II
Light Horse Harry was a favourite at Mount Vernon. He did not stand in any reverential awe of the great Washington.
One day, as they sat at table, Washington mentioned that he wanted a pair of carriage horses, and asked the young man if he knew where they might be bought.
“I have a fine pair, General,” replied he, “but you cannot get them.”
“Why not?”
“Because you will never pay more than half price for anything; and I must have full price for my horses.”
This bantering reply set Mrs. Washington laughing; and her parrot, perched beside her, joined in the laugh.
Washington took this familiar assault upon his dignity with great good humour.
“Ah, Lee, you are a funny fellow!” said he, “See, that bird is laughing at you!”
III
When Washington died, it was Light Horse Harry who was chosen by Congress to deliver the funeral oration before both Houses. It was in this oration that he said those famous words:—
“He survives in our hearts—in the growing knowledge of our children, in the affection of the good throughout the World,— ... first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen ... pious, just, humane, temperate and sincere, uniform, dignified and commanding ... the purity of his private character gave effulgence to his public virtues.”
Washington Irving and Other Sources (Retold)
CAPTAIN MOLLY
Proudly floats the starry banner; Monmouth’s glorious field is won;
And in triumph Irish Molly stands beside her smoking gun.
Moll Pitcher, twenty-two years old, was dubbed Captain at the Battle of Monmouth, and very proud she was of the title. Her real name was Molly Hays. She carried drinking-water on the battle-field, to refresh the soldiers; so they nicknamed her Moll Pitcher.
At Monmouth, her husband, a Patriot, belonged to Proctor’s artillery. Moll was with him on the field. Six men, one after another, were killed or wounded at her husband’s gun.
“It’s an unlucky gun,” grumbled the soldiers, “draw it aside and abandon it.”
Just at that moment, while Moll was serving water to the soldiers, her husband received a shot in the head, and fell lifeless under the wheels of that very gun.
Moll threw down her pail of water; and crying, “Lie there, my darling, while I revenge ye!” she grasped the ramrod that the lifeless hand of the poor fellow had let fall, and rammed home the charge.
Then she called to the artillerymen to prime and fire.
It was done. Pushing the sponge into the smoking muzzle of the gun, she performed the duties of an expert artilleryman, while loud shouts from the soldiers passed along the line.
The gun was no longer thought unlucky. The fire of the battery became more vivid than ever.
Moll kept to her post till night closed the action, and the British were driven back by the Patriots, Washington himself leading them to the attack.
It was then that General Greene complimented Moll on her courage and conduct. The next morning he presented her to Washington, who received her graciously, and gave her a piece of gold, assuring her that her services should not be forgotten.
Washington conferred upon her the commission of sergeant, and placed her name on the half-pay list for life.
The French officers, charmed with her bravery, gave her many presents. She would sometimes pass along the French line with her cocked hat, and get it almost filled with crowns.
She was always welcome at Headquarters. She wore a cocked hat and feather, and an artilleryman’s coat over her petticoat.
One day, Washington found her washing clothes, and stopped to chat with her.
“Well, Captain Molly,” he said, “are you not almost tired of this quiet way of life; and longing to be once more on the field of battle?”
“Troth, your Excellency,” replied she, “and ye may say that! for I care not how soon I have another slap at them Red Coats, bad luck to them!”
“But what is to become of your petticoats, in such an event, Captain Molly?”
“Oh, long life to your Excellency!” said she, “and never de ye mind them at all at all! Sure, and it is only in the artillery, your Excellency knows, that I would sarve, and divil a fear but the smoke of the cannon will hide my petticoats!”
George Washington Parke Custis, and Other Sources
THE SOLDIER BARON
The good Baron found time to prepare a new code of discipline and tactics ... and this excellent manual held its place, long after the death of its author, as the Blue Book of our Army.
John Fiske
While the ragged Patriot Army with Washington starved, froze, and suffered at Valley Forge, there was speeding down from Boston on a fast saddle-horse, a man who was to help them win the war.
