There comes to us, from the days of chivalry, in song and story, legends
of ladies who followed their lords to the distant field of Palestine,
hiding their soft hearts under the disguise of the page's dress. Time,
the romancer, has thrown his enchanting vail over their adventures,
surrounding them with the grace of mystery and the glory of sentiment.
Perhaps in the far-away future of our immortal republic, young men and
maidens will dream over the story of DEBORAH SAMPSON, the girl-soldier
of that Revolution which won us our liberties. It will not be said that
she donned the uniform and shouldered the musket for the sake of some
dear lover, that she might ever be near to watch over him in the hour of
danger, and to nurse him if wounded, with all the tender solicitude of
woman's love; but it will be told that she went into the service of her
country because men were few and her heart was in the cause. She had
health and courage, and that high patriotism which burned alike in manly
and feminine breasts. That she was brave, is proven by her being twice
wounded in battle. There is no need of putting any other construction
than that of pure patriotism upon her actions; the steadiness with which
she performed her duties show that it was no wild love of adventure
which possessed her.
Deborah Sampson was born in the county of Plymouth, Massachusetts. Her
parents were poor and vicious, and their children were taken from them
by the hand of charity, to be placed with different families, where
there was a prospect of their being better cared for. Deborah found a
home with a respectable farmer, by whom she was treated as one of the
family, except in the matter of education. To overcome this deprivation
she used to borrow the books of school children, over which she pored
until she learned to read tolerably well. This simple fact reveals that
her mind was no ordinary one. She was a true child of New England,
ambitious to be the equal of those by whom she was surrounded, and
looking upon ignorance almost as degradation. Many of our now famous
minds began their culture in this humble way, by the side of the kitchen
fire, perhaps with a pine-torch, by the light of which to pursue their
eager groping after knowledge.
As soon as the completion of her eighteenth year released her from
indenture, she hastened to seek a situation in which to improve herself,
and made arrangements with a family to work one-half her time for her
board and lodging, while, during the other half, she attended the
district-school. Her improvement was so rapid, that in a comparatively
short space of time she was thought competent to teach, and by doing so
for one term, the ambitious girl amassed the sum of _twelve dollars_! In
all this we see the remarkable energy and force of character which
enabled her to carry out the career she afterward chose. The young
bound-girl who so soon would raise herself to the position of teacher,
must have had in her elements, which, had she been a _man_, would have
urged her to the performance of deeds that would have given her
prominence in those stirring days.
While Deborah was teaching her little summer school, the spirit of
resistance to tyranny which long had struggled toward the light, burst
forth over the whole country, never to be hid again. The first battle
had been fought at Lexington; the sound of the cannon had rolled from
Bunker Hill in echoes which would not die. They thrilled and trembled
along the air, in never-ending vibrations, smiting the ears of patriots,
and rousing their hearts to the duties and perils of the hour. Deborah,
in her little schoolroom, heard the sound. For her it had a peculiar
message; it called her—she could not resist! Something in her courageous
breast told her that she was as well fitted to serve her beloved country
as the young men, who, with kindling eyes and eager feet, were rushing
to its assistance. Walking slowly home from her school, along the lonely
road, looking out at night from the little window of her chamber at the
stars, she pondered the voice in her heart. The more she thought, the
more earnest she became in her desire. There was no reason why she
should silence the resolution which called her. She was accountable to
none; was friendless, without kindred or home. Why was she given this
vigorous and healthy frame, and this heroic heart, if not for the
service of her suffering country? Perhaps Providence had loosened her
from other ties, that she might attach herself solely to this holy
cause. With such arguments as these she quieted the timidity which arose
solely from maidenly fears that she might be detected in her plans, and
subjected to the embarrassment of being refused or ridiculed on account
of her sex.
With that humble wealth of twelve dollars she purchased the materials
for a suit of men's clothing. Upon the cloth she worked secretly, as she
found the opportunity, each article, upon completion, being hidden in a
stack of hay. When her arrangements were completed she announced a
determination to seek better wages, and took her departure, without her
real purpose being suspected. When far enough away to feel secure, she
donned her male attire, and pursued her way to the American army, where
she presented herself in October, 1778, as a young man anxious to join
his efforts to those of his countrymen in their endeavors to oppose the
common enemy. She is described as being, at this time, of very
prepossessing features, and intelligent, animated expression, with a
fine, tall form, and such an air of modest courage and freshness as
inspired confidence and respect in those who had become associated with
her. She was gladly received, as a promising recruit, and enrolled in
the army under the name of Robert Shirtliffe, the period of her
enlistment being for the war.
