Harold looked only slightly mollified. “Nell, I’ve had all of one day to process their existence. I can’t answer questions like that now. And you’re looking for a story, not simple facts. I’ll admit there could be some drama involved, but I’m not ready to address that.”
“Okay, I understand. Will you be annoyed if the rest of us pursue the drama part? I don’t think any of us can afford to put a lot of time into searching, but we still haven’t fully explored who owned or occupied which house, which in turn could lead to how the cannons came to be there, and who the bodies are. I think the city is obligated to make an effort to identify the dead, and we can help with that.”
“I suppose,” Harold said without much enthusiasm. “Are we ready to go over to the museum now?”
I was annoyed at him, but clearly he had no interest in the people involved with the cannons. Marty, Dylan and I could handle the people on our own. “We can do that, then Marty and Dylan can come back here with me. Okay?” Both Dylan and Marty nodded enthusiastically—I think Harold was getting on everyone’s nerves, but at least he’d given us the information we needed: the cannons were genuine and dated to the 1770s. Now we had to go collect all the rest of the facts.
I would have enjoyed the behind-the-scenes tour of the new museum, which I’d barely skimmed on my only visit, if I had not been trying to work out the whos and whys of the cannons. That they were in some way part of the Revolutionary War effort seemed an obvious guess, but why had they never been put to use? An awful lot of things seemed to have been forgotten in that single block—a crowd of hundreds of burials from a church that no longer existed, and a couple of dozen pristine military weapons and the two bodies that had guarded them in death. But for which side? And apart from the dead men, had no one in the city or either army known that they were there or even that they had existed? It didn’t quite make sense. I had the odd feeling that either we’d find the answer quickly or not at all. After all, how many people kept good records of such a troubled and rapidly changing time, and even if they had, how many of those records had survived? Much less to the level of detail to pinpoint that very specific location.
We stayed at Harold’s museum long enough to be polite, but left as soon as we could: we still had work to do at the Society. As we walked two blocks back, I resumed my role as leader. “All right, troops, we now have a fairly clear date for the cache, around 1775. Of course at that time a year in either direction would make a big difference. We can also assume that the two bodies are from the same era as the cannons, and they may well have died in a single encounter. Don’t protest—I’m making this up as I go, but what I’ve suggested is at least possible. Where do we go from here? Marty?”
“I’m still working on a definitive list of who lived in the block of houses, or if the houses were vacant, who owned them at that time. We’ve already found a bookbinder, but he was active a bit later than our focus, so if anything, he would have been preserving a history of recent events, given the map. Dylan, please keep an eye out for any other insertions—maybe there’s more.” She paused for a moment. “We haven’t discussed the likelihood that the cannons were removed from a ship tied up at a dock on the Delaware River. I mean to ask Harold about it, but I wanted to hang on to some control of this search, and he’s a bit too eager for my taste. But if it was a ship, did it run aground? Was it captured and the contents seized? By which side? And what ship?”
I almost smiled. “Marty, I know the bare minimum about things military in that war, and even less about ships. Feel free to investigate. Dylan, I’ve given you a double load. I asked you to review all of Harriet’s collection and put it in some sort of order, and I also asked that you sketch out a basic family tree for her. Did she always live in Philadelphia? And she never married, so we know her surname, but not much more than that.”
“I can help Dylan with that, at least for the last century or so,” Marty volunteered. “That is, if you don’t mind me butting in, Dylan.”
“I’d really appreciate your help, Ms. Terwilliger,” he said. He sounded like he meant it. He sure was getting a learning experience out of this internship.
“Perfect. I can put together a summary of what we know, at least by the end of today, and present it to Detective Hrivnak, and maybe the medical examiner. It might make their lives easier. Do you think we can finish the basic outline by the end of today? That would keep us in the police’s good graces, and would give us a basic structure for any publicity we get a chance to offer.”
“Works for me,” Marty said. “Dylan, you in?”
“Sure. This really is great stuff. Thanks for including me.”
. “So, we all have our marching orders. Can we meet before opening time tomorrow for a quick once-over of what we’ve got?”
Nods all around.
Dylan was right: this was fun. Of course it was sad that there were so many bodies involved, and that for the two dead men and the cannons, whatever happened had taken place during the early stages of a war. But solving the puzzle—especially one set in the real world, if long ago—was a great and important challenge. “Then let’s get started!”
We parted in different directions to pursue our assigned tasks.
I lost track of time—which often happened to me when I was digging into interesting research—so was surprised when my phone vibrated. It was James—I’d forgotten he was going to give me a ride home. I didn’t see any point to letting Dylan and Marty know I was leaving, since we’d already made out plans for the next day, so I went downstairs to meet him.
“How’s your search going?” James said, although he sounded distracted—traffic was heavier than usual for some reason.
