The romance of war in its most thrilling form is exemplified in this narrative of the adventures of “The World’s Greatest Military Spies and Secret Service Agents.” Much has been published upon the subject of espionage, and the memoirs and secret histories of the courts of Europe give us instances of men and women who have gained favor and money, if not honor and glory, by selling back-stairs gossip concerning their fellow creatures; but the aim of the present work has been rather to relate the big exploits of those who faced great personal danger and risked their lives for the sake of flag and country.
Each story is complete in itself, and yet forms a link in the chain of narratives which illustrates the startling and unexpected manner in which battles have been lost and won through the shrewdness and the courage of military spies at various times in different countries of the world. All spies are not admirable. Indeed, some whose deeds are herein related seem despicable. The use of the word “spy” in this series is in its broadest, and usually its best, sense. In all of the great wars of history there have been spies, scouts, emissaries and others still with no very well defined status, who have rendered invaluable service to their governments. A spy is liable to death; a scout, if captured, has the rights of a prisoner of war, but an emissary is rather political than military, and is sent to influence secretly the opposition rather than to bring information concerning the movements of troops.
There are spies and spies. Just where the line is to be drawn must depend largely upon the personal view-point of the reader. Some of those who have been engaged in hazardous military exploits are looked upon as among the world’s greatest heroes; others who have abused the hospitality of their entertainers in order to betray them have earned never-ending obloquy. Everything depends upon the circumstances and the point of view. Human nature has been the same in all ages. We are disposed to justify and glorify the military spy who risks his life for our own country and our own cause, and to condemn and abuse the one who is enlisted in the service of the enemy.
Generally speaking, there is a natural repugnance to the professional spy in times of war, who is regarded as akin to the paid informer in times of peace. But the tendency is to applaud the real soldier who is willing to depart from the strict lines of military duty in order to serve his country. Napoleon, who can scarcely be called a scrupulous man, even by his most ardent admirers, refused to bestow the medal of honor on his chief spy. “Money, as much as you like,” he exclaimed, “but the cross—never!”
At the time of the capture of Emilio Aguinaldo by the late Brigadier-General Frederick Funston a question arose regarding the ethics of the means employed by some of the members of the troops under his command on that occasion. It arose in a lecture before the law class at the University of the Philippines. Justice Carson, of the Supreme Court, was asked to enlighten the students on this point. Instead of doing so, he wrote and asked General Funston’s view of the matter. The reply of the American soldier may be accepted as the authorized military view of the question. General Funston wrote:
“In a nutshell, the legal status of all those engaged in the expedition referred to was that of spies, and as such they could not have claimed immunity from the usual fate of spies. While we were not disguised for the purpose of obtaining information, the fact that we penetrated the enemy’s lines under false colors would have justified treating us as such.
“Having acknowledged that our status was that of Spies, I wish to call attention to a popular, erroneous belief that spies are violators of the laws of war simply because they are spies and in disguise. It is safe to say that there never has been a war in which both sides did not use spies; in fact, the principal military nations use them in time of peace. Spies are punished, not because there is anything morally reprehensible in their work, but because it is desired to make their occupations so dangerous that it will be difficult to find men to undertake the risks involved.
“The status of the spy in our own history cannot better be shown than in the fact that Nathan Hale, the spy of our own Revolution, whose impressive statue stands in New York and whose last words on the gallows were: ‘My chief regret is that I have but one life to give for my country,’ is one of the greatest of our national heroes.
“Washington has been regarded always as one of the most scrupulous of men, but he did not hesitate to hold as a prisoner the British general Prescott, captured by Colonel Barton of the Rhode Island militia and a few men, all disguised as non-combatants, who penetrated the British lines under false colors.
“Although the use of spies is not a violation of the laws of war, there are certain acts that are recognized as such and may be punished by death: The violation of the flag of truce; breaking a truce; violation of parole; the use of poison; killing of prisoners of war to prevent their recapture, and hoisting the hospital flag over a place not a hospital. But all these imply moral obliquity, and I have never heard of any one being rewarded or having a monument erected to him for having been guilty of any one of them.
