y she back did returne,
Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne;
Therefore English captaines of every degree
Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.'

[Illustration: Molly takes her husband's place]

And now for Molly Pitcher, who, unsung and almost unremembered, should
nevertheless share in the honours heaped so liberally upon the Spanish
and English heroines. 'A red-haired, freckled-faced young Irishwoman,'
without beauty and without distinction, she was the newly-wedded wife of
an artilleryman in Washington's little army. On June 28, 1778, was
fought the battle of Monmouth, famous for the admirable tactics by which
Washington regained the advantages lost through the negligence of
General Charles Lee, and also for the splendid charge and gallant death
of Captain Moneton, an officer of the English grenadiers. It was a
Sunday morning, close and sultry. As the day advanced, the soldiers on
both sides suffered terribly from that fierce, unrelenting heat in which
America rivals India. The thermometer stood at 96 in the shade. Men fell
dead in their ranks without a wound, smitten by sunstroke, and the sight
of them filled their comrades with dismay. Molly Pitcher, regardless of
everything save the anguish of the sweltering, thirsty troops, carried
buckets of water from a neighbouring spring, and passed them along the
line. Back and forward she trudged, this strong, brave, patient young
woman, while the sweat poured down her freckled face, and her bare arms
blistered in the sun. She was a long time in reaching her husband--so
many soldiers begged for drink as she toiled by--but at last she saw
him, parched, grimy, spent with heat, and she quickened her lagging
steps. Then suddenly a ball whizzed past, and he fell dead by the side
of his gun before ever the coveted water had touched his blackened lips.
Molly dropped her bucket, and for one dazed moment stood staring at the
bleeding corpse. Only for a moment, for, amid the turmoil of battle, she
heard the order given to drag her husband's cannon from the field. The
words roused her to life and purpose. She seized the rammer from the
trodden grass, and hurried to the gunner's post. There was nothing
strange in the work to her. She was too well versed in the ways of war
for either ignorance or alarm. Strong, skilful, and fearless, she stood
by the weapon and directed its deadly fire until the fall of Moneton
turned the tide of vic