Janet Schaw, a Scotswoman, sailed to North Carolina in 1774 to visit her brother who was a merchant and plantation owner in North Carolina. Previous posts deal with her voyage and an incident with an alligator. Although her sympathies lay with the Loyalists, she was extremely critical of North Carolina society and of the poor state of agriculture in the area, which she believed was due to the indolence of the general population.

. . . [N]ature holds out to them every thing that can contribute to conveniency, or tempt to luxury, yet the inhabitants resist both, and if they can raise as much corn and pork, as to subsist them in the most slovenly manner, they ask no more; and as a very small proportion of their time serves for that purpose, the rest is spent in sauntering thro’ the woods with a gun or sitting under a rustick shade, drinking New England rum made into grog, the most shocking liquor you can imagine. By this manner of living, their blood is spoil’d and rendered thin beyond all proportion, so that it is constantly on the fret like bad small beer, and hence the constant slow fevers that wear down their constitutions, relax their nerves and infeeble the whole frame. Their appearance is in every respect the reverse of that which gives the idea of strength and vigor, and for which the British peasantry are so remarkable. They are tall and lean, with short waists and long limbs, sallow complexions and languid eyes, when not inflamed by spirits. Their feet are flat, their joints loose and their walk uneven. These I speak of are only the peasantry of this country, as hitherto I have seen nothing else, but I make no doubt when I come to see the better sort, they will be far from this description. For tho’ there is a most disgusting equality, yet I hope to find an American Gentleman a very different creature from an American clown. Heaven forefend else.

Schaw was also critical of the actions of the British, the tactics of the patriot Committee of Safety in the area, as well as of the populace who let themselves be easily convinced that they suffered from British rule.

. . . . The inclination of this country is . . . far from being generally for this work [of revolution]. Indolent and inactive, they have no desire to move, even where their own immediate interest calls them. All they are promised is too distant to interest them; they suffer none of those abuses they are told of and feel their liberty invaded only by the oppressive power of the Congress and their Agents, who at this Season are pressing them from their harvest, for they know not what purpose. . . . Three months ago, a very small number had not any thing to apprehend; a few troops landing and a general amnesty published would have secured them all at home. . . . At present the martial law stands thus: An officer or committeeman enters a plantation with his posse. The alternative is proposed. Agree to join us [Whigs] and your persons and properties are safe . . . if you refuse, we are directly to cut up your corn, shoot your pigs, burn your houses, seize your Negroes and perhaps tar and feather yourself. Not to choose the first requires more courage than they are possessed of, and I believe this method has seldom failed with the lower sort.

Upon leaving, she expressed her sadness at the ruination that she was sure would come to both sides.

Farewell unhappy land, for which my heart bleeds in pity. Little does it signify to you who are the conquered or who the victorious; you are devoted to ruin, whoever succeeds. Many years will not make up [for] these few past months of depredation and yet no enemy has landed on their coast. Themselves have ruined themselves; but let me not indulge this melancholy. . . .

Janet Schaw, Journal of a Lady of Quality, being the Narrative of a Journey from Scotland to the West Indies, North Carolina, and Portugal in the Years 1774 to 1776, Evangeline Walker Andrews and Charles McLean Andrews, compilers and editors (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1921), Electronic Edition, pages 153, 197-199, 211-212.

March is Women’s Hstory Month, an appropriate time to draw attention to a relatively unknown woman, Molly Gutridge of Marblehead, Massachusetts, who wrote a poem which was published as a broadside In 1775 when the effects of the Revolutionary War were just beginning to be felt. In “A New Touch on the Times” she remarks on the hardships women had to bear because of the absence of men and the shortage of the necessaries of life with the accompanying inflation that war brings. She does not assign blame or take sides except to say that swearing and a sinful society were causes of the war. What is important about Gutridge is that she was impelled to publicly express herself at a time when it was considered improper for women to do so.

A New Touch on the Times Well adapted to the distressing
Situation of every Sea-port Town
By a Daughter of Liberty, living in Marblehead
Our best beloved they are gone,
We cannot tell they’ll e’er return,
For they are gone the ocean wide,
Which for us now they must provide.
For they go on the roaring seas,
For which we can’t get any ease,
For they are gone to work for us,
And that it is to fill our purse.
And to fill our houses too,
What more could we then have them do?
They now do more than we deserve,
Wan’t it for them we now should starve,
Starve then we should and perish too,
And without them what could we do?
We must do as well as we can,
What could women do without man,
They could not do by night and day,
Go round the world, and that they’ll say,
They could not do by day or night,
I think that man’s a woman’s delight,
It’s hard and cruel times, to live,
Takes thirty dollars to buy a sieve.
To buy sieves and other things too,
To go thro’ the world how can we do,
For times they grow worse and worse,
I’m sure it sinks our scanty purse.
Had we a purse to reach the sky,
It would be all just vanity,
If we had that and ten times more,
’Twould be like sand upon the shore.
For money is not worth a pin,
Had we but salt we’ve any thing,
For salt is all the Farmer’s cry,
If we’ve no salt we sure must die.
We can’t get fire nor yet food,
Takes 20 weight of sugar for two foot of wood,
We cannot get bread nor yet meat,
We see the world is nought but cheat.
We cannot now get meat nor bread
By means of which we shake [our head]
All we can get it is but rice
And that is of a wretched price
And as we go up and down,
We see the doings of this town,
Some say they an’t victuals nor drink,
Others say they are ready to sink.
Our lives they all are tired here,
We see all things so cruel dear,
Nothing now-a-days to be got,
To put in kettle or in pot.
These times will learn us to be wise,