“The Filipinos are about the last people in the world who can question the ethics of entering the enemy’s lines in disguise. As a veteran of the war you know that, disguised as non-combatants, their officers and soldiers are among us all the time, and that if we had enforced the law strictly relative to spies we would have been hanging men all the time.”
The halo of romance hovers in a special manner over women spies, and it is interesting to note that the United States furnishes the most conspicuous examples of this class in the persons of Belle Boyd, the Confederate girl who saved Stonewall Jackson; and Emma Edmonds, the Union spy, whose adventures could scarcely be duplicated in the pages of fiction. The story of a third American woman is related in this volume—Lydia Darrah, the gentle and brave Quakeress who saved Washington’s army from destruction. She was not a spy in the accepted sense of the word, and it would be impossible to imagine a greater contrast than is presented between the colonial girl and the two women of the Civil War, but the service she rendered the young and struggling nation cannot be overestimated.
A book of this character would not be complete without the stories of Nathan Hale and Major André, the American and the Briton, each young and gallant, and each giving up his life for his country. In a general way, their exploits are familiar, yet it may be found that a new light has been turned upon certain phases of the sacrifices which they both so cheerfully made for the causes they represented.
An effort has been made to confine this work to the operations of military spies, but in possibly two instances the rule has been relaxed in order to present phases of that form of diplomacy which is so closely allied with war as to be part of it. Most of the incidents are interwoven with the history of the countries to which they relate, and are part of the archives of the State, War and Navy Departments of these nations. Taken all in all, the pages of fiction contain few things more fascinating or thrilling than these fact stories.
G. B.
The amazing audacity of Charles Louis Schulmeister—Napoleon’s chief spy—was never illustrated to better advantage than when he hoodwinked Francis II, Emperor of Austria.
The episode really had its inception on the twenty-third of October, 1805, when Napoleon sent for his favorite and told him that he wanted to know the plans of the Austrian army. At that time General Kontovsoff was believed to be hurrying westward with 60,000 Russians. It was characteristic of Schulmeister that he received this commission as a matter of course. He had men and money at his disposal and was in a position to command the attention of the great. But his biggest asset was his fearlessness.
On the day after his interview with Napoleon he started on the mission which was to involve him in the most sensational events of his checkered career. He met his old friend and confederate, Lieutenant Bendel, at Muhldorf, and by him was presented to General Kienmayer, in command of the Austrian forces. He was well received as before by this officer, who regarded him as a member of the Austrian Secret Service. Indeed, Kienmayer had taken a liking to the medium-sized man with the scarred forehead and was glad to meet him again. He little thought that this was the man who had betrayed the Austrian military secrets and who more than any one individual, was responsible for the maneuvers which had resulted in the surrender of Field Marshal Mack.
Schulmeister, with his unwavering blue eyes and his brusque soldierly manner, had several talks with Kienmayer and learned that the Austrian was not yet ready to take the offensive. Also he was given an inkling of the movements of General Kontovsoff. This valuable information was transmitted to Napoleon, who made his plans accordingly.
But Schulmeister was not satisfied to stop at this stage of the game. He had another scheme hatching in his fertile mind, and presently he made it known to his friend Bendel.
“I want you to get me permission to wear the uniform of an Austrian staff officer.”
Bendel, who had already gone to great lengths to serve the spy, gasped at the daring of this latest request.
“But why?” he asked. “What reason can be given for such a thing?”
The blue-eyed one smiled grimly. The humor of the business was not lost on him.
“The best reason in the world,” he replied. “It is but a slight return for all I have done for the Austrian army.”
The things he had done for the Austrian army, had they been known to Kienmayer, would have caused that officer to give an order for Schulmeister’s execution at sunrise. Instead of that he gave him permission to wear the Austrian uniform. The result of this was far-reaching. It helped to make history. In a word, it placed the Austrian army—or a considerable section of it—at the mercy of the Alsatian smuggler.
