Their courting days were rather erratic, since John was often away in Boston and environs establishing his law practice, but soon the two were passionately in love…thus beginning one of America’s great love stories.
Struggling to keep their passion in tow, they poured out their hearts on paper. When a snowstorm once kept John away, he wrote to Abigail: “Cruel, Yet perhaps blessed storm!—Cruel for detaining me from so much friendly, social Company, and perhaps blessed to you, or me or both, for keeping me at my Distance…”
Once they began talking of marriage, John wrote her a teasing note saying he would never refuse marriage, and, “…on the Contrary am ready to have you at any Time.”
The wedding date at last set, Abigail spent a few days shopping in Boston for her trousseau. John was to meet her with a rented cart, gather up all the goods she had bought and take her home. In the interim, she finally answered his teasing note from before with the words, “And—then Sir, if you please you may take me.”
Abigail and John were married in the Weymouth parsonage on October 25, 1764, a month before her twentieth birthday.
John took his bride to Braintree, to the little cottage he had inherited from his father. Thus they began a shared life expected to be one of quiet domestic delight near family and friends.
But it would be that way only for the moment. Who could have foreseen the incredible whirlwind that instead swept them up? Who could have dreamed that young Abigail Smith’s new husband would become a political leader in the Revolution that separated the American colonies from their mother country of Great Britain, that he in a few short years would take his place as the second ranking governmental officer of the new United States of America?
Or that he also was destined to serve the new nation and its government as the second president?
True to the role she was expected to play, the feminine role usually expected of an eighteenth-century woman, Abigail did become the supportive wife and, later, the nurturing mother. She bore five children over the next ten years, but one died in infancy. Abigail’s married life in those early days otherwise seemed perfect…if at first rather routine. She could visit her family, who lived nearby, or her favorite sister, Mary, who had married John’s good friend Richard Cranch and also lived in the area. But Abigail soon took steps beyond the usual role of dutiful daughter and loving wife—she became an astute businesswoman; managed the couple’s farmland; made investment decisions; and, as a surprise to John in later years, designed and planned a major addition to their house in Braintree.
When John was elected to serve in the first Continental Congress in 1774, she became both his pen pal and political advisor. According to Carl Sferrazza Anthony’s book, First Ladies: The Saga of the Presidents’ Wives and Their Power 1789–1961, “She wrote to John on the intricate details of government structure and world economics with more savvy than most congressmen.”
She always was interested in events happening around her—in the early days of the Revolution, she climbed Penn Hill to watch the Battle of Bunker Hill unfolding nearby. Her intelligence and powers of observation were put to excellent use as she became John’s eyes and ears in his absence.
Nor was her own husband the only Revolutionary leader who valued her political acumen—his fellow Congress members began asking for her opinions and advice, too.
John spent a great deal of the time away from home in his capacity as a stalwart of the newly forming government, while Abigail was left to run the farm and tend to the children. Her pen became her salvation and was never still. While John received the bulk of her letters, she also carried on a steady correspondence with family members, women friends such as Mercy Otis Warren and Catharine Macauley and even such male notables as Thomas Jefferson and George Washington.
Once the Revolution had run its course, Abigail, by now a married woman of twenty years’ standing, at last, in 1784, could join her husband in a heady new life in the capitals of Europe. He first held a diplomatic post in Paris, but the next year, Abigail Smith Adams was privileged to move to London as wife of the first United States Minister to Great Britain. And that was only the beginning for the couple from Braintree.
Still to come for this Founding Mother would be her roles as the wife of the first vice president of the United States, and then as the first First Lady to live in the White House, then called the President’s House, in the new capital of Washington.
She found the home unfinished, dank and dreary, and she hung her wash in the future East Room of the drafty structure.
The president’s lady, or “Mrs. President,” as one of her detractors would call Abigail for her apparent power over the president, regularly sent letters to friendly newspaper editors, unabashedly asking for them to be published with her role as the author disguised. Her more private letters to husband John wouldn’t be made public until grandson Charles Francis Adams—son of President John Quincy Adams—published them in the middle of the nineteenth century as a two-volume set.
Speaking of John Adams, he was defeated in his bid for reelection to the brand-new President’s House in brand-new Washington, D.C., in 1800 by old Revolutionary-era ally Thomas Jefferson. It was a bitter moment, a bitter parting for the two old friends, with Adams telling Jefferson, “You have put me out! You have put me out!”
They remained on an unfriendly basis for many years, until finally Abigail, by dint of her unceasing correspondence, opened the door to a renewed relationship. When Jefferson’s daughter “Polly” died in 1804, Abigail wrote her heartfelt condolences—heartfelt because she knew Polly and once had taken care of her during a two-week visit with the Adamses in London. In time, additional correspondence with Jefferson on various matters succeeded in rekindling the old friendship between these two giants of the Revolutionary era, a bond ultimately marked so symbolically by both men dying on the same day in 1826—on the Fourth of July.
