CHAPTER XIV

BARBARA FRITCHIE

1766-1862

In December, 1766, a daughter was born in the house of a German immigrant, Nicolaus Hauer, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and she was named Barbara. She had four sisters and brothers. Their early years were spent in Pennsylvania and then the family moved to Frederick, Maryland.

Barbara went to school for a while in Baltimore. Her education was the best that could be obtained at that day, for she was “thoroughly well-read and could write.” When she was ninety-two years old she scorned making her mark on business papers and proudly signed her name.

Barbara remembered the discussions that went on, when she was a very little girl, about the Boston tea party and the English taxes. She was nearly ten years old when the Declaration of Independence was signed. All her life long she talked with great pride of the success of the colonists. She remembered many scenes of the Revolution. Step by step she watched Washington’s career and shared in the popular rejoicing when peace was announced. In 1791 Washington was entertained in Frederick and Barbara begged that her china be used in pouring the tea at the ball. And when Washington died and a memorial funeral was held in the town, she was chosen as one of the pall-bearers.

Frederick was a lovely little gem, set in a circle of historic hills, like Nazareth--an old town with narrow streets and lanes, and houses with queer roofs where the shingles had a double lap that made them look like old Dutch tiles. There was a market square in the center of the town, and on the outskirts the stone barracks built during the reign of Queen Anne, where Braddock met Washington and Franklin in council, and where prisoners were kept during the Revolution.

Here lived Barbara Fritchie, an active capable woman, known for her sturdy good sense, her incessant industry and her intense loyalty to her country. Literally she grew with its growth, watching its progress through the War of 1812, the admission of new states, westward and ever westward expanding, till gold was discovered in California; and always the slavery question sinister and threatening in the background.

When Barbara was nearly forty she married John Caspar Fritchie, a glove maker. They lived in a little high-gabled story-and-a-half house on West Patrick Street, built of red brick penciled in white, with white shutters and two dormer windows in the long sloping roof. They owned two slaves, Nellie and Harry, who were so kindly treated that when freed they returned often, as children seek the home of their parents.

Her husband died in 1849 and Dame Fritchie, who never had any children, lived alone in the little house, busy with her many nieces and nephews, her knitting and her garden; a slight figure, under medium height, with small penetrating eyes, usually dressed in black alpaca or satin, with a starched muslin kerchief crossed on her breast, and a close white cap. She was always firm and decisive, and had indeed the reputation of a sharp tongue.

Then began the Civil War and Barbara, ninety-four years old, was noted for her fearless behavior and her intense outspoken loyalty, when loyalty was not the easiest matter in that border state. For Frederick had much to endure that winter. Soldiers of both armies were constantly in the way, skirmishes and duels were frequent in the narrow streets.

The flag was always flying from the Fritchie window and Dame Barbara kept busy, helping sick soldiers and cheering the despairing Unionists. “Never mind,” she would say when news of reverses came, “we must conquer sometime.” For stimulated by the glorious memory of what she had lived through, she had a supreme faith that the Union must survive. “It will never happen that one short life like mine shall see the beginning and the end of a nation like this.” She would ask the shopkeeper, “How do matters look now?” If the reports were cheering her joy was evident; if sad, she would say, “Do not be cast down. We have seen darker times. Stand firm, it will all come right, I know it will. The Union must be preserved.”

Often the southern troops marched through Frederick, tired out, and stopped to rest on the porches of private houses. Once they halted in front of Barbara Fritchie’s home, sat on her steps, and went to the spring near by for water. To all this she made no objection, but when they began to talk in a derogatory way of her beloved country, she was at the door in a moment and bade them move on, laying about her with her cane in the most vigorous manner, crying, “Off, off, you Rebels!” and clearing the porch in a few moments.

With victory alternating between North and South, matters dragged on until September of 1862, when Lee’s advance troops under Stonewall Jackson spent a week in Frederick, to encourage recruiting for the Confederate army. Every Union flag was ordered hauled down, and according to one version of the story Barbara Fritchie, with the other loyalists, took down her flag and hid it in the Bible, saying that no Rebel would think of looking for it there.

Another story tells how on the morning of the sixth Dame Barbara’s niece went to see her and told her of a rumor that the soldiers would pass through the town that day. Presently the child ran in and called out in great excitement, “Aunt Fritchie, the troops are coming!”

