Part 7

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.”

She protested feebly, but he was not to be gainsaid, and insisted upon escorting her to a nearby farmhouse where she might obtain food and also rest for a while before taking the long walk back to the city. She urged him to go to Washington at once, saying the message he had to convey was more important than her personal comfort. But he was a gentleman as well as a patriot and he did not leave her until she had been safely housed and her wants attended to. On leaving he stooped and kissed her hand.

“You have saved the army,” he said, “and you will not be forgotten as long as liberty endures.”

She did not stay long, and, after a light meal, left for the return to Philadelphia. She paused at Frankford to get the sack of flour, which she carried with her as a proof of the statement that she had gone to the mill. Fortunately she reached her home safely, and apparently the incident after that was forgotten by the other members of the household.

But she was in a state of high nervous tension until she could be assured of the safety of the Continental army. She waited eagerly for the departure of the British. It was about forty-eight hours after her return from Whitemarsh that the beating of drums and the marching of many feet announced the departure of the troops for the purpose of surprising Washington. Lydia Darrah stood on the sidewalk as the glittering cavalcades passed by, apparently a non-important unit in the mass of spectators, but actually the heroine, if not the most important figure, of the drama that was to be enacted. After the last of the soldiers had departed she retired to her room in a fever of apprehension that was not to be allayed until she had received definite news of the encounter between the two armies.

General Howe was in high good spirits. He felt that he was going to catch the “old fox” sleeping, and the thought made him chuckle with delight. The town was full of Tories, too, and many of them would not have been displeased if the “rebels” received a crushing blow. But Lydia Darrah, in her darkened chamber, hoped and prayed that all might go well with Washington and his men.

In the meantime, at Whitemarsh, preparations for meeting the enemy were going on in the Continental army. Washington was impressed with the information brought to him by Lieutenant Colonel Craig. On the day of the 4th the Commander-in-chief received word from Captain Allen McLane, a vigilant officer, which confirmed the warning carried to the camp by Lydia Darrah. He made his dispositions to receive the meditated assault, and in the meantime sent McLane, with 100 men, to reconnoiter. This gallant officer met the van of the enemy at eleven o’clock at night on the Germantown road, attacked it and forced it to change its line of march.

But it was three o’clock in the morning before the alarm gun announced the approach of the main body of the British army. They appeared at daybreak and took their position at Chestnut Hill within three miles of Washington’s right wing. Here the invaders met with a second surprise. Far from being unprepared, a detachment of the Pennsylvania State Militia sallied forth and gave battle to the redcoats. It was a draw, with a few dead and wounded on each side, and the British general in charge exclaimed:

“They don’t seem to be a bit surprised!”

General Howe passed the day in reconnoitering and at night changed his ground and moved to a hill on the left within a mile of the American line. He wanted to get into action, but Washington, with great military shrewdness, declined to accommodate him. There were several sharp skirmishes at Edge Hill, and other points thereabouts, in which Morgan’s Riflemen and the Maryland Militia were concerned, but no general engagement.

On the morning of the seventh there was every evidence that Howe meditated an attack on the left wing. This was what Washington most desired and his hopes ran high as he prepared for a warm and decisive action. In the course of the day he rode through every brigade explaining how the attack was to be met and exhorting the men to remember that they were fighting in the cause of liberty. He urged them to depend mainly upon the bayonet and to be on the aggressive always. Both his words and his manner impressed them, but especially his manner, for Washington had a demeanor at once grave and determined, which filled his followers with confidence.

The day wore on to its close with nothing but minor skirmishes. The reports show that Morgan’s Riflemen and the Maryland Militia under Colonel Gist did brave work in this regard. An attack was next expected during the night, but it never occurred. The spirit displayed by the Americans, and especially their preparedness, had a discouraging effect upon the invaders.

When the first gray tints of dawn appeared it was seen that the British army was in motion again. But they did not advance toward the Americans. On the contrary they filed off to the right where long strings of fires were lit; behind these fires the redcoats silently departed in the direction of Philadelphia.

They had come on a fool’s errand—like the king’s soldiers in the couplet, they had marched up the hill and then marched down again.

Washington immediately detached light firing parties to fall upon the rear of the departing army, but they had secured too good a start to be very seriously damaged. The Continentals did, however, succeed in worrying the redcoats and in making them regret they had left Philadelphia.

Washington was sorry that there had not been a battle, and writing to the President of Congress at the time said:

“I sincerely wish they had made an attack; as the issue in all probability, from the disposition of our troops and the strong situation of our camp, must have been fortunate and happy. At the same time _I_ must add, that reason, prudence and every principle of policy forbade us from quitting our post to attack them. Nothing but success would have justified the measure; and this could not have been expected from their position.”

It was a sorry procession of Englishmen that filed through the streets of Philadelphia after this historic retreat—because it can only be called a retreat. They had gone out with high hopes; they had returned—figuratively speaking—with their tails between their legs. They had expected to throw themselves upon a camp of sleeping and unprepared men; they had encountered a spirited and fully prepared foe. The Tory ladies who lined the sidewalks of the city felt sorry for the non-conquering heroes. But one woman watched that mournful march with pleasure, the woman who was chiefly responsible for it—Lydia Darrah.

