mercenary as any Hessian. No money, no battle. Nor did I much enjoy listening to the worshipful talk of the other aides who flattered Washington monstrously, to his obvious pleasure. I, on the other hand, was prone to question his judgement although I had been advised by everyone that independence of mind was not a quality he demanded of subordinates. We were happy to be rid of one another.
I was to have a better time of it with my good, old General Israel Putnam whose headquarters I joined in July 1776 at the corner of the Battery and the Broad Way. A former tavern-keeper, Putnam had the amiability of that class as well as a good if crude intelligence. His only fault was a tendency to repeat himself. Whenever the enemy drew close, he would invariably instruct the men not to shoot “till you see the whites of their eyes!” Having made the line famous at Bunker Hill, he tended to plagiarize himself, to the amusement of everyone except those officers who thought the firing ought to begin long before the whites became apparent to some of our myopic riflemen.
On July 9, I took the salute at General Putnam’s side in the Bowling Green. Then at the request of the Continental Congress, our adjutant read aloud to the troops a document newly received from Philadelphia.
I confess to not having listened to a word of the Declaration of Independence. At the time I barely knew the name of the author of this sublime document. I do remember hearing someone comment that since Mr. Jefferson had seen fit to pledge so eloquently our lives to the cause of independence, he might at least join us in the army. But wise Tom preferred the safety of Virginia and the excitement of local politics to the discomforts and dangers of war.
Living at Putnam’s house was a pretty girl of about thirteen whom I have been accused of having seduced. Margaret Moncrieffe was the daughter of a major with the British army; she was also a cousin of General Montgomery (how tangled our personal relationships were in those days!). Since her father had been a friend of Putnam, the General took her in. If nothing else, the girl had spirit. I was present when she baited General Washington himself at Putnam’s table.
As dinner ended, a toast was proposed to liberty or victory or some such sentiment. All drank but Margaret.
“You do not drink your wine.” Washington gave the child that cold dull serpent’s glance he usually reserved for those private soldiers who were about to be flogged on The Horse (“Discipline is the soul of an army” was his favourite maxim). A disagreeable child, Margaret was not without courage. She raised her glass. “The toast is—the British Commander General Howe.”
Washington’s face went red in blotches. “You mock us, Miss Moncrieffe ...” Washington began and then stopped, unable as usual to organize a sentence that contained a new thought.
The good Putnam came to everyone’s aid. “What a child says, General, should amuse not offend us.”
Washington regained his usual serenity of expression. With an elephantine attempt at gallantry, he said, “Well, Miss, I will overlook your indiscretion on condition that you drink my health or General Putnam’s when you next dine with Sir William Howe, on the other side of the water.”
I did not like the girl at all. Thought her precocious and sly. When I discovered that she spent hours on the roof with a telescope, looking across to the British encampment, I cautioned General Putnam but he took no notice. She then began a series of flower paintings to be sent as presents to her father. Watching the girl at work one day, I said, “Do you believe there is such a thing as a language of flowers?”
Margaret blushed prettily (she was full-bosomed at thirteen) and stammered. “Yes. I mean no. Not really.” Suddenly I was aware of a true alarm that had nothing of the flirtatious in it. Obviously the language of flowers could communicate troop positions. The girl was a spy.
With
I was to have a better time of it with my good, old General Israel Putnam whose headquarters I joined in July 1776 at the corner of the Battery and the Broad Way. A former tavern-keeper, Putnam had the amiability of that class as well as a good if crude intelligence. His only fault was a tendency to repeat himself. Whenever the enemy drew close, he would invariably instruct the men not to shoot “till you see the whites of their eyes!” Having made the line famous at Bunker Hill, he tended to plagiarize himself, to the amusement of everyone except those officers who thought the firing ought to begin long before the whites became apparent to some of our myopic riflemen.
On July 9, I took the salute at General Putnam’s side in the Bowling Green. Then at the request of the Continental Congress, our adjutant read aloud to the troops a document newly received from Philadelphia.
I confess to not having listened to a word of the Declaration of Independence. At the time I barely knew the name of the author of this sublime document. I do remember hearing someone comment that since Mr. Jefferson had seen fit to pledge so eloquently our lives to the cause of independence, he might at least join us in the army. But wise Tom preferred the safety of Virginia and the excitement of local politics to the discomforts and dangers of war.
Living at Putnam’s house was a pretty girl of about thirteen whom I have been accused of having seduced. Margaret Moncrieffe was the daughter of a major with the British army; she was also a cousin of General Montgomery (how tangled our personal relationships were in those days!). Since her father had been a friend of Putnam, the General took her in. If nothing else, the girl had spirit. I was present when she baited General Washington himself at Putnam’s table.
As dinner ended, a toast was proposed to liberty or victory or some such sentiment. All drank but Margaret.
“You do not drink your wine.” Washington gave the child that cold dull serpent’s glance he usually reserved for those private soldiers who were about to be flogged on The Horse (“Discipline is the soul of an army” was his favourite maxim). A disagreeable child, Margaret was not without courage. She raised her glass. “The toast is—the British Commander General Howe.”
Washington’s face went red in blotches. “You mock us, Miss Moncrieffe ...” Washington began and then stopped, unable as usual to organize a sentence that contained a new thought.
The good Putnam came to everyone’s aid. “What a child says, General, should amuse not offend us.”
Washington regained his usual serenity of expression. With an elephantine attempt at gallantry, he said, “Well, Miss, I will overlook your indiscretion on condition that you drink my health or General Putnam’s when you next dine with Sir William Howe, on the other side of the water.”
I did not like the girl at all. Thought her precocious and sly. When I discovered that she spent hours on the roof with a telescope, looking across to the British encampment, I cautioned General Putnam but he took no notice. She then began a series of flower paintings to be sent as presents to her father. Watching the girl at work one day, I said, “Do you believe there is such a thing as a language of flowers?”
Margaret blushed prettily (she was full-bosomed at thirteen) and stammered. “Yes. I mean no. Not really.” Suddenly I was aware of a true alarm that had nothing of the flirtatious in it. Obviously the language of flowers could communicate troop positions. The girl was a spy.
With
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