in high good spirits. He felt that he was going to
catch the “old fox” sleeping, and the thought made him chuckle with
delight. The town was full of Tories, too, and many of them would not
have been displeased if the “rebels” received a crushing blow. But
Lydia Darrah, in her darkened chamber, hoped and prayed that all might
go well with Washington and his men.
In the meantime, at Whitemarsh, preparations for meeting the enemy were
going on in the Continental army. Washington was impressed with the
information brought to him by Lieutenant Colonel Craig. On the day of
the 4th the Commander-in-chief received word from Captain Allen McLane,
a vigilant officer, which confirmed the warning carried to the camp
by Lydia Darrah. He made his dispositions to receive the meditated
assault, and in the meantime sent McLane, with 100 men, to reconnoiter.
This gallant officer met the van of the enemy at eleven o’clock at
night on the Germantown road, attacked it and forced it to change its
line of march.
But it was three o’clock in the morning before the alarm gun announced
the approach of the main body of the British army. They appeared at
daybreak and took their position at Chestnut Hill within three miles of
Washington’s right wing. Here the invaders met with a second surprise.
Far from being unprepared, a detachment of the Pennsylvania State
Militia sallied forth and gave battle to the redcoats. It was a draw,
with a few dead and wounded on each side, and the British general in
charge exclaimed:
“They don’t seem to be a bit surprised!”
General Howe passed the day in reconnoitering and at night changed
his ground and moved to a hill on the left within a mile of the
American line. He wanted to get into action, but Washington, with great
military shrewdness, declined to accommodate him. There were several
sharp skirmishes at Edge Hill, and other points thereabouts, in which
Morgan’s Riflemen and the Maryland Militia were concerned, but no
general engagement.
On the morning of the seventh there was every evidence that Howe
meditated an attack on the left wing. This was what Washington most
desired and his hopes ran high as he prepared for a warm and decisive
action. In the course of the day he rode through every brigade
explaining how the attack was to be met and exhorting the men to
remember that they were fighting in the cause of liberty. He urged
them to depend mainly upon the bayonet and to be on the aggressive
always. Both his words and his manner impressed them, but especially
his manner, for Washington had a demeanor at once grave and determined,
which filled his followers with confidence.
The day wore on to its close with nothing but minor skirmishes. The
reports show that Morgan’s Riflemen and the Maryland Militia under
Colonel Gist did brave work in this regard. An attack was next expected
during the night, but it never occurred. The spirit displayed by the
Americans, and especially their preparedness, had a discouraging effect
upon the invaders.
When the first gray tints of dawn appeared it was seen that the
British army was in motion again. But they did not advance toward the
Americans. On the contrary they filed off to the right where long
strings of fires were lit; behind these fires the redcoats silently
departed in the direction of Philadelphia.
They had come on a fool’s errand—like the king’s soldiers in the
couplet, they had marched up the hill and then marched down again.
Washington immediately detached light firing parties to fall upon the
rear of the departing army, but they had secured too good a start to
be very seriously damaged. The Continentals did, however, succeed
in worrying the redcoats and in making them regret they had left
Philadelphia.
Washington was sorry that there had not been a battle, and writing to
the President of Congress at the time said:
“I sincerely wish they had made an attack; as the issue in all
probability, from the disposition of our troops and the strong
situation of our camp, must have been fortunate and happy. At
the same time _I_ must add, that reason, prudence and every
principle of policy forbade us from quitting our post to attack
them. Nothing but success would have justified the measure; and
this could not have been expected from their position.”
It was a sorry procession of Englishmen that filed through the
streets of Philadelphia after this historic retreat—because it can
only be called a retreat. They had gone out with high hopes; they had
returned—figuratively speaking—with their tails between their legs.
They had expected to throw themselves upon a camp of sleeping and
unprepared men; they had encountered a spirited and fully prepared foe.
The Tory ladies who lined the sidewalks of the city felt sorry for the
non-conquering heroes. But one woman watched that mournful march with
pleasure, the woman who was chiefly responsible for it—Lydia Darrah.
On the night after the return of the British troops the
Adjutant-General of the army sent for Lydia Darrah. He requested her to
come to his room as he wished to put to her some important questions.
She followed, quaking in her shoes. She felt that some one had betrayed
her, and prepared to suffer the consequences.
“What I wish to know,” he said, after she had been seated, “is whether
any of your family was up after eight o’clock on the night that I
conferred with the other officers in your sitting-room.”
She shook her poke-bonneted head.
“Thee knows that we all went to bed at eight o’clock,” she answered.