His keen hazel eyes looked pleasantly out from under bushy brows. His mouth smiled with good cheer; but he held his head in military fashion. The glittering star of a foreign Order was on his breast, and he carried a letter of recommendation from Benjamin Franklin to George Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the American Army.
He was Baron Steuben, a famous soldier and German hero of the Seven Years’ War. He had offered his services to Washington to train the Army, explaining that he wished to deserve the title of a citizen of America, by fighting for her Liberty.
At his side rode his young and waggish French interpreter in scarlet regimentals faced with blue. His bright eyes were always on the watch for a glimpse of pretty American maidens. Behind the two came their servants with the baggage.
It began to snow heavily. Night fell. They drew rein at an inn. It had a bad name; and it was kept by a Tory.
“I’ve no beds, bread, meat, drink, milk, or eggs for you,” said the sullen Tory landlord.
And neither Steuben’s remonstrances nor oaths could make him change his mind.
Steuben’s blood began to boil. “Bring me my pistol!” he cried in German to his servant.
And the landlord, who was smiling maliciously, suddenly felt a pistol pressed against his breast.
“Can you give us beds?” shouted Steuben.
“Yes!” cried the affrighted man.
“Bread?”
“Yes!”
“Yes!—yes!—yes!—yes!”
And the trembling landlord scurried around. The table was quickly laid, and food set out. Then after a substantial supper, a comfortable night and a hearty breakfast, the Baron and his men mounted and were off again.
To cut the story short, he was soon at Valley Forge, serving with Washington, and training the troops. They had had little expert military training before. The Baron drilled the soldiers himself. He took a musket in hand and showed them how to advance, retreat, or charge without falling into disorder.
Not only the soldiers, but the generals, colonels, and captains, watched him eagerly and with enthusiasm. Soon the camp was a bustling military training school. The men almost forgot their sufferings, so intent they were on learning. They worked incessantly and with tremendous energy.
But the Baron made it lively for them, for he had a quick temper. He swore at them in three languages; and, when they did not understand that, he called his aide to help him out in English.
Some of the men had thrown away their bayonets, and some had used them for roasting meat. But the Baron soon drilled them to use bayonets with such good effect that when later a column of them stormed Stony Point they took it in a bayonet charge.
He—the bluff Steuben—never failed in bravery on the battle-field. At Monmouth, while the American troops were fleeing in panic, the Baron kept doggedly on with his face to the foe. Meanwhile, Washington, furious and fiery, rallied the soldiers and led them back to victory. “It was now,” says John Fiske, “that the admirable results of Steuben’s teaching were to be seen. The retreating soldiers immediately wheeled and formed under fire, with as much coolness and precision as they could have shown on parade.”
Bluff, generous, kindly, old Steuben still served the Country after peace and Independence came. Then he settled down on his farm of sixteen thousand acres, the gift to him from the State of New York, in recognition of his patriotic services. “Throughout the war,” says John Fiske, “Steuben proved no less faithful than capable. He came to feel a genuine love for his adopted Country.”
FATHER THADDEUS
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked, as Kosciuszko fell!
Thomas Campbell
“What do you wish to do?” said Washington.
The young Polish officer with a rugged face, held himself erect.
“I come,” answered he, “to fight as a volunteer for American Independence.”
“What can you do?” asked Washington.
“Try me!” said the young Pole, his dark eyes flashing pleasantly.
So Washington tried him.
He was Thaddeus Kosciuszko, born in Lithuania, and a Patriot of unhappy Poland.
Poor Poland! Dismembered, patriotic Poland! Again and again she had been betrayed, and divided by her greedy neighbours, Russia, Prussia, and Austria. But always the fires of Patriotism had burned in the hearts of the Poles, and though they had been forced to bow their necks to their enemies they had never bowed their hearts.
And it was a romantic story that had sent young Kosciuszko post-haste from Poland to America. He was poor but of good blood. He had fallen in love with a beautiful and clever Polish girl. Her father was a haughty, rich State official. He would not give his consent to their marriage. So the young lovers eloped. The father pursued them with his men. Kosciuszko fought like a lion to defend his beloved Ludwika. But her father’s men wounded him so severely that he fell senseless on the field. Then her father carried Ludwika home, and married her to another man.