Schulmeister went to Vienna, where he proclaimed himself to be the representative of General Kienmayer. Vienna, even at that time, was numbered among the gayest capitals of Europe, and the supposed secret service agent of the Austrian commander was received with open arms and treated with marked distinction. He mingled with the officers and was entertained at the cafés and altogether made a marked impression with the people. His natural qualities helped him greatly in this bold adventure. The scars on his forehead, his apparent reticence and his military bearing all helped to win the confidence of those with whom he was thrown into contact.
The Emperor Francis II was in Vienna at the time, and Schulmeister was told that he would have an opportunity of meeting him in person. He did not shrink from the ordeal. Indeed, he may be said to have courted it. The Emperor at that time had reached a critical stage of his career. He came into power at a time when the French revolution was exciting the alarm of most of the old European dynasties. Austria was in alliance with Prussia against the advances of the new republic. In 1795–96, the war between France and Austria raged fiercely on German soil. In 1796 Napoleon, whose meteoric career was astonishing the world, swept through northern Italy and the next year invaded Austria. As a consequence of this, Francis was compelled to sign the treaty of Campo Formio, by which Austria surrendered Belgium and Lombardy, receiving in return most of the dominions of the extinct Republic of Venice. Smarting under this, Francis, two years later, made an alliance with Russia and England. Again he took up arms and at the outset met with a number of successes.
But the recall of the Russian general Suvaroff and the return of Napoleon from the East, turned the tide against him. The victories won by Bonaparte at Marengo and by Morean at Hohenlinden seriously crippled the power of Austria, and Francis was reduced to the necessity of suing for peace. By the treaty of Lunéville in 1801, France was confirmed in the possession of the left bank of the Rhine. In 1804 Francis assumed the title of the Emperor of Austria, and in the following year entered into a new alliance with Russia. The following year began the contest with Napoleon which was to end so disastrously for the Austrians. This was the condition of affairs that existed when Napoleon’s chief spy found himself in the Austrian capital, clothed in the uniform of an Austrian officer.
He had not been there long before he learned that a most important council of war was to be held, at which plans were to be matured for the purpose of checking the aggressions of Napoleon. He resolved to attend that council. As before, he had the aid of Lieutenant Bendel. It was by means of this officer that he was taken into the confidence of the Secretary of the Council and told that he would be admitted to its deliberations. A less audacious man would have hesitated to attend such a meeting. Even Bendel warned him of the danger he ran.
“You are putting your head into the lion’s mouth,” said he.
“It doesn’t matter,” he retorted; “the animal has no teeth.”
At the appointed hour Schulmeister presented himself at the palace, and presenting the proper credentials, was admitted. An orderly conducted him along narrow passages and up a flight of stairs to a wide corridor which led to the conference chamber. Lieutenant Bendel had preceded him there and at three knocks on the door he was ushered into the room. It was a long, high-ceilinged apartment with a raised dais at the far end.
It was evident, at a glance, that this was used as a sort of war office. Large maps were spread out on the walls and a globe stood in the center of the apartment. Colored pins were stuck into the maps to indicate the positions of the various armies then in the field.
A number of officers were present and others continued to come until probably fifteen men were in the room. Schulmeister was presented to them by Lieutenant Bendel, and was greeted, for the most part, in a perfunctory manner. The pride-stricken members had very little time to give to one who appeared to be below them in rank. One or two, attracted by the report that the newcomer was a member of the Austrian Secret Service, paused long enough to ask him a few questions concerning the character of his work. He replied in a way that satisfied them without committing himself. Schulmeister was at his best in situations of this kind. His natural reticence served him well. Somehow he gave one the impression of imparting a great deal of information in a very few words.
