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THROUGHOUT THE BLUR of days that followed, ladies from Christ Church rapped at Betsy’s door bringing food and well wishes. Husbands were dispatched to the woodpile behind the Ross home to carry in logs for the fire, and to pump fresh water from the public well on the corner. Betsy scarcely knew when her visitors arrived, or when they departed.
One day as she lay in bed, an insistent rap at the door roused her from a fitful slumber. When it appeared the caller would simply not leave, Betsy dragged herself to her feet and pulled a wrapper on over her nightshift. Not caring who’d come to call or what they wanted, she numbly crept down the stairs to peek from the front window. A small smile lifted the corners of her pale lips when she saw it was Sarah, the only member of her family brave enough to risk censure from the Quaker elders by coming to see her. Her older sister had stopped in regularly when Betsy was nursing John’s wounds.
“I’ve brought food,” Sarah said as she entered the darkened house when Betsy finally pulled open the door. Though the sisters resembled one another, Sarah’s light brown hair and blue eyes seemed insipid next to Betsy’s vibrant coloring. Sarah, wearing a tattered gray cloak over her traditional Hodden gray gown, walked briskly through the shop to the parlor. “I’ll wager you’ve not been eating properly, if at all.” The sound of Sarah’s voice diminished as she hurried through the tall, narrow house.
Like most dwellings on Mulberry Street, the ground floor of Betsy’s home contained only two rooms; the one facing the street served as the shop while the rear chamber with an adjacent pantry was the family’s private parlor. John had painted the walls of both rooms a cheery lemon yellow and in the early days of their marriage, Betsy kept the planked wooden floors shiny with beeswax. At one end of the parlor stood a fireplace framed with pretty blue and white Dutch tiles. A small drop-leaf table and chairs sat pushed against the sidewall; a cupboard holding pewter plates and Betsy’s precious china teacups rested against the back wall. On those rare occasions when Betsy and John had had a guest for dinner, the parlor also served as the dining chamber.
Slumping onto the sofa before the hearth, Betsy didn’t notice that the fire consisted merely of a few charred logs resting upon a bed of white ash. She also did not notice Sarah setting out two bowls on the table or pulling open the lower drawer of the cupboard to retrieve a pair of spoons.
“Have you tea made?” Sarah asked without looking up. “If not, I shall make some.”
Dragging her wrapper closer about her body, Betsy muttered, “I have no tea. Nor any bread, or meat, for all that.”
Sarah’s brows snapped together. “You cannot continue on in this fashion, Betsy. I have decided it best that you come and live with me. I shall brook no objection.” She paused as if expecting to hear one. “So . . . there’s an end to it. After we eat, we shall gather up a few of your things and . . .”
“John would not want me to abandon the shop.” Betsy pushed aside the tangled chestnut curl that dangled over her brow.
“John also would not want you to perish from neglect.” Sarah gazed down upon her sister, her legs tucked beneath her body in an attempt to stay warm. “I daresay you have not brushed your hair in a sen’night.”
“I have no reason to brush my hair.”
Sarah bustled from the room. Betsy heard her footfalls ascending the steep stairs to her bedchamber in search of her hairbrush, she assumed.
“There,” Sarah said minutes later, after she’d tugged the stiff bristles through her sister’s thick tresses. “At least you look a far sight better. Now, let’s get some food into your stomach.”
Betsy couldn’t recall when she’d last eaten. Or what she’d eaten. But, she admitted, the Brunswick stew and cornbread Sarah had brought tasted good.
“It feels quite cold in here,” Sarah exclaimed moments after both girls had finished their meal and moved to the sofa. She directed a gaze toward the smoldering embers. “You need fresh logs for the fire, Betsy, and water with which to wash. You need help. If you refuse to live with me; then I shall come and stay with you a spell.” She held up a hand. “Just until you get back on your feet.”
“But what of William?”
“My husband has gone. After reading, nay devouring, the pamphlet everyone is reading now called Common Sense in which the author declares that: ‘the time for deliberation is over and action must now be taken,’ William answered a call for volunteers from a man named Henry Knox at an obscure fort somewhere up north called Ti . . . con-der . . . osa, or . . . oga; I am not certain which. At any rate, the rebels are attempting to cart the heavy artillery they confiscated from the British all the way from this fort-place down to Boston.” Sarah’s voice faltered. “It seems an impossible task to me and I cannot fathom William’s reason for wanting to assist. William is a Quaker. He will not fight.”
