“Could go either way, but I’d go with the Loyalist. You said she enjoyed looking into family history. This letter here isn’t new, so she must have found this information quite a while ago, and it hadn’t discouraged her from recording it. As for feeling regret for how the soldier died—well, it was more or less wartime, and from what little I know of the woman, based mainly on the books she collected, she was an ardent Patriot and proud of that heritage. I’d guess she’d hoped the killing never came out, but she wasn’t going to alter the story just because it bothered her. And the man had died for his sins, which might have mitigated his act. She was an honest person.”
“Dylan, I hope you’re right. Let’s let Marty make the final call—she knows more about this kind of thing than the two of us put together.”
Marty chose that moment to make her appearance. “You’ve read it, right?”
“We have. We still have two dead men, but who died first, and at whose hand? Your guess?”
“I say Featherstone killed a soldier—the one with the button. I told you, I knew Harriet’s mother. She was very proud of her heritage, and she passed that on to Harriet. We know that soldiers in war kill others, but she would have to have believed that the death was justified. Otherwise she might have stopped talking about it.”
“Makes sense, sort of,” I said. “Can you put a name to Button Man?”
“Not yet. Maybe never. I’ll keep looking.”
“Have we found any record of a missing shipment of cannons?” I asked.
“No, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a record. Anyway, those times were kind of chaotic, so that may not be easy to find. If it even exists. There were various independent ship’s captains who managed to commandeer British vessels coming up the Delaware River, and you can imagine how reluctant both sides would have been to record events like that or make them public. I’m willing to guess that’s the source of those cannons, but I’ll keep looking at ships records for that time.”
Marty dropped into a chair, and we all sat in silence for a few moments, fitting the pieces together mentally. Two men had died, one from each side of a major conflict that had barely started. The shipment of cannons had lain, forgotten, under a decrepit house for over two centuries. The two men who had died had probably been the only two who knew where the cannons were stashed, and they took their secret with them when they died, and then they had been forgotten too, except by Harriet Featherstone’s family. Who had left a map and the letter before us.
“What do we do now?” I said softly, almost to myself.
“No need to hurry,” Marty said. “It’s been a secret this long—what’s a little more time?”
“But who should know?” I demanded.
“It depends. Yeah, I know that’s no help. What we’ve got right now is a big cemetery that was completely forgotten. And that’s bound to make headlines when the word gets out—and there’s no way to hide the site. The police and the city are wrestling with what to do about that whole mess, and I don’t envy them. Then there’s the abandoned house and two bodies and a stack of eighteenth-century cannons. The police know about the bodies—I think they have to report all bodies—but the cemetery bodies outrank those other two right now. The police may just lump our two into that huge number and not worry about investigating. Now, we—you, Dylan and me—have a choice about how to present what we’ve found to the police, or even the news media. Since we don’t want to make the police look foolish, we should probably be careful and write up what we found separately, so it doesn’t look like they missed something obvious. You can talk to your detective personally when you hand her our findings.”
“My detective?”
“You know her better than the rest of us.”
“I guess. But our list isn’t complete. James knows, obviously, though I’m sure he hasn’t shared it. Barney, although he didn’t know anything about the Second Street bodies until we told him. Harold, because we told him about them and asked for his help with dating both the bodies and the cannons.”
“True,” Marty acknowledged. “This is beginning to sound like a press conference. Or two.”
“And we’d better do it fast, before someone scoops us. The original discovery belongs to the Society. What do you think should happen with the cannons?”
“I’d leave that with Harold—he’s the expert. But we do want to keep the Society front and center in whatever news goes out, for promotional reasons.”
“Now what?” Dylan asked. I wished I had a better option for him.
“I will type up a brief summary of what we know—the identity of the big cemetery, what little we know about the identity of the two men with the cannons, our guesses about where the cannons came from, and maybe a short list of what could be done with them now. It won’t be detailed, but at least it will stake our claim to part of it. Is that okay with you?”
Marty answered quickly. “There’s a lot more that can be done in the way of research, but I agree that we should make it public, in case anything goes wrong. And it gives us the opportunity to control at least a small part of the outcome.”
“You going to talk to Harold?” I asked her.
“I think I’ll wait until you and the detective work out whatever your deal will be. And don’t forget to get her permission to talk with the press. Or go together to do it.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Finally we had a plan. Marty and Dylan disappeared into the stacks to look for more facts, and I headed for my computer to draft a quick but catchy summary of what we’d found in the past few days.
Chapter Twenty
I decided before I started composing a short, pithy, persuasive summary of what Marty, Dylan and I had put together that I ought to call Detective Hrivnak and make sure that she was in her office or nearby, and that she might actually want to hear what we now knew. I hadn’t seen any major announcement in the news about the bodies from the lost cemetery or our two outliers, so maybe the police department still didn’t know what they wanted to say. And I could help them.
