Chapter IV: Foreword (3)

As Mrs. Bayard lived in a boarding-house, she saw many persons who knew nothing of her relatives, and one day, after returning from a visit, she found the parlor full of boarders, who eagerly asked her if she had heard the news. She said she had not, and in a letter to Dorothy later, she gives this spicy account of what she heard:

I was told that Linsee was coming, and ten thousand troops,
which was glorious news for the Congress. Mr. Hancock was
next brought on the carpet, and as the company did not
suspect I had the least acquaintance with him, I can't think
they meant to affront me.

However, as Mr. Hancock has an elegant house and well
situated, and this will always be a garrison town, it will
do exceedingly well for a fort, ... "I wonder how Miss ...
will stand affected? I think he defers marrying until he
returns from England." At this speech I saw a wink given,
and all was hush!--myself as hush as the grave, for reasons.
"Mr. Hancock has a number of horses. Perhaps he would be
glad to dispose of them, as the officers are buying up the
best horses in town"--Mrs. Bayard, don't look so dull! You
will be taken the greatest care of! Thought I,--if you knew
my heart, you would have the most reason to look dull.
However, a little time will decide that.

I am, you will say, wicked, but I wish the small-pox would
spread. Dolly, I could swell my letter into a balloon, but
lest I should tire you, I will beg my sincere regards to Mr.
Hancock, and beg the favor of a line from my dear Dolly,

Your affectionate Coz

HELENA BAYARD.

Dorothy's eyes flashed as she read this, and laying it down she exclaimed: "We will see whether the British come off victorious or not! If I mistake not, there is more ability in the finger-tip of John Hancock than in those of all the generals in the English army. You will be taken the greatest care of, indeed--We shall see what we shall see!" with which sage remark pretty Dolly, head held high, walked out of the room and gave vent to her feelings in vigorous exercise.

The issue was to be confronted sooner than they knew, and it was peaceful Lexington where the first alarm of war sounded.

According to advice, a messenger had been sent to Concord to warn Hancock of his possible danger, but neither he nor Adams attached much importance to the report, after their first alarm was over, and they were enjoying the quiet village life of Lexington with the two women guests at the parsonage, when on the eighteenth of April, General Gage really did order a force to march on Concord, not so much to seize the few military supplies stored there, as to capture the rebellious enemies of the crown.

Just how a small group of men in Boston, calling themselves the "Sons of Liberty," who had constituted themselves a volunteer committee to watch over the movements of the enemy, knew of the plan of the British to march to Concord, and on the way to arrest Hancock and Samuel Adams, will never be known. It is enough to know that they had received the information, and knew that the British were determined not to have a report of the march reach the enemy until it had been successfully accomplished. The question was how to carry the news to Lexington and Concord ahead of the British troops. There was no time to waste in lengthy discussions, and in a very short time Paul Revere was ready for his historic ride. The signals agreed on before affairs had reached this climax were: if the British went out by water, _two_ lanterns would be swung in the North Church steeple; if they went by land, _one_ would be shown, and a friend of Paul Revere's had been chosen as the man to set the signal.

Now, on the night of the eighteenth of April, 1775, _two_ lanterns swung high in the historic steeple, and off started Paul Revere on the most famous ride in American history. As Longfellow has so vividly expressed it:

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

With clank of spur and brave use of whip, on he dashed, to waken the country and rouse it to instant action--and as he passed through every hamlet heavy sleepers woke at the sound of his ringing shout:

"The Regulars are coming!"

Then on clattered horse and rider, scattering stones and dirt, as the horse's hoofs tore into the ground and his flanks were flecked with foam. Midnight had struck when the dripping steed and his breathless rider drew up before the parsonage where unsuspecting Dorothy and Aunt Lydia were sheltered, as well as the two patriots. The house was guarded by eight men when Paul Revere dashed up to the door, and they cautioned him not to make a noise.

"Noise!" exclaimed Revere. "You'll have noise enough before long. The Regulars are coming out!"

John Hancock, ever on the alert for any unwonted sounds, heard the commotion and recognizing Revere's voice opened a window and said:

"Courier Revere, we are not afraid of you!"

Revere repeated his startling news.

"Ring the Bell!" commanded Hancock. In a few moments the church bell began to peal, according to pre-arranged signal, to call men of the town together. All night the tones of the clanging bell rang out on the clear air and before daylight one hundred and fifty men had mustered for defense, strong in their desire for resistance and confident of the justice of it.

John Hancock was determined to fight with the men who had come together so hurriedly and were so poorly equipped for the combat. With a firm hand he cleaned his gun and sword and put his accoutrements in order, refusing to listen to the plea of Adams that it was not their duty to fight, that theirs it was, rather, to safeguard their lives for the sake of that cause to which they were so important at this critical time. Hancock was deaf to all appeals, until Dorothy grasped his hands in hers and forced him to look into her eyes:--

"I have lost my mother," she said; "to lose you, too, would be more than I could bear, unless I were giving you for my country's good. But you can serve best by living rather than by courting danger. You must go, and go now!"

And Hancock went.