At all events he was fortunate in being lost amid the titled and gold lace of the occasion. A large table was placed in front of the raised dais at the end of the room and the conferees drew up chairs and began a general conversation. The Alsatian spy managed to keep in the background and yet to be in a position to see and to hear all that was taking place. In the midst of the talk there was a flutter at the entrance to the apartment and an official voice called out:
“Gentlemen, the King!”
Everybody arose and stood at attention while Francis II rapidly walked down the center of the room and took his place in the big chair on the raised platform. As he sat down the others resumed their places. The monarch looked worn and worried and he proceeded to the business in hand in a listless sort of style. Schulmeister, to his relief, was not even noticed by the monarch, who was plainly preoccupied.
For three quarters of an hour the members of the council of war discussed their plans while the spy of Napoleon drank in every word. It was a situation without a parallel, probably, in the history of warfare. Spies have found their way into the councils of the enemy, but there is no other case on record where the sovereign of a great empire has openly discussed his plans before a spy from the opposing army. Presently the affair came to an end and Schulmeister left with the others. He gave a sigh of satisfaction as he breathed the free air again and before an hour passed had sent an account of the proceedings to Napoleon.
Some one must have detected him in the act of relaying his messages—because he had a system of his own of getting his information through the lines—for he began to be regarded with suspicion. He carried himself with great calmness but he was too adept in the art of spying not to know that he was being shadowed. Everywhere that he went he was followed by Austrian officers. Evidently they were not sure of their man. He was suspected, but the proof was wanting. He thought he might wear out the patience of his shadowers, but he was mistaken in this.
Finally the situation became so acute that he resolved to fly for his life. He left in the middle of the night and managed to reach Moravia. Here a burly Austrian staff officer pulled him out of bed without any ceremony.
“You are wanted in Vienna,” he said gruffly.
“But I have been there,” protested Schulmeister, “and now it is most important that I should proceed on my way.”
The officer roared with laughter.
“I don’t doubt it, but we wish to show you some attention at the capital.”
Schulmeister made a final effort. He produced the letters by which he had wormed his way into the good graces of the Secretary of the Council.
“Here are my credentials. What more do you wish?”
“Nothing,” roared the big fellow, as he grabbed the letters. “These are what we have been hunting. They will be put to the test and you will come and answer to the charge of being a spy.”
This was a truly alarming situation, but the Alsatian smuggler carried himself with great confidence and dignity. In his heart of hearts he felt that he was lost. His wonderful activity had made him known to many persons and surely some of them would appear against him.
The court martial which was called to consider the case of Schulmeister met in Vienna and was surrounded with great pomp and dignity. The soldierly appearance of the accused and his refusal to defend himself aroused a great deal of sympathy in his case. But the weight of the evidence was against him. It was proven that he had given false information to General Mack in the Ulm campaign and it was shown that he had been in Vienna under false pretenses. After due deliberations the verdict was rendered and it condemned him to death as a spy.
Schulmeister fought for time to the last. He believed that something might happen to relieve him from his dangerous position. The general in command directed that he should be shot at sunrise. The Alsatian betrayed no emotion when he heard the dreadful words. Indeed, danger had become so great a part of his everyday life that it had no terrors for him. Death in any form did not shock him—not even when it was to be his own. He called for pen, ink and paper and spent a long time writing in his cell. It has been said that he scribbled reports which he hoped to have smuggled into the French lines. If this be true it proves that Schulmeister was as much patriot as spy. But the story rests on tradition, and, of course, is impossible of verification, by means of documentary evidence.
After that he waited for morning. To the ordinary man this would have seemed a long black night, but there is nothing to indicate that it caused the Alsatian any great mental anguish. His mind was busy turning over the possibility of escape, but otherwise he was placid and self-contained. He simply sat there on his low wooden stool and watched for the sunrise that was to be the signal for his execution.