Sarah’s distress seemed to jerk Betsy from her own. She reached for her sister’s hand. “If William refuses to fight, he should remain safe, Sarah.” Her tone was gentle.
“I pray that will be the case.” Sarah sniffed. “Do forgive me, Betsy, I do not mean to diminish your loss.”
Betsy gazed into the sputtering flames. “Truth be told, I’ve come to realize that if John hadn’t died when he did that . . . he, too, would have marched off to join the fighting.” A rush of tears clouded her vision. “John believed so very strongly in the Patriot Cause.”
“As do we all,” Sarah murmured. “I expect that’s why William wants to assist.” After a pause, she said, “Even our parents are suffering from this wretched war. Father says the king is making it far too difficult for any of us to scratch out a living. I suppose the time has indeed come for us to declare our independence.” She turned a questioning gaze on Betsy. “But who shall we be if we are not English subjects? Who shall be our king? We’ve no royalty in the colonies.”
Betsy shifted on the sofa. “I suppose they’ll dig up some distant kin of a royal duke or earl and declare him king. Or . . .” she absently twisted a strand of chestnut hair, “. . . perhaps we shall become a different sort of nation, sovereign unto ourselves. At least . . . that is what . . .” her voice fell to barely above a whisper, “John used to say.”
“Well, that seems a rather odd notion to me. How shall we get on without a king?”
Despite the pain still searing her heart, Betsy’s back straightened. “Perhaps His Excellency General Washington will become king and his wife Martha our queen. We already address her as Lady Washington.” Hearing echoes of John’s voice in her head fervently speaking of freedom and independence, her chin trembled. “John said that to declare our independence from the crown is a far sight better than to remain slaves to the King of England.” Repeating his words caused fresh anguish to grip her insides. “John says,” she faltered. “John said we could all be hung for treason if we refuse to obey Parliament’s laws, which . . . he says . . . said, are designed to keep us enslaved.”
Sarah gazed at her younger sister. “You seem to have quite a good grasp on the matter, Betsy.”
“John had a good grasp.” Tears pooled in Betsy’s already red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, Sarah, how shall I go on without him?”
Sarah drew her sister’s trembling body close. “Dear Betsy, I know how deeply you cared for John, but it has been weeks now since he perished. You really must give a thought to yourself and to your own future. Surely you do not mean to carry on your upholstery business without John. You are a woman; you cannot manage a business alone. And with goods so very scarce now . . . why, the shelves of the apothecary shop and the mercantile are very nearly empty. Only Loyalist merchants continue to prosper. God only knows from where they procure goods.”
Betsy sniffed back her tears. “John said Loyalists survive because they believe the crown has every right to levy taxes upon us. And since they openly pledge their allegiance to the king, they manage still to receive goods, although . . . not even John knew from where.”
“If our little army is not successful against the British soon, I fear we shall all be hanged as traitors to the crown. Is that how it is to end for us, I mean, for those of us who are not Loyalists?”
Betsy bit her lower lip before replying. Repeating John’s sentiments felt like ripping her heart from her chest, but somehow it . . . also made it seem as if he were . . . still here. “John said that since the king has never visited us, he has no idea how modern we’ve become, or that we’re quite capable of managing our own affairs.” Speaking his words aloud seemed to lift some of the cobwebs from her mind. “I, too, believe we can manage very well on our own.”
Sarah gazed raptly at her younger sister. “But would you fight for what you believe?”
Suddenly the words she’d just spoken, that she believed colonists could manage very well on their own, sent a fresh surge of strength through Betsy, as if John truly were right here, telling her she was strong, that she could go on, without him.
