Home
The Littlest Hero retold by Mara L. Pratt There were many little boys and girls in the days of the Revolution who did their part in saving the country just as bravely as did their fathers and their mothers.
Little Robert, a lad of only eight years, stood one morning staring into the great fireplace, where the logs snapped and crackled as brightly and as cheerfully as if there were no war, no danger, no sorrow in this beautiful land, so broad and free.
"I wish I were a hero," said Robert, stuffing his little fists down into his pockets. "I wish I were a hero and could go to war."
Robert's mother sighed as she looked at her boy and thought of his father, in battle, perhaps, at that very hour with the cruel red-coats. Robert through only of the fine uniform, the music, the marching, and all the grand parade of war; but Robert's mother thought of the danger, the suffering, and the desolation.
"Never mind, my boy," said she, "remember we can all be heroes in our everyday life."
Just then there came a noise at the door. It was as if some one fell with a groan upon the wide stone step outside. Robert and his mother hurried to the door, and lifted the latch.
There upon the step lay a red-coat. His eyes were closed and his face was deathly pale. What should be done? Here was a brother-man suffering and in want of help. But he was a redcoat. Could they give help to an enemy and bring back his strength to him?
Just then the soldier opened his eyes. "Help -- help!" he whispered faintly. "I am not -- a red-coat, -- I am a spy." Then his eyes closed again, and the sick man fainted.
"We must bring him into the house, Robert," said his mother. "But first run and bring a cup of cold water."
In a moment the soldier opened his eyes again. "Quick!" he said. "The British are coming. Already they have wounded me."
And hardly had he spoken, when there appeared upon the hill--top two horsemen.
"Robert, help me!" cried the boy's mother. "Quick! We must get this poor man into the house and bolt the door!"
It was wonderful that they had the strength; but seizing the soldier by the shoulders, they dragged him, half fainting, over the threshold, locked him securely into the a secret closet. Colonial houses of the day often had secret closets built into the walls. They were busy at work in the kitchen when the horsemen halted at the door. Robert was pale and trembling, and his teeth chattered.
A horseman noticed this; and, pouncing upon the child, he thundered, "Where is the spy that ran down through this valley an hour ago? Tell me, or we'll burn your house."
Poor Robert! His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth; his knees trembled, and the whole world seemed whirling round and round.
One horseman winked at the other. "The lad knows," he said in a low tone; "we will frighten him into telling."
"I won't tell," Robert shouted, so frightened and so determined to be brave that he forgot to be wise.
"You won't?" thundered the horseman. "Then, my lad, you will go with us, and we will shut you up in a big black prison." And as he said these cruel words, he reached down from his horse, caught the little fellow by the collar, lifted him on to the horse, turned and galloped away, and all so quickly that Robert hardly knew what had happened until he was half way down the lane.
"Robert, Robert!" screamed his mother; but the red-coats cared little for her cries. Across the fields, over the hills, down the valley the war horse galloped, until Robert, who had never been outside his father's farm, wondered if they would carry him to the end of the world.
"Will you tell me now?" the horseman said to him when they had reached a place where there were hundreds of white tents, and where the redcoats were parading up and down in lines.
"Never," sobbed Robert, his lips trembling so that he could hardly speak.
"Little rebel!" hissed the soldier. "No time to be wasted on this lad. He's little' and he's a rebel. Throw him into the cellar of the inn. Mind you that you lock the iron doors," he shouted to a serving man near by.
Robert's heart sank. All the sky grew black; and the poor little fellow knew nothing more until he opened his eyes an hour later and found himself in a black hole -- so black he could hardly see the empty old casks against which he lay.
For hours and hours the boy lay there sobbing; for what boy of eight years would not have been filled with terror at such a fate as this?
By and by it grew darker and darker; then Robert knew that night had fallen. Music and dancing he heard above him; and often the loud laughter of the men outside. Suddenly, there was a rasping of the rusty lock. Then a flash of light and a whisper. "Little boy, are you there?"
Robert sprang to his feet. Had an angel come to rescue him? Certainly it seemed like one -- so beautiful was the lady's face. "Hush! child," she whispered. "Don't speak; come with me. I will carry you home."
A moment, and the child had been hurried up the narrow stairway, out through a black passage, out into the starlight. There stood a milk white horse fasted by the bridle. The lady herself, dressed though she was in her rich silk robe, and sparkling with jewels, mounted the horse, and away they flew again over hill and plain.
"You can find your way home from here, little boy," the lady said at last; and, she turned and was away before the grateful lad could speak one word.
Day was just breaking, and away across the fields he could see his home shining out among the trees. How he ran! There were lights in the house; for no one had thought of sleep in that home from which the boy had been stolen. Back and forth, back and forth, all night long, Robert's mother had paced, praying, while the tears ran down her cheeks, for her boy's safe return.
"O mother! mother!" Robert shouted, bursting in at the unlocked door. "O mother, mother, I didn't tell!" And then exhausted, the little fellow fell at his mother's feet.
"My brave boy! My little hero!" sobbed the mother, taking him up in the her arms, the tears of joy rolling down her cheeks.
"Was I a hero?" whispered Robert; and in another second, so tired out was he with the long night of terror that, with a great sigh, he fell asleep, held close in his mother's arms.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard 'round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Dr. Charles Warren, American historian, relates an interview
between one of the soldiers who fought in the American Revolution
and a prominent historian. Many historians at the time were insisting
that the Revolution had its spark in financial considerations.
Even today, some history books insist that the Colonies suffered
all they suffered in order to avoid paying a simple stamp tax.
While the cry, No taxation without Representation, was a real
one. The motivation behind the movement may come as a surprise
to some.
Dr. Warren comments: [Referring to the economic interpretation of history that is the pet of so many liberal circles, the] fundamental defect is, that it ignores the circumstance that the actions of men are frequently based quite as much on sentiment and belief as on facts and conditions. It leaves out the souls of men and their response to the inspiration of great leaders. It forgets that there are such motives as patriotism, pride in country, unselfish devotion to the public welfare, desire for independence, inherited sentiments and convictions of right and justice. The historian who omits taking these faces into consideration is a poor observer of human nature. No one can write a true history who leaves out of the account the fact that a man may have an inner zeal for principles, beliefs and ideals.
Those who contend... that economic causes brought about the War of the Revolution will always find it difficult to explain away the fact that the men who did the fighting thought, themselves, that they were fighting for a belief - a principle. [The following is a conversation between] an able American historian [and a man who found sixty-two years prior at Concord and Lexington.]
Historian: "My histories tell me that you men of the Revolution took up arms against intolerable oppressions?"
Patriot: "What were they? Oppressions? I didn't feel them."
Historian: "What. were you not oppressed by the Stamp Act?"
Patriot: I never saw one of those stamps... I am certain I never paid a penny for one of them."
Historian: "Well, what about the tea tax?"
Patriot: "Tea tax? I never drank a drop of the stuff. The boys threw it all overboard."
Historian: "Then, I suppose you had been reading Harrington, or Sidney or Locke, about the eternal principles of liberty?"
Patriot: "Never heard of 'em."
Historian: Well, then, what was the matter, what did you mean in going into the fight?"
Patriot: "Young man, what we meant in going for those red-coats, was this: we always had governed ourselves and we always meant to. They didn't mean we should."
In other words, it was an idea, a principle, a belief in self-government, for which his New England yeoman and his fellow countrymen were fighting. In the same manner, the men who urged and framed and advocated the Constitution were striving for an idea, and ideal-belief in a National Union, and a determination to maintain it... Historian who leave these factors out of account and who contend that these men were moved chiefly by economic conditions utterly fail to interpret their character and their acts."