Meanwhile a British officer had been sent in advance of the troops to inquire for "Clark's parsonage." By mistake he asked for Clark's tavern, which news was brought to Hancock as he was debating whether to take Dorothy's advice or not. He waited no longer. With Adams he immediately took refuge in a thickly wooded hill back of the parsonage. An hour later Paul Revere returned to the house to report that after he left there, with two others, he had been captured by British officers. Having answered their questions evasively about the whereabouts of the patriots, he finally said: "Gentlemen, you have missed your aim; the bell's ringing, the town's alarmed. You are all dead men!" This so terrified the officers that, not one hundred yards further on, one of them mounted Revere's horse and rode off at top speed to give warning to the on-coming troops, while Revere went back to report to Hancock and Adams.

It was evidently unsafe for them to remain so near the scene of the struggle, and at daylight they were ready to start for the home of the Rev. Mr. Marrett in Woburn. Dorothy and Aunt Lydia were to remain in Lexington, and although they had kept well in the background through all the excitement of the fateful night, Aunt Lydia now went down to the door, not only to see the last of her beloved nephew, but to try to speak to some one who could give her more definite news of the seven hundred British soldiers who had arrived in town and were drawn up in formidable array against the motley company of colonists. The British officers at once commanded the colonists to lay down their arms and disperse. Not a single man obeyed. All stood in silent defiance of the order. Then the British regulars poured into the "minute-men" a fatal volley of shots; and about that time Aunt Lydia descended to the parsonage door, and excited Dorothy threw open her window that she might wave to her lover until he was out of sight. As she drew back, she saw something whiz through the air past her aunt's head, striking the barn door beyond, and heard her aunt exclaim:

"What was that?"

It was a British bullet, and no mistake! As Dorothy told later: "The next thing I knew, two men were being brought into the house, one, whose head had been grazed by a bullet, insisted that he was dead; but the other, who was shot in the arm, behaved better."

Dorothy Quincy had seen the first shot fired for independence!

Never was there a more gallant resistance of a large and well-disciplined enemy force than that shown by the minute-men on that day at Lexington, and when at last the British retreated under a hot fire from the provincials at whom they had sneered, they had lost two hundred and seventy-three, killed, wounded, and missing, while the American force had lost only ninety-three.

As soon as the troops were marching on their way to Concord, a messenger brought Dorothy a penciled note from Hancock: "Would she and his aunt come to their hiding-place for dinner, and would they bring with them the fine salmon which was to have been cooked for dinner at the parsonage?" Of course they would--only too eagerly did they make ready and allow the messenger to guide them to the patriot's place of concealment. There, while the lovers enjoyed a tête-à-tête, Adams and Aunt Lydia made the feast ready, and they were all about to enjoy it, when a man rushed in crying out wildly:

"The British are coming! The British are coming! My wife's in eternity now."

This was grim news, and there was no more thought of feasting. Hurriedly Mr. Marrett made ready and took the patriots to a safer hiding-place, in Amos Wyman's house in Billerica. There, later in the day, they satisfied their appetites as best they could with cold pork and potatoes in place of the princely salmon, while Dorothy and Aunt Lydia, after eating what they had heart to consume of the feast, returned to Parson Clark's home, where they waited as quietly as possible until the retreat of the British troops. Then Dorothy had the joy of being again clasped in her lover's arms--and as he looked questioningly into her dear eyes, he could see lines of suffering and of new womanliness carved on her face by the anxiety she had experienced during the last twenty-four hours. Then, at a moment when both were seemingly happiest at being together, came their first lovers' quarrel.

When she had somewhat recovered from the fear of not seeing Hancock again, Dorothy announced that she was going to Boston on the following day--that she was worried about her father, who had not yet been able to leave the city, that she must see him. Hancock listened with set lips and grim determination:

"No, madam," he said, "you shall not return as long as there is a British bayonet in Boston."

Quick came the characteristic reply: "Recollect, Mr. Hancock, I am not under your control yet! I shall go to my father to-morrow."

Her determination matched his own, and Hancock saw no way to achieve his end, yet he had not thought of yielding. As usual, he turned to Aunt Lydia for advice. She wisely suggested retiring, without settling the mooted question, as they were all too tired for sensible reflection on any subject. Then, after defiant Dorothy had gone to her room, the older woman stole to the girl's bedside, not to advise,--oh no!--merely to suggest that there was more than one girl waiting to step into Dorothy's place should she flout the handsome young patriot. Also, she suggested, how terrible it would be if Hancock should be killed, or even captured while the girl he worshiped was away from his side! There was no reply, and the older woman stole from the room without any evidence that she had succeeded in her mission. But she smiled to herself the next morning when Dorothy announced that she had never had any real intention of leaving for Boston, and gracefully acknowledged to an entranced lover that _he_ had been right, after all!

