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BEYOND ASKING THE QUESTIONS she’d already asked, Betsy had no clue how to conduct an investigation. Where did one begin? Should she attempt to look for a suspect? How did one go about doing that? Of only one thing was she fairly certain. The motive was sabotage . . . unless; the explosion truly was an accident. But not for a minute did she believe that. Unfortunately, with Sarah now gone, she could not devote all day every day to her investigation since she also had to earn a living. Not only did she owe four months back rent on the shop but in the short time she and John were married, they’d racked up a mountain of debt with merchants all over town, including the apothecary who’d been kind enough to send over whatever medicines or ointments Betsy requested after John was injured. Somehow she had to climb her way out of debt and conduct an investigation. How to accomplish both gnawed at her both day and night.
Thankfully, in the next few weeks, a slow but steady stream of work began to trickle in. But it took nearly every cent Betsy earned to purchase logs for the kitchen fire and food for the table. Whatever was left over she set aside to go toward paying off the back rent she owed. She was exceedingly grateful that Sarah continued to send Toby Grimes around. Being a petite person, Betsy found simply carrying logs into the house an arduous task. Without Toby’s help, she didn’t know how she’d cart them down the steep steps to the underground kitchen.
In late April, in an effort to learn more about what was politically afoot in Philadelphia, perhaps even who was responsible for the warehouse explosion, Betsy decided to join a group called Fighting Quakers, composed mainly of people like herself, who for one reason or another had been read out of Meeting. Most members still clung to the traditional Quaker belief against fighting or bearing arms, but these particular men had declared that if necessary they would indeed sling a musket over a shoulder in order to fight for their rights as independent Americans. John had attended several meetings, but Betsy, fearing women would not be welcome, hadn’t gone with him. When John came home from the last meeting he attended saying that several young ladies with whom Betsy was acquainted had been there, she had planned to attend the next meeting with him. That time never came. Now, Betsy decided to join the rebel group; although she’d keep her decision to herself. Sarah would only scoff at her stubborn refusal to abandon her quest for the truth.
Unfortunately at the first Fighting Quaker meeting Betsy attended, she learned only that, contrary to what many Philadelphians believed after the liberation of Boston, the war was far from over. Instead, the British evacuating that city merely left General Washington . . . who’d been awarded a gold medal for accomplishing the feat without sacrificing a single rebel in the process . . . now wondering when and where the British would strike next?
Even today, fighting was taking place in far away Canada, a matter of particular concern to Sarah, whose mental state was fast spiraling towards depression over the fact that William had not yet returned home. To Betsy’s chagrin, throughout that first month as a Fighting Quaker member, she did not hear anyone mention sabotage of any sort. That she was making no headway whatever with her investigation only made her more determined than ever to uncover the truth.
* * *
AWARE IN MAY WHEN THE second Continental Congress convened in Philadelphia and statesmen from nearly all thirteen colonies descended upon the city, Betsy was pleasantly surprised one spring afternoon when a delegation of high-ranking Congressmen, amongst them General George Washington himself, with whom Betsy was acquainted from Christ Church where she and John had worshipped and she continued to, and John’s uncle, Colonel George Ross, called at her shop. Delighted to receive such esteemed callers, Betsy brewed a pot of tea, using the last of the leaves Sarah had brought, and served it to the gentlemen. Because Toby was there, she asked him to carry the heavy tray up the stairs to the parlor. Before the men left that afternoon, she was thrilled when they asked her to sew a large banner representing the unification of the thirteen colonies. Overjoyed by the commission, Betsy offered up a prayer of thanksgiving to God for bringing her such an important and lucrative piece of work.
A few days later, Betsy folded up the enormous silk banner she’d created, consisting of red and white stripes with thirteen five-pointed stars, one for each of the thirteen colonies arranged in a circle on a blue canton, and carried the package to the State House on Chestnut Street to present to the delegation. The gentlemen were so pleased with her work that they ordered a dozen more flags just like it. Betsy was thrilled beyond measure. Although the men did front her a sum of money to purchase bunting for the new banners, she had yet to be paid for the task, therefore, she had no choice but to live on expectations of the vast sum of money she would eventually receive.
In order to complete the time-consuming project, she sat up long into many nights industriously stitching on the enormous flags by candlelight. The sooner she finished the job, the sooner she could satisfy the landlord’s persistent demands for the back rent she owed. Lately, she’d begun to feel guilty that Sarah continued to pay young Toby’s wages. Especially since he seemed to spend the better part of every day at Betsy’s shop rather than helping Sarah.