While the company was recruiting she was an inmate of the Captain's
family, and, by her exemplary conduct, won the esteem of all. A young
girl, visiting in the family, was much in the company of young "Robert;"
and, being of a coquettish disposition—priding herself, perhaps, on the
conquest of the young soldier—she suffered her partiality to be noticed.
"Robert," having no objections to see how easily a maiden's heart
_could_ be won, encouraged the feeling, until the Captain's wife,
becoming alarmed, took occasion to remonstrate with the youth upon the
subject. "Robert" took the matter in good part, and the affair ended in
the exchange of some few tokens of remembrance at parting.
At the end of six or seven weeks, the company being full, was ordered to
join the main army, and Deborah's military life commenced in earnest.
The record does not give all the details of her career, though the
record of a life in camp and on the field, under such circumstances,
must be full of interest. She herself has said that volumes might be
filled with her adventures. She performed her duties to the entire
satisfaction of her officers; was a volunteer on several expeditions of
a hazardous nature, and was twice wounded severely; the first time by a
sword-cut on the side of her head, and the second by a bullet-wound
through the shoulder. She served three years, and, during all that time,
her sex never was suspected, though often in circumstances where
detection seemed unavoidable. The soldiers nicknamed her "Molly," in
playful allusion to her want of a beard; but little did they suspect
that their gallant comrade was, indeed, a woman.
The last wound which she received, of a bullet through her shoulder,
gave her great uneasiness, for fear that the surgeon, upon dressing it,
would discover the deception which had been so long and so successfully
practiced. She always described the emotion, when the ball entered, to
be one of mental, not of physical anguish—a sickening terror at the
probability of her sex being revealed. She felt that death on the
battle-field would be preferable to the shame she would suffer in such a
case, and prayed rather to die than to be betrayed. Strange as it may
appear, she again escaped undetected. Recovering rapidly, she soon
resumed her place in the ranks, as brave and willing as ever.
Sickness, however, was destined to bring about the catastrophe which the
perils of the battle-field had never precipitated. She was seized with
brain fever, then prevailing among the soldiers. For the few days that
reason struggled with the disease her sufferings were great; and these
were intensely aggravated by her mental anxiety—that ever-present fear,
lest, during her unconsciousness, her carefully-guarded secret should
become known. She was carried to the hospital, where the number of the
patients and the negligent manner in which they were attended still
secured her escape. Her case was considered hopeless, on which account
she received still less attention. She continued to sink, until
consciousness was gone, and life itself trembled on the faintest breath
which ever held it.
One day, the surgeon of the hospital inquiring "how Robert was?"
received assurance from the nurse that "poor Bob was gone." Going to the
bed, and taking the wrist of the youth, he found the pulse still feebly
beating. Attempting to place his hand on the heart, he found a bandage
bound tightly over the breast. Then it was that the secret of the
girl-soldier became known to the physician; but if she had been his own
daughter he could not have guarded it more delicately. Deborah had
fallen into good hands, in this crisis of her affairs.
It was Dr. Birney, of Philadelphia, who was then in attendance at the
hospital. Without communicating his discovery to any one, he gave his
patient such care that she was raised from the grave, as it were; and
when sufficiently recovered to be removed, he had her conveyed to his
own house, where she was the recipient of every kind attention from the
family as long as she remained an invalid. And now occurred another of
those romantic episodes which give an interest to the history of our
hero-heroine. If Deborah Sampson had indeed been the "Robert" she
professed to be, she would have been a favorite with the softer sex;
since, without her seeking it, twice the affections of fair maidens were
laid at her feet. We may conjecture, to the credit of the fair sex, that
the purity and modesty of "Robert"—_his_ unassuming excellence and
_womanly_ goodness, had much to do with success in this line.
A niece of the doctor's, a young and wealthy lady, became interested in
the youth whom she had aided in restoring to health, by her attentions.