While Schulmeister was going through this thrilling experience Napoleon was hammering at the gates of Vienna. He had pursued the armies of Russia and Austria from one point to another, all the time working to accomplish his favorite maxim, “Divide in order to subsist; concentrate in order to fight.” As the contest went along the ardor of the Russian army grew more intense. It advanced toward the position long studied by Napoleon and which he destined for his field of battle. We are told by the historian Guizot that in accordance with the plan of the Austrian general Weirother, the allies had resolved to turn the right of the French army in order to cut off the road to Vienna by assaulting the numerous corps dispersed in Austria and Styria. Altogether, the two emperors and their staff officers occupied the castle and village of Austerlitz. On the first of December, 1805, the allies established themselves upon the plateau Platzen. Napoleon by design had left this free, divining with a sure instinct of superior genius the maneuvers of the enemy he had cleverly drawn into the snare. His proclamation to the troops announced the plan of the battle.
“Soldiers,” said he, “the Russian army presents itself before you to avenge the Austrian army of Ulm. These are the same battalions you have beaten at Hollabrunn and that you have constantly pursued to this place. The positions that we occupy are formidable and whilst they march to turn my right they will present me their flank.
“Soldiers, I will myself direct your battalions. I will keep myself away from the firing if with your accustomed bravery you carry disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks. But if the victory were for a moment uncertain you would see your emperor expose himself to the brunt of the attack; for this victory will finish the campaign and we shall be able to resume our winter quarters where we shall be joined by new armies which are forming in France. Then the peace I shall make will be worthy of my people, of you, and of me.”
It so happened that this was the eve of the anniversary of the coronation of the Emperor. The soldiers in order to celebrate the event gathered up the straw upon which they were stretched and, making it into bundles, they lit them at the end of poles.
“Be assured,” said an old grenadier, advancing toward the chief who had so many times led his comrades to victory, “that we will bring thee to-morrow the flags and cannon of the Russian army to signalize the anniversary of the Second of December.”
The fires were extinguished and the Austrians thought they saw in this the indication of a night retreat. Gathered around the map, the allied generals listened to Weirother, who developed his plan of battle with a boasting air which displayed in him a clear persuasion of his own merits. He said to his associates:
“We do not think him strong. If he has 40,000 men it is all. He is extinguishing his fires and a good deal of noise is coming from his camp. He is either retreating or else he is changing his position.”
At daylight the next morning the battle began. It was one of the fiercest in all of the Napoleonic wars. Murat and Lanes attacked on the left eighty-two Russian and Austrian squadrons under the orders of Prince John of Lichtenstein. General Valhubert had his thigh fractured and the soldiers wished to carry him away.
“Remain at your posts,” said he calmly. “I know well how to die alone. We must not for one man lose six.”
Finally the tide, which comes in every great battle, turned in favor of the French. General Doctoroff and Kienmayer effected a painful retreat, under the fire of the French batteries, by a narrow embankment separating the two lakes of Melintz and Falnitz. The awful day came to a close with French shouts of victory.
Napoleon, as was customary, harangued his army.
“Soldiers,” said he, “I am satisfied with you. You have justified all that I expected from you. An army of 100,000 men commanded by the Emperors of Russia and Austria has been in less than four hours either cut up or dispersed, and what escaped from your steel is drowned in the lakes. Forty flags or standards of the Imperial Guard of Russia, 120 pieces of cannon, 20 generals and more than 30,000 prisoners are the results of this ever memorable day. In three months this third coalition has been vanquished and dissolved. Soldiers, when all that is necessary in order to assure the happiness and prosperity of France shall be accomplished, I will lead you back into France. There you will be the object of my most tender solicitude.”
Prior to this the French troops had pressed on into Vienna. A detachment hurried to the prison where Charles Louis Schulmeister was awaiting his execution. They arrived in the nick of time and released him from what seemed to be certain death. He was calmer and more collected than any one in the crowd.
“Frenchmen,” he cried, with a mixture of irony and joy, “I greet you. I welcome you to the City of Vienna.”