I hit speed-dial for her number (ignoring the unlikely fact that I had a police detective programmed into my phone, and had for a while) and was lucky to find her there. Albeit peevish. “What?” she barked.
“This is Nell Pratt. I’ve got some information on your various dead people, if you’re still interested.”
“Information like what?”
“Which church managed the cemetery. Names for a lot of the people who were buried there. Where they did or did not end up and why.”
“Oh.” The detective was silent for a moment. “Can you email it? Fax it?”
“Of course I could, but I’d like a couple of minutes to talk to you first.”
“I should have a couple of minutes to spare, oh, next month sometime.”
“I’m serious. I won’t take long. Tell me, what have you told the press?”
“Nothing yet, because we’d look like idiots. You know, ‘we found a couple of hundred bodies in our backyard but we don’t know who they are or why they’re here.’”
“And I can help you with that,” I said firmly. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I hung up before she could say no, and turned to my keyboard. Keep it short and simple, I told myself—and include copies of some of the materials in case she wants more details (which I doubted). It would take me five minutes, max.
In fact it took ten. I debated about bringing Marty and Dylan with me, but I figured even a small crowd would not make the busy detective happy, and I had all the information from them anyway. I messaged Marty and Dylan about where I was going, gathered up my stuff, and made my escape before they could waylay me and want to tag along.
Another nice day. Why, I wondered, did I spend all these lovely summer days inside the Society, or trampling through very old muck sprinkled with even older bodies, or speculating about the age, weight and origin of cannons? I still knew next to nothing about cannons. I knew a bit more about bodies, but all in all, I�
�d rather know more about cannons. I arrived at the police headquarters only a few minutes late, and the detective arrived a few minutes later to escort me upstairs. Maybe I should call James about having lunch.
When we reached her floor, she opted to head for the same small interview room we’d used before. She dropped into a chair, and I sat more gently. Poor Detective Hrivnak was looking kind of frazzled, and I hoped my news might make her feel better.
“What’ve you got?” she demanded without preamble.
“I’ll give you the short form—you can ask questions later. I’ve identified the church that opened the cemetery.” I slid my first xerox across the table toward her. “It’s no longer there, and the congregation moved several times before it was absorbed by another church, but at least it gives you a name. Next, there was an official notice about moving the cemetery”—I slid another page toward her, a copy of the old newspaper article—“although I don’t know if there are any records of how many bodies were transferred to Mount Moriah. That would take a bit more searching. Third, it turns out the Society has a published report on the names of those who were buried in the old cemetery. I don’t know if you want to follow up on that, but at least it’s available. I can print you out a full copy if you want.”
“Is that all?” she asked, but in a slightly softer tone.
“No. I had Martha Terwilliger and Dylan Robertson working with me. We believe we have identified the two other men who were found with the cannons—Harold Stevens helped us with dating the artillery, as well as that one button that was found. One of the men most likely lived in the house where they were found. The other was apparently a British soldier.”
I debated briefly with myself about telling her the connection to Harriet, but she’d kept her secret for so long I couldn’t bring myself to tell the police about it. But then I changed my mind: Harriet had recognized the event as an important piece of history, and had shared it with the Society. There was no one left in the Featherstone family who could be hurt by the truth, and in fact Harriet’s ancestor had done an important service to the country. “We also found a letter written by Harriet Featherstone, who gave us the collection of books that started all this. It wasn’t hidden, at least not in the same way as the map, but she didn’t exactly want it made public. She wanted the Society to have it because of its historical significance. She said she was descended from the owner of the house, the one who wasn’t the British soldier, and she laid out the whole story. Here’s a copy of that letter. Dylan worked out the genealogy, and Marty confirmed it. You can read it when you have time.”
“So it was murder?” the detective asked.
“Murder if you include that among acts of war. It’s possible that the cannons were intended to be turned over to the British forces and would have been used in the Battle of Trenton, as well as other battles, but the Patriots seized them and hid them. Given the weather before the battle, it was unlikely they would have made the river crossing, and the two men who knew what they were and where they were hidden apparently killed each other. They were never used.”
“Wow,” Detective Hrivnak said. “You put all these pieces together in less than a week?”
“We’re historians, Marty and Dylan and me. With some help from Harold Stevens. The information wasn’t hard to find, if you knew what you were looking for. So Barney’s accidental discovery of all those bodies led to the addition of a small piece of history, for Philadelphia and for the Revolution.” We both paused briefly, to give proper consideration to what we had learned. Then I said, “Anything new on your end?”
“Not really. The city is still arguing between departments, trying to decide who’s in charge of the cemetery mess. The medical examiner is tearing out his hair. The professor types are calling every couple of hours asking if they can do a formal dig or at least get access to some of the remains. We’ve been keeping round-the-clock police guards around the site, which is costing us money, and to protect those cannons. Those suckers are heavy!”
