A Quakeress Patriot

In Philadelphia, on Second Street below Spruce, formerly

stood an antiquated mansion, known by the name of "Loxley's

House," it having been originally the residence of

Lieutenant Loxley, who served in the artillery under

Braddock, and took part in his celebrated defeat. During the

Revolution this house was the scene of an interesting

historical incident, which is well worth relating.



At that ime it was occupied by a Quaker named Darrah, or

perhaps we should say by his wife Lydia, who seems to have

been the ruling spirit of the house. During the British

occupation of Philadelphia, when patriots and royalists

alike had to open their mansions to their none too welcome

guests, the Darrah mansion was used as the quarters of the

British adjutant-general. In that day it was somewhat "out

of town," and was frequently the scene of private

conferences of the higher officers, as being somewhat

secluded.



On one chill and snowy day, the 2d of December, 1777, the

adjutant-general appeared at the house and bade Mrs. Darrah

to prepare the upper back room for a meeting of his friends,

which would take place that night.



"They may stay late," he said, and added, emphatically, "be

sure, Lydia, that your family are all in bed at an early

hour. When our guests are ready to leave the house I will

give you notice, that you may let us out and extinguish the

fire and candles."



Mrs. Darrah obeyed. Yet she was so struck by the mystery

with which he seemed inclined to surround the projected

meeting, that she made up her mind to learn, if possible,

what very secret business was afoot. She obeyed his orders

literally, saw that her people were early in bed, and, after

receiving the officers, retired herself to her room, but not

to sleep. This conference might presage some peril to the

American cause. If so, she wished to know it.



When she deemed the proper time had come, she removed her

shoes, and in stocking feet stole softly along the passage

to the door of the apartment where the officers were in

consultation. Here the key-hole served the purpose to which

that useful opening has so often been put, and enabled her

to hear tidings of vital interest. For some time only a

murmur of voices reaches her ears. Then silence fell,

followed by one of the officers reading in a clear tone. She

listened intently, for the document was of absorbing

interest. It was an order from Sir William Howe, arranging

for a secret attack on Washington's camp at Whitemarsh. The

troops were to leave the city on the night of the 4th under

cover of the darkness, and surprise the rebels before

daybreak.



The fair eavesdropper had heard enough. Rarely had key-hole

listener been so well rewarded. She glided back to her room,

and threw herself on her bed. She was none too soon. In a

few minutes afterwards steps were heard in the passage and

then came a rap upon her door. The fair conspirator was not

to be taken unawares; she feigned not to hear. The rap was

repeated a second and a third time. Then the shrewd woman

affected to awake, answered in a sleepy tone, and, learning

that the adjutant-general and his friends were ready to

leave, arose and saw them out.






Lydia Darrah slept no more that night. The secret she had

learned banished slumber. What was to be done? This thought

filled her mind the night long. Washington must be warned;

but how? Should she trust her husband, or some other member

of her family? No, they were all leaky vessels; she would

trust herself alone. Before morning she had devised a plan

of action, and for the first time since learning that

eventful news the anxious woman gave her mind a moment's

rest.



At early dawn she was astir. Flour was needed for the

household. She woke her husband and told him of this, saying

that she must make an early journey to Frankford to supply

the needed stores. This was a matter of ordinary occurrence

in those days, the people of Philadelphia being largely

dependent upon the Frankford mills for their flour, and

being obliged to go for it themselves. The idea of

house-to-house delivery had not yet been born. Mr. Darrah

advised that she should take the maid with her, but she

declined. The maid could not be spared from her household

duties, she said.



It was a cold December morning. The snow of the day before

had left several inches of its white covering upon the

ground. It was no very pleasant journey which lay before

Mrs. Darrah. Frankford was some five miles away, and she was

obliged to traverse this distance afoot, and return over the

same route with her load of flour. Certainly comfort was not

the ruling consideration in those days of our forefathers. A

ten-mile walk through the snow for a bag of flour would be

an unmentionable hardship to a nineteenth-century housewife.



On foot, and bag in hand, Mrs. Darrah started on her journey

through the almost untrodden snow, stopping at General

Howe's head-quarters, on Market Street near Sixth, to obtain

the requisite passport to leave the city. It was still early

in the day when the devoted woman reached the mills. The

British outposts did not extend to this point; those of the

Americans were not far beyond. Leaving her bag at the mill

to be filled, Mrs. Darrah, full of her vital mission, pushed

on through the wintry air, ready to incur any danger or

discomfort if thereby she could convey to the patriot army

the important information which she had so opportunely

learned.



Fortunately, she had not far to go. At a short distance out

she met Lieutenant-Colonel Craig, who had been sent out by

Washington on a scouting expedition in search of

information. She told him her story begged him to hasten to

Washington with the momentous tidings and not to reveal her

name and hurried back to the mill. Here she shouldered the

bag of flour, and trudged her five miles home, reaching

there in as reasonably short a time as could have been

expected.



Night came. The next day passed. They were a night and day

of anxious suspense for Lydia Darrah. From her window, when

night had again fallen, she watched anxiously for movements

of the British troops. Ah! there at length they go, long

lines of them, marching steadily through the darkness, but

as noiselessly as possible. It was not advisable to alarm

the city. Patriot scouts might be abroad.



When morning dawned the restless woman was on the watch

again. The roll of a drum came to her ears from a distance.

Soon afterwards troops appeared, weary and discontented

warriors, marching back. They had had their night's journey

in vain. Instead of finding the Americans off their guard

and an easy prey, they had found them wide awake, and ready

to give them the hottest kind of a reception. After

manoeuvring about their lines for a vulnerable point, and

finding none, the doughty British warriors turned on their

track and marched disconsolately homeward, having had their

labor for their pains.



The army authorities were all at sea. How had this

information got afoot? Had it come from the Darrah house?

Possibly, for there the conference had been held. The

adjutant-general hastened to his quarters, summoned the fair

Quakeress to his room, and after locking the door against

intrusion, turned to her with a stern and doubting face.



"Were any of your family up, Lydia," he asked, "on the night

when I had visitors here?"



"No," she replied; "they all retired at eight o'clock."



This was quite true so far as retiring went. Nothing was

said about a subsequent rising.



"It is very strange," he remarked, musingly. "You, I know,

were asleep, for I knocked at your door three times before

you heard me; yet it is certain that we were betrayed. I am

altogether at a loss to conceive who could have given

Washington information of our intended attack. But on

arriving near his camp we found him ready, with troops under

arms and cannon planted, prepared at all points to receive

us. We have been compelled to turn on our heels, and march

back home again, like a parcel of fools."



As may well be surmised, the patriotic Lydia kept her own

counsel, and not until the British had left Philadelphia was

the important secret of that signal failure made known.