On another occasion, a party of Tories, in pillaging the house, commanded one of the servants to bring them the horses. Miss Moore commanded him not to obey. The Tories repeated the order, accompanied with a threat to beat him if he refused. The command of the young girl was reiterated, and just as the Tory was about putting his threat into execution, she threw herself between them, and preserved the slave from the intended violence.
At one time, great danger was threatening Captain Wallace, who commanded a small force, a few miles distant. It was of the utmost importance that this intelligence should be conveyed to him, but there was no male whose services could be commanded, and, therefore, Miss Moore volunteered to convey the message herself. This was when she was but fifteen. Midnight was chosen as the hour, and accompanied by her little brother and a female friend, she set out in a canoe up the river toward the encampment of the Whigs. Silently and swiftly they propelled their frail vessel up the dark current, through forests buried in darkness, and a profound silence that awed them; with the calm stars above, and the deep river gloomily rolling by, and no human sounds to relieve the oppressive solemnity of the hour. It was the hour, too, when the enemy usually set out on their marauding expeditions, and the young girls knew that neither their sex nor their innocence would preserve them from ruthless foes, who were more relentless and cruel than the swarthy savages of the forest. But the fate of many of their countrymen depended on their exertions, and, as it proved, the future destiny of our heroine was involved in the successful issue of their enterprise. Undismayed by the perils of the journey, the young girls bent their energies to the task before them, and at last saw lights glimmering in the distance, that pointed out their destination. They soon reached the encampment, a picturesque scene, with the ruddy glow from the camp-fires casting the surrounding scene in still greater shadow, and motley groups of figures gathered around the fires, sleeping, talking, eating, etc. After delivering the warning to Captain Wallace, the girls embarked in their canoe to return, and soon left the encampment behind, winding their way through dense forests, and reached their home in safety.
The next morning, a handsome and gallant-looking American officer rode up to the door of Captain Savage's residence, and requested to make a few inquiries of the young lady by whose energy and zeal her countrymen had been saved from an impending danger. Miss Moore appeared, and when her youthful and blooming beauty greeted the eyes of the young officer, an exclamation of pleasure burst from his lips. He almost forgot to make his inquiries, until reminded by the blushing damsel, but her voice rather increased than relieved his embarrassment. All his questions having been at last answered, and having no excuse by which to prolong the interview, he was reluctantly compelled to depart, but his eyes to the last rested on the fair girl's form. It is said that the young lady was no less struck with the handsome dragoon's figure, and that his face came often to her in her dreams that night.
It was not long before the young officer made an excuse for again visiting the house where resided the beauty who had bound him captive to her charms, and as these impressions were reciprocal, he soon discovered welcome in her manner, and drew happy auguries therefrom. He became an accepted suitor. But their love, in a measure, verified the old adage. The step-father opposed the union; at first strenuously, but the perseverance of the lover gradually broke down his opposition, and he eventually yielded consent.
This officer was Captain, afterward General, Butler. They were married in 1784. Mrs. Butler filled a distinguished place in society, being celebrated both for her virtues and graces.
Even the meek spirit of the non-resisting Quakers was roused to patriotic ardor by the noble stake for which the battles of the Revolution were fought. In proof of what one of their women did in aid of the good cause, we have the following account of a signal service rendered by a Quakeress:
When the British army held possession of Philadelphia, General Harris' head-quarters were in Second street, the fourth door below Spruce, in a house which was before occupied by General Cadwalader. Directly opposite, resided William and Lydia Darrah, members of the Society of Friends. A superior officer of the British army, believed to be the Adjutant-General, fixed upon one of their chambers, a back room, for private conference; and two of them frequently met there, with fire and candles, in close consultation. About the second of December, the Adjutant-General told Lydia that they would be in the room at seven o'clock, and remain late, and that they wished the family to retire early to bed; adding, that when they were going away, they would call her to let them out, and extinguish their fire and candles. She accordingly sent all the family to bed; but, as the officer had been so particular, her curiosity was excited. She took off her shoes, and put her ear to the keyhole of the conclave. She overheard an order read for all the British troops to march out, late in the evening of the fourth, and attack General Washington's army, then encamped at White Marsh. On hearing this, she returned to her chamber and laid herself down. Soon after, the officers knocked at her door, but she rose only at the third summons, having feigned to be asleep. Her mind was so much agitated that, from this moment, she could neither eat nor sleep, supposing it to be in her power to save the lives of thousands of her countrymen, but not knowing how she was to convey the necessary information to General Washington, nor daring to confide it even to her husband. The time left was, however, short; she quickly determined to make her way, as soon as possible, to the American outposts. She informed her family, that, as they were in want of flour, she would go to Frankfort for some; her husband insisted that she should take with her the servant-maid, but, to his surprise, she positively refused. She got access to General Howe, and solicited—what he readily granted—a pass through the British troops on the lines. Leaving her bag at the mill, she hastened toward the American lines, and encountered on her way an American, Lieutenant-Colonel Craig, of the light horse, who, with some of his men, was on the look-out for information. He knew her, and inquired whither she was going. She answered, in quest of her son, an officer in the American army, and prayed the Colonel to alight and walk with her. He did so, ordering his troops to keep in sight. To him she disclosed her momentous secret, after having obtained from him the most solemn promise never to betray her individually, since her life might be at stake with the British. He conducted her to a house near at hand, directed a female in it to give her something to eat, and he speeded for head-quarters, where he brought General Washington acquainted with what he had heard. Washington made, of course, all preparation for baffling the meditated surprise. Lydia returned home with her flour; sat up alone to watch the movement of the British troops; heard their footsteps; but when they returned, in a few days after, did not dare to ask a question, though solicitous to learn the event. The next evening, the Adjutant-General came in, and requested her to walk up to his room, as he wished to put some questions. She followed him in terror; and when he locked the door, and begged her, with an air of mystery, to be seated, she was sure that she was either suspected or had been betrayed. He inquired earnestly whether any of her family were up the last night he and the other officer met; she told him that they all retired at eight o'clock. He observed: "I know you were asleep, for I knocked at your chamber door three times before you heard me; I am entirely at a loss to imagine who gave Washington information of our intended attack, unless the walls of the house could speak. When we arrived near White Marsh, we found all their cannon mounted, and the troop prepared to receive us; and we have marched back like a parcel of fools."
In contrast with these, and hundreds of similar instances of courage and sagacity combined with ardent patriotism, the occasions upon which American women played the part of traitors are few indeed. Efforts have been made, of late years, to affix to the memory of the wife of Benedict Arnold a still blacker ignominy than that which blasted the name of the husband whom she is said to have persuaded into his treachery. In a "Life of Aaron Burr," published three or four years ago, we have a story whose truth we may well doubt, unsupported as it is by any corroborative evidence:
"It fell to Burr's lot to become acquainted with the repulsive truth. He was sitting one evening with Mrs. Prevost (his future wife), when the approach of a party of horse was heard, and soon after, a lady, vailed and attired in a riding-habit, burst into the room, and hurrying toward Mrs. Prevost, was on the point of addressing her. Seeing a gentleman present, whom, in the dim light of the room, she did not recognize, she paused, and asked, in an anxious tone:
"'Am I safe? Is this gentleman a friend?'