"Pity," which is "akin to love," gradually melted into that warmer
feeling. The modest and handsome young man, who shrunk from taking the
slightest advantage of her kindness, aroused all the compassion and
sensibility of her heart. Lovely and young, conscious that many, more
influential than he, would be honored to sue for her hand, she yet
allowed her affections to turn to the pale and unassuming, the humble
and poor, soldier. The uncle was warned of his imprudence in allowing
the young couple to be so much together, but he laughed in his sleeve at
such suggestions, tickling his fancy with the idea of how foolish the
censorious would feel when the truth should be made known. He had not
confided his knowledge even to the members of his own family. It is not
probable that he really believed his niece's feelings were becoming so
warmly interested, or he would have given her a sufficient caution; she
was allowed to be with the convalescent as much as she liked.
At first the heart of "Robert" opened to this innocent and lovely girl,
whom she loved as a sister, and whose gentle kindness was so winning;
she showed the gratitude which she felt, and perhaps even confided to
her some of the lonely emotions which had so long remained unspoken in
her breast; but it was not long before the young soldier, warned by past
experience, felt apprehensive of the return of affection which she
received, and strove, delicately, to withdraw from the painful position
in which she was being placed. Taking this shrinking embarrassment for
the sensitive modesty of one who, friendless and poor, dared not aspire
to the hand of one so much above him in social position, the fair
heiress, trusting the evident goodness of his heart, and actuated alike
by love and the noblest generosity, made known her attachment to
"Robert," and signified her willingness to furnish him the means of
fitting himself for such a station, and then to marry him.
When Deborah beheld this guileless young creature, with blushes and
tears, making this unexpected and unwelcome avowal, she felt, with
bitter pain, the position in which she was placed. Then she wished that
she indeed was the Robert Shirtliffe she had assumed to be, rather than
wound the feelings of one to whom she was so much indebted, by a refusal
of what had been so timidly offered. Yet to reveal her true character
would be still more awkward and painful. The wounded sensibility of the
young girl did not, in that hour, cause her so much suffering, as the
remorse and regret of the false "Robert" caused him.
Saying that they should meet again, and that, though ardently desiring
an education, she could not accept her noble offer, Deborah endeavored
to hurt the sensitive girl as little as possible, while withdrawing from
the dilemma in which she was placed. Shortly after, she departed, taking
with her several articles of clothing, such as in those days were
frequent gifts to the soldiers from the hands of fair women, and which
were pressed upon her acceptance by the young lady.
The _denouement_ rapidly followed her recovery. The physician had a
conference with the commanding officer of the company with which Robert
had served, which was followed by an order to the youth to carry a
letter to General Washington. She now became aware, for the first time,
that her secret was known, and that detection was no longer avoidable.
She had suspected that Dr. Birney knew more than he had given intimation
of, but her most anxious scrutiny of his words and countenance had never
assured her of the truth of her fears. Now that the worst was come, she
had no way but to meet it with that courage which was a part of her
nature. Yet she would rather have faced the fire of the British cannon
than to have confronted Washington with that letter in her hand.
Trembling and confused, she presented herself before the
Commander-in-Chief, who, noticing her extreme agitation, with his usual
kindness endeavored to restore her confidence; but finding her still so
abashed, bade her retire with an attendant, who was ordered to procure
her some refreshment, while the General read the letter of which she had
been the bearer.
When she was recalled to his presence, he silently put into her hand a
discharge from service, along with a brief note of advice, and a sum of
money sufficient to bear her to some place where she might find a home.
Very glad and grateful was she to escape thus unrebuked out of that
presence.
After the war she married; and while Washington was President she paid a
visit to the seat of Government on his invitation. She was received with
every attention. Congress was then in session, and passed a bill
granting her a pension for life. She lived in comfortable circumstances,
passing from the stage of human life at an advanced age.
It is probable that, after several generations of historians, poets and
romance writers have embellished the story of Deborah Sampson, she will
become invested, to the eyes of our descendants, with a glory like that
which encircles the memory of the Maid of Orleans.
There is an incident of a most romantic and touching nature, connected
with the history of the brave Sergeant Jasper, of Marion's brigade. A
young girl, in this instance, followed the fortunes of war, not out of
patriotic motives, like those which inspired Deborah Sampson, but
impelled by a love which no wildest romance of the olden time can more
than match. The page who drew the poison from her lover's wound, on the
distant plains of the Holy Land, proved not so devoted as this young
American girl, throwing her tender bosom between Jasper's heart and
death.
[Illustration:
Deborah Sampson, the Maiden Warrior.
]
Sergeant Jasper was one of the bravest of Marion's men, possessing
remarkable talents as a scout, and often chosen for such expeditions. He
was one of those of whom Bryant says:
"Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest 'round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass."