The next question was, where should the women take refuge until the cloud of war should have passed over sufficiently to make it safe for them to return to their homes? Hancock advised Fairfield, Connecticut, a beautiful town where there would be small chance of any danger or discomfort. His suggestion met with approval, and Mrs. Hancock and her pretty ward at once set off for the Connecticut town, while Adams and Hancock journeyed cautiously toward Worcester, where they were to meet and go with other delegates to the Continental Congress at Philadelphia. They were detained at Worcester three days, which gave Hancock a chance to see his Dorothy again on her way to the new place of refuge. Theirs was a rapturous though a brief visit together; then the patriots went on toward New York, and Dorothy and Aunt Lydia proceeded to Fairfield, where they were received in the home of Mr. Thaddeus Burr, an intimate friend of the Hancocks, and a leading citizen, whose fine colonial house was a landmark in the village.

Judge Quincy, meanwhile, had at last been able to take flight from Boston, and after a long, uncomfortable trip, had arrived at his daughter's home in Lancaster, where he heard that "Daughter Dolly and Hancock had taken dinner ten days before, having driven over from Shirley for the purpose." He writes to his son Henry of this, and adds, "As I hear, she proceeded with Mrs. Hancock to Fairfield; I don't expect to see her till peaceable times are restored."

The two patriots reached New York safely, and Hancock at once wrote to Dorothy:

NEW YORK, _Sabbath Even'g, May 7, 1775_.

MY DEAR DOLLY:--

I Arrived well, tho' fatigued, at King's Bridge at Fifty
Minute after Two o'clock yesterday, where I found the
Delegates of Massachusetts and Connect' with a number of
Gentlemen from New York, and a Guard of the Troop. I dined
and then set out in the Procession for New York,--the
Carriage of your Humble servant being first in the
procession (of course). When we Arrived within three Miles
of the City, we were Met by the Grenadier Company and
Regiment of the City Militia under Arms,--Gentlemen in
Carriages and on Horseback, and many thousand of Persons on
foot, the roads fill'd with people, and the greatest cloud
of dust I ever saw. In this Situation we Entered the City,
and passing thro' the Principal Streets of New York amidst
the Acclamations of Thousands were set down at Mr.
Francis's. After Entering the House three Huzzas were Given,
and the people by degrees dispersed.

When I got within a mile of the City my Carriage was stopt,
and Persons appearing with proper Harnesses insisted upon
Taking out my Horses and Dragging me into and through the
City, a Circumstance I would not have Taken place on any
consideration, not being fond of such Parade.

I beg'd and entreated that they would suspend the Design,
and they were at last prevail'd upon and I proceeded....

After having Rode so fast and so many Miles, you may well
think I was much fatigued, but no sooner had I got into the
Room of the House we were Visited by a great number of
Gentlemen of the first Character of the City, who took up
the Evening.

About 10 o'clock I Sat down to Supper of Fried Oysters &, at
11 o'clock went to Capt Sear's and Lod'g. Arose at 5
o'clock, went to the House first mentioned, Breakfasted,
Dress'd and went to Meeting, where I heard a most excellent
Sermon....

The Grenadier Company of the City is to continue under Arms
during our stay here and we have a guard of them at our
Doors Night and Day. This is a sad mortification for the
Tories. Things look well here.... I beg you will write me.
Do acquaint me every Circumstance Relative to that Dear Aunt
of Mine; write Lengthy and often.... People move slowly out,
they tell me, from Boston.... Is your Father out? As soon as
you know, do acquaint me, and send me the letters and I will
then write him. Pray let me hear from you by every post. God
bless you, my Dr. Girl, and believe me most Sincerely

Yours most affectionately

JOHN HANCOCK.

One can fancy the flutter of pride in Dorothy's heart at the reading of such honors to her lover, and she settled down to await the turn of events with a lighter heart, while Hancock and Adams, with the other delegates, went on toward Philadelphia, their trip being a triumphal progress from start to finish.

On the ninth of May they arrived at their destination, and on the following day the Continental Congress met, when John Hancock was unanimously elected President of the Congress.

While her lover was occupied with matters of such vital importance, he always found time to pour out his hopes and fears and doings in bulky letters which reached his lady love by coach, every fortnight, and which--"shortened absence" to her impatient desire for the one man in the world who meant all to her. But even where Dorothy's heart was so seriously engaged, she could no more help showering coquettish smiles and pretty speeches on those residents of Fairfield whom she came to know, than she could help bewitching them by her charm and beauty. The more sober-minded men of the town were delighted by her conversation, which was sparkling, and by her keen comment on public affairs--comment far beyond the capability of most of her sex and age, while it became the fashion to pay court to vivacious Dorothy, but the moment an adorer attempted to express his sentimental feelings he found himself checkmated by a haughty reserve that commanded admiration, but forced an understanding that Mistress Dolly wished no such attentions.

Of this John Hancock knew nothing, as Dolly was the most tantalizingly discreet of correspondents, and poor Hancock looked and longed in vain for written evidence of her devotion, despite which, however, he continued to write long letters to her:

In one, written on June 10, 1775, he says pathetically:

I am almost prevailed on to think that my letters to my aunt
and you are not read, for I cannot obtain a reply. I have
asked a million questions and not an answer to one.... I
really take it extremely unkind. Pray, my dear, use not so
much ceremony and reservedness.... I want long letters.... I
beg my dear Dolly, you will write me often and long letters.
I will forgive the past if you will mend in future. Do ask
my aunt to make me up and send me a watch-string, and do you
make up another. I want something of your doing....

