The battle of Monmouth was one of the most severely contested
engagements of the Revolution. From the rising to the setting sun, on
that sultry Sabbath in June, two armies strove for the mastery of that
ensanguined field, until heaps of dead and dying strewed the plain,
marking the path of the serried ranks as the ebb and flow of battle
changed their relative positions. Both armies fought with a desperate
determination to conquer, and instances of personal bravery and daring
were innumerable; yet, when night drew her sable mantle over the earth,
shrouding from sight the soul-sickening scene, neither party could claim
the meed of victory. Of the many thrilling incidents of that eventful
day, that which brought into conspicuous notice the heroine of our story
was not the least interesting.
Molly Pitcher, or, as she was afterward more familiarly known, Captain
Molly, was a sturdy young Irish woman of some twenty-two or twenty-three
years of age, short, thick-set, with red hair, a freckled face, and a
keen, piercing eye, which gave token of a spirit of mischief ever ready
for a frolic or a fight. She was the wife of a Sergeant in an artillery
corps, which had seen service since the commencement of the war, and was
attached to him with all the warmth of the Irish disposition. She had
followed him through all his campaigns, and was with him at Fort
Clinton, in the Hudson highlands, when that post was attacked and
captured by Sir Henry Clinton. Here, too, she gave a specimen of that
reckless courage which distinguished her at Monmouth some nine months
after. Her husband, who was in the act of touching off his piece, seeing
the British scaling the walls, and getting in his rear, dropped his
match, and calling to Molly to follow, fled as fast as his legs would
carry him. She, determined not to waste powder and ball, and knowing
that her "petticoats" would protect her retreat in a measure, picked up
the linstock, fired the piece, and then scampered off. She escaped
scot-free, and when the scattered fugitives from the forts were
collected, and the artillery was attached to the main army, she
accompanied her husband as a sutler, and was with him through that
bitter winter at Valley Forge.
When Sir Henry Clinton evacuated Philadelphia, and took up his march
across the Jerseys, Washington left his winter camp and prepared to
follow, hoping to get an opportunity to strike a blow which should
animate his own troops and effectually cripple, perhaps capture, the
British army. On the plains of Monmouth the hostile armies met in battle
array. Of the details of the action it is not our province to speak. It
will suffice our purpose to say that Lee had been ordered to attack the
British on their first movement, and engage them until the main army of
the Americans could be brought into action by Washington in person. The
first part of his orders he had obeyed; the latter, for reasons never
fully explained, he did not conform to, but retreated unexpectedly
toward the main body, which movement was timely checked by Washington,
who ordered the whole army into action. It became necessary, however,
for a portion to fall back a second time; and to check the pursuit, the
artillery, to which Molly's husband was attached, was stationed on an
eminence, in the rear of a hedge-row, for that purpose. Molly herself
was engaged in bringing water from a spring to assuage the thirst of the
men at the guns, when she saw her husband struck down by a cannon-shot
from the enemy, which cut him nearly in two, killing him instantly; at
the same time she heard the commandant order the piece withdrawn, as he
had no one to fill the place now vacant. Molly heard the order, and
maddened by her loss, rushed forward, exclaiming as she did so: "No! you
shan't remove the gun, neither. Shure, can't I ram it as well as Tom,
there? Ah! it's kilt entirely he is, bad luck to the bloody vagabond
that p'inted the gun that shot him. Sorra a day was it when ye 'listed,
darlint, to leave me a lone widdy now, with nary a soul to care whether
I live or die. But I'll pay the dirty vagabonds for this day's work,
cuss 'em." And thus alternately apostrophizing her husband and
anathematizing the British, she continued to ram the gun until it was
withdrawn. The activity and courage which she exhibited attracted the
attention of all who witnessed it, and on the morning after the battle
the circumstance was reported to General Greene, who was so much pleased
at her bravery and spirit that he sent for her and determined to present
her to the Commander-in-Chief. This he did, covered with dirt and blood
as she was, and Washington, after questioning her, conferred on her a
warrant as Sergeant, and subsequently, by his influence, her name was
placed on the list of half-pay officers for life. She went ever after by
the name of "_Captain Molly_," and the French officers, particularly,
took a great deal of notice of her, and made her many presents. She
dressed in a mongrel suit, composed of a cocked hat, soldier's coat with
an epaulette on one shoulder, and petticoats. In this rig she would pass
along the French lines any day and get her hat filled with crowns.