“Good. Harold gave us some solid information. We now believe that the two mystery bodies do date from the eighteenth century, and at least one of them was English. And the cannons are authentic: made in England under King George, all matching, and never fired. Harold was quite excited. However, we have not determined how they ended up under that house and who put them there.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“Marty is looking at property and tax records, censuses and whatever lists of names existed for the later eighteenth century in that neighborhood, which was already pretty well populated at that time. If she can’t find a name to put to the house, nobody in the city can.”
“Agreed. But does it matter?”
I turned to face him. “Of course it does. They are British-made cannons hidden on American soil, at a date that strongly suggests the start of the Revolutionary War. So whose they were is important. And so was who hid them. Which side? If I remember my history correctly, the years around 1775 were pivotal to the war effort. Were the cannons intended to be used in battle, or did someone acquire them and hide them so they wouldn’t be used in battle? Kept hidden from whichever the perpetrator considered the ‘wrong’ side?”
“Interesting,” James commented. “So how does Marty plan to figure this out?”
“Because she knows who was who in that part of town back then, and because she had ancestors there and has spent a large part of her life researching them and their families and friends. She would know who officially supported which side, and who might have concealed his true allegiance. Or say the house was vacant because the owners or residents—not always the same thing—had packed up and left town until things cooled down. Which might not help our case, but I refuse to believe that a group of people—and it would have taken a group, given the weight of even a single cannon—was running around in the dark moving them to hide them and nobody noticed. There must be some kind of record somewhere.”
“Fair enough. What’s next?”
“Marty will present what she’s found to us tomorrow, I hope. Dylan is wrapping up looking at the rest of Harriet Featherstone’s donation, for both physical condition and content. And, I suppose, if there’s anything else hidden somewhere in the collection. And I’m supposed to pull it all together and give the basic outline
to Detective Hrivnak, which should give us some credit with the police department, and work on the board presentation and budget for the coming meeting. Maybe I can shift the emphasis just a bit, if it looks like there’s a good story with all these bodies, or just the ones with the cannons. And the Society did find the original document, and more, so I think we should get first rights.”
“You sound really enthusiastic,” James commented.
“I am. For one thing, this all has made me realize I’ve lost sight of the history of what was happening in Philadelphia back then, while I concentrated on the financial side of my job. I think I need to find a better balance, and this is a great opportunity. And beyond that, finding the two bodies and the cannons makes history more real, to me and hopefully to other people. The thing is, we still need to figure out who was who, if it’s even possible. Harold thinks one of the men was English, but was he the one who hid the cannons? We don’t know about the other man—there’s not a lot left of him or his clothes to work with. Were the two men on the same side, guarding the weapons until what most people would have guessed was the coming battle? Or were they on opposite sides, and both died fighting each other for control? Maybe there’s something in our records about captured ships—although I guess if our side had seized a ship with that cargo, they wouldn’t have told the world, or at least not until after the battle. Yes, before you remind me, I need to learn more about the Battle of Trenton—how that came about, and what armaments the two sides were fighting with. Anyway, however this all works out, it’s a pretty safe guess that the cannons were hidden at a pivotal point in the American Revolution, and I want to know more. Does that make sense?”
“It does. You really seen caught up in it.”
“I guess I am. Not because I have a ghoulish affection for long-dead bodies, but because we’re here where it all happened. It’s too easy to lose sight of that, and yet a lot of the history is still right there under our feet. I work for a renowned historical institution in one of the first major cities of this country, and there’s too much that I don’t know. And I’m supposed to be convincing donors to give me—or the Society—money to support us. I don’t think I’ve been doing as effective a job as I could be, and here is the perfect opportunity to do something about it,” I said firmly. “So, yes, I’m excited that I can make a difference. Is that enough?”
“Yes, thank you very much. I know far less than you do. And I agree that we should humanize history, for visitors and for schools, and hope that they remember some of what they learn.”
“Good. At least we’ll have something to talk about over dinner,” I told him, smiling. “So, to get back to your original questions, I’ve got the church records in hand, and the reports of what the church said they were doing with the bodies. I’m sure Marty will have a summary ready by tomorrow—she’s already got a head start, and it’s not a very large area. I wish we could ask Harold about any British boats that were captured, but he seems a little too eager to involve himself in this search. I’m willing to admit he is best suited to handle this, and maybe in the long run his museum will end up with the cannons, or at least some of them, but as I said, I’m staking my claim first. And who knows what Dylan may find? He’s young and inexperienced, but he has sharp eyes and a different perspective, so I’m hoping he comes up with something good. You have anything to add? By the way, thanks for letting us borrow your lab for the ink analysis—that’s what got us started in the right direction.”
“Happy to be of service to you, ma’am. And to your library, and to the City of Philadelphia, and the history of the United States. Besides, it’s more interesting than the stack of reports on my desk.”
“Well, I guess that’s something,” I said, and fell silent for the rest of the ride home.