Sometime just before, or about the beginning of the war, Jasper had the
good fortune to save the life of a young, beautiful, and dark-eyed
Creole girl, called Sally St. Clair. Her susceptible nature was overcome
with gratitude to her preserver, and this soon ripened into a passion of
love, of the most deep and fervent kind. She lavished upon him the whole
wealth of her affections, and the whole depths of a passion nurtured by
a Southern sun. When he was called upon to join the ranks of his
country's defenders, the prospect of their separation almost maddened
her. Their parting came, but scarcely was she left alone, ere her
romantic nature prompted the means of a reunion. Once resolved, no
consideration of danger could dampen her spirit, and no thought of
consequences could move her purpose. She severed her long and jetty
ringlets, and provided herself with male attire. In these she robed
herself, and set forth to follow the fortunes of her lover.
A smooth-faced, beautiful and delicate stripling appeared among the
hardy, rough and giant frames who composed the corps to which Jasper
belonged. The contrast between the stripling and these men, in their
uncouth garbs, their massive faces, embrowned and discolored by sun and
rain, was indeed striking. But none were more eager for the battle, or
so indifferent to fatigue, as the fair-faced boy. It was found that his
energy of character, resolution and courage amply supplied his lack of
physique. None ever suspected him to be a woman. Not even Jasper
himself, although she was often by his side, penetrated her disguise.
The romance of her situation increased the fervor of her passion. It was
her delight to reflect that, unknown to him, she was by his side,
watching over him in the hour of danger. She fed her passion by gazing
upon him in the hour of slumber, hovering near him when stealing through
the swamp and thicket, and being always ready to avert danger from his
head.
But gradually there stole a melancholy presentiment over the poor girl's
mind. She had been tortured with hopes deferred; the war was prolonged,
and the prospect of being restored to him grew more and more uncertain.
But now she felt that her dream of happiness could never be realized.
She became convinced that death was about to snatch her away from his
side, but she prayed that she might die, and he never know to what
length the violence of her passion led her.
It was an eve before a battle. The camp had sunk into repose. The
watch-fires were burning low, and only the slow tread of sentinels fell
upon the profound silence of the night air, as they moved through the
dark shadows of the forest. Stretched upon the ground, with no other
couch than a blanket, reposed the warlike form of Jasper. Climbing vines
trailed themselves into a canopy above his head, through which the stars
shone down softly. The faint flicker from the expiring embers of a fire
fell athwart his countenance, and tinged the cheek of one who bent above
his couch. It was the smooth-faced stripling. She bent low down as if to
listen to his dreams, or to breathe into his soul pleasant visions of
love and happiness. But tears trace themselves down the fair one's
cheek, and fall silently but rapidly upon the brow of her lover. A
mysterious voice has told her that the hour of parting has come; that
to-morrow her destiny is consummated. There is one last, long, lingering
look, and then the unhappy maid is seen to tear herself away from the
spot, to weep out her sorrows in privacy.
Fierce and terrible is the conflict that on the morrow rages on that
spot. Foremost in the battle is the intrepid Jasper, and ever by his
side fights the stripling warrior. Often during the heat and the smoke,
gleams suddenly upon the eyes of Jasper the melancholy face of the
maiden. In the thickest of the fight, surrounded by enemies, the lovers
fight side by side. Suddenly a lance is leveled at the breast of Jasper;
but swifter than the lance is Sally St. Clair. There is a wild cry, and
at the feet of Jasper sinks the maiden, with the life-blood gushing from
the white bosom, which had been thrown, as a shield, before his breast.
He heeds not now the din, nor the danger of the conflict, but down by
the side of the dying boy he kneels. Then for the first time does he
learn that the stripling is his love; that often by the camp-fire, and
in the swamp, she had been by his side; that the dim visions, in his
slumber, of an angel face hovering above him, had indeed been true. In
the midst of the battle, with her lover by her side, and the barb still
in her bosom, the heroic maiden dies!
Her name, her sex, and her noble devotion soon became known through the
corps. There was a tearful group gathered around her grave; there was
not one of those hardy warriors who did not bedew her grave with tears.
They buried her near the river Santee, "in a green, shady nook, that
looked as if it had been stolen out of Paradise."
