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THREE YEARS LATER
Philadelphia - January 1776
“There is nothing more necessary than good intelligence to frustrate a designing enemy, and nothing that requires greater pains to obtain.” . . . George Washington.
“Must you go out today, John?” Betsy Ross peered through the window of the small upholstery shop the young couple had established soon after they married. Snow mixed with ice blew in swirling funnels down the street. “The snow has turned to sleet. The streets are deserted.”
“I gave my word, love.” John shrugged into his great coat and dug into the pockets for the red woolen gloves Betsy had knitted him for Christmas. “If I don’t take my turn guarding the warehouse today, some other fellow will be obliged to go in my place.”
“But there’ll not be man nor beast abroad this afternoon.” Betsy turned from the window. “Do stay home with me, John. We can sit by the fire where it’s warm.”
“I’ll be home before ye know it, love.”
Betsy watched as John wound a woolen muffler around his neck and pulled his cap down over his ears. “I wonder why gentlemen do not wear pattens on their boots when they venture out into the snow. Although I suppose a gentleman would look silly wearing pattens on his shoes.”
His lips twitching, John dropped a kiss on his little wife’s flushed cheek. “My feet will be fine, love.” His dark eyes twinkled merrily as he pulled open the door of the shop. “And ye can warm up the rest of me tonight.”
“Do be careful, John. I shouldn’t want you to slip and fall to your death.”
Muffled sounds of his merry laughter drifted back to Betsy as he stepped from the snow-covered stoop onto the slippery walkway. She hurried to the window to rub a clean spot on the frosty windowpane in order to wave goodbye to her intrepid young husband as he passed beneath the window. At least he was only setting out to guard the warehouse filled with muskets and gunpowder; he wasn’t marching off to join the rebels in their fight for independence. Betsy didn’t know how she’d cope if, or when, that day came.
She hadn’t drawn a peaceful breath since the war began last year in New England, with bloody battles at both Lexington and Concord. When news reached them of yet another battle fought near Boston, at a place called Breed’s Hill, and it was said the rebel troops lost simply because they ran out of gunpowder, local militias up and down the seaboard hastened to stockpile weaponry. Betsy’s husband John, a member of the local Citizen Guards in Philadelphia, had set out today to protect the Pennsylvania Militia’s valuable stash. Unfortunately for all Patriots, the newly formed Continental Congress had no money with which to provide General Washington’s hastily formed army with muskets or ammunition, or with tents, blankets, or even food. Betsy prayed daily that this wretched war with England would draw to a swift close, and that the fighting would never reach as far south as Philadelphia.
After watching John’s ghostly form disappear from sight, Betsy turned from the window. Although she couldn’t help worrying about him setting out in such foul weather, she knew he’d given his word to take a turn at guard duty today, and John Ross never went back on his word. It was one of the many things she loved about the responsible young man she’d married.
Thus far, her life with John Ross had been all she could have hoped for. Despite the challenges they faced making a go of their upholstery business, they rarely disagreed. Real monetary success had not yet arrived, of course, since by the time they opened their shop doors, England had already cut off all trade with the colonies, meaning fabric and supplies were virtually impossible to come by. Still, when a customer brought in draperies or bed hangings to be mended, they praised the Lord and enjoyed completing the work together. Not for one minute did Betsy regret her decision to go against her Quaker faith, or defy her parents, in order to marry John Ross.
But she did regret not insisting he stay home with her this bitterly cold day! With no carts or horses able to navigate the icy streets, who would possibly attempt to steal heavy crates of muskets and gunpowder?
Betsy managed to stay busy all afternoon tidying up the kitchen, mending a pair of John’s breeches and trying to keep the fire in the parlor going despite gusts of cold air seeping into the house. By evening, with the sleet and snow still falling, her worry escalated. John should have been home above an hour ago. If the weather weren’t so wretched, she’d walk down the hill to Dock Street to see what was keeping him. John was always punctual. He knew she worried. Growing hungry, Betsy nibbled on a wedge of bread, leaving plenty for John who would come home famished. He’d taken no food with him today.
Suddenly, a rap at the door caused Betsy to spring from her chair in the back parlor and run through the darkened house to the shop door. Who could be calling? John had his own key and would let himself in. Jerking open the door, she was surprised to find fellow Guardsman Thomas Hull on the doorstep. She was about to invite the young man in out of the cold when the grim look on his face caused her breath to catch in her throat.
“What is it, Tom?”
For answer, he cast a troubled gaze over one shoulder. Wrapping her arms about herself, Betsy stepped onto the icy stoop to anxiously look past Tom. When she caught sight of two men struggling to carry another man prone between them, her heart plummeted to her feet. The trail of bright red blood dripping onto the stark white snow was clearly visible.
“John!”
“The warehouse exploded,” Tom said simply. “I heard the blast as I approached to take my turn at guard duty. Suddenly, the whole damn building burst into flames.”
“No-o!” Terror gripped Betsy as she clutched the doorjamb. “No!”
* * *
ALTHOUGH BETSY KEPT a constant vigil at her husband’s bedside, dressing his many wounds, spooning warm broth into his mouth and doing all she could to lessen his pain, in a few short days her beloved John, his limp head cradled in her arms, drew his final breath.
Two cold winter days later, Betsy, still numb with grief, followed behind the men who hefted John’s casket aloft and carried it to the graveyard adjacent to Christ Church on nearby Second Street. Standing next to John’s sister Joanna, Betsy’s eyes filled with tears as the church bells tolled a dull thud in her ears. Huddled together, they watched the men pitch clods of hard black earth onto the plain pine box containing John’s broken body.
“How will I manage without him?” Betsy murmured through her tears.
“You will put your faith in God and know that He is watching over you. And John will also be watching.”
Alone now and a widow at four and twenty, Betsy Ross slowly returned to her home on Mulberry Street; her world and the life she had believed would go on forever, now taken from her forever.