We now do eat what we despis’d
I now have something more to say,
We must go up and down the Bay
To get a fish a-days to fry,
We can’t get fat were we to die,
Were we to try all thro’ the town,
The world is now turn’d up-side down.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I now have ended this my song.

Gutridge’s poem can be found on pages 44-45 of In the Words of Women.

In her deposition, Sarah Osborn, a camp follower (see previous post), describes her journey with the American troops to the South, first to Philadelphia, and then on to Yorktown.

They continued their march to Philadelphia, deponent [Sarah] on horseback through the streets, and arrived at a place towards the Schuylkill where the British had burnt some houses, where they encamped for the afternoon and night. Being out of bread, deponent was employed in baking the afternoon and evening. Deponent recollects no females but Sergeant Lamberson’s and Lieutenant Forman’s wives and a colored woman by the name of Letta. The Quaker ladies who came round urged deponent to stay, but her said husband said, “No, he could not leave her behind.” Accordingly, next day they continued their march from day to day till they arrived at Baltimore. . . .

They, however, marched immediately for a place called Williamsburg . . . deponent alternately on horseback and on foot. There arrived, they remained two days till the army all came in by land and then marched for Yorktown, or Little York as it was then called. The York troops were posted at the right, the Connecticut troops next, and the French to the left. In about one day or less than a day, they reached the place of encampment about one mile from Yorktown. Deponent was on foot and the other females above named and her said husband still on the commissary’s guard. . . .

Deponent took her stand just back of the American tents, say about a mile from the town, and busied herself washing, mending, and cooking for the soldiers, in which she was assisted by the other females; some men washed their own clothing. She heard the roar of the artillery for a number of days, and the last night the Americans threw up entrenchments. It was a misty, foggy night, rather wet but not rainy. . . . deponent cooked and carried in beef, and bread, and coffee (in a gallon pot) to the soldiers in the entrenchment.

On one occasion when deponent was thus employed carrying in provisions, she met General Washington, who asked her if she “was not afraid of the cannonballs?”

She replied, “No, the bullets would not cheat the gallows,” that “It would not do for the men to fight and starve too.”

They dug entrenchments nearer and nearer to Yorktown every night or two till the last. While digging that, the enemy fired very heavy till about nine o’clock next morning, then stopped, and the drums from the enemy beat excessively. . . . all at once the officers hurrahed and swung their hats, and deponent asked them, “What is the matter now?”

One of them replied, “Are not you soldier enough to know what it means?” Deponent replied, “No.” They then replied, “The British have surrendered.” Deponent, having provisions ready, carried the same down to the entrenchments that morning, and four of the soldiers whom she was in the habit of cooking for ate their breakfasts. Deponent stood on one side of the road and the American officers upon the other side when the British officers came out of the town and rode up to the American officers and delivered up their swords . . . and the British officers rode right on before the army, who marched out beating and playing a melancholy tune, their drums covered with black handkerchiefs and their fifes with black ribbands tied around them, into an old field and there grounded their arms and then returned into town again to await their destiny. . . .

See In the Words of Women, pages 153-54, for Osborn’s deposition. Osborn’s pension application, like many, was dictated to a transcriber. See the National Humanities WEBSITE for the complete deposition of Sarah Osborn as well as the illustration.

Sarah Matthews Osborn, wife of Aaron, a blacksmith, whom she had married “during the hard winter of 1780” in Albany, New York, accompanied her husband when he re-enlisted as a commissary guard on condition that she would be permitted to ride in a wagon or on horseback. That first winter, they resided at West Point. Sarah Osborn’s deposition applying for her husband’s pension (in 1837) gives a vivid picture of life with the Continental Army.