The women of the Revolution won a noble name by the part they took in
the conflict which has secured for their descendants so glorious an
inheritance. Privations of all kinds they endured patiently, joyfully
sending their dearest ones to the field, while they remained in their
lonely homes, deprived of the care and society of fathers and sons;
finding their pleasantest relief from the heart-ache of grief and
suspense in labors at the loom or with the needle for the benefit of the
ill-provided soldiers.
Many individual instances of female heroism are preserved, where the
bravery of naturally timid hearts was tested in exposure to the rudest
vicissitudes of war. They played the parts of spies, messengers, and
defenders. Among other anecdotes we have one of a young girl of North
Carolina. At the time General Greene retreated before Lord Rawdon from
Ninety-Six, when he had passed Broad River, he was very desirous to send
an order to General Sumter, who was on the Wateree, to join him, that
they might attack Rawdon, who had divided his force. But the General
could find no man in that portion of the State who was bold enough to
undertake so dangerous a mission. The country to be passed through for
many miles was full of bloodthirsty Tories, who, on every occasion that
offered, imbrued their hands in the blood of the Whigs. At length this
young girl, Emily Geiger, presented herself to General Greene, proposing
to act as his messenger, and he, both surprised and delighted, closed
with her proposal. He accordingly wrote a letter and delivered it,
while, at the same time, he communicated the contents of it verbally, to
be told to Sumter, in case of accident.
She started off on horseback, and on the second day of her journey was
intercepted by Lord Rawdon's scouts. Coming from the direction of
Greene's army, and not being able to tell an untruth without blushing,
Emily was suspected and confined to a room; but as the officer in
command had the delicacy not to search her at the time, he sent for an
old Tory matron to perform the duty. Emily was not wanting in expedient;
as soon as the door was closed, and the bustle a little subsided, she
_ate up the letter_, piece by piece. After a while the matron arrived,
who found nothing of a suspicious nature about the prisoner, though she
made a careful search, and the young girl would disclose nothing.
Suspicion being thus allayed, the officer commanding the scouts suffered
Emily to depart whither she said she was bound; she took a circuitous
route to avoid further detection, soon after striking into the road
which led to Sumter's camp, where she arrived in safety. Here she told
her adventure and delivered Greene's verbal message to Sumter, who, in
consequence, soon after joined the main army at Orangeburg. This young
heroine afterward married a rich planter, named Therwits, who lived on
the Congaree.
A similar adventure is related of Miss Moore, daughter of Captain Moore,
who was present at Braddock's defeat, and who died in 1770. This girl
was also a "daughter of the Carolinas." Alas, that the fair descendants
of women so brave as these, should aid in imperiling the country and the
cause for which their mothers sacrificed and suffered so much!
Her youth was passed among the eventful scenes of our Revolution, and a
number of incidents are related, that go to prove her calm courage, and
her inflexibility of purpose. She was born in 1764, and, therefore, in
the earlier part of the contest was nothing more than a child.
The terrors of the war were often enacted before the very door of her
step-father's residence. On one occasion, a most sanguinary skirmish
took place just before the house, between a body of Colonel Washington's
cavalry and some of Rawdon's men. Shortly after, a party of the British
in search of plunder broke into the house. But the family had been
forewarned, and concealed their treasures. In searching for plunder they
discovered a quantity of apples, and began to roll them down the stairs,
while the soldiers below picked them up. Miss Moore, nothing fearing,
commanded them to desist, with an air so determined and resolute, that
an officer standing by, admiring so courageous a spirit in a girl so
young, ordered the soldiers to obey her.
On another occasion, a party of Tories, in pillaging the house,
commanded one of the servants to bring them the horses. Miss Moore
commanded him not to obey. The Tories repeated the order, accompanied
with a threat to beat him if he refused. The command of the young girl
was reiterated, and just as the Tory was about putting his threat into
execution, she threw herself between them, and preserved the slave from
the intended violence.