Schulmeister was naturally one of the heroes of the day and when Napoleon went to meet the Emperor Francis on the following day he formed one of the small bodyguard that accompanied the great soldier. The conference between the two crowned heads took place at the mill of Paleny, between Nasiedlowitz and Urschitz. The spy kept in the background and was not observed by the vanquished monarch.
Napoleon treated his fallen foe with great courtesy and made excuses for the poor place in which he was compelled to receive Francis II.
“These are the palaces,” said he, “which Your Majesty has compelled me to inhabit for the last three months.”
“Your visit has succeeded sufficiently well for you to have no right to bear me any grudge,” replied the Austrian Emperor.
The two monarchs embraced and the armistice was concluded. A formal order from Napoleon was necessary in order to stop the march of Marshal Davont, who was in pursuit of the Russian army. General Savery, the friend of Schulmeister, was entrusted with this order. He carried to the Czar the conditions of the armistice.
“I am satisfied, since my ally is,” replied Alexander, and he allowed to escape from him the expression of admiration which he could not restrain. “Your master,” he said, “has shown himself to be very great.”
After more weighty matters had been settled Napoleon sent for Schulmeister and congratulated him upon his courage and level-headedness.
“As a mark of my confidence,” he said, “I make you chief of police of Vienna.”
It was a rich plum—in its way one of the richest at the disposal of the Emperor. The smuggler of the Alsatian village was a man who knew how to adapt himself to circumstances. In his new post he displayed great executive ability, and if he added to his fortune—well, those were the times when it was declared unblushingly that “to the victors belong the spoils.”
While the British occupied Philadelphia during the Revolutionary War most of their time was given to the pleasures of life. It was this fact that caused Franklin to observe with characteristic shrewdness that “Howe had not taken Philadelphia but Philadelphia had taken Howe.” There was, however, one serious attempt made to destroy Washington’s army during the period and, curiously enough, it was frustrated by the courage, the wit and the promptness of a brave Quakeress.
When the British took possession of the city the officers appropriated the most desirable dwellings for their headquarters. Thus General Harris practically confiscated the home of General Cadwallader, on Second Street, four doors below Spruce. Directly opposite this, on the corner of Little Dock Street, was the quaint home of William and Lydia Darrah, who were members of the Society of Friends, whose members, it need scarcely be said, have a profound repugnance to war.
By one of those little ironies which constantly mock our lives, the Adjutant-General of the British army decided to make his home with the Darrahs. By the polite fiction which sometimes prevails in time of war as well as of peace, both pretended to be delighted with the arrangement. It is certain that the Englishman found a desirable and well kept colonial home for his temporary habitation, while the Darrahs soon discovered that whatever else he might be, their war guest was a gentleman.
Lydia Darrah had the reputation of being a Whig, and she gloried in it. She made no secret of her feelings to her lodger, and one day when he reproached her with her want of loyalty to the mother country, she exclaimed with spirit:
“I hope thee is beaten—thee deserve to be for coming across the ocean to subdue a liberty-loving people.”
He laughed at this outburst and remarked:
“I was beginning to flatter myself that you and your husband looked upon me as a friend.”
“And so we do. We detest the sin while pitying the sinner. Though we consider thee as a public enemy, we regard thee as a private friend. While we detest the cause thee fights for, we wish well to thy personal interest and safety.”
“Oh!” he cried, jovially. “That sounds better. You are really a friend of the King.”
“Thee must not feel flattered,” she said gravely. “We are for the Colonists. Thee knows that every unnecessary expense has been retrenched in this house. Tea has not been drunk since last Christmas. Nor have I bought a new cap or gown since your defeat at Lexington. Be assured that such is the feeling of American women.”
The Adjutant-General could not but admire the spirit of such a woman. Whatever else she might be she was not deceitful. She did not attempt to curry favor with the British. It rather pleased him to permit her to indulge in what might be considered treasonable sentiments. No matter how radical might be her views there could be no danger from this sweet-faced little woman with the poke bonnet and the drab dress. And, moreover, even when most spirited, there was no bitterness or vindictiveness in her tone or manner. As he gazed at her he felt that the serenity of her countenance was truly an outward sign of the tranquillity of her life.