"Old Put,"
you know, was noted for his energy, his daring, his prompt, decisive
character. A sturdy, hardy old Puritan was he. You remember it
is said he was at work ploughing in his field when he heard the
sound of cannon in one of those first battles of the Revolution;
and that he coolly dropped the plough, hastened to the house,
armed himself and went to the battle. Nor was he too late. Putnam
was never too late. And this time he was there in the midst of
the fight before the battle was more than underway.
Putnam was a man of few words. With him, a thing either was or wasn't, and that was the end of it. One letter, written by him during the war of the Revolution, tells the manner of man he was:
Sir;- Nathan Palmer was to-day taken in my camp as a spy; he is condemned as a spy; he shall be hanged as a spy. P.S. Afternoon. He is hanged. Israel Putnam
I suppose Israel Putnam without the fox story would be like George Washington without the hatchet story. So here it is: It was in 1749 that Putnam moved from Salem to Pomfret, a little town in Connecticut not for from Hartford. Here he purchased a large tract of land, and in his own energetic way began farming. But it was, for a long time, hard, up-hill work. There were droughts in summer, destructive storms in harvest time, loss of cattle in winter, and, with all the rest, plundering of his harvests and sheepfolds.
One night there were seventy sheep and kids killed and many more wounded. Now, this was done by a wolf which for years had infested the neighborhood. That it was the same wolf was known by her tracks, one track being shorter than the other three, from laving lost in a trap the toes of one of her feet.
More than once had the farmers set out against her, but she was a wise old wolf and had every time escaped them. But when Putnam came into the neighborhood, the death knell of the thieving creature was struck. To be tormented year in and year out by one and the same wolf, was not Putnam's way at all.
"See here," said he, to his neighbors, after this loss of seventy sheep and kids, "this has gone just far enough. Now I propose to stop work, give up everything and attend mind you, attend to the capturing of this wolf. Now, who of you will join me?"
Putnam had a way of expressing himself among his fellow men that never failed to carry weight and conviction straight to the hearts of his hearers, no matter whether the subject was wolves, dead kids, or the Continental Congress.
And so a campaign was planned against this common enemy, the wolf. Putnam and four other neighbors were to watch alternately, two at a time, night and day, till she was captured.
They started forth with their bloodhounds, and followed her to the Connecticut river. Here they found, from the irregular tracks, that she had turned back towards the farms. On they followed, hour after hour, through the long night, until near noon on the following day, when they drove her into her den.
And now the people gathered with sticks and straw, and sulphur, guns, dogs, fire; determined to put an end to her.
First the blood-hounds were driven in; they returned, wounded and yelping with fright. Then the fire and burning sulphur were carried into the den; but no wolf came forth. Guns were fired into the den, but the wolf still lived; for they could hear her moaning.
Now Putnam's temper was aroused. "She will escape us yet," said he, "by some underground passage that we do not know of. Here give me the gun. If no one else dares, I myself will attack her." And seizing a gun, he crawled into the cave under the rocks, carrying with him a gun, and a blazing torch.
A long rope was tied around his waist by which he was to be pulled out of the den, if, perchance, he, instead of the wolf, should be killed in the attack.
It was a strange cavern, dark and damp. The opening, only about two feet square, led for some little distance straight into the ledge; then it descended into a dark underground space.
Cautiously and slowly Putnam crawled along to this space. There, at the farthest corner of the den, he could see the two glaring eyes of the wolf. At the sight of the torch, she growled and gnashed her teeth.
Putnam drew nearer and nearer. The wolf grew fiercer and fiercer. She howled, rolled her eyes, curled herself up, and made ready to spring. Putnam leveled his gun and fired. Stunned by the noise, and suffocated by the smoke, he was glad enough to be dragged forth by the rope into open air.
Waiting only for the smoke to clear away, he entered again. There lay the wolf dead, the blood pouring from the gun shot wound in the side.
Seizing her by the ears, Putnam gave the signal, and was dragged forth again from the cavern.
Putnam, you may be sure, was henceforth the hero of the neighborhood; and I am glad to day that from that time on, his fortunes seemed to change. His crops succeeded, his stock were unmolested, his orchards were fruitful, and success attended him on every hand. This same bravery and daring characterized his deeds in wars that followed with the Indians, and in the war of the Revolution.
It is said that Putnam, now General Putnam, was ploughing in his fields, when word was brought him of the Battle of Lexington. "I must go to Boston," said he; and dropping his plough, he started without another word; and long before the Battle of Bunker Hill, he was regularly established with his troops as a military officer. Such was the marvelous directness with which he always moved. "If a thing is to be done, do it at once," was a favorite remark of his.
After the war, he retired to quiet life, ready, however, to come forth, if his country needed him, promptly, as had always been his habit.
In 1790, he died. And his death the country mourned. Hardly
greater tribute was paid to Washington himself, than to this brave
man, Israel Putnam.
Not England's daughters rosy cheeked,
Nor Scotland's lassies fair,
Nor Erin's blooming maidens can
with Yankee girls compare.
Though what they tell us of their charms
all very true may be,
They'll not compare with Yankee girls;
The Yankee girls for me.
Let Byron of Italian maids
in glowing numbers sing,
And let the Turk his Georgian bride,
and black-eyed Houries bring;
Yet what they tells us of their charms,
All very true may be,
They can't compare with Yankee girls,
The Yankee girls for me.
Their faultless forms! Their peerless eyes
as bright as morning dew!
Their cheeks so fair! Their spirits light!
Their hearts so warm and true!
They're chaste as fair, their minds unchained,
in thought and action free,
There's nothing like the Yankee girls,
The Yankee girls for me.
Unto Columbia's daughters, then,
we'll drain the goblet dry,
Naught can the universe produce
with Yankee girls to vie;
Oh, they are the fairest of the fair,
and ever may they be!
There's nothing like the Yankee girls;
The Yankee girls for me!
The Hudson River,
March 1776
in the voice of Tom Sloan
Everybody knew about the Carroll. They owned half of Maryland and were probably the richest family in America. It was no surprise then that Charles Carroll was elected to the Maryland Assembly and then to the Continental Congress.
It was also well known that the Carroll were Roman Catholics and
had a chapel on their property, with a priest in residence. Practicing
Catholicism was as much against the law in Maryland as it was
everywhere else in the colonies, which made Charles Carroll a
criminal in my mind.
As a 15-year-old cabin boy working aboard a Hudson River sloop,
who was soon to meet Mr. Carroll and would have to serve him,
I vowed I would give as little service as I could. The day of
our sailing was in March, 1776. A cold, northeast wind drove a
freezing rain over New York. When the four passengers finally
came aboard the sloop, the captain said to me, "Tom, put
Mr. Franklin's and Mr. Chase's luggage in the first cabin and
the two Mr. Carroll's in the second."
"Two Mr. Carrolls?" I couldn't believe it.
"Yes. They're cousins. And mind your language. One of them's
a priest."
The next big Surprise was actually a double one-the Mr. Franklin
whom the captain had mentioned was Dr. Benjamin Franklin, and
of all things, that great man was in the company of papist lawbreakers.
With a Catholic priest aboard, I was sure the trip would be cursed.
And I was right. We had gone only 25 miles up the Hudson River
when a strong wind damaged the mainsail, and we had to wait a
day and a half in Thunder Hill Bay before we could make repairs.