When Kosciuszko came to his senses, his Love was gone. Her handkerchief stained with his own blood, lay beside him. He took it up reverently and placed it in his bosom.
Thus disappointed in love, he had left Poland and come to America to forget his grief in fighting for Freedom. For Kosciuszko had been a Patriot and a lover of Liberty for all men, since his early boyhood.
Washington placed him on his own staff. Soon he found that the young man had talent, and was an experienced army engineer. He commissioned him Chief Engineer. Kosciuszko rendered great service to America, but his most important work was on the defenses of West Point.
When our War for Independence was over, he returned to Poland. He became her leading Patriot, defending her against the invasions of Russia, Prussia, and Austria. “Father Thaddeus” his men called him, as he led them into battle.
During his famous defense of Warsaw, he was badly wounded on the battle-field, and captured by Cossacks. He was thrown into a Russian prison; and there he was kept until after the death of Catherine the Great.
He was released by the new Czar, who admired him, and wished to give him a brilliant commission in the Russian Army. But Kosciuszko refused his offer, and went into voluntary exile. He still hoped that some day again he might serve Poland.
His wounds were yet unhealed. There was a sabre-cut across his forehead. There were three bayonet-thrusts in his back. A part of his thigh had been torn away by a cannon ball. Around his forehead, he kept a black band tied over the sabre-cut.
He went into exile, and the people of Poland believed that he was dead.
. . . . . . . . . .
It was nearly seventy-five years after that red-letter day in Lithuania, on which Thaddeus Kosciuszko had been born.
It was in 1814, France and Russia were at war. The Russian Army, as it advanced against Paris, was barbarously pillaging the valley of the Seine. The soldiers were burning the cottages of the poor peasants over their heads, and ill-treating the children, women, and aged folk.
Among the Russian troops was a Polish Regiment. And while its soldiers were savagely burning and looting the little houses, an old man with a scar across his forehead, rushed suddenly in among them.
Raging like a lion, he shouted in Polish:—
“When I commanded brave soldiers, they never pillaged—I should have punished them severely! And still more severely would I have punished officers who allowed such disorders as you are all now engaged in!”
“And who are you, my pretty old man,” cried the officers with sneers and laughter, “who are you that you dare to speak to us in such a tone, and with such boldness!”
“I am Kosciuszko,” was the quick reply.
Each man stood fixed to the spot. Each was paralyzed with astonishment.
There, before them with flashing eyes, stood Poland’s hero—the Polish soldiers’ “Father Thaddeus.”
Then the men threw down their arms to the ground. They cast themselves at his feet. They sprinkled dust upon their heads as was their wild custom at home. They crept close to him, hugging his knees and begging for his forgiveness—for the forgiveness of their “Father Thaddeus.”
. . . . . . . . . .
When Kosciuszko died in Switzerland, in 1817, there was found in his bosom next his heart, the blood-stained handkerchief which his lost love Ludwika had dropped beside him, so long before.
To-day, in a little chapel at the foot of the lime-planted Hill, the Lindenhof, there is a bronze urn, in which lies the once brave heart of Thaddeus Kosciuszko.
THE LITTLE FRIEND IN FRONT STREET
He entitled himself to the gratitude of the entire Country.
Ex-President William H. Taft
He was only a little man in his office on Front Street, Philadelphia.
Only a little man—but how great! Without his help our War for Independence might have been lost. He helped to save the Country not with a sword, but by giving all the means that he had and expecting nothing in return.
This little man—his “little friend in Front Street,” as James Madison called him—was Haym Salomon, a Polish Jew and a Patriot.
Through Robert Morris, who was Superintendent of Finance, during the War for Independence, Haym Salomon loaned money to establish the Government and to pay the soldiers. Without his money, Washington could scarcely have held the Army together. And all the while, the little friend in Front Street was refusing any interest on his loans; and some of these loans were never repaid at all.