I have sent you in a paper Box directed to you, the
following things for your acceptance & which I do insist you
wear, if you do not, I shall think the Donor is the
objection.

2 pair white silk, 4 pair white thread stockings which I
think will fit you, 1 pr Black Satin Shoes, 1 pr Black Calem
Do, the other shall be sent when done, 1 very pretty light
Hat, 1 neat airy Summer Cloak ... 2 caps, 1 Fann.

I wish these may please you, I shall be gratified if they
do, pray write me, I will attent to all your Commands.

Adieu my Dr. Girl, and believe me with great Esteem and
Affection

Yours without Reserve

JOHN HANCOCK.

Surely such an appeal could not have failed of its purpose, and we can imagine Dorothy in the pretty garments of a lover's choosing, and her pride and pleasure in wearing them. But little coquette that she was, she failed to properly transmit her appreciation to the man who was so eager for it, and at that particular time her attention was entirely taken up by other diversions, of which, had Hancock known, he would have considered them far more important than colonial affairs.

To the Fairfield mansion, where Dolly and her aunt were staying, had come a visitor, young Aaron Burr, a relative of Thaddeus Burr, a brilliant and fascinating young man, whose cleverness and charming personality made him very acceptable to the young girl, whose presence in the house added much zest to his visit, and to whom he paid instant and marked attention. This roused Aunt Lydia to alarm and apprehension, for she knew Dorothy's firmness when she made up her mind on any subject, and feared that the tide of her affection might turn to this fascinating youth, for Dorothy made no secret of her enjoyment of his attentions. This should not be, Aunt Lydia decided.

With determination, thinly veiled by courtesy, she walked and talked and drove and sat with the pair, never leaving them alone together for one moment, which strict chaperonage Dolly resented, and complained of to a friend with as much of petulancy as she ever showed, tossing her pretty head with an air of defiance as she told of Aunt Lydia's foolishness, and spoke of her new friend as a "handsome young man with a pretty property."

The more devoted young Burr became to her charming ward, the more determined became Aunt Lydia that John Hancock should not lose what was dearer to him than his own life. With the clever diplomacy of which she was evidently past mistress, she managed to so mold affairs to her liking that Aaron Burr's visit at Fairfield came to an unexpectedly speedy end, and, although John Hancock's letters to his aunt show no trace that he knew of a dangerous rival, yet he seems to have suddenly decided that if he were to wed the fair Dolly it were well to do it quickly. And evidently he was still the one enshrined in her heart, for in the recess of Congress between August first and September fifth, John Hancock dropped the affairs of the colony momentarily, and journeyed to Fairfield, never again to be separated from her who was ever his ideal of womanhood.

On the 28th day of August, 1775, Dorothy Quincy and the patriot, John Hancock, were married, as was chronicled in the _New York Gazette_ of September 4th:

This evening was married at the seat of Thaddeus Burr, at
Fairfield, Conn., by the Reverend Mr. Eliot, the Hon. John
Hancock, Esq., President of the Continental Congress, to
Miss Dorothy Quincy, daughter of Edmund Quincy, Esq., of
Boston. Florus informs us that "in the second Punic War when
Hannibal besieged Rome and was very near making himself
master of it, a field upon which part of his army lay, was
offered for sale, and was immediately purchased by a Roman,
in a strong assurance that the Roman valor and courage would
soon raise the siege." Equal to the conduct of that
illustrious citizen was the marriage of the Honorable John
Hancock, Esq., who, with his amiable lady, has paid as great
a compliment to American valor by marrying now while all the
colonies are as much convulsed as Rome was when Hannibal was
at her gates.

The _New York Post_ also gave a detailed account of the wedding, and of the brilliant gathering of the "blue blood" of the aristocratic old town as well as of the colonies. Had the ceremony taken place in the old Quincy home, as had originally been intended, in a room which had been specially paneled with flowers and cupids for the auspicious event, it would doubtless have been a more homelike affair, especially to the bride, but it would have lacked the dignified elegance to which the stately Burr mansion lent itself so admirably.

Pretty Dorothy a bride! Mrs. John Hancock at her gallant husband's side, receiving congratulations, with joy shining in her dark eyes, which were lifted now and again to her husband, only to be answered by a responsive glance of love and loyalty. They were a handsome and a happy pair, to whom for a few hours the strife of the colonies had become a dream--to whom, despite the turbulent struggle in which Hancock must soon again play such a prominent part, the future looked rose color, because now nothing but death could part them.