In all, the journey to Albany took five days, bad weather forcing
the passengers to spend most of their time in the cabins.
I had never been so busy. With nothing to do but sit and talk,
the four passengers kept summoning me to bring them food and drink.
Thus I was with them a great deal and I could not help but overhear
their conversations. They were on their way to Montreal, in hopes
of persuading the Canadians to join in the American cause of rebelling
against King George-but they did not: sound optimistic. I could
understand that. Most of the Canadians were French Catholics,
heirs of the era when France owned Canada. In 1774 the British
Parliament passed the Quebec Act which, besides setting up a permanent
administration in Canada, gave Catholics the right to worship
openly, something they could not lawfully do in the 13 colonies.
Now here were these four men- Franklin, the most famous living
American; Samuel Chase, a leader of the Congress from Maryland;
and the Carroll, two prominent Catholics, going to Canada to try
to persuade the Canadians to join our side against the English.
I heard Charles Carroll say, "Doctor Franklin, we must prepare
ourselves for the failure of our mission. The Canadian Catholics
were deeply offended by the American criticism of the Quebec Act.
I don't expect a warm welcome in Montreal."
"Young man," Doctor Franklin replied," we go to
Montreal on a matter of freedom, not religion. If the Canadian
Catholics can't see that, then praying in public will be the only
freedom they have."
The priest, whose name was John Carroll, said "You are right.
And that is the very freedom which American Catholics want."
Doctor Franklin told him, "Then ours will be the only country in the world where you can have it, plus all the other freedoms you deserve as a human being."
I never thought I would hear a hero of mine say a lenient thing
like that about Catholics. But from the first day he came aboard
I knew that Doctor Franklin, a man of 70, was not well. An attack
of boils covered his back and legs. His legs were pained with
gout. Sometimes he was so weak he needed help to stand or walk.
We reached Albany, and as I was helping Doctor Franklin off the
sloop at the dock, he said, "Tom, you've been a great help.
Could I impose on you to be my crutch on the rest of the trip
to Montreal?"
Proudly I said, "Sir, I would do anything you ask because
I know what you are doing for our country."
He laughed, then said, "That is a dangerous attitude, my
boy, and I hope that you never really feel that way about anyone.
If we become a country of blind followers, we shall end up a country
of blind leaders." It was a brutal trip. North of Albany
we ran into a five-inch April snow that trapped us in the forests.
At Lake George, we were met by 30-foot open boats, fitted only
with awnings, and we spent 15 days crossing the icy waters of
Lake George and Lake Champlain. Always the priest was at Doctor
Franklin's side, and all he would allow me to do was dip cloths
into the frigid waters and place them on Doctor Franklin's fevered
forehead. The last days of the overland travel were made in jolting
carriages on rutted roads, each turn of the wheels causing new
agony to Doctor Franklin's aching body.
And it was all for nothing. Within a week it was clear that the
French Canadian leaders would not even meet with the Americans.
The bishop of Quebec notified the American priest that he would
not be allowed to say Mass in the country. All efforts to contact
Canadian officials were rebuffed. And Doctor Franklin's sickness
grew worse every day. Finally, after 12 days, Doctor Franklin
said that he would have to go home for medical treatment. Instructing
the three other men to remain in Montreal, Doctor Franklin asked
me to accompany him back to New York. We left the next morning,
and that night we were back at St. John on Lake Champlain.
I helped Doctor Franklin into bed and served him his supper. Then
I asked, "Doctor Franklin, why are you suffering so much
to bring freedom to Catholics?"
He looked surprised. "Tom, our country needs help from everyone
-- Catholics included -- if it is going to maintain its freedom."
I was barely listening to him. Exasperated, I cried, "But
you have always been a freethinker, Doctor Franklin. You don't
share their silly beliefs."
"Well, Tom," he said, "let me tell you what I believe.
I believe in one God, the creator of the universe. I believe that
He governs by His providence. That He ought to be worshiped. That
the most acceptable service we render to Him is doing good to
His other children. I believe the soul of man is immortal and
will be treated with justice in another life respecting its conduct
in this. Those I take to be the fundamental points in all sound
religion, and I respect them in whatever sect I meet with them."
I could see that he was in pain, so I wished him a good night
and left. But I sat at the fire a long time, thinking. And gradually
I realized that I was sorely lacking in a certain virtue Doctor
Franklin had mentioned -- respect. Instead of respecting Catholics
in terms of Doctor Franklin's fundamental points, I had simply
regarded them as people who were strangely different and therefore
something less than I.
By morning Doctor Franklin's condition had worsened. I was able
to get him on his feet, but he could not bear the irritation of
clothes against his sores, and he could not walk. I did not know
what to do and I feared he might die. Then I heard the approach
of a galloping horse. I went to the door and saw that the rider
was John Carroll, the priest. He came quickly into the room and
went directly to Doctor Franklin.
Doctor Franklin asked, "Mr. Carroll, what are you doing here?"
"Well, I had a feeling that you were not well, so l decided
that if I could not be a priest in Canada, maybe I could be a
nurse in America," he said.
An hour later Doctor Franklin was, clearly much improved. The
priest had worked without stopping, dabbing away the pus, spreading
sales on the inflammations, applying bandages. As I watched him
tend the ill and aged gentleman, I remembered what Doctor Franklin
had said, that our greatest service to God was doing good for
one another. I was glad the priest had come. I was grateful to
him. I felt admiration for him. Respect.
And I sensed inside me the stirring conviction that this respect,
this judging of a man by his actions and not his labels, was going
to be a special strength in this new land of free men under God.
Note: There were many times in the course of our Revolution that the cause seemed hopeless. No one felt the pains of indecision more than General George Washington. While most of the Colonials agreed that England had been cruel to them, many were afraid to forge into the future without her protection. While camped at Valley Forge, the American Army suffered terribly. It has been a wonder to some how George Washington overcame the trial. It has also been a wonder how soon after the trial his focus changed. Washington had always believed in the American cause but after a particular experience at Valley Forge he became insistant that America's freedom was a divine destiny. This belief gave him the courage to endure.
Today many historians claim that our Founding Fathers were deists or atheists. A deist is someone who believes that God created the world and then left it to run itself. Historians who make such claims have not read our history. (see Quotes: Christian Foundations for the actual beliefs of our Founders.) The Founders believed unapologetically that freedom comes from God and that it was God who directed them to build our nation. The following account tells how George Washington, in the midst of his darkest trial, learned this truth firsthand. Keep reading... - Reed Simonsen
The last time I ever saw Anthony Sherman was on the fourth of July, 1859, in Independence Square. He was then ninety-nine years old, his dimming eyes rekindled as he gazed upon Independence Hall which he had come to look upon once more before he was gathered home.
"Let us go into the hall," he said. "I want to tell you an incident of Washington's life--one which no one alone knows except myself; and, if you live, you will before long see it verified. Mark the prediction, you will see it verified.
"From the opening of the Revolution we experienced all phases
of fortune, now good and now ill, one time victorious, and another
conquered. The darkest period we had, I think, was when Washington,
after several reverses, retreated to Valley Forge, where he resolved
to pass the winter of '77. Ah! I have often seen the tears coursing
down our dear old commander's careworn cheek as he would be conversing
with a confidential office about the condition of his poor soldiers.
