Fredericksburg was in the direct line of communication between Williamsburg and the headquarters of the army. Couriers were perpetually passing to and fro, and many were the respectful letters "honored madam" received from the great commander. With the coming of these couriers came repeated tidings of loss and defeat. She heard about the battle of Long Island, the long days and nights in the saddle; of the defeat at White Plains; of how the militia quitted and went home; of the Princeton victory, where her loved neighbor, Hugh Mercer, died in her grandson's arms; of the heavy loss at Brandywine and Germantown, where her near neighbor, the son of plucky John Spotswood, fell dangerously wounded into the hands of the enemy; of the misery at Valley Forge; of Howe's occupation of Philadelphia; of General Gates's great victory at Saratoga--perhaps of the cabal against her son, when the victorious general was preferred by some to him. Perhaps her son may have written, or some of Morgan's borderers written to their friends, of their march from the Shenandoah to Boston with "Liberty or Death" embroidered in white letters on their hunting-shirts; how General Washington had met them as he was riding along his lines; how Morgan had saluted with the words, "_From the right bank of the Potomac, General!_" how the great commander had leaped from his horse, and with tears in his eyes shook hands with each one of them. "The night was dark and he was far from home!" Or, perhaps, those watching, waiting women on the Rappahannock heard of how the Virginian, George Rogers Clarke, had begged powder and men, and gone out to shut and guard the back door of the country; how they had waded in freezing water, fasting five days and nights, holding their muskets above their heads as they struggled on; how, finally, ready as they were to give up, a little drummer-boy had mounted the shoulders of a tall soldier, and beat the vigorous "Charge," rallying and inspiring their fainting spirits. Or, it may be, that some messenger among the fleet couriers had come from Wheeling, Virginia, and could tell of Elizabeth Zane, the brave young girl, who volunteered to cross a plain under Indian fire, and bring a keg of powder from a house in town to save the stockade in which her people were hiding; how she ran across the plain, found and fetched the powder, and saved the day. "These noble legends," says Esten Cooke, "are the true glories of American history; the race lives in them and is best illustrated by them. It was a very great race, and faced peril without shrinking, down to the very boys and girls; and what the long years of the future will remember is this heroic phase, not the treaties and protocols of American history." It was the _spirit_ behind our little army that compelled events and carried it triumphantly to the glorious result.