Betsy slowly rose to her feet and reached for the poker. Prodding the remnants of the charred logs, she managed to coax one small flame to life. She watched the tiny orange finger of fire grow stronger and brighter, then, she leaned the poker back up against the bricks and returned to the sofa. “I believe I would fight, Sarah. In his own way, John was already fighting this war. He believed it was his duty to guard that warehouse full of muskets and ammunition so if the British marched this far south, our militiamen would have sufficient weapons on hand with which to fight. My John gave his life for the Patriot Cause, the same as if he were killed in a bloody battle in New England.” Fresh tears pooled in Betsy’s eyes. “Oh, Sarah, John is dead . . . what am I to do? Where am I to turn?”
Again, Sarah enfolded her sister’s trembling body in her arms. “I am alone now, too, Betsy, and I am also frightened. Please let me stay with you a spell; at least until William returns home.”
Betsy dried her tears. John’s sister Joanna was right. She had no choice but to trust that God and John were watching over her. As long as she remained in this house, John would be right here with her; and now God had sent Sarah to help steady her. She gave her sister a shaky smile. “Very well, Sarah. We shall help one another cope.”
* * *
IN FEBRUARY, NEWSPAPERS reported that skirmishes between the rebels and the British had been fought in several colonies fronting the Atlantic. Because Philadelphians hadn’t realized the rebellion had reached the southern colonies, they were surprised to learn that a battle at a place called Moore’s Creek Bridge had been fought in faraway North Carolina. They were also shocked to learn that Royal Governor Dunmore of Virginia had actually ordered colonists to set fire to the village of Norfolk when his demand for recruits and provisions for the British army went ignored by the Patriots! Clear to Betsy and Sarah now was that the entire country was at war and the fighting would not cease until the Continental Army declared victory.
Every day, Betsy thanked God that Sarah was there to keep her company. And with each passing day, she felt her grief lessen and her thoughts return to the future. One bright sunny day she put a sign in the window stating that beyond upholstering chairs and sofas, and fashioning draperies and bed hangings, she also made ladies clothing. She fervently hoped the sign would bring in some much-needed new business. With John gone and the war escalating her ready cash was fast dwindling to nothing. Right after John was injured the landlord had graciously ceased to badger her about the back rent she owed, but she was now four months behind. She fully expected the man to come knocking on her door any day now.
Helping the girls with the heavy chores was the young man Sarah’s husband had hired to lend a hand whilst he was away, a sixteen-year-old youth named Toby Grimes. Toby’s father was one of those zealous men who’d marched off to fight at the onset of the war, leaving behind a wife and four children. A responsible young man, it was clearly evident Toby was doing his best to care for his abandoned family. Every morning, he carted in fresh logs for Betsy’s kitchen fire, pumped water from the well, and performed other tasks deemed too arduous for the ladies.
Twice each week on Market Day, Betsy and Sarah walked down Mulberry Street to the open-air stalls where they purchased fresh milk, meat, and produce from farmers who brought their goods into town to sell. One crisp morning in mid-March, excitement fairly crackled throughout the marketplace as everyone talked about how General Washington’s Patriot army had stormed Boston and successfully liberated the city!
“My,” Betsy declared, her blue eyes glittering, “the sight of those redcoats scattering must have been marvelous to behold!”
All around them cries of “The war is over!” and “Lobster-backs go home!” rang out.
“Surely this means William will be coming home soon!” Sarah exclaimed. She and Betsy, both carrying parcels tucked beneath their arms, hurried back up Mulberry Street. “I expect I should get the house ready for him. Do not fret, Betsy, I shall continue to send Toby around to help you and I will also pay his wages. You will allow me to do that for you, will you not?”
Betsy nodded absently. “Yes; thank you, Sarah.” Listening to talk of war just now had brought back images of that terrible night in January when the men brought John home. Those dark days after the explosion, she had been so busy tending his wounds she hadn’t thought to question him about the actual events of that night. What exactly had happened at the warehouse? Had someone overtaken John and set fire to the dozens of cases of gunpowder stored there? Why hadn’t the authorities come to question him the next day? And, why had nothing been said about the explosion since?
“I do not believe you’ve heard a single word I’ve said, Betsy. Is something troubling you?”
“I’ve been thinking about the events of that night.”
“What night?”
“The night of the explosion.”
“Oh,” Sarah said. “I thought you had put all that behind you and were moving forward with your life. With the war over now, everything should return again to normal. I understand you are determined to carry on with your upholstery business, Betsy, you have always been quite headstrong.”