While at West Point, deponent [Sarah] lived at Lieutenant Foot’s, who kept a boarding house. Deponent was employed in washing and sewing for the soldiers. Her said husband was employed about the camp. She well recollects the uproar occasioned when word came that a British officer had been taken as a spy. She understood at the time that Major André was brought up on the opposite side of the river and kept there till he was executed. On the return of the bargemen who assisted [Benedict] Arnold to escape, deponent recollects seeing two of them, one by the name of Montecu, the other by the name of Clark. That they said Arnold told them to hang up their dinners, for he had to be at Stony Point in so many minutes, and when he got there he hoisted his pocket handkerchief and his sword and said, “Row on boys,” and that they soon arrived in Haverstraw Bay and found the British ship. That Arnold jumped on board, and they were all invited, and they went aboard and had their choice to go or stay. And some chose to stay and some to go and did accordingly.
When the army were about to leave West Point and go south, they crossed over the [Hudson] river to Robinson’s Farms [the property of Beverly Robinson] and remained their for a length of time to induce the belief . . . that they were going to take up quarters there, whereas they recrossed the river in the nighttime into the Jerseys and traveled all night in a direct course for Philadelphia. . . . In their march for Philadelphia, they were under command of Generals Washington and [James] Clinton.

Sarah Osborn continues her story in the next post.

Part of the deposition quoted above is from In the Words of Women, page 153. The illustration of Benedict Arnold is at the Library of Congress, Prints and Photos Division.

In October, 1774, Peggy Hutchinson (see posts here and here) wrote again from London to her sister-in-law Polly in Massachusetts, recounting a visit to the court.

My task is over. I have been at court again. It has been a fatiguing though not altogether an unpleasant day. I sent yesterday to Mrs. Keene to know if it would be agreeable to her to go to-day. We were both of a mind; for while a servant was going with my card she sent one to me; and to-day about one o’clock papa and I set off for St. James. We called for Mrs. Keene, but found that one coach could not contain more than two such mighty hoops; and papa and Mr. K were obliged to go in another coach. There was a very full Drawing-Room for the time of year. The King and Queen both spoke to me. I felt much easier than I did before, as I had not the ceremony of being presented to go through: indeed, my dear, it is next to being married. I thought I should not mind it, but there is something that strikes an awe when you enter the Royal Presence. I had, however, many compliments paid me on my performance: if I tell you what the Queen said of me to-day, will you not think me vain? The company all stand round in a circle, and the King and Queen go round, and speak to everybody that has been presented. As she advanced toward me, I felt in a little flutter, and whispered Mrs. K that I should behave like a fool. “You need not,” says she, “for the Queen has been saying many fine things of you to my sister. She says you are very genteel, and have much the appearance of a woman of fashion.”

I can’t say but I felt of more importance, and perhaps answered her questions with a better grace. She asked me how long I had been in town? I answered: “About a fortnight.”

“Are you come for the winter?”

“Yes, ma-am.”

“How do you like England—better than the country you came from?”

“I think it a very fine country.”

“What part of it have you been in?”

“Norfolk.”

“I hope you have your health better for it.”

“Much better.” Thus ended our conversation; and had it been with any other than a queen, I should have thought it too trifling to relate. She told papa she was very glad to see his daughter look so well. We were fatigued with standing, and got out of the Presence Chamber as soon as we could. . . .

Four of the young Princes came in after I had been there about half an hour. I never saw four so fine boys. After the Drawing-Room was over we went into the nursery, and saw the rest of them. I was highly delighted, and could hardly keep my hands off them: such sweet creatures I never beheld. The Princess Royal with two sisters and a little boy which I took to be about three years old, stood in a row, one just above the other, and a little one in leading strings*, sitting in a chair behind them, composed this beautiful group. I was determined, if possible, to kiss one of their little pudsey hands, and with some difficulty persuaded Mrs. K. to go up to them, their being a great deal of company in the room. She at last went, and I followed her. I asked Prince Ernest for his hand, which he very readily gave me, and I gave it a very hearty kiss. They behaved very prettily: they courtesied to everybody that came in. . . . We did not get home till almost five o’clock. . . .

As the situation in America became worse and worse Thomas Hutchinson, “three thousand miles from my country and friends,” not only worried about his family and home there but also about his beloved daughter Peggy in England. In November of 1776, Peggy contracted a serious cold; she did not recover well, and it became increasingly clear that she had consumption which was advancing rapidly. She was an invalid by the new year, and Hutchinson stayed in the house or by her bedside until she died in September of 1777, at the age of twenty-three. “My distress,” he wrote, “I cannot describe. A tender parent losing a most affectionate child with every desirable accomplishment of body and mind is the only person who can conceive of it. . . . no distress since the death of her dear mother has equalled this.”

The letter can be found in A Library of American Literature, from the Earliest Settlement to the Present Time, compiled by Edmund Clarence Stedman and Ellen Mackay Hutchinson in Eleven Volumes (New York: Charles L. Webster & Company, 1891), taken from the Online Edition, published December, 2013 by Bartleby.com. For details of Peggy’s death see Bernard Bailyn, The Ordeal of thomas Hutchinson (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1974), pages 362-64.