Mercy Otis Warren
HERE, IN THE EYES OF MANY, WAS A CHRONICLER OF THE REVOLUTION WITH no equal. At a time when women’s education consisted mainly of the domestic arts, Mercy Otis haunted the library of her pastor, the Reverend Jonathan Russell, and on his advice she read Raleigh’s History of the World, which led not only to a love of history but to extensive reading in the classics and English literature.
After her marriage in 1754 to James Warren of Plymouth, Massachusetts, a farmer and political leader at the center of Revolutionary events, she was eager to express her own opinion of those events. Recognized for her sound judgment in political matters, she maintained a rich correspondence with such Patriot leaders as Samuel and John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, General Henry Knox, John Dickinson, and many others.
The Warrens’ home became a gathering place for activists both before and after the outbreak of hostilities with the British. As Mercy herself once wrote, “By Plymouth fireside were many political plans originated, discussed and digested.” From this vantage she put her pen to work recording the events of the day while also writing poetry and plays. One play in particular, the satirical Adulateur (1772) depicting the hapless Governor Thomas Hutchinson of Massachusetts, was prescient in predicting the war to come. Another satire, The Defeat, again featured Governor Hutchinson. In 1775 she published The Group, a play depicting what would happen to the British king if he rescinded the Massachusetts charter of rights.
In her leisure time she entertained herself writing poetry. Often using a classical theme, her verses still reflected her own turbulent times. Most of her poetry was written while spending time at the couple’s nearby farm, called Clifford, according to Elizabeth F. Ellet in her three-volume work The Women of the Revolution.
Mercy wrote tragedies alluding to suffering—The Sack of Rome and The Ladies of Castille were two of them. Ellet suggests that they have more “patriotic sentiment than dramatic merit,” but says both were read with interest and much praised in after years. As one indication of the seriousness with which Mercy’s contemporaries greeted her written work, Alexander
Hamilton wrote to the author on July 1, 1791: “It is certain that in the Ladies of Castille, the sex will find a new occasion of triumph. Not being a poet myself, I am in the less danger of feeling mortification at the idea that in the career of dramatic composition at least, female genius in the United States has outstripped the male.”
In addition, fellow Massachusetts Patriot John Adams once paid her work the ultimate accolade with his comment that it had “no equal that I know of in this country.”
Mercy Otis Warren, sister of early Revolutionary theorist James Otis, is perhaps best remembered for her monumental work A History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution, which not only gives a clear political and philosophical record of the dark days of her country’s trials, but invaluable sketches of the leading characters of the times.
Lucy Flucker Knox
IN THE GATHERING STORM OF THE REVOLUTION, THOMAS FLUCKER WAS DISTRESSED by one threat in particular to the familiy’s political and social position in the colonies. Thomas Flucker, it should be explained here, long had served the British king as secretary of the province of Massachusetts. And it was this position that allowed the Fluckers to enjoy wealth and prestige.
But now, the brewing rebellion threatened their comfortable way of life. Worse, his tall and stately daughter Lucia was romantically attracted to militia Major Henry Knox, not only much “beneath” her in social station but one of those wretched “rebels.”
The provincial secretary had great hopes for all his daughters, but he especially desired that “Lucy” would turn her attention to a young British officer whom he regarded as a suitable prospect. To Thomas Flucker’s distress, however, Lucy instead frequented the large bookstore in Boston where Knox served as proprietor. Obviously, the two had a meeting of minds as well as hearts as they met among the bookstands—the lovely Lucy paid no heed to her family’s entreaties and soon announced that she would marry her young rebel.
Her Loyalist father, gathering up the remainder of his family and removing to England at the beginning of the hostilities, called her decision “apostacy.” He predicted she would miss the life of luxury and social status her sisters would enjoy, in contrast to the dreadful scenes of deprivation Lucy could expect as wife of a soldier committed to a hopeless—and indeed, treasonable—cause.
So much for Thomas Flucker’s crystal ball, although he absolutely was correct in one respect: Life on the road with an officer-husband engaged in an uncertain revolution under often-primitive conditions would be no laughing matter.
Lucy Flucker Knox took on her duties as wife of one of Washington’s most trusted generals very seriously. Her portly husband won the hearts of his fellow Bostonians early in the Revolution for having brought the heavy guns from Fort Ticonderoga that finally, in the spring of 1776, gave the Americans the advantage in their months-long siege of the port city. Once the big cannon were being dragged into place to bombard the city, the British realized they must evacuate.
Even earlier, right after the Battles of Lexington and Concord in April of 1775, Lucy had joined her husband in fleeing Boston for the American headquarters at Cambridge on the outskirts of the city. Here, she shared the deprivations of her husband and his men. As they fled Boston, say some historians, she managed to carry a concealed sword that he would wear throughout the war by having it quilted into the lining of her cloak.
In the months, and then the years, ahead, whenever the army was in winter quarters, Lucy rejoined her husband no matter how harsh the conditions of camp life. Her cheerful presence during such trying times was a boon to Knox’s fellow generals and their men. On these occasions, too, Lucy won the esteem and loyal friendship of Martha Washington, who obviously was buoyed by the younger woman’s vitality and cheerful nature—especially by Lucy’s delightful, infectious laughter. Their friendship grew as the war wore on—indeed, Lucy stayed at Mount Vernon and reportedly kept up Martha’s spirits as they awaited the news to come out of the all-important Siege of Yorktown, where both husbands were engaged against the British.