Molly Pitcher's bravery was not, perhaps, of the highest order, being a
part of the natural recklessness of her character; but there were women,
plenty of them, in the time of our country's peril, and during the still
more dreadful dangers of the new country, who proved their heroism to be
of the noblest sort. Not only the heroism of endurance, in which women
always excel—the endurance of fear, privation, loneliness and grief—but
the heroism of _action_. Of such metal was the deed of prowess which has
immortalized the name of Elizabeth Zane. In 1777, Fort Henry, in Ohio
county, Virginia, was attacked by Indians. The defence was made with
vigor, until the ammunition became exhausted, when surrender seemed the
only alternative—a fearful alternative, in view of the treacherous
character of their enemies. There was a keg of powder in a house about
twelve rods distant, to obtain which would prolong the defense, and
perhaps preserve the lives of the whole garrison. It was resolved that
one person should venture out, and, if possible, secure and bear into
the fort the valued prize. The Indians having retired a little distance,
a favorable opportunity was afforded; but it became difficult to decide
who should undertake the service, as many soldiers were emulous for the
honor of executing the perilous enterprise.
Their contention was cut short by Miss Zane, who claimed to be chosen
for performing the duty, upon the ground that the life of a soldier was
more valuable to be employed in defending the fort, and also that her
sex might save her errand from suspicion and thus secure its success. It
was the latter plea, which was somewhat plausible, united to her
resolution, which overcame the scruples of the officer in command, far
enough to permit her to make the attempt.
Her sex _might_ protect her! Ah! no one better than the girl herself
knew how very slender was that "might"—for an instant her heart stood
still in her bosom, as the gate of the fort opened a little and closed
behind her, shutting her out in the very shadow of the valley of death!
For one instant her eyes grew dark and her ears rung, and in her bosom
she felt, by apprehension, the piercing anguish of a dozen bullets; but,
as quickly, she rallied, and with a light, fleet foot passed on to the
house, not running, for fear of calling down the suspicions of the
murderous eyes which watched her every movement. The Indians observed
her leave the fort, but, as she had hoped, did not at first comprehend
her actions, allowing her to pass on to the building, without molesting
her, probably absorbed in a momentary wonder at her sex and her
audacity.
She reached the house, seized the powder, and hastened to return. By
this time the savages had recovered from the spell which the first sight
of the young heroine had thrown upon them; they saw the keg of powder in
her arms, and with yells of anger, fired a volley after her as she ran
rapidly toward the fort. Fortunately, not a bullet touched her. As they
rattled about her, singing past her ears, they only gave activity to her
movements. In another moment she was safe within the gate, to the
unbounded joy of the garrison. Animated by so noble an example, the men
fought with a vigor which the enemy could not overcome, who were
compelled to raise the siege.
The following anecdote, which is too well authenticated to be disputed,
furnishes one instance, among thousands, of that heroic spirit which
animated the American women during the struggle for Independence.
In 1775, a good lady lived on the seaboard, about a day's march from
Boston, where the British then were. By some unaccountable mistake, a
rumor was spread, in town and country, in and about her residence, that
the regulars were on a march for that place, where they would arrive in
about three hours. This was after the battle of Lexington, and all, as
might be supposed, was in sad confusion; some were boiling with rage and
full of fight; some in fear and tribulation were hiding their treasures;
others flying for life. In this wild moment, when most people, in one
way or another, were frightened from propriety, our heroine, who had two
sons, aged respectively nineteen and sixteen, was seen preparing them to
discharge their duty in the emergency. The eldest she was enabled to
equip in fine style; she took her husband's fowling-piece, "made for
duck or plover," (the good man being absent on a coasting voyage to
Virginia,) and with it, the powder-horn and shot-bag. But the lad,
thinking the duck and geese-shot not quite the size to kill regulars,
his mother, with the chisel, cut up her pewter spoons, hammered them
into slugs, put them into his bag, and he set off in great earnest,
calling a moment, on the way, to see the parson, who said:
"Well done, my brave boy. God preserve you!"
The youngest was importunate for his equipments, but his mother could
find nothing to arm him with but an old rusty sword. The boy seemed
unwilling to risk himself with this alone, lingering in the street until
his mother thus upbraided him:
"You, John H——, what will your father say, if he hears that a child of
his is afraid to meet the British? Go along; beg or borrow a gun, or
you'll find one, child; some coward, I dare say, will be running away;
then take his gun and march forward! If you come back, and I hear you
have not behaved like a man, I shall carry the blush of shame on my face
to the grave."
She then shut the door, wiped the tear from her eye, and abided the
issue.