“I know that _you_ were asleep,” he said with emphasis, “because I had
to knock at your chamber door three times before you were aroused. But
I wondered if any one else was about.”
“Why?”
“Because some one must have given Washington information concerning
our march. I know you were in bed; you say the others were also. I
can’t imagine who gave us away unless the walls had ears. When we
reached Whitemarsh we found all their cannon mounted and the soldiers
ready to receive us. Consequently, after wasting days in marching and
counter-marching, we were compelled to come back here like a pack of
fools.”
“I sympathize with thee,” she said, but if one could have peeped
beneath the folds of that poke bonnet one would have sworn there was
a twinkle in those demure eyes and a smile of satisfaction upon that
placid face.
And who will have the heart to find fault with the brave Quakeress for
the twinkle, the smile and the white lie?
IX
DOCTOR STEIBER AND THE MYSTERY OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR
One of the mysteries that has ever puzzled patriotic Frenchmen is
how Germany—in 1870—was able to crush France in one of the shortest
and most humiliating wars in history. The bravery, the unquestioned
courage of the French soldier, in every war prior to and since 1870,
has been universally conceded. The French troops have often held out
against great odds and acknowledged defeat only after a long and
stubborn resistance. Why did the national defenses in 1870 fall down
like so many houses of cards? Why was France caught in such an utterly
unprepared condition? Why was it that so many French troops were
captured like rats in a trap? In a word, what was the mystery of the
Franco-Prussian War?
The answer is simple. They were out-spied, and the man behind the
mystery was Doctor Steiber, Chief of the Prussian Secret Service.
He confessed afterwards, and it has since been corroborated from many
reliable sources, that two armies were responsible for the defeat of
France in the Franco-Prussian War. One was Steiber’s army of spies
which invaded the country in 1867, 1868, and 1869, and the other was
the German military army which came in 1870.
Steiber was a man with untiring push, unlimited persistence and an
unpleasant personality. He had big ears, a big nose, shifty eyes and
an irritating smile. Like a certain character made famous by Dickens,
he was always washing his hands in invisible water. He was cordially
disliked by many of the German officers, but was a favorite of Prince
Bismarck, and that, of course, turned the scales in his favor.
Napoleon’s chief spy was an Alsatian smuggler, while Bismarck’s secret
service agent was a socialist. At least that is what he was before he
attracted the attention of the German Prime Minister. After that he
believed absolutely in the sacred rights of property.
It was in 1864 that he first performed any work of consequence outside
of Germany. About that time Bismarck began to have designs upon
Bohemia, but before attacking that country the prudent head of the
State Department desired to get all of the inside information that was
possible. He looked about him for an instrument, and his gaze fell upon
the erstwhile socialist.
In the latter part of 1864 Steiber set out for Bohemia. As the people
of that country were very religious he went in the guise of a peddler
of religious statues. He traveled from one town to another gaining the
confidence of the honest and simple minded people, and acquiring a vast
fund of information concerning the forts and defenses and the general
state of military preparedness—or unpreparedness. He remained there
for many months and had the assistance of a number of lesser spies.
When he returned to Germany he was able to place this data in the hands
of Bismarck, who, in turn, gave it to Moltke.
On the strength of this report it was decided to invade Bohemia, and
many thousands of well-drilled, well-officered and well-fed troops
advanced upon what might fairly be called a helpless country. It was
one victory after another until Bohemia was entirely subjugated. Doctor
Steiber accompanied the German army in its victorious march, but more
in the rôle of an informer than a warrior. Naturally many of the German
officers were aware of the character of his work, and some of them were
outspoken in their disgust. Many of them refused to eat at the same
mess with him. Bismarck was in the field on one occasion and Steiber
complained to him of the affronts that had been placed upon him.
“They go out of their way to show their dislike of me,” he said.
“Well, what of it?” was the gruff query.
“They should be disciplined,” he insisted, “because I am merely
carrying out your orders.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“Well,” was the shrewd response, “I will teach them a lesson in my own
way.”
And so he did. And it took the form of having Doctor Steiber dine with
him in his own tent.
During the course of the invasion Steiber was made Governor of Braum,
the capital of Moravia, thus becoming a sort of glorified chief of
police. In this position, as might be expected, there were many rich
pickings, a fact that was not overlooked by the thrifty ex-socialist.
This was not all. He was decorated, and the medal bestowed upon him was
pinned on his ample bosom by Moltke. That soldier, like Bismarck, was
eminently practical. As if to justify himself he said on one occasion:
“One must not confine oneself to giving money to spies. One must know
how to show them honor when they deserve it.”