* * * * *

Vivacious Dorothy had not only now become Mrs. John Hancock, but she was also called _Madam_ Hancock! Oh, the bliss of the dignified title to its youthful owner! She read with girlish satisfaction the item in a New York paper of September 4th, which reported, "Saturday last, the Honorable John Hancock and his Lady arrived here, and immediately set out for Philadelphia." With still greater pleasure a few days later she set herself to the establishing of a home in that city which was to be her first residence as a married woman. And well did she carry out her design to make John Hancock a worthy comrade, for besides accomplishing all the necessary duties of a housekeeper, she quickly acquired the dignity and reserve needed for the wife of a man filling such a prominent position in the colonies during the war for Independence. There was much lavish living and extravagant elegance of dressing, with which she was obliged to vie, even in the town where the Quakers were so much in evidence; and meeting, as she did, many persons of social and political importance, it was impossible for pretty Dorothy to be as care-free and merry now as she had been in the days when no heavy responsibilities rested on her shoulders.

So well did she fill her position as Madam Hancock that she won golden opinions from the many distinguished men and women who came together under Hancock's hospitable roof-tree; her husband noting with ever increasing pride that his Dolly was more deeply and truly an American woman in her flowering than ever he could have dreamed she would become when he fell in love with her on that Sunday in June. And loyally did he give to her credit for such inspiration as helped to mold him into the man who received the greatest honors in the power of the colonists to bestow.

With the later life of Dorothy Hancock we are not concerned; our rose had bloomed. It matters not to us that Madam Hancock was one of the most notable women of the Revolution, who had known and talked with George Washington, that she and Martha Washington had actually discussed their husbands together. To Dorothy's great pride Mrs. Washington had spoken enthusiastically of Hancock's high position, while at that time her husband was but a general. Then, too, pretty Madam Hancock had known the noble Lafayette--had met in intimate surroundings all those great and patriotic men who had devoted their best endeavors to the establishment of a free and independent America. All that is no concern of ours in this brief story of the girl, Dorothy, nor is it ours to mourn with the mother over the death or her two children, nor ours to wonder why, three years after the death of her beloved husband, a man who had made his mark in the history of his country, she should have married again.

Ours only it is to admire Hancock's Dolly as we see her in her girlish beauty, as we follow her through the black days of fear and of tension preceding the outbreak of that war in which her lover played such a prominent part; ours to enjoy her charming manner and sparkling wit, and to respect with deep admiring a brave girl of the Massachusetts colony who watched a great nation in its birth-throes, and whose name is written in history not alone as Madam Hancock, but as Dorothy Quincy, the girl who saw the first gun fired for Independence.

An inspiration and an example for the girls of to-day, at a time when all good Americans are united in a firm determination to make the world safe for democracy.

MOLLY PITCHER: THE BRAVE GUNNER OF THE BATTLE OF MONMOUTH

"Oh, but I would like to be a soldier!"

The exclamation did not come from a man or boy as might have been expected, but from Mary Ludwig, a young, blue-eyed, freckled, red-haired serving-maid in the employ of General Irving's family, of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Molly, as they called her, had a decided ability to do well and quickly whatever she attempted, and her eyes of Irish blue and her sense of humor must have been handed down to her somewhere along the line of descent, although her father, John George Ludwig, was a German who had come to America with the Palatines.

Having been born in 1754 on a small dairy farm lying between Princeton and Trenton, New Jersey, Molly's early life was the usual happy one of a child who lived in the fields and made comrades of all the animals, especially of the cows which quite often she milked and drove to pasture. Like other children of her parentage she was early taught to work hard, to obey without question, and never to waste a moment of valuable time. In rain or shine she was to be found on the farm, digging, or among the live stock, in her blue-and-white cotton skirt and plain-blue upper garment, and she was so strong, it was said, that she could carry a three-bushel bag of wheat on her shoulder to the upper room of the granary. This strength made her very helpful in more than one way on the farm, and her parents objected strongly when she announced her determination to leave home and earn her living in a broader sphere of usefulness, but their objections were without avail.

The wife of General Irving, of French and Indian war fame, came to Trenton to make a visit. She wished to take a young girl back to Carlisle with her to assist in the work of her household, and a friend told her of Molly Ludwig. At once Mrs. Irving saw and liked the buxom, honest-faced country girl, and Molly being willing, she was taken back to the Irvings' home. There she became a much respected member of the family, as well as a valuable assistant, for Molly liked to work hard. She could turn her hand to anything, from fine sewing, which she detested, to scrubbing floors and scouring pots and pans, which she greatly enjoyed, being most at home when doing something which gave her violent exercise. Meals could have been served off a floor which she had scrubbed, and her knocker and door-knobs were always in a high state of polish.

But though she liked the housework which fell to her lot, it was forgotten if by any chance the General began to talk of his experiences on the battle-field. One day, when passing a dish of potatoes at the noon meal, the thrilling account of a young artilleryman's brave deed so stirred Molly's patriotic spirit that she stood at breathless attention, the dish of potatoes poised on her hand in mid-air until the last detail of the story had been told, then with a prodigious sigh she proclaimed her fervent desire to be a soldier.

The General's family were not conventional and there was a hearty laugh at the expense of the serving-maid's ambition, in which Molly good-naturedly joined. Little did she dream that in coming days her wish was to be fulfilled, and her name to be as widely known for deeds of valor as that of the artilleryman who had so roused her enthusiasm.