And he not only financed the Nation, but generously made personal advances of money without interest to members of the Government, in order that they might keep on in their patriotic work. “When any member was in need, all that was necessary was to call upon Salomon,” said James Madison.
But it was not only by financing our young Nation, that Haym Salomon showed his Patriotism.
He was born in Poland of an intelligent educated family. He knew many languages. He was a friend of Kosciuszko and Pulaski. Because of oppression, he left Poland and came to New York City. He married and settled down to business. He soon found, however, that the Americans were heavily oppressed by England. So he threw himself heart and soul into the cause for Independence.
He became a Patriot. He was arrested by the British, imprisoned, tortured, and condemned to death. He managed to escape, and reached Philadelphia safely. There he opened his broker’s office in Front Street. He became a great financier. Henceforward he unselfishly devoted his brains, his energy, and his wealth to help win the War for Independence and build up our Republic.
FAREWELL! MY GENERAL! FAREWELL!
December 4, 1783
The War for Independence was over.
Thursday the 4th of December was fixed upon for the final leave-taking of Washington with his officers.
This was the most trying event in his whole career, and he summoned all his self-command to meet it with composure.
Knox and Greene, and Hamilton and Steuben, and others assembled in Fraunces Tavern,[4] and waited with fast-beating hearts the arrival of their Chief.
Not a sound broke the silence as he entered, save the clatter of scabbards as the whole group rose to do him reverence. Casting his eye around, he saw the sad and mournful countenances of those who had been his companions-in-arms through the long years of darkness that had passed. Shoulder to shoulder, they had pressed by his side through the smoke of the conflict. He had heard their battle-shout answer his call in the hour of deepest peril, and seen them bear his standard triumphantly on to victory. Brave hearts were they all and true, on whom he had leaned and not in vain.
Advancing slowly to the table, Washington lifted the glass to his lips and said in a voice choked with emotion:—
“With a heart full of gratitude and love, I now take leave of you. I most devoutly wish that your latter days may be as prosperous and happy as your former ones have been glorious and honourable.”
A mournful, profound silence followed this short address, when Knox advanced to say farewell. But neither could utter a word,—Knox reached forth his hand, while Washington, opening his arms, took him to his heart.
In silence, that was more eloquent than all language, each advanced in turn and was clasped in his embrace.
Washington dared not trust himself to speak, and looking a silent farewell, turned to the door. A corps of light infantry was drawn up on either side to receive him, and as he passed slowly through the lines, a gigantic soldier, who had moved beside him in the terrible march on Trenton, stepped from the ranks, and reaching out his arms, exclaimed:—
“Farewell! my dear General, farewell!”
Washington seized his hand in both of his and wrung it convulsively. In a moment all discipline was at an end; and the soldiers broke their order, and rushing around him, seized him by the hands, covering them with tears.
This was too much for even his strong nature, and as he moved away his broad chest heaved, and tears rolled unchecked down his face.
Passing on to Whitehall, he entered a barge, and as it moved out into the bay, he rose and waved a mute adieu to the noble band on shore.
The impressive scene was over.
J. T. Headley (Condensed)
FROM “WASHINGTON’S LEGACY”
OR HIS LETTER TO THE GOVERNORS OF ALL THE STATES
I now make it my earnest prayer that God would have you, and the State over which you preside, in His holy protection; that He would incline the hearts of the Citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government; to entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another, for their Fellow-citizens of the United States at large, and particularly for their brethren who have served in the field;—and finally that He would most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind, which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed Religion, and without an humble imitation of whose example in these things, we can never hope to be a happy Nation.
George Washington
8 June, 1783
A KING OF MEN
Hand in hand with ... rare soundness of judgment there went a completeness of moral self-control which was all the more impressive inasmuch as Washington’s was by no means a tame or commonplace nature, such as ordinary power of will would suffice to guide.