There were not wanting American ladies whose wit and courage could bring
the blush of shame or anger to the haughty faces of the British
officers. There is scarcely a more stinging retort on record than that
which was given to the insolent Tarleton by a lady at Washington, before
whom he was boasting his feats of gallantry. Said he:
"I have a very earnest desire to see your far-famed hero, Colonel
Washington."
"Your wish, Colonel, might have been fully gratified," she promptly
replied, "had you ventured to look behind you at the battle of the
Cowpens."
[Illustration:
Molly Pitcher at Monmouth.—_Page_ 44.
]
It was in that battle that Washington had wounded Tarleton, which gave
rise to an equally pointed remark from Mrs. Wiley Jones, to whom
Tarleton had observed:
"You appear to think very highly of Colonel Washington; yet I have been
told that he is so ignorant a fellow that he can hardly write his own
name."
"It may be the case," she readily replied, "but no one knows better than
yourself that he knows how to make his _mark_."
We should think that he would have been ready to drop the subject in the
presence of ladies so well able to defend their country's gallant
officers.
Mrs. Thomas Heyward, in two instances, with the utmost firmness refused
to illuminate for British victories. An officer forced his way into her
presence, sternly demanding:
"How dare you disobey the order which has been issued? Why, madam, is
not your house illuminated?"
"Is it possible for me, sir," replied the lady, with perfect calmness,
"to feel a spark of joy? Can I celebrate the victory of your army while
my husband remains a prisoner at St. Augustine?"
"That is of little consequence," rejoined the officer; "the last hopes
of the rebellion are crushed by the defeat of Greene at Guilford. You
shall illuminate."
"Not a single light," replied the lady, "shall be placed on such an
occasion, with my consent, in any window of my house."
"Then, madam, I will return with a party, and before midnight, level it
with the ground."
"You have power to destroy, sir, and seem well disposed to use it; but
over my opinions you possess no control. I disregard your menaces, and
resolutely declare—I will not illuminate!"
Mrs. Rebecca Motte was another lady who proved, in a signal manner, that
her patriotism was equal to the severest test. After the abandonment of
Camden to the Americans, Lord Rawdon, anxious to maintain his posts,
directed his first efforts to relieve Fort Mott, at the time invested by
Marion and Lee. This fort, which commanded the river, was the principal
depot of the convoys from Charleston to Camden, and the upper districts.
It was occupied by a garrison, under the command of Captain McPherson,
of one hundred and sixty-five men, having been increased by a small
detachment of dragoons from Charleston, a few hours before the
appearance of the Americans.
The large new mansion-house belonging to Mrs. Motte, which had been
selected for the establishment of the post, was surrounded by a deep
trench, along the interior margin of which was raised a strong and lofty
parapet. Opposite, and northward, upon another hill, was an old
farm-house to which Mrs. Motte had removed when dismissed from her
mansion. On this height Lieutenant-Colonel Lee took position with his
force, while Marion occupied the eastern declivity of the ridge on which
the fort stood, the valley running between the two hills permitting the
Americans to approach within four hundred yards.
McPherson was unprovided with artillery, but hoped to be relieved by the
arrival of Lord Rawdon to dislodge the assailants before they could push
their preparations to maturity. He therefore replied to the summons to
surrender—which came on May twentieth, about a year after the victorious
British had taken possession of Charleston—that he should hold out to
the last moment in his power.
The besiegers had carried on their approaches rapidly, by relays of
working-parties, and, aware of the advance of Rawdon with all his force,
had every motive for perseverance. In the night a courier arrived from
General Greene, to advise them of Rawdon's retreat from Camden, and to
urge redoubled activity; and Marion persevered through the hours of
darkness in pressing the completion of the works. The following night
Lord Rawdon encamped on the highest ground in the country opposite Fort
Motte, where the despairing garrison saw with joy the illumination of
his fires, while the Americans were convinced that no time was to be
lost.
The large house in the center of the encircling trench left but a few
yards of ground within the British works uncovered; burning the mansion,
therefore, must compel the surrender of the garrison. This expedient was
reluctantly resolved upon by Marion and Lee, who, always unwilling to
destroy private property, felt the duty to be unusually painful in the
present case. It was the summer residence of the owner, whose deceased
husband had been a firm friend to his country, and whose daughter (Mrs.
Pinckney) was the wife of a gallant officer then a prisoner in the hands
of the British. Lee had made Mrs. Motte's dwelling his quarters, at her
pressing invitation, and with his officers had shared her liberal
hospitality. Not satisfied with polite attentions to the officers while
they were entertained at her luxurious table, she had attended, with
active benevolence, to the sick and wounded, soothed the infirm with
kind sympathy, and animated the desponding to hope.