Among other things, the Adjutant-General had arranged for a room on the first floor to be used as a sort of conference chamber for the British officers. Here groups of the leading redcoats were wont to assemble, by candle-light, for the purpose of discussing plans of campaigns. Several of these gatherings had been held without attracting any particular attention from Lydia Darrah.
Early in December, 1777, there was a strange halt in the round of pleasure among the British officers in Philadelphia. The men were drilled and organized as if in anticipation of a coming movement. The indifference and indolence of the previous months gave way to activity all along the line. Lydia, who was a true patriot, observed these signs with genuine distress. She could not but feel that it boded ill to her countrymen.
It was on the 2nd of December that the Adjutant-General sent for her. She noticed that he was serious and preoccupied.
“I wish to tell you,” he said, “that we will require the use of the sitting-room at seven o’clock this evening. We may remain late and it is important that we should not be disturbed. For this reason I would ask you to have all of the members of your family retire early. When we are through and it is time for us to leave I will call you so that you may let us out. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” she replied, with downcast eyes. “I will see that everything is prepared, and after that shall retire and wait until thee summons me.”
On the night in question she carried out all of the orders with literal exactness. But she could not rest. The words of the British officer had filled her with curiosity and uneasiness. What did it mean? What was the object of this mysterious conference? Finally she could remain in her room no longer. She crept silently downstairs in her stockinged feet and took up a position outside of the door where the officers were assembled. By pressing her ear close to the crevices of the panels she could hear the talk from within. The words “Washington” and “Whitemarsh” attracted her attention and presently she obtained a connected story of their plans.
She was shocked, and with reason. What she had heard was an order for all the British troops to march out on the evening of the fourth to attack the army of General Washington, then encamped at Whitemarsh. She knew what that would mean only too well. Taken unawares by superior numbers, the patriot army would be destroyed. And that destruction meant that the torch of liberty would be extinguished—the hope of freedom would be destroyed.
Lydia Darrah crept silently upstairs again and went to bed, but not to sleep. She was depressed and disheartened. The thought that the lives of Americans might be lost in vain was intolerable. And while the members of her family slept soundly, and the officers in the room below perfected their plans, she wondered what could be done to avert the threatened calamity.
While her mind was filled with conflicting thoughts there came a rap at her door and the voice of the Adjutant-General saying that they were ready to leave. She remained perfectly quiet and then he knocked a second time and louder than before. Still no answer and this time he pounded with his fists. She arose, and taking her time to dress, appeared at the door, candle in hand, and pretended to be very drowsy. He apologized for having aroused her from sleep and left the house with his companions.
From that moment she was so agitated that she could neither sleep nor eat. The question was how to get the information to General Washington. She dare not confide in any one—not even her husband. She decided to go to Whitemarsh herself. In order to furnish a plausible excuse she informed the members of her family that it was necessary to get a sack of flour from the mill at Frankford. Her husband protested.
“Send one of the servants,” he said. “There is no good reason why thee should make such a long trip.”
“No,” she replied resolutely. “I shall go myself.”
“But at least,” he pleaded, “take one of the servant maids with thee.”
“I shall go alone,” she insisted with a determination that surprised and conquered him.
William Darrah learned on that occasion that a Quakeress, though placid in appearance, can be quite as obstinate as other members of her sex. He gazed wonderingly at the poke-bonneted woman as she left the house and started in the direction of General Howe’s headquarters in order to get the requisite pass to get through the British lines.
General Howe received her kindly, if not almost jovially. He knew that the Adjutant-General of his army was quartered at the Darrah home, and he looked on Lydia as an interesting but harmless rebel. He was surrounded by members of his staff and they, like their superior, were disposed to jest with the Quakeress. But finally the coveted pasteboard was handed to her.
“Don’t stay long,” he smiled. “Your British guests will miss you.”