To the loyal old lady troops meant only one army. She heard the sound of marching feet. Picking up a silk flag she stepped out on the porch and waved it at the men passing. Instantly a murmur arose. A captain, riding up to the porch, said kindly, “Granny, you had better take your flag in the house.”

“I won’t do it, I won’t,” was her reply, as she saw for the first time that the passing soldiers were dressed in gray. Defiantly she shook the flag. The excitement in the ranks increased. Threatening murmurs arose. Another officer left the line and said, “Old woman, put that flag away, or you may get in trouble.”

“I won’t,” she responded and waved it again.

Angry shouts came from the men. A third officer approaching warned her:

“If you don’t stop that, you’ll have that flag shot out of your hand.”

The captain, who was still standing near, turned to him and said angrily, “If you harm a hair of her head, I’ll shoot you like a dog! March on,” he commanded sternly, for some of the soldiers had lifted their guns.

On the twelfth of September the southerners left Frederick and the Union forces marched in, to leave the following day for South Mountain and Antietam. It was common talk among the northern soldiers that some old lady had kept a Union flag flying from her window during the Rebels’ possession of the town, and that it had been fired on.

As the Federal troops were leaving the city General Reno noticed a crowd of people in front of Barbara Fritchie’s home, reined in his horse and heard the story. On being told that she was more than ninety years old, he exclaimed, “The spirit of 1776!” and his men gave a mighty shout that echoed along the street. Some of the boys in blue ran to the window and grasped her hand, saying, “God bless you, old lady!” and “May you live long, you dear old soul!”

The general dismounted to shake hands with the aged heroine, who gave him some home-made currant wine, served in the blue delft from which Washington had drunk. He asked if she would sell him the flag. This she refused to do, but gave him a bunting flag.

“Frank,” he said to his brother as they rode away, “whom does she remind you of?”

“Mother.”

The general nodded his head. The next day Reno fell at South Mountain, mortally wounded, and Barbara’s flag was placed on his casket when it was sent north to his Massachusetts home.

Three months later Dame Fritchie died, at fourscore and sixteen, and was buried in the little graveyard of the Reformed Church in Frederick.

Her story was published in the newspapers and gained credence in Maryland and in Washington. It was accepted as a fitting symbol of a real and great emotion of the people. Mrs. Southworth, the novelist, hearing it from friends and from a neighbor who was a connection of the Fritchie family, sent it to Whittier, adding, “This story of a woman’s heroism seemed as much to belong to you as a book picked up with your autograph on the fly-leaf.”

Within a fortnight after its receipt the Quaker poet, in his most heroic mood, wrote his Barbara Fritchie ballad, remarkable for its lofty patriotism. Though he had no military training his lines are full of the spirit of army life, the tread of marching soldiers, the orders short and sharp, a stirring setting for the courageous act of an old lady of ninety-six.

“It ought to have fallen into better hands,” Whittier wrote to Mrs. Southworth. “If it is good for anything thee deserves the credit of it.”

The poem was sent to the _Atlantic Monthly_, whose editor replied, “Enclosed is a check for fifty dollars, but Barbara’s weight should be in gold!”

The ballad was, and is, most popular through the North, for it belongs in the class which the world will never willingly let die. But it aroused great enmity in the South where people bitterly resented the statement that a favorite general had ordered his men to fire on an old lady. There were many denials of all the details of the story, some from members of the Fritchie family--that Jackson did not pass the Fritchie house, proved by statements from his staff; that Barbara had waved her flag only to welcome the Union army, and the incident had been blended with the story of Mrs. Quantrell, a loyal school-teacher who did wave the flag in sight of the Confederates; that no such person as Barbara Fritchie had ever lived in Frederick!

Said Whittier years later, “There has been a good deal of dispute about my little poem. That there was a Dame Fritchie in Frederick who loved the old flag is not disputed by any one. If I made any mistake in the details there was none in my estimate of her noble character and her loyalty and patriotism. If there was no such occurrence, so much the worse for Frederick City.”

Across the town from the little churchyard where John and Barbara Fritchie lie buried is the monument marking the grave of the author of _The Star-Spangled Banner_. And in both cemeteries the flag floats out, signaling the one to the other, fulfilling the lines of the Quaker poet:

“Over Barbara Fritchie’s grave Flag of freedom and union, wave! And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town.”