No great intellectual, philosopher, orator, writer, or politician, Lucy Flucker Knox comes down to us today as one of that small and tight circle of generals’ wives, led by Martha, whose steady support of husbands, their soldiers, and the Revolutionary cause itself, was a vital, if intangible, factor in bringing about the final triumph.
Catherine Greene
SOME WOMEN BY THEIR CAPTIVATING PERSONALITIES ALONE ARE WORTHY OF A place in history—and if they happen to be in a circle of leaders, all the more so. Just such a person was Catherine Greene, wife of Nathanael Greene, perhaps George Washington’s best general.
She was born to Phebe Ray and John Littlefield in 1753 in New Shoreham on Block Island. When she was a mere girl, Catherine and a younger sister were sent to live with an aunt married to Governor Greene of Rhode Island, a distant relative of the future general and Revolutionary War hero. Their house was set high on a hill overlooking Narragansett Bay, and it was here that young Nathanael subsequently came calling and met the vivacious “Kate,” as she was affectionately called.
Young Kate and Nathanael spent many happy days in Warwick with the Greenes and on Block Island with the Littlefields. They went horseback riding by day and dancing by evening, an activity the future general pursued with vigor despite his Quaker upbringing and his father’s stern warnings. Kate had no such parameters—she was described by her friends as the most joyous, frolicsome creature that ever lived.
She was neither tall nor short, but light on her feet. Her fair complexion was highlighted by bright grey eyes that sparkled when she talked. A perceptive conversationalist, she had that added charm of being a good listener. Her limited formal education suited her just fine since she had no love of studies, but when she did open her books she was quick to learn and retain the information. She once amazed a visiting Swedish botanist by having a knowledgable conversation with him after merely looking over several of his books.
Meanwhile, Nathanael had accumulated a degree of prosperity by working hard in the Greene family gristmills, sawmills, and forges known throughout New England for making anchors. In his business trips to Boston, he came to know Henry Knox, the young bookstore keeper in Boston, and the two spent many congenial hours studying military science, essentially becoming self-taught military experts.
With the blessings of both families, Nathanael and Catherine married on July 20, 1774. The future general took his bride to live in Coventry, Rhode Island, in a newly built home near his new forge. With life looking bright for the young couple despite the political unrest around them, the new bride never dreamed of the adventures and hardships that loomed ahead—that were very soon to come.
After the war’s first shots were fired at Lexington and Concord, Nathanael helped to organize the Rhode Island militia. Soon after and before joining in the siege of Boston, his troops were to be inoculated against smallpox. Catherine turned their home into a temporary hospital—and stayed to help the sick men. She would be there, too, when the roar of nearby British shipboard cannon shook the ground.
As the war progressed and her reliable husband became a favorite of George Washington, she did leave home whenever the Continental Army went into winter quarters. During the summer months of active campaigning for the army, she at first, like her friends Martha Washington and Lucy Knox, stayed at home. When her husband resumed his campaign in the South for the two years after Yorktown, however, Catherine Greene went right along, often staying at or near his headquarters or, during the hottest weather, repairing to a coastal island.
Catherine, Mrs. Greene by now, had acquired the gentle sobriquet of “Kitty,” most fitting for one so patient and helpful to the soldiers and yet always chipper at difficult moments.
Actually, “Kitty” Greene had become rather famous in Continental Army circles for an incident that took place early in the war, when the hard-pressed Americans received word in the tough winter of 1778 that the French were joining them in an
alliance against the British. This obviously called for real celebration. General Henry Knox and his officers put on a grand entertainment at a nearby artillery park. “We danced all night,” he wrote to his brother later. But his letter made no reference to the dashing couple who danced for three hours without sitting down once, a tireless couple repeatedly whirling around the dance floor—none other than Kitty and His Excellency, George Washington.
Later, when General Greene was assigned to take over the disastrous Southern campaign late in 1780, he left Washington’s northern headquarters so quickly, he and Kitty couldn’t meet to say their farewells. He at that point didn’t want his wife to make the arduous trip from New England to the South, even though she was willing—and, indeed, desperately wanted to be near him.
Martha Washington later wrote to Kitty that General Greene had spent an evening at Mount Vernon on his way to Richmond and then Charlotte, North Carolina, and that he was doing well.
Still later that year, on December 15, the commander in chief himself wrote to Kitty from his headquarters in New Windsor, New York, enclosed a letter from General Greene, and offered to forward her own letters to her distant husband. Apparently Kitty’s absence from the army’s headquarters circle already was being felt. “Mrs. Washington, who is just arrived at these my quarters, joins me in most cordial wishes for your every felicity, and regrets the want of your company,” General Washington also said.
On a fatherly note, he added, “Remember me to my namesake.”
Best Little Stories from the American Revolution Page 50