So wholesome and energetic in appearance was Molly that she had many admirers, some of them fired with a degree of practical purpose, beyond their sentimental avowals. Molly treated them one and all with indifference except as comrades until John Hays, the handsome young barber of the town, much sought after by the girls of Carlisle, began to pay her attention, which was an entirely different matter. Molly grew serious-minded, moped as long as it was possible for one of her rollicking nature to mope--even lost her appetite temporarily--then she married the adoring and ecstatic Hays, and gave her husband a heart's loyal devotion.

Of a sudden the peaceful Pennsylvania village was stirred to its quiet center by echoes of the battle of Lexington, and no other subject was thought of or talked about. All men with a drop of red blood in their veins were roused to action, and Hays was no slacker. One morning he spoke gently to his wife, with intent to hurt her as little as possible.

"I am going, Molly," he said; "I've joined the Continental army."

Then he waited to see the effect of his words. Although he knew that his wife was patriotic, he was utterly unprepared for the response that flamed in her eager eyes as she spoke.

"God bless you!" she exclaimed; "I am proud to be a soldier's wife. Count on me to stand by you."

And stand by she did, letting no tears mar the last hours with him, and waving as cheerful a farewell when he left her as though he were merely going for a day's pleasuring. From the firing of the first gun in the cause of freedom her soul had been filled with patriotic zeal, and now she rejoiced in honoring her country by cheerfully giving the man she loved to its service, although she privately echoed her wish of long ago when she had exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I could be a soldier!"

Like a brave and sensible young woman, Molly stayed on with the Irvings, where she scrubbed and scoured and baked and brewed and spun and washed as vigorously as before, smiling proudly with no sharp retort when her friends laughingly predicted that she "had lost her pretty barber, and would never set eyes on him again." She was too glad to have him serving his country, and too sure of his devotion, to be annoyed by any such remarks, and kept quietly on with her work as though it were her sole interest in life.

Months went by, and hot July blazed its trail of parched ground and wilted humanity. One morning, as usual, Molly hung her wash on the lines, then she took a pail and went to gather blackberries on a near-by hillside. As she came back later with a full pail, she saw a horseman, as she afterward said, "riding like lightning up to General Irving's house." Perhaps he had brought news from her husband, was her instant thought, and she broke into a run, for she had received no tidings from him for a long time, and was eager to know where he was and how he fared. She had been right in her instinct, the messenger had brought a letter from John Hays, and it contained great news indeed, for he wrote:

"When this reaches you, take horse with bearer, who will go with you to your father's home. I have been to the farm and seen your parents, who wish you to be with them now. And if you are there, I shall be able to see you sometimes, as we are encamped in the vicinity."

Molly might have objected to such a peremptory command, but the last sentence broke down any resistance she might have shown. Hastily she told Mrs. Irving of the letter and its tidings, and although that lady was more than sorry to lose Molly at such short notice, she not only made no objections to her departure, but helped her with her hurried preparations and wished her all possible good fortune. In less time than it takes to tell it, Molly had "unpegged her own clothing from the lines," then seeing they were still wet, she made the articles into a tight bundle which she tied to the pommel, the messenger sprang into the saddle, with Molly behind him, and off they started from the house which had been Molly's home for so long, journeying to the farm of her childhood's memories.

Although she missed the kind-hearted Irving family who had been so good to her, it was a pleasure to be with her parents again, and Molly put on her rough farm garments once more, and early and late was out among the cattle, or working in the fields. And she had a joyful surprise when her husband paid her a flying visit a few days later. After that, he came quite frequently, though always unexpectedly, and if proof was wanting that she was the kind of a wife that John Hays was proud to have his fellow-soldiers see, it lies in the fact that he allowed Molly to visit him in camp more than once. She saw him at Trenton, and at Princeton, before the Continental army routed the British there, on January 3, 1777.

In order to surprise the three British regiments which were at Princeton at that time, General Washington, Commander-in-chief of the Continental force, quietly left Trenton with his troops, and crept up behind the unsuspecting British at Princeton, killing about one hundred men and taking three hundred prisoners, while his own losses were only thirty men. Then, anxious to get away before Lord Cornwallis could arrive with reinforcements for the British, he slipped away with his men to Morristown, New Jersey, while the cannon were still booming on the battle-field, their noise being mistaken in Trenton for thunder. With the Continental troops went John Hays, gunner, and as soon as Molly heard of the engagement, and the retirement of General Washington's troops, she hastened to the field of action to seek out any wounded men whom she could care for or comfort in their last hours. Picking her way across the littered field, she brought a drink of water here, lifted an aching head there, and covered the faces of those who had seen their last battle. As she passed slowly on, she saw a friend of her husband's, Dilwyn by name, lying half buried under a pile of debris. She would have passed him by but for a feeble movement of his hand under the rubbish, seeing which, she stooped down, pushed aside his covering, and felt for his pulse to see whether he were still alive. As she bent down her quick eye saw a cannon near where the wounded man lay, a heavy, cumbersome gun which the Continentals had evidently left behind as being of a type too heavy to drag with them on their hasty march to Morristown. Beside the cannon Molly also saw a lighted fuse slowly burning down at one end. She had a temptation as she looked at the piece of rope soaked in some combustible, lying there ready to achieve its purpose. She stooped over Dilwyn again, then she rose and went to the cannon, fuse in hand. In a half-second the booming of the great gun shook the battle-field--Molly had touched it off, and at exactly the right moment, for even then the advance guard of Lord Cornwallis and his men was within range!