He was a man of intense and fiery passions. His anger when once aroused had in it something so terrible, that strong men were cowed by it like frightened children. This prodigious animal nature was habitually curbed by a will of iron and held in the service of a sweet and tender soul, into which no mean or unworthy thought had ever entered.
Whole-souled devotion to public duty, an incorruptible integrity, which no appeal to ambition or vanity could for a moment solicit—these were attributes of Washington, as well marked as his clearness of mind and his strength of purpose.
And it was in no unworthy temple, that Nature had enshrined this great spirit. His lofty stature—exceeding six feet—his grave and handsome face, his noble bearing, and courtly grace of manner, all proclaimed in Washington a king of men.
John Fiske
WHEN WASHINGTON DIED
Crape enshrouded the Standards of France, and the Flags upon the victorious ships of England fell fluttering to half-mast at the tidings of his death.
Chief Justice Fuller
Let his countrymen consecrate the memory of the heroic General, the patriotic Statesman, and the virtuous sage. Let them teach their children never to forget that the fruits of his labours and his example, are their inheritance.
The Senate of the United States, 1799
The following stories about Washington, and the War for Independence, may be found in “Good Stories for Great Holidays”: Three Old Tales (the Cherry-Tree Tale); Young George and the Colt; Washington the Athlete; Washington’s Modesty; Washington at Yorktown; Washington and the Cowards; Betsy Ross and the Flag; A Brave Girl (General Schuyler’s Daughter); A Gunpowder Story (Elizabeth Zane); The Declaration of Independence; Signing of the Declaration of Independence.
FEBRUARY 25
JOSE DE SAN MARTIN OF ARGENTINA THE PROTECTOR
Jose de San Martin, a strong and silent man, whose character and achievements have been little known or appreciated outside his own country ... comes nearer than any one else to being the George Washington of Spanish America.
Lord Bryce
San Martin, the great Liberator, loved men of audacity and courage. Besides, he was just and compassionate ... courteous to gentle and simple alike ... generous and brave San Martin.
Joseph Conrad
The white-souled San Martin who was without fear and almost without reproach.
William Spence Robertson
The moral grandeur of San Martin consists in this: that nothing is known of the secret ambitions of his life; that he was in everything disinterested; that he confined himself strictly to his mission; and that he died in silence, showing neither weakness, pride, nor bitterness at seeing his work triumphant and his part in it forgotten.
Bartolome Mitre
San Martin was born in Spanish America, February 25, 1778
Became the Liberator of Argentina, 1812
Was the Hannibal of the Andes, 1817
He and O’Higgins liberated Chile, 1817-20
San Martin resigned after the meeting with Bolivar, 1822
In voluntary exile, he died at the age of 72, August 17, 1850
His body was brought in state to Argentina, 1880
He is called Protector of Peru
His name is pronounced—Hosay de San Marteen
THE BOY SOLDIER
This boy soldier, who became a great general and American Patriot, was born in the Indian village of Yapeyu, in the district of Misiones, which is now a part of Argentina.
Misiones is a land of thousands of bright butterflies and brilliant flowers, of plantations and wide forests. In it are abandoned groves of wild oranges and lemons, once belonging to the Jesuit Missions, that gave the name of Misiones to the region.
Though he was born among Indians, the boy soldier was not an Indian. He was of pure Spanish blood. His father was an officer of the Spanish Crown, and was Governor of Misiones. Spain ruled all Spanish America in those days.
The boy soldier’s name was Jose de San Martin. Jose, is Spanish for Joseph.
It was an exciting life for Jose, with Indian boys to show him how to shoot wild game, and how to fish in the Uruguay River. Then, there were his father’s soldiers to tell him about military life.
Before Jose was eight years old, his father was transferred, and the boy was sent overseas to Spain to attend school in Madrid.
But such an active American boy, accustomed to Indians and frontier life, could not stay long contented in a school in old Madrid. Besides, he had soldiers’ blood in his veins. He grew restless. He was only eleven; but he petitioned the Spanish Government to be allowed to enlist in the army.
His petition was granted, and he became a boy soldier.