You have doubtless heard the story of Washington going to the
thicket to pray. Well, it was not only true, but he used to often
pray in secret for aid and comfort from God, the interposition
of whose Divine Providence brought us safely through those dark
days of tribulation. One day, I remember it well, the chilly winds
whistled through the leafless trees, though the sky was cloudless
and the sun shone brightly, he remained in his quarters nearly
all the afternoon alone. When he came out, I noticed his face
was a shade paler than usual, and there seemed to be something
on his mind of more than ordinary importance. Returning just after
dusk, he dispatched an orderly to the quarters of the officer
I mentioned who was presently in attendance. After a preliminary
conversation of about a half hour, Washington, gazing upon his
companion with that strange look of dignity which he alone could
command, said to the latter:
"I do not know whether it is owing to the anxiety of my mind,
or what, but this afternoon as I was sitting at this very table
engaged in preparing a dispatch, something in the apartment seemed
to disturb me. Looking up, I beheld standing opposite to me a
singularly beautiful female. So astonished was I, for I had given
strict orders not to be disturbed, that it was some moments before
I found language to inquire the cause of her presence. A second,
a third, and even a fourth time, did I repeat my question, but
received no answer from my mysterious visitor except a slight
raising of the eyes. By this time I felt strange sensations spreading
though me. I would have risen, but the riveted gaze of the being
before me rendered volition impossible. I essayed once more to
address her, but my tongue had become powerless. Even thought
itself suddenly became paralyzed. A new influence, mysterious,
potent, irresistible, took possession of me. All I could do was
to gaze steadily, vacantly, at my unknown visitant. Gradually
the surrounding atmosphere seemed as though becoming filled with
sensations, and grew luminous. Everything about me seemed to rarefy,
the mysterious visitor herself becoming more airy, and yet more
distinct to my sight than before. I now began to feel as one dying,
or rather to experience the sensations which I have sometimes
imagined accompany dissolution. I did not think, I did not reason,
I did not move, all were alike impossible. I was only conscious
of gazing fixedly, vacantly, at my companion.
Presently I heard a voice saying, "Son of the Republic, look
and learn." While at the same time my visitor extended her
arm eastwardly. I now beheld a heavy white vapor at some distance
rising fold upon fold. This gradually dissipated, and I looked
upon a strange scene. Before me lay spread out in one vast plain
all the countries of the world, Europe, Asia, Africa and America.
I saw rolling and tossing between Europe and America the billows
of the Atlantic, and between Asia and America lay the Pacific.
"Son of the Republic," said the same mysterious voice
as before, "look and learn." At that moment I beheld
a dark shadowy being like an angel standing or rather floating
in mid-air between Europe and America. Dipping water out of the
ocean in the hollow of each hand, he sprinkled some upon America
with his right hand, while with his left hand he cast some on
Europe. Immediately a dark cloud raised from these countries,
and joined in mid-ocean. For awhile it remained stationary and
then moved slowly westward, until it enveloped America in its
murky folds. Sharp flashes of lightning gleamed through it at
intervals, and I heard the smothering groans and cries of the
American people. A second time the angel dipped water from the
ocean, and sprinkled it as before. The dark cloud was then drawn
back to the ocean, in whose heaving billows it sank from view.
A third time I heard the mysterious voice saying, "Son of
the Republic, look and learn," I cast my eyes upon America
and beheld villages and towns and cities springing up, one after
another until the whole land from the Atlantic to the Pacific
was dotted with them. Again I heard the mysterious voice say,
"Son of the Republic, the end of century cometh, look and
learn."
"At this the dark, shadowy angel turned his face southward,
and from Africa I saw an ill-omened spectre approach our land.
It flitted slowly and heavily over every town and city of the
latter. The inhabitants presently set themselves in battle array
against each other. As I continued looking, I saw a bright angel,
on whose brow rested a crown of light on which was traced the
word "union," bearing the American flag, which he placed
between the divided nation and said "Remember ye are brethren."
Instantly the inhabitants, casting from them their weapons, became
friends once more, and united around the National Standard.
And again I heard the mysterious voice say, "Son of the Republic,
look and learn." At this the dark, shadowy angel placed a
trumpet to his mouth and blew three distinct blasts; and taking
water from the ocean, he sprinkled it upon Europe, Asia and Africa.
Then my eyes beheld a fearful scene: From each of these countries
arose thick, black clouds that were soon joined into one. And
throughout this mass there gleamed a dark red light by which I
saw hordes of armed men, who moved with the cloud, marching by
land and sailing by sea to America, which country was enveloped
in the volume of the cloud. And I dimly saw these vast armies
devastate the whole country and burn the villages, towns and cities
that I had beheld springing up. As my ears listened to the thundering
of the cannon, clashing of swords and shouts and cries of millions
in mortal combat, I again heard the mysterious voice saying, "Son
of the Republic, look and learn." When the voice had ceased,
the dark shadowy angel placed his trumpet once more to his mouth
and blew a long and fearful blast.
Instantly a light as of a thousand suns shone down from above
me, and pierced and broke into fragments the dark cloud which
enveloped America. At the same moment the angel upon whose head
still shone the word, "Union", and who bore our national
flag from heaven attended by legions of bright spirits. These
immediately joined the inhabitants of America, who, I perceived,
were well-nigh overcome, but who, immediately taking courage again,
closed up their broken ranks and renewed the battle. Again, amid
the fearful noise of the conflict, I heard the mysterious voice
saying, "Son of the Republic, look and learn." As the
voice ceased, the shadowy angel for the last time dipped water
from the ocean and sprinkled it upon America. Instantly the dark
cloud rolled back, together with the armies it had brought, leaving
the inhabitants of the land victorious.
Then once more I beheld villages, towns and cities springing up
where they had been before, while the bright angel, planting the
azure standard he had brought into the midst of them cried with
a loud voice: "While the stars remain and the heavens send
down dew upon the earth, so long shall the Republic last."
And taking from his brow the crown on which was blazoned the word
"Union", he placed it upon the standard while the people,
kneeling down, said "Amen."
The scene instantly began to fade and dissolve and I at last saw
nothing but the rising, curling vapor I at first beheld. This
also disappearing, I found myself once more gazing upon my mysterious
visitor, who, in the same voice I had heard before said, "Son
of the Republic, what you have seen is thus interpreted: Three
great perils will come upon the Republic. The most fearful is
the third, passing which the whole world united shall not prevail
against her. Let every child of the Republic learn to live for
his God, his land and union. With these words the vision vanished,
and I started from my seat and felt that I had seen a vision wherein
had been shown me the birth, progress and destiny of the United
States."
I was recently offended by the words of a tour guide at Valley Forge who claimed that George Washington never prayed there. It was further suggested that the great General was not a praying man. My own family history records the prayers of General Washington during the war. It is unfortunate that a small handful of fools have been able to promote their personal agendas without regard for history.
Isaac Potts, at whose house Washington was quartered, relates that one day during the encampment at Valley Forge, he strolled up the creek when he heard a solemn voice. He walked quietly in the direction of it and saw Washington's horse tied to a sapling. In the thicket near by was the beloved chief upon his knees n prayer, his cheeks suffused in tears. Like Moses at the burning bush, Isaac felt he was upon holy ground and withdrew unobserved. He was much agitated and on entering a room where his wife was, he burst into tears. On her inquiring of the cause, Isaac Potts informed her of what he had seen. He went on to say, "If there is anyone on earth whom the Lord will listen to, it is George Washington. And I feel a presentiment that under such a commander there can be no doubt of our establishing our independence, and that God in his providence was willed it so."
