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JULY 1776, PHILADELPHIA
The following week, Colonel George Ross called at Betsy’s shop to retrieve the flags she’d completed and to compensate her for making them. Betsy was vastly relieved when he paid her in coin as opposed to the freshly minted Bills of Credit Congress had authorized in an effort to defray military expenses. All thirteen colonies were now issuing paper money, called Continentals, which, despite their official status, everyone suspected weren’t worth the ink it took to print them.
Colonel Ross seemed pleased with Betsy’s work and promised to refer her services to the commanders of local regiments in the hope they’d commission her to fashion colors for them. “You may very well become Philadelphia’s premier flag-maker.”
Uplifted by her former uncle-in-law’s promise of referrals, Betsy turned to the mending on her worktable and prayed that additional work would soon follow. Although pleased to once again have cash in hand, she soon realized that after paying the back rent she owed and discharging a few other debts, she’d have little to nothing left in her pocket. Uncle Abel would have to wait a bit longer to receive what she owed him.
* * *
ONE SUNNY DAY IN EARLY July, Sarah stopped in to visit. “I pray this dreadful war will end soon,” she fretted.
The day being especially warm, both girls untied the long sleeves in their gowns and pulled chairs nearer the opened window in Betsy’s parlor while they sipped mugs of cold tea.
“So, Joseph brought tea?” Sarah marveled. “I recall he was quite keen on you before you wed John.”
Betsy nodded, a bit absently as thoughts of Captain Ashburn were not uppermost in her mind. The previous evening, she’d attended another Fighting Quaker meeting and tomorrow afternoon, she and Minette and her brother François, and Emma planned to attend the public reading of the document the Congress had recently ratified called the Declaration of Independence. Betsy was especially looking forward to seeing M’sieur Dubeau again.
“I’ve received two letters from William,” Sarah announced. Setting aside her mug, she reached for her reticule. “One, written quite some time ago, concerns his mission with Henry Knox, which is now complete. The second one,” she sighed, “contains quite lowering news.” Unfolding the crumpled pages, she declared, “William has decided to stay on.”
“He has agreed to fight?” Betsy exclaimed. “But he is a Quaker.”
Sarah’s head shook. “I never expected he would fight.”
“Evidently he believes as strongly as John did in independence.” A moment later, Betsy asked anxiously, “How are you getting on without Toby’s help?”
“Our parents have been sending George ‘round. I do wish they’d let him look in on you. Our little brother is quite grown up now.” She paused. “I would expect you’d miss Toby far more than I. He seemed to spend a good deal more time helping you than he did me. I am especially grateful Joseph is coming to see you. He will be a great help.”
Betsy said nothing. She hadn’t told Sarah about finding Toby’s locked box, or the intruder. Believing that nasty business was now behind her, she saw no need to speak of it again. She also hadn’t told Sarah about joining the Fighting Quakers, or meeting Minette’s brother, François. No doubt Sarah would also disapprove of her interest in a foreigner.
“Shall I read bits of William’s letter to you?”
“Indeed.” Betsy sipped the cool tea. “Wherever William is, I pray he is safe.”
Sarah scanned the page skipping past the intimate passages meant only for her. “He says that our army appears quite rag-tag, that none of the men have proper uniforms, most wear the clothing they joined up in, homespun shirts and britches of every color; cowhide shoes or moccasins, tattered caps or broad-brimmed hats. He says they have very little to eat.” Her chin trembled. “It breaks my heart to know my dear husband wants for food.
“He says the bread they’re given is hard enough to break a rat’s teeth; and that if they have meat, they stick the flesh on a stick and cook it over an open flame. He says it gets black on the outside and stays raw on the inside but the men are so hungry they eat it anyway. He says they prepare something called fire-cakes, from flour and water. I assume it to be some sort of bread. He says it also blackens on the outside but stays raw on the inside.”
“Sounds as if fire-cakes never get hard enough to break a rat’s teeth,” Betsy murmured.
Sarah smiled sadly. “He says that now the days and nights are warmer, the men forgo sleeping in their tents and simply stretch out on the ground, but that it’s difficult to stay asleep due to the flies and mosquitoes and the call of the whippoorwills.”
“To be serenaded by whippoorwills sounds peaceful,” Betsy said. “Does he say anything of . . . actual fighting with the British?”
“He says the British prefer to attack on the Sabbath, since they believe God is on their side then. He says during a recent skirmish the enemy drove them into a creek and showered them all with grapeshot.” The letter fell to her lap as Sarah covered her face with both hands. “Oh, Betsy, I cannot say how it saddens me to think of William fighting.”
Betsy reached to squeeze her sister’s hand. “God will keep William safe, Sarah.” Never had she thought her own countrymen would fight against their English brothers. To hear actual accounts of battle from someone she knew made the war seem all too real.