The moment she received the pass she hurried away and once out of sight of the general’s headquarters she almost ran until she reached Frankford. She left her bag at the mill, and saying she would return for it in a little while, continued her journey to Whitemarsh.
Washington had camped at this place after resting for a few days at Perkiomen Creek. He was reënforced by 1200 Rhode Island troops from Peekskill, under General Varnum, and nearly 1000 Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania soldiers. He was now within fourteen miles of Philadelphia. By a resolution of Congress all persons taken within thirty miles of any place occupied by the British troops, in the act of conveying supplies to them, were subjected to martial law. Acting under the resolution, Washington detached large bodies of militia to scour the roads above the city, and between the Schuylkill and Chester, to intercept all supplies going to the enemy.
This served a double purpose. It harassed Howe by preventing him from receiving the supplies and gave them to the Continentals. All this time Washington was observing a prudent policy. He was anxious to fight, but he was only willing to do so under circumstances that would be advantageous to himself. He had many critics of this policy, and some of them said nasty things, but Washington held steadily to his purpose in spite of good and evil reports.
Lydia Darrah plodded along to Whitemarsh, oblivious alike of the inclemency of the weather and her personal discomfort. Her one thought was to get the warning to Washington, for whom she had a respect and reverence that bordered on veneration. After leaving the mill at Frankford she encountered but few persons, and these looked upon the little Quakeress with only a listless curiosity.
It was when she had almost reached her destination that she began to feel footsore and weary. She was filled with a great desire to sit by the roadside and rest, but she resisted the natural inclination and kept on to the end. Within that frail body and beneath those modest and peaceful garments there was a grim determination that was Spartan-like in its persistence and its ignoring of pain and suffering.
Just before she reached her goal she saw a mounted Continental officer. His back was turned to her and she debated the advisability of speaking to him. Before she reached a conclusion he had twisted about in his saddle and looked in her direction. The recognition was mutual. He was a young American officer of her acquaintance, Lieutenant Colonel Craig of the light horse. He was evidently amazed at seeing her in such a place, and, riding over, touched his hat.
“Have you lost your way?” he asked, and before she could answer he added, “and how did you get through the British lines?”
She smiled sweetly in spite of her fatigue.
“I came to get flour at the mill in Frankford. General Howe was good enough to give me a pass.”
“But you are beyond Frankford,” he protested.
“Perhaps,” she said hesitatingly, “I may be in search of my son who is an officer in the American army.”
“Perhaps,” retorted Lieutenant Colonel Craig, doubtfully.
By this time several soldiers on foot came in the direction of the speakers. Lydia became nervous and ill at ease. She plucked at his coat.
“Dismount and walk aside with me,” she whispered. “I have something to tell you.”
He complied with her request, wonderingly. The Lieutenant Colonel and his companions constituted a squad that had been sent out by Washington to watch the roads and to gather information concerning the enemy. Little did he suspect that such important news was at hand. They walked some yards from the soldiers.
“Now,” he commanded, “tell me what in the world you are doing so far from home.”
“Lieutenant,” she cried in a voice that trembled in spite of herself, “I came to warn General Washington that General Howe intends to attack the Continental army. He hopes to find General Washington unprepared.”
“How do you know this?”
“I overheard it last night. The Adjutant-General and other officers met at my house to make their plans. I felt that General Washington must be warned and I walked here for that purpose.”
The eyes of the young officer almost stared out of their sockets. He gazed down at the frail woman in amazement and admiration.
“Shall I take you to the General?”
“No, it is sufficient for you to know. It shall be your duty to tell him. And you must agree not to reveal your source of information. If it was known that I came here it would go hard with me—it might mean my death.”
“I promise!” he said, solemnly.
Then and there the Quakeress told him all that had taken place in her house at the conference among the British officers. She had an excellent memory and was able to give him all the details of the proposed attack. As she concluded she said:
“You must not reveal my identity—even to your men.”
“It shall be as you wish, and now you must rest and have food.”