In July of 1798, British actor John Bernard rather unexpectedly met George Washington. Bernard had been visiting some friends along the banks of the Potomac and was traveling back to Alexandria on horseback. Immediately in front of him was an old-fashioned chaise which was traveling too fast for the road conditions. Suddenly one of the wheels swerved on the river bank and the chaise flipped over. A young woman was flung out onto the road. Bernard's account continues...
The minutes before I had perceived a horseman approaching at a gentle trot, who now broke into a gallop, and we reached the scene of the disaster together. The female was our first care. She was insensible, but had sustained no material injury. My companion supported her while I brought some water in the crown of my hat from a spring some way off. The driver of the chaise had landed on his legs, and having ascertained that his spouse was not dead, seemed very well satisfied with the care she was in, and set about extricating his horse. A gush of tears announced the lady's return to sensibility, and then, as her eyes opened, her tongue gradually resumed its office and assured us that she retained at least one faculty in perfection, as she poured forth a volley of invectives on her mate.
The horse was now
on his legs, but the vehicle still prostrate, heavy in its frame,
and laden with at least half a ton of luggage. My fellow helper
set me an example of activity in relieving it of the external
weight; and, when all was clear, we grasped the wheel between
us and, to the peril of our spinal columns, righted the conveyance.
The horse was then put in, and we lent a hand to help up the luggage.
All this helping, hauling, and lifting occupied at least half
an hour, under a meridian sun in the middle of July, which fairly
boiled the perspiration out of our foreheads....
When all was right, and we had assisted the lady to resume her seat, [the driver] begged us to proceed with him to Alexandria and take a drop of "something sociable." Finding, however, that we were unsociable, he extended his hand... and, when we had sufficiently felt that he was grateful, drove on.
My companion, after an exclamation at the heat, offered very courteously to dust my coat, a favor the return of which enabled me to take a deliberate survey of his person. He was a tall, erect, well-made man, evidently advanced in years, but who appeared to have retained all the vigor and elasticity resulting from a life of temperance and exercise. His dress was a blue coat buttoned to his chin, and buckskin breeches. Though the instant he took off his hat I could not avoid the recognition of familiar lineaments - which, indeed, I was in the habit of seeing on every signpost and over every fireplace - still I failed to identify him, and, to my surprise, I found that I was an object of equal speculation in his eyes. A smile at length lighted them up, and he exclaimed, "Mr. Bernard, I believe?" I bowed. "I had the pleasure of seeing you perform last winter in Philadelphia."...
He then learned the cause of my presence in the neighborhood
and remarked, "You must be fatigued. If you will ride up
to my house, which is not a mile distant, you can prevent any
ill effects from this exertion by a couple of hours' rest."
I looked 'round for his dwelling, and he pointed to a building
which, the day before, I had spent an hour in contemplating.
"Mount Vernon!" I exclaimed; and then, drawing back
with a stare of wonder, "Have I the honor of addressing General
Washington?"
With a smile, whose expression of benevolence I have rarely
seen equaled, he offered his hand, and replied, "An odd sort
of introduction, Mr. Bernard; but I am pleased to find you can
play so active a part in private, and without a prompter."...
As we rode up to his house we entered freely into conversation,
first in reference to his friends at Annapolis, then respecting
my own success in America and the impressions I had received of
the country.
Flattering as such inquiries were from such a source, I must confess my own reflections on what had just passed were more absorbing. Considering that nine ordinary country gentlemen out of ten, who had seen a chaise upset near their estate, would have thought it savored neither of pride nor ill nature to ride home and send their servants to its assistance, I could not but think that I had witnessed one of the strongest evidences of a great man's claim to his reputation - the prompt, impulsive working of a heart which, having made the good of mankind... its religion, was never so happy as in practically displaying it.
On reaching
the house (which, in its compact simplicity and commanding elevation,
was no bad emblem of its owner's mind), we found that Mrs. Washington
was indisposed; but the general ordered refreshments in a parlor
whose windows took a noble range of the Potomac.
Though I have ventured to offer some remarks on his less known contemporaries, I feel it would be an impertinence to say a word on the public merits of a man whose character has been burning as a beacon to Europe till its qualities are as well known as the names and dates of his triumphs. My retrospect of him is purely a social one, and much do I regret that it is confined to a single interview.
The general impression I received from his appearance fully corresponded with the description of him by the Marquis de Chatelluz, who visited America at the close of the war. "The great characteristic of Washington," says he, "is the perfect union which seems to subsist between his moral and physical qualities; so that the selection of one would enable you to judge of all the rest. If you are presented with medals of Trajan or Caesar, the features will lead you to inquire the proportions of their persons; but if you should discover in a heap of ruins the leg or arm of an antique Apollo, you would not be curious about the other parts, but content yourself with the assurance that they were all conformable to those of a god."
Though fourteen years had elapsed since this was written, I could perceive that it was far from being the language of mere enthusiasm. Whether you surveyed his face, open yet well defined, dignified but not arrogant, thoughtful but benign; his frame, towering and muscular, but alert from its good proportion - every feature suggested a resemblance to the spirit it encased, and showed simplicity in alliance with the sublime. The impression, therefore, was that of a most perfect whole;... you could not but think you looked upon a wonder, and something sacred as well as wonderful - a man fashioned by the hand of Heaven, with every requisite to achieve a great work. Thus a feeling of awe and veneration stole over you.
In conversation his face had not much variety of expression: a look of thoughtfulness was given by the compression of the mouth and the indentation of the brow.... Nor had his voice, so far as I could discover in our quiet talk, much change or richness of intonation, but he always spoke with earnestness, and his eyes (glorious conductors of the light within) burned with a steady fire which no one could mistake for mere affability; they were one grand expression of the well-known line, "I am a man, and interested in all that concerns humanity."
In our hour and a half's conversation he touched on every topic that I brought before him with an even current of good sense, if he embellished it with little wit or verbal elegance. He spoke like a man who had felt as much as he had reflected, and reflected more than he had spoken, like one who had looked upon society rather in the mass than in detail, and who regarded the happiness of America but as the first link in a series of universal victories; for his full faith in the power of those results of civil liberty which he saw all around him led him to foresee that it would, ere long, prevail in other countries, and that the social millennium of Europe would usher in the political....
When I remarked that his observations were flattering to my country, he replied, with great good humor, "Yes, yes, Mr. Bernard, but I consider your country the cradle of free principles, not their arm chair. Liberty in England is a sort of idol; people are bred up in the belief and love of it, but see little of its doings. They walk about freely, but then it is between high walls; and the error of its government was in supposing that after a portion of their subjects had crossed the sea to live upon a common, they would permit their friends at home to build up those walls about them."
A black coming in at this moment with a jug of spring water, I could riot repress a smile, which the general at once interpreted. "This may seem a contradiction," he continued, "but...both houses and slaves were bequeathed to us by Europeans, and time alone can change them; an event, sir, which, you may believe me, no man desires more heartily than I do. Not only do I pray for it on the score of human dignity, but I can clearly foresee that nothing but the rooting out of slavery can perpetuate the existence of our union, by consolidating it in a common bond of principle."
I now referred to the pleasant hours I had passed in Philadelphia,
and my agreeable surprise at finding there so many men of 
talent, at which
his face lit up vividly. "I am glad to hear you, sir, who
are an Englishman, say so, because you must now perceive how ungenerous
are the assertions people are always making on your side of the
water. One gentleman of high literary standing... has demanded
whether America has yet produced one great poet, statesman, or
philosopher. The question shows anything but observation, because
it is easy to perceive the causes which have combined to render
the genius of this country scientific rather than imaginative.
And, in this respect, America has surely furnished her quota.