“That they are. And they could be worth some good money, if you can figure out who owns them.”
“Harold Stevens has been eager to help us, believe me. Does that museum of his need any more cannons?”
“I think they’ve got that covered, but as I said, they could be valuable to collectors or other museums. When do you think you’ll be able to release the site?”
“No idea. Barney Taylor has been bugging us about that because he wants to get to work on his building project, but that decision isn’t up to the police department. I told him to talk to City Hall.” She stood up. “Thank you, Nell. You’ve made my life much easier. I’ll pass on this information to the appropriate people and let them wrestle with it, but at least you’ve cleared up most of the mystery for me.”
“Glad to be of service. And I’ll admit I learned a lot about Philadelphia and the Revolution just doing the research. I’m glad Harriet passed it on to us, and that we found it at the right time.”
“I’ll see you out. And I’ll let you know if I find anything else that might interest you. People in the city are always digging up historic bits and pieces where they don’t expect to.”
“I can believe that, if one group managed to mislay four hundred bodies. Please do tell us if you find anything—maybe we could put together an exhibition about unlikely finds.”
The detective gave a short bark of laughter. Then I added, “I have one favor to ask.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Obviously a discovery like this is going to be big news, at least for a short while. I’d like the Society to get a share of the credit for solving the mystery, if you want to call it that. As you can probably guess, Marty has friends at the newspaper, and she’s willing to contact people. Of course the police department would be recognized for their role in this. It should be a good historical interest story.”
“I’ll clear it with my people, Nell. Besides, nobody would believe that the Philly PD could have solved something like this so fast.”
“Thank you, Meredith.”
Once outside, I took a deep breath. That meeting had gone well, and I felt we’d scored some points. That was all we’d hoped to do. Now the police and assorted city authorities could take over. I fished out my cell phone and called James.
“Hi, it’s me. You busy?”
“Not very. Half the staff is on vacation, and apparently half the criminals.”
“Want to have lunch? I just left police HQ and reported what Marty and Dylan and I put together and made the detective a happy woman.”
“Sure, but it’ll have to be noon—I’ve got a report to finish,” James said.
“Come on over to my place when you’re done and we can decide where to go from there.”
“Great. See you at noon.”
I went back to the Society and reported to Marty and Dylan, who were still chasing down loose ends to the story. They seemed to have formed a bond of sorts, and were happily working together. Dylan was definitely adding to his education this week. Then I left to have lunch with James.
After lunch I was ready to try to drag my attention back to the board report—the meeting was set for Thursday evening—when my phone rang.
“Nell, this is Harold Stevens. Barney Taylor and I have something we’d like to discuss with you. Are you free?”
“Now?”
“That would be convenient, if it’s possible.”
“Can you come to the Society? We can use the conference room on the ground floor, which should be private. Say, at three?”
“Excellent. We’ll be there.”
It seemed this story wasn’t quite over yet.
Chapter Twenty-one
After I hung up the phone, I tried to figure out why those two wanted to speak with me, much less both of them together. I came up blank, but it had been a busy few days, rewriting a small piece of early American history, and I had other distractions, like the (expletive-deleted) unfinished board report. At le
ast I could clearly demonstrate that I’d been doing my job, and if Detective Hrivnak came through, we’d have some publicity to show for it. I knew that I had learned a lot about local history, and that had given me some new ideas about how to present what we had to the public. I was pretty sure most people—even committed genealogists and serious historians—saw the Society as a nice place filled with dusty old books but kept on walking right past it on their way to sexier sights, like Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. I doubted we were very high on any tourists’ lists, but then, why should a tourist interrupt a tour of one of America’s great cities to sit in a library? I wanted to find a way to offer small but memorable doses of what had happened here in the city, and if that meant digging up George Washington’s horseshoeing bills, so be it. That conference room on the first floor would be easy to access and was just about the right size for a small, focused exhibit.
I was so busy daydreaming about possibilities that the next time I looked at my watch it was time for my meeting. I gathered my scattered wits and went down to the lobby to greet Barney and Harold, who were waiting for me.
“Gentlemen,” I said to them, “I’d say it was lovely to see you again, but it seems like I’ve just seen you. You want to go sit down and you can tell me what this is about?”
“Please,” Harold said stiffly. Barney just looked kind of miserable—maybe his leg hurt.
I led the way to the conference room and shut the door. “So, what’s going on? And for heaven’s sake, sit down. You look like two kids in the principal’s office.”
The two men exchanged a glance, then Harold spoke. “We haven’t been exactly honest with you, Nell.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
Barney answered. “We knew about the other two bodies. And the cannons.”
That I hadn’t expected to hear. “Before the detective found them?”
Digging Up History Page 16