At one time, great danger was threatening Captain Wallace, who commanded
a small force, a few miles distant. It was of the utmost importance that
this intelligence should be conveyed to him, but there was no male whose
services could be commanded, and, therefore, Miss Moore volunteered to
convey the message herself. This was when she was but fifteen. Midnight
was chosen as the hour, and accompanied by her little brother and a
female friend, she set out in a canoe up the river toward the encampment
of the Whigs. Silently and swiftly they propelled their frail vessel up
the dark current, through forests buried in darkness, and a profound
silence that awed them; with the calm stars above, and the deep river
gloomily rolling by, and no human sounds to relieve the oppressive
solemnity of the hour. It was the hour, too, when the enemy usually set
out on their marauding expeditions, and the young girls knew that
neither their sex nor their innocence would preserve them from ruthless
foes, who were more relentless and cruel than the swarthy savages of the
forest. But the fate of many of their countrymen depended on their
exertions, and, as it proved, the future destiny of our heroine was
involved in the successful issue of their enterprise. Undismayed by the
perils of the journey, the young girls bent their energies to the task
before them, and at last saw lights glimmering in the distance, that
pointed out their destination. They soon reached the encampment, a
picturesque scene, with the ruddy glow from the camp-fires casting the
surrounding scene in still greater shadow, and motley groups of figures
gathered around the fires, sleeping, talking, eating, etc. After
delivering the warning to Captain Wallace, the girls embarked in their
canoe to return, and soon left the encampment behind, winding their way
through dense forests, and reached their home in safety.
The next morning, a handsome and gallant-looking American officer rode
up to the door of Captain Savage's residence, and requested to make a
few inquiries of the young lady by whose energy and zeal her countrymen
had been saved from an impending danger. Miss Moore appeared, and when
her youthful and blooming beauty greeted the eyes of the young officer,
an exclamation of pleasure burst from his lips. He almost forgot to make
his inquiries, until reminded by the blushing damsel, but her voice
rather increased than relieved his embarrassment. All his questions
having been at last answered, and having no excuse by which to prolong
the interview, he was reluctantly compelled to depart, but his eyes to
the last rested on the fair girl's form. It is said that the young lady
was no less struck with the handsome dragoon's figure, and that his face
came often to her in her dreams that night.
It was not long before the young officer made an excuse for again
visiting the house where resided the beauty who had bound him captive to
her charms, and as these impressions were reciprocal, he soon discovered
welcome in her manner, and drew happy auguries therefrom. He became an
accepted suitor. But their love, in a measure, verified the old adage.
The step-father opposed the union; at first strenuously, but the
perseverance of the lover gradually broke down his opposition, and he
eventually yielded consent.
This officer was Captain, afterward General, Butler. They were married
in 1784. Mrs. Butler filled a distinguished place in society, being
celebrated both for her virtues and graces.
Even the meek spirit of the non-resisting Quakers was roused to
patriotic ardor by the noble stake for which the battles of the
Revolution were fought. In proof of what one of their women did in aid
of the good cause, we have the following account of a signal service
rendered by a Quakeress:
When the British army held possession of Philadelphia, General Harris'
head-quarters were in Second street, the fourth door below Spruce, in a
house which was before occupied by General Cadwalader. Directly
opposite, resided William and Lydia Darrah, members of the Society of
Friends. A superior officer of the British army, believed to be the
Adjutant-General, fixed upon one of their chambers, a back room, for
private conference; and two of them frequently met there, with fire and
candles, in close consultation. About the second of December, the
Adjutant-General told Lydia that they would be in the room at seven
o'clock, and remain late, and that they wished the family to retire
early to bed; adding, that when they were going away, they would call
her to let them out, and extinguish their fire and candles. She
accordingly sent all the family to bed; but, as the officer had been so
particular, her curiosity was excited. She took off her shoes, and put
her ear to the keyhole of the conclave. She overheard an order read for
all the British troops to march out, late in the evening of the fourth,
and attack General Washington's army, then encamped at White Marsh. On
hearing this, she returned to her chamber and laid herself down. Soon
after, the officers knocked at her door, but she rose only at the third
summons, having feigned to be asleep. Her mind was so much agitated
that, from this moment, she could neither eat nor sleep, supposing it to
be in her power to save the lives of thousands of her countrymen, but
not knowing how she was to convey the necessary information to General
Washington, nor daring to confide it even to her husband. The time left
was, however, short; she quickly determined to make her way, as soon as
possible, to the American outposts. She informed her family, that, as
they were in want of flour, she would go to Frankfort for some; her
husband insisted that she should take with her the servant-maid, but, to
his surprise, she positively refused. She got access to General Howe,
and solicited—what he readily granted—a pass through the British troops
on the lines. Leaving her bag at the mill, she hastened toward the
American lines, and encountered on her way an American,
Lieutenant-Colonel Craig, of the light horse, who, with some of his men,
was on the look-out for information. He knew her, and inquired whither
she was going. She answered, in quest of her son, an officer in the
American army, and prayed the Colonel to alight and walk with her. He
did so, ordering his troops to keep in sight. To him she disclosed her
momentous secret, after having obtained from him the most solemn promise
never to betray her individually, since her life might be at stake with
the British. He conducted her to a house near at hand, directed a female
in it to give her something to eat, and he speeded for head-quarters,
where he brought General Washington acquainted with what he had heard.