Franklin, Rittenhouse, and Rush are no mean names, to which, without
shame, I may append those of Jefferson and Adams as politicians;
while I am told that the works of President Edwards of Rhode Island
are a textbook in polemics in many European colleges."
Of the replies which I made to his inquiries respecting England,
he listened to none with so much interest as to those which described
the character of my royal patron, the Prince of Wales.
"He holds out every promise," remarked the general, "of a brilliant career. He has been well educated by events, and I doubt not that, in his time, England will receive the benefit of her child's [America's] emancipation. She is at present bent double, and has to walk with crutches; but her offspring may teach her the secret of regaining strength, erectness, and independence."
In reference to my own pursuits he repeated the sentiments of Franklin: he feared the country was too poor to be a patron of the drama, and that only arts of a practical nature would for some time be esteemed. The stage he considered to be an indispensable resource for settled society and a chief refiner, not merely interesting as a comment on the history of social happiness by its exhibition of manners, but an agent of good as a school for poetry, in holding up to honor the noblest principles. "I am too old and too far removed," he added, "to seek for or require this pleasure myself, but the cause is not to droop on my account. There's my friend, Mr. Jefferson, has time and taste; he goes always to the play, and I'll introduce you to him," a promise which he kept, and which proved to me the source of the greatest benefit and pleasure.
About 1856 William Steffe of South Carolina wrote a camp-meeting song with the traditional "Glory Hallelujah" refrain. It started with the words "Say, brothers, will you meet us on Canaan's happy shore?" The tune had such an infectious swing that it became widely known.
Early in the Civil War, a regiment stationed in Boston included a soldier named John Brown. This regiment using Steffe's tune sang about the fiery John Brown of Kansas who shortly before had made his stand against slavery, but directed it as a jest toward their contemporary John Brown.
This version, using the words "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, but his soul goes marching on," soon became popular among the Union troops. In December 1861, Julia Ward Howe heard this version being sung, and at the suggestion of a friend, she went back to the Hotel Willard in Washington... and wrote the new words for Steffe's tune, now known as "Battle Hymn of the Republic." This stirring poem was published in The Atlantic Monthly in February, 1862, and soon the words of Mrs. Howe of Boston, sung to the tune by the Southerner, William Steffe, became synonymous with the Union cause.
Here is a more complete version of the story:
In the autumn of 1861 Julia Ward Howe went to Washington in company with Governor and Mrs. Andrew, Mr. Clarke and the Doctor, who was one of the pioneers of the Sanitary Commission, carrying his restless energy and indomitable will from camp to hospital, from battlefield to bureau. She longed to help in some way, but felt that there was nothing she could do, except make lint, which we were all doing.
"I could not leave my nursery to follow the march of our armies, neither had I the practical deftness which the preparing and packing of sanitary stores demanded. Something seemed to say to me, 'You would be glad to serve, but you cannot help anyone; you have nothing to give, and there is nothing for you to do.' Yet, because of my sincere desire, a word was given to me to say, which did strengthen the hearts of those who fought in the field and of those who languished in the prison."
Returning from a review of troops near Washington, her carriage was surrounded and delayed by the marching regiments: she and her companions sang, to beguile the tedium of the way, the war songs which every one was singing in those days; among them?
"John Brown's body lies a-moulding in the grave.
His soul is marching on!"
The soldiers liked this, cried, "Good for you!" and took up the chorus with its rhythmic swing.
"Mrs. Howe," said Mr. Clarke, "why do you not write some good words for that stirring tune?"
"I have often wished to do so!" she replied.
Waking in the gray of the next morning, as she lay waiting for the dawn, the word came to her.
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord?"
She lay perfectly still. Line by line, stanza by stanza, the
words came sweeping on with the rhythm of marching feet, 
pauseless, resistless.
She saw the long lines swinging into place before her eyes, heard
the voice of the nation speaking through her lips. She waited
till the voice was silent, till the last line was ended; then
sprang from bed, and groping for pen and paper, scrawled in the
gray twilight the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." She
was used to writing thus; verses often came to her at night, and
must be scribbled in the dark for fear of waking the baby; she
crept back to bed, and as she fell asleep she said to herself,
"I like this better than most things I have written."
In the morning, while recalling the incident, she found she had
forgotten the words.
The poem was published in the "Atlantic Monthly" for February, 1862. "It was somewhat praised," she says, "on its appearance, but the vicissitudes of the war so engrossed public attention that small heed was taken of literary matters....I knew and was content to know, that the poem soon found its way to the camps, as I heard from time to time of its being sung in chorus by the soldiers."
She did not, however, realize how rapidly the hymn made its way, nor how strong a hold it took upon the people. It was "sung, chanted, recited, and used in exhortation and prayer on the eve of battle." It was printed in newspapers, in army hymn-books, on broadsides; it was the word of the hour, and the Union armies marched to its swing.
Among the singers of the "Battle Hymn" was Chaplain McCabe, the fighting chaplain of the 122d Ohio Volunteer Infantry. He read the poem in the "Atlantic," and was so struck with it that he committed it to memory before rising from his chair. He took it with him to the front, and in due time to Libby Prison, whither he was sent after being captured at Winchester. Here, in the great bare room where hundreds of Northern soldiers were herded together, came one night a rumor of disaster to the Union arms. A great battle, their jailers told them; a great Confederate victory. Sadly the Northern men gathered together in groups, sitting or lying on the floor, talking in low tones, wondering how, where, why. Suddenly, one of the negroes who brought food for the prisoners stooped in passing and whispered to one of the sorrowful groups. The news was false; there had, indeed, been a great battle, but the Union army had won, the Confederates were defeated and scattered. Like a flame the word flashed through the prison. Men leaped to their feet, shouted, embraced one another in a frenzy of joy and triumph; and Chaplain McCabe, standing in the middle of the room, lifted up his great voice and sang aloud,?
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!"
Every voice took up the chorus, and Libby Prison rang with the shout of "Glory, glory, hallelujah!"
The victory was that of Gettysburg. When, some time after, McCabe was released from prison, he told in Washington, before a great audience of loyal people, the story of his war-time experiences; and when he came to that night in Libby Prison, he sang the "Battle Hymn" once more. The effect was magical; people shouted, wept, and sang, all together; and when the song was ended, above the tumult of applause was heard the voice of Abraham Lincoln, exclaiming, while the tears rolled down his cheeks,?
"Sing it again!"
(Our mother met Lincoln in 1861, and was presented to him by Governor Andrew. After greeting the party, the President "seated himself so near the famous portrait of Washington by Gilbert Stuart as naturally to suggest some comparison between the two figures. On the canvas we saw the calm presence, the serene assurance of the man who had successfully accomplished a great undertaking, a vision of health and of peace. In the chair beside it sat a tall, bony figure, devoid of grace, a countenance almost redeemed from plainness by two kindly blue eyes, but overshadowed by the dark problems of the moment....
"When we had left the presence, one of our number exclaimed, 'Helpless Honesty!' As if Honesty could ever be helpless.")
The "Battle Hymn of the Republic" has been translated into Italian, Spanish, and Armenian. Written in the dark on a scrap of Sanitary Commission paper, it has been printed in every imaginable form, from the beautiful parchment edition presented to the author on her seventieth birthday by the New England Woman's Club, down to the cover of a tiny brochure advertising a cure for consumption. It has also been set to music many times, but never successfully. It is inseparably wedded to the air for which it was written, an air simple, martial, and dignified: no attempt to divorce the two could ever succeed.