His uniform was white and blue. His first campaign was in Africa. His first battle was with the Moors.
During the next few years he served so gallantly, that at sixteen he was made a lieutenant. So he became a boy officer.
THE PATRIOT WHO KEPT FAITH
In romantic Spain, there was everything to entice young San Martin to forget his native land so far away, and the little Indian village on the Uruguay.
The crimson and gold banners of Spain waved over victorious battle-fields, the drums beat triumphantly, the trumpets sounded to the charge. There was glamour of combat with Moors and other brave enemies. There were romances of knights and ladies, and legends of Aragon, Castile, and the Alhambra. There were serenades, fandangos, and feasts. While in the quaint Spanish towns, maidens with dark witching eyes half hidden by mantillas, peeped through the latticed casements. And they must have peeped out joyously whenever the stalwart, handsome, young San Martin went by.
But he never forgot his native land.
As the years passed, he kept deep in his mind the memories of his childhood. He heard that some of his countrymen in Argentina had formed a Patriot Army, and were trying to gain their independence from Spanish rule. He learned of their unsuccessful attempts and of their sufferings.
San Martin heard, too, that the English Colonies of North America had cast off the rule of their mother-country, England, and had established a free government of the People under a Constitution.
Meanwhile, Napoleon Bonaparte was throwing Europe into confusion, pulling down Kings from their thrones, and setting up whomsoever he wished in their stead. He forced the King of Spain to abdicate, and proclaimed his own brother Joseph Bonaparte, King of Spain.
Now the Spanish-American Colonies were the property of the Kings of Spain, “the most precious jewel in their crown.” Some of the Colonists had remained loyal, but when they heard how their King had weakly abdicated many of them, in disgust, went over to the Patriots’ side.
It was then that San Martin, although he had opportunities for rising much higher in the Spanish Army, decided to return to Argentina.
He landed on Argentine soil, March 9, 1812.
As a little boy, he had left Argentina. Now he was returned as a man, offering her his sword, his life, his all. “Forsaking my fortunes and my hopes,” said San Martin later, “I desired only to sacrifice everything to promote the Liberty of my native land. I arrived at Buenos Aires in the beginning of 1812—thenceforward I consecrated myself to the cause of Spanish America.”
WHEN SAN MARTIN CAME
To-day, the Republic of Argentina is an immense rich land. It stretches from the Atlantic Coast westward nearly to the Pacific. Its broad pampas, or plains, roll almost from the very doors of the beautiful city of Buenos Aires to the foothills of the Andes Mountains. The mighty frozen peaks of the Andes form a wall between the two sister Republics, Argentina and Chile.
Though the breadth of Argentina is so great, its length is even more tremendous. North to South, the Republic stretches from tropic regions of intense heat to the far distant Patagonian land with its sheep-ranches, salt-licks, and arid plains, and still farther southward the Republic stretches toward the Antartic Circle.
The pampas are like our prairies. On them herds of cattle graze; and the gauchos Argentine cowboys, round up the cattle on the wealthy estancias or ranches. On many of these ranches, grow wide acres of the finest wheat and of other grains.
And through the city of Buenos Aires, which has been called the “Paris of America,” pass shipments of beef and wheat to help feed the world. In the city’s roadstead, are ships from many countries waiting to carry away not only beef and grain, but hides, sugar, and other Argentine produce, as well as Patagonian mutton and wool.
There are flourishing towns and cities in Argentina, and great wealth. Buenos Aires alone has about two million inhabitants. And to Buenos Aires come throngs of immigrants from Europe and Asia, seeking their fortunes in Argentina; just as immigrants land in the City of New York, to find their fortunes in our country.
An immense and rich land is the Republic of Argentina to-day; and her native citizens are one hundred per cent American!
. . . . . . . . . .
But when San Martin stepped upon Argentine soil over a hundred years ago, there was no great wealthy Republic. There were only some poor Provinces, struggling with Spain for their Liberty. Buenos Aires was but a Colonial town on the bank of the River of Silver.