After the Bohemian business had been concluded, Doctor Steiber
had a period of comparative ease. He rested, so to speak, on his
“laurels.” He prospered in a worldly sense, and was happy in possessing
the confidence and the favor of those who were high in Prussian
officialdom. He knew the time would come when his peculiar services
would be in demand. Meanwhile he continued with the routine work of
the Secret Service office. The call for bigger things came sooner than
he anticipated. It was early one day in June, 1867, that he received a
summons from Bismarck.
He dropped everything and hastened to the home of the Prime Minister.
He found him alone, and at breakfast. Bismarck greeted him with
lazy, good natured tolerance, and bade him be seated until he had
finished, what was to him at that moment the most important thing in
the world—his meal. While Steiber waited he had a chance to study the
personality of this remarkable man.
It seemed to him that Bismarck was all body. He was impressed more
than anything else with the bulkiness of the Prime Minister. He was
massive,—“as big as a mountain,” as he afterwards expressed it. For the
rest of it, there was nothing to dispel the popular conception of the
man, the broad shoulders, thick neck, grisly mustache, bushy eyebrows
and grim determined look.
“Steiber,” said the Prime Minister between bites, “we have real work
cut out for you now—work and not mere child’s play.”
“And might I inquire what it is, your Excellency?” asked the spy
respectfully.
“All in good time,” was the playful response. “For the present you will
see that we have important business on hand.”
This allusion to the meal spread before the man of blood and iron,
of course, brought the expected laugh from the Chief of the Prussian
Secret Service. And he sat and watched with amazement the gastronomic
powers of the great man. He had heard of Bismarck’s ability in this
line, but had never witnessed anything like the present exhibition.
He had been told that on one historic occasion, in the presence of
the Emperor, the count drained a quart of champagne from a loving cup
without pausing for breath, and now he believed it.
The breakfast which was to satisfy the morning appetite of Bismarck
was an average meal—the kind that ordinarily pleased him. It consisted
of six eggs, a beefsteak, several slices of pheasant, a dish of fried
potatoes, a plate of rye bread, cakes, three cups of coffee and a
quart of red wine. Two large hunting dogs hovered about the table,
and from time to time during the meal the Prime Minister tossed bits
of meat to them. After he had concluded his breakfast Bismarck leaned
back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Presently he reached for
a long-stemmed pipe, and lighting it, sent clouds of smoke about the
room. He was at peace with all the world—and with Bismarck, too.
“Now,” he said lazily, and yet with a sort of determination, “for
business.”
Steiber realized, when his patron arose, that Bismarck was a tall man,
a fact that was not always apparent because of his great bulk. The
Prime Minister laid his pipe aside and paced the floor as he talked.
Presently he sat down again and lit a cigar. And during the remainder
of the interview he continued smoking. He was what is popularly
called a “chain smoker,” each cigar being lighted by the stub of its
predecessor.
His instructions were clean cut and to the point. Steiber was to go
into France and spy out that country for the benefit of Prussia. He was
to have unlimited means and all of the assistance he might require. He
was to get plans of forts and defenses generally; to ascertain the size
and condition of the French army and to learn all that was possible of
the secrets of the French War Office. In a word, he was to repeat, in
France, what he had already done in Bohemia.
[Illustration: PRINCE VON BISMARCK]
When Bismarck dismissed Steiber the spy had the greatest commission of
his career. He had little doubt of his ability to execute it. He
feared no man, except possibly Bismarck. The meeting and the parting
of the two men on that eventful day might be called historic. The
Chancellor even went so far as to lay his hand on the shoulder of his
agent.
“Remember the Fatherland!”
The builder of the German Empire stood there with all of the immensity
and impressiveness of a bronze statue, and as the spy left he carried
with him the remembrance of the tall figure, the broad shoulders,
the thick neck, the grisly mustache, the keen eyes, and the grim,
determined look. And as a background there was the table littered with
the remains of that amazing meal and the Japanned plate filled with
smoldering cigar stumps.
Steiber went forth proud and boastful and with the vision of more
medals to cover his ample breast. His big ears seemed to become bigger,
his enormous nose appeared to grow larger, and his shifty eyes were
fairly dancing with delight.
He hurried to his office and began to prepare for the campaign of
espionage. It was not the sort of thing to plan in an hour or a day. He
devoted weeks of labor to the task. Maps of all kinds were consulted
and all sorts of secret information was brought from all sorts of
impossible hiding-places. He considered next the men that should go
with him and the various branches of work that should be assigned to
them, and finally the job was completed with the thoroughness for which
the official German is noted.