One morning, Betsy’s Uncle Abel stopped in to see her.
“I’m on my way back from City Tavern and thought I’d check on you,” the elderly Quaker said by way of explaining his unexpected call.
Betsy knew her uncle went every morning to City Tavern, a meeting place for businessmen in Philadelphia who wished to learn which ships had sailed into the harbor during the night and which were expected to arrive that day. Betsy invited her uncle into her parlor where she was hard at work on the Continental banners.
“Please, sit down.” A hand indicated a chair opposite the sofa where her work was spread out around her. “I’m sorry I haven’t anything to offer you, Uncle Abel, no coffee, or tea.”
“No matter.” The white-haired gentleman smiled. “I have it on good authority that anyone caught drinking English tea in New York is arrested on the spot. Loyalist citizens gleefully turn over their Patriot neighbors who still have tea on hand, to the authorities.”
Betsy sighed. “What a dreadful pass our world has come to.”
“Tell me how you’re getting on, my girl, now that you’re alone.”
“I am bearing up.” Betsy smiled somewhat tightly. “With the Lord’s help.”
“You seem to have garnered a nice bit of business.”
“I do have quite a large commission before me now.” Betsy told her uncle about the new flags she was making for General Washington and held one up to show him.
“Very nice, my dear. And do you have sufficient supplies on hand to complete the project?”
“I have plenty of bunting for this task. However, were a customer to want new draperies, or a sofa or chair upholstered, I’ve nothing suitable on hand, no damask, or silk, or linen.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
Though she’d welcome her uncle’s assistance, Betsy shook her head. “Thank you for your kind offer, Uncle Abel, but I’ve no money to pay for whatever fabric you could supply.”
“I extended you and John credit when you first opened your shop doors. You are every bit as talented and resourceful as he was. I am quite confident in your ability to carry on, my dear.”
“Thank you, Uncle Abel. Your confidence in me means a great deal.”
“As it happens, I am expecting a large shipment of piece goods: Chinese silk, bombazine, harrenteen, cheney, damask, velvet, even brass tacks and chair nails. If you’d like me to set some parcels aside for you, I will be glad to extend you credit. What say you?”
“Oh, Uncle Abel,” Betsy breathed, “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, indeed. Once I’ve been paid for this project, I hope to settle the remainder of my debts and have enough left over to see me through several more months. I should be able to begin repaying you straightaway for whatever goods you provide.”
“So it is settled, then. In the meantime . . .” The distinguished Quaker rose and reaching into the pocket of his frock coat, withdrew a pouch jingling with coins. “Perhaps this will help see you through.” He dropped the pouch onto a nearby table. “Consider it a gift from an uncle to his favorite niece.” An indulgent grin spread over his still strong features.
Relief washed over Betsy’s face as she set aside her work. “Thank you ever so, Uncle Abel.” She followed the older man into the corridor that separated the parlor from the shop.
“I’ll send a note ‘round later this week telling you when my ship is expected to dock, or you can stop by City Tavern, if you like.”
“You are too kind, Uncle Abel.”
“To help you is always a pleasure, my dear.”
* * *
BETSY KNEW SHE WAS not the only shopkeeper in Philadelphia scrambling for business. Merchants all over the city were having a difficult time obtaining goods to stock their shelves. Since mandates from the crown had halted all imports from England, ships carrying goods were now diverted to the West Indies before being allowed to dock. Only after the value of the shipment was tabulated and a judgment made on how to disperse the goods was a ship allowed to put into harbor. Betsy had no idea from where, or how, her uncle was procuring supplies but so long as the Implementation Officials who patrolled the wharfs and inspected the cargoes of every ship that arrived in Philadelphia found nothing amiss; that was good enough for her. As a highly respected Quaker businessman, and therefore perceived to be a Loyalist, Betsy knew her uncle’s fealty to the crown went unquestioned.
A few mornings later, although it was not yet seven of the clock, Betsy was up, dressed and anxious to get to market. After making her purchases, she planned to head over to City Tavern to consult with her uncle. Snatching up her basket, she flung open the door of her shop, and as usual, left it unlocked behind her before she hurried down the sloping thoroughfare toward the waterfront. Although the sun had not yet burned off the fog that crept inland every night off the Delaware River, the city was already bustling with activity. Other women, also hurrying to market, joined her on the brick flagway, most calling out friendly greetings, although most went unheard above the noise of carts and wagons clattering by on the cobbled street.