Chapter Nineteen
Dylan had left on my desk after I’d gone a tidy summary of his research to date. To me it seemed unlikely that Dylan had found the key to something or other by doing exactly what I had asked him to. But his instincts had been right when he found the original map in the book, and then brought it to Marty and me and started this whole thing rolling. Was it really less than a week ago? I trusted him enough to know that I had to look at what he’d just found, but it was unrealistic to expect that there would be a single tidy explanation of everything that had happened since 1775 up until last Thursday. Read it already, Nell! I told myself, and sought out a quiet corner with a semi-comfortable chair.
It looked to me as though Dylan had done only rudimentary genealogy until now, but his results were clear enough. Typically, he had started with Harriet and worked backward. I had to force myself not to look at the early years immediately: I too would start with Harriet and work my way up the line, noting any details that needed to be verified. At least I had known Harriet, if only slightly—Marty would have known her better. In my memory she was a short cheerful woman of advanced years. She was also the only person I had ever known about whom I would say “her eyes twinkled.”
Apparently she’d never married, nor had any children. If Dylan had got the tree right, she’d outlived her parents for a good many years. They too had been Philadelphia city dwellers for all their lives, and their parents before them (I struggled to restrain myself from checking each generation immediately—besides, given Dylan’s enthusiasm, I inferred that he had made sure that the family had most likely been Philadelphians for a long time).
Since Harriet had remained unmarried, the Featherstone surname continued back to the earliest names Dylan had included. That made things a bit easier to follow. The earliest family birth date Dylan had included was 1748. After I’d followed the tree to its conclusion, I took a deep breath and picked up a copy of the 1790 census, and looked for Featherstone on Arch Street. And found it, attached to a street number that I recognized. We had our house’s occupant, and very likely one of the men buried with the cannons. But which one?
Dylan rapped softly on the door frame of the room where I’d hidden myself away. “You finished reading yet?”
“Not quite. I’ve just gotten to the Arch Street Featherstone family. How much more is there?”
“Maybe ten pages. The last part is a letter that Harriet wrote—it was inside a book, but not bound into it. I put a copy in your folder. And I gave a copy to Marty too, before she left last night. Do you want me to tell you what I think it means, or would you rather read it first?”
“Give me a few minutes to read, and then we can compare notes. You don’t have to leave—I read fast. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have survived here very long.”
Dylan smiled. “I hear you. I’ll wait.”
I smiled briefly at him and then dug into the final piece. Thank goodness it was a relatively modern piece of paper, or it would have been illegible, although it appeared that Harriett had written it a good number of years earlier.
It began:
My name is Harriet Featherstone, and I live in Philadelphia. So did most of my ancestors. If you’re reading this, it means that I’ve passed on and left my collection of books to the Society. The books are a real hodgepodge, because I collected books that interested me, regardless of subject, age or financial value. But this letter is my own addition. It is about a particular episode of my family’s history in the city. To the best of my knowledge, the information contained in this letter was never published or shared. As I know my time is short, I believe that this incident should be recorded, but if it is never found I will not be troubled. I’ll leave it in the hands of fate.
My most distant Featherstone ancestor, Samuel, arrived in Philadelphia by ship in 1743 and quickly found work on the docks. He raised his family near the river, and I am descended from his eldest son, Josiah. His father died in the 1770s, a time of turmoil in Philadelphia and beyond. It is his story I wish to share.
I had a feeling I knew what was coming, but as it turned out I was only partly right. I read Harriet’s letter through, then went back and checked a few details to be sure I’d understood the
m correctly. Then I returned it to its folder and looked at Dylan. “Well, that was unexpected.”
Dylan nodded. “Did you know Harriet Featherstone?”
“Only in passing, at events here. She was a nice lady—she loved doing research, so sometimes we’d talk about what she was working on. But somehow we never quite got around to talking about her family. I have to wonder what Marty has made of this letter. She’s the one with deep roots here.”
I sat back in my chair. “So let me run through the facts as I understand them. Harriet’s earliest American ancestor came to Philadelphia and settled in that house on Arch Street—there was a Featherstone there in the 1790 census.” Dylan nodded in agreement. “He worked in the shipyards, so he knew ships—and probably knew ship traffic in the 1770s. He could well have heard somehow of the expected shipment of British cannons. Now, the question becomes, which side was he on? When I was reading the letter, I came up with two guesses: either he was a Loyalist and was holding the guns until the British could claim them, or he was a Patriot and fought with whichever British soldier or ship’s captain found out where they were hidden, and they both ended up dead. Which way did you interpret it?” I asked Dylan, and waited curiously for his response.
“The second one, I think. Not because we have any evidence as such, but because Harriett seemed to be ashamed of whatever had happened and she hesitated before recording it. I’m guessing it was because her great-great-whatever had killed a man, but it might have been because she felt he had fought for the wrong side. She was very careful about how she phrased things. Sad that even now it troubled her.”
“Ashamed of being descended from a Loyalist or British soldier, or of being descended from a killer? Which do you think she would have seen as the worse?”
Digging Up History Page 15