At the sound of the cannon they halted abruptly, in alarm. The foe must be lurking in ambush dangerously near them, for who else would have set off the gun? They spent an hour hunting for the concealed Continentals, while Molly picked Dilwyn up and laid him across her shoulder as she had carried the wheat-bags in childhood, and coolly walked past the British, who by that time were swarming across the battle-field, paying no attention to the red-headed young woman carrying a wounded soldier off the field, for what could she have to do with discharging a gun!

Molly meanwhile bore her heavy burden across the fields for two miles until she reached the farm, where she laid the wounded man gently down on a bed which was blissfully soft to his aching bones, and where he was cared for and nursed as if he had been Molly's own kin. When at last he was well again and able to ride away from the farm, he expressed his admiration for his nurse in no measured terms, and there came to her a few days later a box of fine dress goods with the warmest regards of "one whose life you saved." As she looked at the rich material, Molly smoothed it appreciatively with roughened hand, then she laid the bundle away among her most cherished possessions, but making use of it never entered her mind--it was much too handsome for that!

Every hour the British troops were delayed at Princeton was of great advantage to the Continental forces, and by midnight they had come to the end of their eighteen-mile march, to their great rejoicing, as it had been a terrible walk over snow and ice and in such bitter cold that many a finger and ear were frozen, and all had suffered severely. The men had not had a meal for twenty-four hours, had made the long march on top of heavy fighting, and when they reached their destination they were so exhausted that the moment they halted they dropped and fell into a heavy sleep.

While they were marching toward Morristown, Lord Cornwallis was rushing his troops on to New Brunswick to save the supplies which the British had stored there. To his great relief he found them untouched, so he gave up the pursuit of Washington's fleeing forces, and the Continental army, without resistance, went into winter quarters at Morristown, as their Commander had planned to do. While John Hays, with the American army, was following his Commander, Molly, at the farm, had become the proud mother of a son, who was named John Hays, Jr., and who became Molly's greatest comfort in the long months when she had no glimpse or tidings of her husband. Then came news--General Washington's troops were again on the march, passing through New Jersey toward New York. There would be a chance to see her husband, and Molly determined to take it, whatever risk or hardship it might entail, for not only did she long to see Hays, but she could not wait longer to tell him of the perfections of their son. And so Molly went to the scene of the battle of Monmouth.

It was Sunday, the 28th of June, 1778, a day which has come down in history, not only because of the battle which marks its date, but because of its scorching heat. The mercury stood near the 100 mark, and man and beast were well-nigh overcome.

History tells us that the British had remained at Philadelphia until early in June, when they had evacuated that city and crossed the Delaware River on June the eighteenth, with an intention to march across New Jersey to New York. Having heard of this movement of the British, General Washington, with a force nearly equal to that of the enemy, also crossed into New Jersey, with the purpose of retarding the British march and, if opportunity offered, bring on a general engagement. By the 22d of June the whole of the American force was massed on the east bank of the Delaware in a condition and position to give the enemy battle. Despite some opposition on the part of General Lee and other officers, Lafayette and Greene agreed with General Washington in his opinion that the time to strike had come, and soon orders were given which led to the battle of Monmouth.

Lafayette was detached with a strong body of troops to follow up the British rear and act, if occasion presented. Other riflemen and militia were in advance of him and on his flanks, making a strong body of picked troops. To protect his twelve-mile baggage-train from these troops, Sir Henry Clinton placed them with a large escort under Knyphausen, while he united the rest of his force in the rear to check the enemy, if they came too close. The distance between Knyphausen's force and that which brought up the rear suggested the idea to Washington to concentrate his assault on the rear force, and to hasten the attack before the British should reach the high ground of Middletown, about twelve miles away, where they would be comparatively safe.

At once General Lee was sent forward to join Lafayette, with instructions to engage the enemy in such action as was possible until the remainder of the troops should arrive. Lee carried out his part of the command in such a half-hearted way as to bring severe censure on him later, and when General Greene arrived on the scene of action, Lee and his men were in retreat.

A sharp reproof from General Washington brought Lee partially to his senses; he turned about and engaged in a short, sharp conflict with the enemy, and retired from the field in good order. At that time Greene's column arrived, and as a movement of the British threatened Washington's right wing, he ordered Greene to file off from the road to Monmouth and, while the rest of the army pushed forward, to fight his way into the wood at the rear of Monmouth Court-House. Greene was obeying orders when, foreseeing that by the flight of Lee Washington would be exposed to the whole weight of the enemy's attack, he suddenly wheeled about and took an advantageous position near the British left wing.