It was thus not without deep regret that the commanders determined upon
the sacrifice, and the Lieutenant-Colonel found himself compelled to
inform Mrs. Motte of the unavoidable necessity of destroying her
property. The smile with which the communication was received gave
instant relief to the embarrassed officer. Mrs. Motte not only assented,
but declared that she was "gratified with the opportunity of
contributing to the good of her country, and should view the approaching
scene with delight." Shortly after, seeing by accident the bows and
arrows which had been prepared for to carry combustible matter, she sent
for Lee, and, presenting him with a bow and its apparatus, which had
been imported from India, requested his substitution of them, as better
adapted for the object than those provided.
An interesting incident, illustrative of female patriotism and activity,
is given by Mr. Headley as occurring in the church at Litchfield,
Connecticut. The pastor, Judah Champion, was an ardent patriot, and on a
certain Sabbath was earnestly preaching and praying for the success of
the American arms. During the service a messenger arrived, announcing
that St. John's—which had been besieged six weeks, and was regarded as
the key to Canada—was taken. "Thank God for the victory!" exclaimed the
patriot preacher, and the chorister, clapping his hands vigorously,
shouted: "Amen, and amen!"
The communication of the messenger announced that our army was in a
suffering condition, destitute of clothing, without stockings or shoes.
"Sorrows and pity took the place of exultation, and generous sympathetic
eyes filled with tears on every side. There was scarcely a dry eye among
the females of the congregation. As soon as the audience was dismissed,
they were soon gathered together in excited groups, and it was evident
that some scheme was on foot that would not admit of delay. The result
was, that when the congregation assembled in the afternoon, _not a woman
was to be seen_. The men had come to church, but their earnest, noble
wives and daughters had taken down their hand-cards, drawn forth their
spinning wheels, set in motion their looms, while the knitting and
sewing needles were plied as they never were before. It was a strange
spectacle to see that Puritan Sabbath turned into a day of secular work.
The pastor was at the meeting-house, performing those duties belonging
to the house of God, and the voice of prayer and hymns of praise
ascended as usual from devout and solemn hearts; but all through the
usually quiet streets of Litchfield the humming of the spinning-wheel,
the clash of the shuttle flying to and fro, were heard, making strange
harmony with the worship of the sanctuary. But let it not be supposed
that these noble women had gone to work without the knowledge of their
pastor. They had consulted with him, and he had given them his sanction
and blessing.
"Swimming eyes and heaving bosoms were over their work, and lips moved
in prayer for the destitute and suffering soldier. The pastor's wife
contributed eleven blankets from her own stores to the collection."
The women of the Revolution were active in their service of relief and
comfort to the armies of the country. "The supply of domestic cloth
designed for families was in a short time, by the labor of the females,
converted into coats for the soldiers; sheets and blankets were
fashioned into shirts; and even the flannels already made up were
altered into men's habiliments. Such aid was rendered by many whose
deeds of disinterested generosity were never known beyond their own
immediate neighborhood."
Weights of clocks, pans, dishes, pewter services of plate, then common,
were melted by the women and given to the army to be used in defense of
freedom.
In 1776, Lafayette passed through Baltimore, and was honored with a
public reception. In the gayeties of the scene he was seen to be sad.
"Why so sad?" said a gay belle. "I can not enjoy these festivities,"
said Lafayette, "while so many of the poor soldiers are without shirts
and other necessaries." "They shall be supplied," responded the fair
ladies; and the scenes of the festive hall were exchanged for the
service of their needles. They immediately made up clothing for the
suffering soldiers—one of the ladies cutting out five hundred pairs of
pantaloons with her own hands, and superintending the making.
In 1780, a cold and dreary winter, when the soldiers greatly suffered,
the ladies of Philadelphia formed an Industrial Association for the
relief of the American army. They solicited money, sacrificed their
jewelry, and labored with their own hands. Mrs. Bache, daughter of Dr.
Franklin, was a leading spirit in these patriotic efforts. "She
conducted us," said a French nobleman, in describing the scene, "into a
room filled with work lately finished by the ladies of Philadelphia. It
was shirts for the soldiers of Pennsylvania. The ladies bought the cloth
from their own private purses, and took a pleasure in cutting them out
and sewing them together. On each shirt was the name of the married or
unmarried lady who made it; and they amounted to twenty-two hundred.
During the cold winter that followed, thousands of poor soldiers in
Washington's camp had occasion to bless the women of Philadelphia for
these labors of love."