There was no forest of foreign ships in the roadstead; for Spain had forbidden trading with any land except herself. There were no great estancias helping to feed the world. The whole country was groaning under oppression. Colonists, Indians, and gauchos, were in arms to defend her.
The land was swarming with Spanish soldiers and Royalists. The patriot Army was small, scattered, and poorly equipped, and undisciplined. San Martin, with all his military knowledge, came as a Liberator to his Country.
The Patriot Government appointed him to train soldiers and organize the army. He opened a military school. To it thronged the gauchos, those daring riders of the plains, also Creoles as the Colonists of pure Spanish blood were called, and Indians, and even slaves, to whom San Martin had promised their freedom.
The Patriots wore cockades of white and sky-blue, the Argentine colours. In time, San Martin had mobilized a well-disciplined army of earnest courageous men.
At San Lorenzo, San Martin won a famous victory. The enemy retreated in headlong flight, leaving behind banner, guns, and muskets. After the battle, San Martin sent supplies to the enemy for the wounded, and exchanged prisoners with them.
This victory put heart into the entire Patriot Army, and assured the final success of the Patriot cause.
ARGENTINA’S INDEPENDENCE DAY
July 9, 1816
The Birthday of the Argentine Republic was really May 25, 1810, before San Martin came to Argentina. For on that day a group of patriotic citizens of Buenos Aires braved the anger of Spain, set up a People’s Government, and convened the first Colonial Assembly in Argentina.
But on July 9, 1816, while San Martin’s soldiers were harassing the Spaniards, there assembled at the city of Tucuman, delegates from a number of the Provinces, who declared the “Independence of the United Provinces of the River of Silver (or Rio de la Plata).” The name “Argentine Republic” was not given the Argentine Union until some years later.
Thus, Argentina, while Spain was yet on her soil, bravely declared her Independence.
A GREAT IDEA
Gold, jewels, spices, and costly woods, in fact much of the stupendous wealth of Spanish America, flowed yearly into Lima, “the City of the Kings” in Peru, on the Pacific, the city founded by Pizarro the gold-hunter.
Triumphantly, Lima lifted the picturesque towers and domes of her palaces, convents, monasteries, and religious schools, and of her ancient cathedral, for Lima ruled not only the Pacific coast of Spanish America, but the whole of Spanish America as well. She was the centre of Spain’s power, strength, religion, and wealth in the New World. There, with pomp and pageant, lived the most influential of the Spanish Viceroys, whose word was law. From Lima went forth Spain’s armies to crush the Patriots in Argentina and Chile.
So long as Spain should hold Lima, the Patriot cause would be hopeless. On the other hand, if Lima might be taken by the Patriots, then the stronghold of Spanish tyranny would be destroyed.
So thought San Martin; and he began to lay plans to capture Lima, although the city was seemingly inaccessible and lay beyond the Andes Mountains far to the northwest on the Pacific Coast.
The Argentine Government transferred San Martin to the Province of Cuyo, and made him its Governor. There in the lovely city of Mendoza, the city of vineyards, at the very foot of the Andes, he set about raising revenues, and training and equipping an army—a small but strong army of devoted men.
But how to reach Lima? questioned San Martin to himself. Any attempt to lead the army northward to Upper Peru, and over the Andes to Lima, was sure to bring down upon the small body of Patriots, Spain’s seasoned troops who held Upper Peru and a part of Argentina.
The only way, thought San Martin, is to cross the Andes, drive the Spaniards out of Chile, then joining our forces with those of the Chilean Patriots, go by sea to Lima, and take her from Spain. Peru will yield, and our continent will be free!
THE MIGHTY ANDES
“What spoils my sleep, is not the strength of the enemy, but how to pass those immense mountains,” said San Martin, as from Mendoza he gazed upon the snow-clad summits of the mighty Andes, whose giant wall separated the wide plains of Argentina from the sunny smiling valleys of Chile on the Pacific.
