There comes to us, from the days of chivalry, in song and story, legends of ladies who followed their lords to the distant field of Palestine, hiding their soft hearts under the disguise of the page's dress. Time, the romancer, has thrown his enchanting vail over their adventures, surrounding them with the grace of mystery and the glory of sentiment.
Perhaps in the far-away future of our immortal republic, young men and maidens will dream over the story of Deborah Sampson, the girl-soldier of that Revolution which won us our liberties. It will not be said that she donned the uniform and shouldered the musket for the sake of some dear lover, that she might ever be near to watch over him in the hour of danger, and to nurse him if wounded, with all the tender solicitude of woman's love; but it will be told that she went into the service of her country because men were few and her heart was in the cause. She had health and courage, and that high patriotism which burned alike in manly and feminine breasts. That she was brave, is proven by her being twice wounded in battle. There is no need of putting any other construction than that of pure patriotism upon her actions; the steadiness with which she performed her duties show that it was no wild love of adventure which possessed her.
Deborah Sampson was born in the county of Plymouth, Massachusetts. Her parents were poor and vicious, and their children were taken from them by the hand of charity, to be placed with different families, where there was a prospect of their being better cared for. Deborah found a home with a respectable farmer, by whom she was treated as one of the family, except in the matter of education. To overcome this deprivation she used to borrow the books of school children, over which she pored until she learned to read tolerably well. This simple fact reveals that her mind was no ordinary one. She was a true child of New England, ambitious to be the equal of those by whom she was surrounded, and looking upon ignorance almost as degradation. Many of our now famous minds began their culture in this humble way, by the side of the kitchen fire, perhaps with a pine-torch, by the light of which to pursue their eager groping after knowledge.
As soon as the completion of her eighteenth year released her from indenture, she hastened to seek a situation in which to improve herself, and made arrangements with a family to work one-half her time for her board and lodging, while, during the other half, she attended the district-school. Her improvement was so rapid, that in a comparatively short space of time she was thought competent to teach, and by doing so for one term, the ambitious girl amassed the sum of twelve dollars! In all this we see the remarkable energy and force of character which enabled her to carry out the career she afterward chose. The young bound-girl who so soon would raise herself to the position of teacher, must have had in her elements, which, had she been a man, would have urged her to the performance of deeds that would have given her prominence in those stirring days.
While Deborah was teaching her little summer school, the spirit of resistance to tyranny which long had struggled toward the light, burst forth over the whole country, never to be hid again. The first battle had been fought at Lexington; the sound of the cannon had rolled from Bunker Hill in echoes which would not die. They thrilled and trembled along the air, in never-ending vibrations, smiting the ears of patriots, and rousing their hearts to the duties and perils of the hour. Deborah, in her little schoolroom, heard the sound. For her it had a peculiar message; it called her—she could not resist! Something in her courageous breast told her that she was as well fitted to serve her beloved country as the young men, who, with kindling eyes and eager feet, were rushing to its assistance. Walking slowly home from her school, along the lonely road, looking out at night from the little window of her chamber at the stars, she pondered the voice in her heart. The more she thought, the more earnest she became in her desire. There was no reason why she should silence the resolution which called her. She was accountable to none; was friendless, without kindred or home. Why was she given this vigorous and healthy frame, and this heroic heart, if not for the service of her suffering country? Perhaps Providence had loosened her from other ties, that she might attach herself solely to this holy cause. With such arguments as these she quieted the timidity which arose solely from maidenly fears that she might be detected in her plans, and subjected to the embarrassment of being refused or ridiculed on account of her sex.
With that humble wealth of twelve dollars she purchased the materials for a suit of men's clothing. Upon the cloth she worked secretly, as she found the opportunity, each article, upon completion, being hidden in a stack of hay. When her arrangements were completed she announced a determination to seek better wages, and took her departure, without her real purpose being suspected. When far enough away to feel secure, she donned her male attire, and pursued her way to the American army, where she presented herself in October, 1778, as a young man anxious to join his efforts to those of his countrymen in their endeavors to oppose the common enemy. She is described as being, at this time, of very prepossessing features, and intelligent, animated expression, with a fine, tall form, and such an air of modest courage and freshness as inspired confidence and respect in those who had become associated with her. She was gladly received, as a promising recruit, and enrolled in the army under the name of Robert Shirtliffe, the period of her enlistment being for the war.
While the company was recruiting she was an inmate of the Captain's family, and, by her exemplary conduct, won the esteem of all. A young girl, visiting in the family, was much in the company of young "Robert;" and, being of a coquettish disposition—priding herself, perhaps, on the conquest of the young soldier—she suffered her partiality to be noticed. "Robert," having no objections to see how easily a maiden's heart could be won, encouraged the feeling, until the Captain's wife, becoming alarmed, took occasion to remonstrate with the youth upon the subject. "Robert" took the matter in good part, and the affair ended in the exchange of some few tokens of remembrance at parting.
At the end of six or seven weeks, the company being full, was ordered to join the main army, and Deborah's military life commenced in earnest. The record does not give all the details of her career, though the record of a life in camp and on the field, under such circumstances, must be full of interest. She herself has said that volumes might be filled with her adventures. She performed her duties to the entire satisfaction of her officers; was a volunteer on several expeditions of a hazardous nature, and was twice wounded severely; the first time by a sword-cut on the side of her head, and the second by a bullet-wound through the shoulder. She served three years, and, during all that time, her sex never was suspected, though often in circumstances where detection seemed unavoidable. The soldiers nicknamed her "Molly," in playful allusion to her want of a beard; but little did they suspect that their gallant comrade was, indeed, a woman.
The last wound which she received, of a bullet through her shoulder, gave her great uneasiness, for fear that the surgeon, upon dressing it, would discover the deception which had been so long and so successfully practiced. She always described the emotion, when the ball entered, to be one of mental, not of physical anguish—a sickening terror at the probability of her sex being revealed. She felt that death on the battle-field would be preferable to the shame she would suffer in such a case, and prayed rather to die than to be betrayed. Strange as it may appear, she again escaped undetected. Recovering rapidly, she soon resumed her place in the ranks, as brave and willing as ever.
Sickness, however, was destined to bring about the catastrophe which the perils of the battle-field had never precipitated. She was seized with brain fever, then prevailing among the soldiers. For the few days that reason struggled with the disease her sufferings were great; and these were intensely aggravated by her mental anxiety—that ever-present fear, lest, during her unconsciousness, her carefully-guarded secret should become known. She was carried to the hospital, where the number of the patients and the negligent manner in which they were attended still secured her escape. Her case was considered hopeless, on which account she received still less attention. She continued to sink, until consciousness was gone, and life itself trembled on the faintest breath which ever held it.