Two years ago when the first proud Philadelphia sons had marched off to war, it had all seemed quite festive then with the thunder of horses’ hooves on the cobbles and the shuffle of men’s feet as they marched to the beat of the fife and drum. She recalled when the parade passed by her shop, pretty girls rushed up to give the soldiers a peck on the cheek and that the boys had blushed and grinned. She supposed the whole thrilling sight would be repeated again tomorrow afternoon following the public reading of the new proclamation.
“War is indeed wretched,” Betsy said aloud as her sister tucked away her precious letter.
“Will you pray with me, Betsy?”
“Indeed.” Kneeling on the floor before the sofa, both girls folded their hands. Later, after extracting a promise from Sarah to call again soon, Betsy bade her beloved sister farewell.
* * *
“WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS to be self-evident . . . that all men are created equal . . . that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
Applause, cheers and shrill whistles arose from the crowd gathered on the grassy slope of the new State House building on Chestnut Street that sunny July afternoon. Congressman John Nixon’s deep baritone carried to the far reaches of the crowd as he read aloud the document that nearly every delegate from all thirteen colonies had signed.
“Isn’t it thrilling?” cried Emma Peters standing between Betsy and Minette and her brother François that hot afternoon.
“Indeed.” Betsy applauded along with everyone else during the pauses that followed each and every phrase of the beautifully written manifesto.
Church bells had begun to peal early that morning and continued to ring throughout the sultry afternoon. At the conclusion of Mr. Nixon’s speech, a parade composed of dozens of foot soldiers and more on horseback, one man from each regiment carrying a flag depicting the company’s theme such as a coiled snake, a bear, crossed muskets, or some such fanciful symbol, marched past the State House. A thrill raced through Betsy when she caught sight of General Washington, resplendent in his buff and blue uniform, astride his huge white stallion, the Continental army following behind him. Upon reaching the State House, General Washington paused to wave and nod at the cheering crowd. Betsy squealed with delight when she spotted the very flag she’d sewn with her own hands fluttering in the breeze beside the great leader.
“Look! Our flag!” Emma cried, pointing to the red, white and blue banner. “The one we sewed stars onto!”
Thunderous cheers and applause drowned out Betsy’s reply. Accompanying the tramp of the infantrymen’s feet and the rumble of artillery wheels, the lilting sounds of the fife and drum filled every heart with pride, renewing their determination to win this bitter battle for freedom.
Later that afternoon, the stirring words of the Declaration of Independence still ringing in their ears and the spectacle of the parade still dancing before their eyes, Betsy and her friends walked from the State House up Sixth Street to North East Square. The pretty tree-lined park soon filled up with scores of other Patriots crying “Freedom or die!” and “Lobster-backs, go home!” Betsy, Minette and Emma and their gentlemen friends, Jack Thompson and Caleb Lawton, all settled down to enjoy a picnic luncheon and watch the parade pass by all over again.
Betsy’s shining gaze met that of the handsome Frenchman, François Dubeau. “How fortunate that you arrived in Philadelphia in time to experience this glorious occasion along with the rest of us, sir.”
He nodded. “Our fighting men are . . . very brave.”
“Will you be marching off to join the rebels?” Betsy asked, excitement evident in her tone.
François did not respond at once. At length, he said, “I am needed at home. My parent’s grasp of the language is . . . sorely lacking.”
Betsy smiled. “I have noticed Minette often mixes up her words.”
“I was fortunate to learn the language whilst living in England. I mean now to teach my family what I have learned.”
His remark corroborated what Minette had said; that her brother had studied in England. Still, Betsy thought the handsome gentleman did not seem quite as elated as the rest of them. But, perhaps being a foreigner, he had not yet fully grasped the plight of his newly adopted country. She continued to try and draw out the Frenchman but apart from teaching his parents the language he gave only cursory answers to her questions without elaborating upon anything.
Later that evening as she thought back on the day, she realized that while François was a pleasant and agreeable young man, he often seemed guarded, even evasive, going out of his way to never divulge anything of a personal nature about himself. Moreover, throughout that long afternoon, he’d never asked a single question of her. Apart from knowing she was a seamstress, he knew nothing about her. Eventually she concluded that perhaps it was his aloofness that made him seem so intriguing. That, and his dark good looks. Joseph, on the other hand, kept no secrets. He was always open and forthcoming; but perhaps that was because they’d known one another since childhood.
Of a sudden, another prick of guilt stabbed Betsy. It had been six long months since John died and although she would never cease loving him, she was slowly coming to realize that life was for the living. Already she’d begun to long for the husband and family John’s death had denied her. Was it too soon to be thinking of another man, or was she merely a young lady with ordinary wants and desires?