Terrible seemed the Andes stretching from North to South like an impassable barrier. Near Mendoza, the barren foothills resembled waves of a petrified sea. Above them soared the central lofty mountain-ranges of conical, sharply defined peaks white with everlasting snow. Over the precipices, wheeled the condors at dizzy height. And down the chasm-rent sides of the mountains, rushed dark torrents of melted snow.
San Martin knew of the rugged defiles, the narrow paths winding along the edges of precipices, the ice-choked passages, the gloomy gorges, and the many unbridged torrents to be crossed, torrents tossing rocks about like straws.
Nevertheless, he determined to lead his Army across the Andes, rescue Chile, and go by sea to Lima.
So without haste, he carefully laid his plans in every detail. He spent two years in raising the Army of the Andes and equipping it. He kept his project of crossing into Chile, secret, lest the enemy should hear of it and guard the mountain-passes.
The enthusiastic and loyal men of Mendoza and of the whole Province of Cuyo, helped him with money and labour. Many of them enlisted. Even the children wanted to help; so San Martin, to keep up their Patriotism, formed them into little regiments and let them drill and carry banners. Their mothers, led by San Martin’s wife, a lovely Argentine lady, took off their jewels and sold them. If it had not been for the cheerful spirit of coöperation among the folk of Cuyo, San Martin could not have mobilized his men. For this reason, Mendoza is called “The Nest of the Argentine Eagle.”
Bartolome Mitre (Retold)
THE REAL SAN MARTIN
And what was General San Martin like?
Why did the good folk of Mendoza love him and hasten to do all that he asked?
Why did his troops cheerfully submit to terrible privations, and willingly plunge into danger and death if San Martin was with them?
Why, to-day, do the boys and girls of Argentina wish to be like their great and beloved hero—San Martin?
First, because San Martin never thought of himself. The folk of Mendoza offered him a handsome house to live in. He quietly refused it. He gave up to the cause half of his salary as Governor. He accepted the rank of general with the understanding that he might lay it down as soon as Argentina was free. He steadfastly refused all other promotions from his Government. He sent his wife back to Buenos Aires, so that he might live more simply.
He lived frugally, ate little, and worked hard. And what did he look like, this General so strong yet so simple? He wore the plain uniform of the Mounted Grenadiers, with the white and sky-blue cockade in his hat.
He was fine-looking, tall, and muscular. His complexion was olive, his jaw strong, and his lips firm, his black hair thick. His large, jet black eyes looked out from under bushy eyebrows; eyes now kindly and humorous, now piercingly observant. But when he met treachery or cowardice those eyes could frown terribly, and when he faced dangers or great emergencies, they expressed a fiery determined spirit.
A man nobly unselfish, gentle yet forceful, modest, patient, whimsically humorous at times, but always of few words was San Martin. Even strangers who met him were filled with respect and affection for him.
His motto was:—
Thou shall be what thou oughtest to be,
Or thou shall be nothing.
THE FIGHTING ENGINEER OF THE ANDES
Among the Patriots of Mendoza was a begging Friar, named Luis Beltran. He had fought in Chile against the Spaniards. He had returned across the Andes to Mendoza with a kit of tools on his back.
He was a clever fellow, a mathematician, a chemist, an artilleryman, a maker of watches and fireworks, a carpenter, an architect, a blacksmith, a draughtsman, a cobbler, and a physician. He was strong and rugged. San Martin made him chaplain. But on learning of his extraordinary gifts, he appointed him to establish an arsenal.
Soon Friar Beltran had three hundred workmen under him, all of whom he taught. He cast cannon, shot, and shell, melting down church-bells when his metal gave out. He made limbers for the guns, saddles for the cavalry, knapsacks, shoes, and other equipment for the soldiers. He forged horseshoes and bayonets and repaired damaged muskets.
If he stopped to rest at all, he drew designs on the walls of his grimy workshop, for special caissons and wagons to transport army-supplies over the steep passes of the Andes.
Then, he took off his frock, put on the uniform of a lieutenant of the artillery, and became the fighting engineer of the Army of the Andes.
Bartolome Mitre (Retold)