As he hoped, this diverted the enemy's attention from the fire of the American army. A furious attack followed, but was met by a cool resistance which was the result of the army's discipline at Valley Forge.

The artillery of Greene's division, well posted on a commanding position, was in charge of General Knox, and poured a most destructive fire on the enemy, seconded by the infantry, who steadily held their ground. Repeated efforts of the British only increased their losses.

Colonel Monckton's grenadiers, attempting to drive back the American forces, were repulsed by General Knox's artillery with great slaughter. A second attempt was made, and a third, when Colonel Monckton received his death-blow and fell from his horse. General Wayne then came up with a force of farmers, their sleeves rolled up as if harvesting, and they forced the British back still farther, leaving the bodies of their wounded and dead comrades on the field.

Through the long hours of the desperate fighting on that June day, the mercury rose higher and higher, and many of the men's tongues were so swollen with the heat that they could not speak, and they fell exhausted at their posts. Seeing this, Molly, who was with her husband on the field of battle, discovered a bubbling spring of water in the west ravine, and spent her time through the long hours of blistering heat tramping back and forth carrying water for the thirsty men, and also for her husband's cannon. She used for her purpose "the cannon's bucket," which was a fixture of the gun of that time, and she told afterward how every time she came back with a brimming bucket of the sparkling water, the men would call out:

"Here comes Molly with her pitcher!"

As the battle grew fiercer and her trips to the spring became more frequent, the call was abbreviated into, "Molly Pitcher!" by which name she was so generally known from that day that her own name has been almost forgotten.

Higher and higher rose the sun in a cloudless sky, and up mounted the mercury until the suffering of the soldiers in both armies was unspeakable, although the British were in a worse state than the Americans, because of their woolen uniforms, knapsacks, and accoutrements, while the Continental army had no packs and had laid off all unnecessary clothing. Even so, many of both forces died of prostration, despite Molly's cooling drinks which she brought to as many men as possible. John Hays worked his cannon bravely, while perspiration streamed down his face and heat blurred his vision. Suddenly all went black before him--the rammer dropped from his nerveless hand, and he fell beside his gun. Quickly to his side Molly darted, put a handkerchief wet with spring water on his hot brow, laid her head on his heart to see whether it was still beating. He was alive! Beckoning to two of his comrades, Molly commanded them to carry him to the shade of a near-by tree. And soon she had the satisfaction of seeing a faint smile flicker over his face as she bent above him. At that moment her keen ears heard General Knox give a command.

"Remove the cannon!" he said. "We have no gunner brave enough to fill Hays's place!"

"No!" said Molly, hastening to the General's side and facing him with a glint of triumph in her blue eyes. "The cannon shall not be taken away! Since my brave husband is not able to work it, I will do my best to serve in his place!"

Picking up the rammer, she began to load and fire with the courage and decision of a seasoned gunner, standing at her post through long hours of heat and exhaustion. When at a late hour the enemy had finally been driven back with great loss, and Washington saw the uselessness of any renewal of the assault, General Greene strode over to the place where Molly Pitcher was still manfully loading the cannon, and gripped her hand with a hearty:

"I thank you in the name of the American army!"

One can fancy how Molly's heart throbbed with pride at such commendation, as she picked her way over the bodies of the dead and wounded to the spot where her husband was propped up against a tree, slowly recovering from his prostration, but able to express his admiration for a wife who had been able to take a gunner's place at a moment's notice and help to rout the British.

"That night the American army slept upon their arms; Greene, like his Commander, taking his repose without couch or pillow, on the naked ground, and with no other shelter than a tree beneath the broad canopy of heaven. But this shelter was not sought, nor sleep desired, until every wounded and hungry soldier had been cared for and fed with the best food the camp could supply. Rising at dawn, Washington found the enemy gone! They had stolen silently away with such rapidity as would, when their flight became known, put them beyond the chance of pursuit--and so the American army had been victorious at Monmouth, and Molly Pitcher had played an important part in that victory."

She, too, had slept that night under the stars, and when morning came she was still in the dusty, torn, powder-stained clothing she had worn as cannonier, and afterward while working over the wounded. Her predicament was a bad one when a messenger arrived from General Washington requesting an interview with her. She, Molly Pitcher, to be received by the Commander-in-chief of the American forces in such a garb as that! How could she make herself presentable for the interview? With her usual quick wit, Molly borrowed an artilleryman's coat, which in some measure hid her grimy and torn garments. In this coat over her own petticoats, and a cocked hat with a feather, doubtless plucked from a straying hen, she made no further ado, but presented herself to Washington as requested, and from the fact that she wore such a costume on that June day has come the oft-repeated and untrue story that she wore a man's clothing on the battle-field.

General Washington's eyes lighted with pleasure at the sight of such a brave woman, and he received her with such honor as he would have awarded one of his gallant men. Molly was almost overcome with his words of praise, and still more so when he conferred on her the brevet of Captain, from which came the title, "Captain Molly," which she was called by the soldiers from that day. General Washington also recommended that she be given a soldier's half-pay for life, as a reward for her faithful performance of a man's duty at the battle of Monmouth.