Who can estimate the quiet aid such women gave the patriots in those years of sore trial?  Such words as Martha Washington’s:  “I hope you will all stand firm; I know George will,” or the ringing language of Abigail Adams:  “Though I have been called to sacrifice to my country, I can glory in my sacrifice and derive pleasure from my intimate connexion with one who is esteemed worthy of the important trust devolved upon him”—­such words could but urge the fighting colonists to greater deeds of heroism.  And many of the patriot husbands thoroughly appreciated the silent courage of their wives.  John Adams, thinking upon the years of hardships his wife had so cheerfully undergone, how she had done a man’s work on the farm, had fed and clothed the children, had kept the home intact, while he struggled for the new nation, wrote her:  “You are really brave, my dear.  You are a heroine and you have reason to be, for the worst than can happen can do you no harm.  A soul as pure, as benevolent, as virtuous, and pious as yours has nothing to fear, but everything to hope from the last of human evils.”

Mercy Warren, too, though she might ridicule the weakness of her sex in Woman’s Trifling Need, cheerfully remained alone and unprotected while her husband went forth to battle; she was even thoughtful enough in those years of loneliness to keep a record of the stirring times—­a record which was afterwards embodied into her History of the Revolution.  Catherine Schuyler was another of those brave spirits that faced unflinchingly the horrors of warfare.  When a bride of but one week, she saw her husband march away to the Indian war, and from girlhood to old age she was familiar with the meaning of carnage.  Shortly after the Battle of Saratoga the entire country was aroused by the murder of Jane McCrea; women and children fled to the towns:  refugees told of the coming of a host of British, Tories, and Indians.  The Schuyler home lay in the path of the enemy, and in the mansion were family treasures and heirlooms dear to her heart.  She determined to save these, and back she hastened from town to country.  As she pushed on, multitudes of refugees begged her to turn back; but no appeal, no warning moved her.  It was mid-summer, and the fields were heavy with ripe grain.  Realizing that this meant food for the invaders, she resolved to burn all.  When she reached her home she commanded a negro to light torches and descended with him to the flats where the great fields of golden grain waved.  The slave went a little distance, but his courage deserted him.  “Very well,” she exclaimed, “if you will not do it, I must do it myself.”  And with that she ran into the midst of the waving stalks, tossed the flaming torches here and there, and for a moment watched the flames sweep through the year’s harvest.  Then, hurrying to the house, she gathered up her most valuable possessions, hastened away over the dangerous road, and reached Albany in safety.