“Indeed, I am headstrong. And I am determined to keep our shop doors open. But I also cannot help wondering about the events of that dreadful night. All I know is that Tom Hull said the warehouse suddenly burst into flames. Just now at the market, I overheard men talking about how British soldiers in the Massachusetts colony had learned where the rebels had stored their muskets and gunpowder and had broken in and stolen everything. Could not the same thing have happened here? Did British soldiers attempt to steal the weapons in the warehouse that night and John tried to stop them? John once said the British were offering gold to Loyalists in Massachusetts who sabotaged the Patriot Cause. The more I think on it, Sarah, the more I’m convinced that a Philadelphia Loyalist was responsible for the explosion; perhaps even rewarded, for setting that fire. Otherwise, why would the warehouse suddenly explode? What caused the explosion?”
“Guns and ammunition were stored there,” Sarah said as if that were sufficient reason to explain an explosion.
“Gunpowder doesn’t just ignite on its own, not during a snowstorm inside a leaky old warehouse. What caused the building to suddenly burst into flames?”
Sarah’s lips thinned. “You have been feeling so well lately, Betsy; please, can you not just let it be?” When her sister said nothing, she added, “Continuing to dwell on the accident will not bring John back. You are needlessly oversetting yourself.”
Betsy was still deep in thought. “Perhaps I could inquire of the night watchman on duty that night. Perhaps he saw something, or even knows precisely what happened.”
“I cannot think that a good idea, Betsy. You simply must put that nasty business behind you. With the war over now, ladies will want to decorate their homes again. They’ll want new bed hangings, and bolsters, and draperies . . .”
“But do you not think it odd that the authorities never launched an investigation? No one ever came to ask John what happened that night.”
“I expect an explosion at a munitions warehouse tells the entire story; an official inquiry was not deemed necessary.”
“But I need to know what happened,” Betsy insisted. “Surely a record exists somewhere telling which night watchman was on duty the night of the explosion.”
Later that day Betsy decided to consult with the girl’s Uncle Abel. As the respected proprietor of James and Drinker Importers, an inquiry from Abel James would be taken seriously. When she and John married, Uncle Abel had helped them acquire the fabric and supplies they needed in order to launch their upholstery business. If Uncle Abel informed Betsy that nothing was amiss that night, she would believe him. Uncle Abel didn’t lie.
A few days later, a message from Abel James arrived at Betsy’s shop. Sarah was above stairs gathering her things in preparation to return to her home that afternoon. Betsy hurriedly unfolded the note and after reading it, ran up the stairs and burst in upon her sister.
“Listen to this, Sarah. Uncle Abel says that the constable did, indeed, recall who had been on duty at the wharf that night because the following morning the man’s frozen body was found floating in the Delaware River just below the Dock Street warehouse!” Betsy’s tone reverberated with agitation. “It was assumed the Watch had slipped on the ice and fallen into the river and was unable to climb out.”
Sarah did not look up from her task of folding up garments and neatly fitting them into an opened valise on the floor. “That sounds reasonable to me, Betsy. The cobbles were icy that night; if you recall, it was not only snowing, it was sleeting.”
“I clearly recall that wretched night, Sarah. But this says nothing about why the warehouse suddenly burst into flames! What if the night watchman did not simply slip and fall into the river, what if he was pushed?”
“Oh, Betsy.” Shaking her head, Sarah looked up. “Surely you do not believe the night watchman was murdered.”
“I do, indeed. I believe that both John and the night watchman were murdered. I believe someone deliberately set fire to the warehouse and in the doing, was seen by the Watch, and to protect himself from being apprehended, the perpetrator silenced the man. Permanently. Or perhaps, before he set the fire, he took the precaution of killing the night watchman and then he . . .”
“Oh, Betsy. Why can you not just let it be? If the authorities do not believe anything was amiss then why must you dredge it all up again?”
“Because I am convinced that my John was murdered! I cannot let it go, Sarah.” Betsy began to pace back and forth between the makeshift bed upon which Sarah had slept and the curtained window in the spare room. “A crime was committed, Sarah; and I will not let it go unpunished! I will not!”