A few weeks before the disastrous battle of Long Island had been fought.  The Continental cause seemed at the point of immediate collapse.  Day by day the list of deserters swelled.  Washington, leaving his campfires burning to lull the suspicions of the confident victors, had transported his men across the East River.  On September 15th the British began sending over boat-loads, landing them at Kip’s Bay, where the Murray estate ended, now the easterly point of Thirty-fourth Street.  In overwhelming numbers, fully equipped, and with elated morale, they began the pursuit of the shattered Americans.  The detachment of Continentals left at Kip’s Bay to oppose the landing had fled without firing a shot.  Washington, watching the debacle, had spurred his horse furiously forward, striking the men with the flat of his sword, lashing them with his tongue, in vain attempt to stop the panic.  He was on the point of advancing alone when his bridle-rein was seized by a young officer.  In an instant, again completely master of himself, he was building new plans in the hopes of saving his army.

The situation on Manhattan Island was this.  To the south was General Knox, in command of a fort known as Bunker Hill on an eminence of what is now Grand Street.  Near-by was General Israel Putnam—­probably less known to posterity (above all, to youthful posterity) for his qualities as a commander than for the mad dash down “Put’s Hill” at Greenwich by which he escaped the closely pursuing Red Coats.  With Putnam was Alexander Hamilton, in charge of a battery.  To the generals Washington sent word to retreat to the north in order to effect a junction of forces.  Knox withdrew men and cannon from Bunker Hill.  The young man who guided Putnam’s troops along obscure paths and by winding lanes close to the Hudson was named Aaron Burr.  The busy Washington chanced to spend a night in the Murray home.  If there had been any hesitation in Mrs. Murray’s patriotism before, it vanished entirely under the grave charm of the Virginia leader.  Henceforth she was heart and soul with the Continental cause.

Two days later the British came.  Mrs. Murray knew the danger that threatened the Americans.  Her woman’s wit and woman’s charm must save the hour.  So smiling she stood in the doorway, curtseying and inviting.  The day was hot; the officers thirsty.  To the minds of the British, contemptuous of the prowess of the troops in ragged blue and buff, what difference would an hour or two make when the coup de grace was so easy to deliver?  The lady was charming, grande dame, and her husband was known for devotion to King George.  So they stayed and drank and drank again, while the American forces were meeting on the site of the present Longacre Square.  A few days later came the Battle of Harlem Heights, where the Continentals gloriously redeemed themselves.  The wine cups of Mrs. Murray made possible the victory of the “Bloody Buckwheat Field.”  Had not a lady with powdered hair been standing before the door of her house on Murray Hill, the signers of the Declaration of Independence might, instead of hanging together, have hanged separately.