Nearing the open-air market on High Street, farmer’s wagons, some still loaded with produce . . . potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbages, and corn . . . lined both sides of the busy thoroughfare. Attempting to maneuver her way across the thronged street, Betsy nearly collided with a lanky youth whose head was ducked against the brisk wind sweeping up from the river.
“Beg pardon, Miz Ross.” The young man politely touched the brim of his cap. “Didn’t ‘spect to see you out and about so early, ma’am.”
“Good morning, Toby.” Betsy paused for a fleeting second. “The door is unlocked. Bring in logs for the fire, please, and put the kettle on. I’m off to market. If anyone stops in, tell them I shall return straightaway.”
“Yes, ‘um. I’ll also tidy up the workroom and sweep off the stoop for ye, ma’am.”
“There’s a good lad,” Betsy called over her shoulder as she hurried away.
Upon entering the marketplace, Betsy made her way around the colorful stalls manned by apple-cheeked farmers, butchers wiping bloody hands on their aprons, and sleepy-eyed city merchants hoping to earn a few extra shillings before returning to their shops for the day. Choosing carefully, Betsy managed to fit all her purchases into her basket, then quickly made her way back up Second Street to City Tavern to ask Uncle Abel if the ship he’d been expecting had sailed into the harbor. She hoped that in addition to a dozen or more bolts of fine fabric, her parcels would also contain tape and braid, canvas webbing, tacks and upholstery pins, and, of course, spools and spools of multi-colored thread. She recalled how excited she and John had been when their first shipment of supplies had arrived back when they first opened their shop doors. It had been months since she’d felt anything akin to excitement, but small tremors of it surged through her now.
She found City Tavern also crowded and noisy that morning. After locating her uncle and exchanging greetings with him, the older man told his niece that, indeed, the ship they’d been awaiting had been spotted on the horizon and should dock in a few hours.
“I expect to be at quayside the bulk of the day so it will likely be tomorrow before I can dispatch a driver to deliver your goods.”
“Oh.” Betsy’s face fell.
Abel James smiled. “You may send Toby around this evening to fetch my cart and the pair of you can load up your supplies tonight, if you like.”
“Oh.” Betsy brightened. “Thank you, Uncle Abel.” She turned to go, then turned back. “How will I know . . .?”
“I’ll send ‘round the official receipt which you’ll need to present to the excise officer when you arrive at the quay. It contains all the necessary information to collect your parcels.”
Betsy’s smiled broadened. “I cannot thank you enough, Uncle Abel.”
“My pleasure to help you, girl.” The Quaker merchant escorted the pretty little widow through the crowded tavern to the door. Apparently it had not escaped his notice that her appearance in the predominately male-dominated arena was garnering undue attention. “I promised John before he died that I’d look out for you, Betsy.”
* * *
THAT NIGHT, SEATED beside Toby on the bench of her uncle’s cart as they approached the wharf, a delicate chair whose seat cushion Betsy had mended that afternoon stood upright in the bed of the wagon. Betsy’s long gaze took in above half a dozen stately schooners, their square-rigged sails straining against the breeze as the huge ships swayed in the choppy water. Even this late in the day, the wooden piers jutting out over the river still buzzed with activity. Men shouted orders amid horse-drawn conveyances rumbling over the cobbled street, it littered with crates, chests and kegs that had been unloaded but as yet unclaimed. Once again excitement arose within Betsy as she climbed down from the cart to search out the excise officer to whom she must first present her receipt before being allowed to claim her parcels.
“Deliver the chair to Mrs. Martinson, Toby, then come straight back here,” she instructed. “By then I shall know which packages are ours and we can load them up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Toby replied cheerfully. A cluck of his tongue and a quick shake of the reins set the brown mare in front of him in motion.
A half hour later, her mission complete, Betsy stood alone amongst the clutter on the wharf, her stamped receipt in hand as she scanned the cobbled street for Toby and the cart. The brisk wind off the Delaware River caused her long gray skirt to flap about her legs. What was keeping the boy? Not a patient person by nature, Betsy soon began to feel more than a tad bit irritable over being left stranded on the crowded quay. Toby had had sufficient time now to drive back and forth to Mrs. Martinson’s home at least thrice. At length, Betsy began to pick her way along the cluttered dock in the direction she expected Toby to be coming. On the opposite side of the wharf, warehouses eventually gave way to noisy pubs and taverns, which, Betsy noted were already full of bawdy sailors and . . . women of a dubious sort. More than once, she was obliged to step aside as a drunken sailor, reeking of sweat and sour ale, stumbled onto the flagway.