Washington made, of course, all preparation for baffling the meditated
surprise. Lydia returned home with her flour; sat up alone to watch the
movement of the British troops; heard their footsteps; but when they
returned, in a few days after, did not dare to ask a question, though
solicitous to learn the event. The next evening, the Adjutant-General
came in, and requested her to walk up to his room, as he wished to put
some questions. She followed him in terror; and when he locked the door,
and begged her, with an air of mystery, to be seated, she was sure that
she was either suspected or had been betrayed. He inquired earnestly
whether any of her family were up the last night he and the other
officer met; she told him that they all retired at eight o'clock. He
observed: "I know you were asleep, for I knocked at your chamber door
three times before you heard me; I am entirely at a loss to imagine who
gave Washington information of our intended attack, unless the walls of
the house could speak. When we arrived near White Marsh, we found all
their cannon mounted, and the troop prepared to receive us; and we have
marched back like a parcel of fools."
In contrast with these, and hundreds of similar instances of courage and
sagacity combined with ardent patriotism, the occasions upon which
American women played the part of traitors are few indeed. Efforts have
been made, of late years, to affix to the memory of the wife of Benedict
Arnold a still blacker ignominy than that which blasted the name of the
husband whom she is said to have persuaded into his treachery. In a
"Life of Aaron Burr," published three or four years ago, we have a story
whose truth we may well doubt, unsupported as it is by any corroborative
evidence:
"It fell to Burr's lot to become acquainted with the repulsive truth. He
was sitting one evening with Mrs. Prevost (his future wife), when the
approach of a party of horse was heard, and soon after, a lady, vailed
and attired in a riding-habit, burst into the room, and hurrying toward
Mrs. Prevost, was on the point of addressing her. Seeing a gentleman
present, whom, in the dim light of the room, she did not recognize, she
paused, and asked, in an anxious tone:
"'Am I safe? Is this gentleman a friend?'
"'Oh, yes,' was Mrs. Prevost's reply; 'he is my most particular friend,
Colonel Burr.'
"'Thank God!' exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, for she it was. 'I've been playing
the hypocrite, and I'm tired of it.'
"She then gave an account of the way she had deceived General
Washington, Colonel Hamilton and the other American officers, who, she
said, believed her innocent of treason, and had given her an escort of
horse from West Point. She made no scruple of confessing the part she
had borne in the negotiations with the British General, and declared it
was she who had induced her husband to do what he had done. She passed
the night at Paramus, taking care to act the part of the outraged and
frantic woman whenever strangers were present. Colonel Burr's relations
with the Shippen family, of which Mrs. Arnold was a member, had been of
the most intimate character from boyhood. They had been his father's
friends; and the orphan boy had been taken from his mother's grave to
their home in Philadelphia. He stood toward this fascinating,
false-hearted woman almost in the light of a younger brother, and he
kept her secret until she was past being harmed by the telling of it."
Now Colonel Burr was not present at that interview, but was told of it,
some time after, by Mrs. Prevost, then Mrs. Burr. We should hesitate
before we consigned Mrs. Arnold to infamy upon such testimony. It is
true that the authorities of Philadelphia were suspicious of her, as
they compelled her, against her will, to leave the city and go to her
husband. On the other side, it is said that she declared her abhorrence
of her husband's crime, and her desire for a separation from him, after
his treachery; that her father and brother, influential persons in
Philadelphia, begged for her not to be banished to one from whom her
heart recoiled, and that she promised never to write to her husband, or
to receive any letters from him except such as the authorities should
read, if permitted to remain with her family. Such, however, was the
feeling against her, that she was compelled to leave the State. If these
proceedings against her were just, swift was the punishment which
overtook the traitress, for she never realized the brilliant position
which she hoped to achieve by going over to the king's side, and has
left only infamy as a legacy to the future. But if she were, indeed, as
innocent as we have good reason for hoping was the case, it is
melancholy to think of her gentle soul being crushed beneath the weight
of retribution which fell upon her husband, and thus also upon her.