CHAPTER VII
WASHINGTON SPEAKS A NAME WHICH NAMES THE REPUBLIC
When Washington was at Cambridge his headquarters were at the Craigie House, now known as the “home of Longfellow,” as that poet of the world’s heart lived and wrote there for nearly a generation. Go to Cambridge, my young people who visit Boston, and you may see the past of the Revolutionary days there, if you will close your eyes to the present. The old tree is there under which Washington took command of the army; a memorial stone with an inscription marks the place. The old buildings of Harvard College are there much as they were in Washington’s days. The Episcopal church where Washington worshiped still stands, and one may sit down in the pew that the general-in-chief occupied as in the Old North Church, Boston.
The tree under which Washington took command of the army is decayed and is rapidly falling away. It was once a magnificent elm, and Washington caused a lookout to be made in the top, which overlooked Boston and the British defenses. We can easily imagine him with his glass, hidden among the green boughs of this lofty and bowery tree, watching the movements of the enemy. Such an incident of the Revolution would seem to invite a national picture like one of young John Trumbull’s.
Washington held his councils of war at the Craigie House. It was doubtless from there that he sent his courier flying to Jonathan Trumbull for help. His message was that the army must have food.
It was then that the Connecticut Governor called together the Committee of Public Safety and sent his men of the secret service into the farm-ways of Connecticut and gathered cattle and stores from the farms, and forwarded the supplies on their way to Boston, and Dennis O’Hay went with them.
Boston was to be evacuated. Where were the British going? What was next to be done?
Washington called a council of his generals, and they deliberated the question of the hour.
The help that had given strength to the army investing Boston during the siege had come from Connecticut; the great heart-beat of Jonathan Trumbull had sent the British fleet out on the sea and away from Castle William (now the water-park of South Boston).
What should be done next? Officer after officer gave his views, without conclusion. The Brighton meadows, afterward made famous by the pen of Longfellow, glimmered in the light of early spring over which the happy wings of birds were rising in song. The great trees rustled in the spring winds. The officers paced the floor. What was to be done next? The officers waited for Washington to speak.