“Hey, mateys! Look what I foun’!” A bleary-eyed limey leered at Betsy. “Wha’s yer name, swee-heart?”
Refusing to answer the uncivilized query, Betsy thrust up her chin and skirted past the inebriated seaman. Her agitation mounted as she crossed one narrow alleyway after another all the while spotting nary a sight of Toby or the cart. Upon reaching the very street upon which Mrs. Martinson lived, she turned and marched up to the door of the fine home and inquired if Toby had yet delivered the chair she’d sent over.
“Indeed, he has, Mrs. Ross,” the maid replied. “Your boy was here above half an hour ago.”
Quite beside herself now, Betsy retraced her steps back to the pier. Where was Toby? In the weeks he’d been coming around, he’d never once given her a moment’s concern. He’d dispatched every duty she’d given him with a sense of urgency and responsibility. Where could the boy have got off to now? Toby was not the sort to dawdle; nor would he pop into a pub for a quick nip.
Although she didn’t expect to see him inside an alehouse, she did pause to peer through the mullioned windows of several crowded taverns. She did not spot Toby, but in the common room of one of the more respectable establishments, she did catch sight of her Uncle Abel enjoying a leisurely supper at a table surrounded by a half dozen of his acquaintances.
Betsy hurried away before her uncle spotted her looking in. Darkness was full upon the city now and the night air felt quite chilly. She pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders even as more sailors poured from the wharf onto the flagway. She shouldn’t be on the dock at this hour. Even during the day, quayside was not a desirable area for a woman; after dark, it was downright foolhardy for a lady to be here.
Hurrying up the cobbled lane, Betsy attempted to keep to the walkway but found doing so nigh on impossible as the passageway was narrow and in some places, non-existent. When yet another knot of sailors, deep in their cups, approached her, she ducked into a dimly lit alleyway to avoid colliding with the seamen who were having a difficult time holding one another up. Betsy’s blue eyes rolled skyward as she waited for the rowdy riff-raff to pass by.
Suddenly above the din and confusion on the waterfront, other sounds claimed her attention. Casting a curious gaze over one shoulder, Betsy spotted two shadowy figures scuffling further up the alleyway. By the dim lamplight filtering through a half-opened door, she was able to ascertain that one of the men was considerably larger than the other, although the slight one was holding his own in a valiant attempt to ward off his attacker’s blows. Grunts and curses punctuated their struggle. A rush of sympathy for the smaller fellow overtook Betsy and without thinking, she cried, “Let him go!”
Her cry caused the larger man to glance up. Unable to see his face, she was stunned when suddenly, he flattened the boy against the wall and with a single lunge, thrust what appeared to be a knife into the smaller fellow’s midsection. Without a sound, the slight man crumpled to the ground as his burly attacker fled.
Stunned, Betsy leapt into action. “Stop!” she cried, dashing into the alleyway. Nearing the figure crumpled on the ground, she sank to her knees. The boy’s head hung limply to one side. Recognizing him at once, Betsy gasped, “Toby!”
Her stomach lurched when her gaze dropped to his shirtfront already stained by a great quantity of crimson blood. More pooled beneath him as it freely poured from a gash in his neck.
“Toby! Who did this?”
At the sound of her voice, the boy’s eyelids fluttered and his chalk-white lips attempted to move, but Betsy could see that his strength was fast ebbing away.
“I’ll fetch help!”
Springing to her feet, she ran all the way back to the alehouse where only minutes earlier she’d spotted her uncle through the tavern window. Every step she took, she prayed he’d still be there. He was, and, the very second Betsy told him that Toby lay wounded in an alleyway; he and two of his companions lurched to their feet.
Clutching Betsy’s arm, Abel James steered her toward the door. “Robert, see my niece home. Harry, fetch the Watch, and bring my wagon around. Don’t fret about your goods, Betsy; I’ll have someone deliver them to you. I’ll take Toby home and have my wife patch him up.”
Betsy and the men fairly ran down the street. Tears trickled down Betsy’s cheeks as she hurried to keep up with her uncle’s long strides. “You’ll tell me how Toby fares, will you not?”
After Betsy thanked the gentleman her uncle had dispatched to see her home, she hurried inside and shakily locked the door of her shop, then realized she’d been so overset when she’d rushed into the tavern to fetch Uncle Abel she had neglected to give him the receipt with which to claim her goods. Nor had she told him she had actually witnessed the crime.