From the time of writing it to that of her death, she was constantly
besieged by requests for autograph copies of part or the whole
of the hymn. Reasonable or unreasonable, she tried to meet every
such request; no one can ever know how many times she copied the
hymn, but if a record had been kept, some one with a turn for
multiplication might tell us whether the lines put together made
up a mile, or more, or less.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are
stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
CHORUS:
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling
camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on.
I have read His fiery gospel writ
in rows of burnished steel!
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you My grace shall
deal!
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,"
Since God is marching on.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him; be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me;
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!
While God is marching on.
She wrote many other poems of the war, among them "The Flag," which is to be found in many anthologies. As the "Battle Hymn" was the voice of the nation's, so this was the expression of her own ardent patriotism:?
There's a flag hangs over my threshold
Whose folds are more dear to me
Than the blood that thrills in my bosom
Its earnest of liberty.
And dear are the stars it harbors
In its sunny field of blue,
As the hope of a further Heaven
That lights all our dim lives through.
This was no figure of speech, but the truth. The war and its mighty issues filled her heart and mind; she poured out song after song, all breathing the spirit of the time, the spirit of hope, resolve, aspiration. Everything she saw connected itself in some way with the great struggle. Seeing her daughters among their young friends, gay as youth must be gay, even in wartime, she cries out,
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
To deck our girls for gay delights!
The crimson flower of battle blooms,
And solemn marches fill the night.
Weave but the flag whose bars to-day
Drooped heavy o'er our early dead,
And homely garments, coarse and gray,
For orphans that must earn their bread!
- From: Julia Ward Howe, 1819-1910 Volume I. by Laura E. Richards and Maud Howe Elliott (Copyright, 1915.)
Interview with Mollie Gabe, a former slave...
This article was taken from the old files of the Braxton Democrat,
February 2, 1939, and reprinted October 29, 1982.
Born in slavery and sold to an unkind owner at the tender age of four, "Mollie-Gabe," who says her correct name is Mary Elizabeth Johnson, has reached the advanced age of 94, still enjoying good health and able to work every day. In a one room cabin, about a mile from Sutton, this interesting woman, keeps house by herself, washes and irons her clothes, cooks her meals, keeps her house neat and clean and in her spare time pieces quilts. her handiwork may be seen on the bed and cot in her room.
"I raised quite a bit of stuff in my garden this summer," She said, and when her son suggested that the doctor said she should not work so hard, she said she always had worked and she couldn't stop now. She has a remarkable memory and decided views on many subjects. She loves the white people and says many of her best friends, have been of the white race but she is firmly opposed to mixing the race, saying, "The whites should stay white and blacks should stay black."
She is not on relief and is supported by the kindness of her children, but she has been investigating the possibilities of an old age pension and thinks she ought to be worth half as much as she sold for as a child. Mollie-Gabe was born at Flatwoods, the daughter of Jane Rhea, a slave woman, who was the property of Dr. John L. Rhea. Dr. Rhea, who was a traveling minister and later studied medicine, came to Flatwoods with his bride from Virginia.
They brought with them a number of slaves, among them, Jane. Dr. Rhea was one of the few slave owners in Braxton County and of the few colored people in the county at this time many are descendants of his slaves. Mollie-Gabe's childhood was happy with several brothers and sisters for companions and little work required. Although she was only four years old when she was separated from her family, she remembers the details vividly. She tells it this way: "I was playing with my sisters when a stranger rode up to the house and Dr. Rhea went out to talk with him.
After a while the Dr. called, "Jane dress them chaps and bring'em out here," That meant me and my two sisters. I was the least one. We went out and lined up and the Dr. said, 'Now take your pick and choice,' but later he said they couldn't spare the oldest sister as his wife needed her. The man looked over and said, 'How much for the little one?' and Dr. Rhea answered, '$650,' and the bargain was made." With tears in her eyes and her voice trembling, Mollie-Gabe said she was too young to know what it all meant, but she can remember the tears streaming down her old mammy's face as she was lifted on the horse in front of her new owner and rode away, to be separated from her loved ones for many years.
Her new home was in Clay County and in that community there were no other slaves. Although she was so young that she slept in a trundle-bed beside her owners, she was expected to work and work she did, doing the family wash before she was tall enough to hang the clothes on the line and spending long hours at work in the fields and at the house.
While she was living in Clay County, the Civil War broke out and there was fighting in the neighborhood. She says she saw men shot down with her own eyes and others run through with bayonets. Both Yankee and Rebel soldiers passed often through the country and she was taught to fear the Blue coats, as she called them. She was also taught to lie but she says, "It was their doins [doings] and I couldn't help it."
In the home of her owners was a trap door that led to an excavation.
This was covered with homemade carpet and when the Union soldiers
were in the vicinity, the family hid under the house and she was
told to say that there were no Rebels around. Once when she was
in the orchard she was terror-stricken when she was surrounded
by seven Union soldiers.
They helped themselves to apples and went with her to the house,
asking where the family was. Her mistress, who was listening,
said she would have her if she had told the truth.
Finally the soldiers ceased their visits and she asked what had become of them. She was told that the Graycoats got tired and gave up. She was not told of her freedom and does not know how long she was kept in ignorance but said, "I reckon I'd be down there yet if my mammy hadn't sent for me." It was in threshing time that she looked out and saw her Uncle Momen Rhea riding up and leading a horse. She was overjoyed as she had heard nothing from her family since she was sold.
Her uncle's first words to her were, "Well, I reckon they told you the war is over and we are free," and she answered, "My God, no."
"Well," he said "we are just as free as they are and Jane sent me to bring you home." Thus she was reunited with her family. Shortly after her return she was married to Alexander Johnson, better known as Gabe, and thus she acquired her nickname for ever after she was known as Mollie-Gabe or Mary-Gabe. Dr. Rhea performed the marriage ceremony and the young couple went to Falls Mill to live. Here Gabe owned a little place and here she spent many years, highly respected by both white and colored people.
Here she numbered among her friends, "Uncle Billy" and "Aunt Betsy" Haymond, Gabe's former owners, Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin Lorentz, later of Buckhannon, and other pioneer residents of Braxton county. In her interesting little cabin home hang pictures that they gave her. She says the Good Lord has blessed her with unusual health and strength, and let her live to raise eleven children of her own and eight for other people.
Only three of her children are now living. Hanson Johnson, who lives close by, Ella Johnson, of Long Run, Braxton County, and Oscar Johnson, of Clarksburg. Eleven years ago Mollie and Gabe lost their little home and it was suggested that she go to live with a son while Gabe would stay with a daughter but she said "No, when I married Gabe, I promised to stick by him till death and where he goes I go." and so it was arranged. Gabe died seven years ago. At the recent election, Mollie-Gabe walked to the polls, about a mile from her home, to cast her ballot. Needless to say, she votes a Republican ticket. She says she has been approached about selling her vote but she thinks everybody ought to vote as they think best, then she added, "I ain't got learned but I got sense and why should I go aginst the party that did so much for me."
The year was 1862, General George B. McClellan had just been
appointed by President Abraham Lincoln to take charge of the Northern
Troops who had been so badly defeated in battle after battle with
the South.
General McClellan had a major task at hand, rallying the troops back from the brink of despair and re-engerizing the North. This September afternoon, however, the General was exhausted. He laid his head down wearily upon the battle reports and maps and soon fell asleep in his campaign tent.
He had not been resting long when a booming voice woke him: "General McClellan, do you sleep at your post? Rouse you, or 'ere it can be prevented, the foe will be in Washington!"