On the night after the return of the British troops the Adjutant-General of the army sent for Lydia Darrah. He requested her to come to his room as he wished to put to her some important questions. She followed, quaking in her shoes. She felt that some one had betrayed her, and prepared to suffer the consequences.

“What I wish to know,” he said, after she had been seated, “is whether any of your family was up after eight o’clock on the night that I conferred with the other officers in your sitting-room.”

She shook her poke-bonneted head.

“Thee knows that we all went to bed at eight o’clock,” she answered.

“I know that _you_ were asleep,” he said with emphasis, “because I had to knock at your chamber door three times before you were aroused. But I wondered if any one else was about.”

“Why?”

“Because some one must have given Washington information concerning our march. I know you were in bed; you say the others were also. I can’t imagine who gave us away unless the walls had ears. When we reached Whitemarsh we found all their cannon mounted and the soldiers ready to receive us. Consequently, after wasting days in marching and counter-marching, we were compelled to come back here like a pack of fools.”

“I sympathize with thee,” she said, but if one could have peeped beneath the folds of that poke bonnet one would have sworn there was a twinkle in those demure eyes and a smile of satisfaction upon that placid face.

And who will have the heart to find fault with the brave Quakeress for the twinkle, the smile and the white lie?

IX

DOCTOR STEIBER AND THE MYSTERY OF THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR

One of the mysteries that has ever puzzled patriotic Frenchmen is how Germany—in 1870—was able to crush France in one of the shortest and most humiliating wars in history. The bravery, the unquestioned courage of the French soldier, in every war prior to and since 1870, has been universally conceded. The French troops have often held out against great odds and acknowledged defeat only after a long and stubborn resistance. Why did the national defenses in 1870 fall down like so many houses of cards? Why was France caught in such an utterly unprepared condition? Why was it that so many French troops were captured like rats in a trap? In a word, what was the mystery of the Franco-Prussian War?

The answer is simple. They were out-spied, and the man behind the mystery was Doctor Steiber, Chief of the Prussian Secret Service.

He confessed afterwards, and it has since been corroborated from many reliable sources, that two armies were responsible for the defeat of France in the Franco-Prussian War. One was Steiber’s army of spies which invaded the country in 1867, 1868, and 1869, and the other was the German military army which came in 1870.

Steiber was a man with untiring push, unlimited persistence and an unpleasant personality. He had big ears, a big nose, shifty eyes and an irritating smile. Like a certain character made famous by Dickens, he was always washing his hands in invisible water. He was cordially disliked by many of the German officers, but was a favorite of Prince Bismarck, and that, of course, turned the scales in his favor. Napoleon’s chief spy was an Alsatian smuggler, while Bismarck’s secret service agent was a socialist. At least that is what he was before he attracted the attention of the German Prime Minister. After that he believed absolutely in the sacred rights of property.

It was in 1864 that he first performed any work of consequence outside of Germany. About that time Bismarck began to have designs upon Bohemia, but before attacking that country the prudent head of the State Department desired to get all of the inside information that was possible. He looked about him for an instrument, and his gaze fell upon the erstwhile socialist.

In the latter part of 1864 Steiber set out for Bohemia. As the people of that country were very religious he went in the guise of a peddler of religious statues. He traveled from one town to another gaining the confidence of the honest and simple minded people, and acquiring a vast fund of information concerning the forts and defenses and the general state of military preparedness—or unpreparedness. He remained there for many months and had the assistance of a number of lesser spies. When he returned to Germany he was able to place this data in the hands of Bismarck, who, in turn, gave it to Moltke.

On the strength of this report it was decided to invade Bohemia, and many thousands of well-drilled, well-officered and well-fed troops advanced upon what might fairly be called a helpless country. It was one victory after another until Bohemia was entirely subjugated. Doctor Steiber accompanied the German army in its victorious march, but more in the rôle of an informer than a warrior. Naturally many of the German officers were aware of the character of his work, and some of them were outspoken in their disgust. Many of them refused to eat at the same mess with him. Bismarck was in the field on one occasion and Steiber complained to him of the affronts that had been placed upon him.

“They go out of their way to show their dislike of me,” he said.

“Well, what of it?” was the gruff query.

“They should be disciplined,” he insisted, “because I am merely carrying out your orders.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“Well,” was the shrewd response, “I will teach them a lesson in my own way.”

And so he did. And it took the form of having Doctor Steiber dine with him in his own tent.

During the course of the invasion Steiber was made Governor of Braum, the capital of Moravia, thus becoming a sort of glorified chief of police. In this position, as might be expected, there were many rich pickings, a fact that was not overlooked by the thrifty ex-socialist. This was not all. He was decorated, and the medal bestowed upon him was pinned on his ample bosom by Moltke. That soldier, like Bismarck, was eminently practical. As if to justify himself he said on one occasion:

“One must not confine oneself to giving money to spies. One must know how to show them honor when they deserve it.”

After the Bohemian business had been concluded, Doctor Steiber had a period of comparative ease. He rested, so to speak, on his “laurels.” He prospered in a worldly sense, and was happy in possessing the confidence and the favor of those who were high in Prussian officialdom. He knew the time would come when his peculiar services would be in demand. Meanwhile he continued with the routine work of the Secret Service office. The call for bigger things came sooner than he anticipated. It was early one day in June, 1867, that he received a summons from Bismarck.