McClellan sat up to the glowing image of General George Washington standing before him. Washington wasted no time declaring, "Had God not willed it otherwise, 'ere the sun of tomorrow had set, the Confederate flag would have waved above the Capitol and your own grave. But note what you see. Your time is short!"
A living map appeared before McClellan. He saw the positions of all the Confederate troops as they carefully marched towards the nation's capital. Quickly, the Yankee General grabbed a quill and began to record all he could see. It was all too clear to McClellan that a confederate occupation of Washington D.C. would break the spirit of the Union.
Suddenly the battle map changed and McClellan was showed future Confederate maneuvers. He recorded those as well.
"General McClellan, while yet in the flesh, I beheld the birth of the America Republic. It was indeed a hard and bloody one, but God's blessing was upon the nation, and, therefore, through this, her first great struggle for existenceHe sustained her, and with His mighty hand, He brought her out triumphantly. A century has not passed since then, and yet the child Republic has taken her position of peer with nations whose pages of history extend for ages into the past.
"She has, since those dark days, by the favor of God, greatly prospered. And now, by the very reason of that prosperity, has she been brought to her second great struggle. This is by far the most perilous ordeal she has to endure, passing as she is from childhood to open maturity, she is called on to accomplish that vast result-Self-Conquest-to learn that important lesson-self-control, self-rule, that in the future will place her in the van of power and civilization.
"It is here that all the nations have hitherto failed, and she, too-the Republic of the earth, had not God willed other wise-would by tomorrow's sunset have been a heap of stones, cast up over the final grave of human liberty!
"But her cries have come up out of the borders like sweet incense into heaven. She shall be saved! Then, shall peace be upon her, and prosperity shall fill her with joy.
"But her mission will not be finished, for 'ere another century shall have gone by, THE OPPRESSORS OF THE WHOLE EARTH, hating and envying her exaltation, shall join themselves together and raise up their hands against her.
"But if she be found worthy of her calling, they shall be truly discomfited, and then will be ended her third and last struggle for existence. Henceforth, shall the Republic go on, increasing in goodness and power until her borders shall end only in the remotest corners of the earth, and the whole earth shall, beneath her shadowy wings, become A UNIVERSAL REPUBLIC!"
Upon hearing these words, General McClellan awoke to find the markings and symbols of the Confederate maneuvers upon his own maps. General McClellan decided to act. This great General would later testify that his ability to halt the Confederate Army and so successfully pursue General Lee was due to his godly vision.
General McClellan later wrote of his experience with these words:
"...Our beloved, glorious Washington shall rest ...until
perhaps the end of the Prophetic Century approaches, that is to
bring the Republic to a third and final struggle when he may once
more ...become a Messenger of Succor and Peace from the Great
Ruler, who has all nations in his keeping..."
The following was send out by Newsmax.com for the 4th 2001. It was wonderful and deserves to be read again. RS.
Editor's note: When he was president, Ronald Reagan wrote the following piece for Independence Day in 1981. Aide Michael Deaver later wrote: "This 4th of July message is the President's own words and written initially in his own hand." Contrary to media fiction, many of Reagan's speeches, commentaries, and other papers were written by Ronald Reagan alone in his own hand.
For one who was born and grew up in the small towns of the Midwest, there is a special kind of nostalgia about the Fourth of July.
I remember it as a day almost as long anticipated as Christmas. This was helped along by the appearance in store windows of all kinds of fireworks and colorful posters advertising them with vivid pictures.
No later than the third of July - sometimes earlier - Dad would
bring home what he felt he could afford to see go up in smoke
and flame. We'd count and recount the number of firecrackers,
display pieces and other things and go to bed determined to be
up with the sun so as to offer the first, thunderous notice of
the Fourth of July. 
I'm afraid we didn't give too much thought to the meaning of the day. And, yes, there were tragic accidents to mar it, resulting from careless handling of the fireworks. I'm sure we're better off today with fireworks largely handled by professionals. Yet there was a thrill never to be forgotten in seeing a tin can blown 30 feet in the air by a giant "cracker" - giant meaning it was about 4 inches long.
But enough of nostalgia. Somewhere in our growing up we began to be aware of the meaning of days and with that awareness came the birth of patriotism. July Fourth is the birthday of our nation. I believed as a boy, and believe even more today, that it is the birthday of the greatest nation on earth.
There is a legend about the day of our nation's birth in the little hall in Philadelphia, a day on which debate had raged for hours. The men gathered there were honorable men hard-pressed by a king who had flouted the very laws they were willing to obey. Even so, to sign the Declaration of Independence was such an irretrievable act that the walls resounded with the words "treason, the gallows, the headsman's axe," and the issue remained in doubt.
The legend says that at that point a man rose and spoke. He is described as not a young man, but one who had to summon all his energy for an impassioned plea. He cited the grievances that had brought them to this moment and finally, his voice falling, he said, "They may turn every tree into a gallows, every hole into a grave, and yet the words of that parchment can never die. To the mechanic in the workshop, they will speak hope; to the slave in the mines, freedom. Sign that parchment. Sign if the next moment the noose is around your neck, for that parchment will be the textbook of freedom, the Bible of the rights of man forever."
He fell back exhausted. The 56 delegates, swept up by his eloquence, rushed forward and signed that document destined to be as immortal as a work of man can be. When they turned to thank him for his timely oratory, he was not to be found, nor could any be found who knew who he was or how he had come in or gone out through the locked and guarded doors.
Well, that is the legend. But we do know for certain that 56 men, a little band so unique we have never seen their like since, had pledged their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor. Some gave their lives in the war that followed, most gave their fortunes, and all preserved their sacred honor.
What manner of men were they? Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists, 11 were merchants and tradesmen, and nine were farmers. They were soft-spoken men of means and education; they were not an unwashed rabble. They had achieved security but valued freedom more. Their stories have not been told nearly enough.
John Hart was driven from the side of his desperately ill wife. For more than a year he lived in the forest and in caves before he returned to find his wife dead, his children vanished, his property destroyed. He died of exhaustion and a broken heart.
Carter Braxton of Virginia lost all his ships, sold his home to pay his debts, and died in rags. And so it was with Ellery, Clymer, Hall, Walton, Gwinnett, Rutledge, Morris, Livingston and Middleton.
Nelson personally urged Washington to fire on his home and destroy it when it became the headquarters for General Cornwallis. Nelson died bankrupt.
But they sired a nation that grew from sea to shining sea. Five million farms, quiet villages, cities that never sleep, 3 million square miles of forest, field, mountain and desert, 227 million people with a pedigree that includes the bloodlines of all the world.
In recent years, however, I've come to think of that day as
more than just the birthday of a nation.
It also commemorates the only true philosophical revolution in
all history.
Oh, there have been revolutions before and since ours. But those revolutions simply exchanged one set of rules for another. Ours was a revolution that changed the very concept of government.
Let the Fourth of July always be a reminder that here in this land, for the first time, it was decided that man is born with certain God-given rights; that government is only a convenience created and managed by the people, with no powers of its own except those voluntarily granted to it by the people.
We sometimes forget that great truth, and we never should.
Happy Fourth of July,
Ronald Reagan
President of the United States
The Constitution of the United States provides for succession in the presidency in the event that the President dies or is otherwise unable to finish his elected term. As unlikely as this may have seemed when first written, America has benefited from this easy transition numerous times. While most Americans know that the Vice President succeeds the President in these cases, few know who succeeds the Vice President in the event that both he and the President are unable to fulfill their terms. Here is the line of succession:
Home
