After a restful night, Betsy awoke and reached for her traveling dress. It wasn’t lying on the trunk where she had left it. A quick glance around revealed Jefferson curled up in it. “Give me my dress,” she whispered, careful not to wake up the others. She and her mother had sewn the dress especially for the trip, and now that dog had shed hair all over it. She jerked on it and Jefferson gave it up with a sharp bark. Betsy stared at it in horror. The hem of her brand-new dress was in tatters where the dog had chewed on it in the night. She couldn’t contain a squeal of anger.
“What is it, dear?” her mother asked in a voice that showed she was recovering.
“Jefferson has ruined my dress,” Betsy said in a low tone.
“It wasn’t his fault,” George said. “He got cold in the night, so I covered him with it.”
“Then it’s your fault,” Betsy said, turning on him.
“Let me see it,” Mother said. She studied the torn places. “You can turn up the hem and conceal the holes. My sewing kit is in that trunk.” Betsy rummaged in the trunk for the necessary items, while George and Father helped the patients into the main cabin for morning tea. Betsy turned up her hem three inches and stitched it, all the while plotting revenge on George and his dog.
She put on the dress and wished she had a looking glass, although she had a good idea what she looked like. In a few hours they would dock in the biggest city in the United States, and she would look like a tall gangly girl in a dress that she’d outgrown.
Once again George had managed to embarrass her. But it would be the last time. Somehow she had to get even. She’d teach him a lesson he needed to learn. She’d even the score.
CHAPTER 3
Betsy’s First Chance
As the ship made its way up the Delaware River, Betsy marveled at the city around her. Almost fifty thousand people lived in Philadelphia, and it looked as if half of them were on the docks. Other ships were loading and unloading. They had already passed three ships that were headed out to sea or maybe up to Boston, she thought longingly for a moment, before thoughts of this huge city pushed her old home out of her mind.
Other passengers crowded the deck as they watched the city landscape pass by. Even Mother was topside. Although the afternoon wind was still freezing cold, the sea had calmed down, and Mother said the brisk air made her feel better.
“Betsy, as soon as we dock, take Silverstreak off and to the end of the wharf out of harm’s way,” Father said. “Keep George with you. Your uncle Paul and aunt Eleanor are still under the weather, and it’ll take all their strength to make sure their belongings are unloaded and kept together without having to keep an eye on George as well.”
Betsy nodded. She didn’t want to leave the deck, but she slipped downstairs and got her violin and her lunch pail then returned to watch the sailors skillfully maneuver the ship into port.
“George, stay with me,” she ordered.
George’s eyes shone with excitement—or maybe it was mischief she saw in his bright eyes, Betsy decided. As soon as the gangplank was in place, she untethered Silverstreak and led her off the ship. George held onto a rope he had tied around Jefferson’s neck. The dog ran ahead as far as the eight-foot rope allowed.
They clomped across the wooden planks and onto the cobblestone street at the end of the wharf. “Wait here,” Betsy said.
“Look, black people,” George said and pointed at a group gathered around a barrel.
“Pepper pot, smoking hot!” They hawked their wares.
“Here, hold Jefferson a minute. I want to see what they’re selling.”
George flung the rope into Betsy’s hand before she had time to object, not that he would have listened. He rushed off toward the black people.
Betsy had seen a black person once in Boston but not up close. Through lowered lashes, she watched the encounter between George and the street sellers. They were talking to him, asking him questions … or was it the other way around?
She tied Silverstreak to a hitching post and was in the process of tying Jefferson to the same post when a wagon drawn by a pair of horses clopped by. One moment she held the dog’s rope in her hand, and the next moment he was gone, barking and chasing the wagon. Riding at the back of the wagon was another dog.
“George!” Betsy yelled as she ran after the wagon. Who would have thought a wagon could travel so fast over the uneven cobblestones? Betsy splashed through a puddle where some of the stones had sunk. She glanced back to see that George was running behind her.
The wagon stopped farther along the wharf next to a pile of empty crates, and the driver hopped down and loaded a couple chests. Jefferson barked and climbed the pile of crates so that he was level with the other dog. One crate toppled as Jefferson climbed to another. His bark turned to a whine.
“Come down, Jefferson,” George called a second before he climbed on a low crate. He reached for another one, but it teetered a moment and then fell.
“George, don’t go up there,” Betsy cried. “You’ll fall. They can’t hold you.”
“How am I going to get Jefferson?” George retorted and edged toward another crate.
Jefferson was standing on a high crate, not moving. He seemed frozen in fear. The driver of the wagon had returned to his high seat and yelled, “Giddyup.” The horses responded, and the wagon lurched away, with the dog barking a farewell at Jefferson.
Jefferson didn’t bark back. He looked at George and put a paw out to move toward him, which dislodged another empty crate. It crashed to the ground, barely missing George, who still clung to his spot in the pile.
It serves them both right, Betsy thought. George shouldn’t have run off, leaving Jefferson with her, and Jefferson was turning out to be as impetuous as his owner. She stepped back and assessed the situation. Was this her chance at getting back at the dog for chewing her dress? And at George for embarrassing her all those times?
No, this was a matter of the two of them getting hurt. It wasn’t the same thing. Besides, Father had told her to watch after George, and she’d better fulfill that responsibility. She pushed a fallen crate over beside George.
“Step here, George, and climb down. If we build a couple steps, you should be able to get your dog.”
George shot her a grateful look and followed her order. Once he was safely on the ground, he helped Betsy push a crate right below the area where Jefferson hovered, and she held it stable while George climbed on it.
It wasn’t enough. Betsy found another crate that could be moved without bringing the whole pile down.
“I’ll sit on the bottom crate and hold this one in place,” she said. George climbed on the lower one, then carefully crawled onto the second crate. He stood and stretched for the dog, but he was still a good six inches short.
“Come here, Jefferson,” he called, but the dog didn’t move.
Betsy watched him cajole and plead with Jefferson, but it did no good. She looked around for another crate, but the two they had stacked were fairly unstable even with her holding on. She didn’t want to do it. She couldn’t do it, but did she have a choice?
“Come down,” she ordered her younger cousin, sighing impatiently. “I’ll try to get him.”
George quickly hopped down and took his place on the bottom crate.
“Hold this one tight,” Betsy said as she crawled onto the second crate. She gingerly pulled herself to her full standing height.
“Tell him to face this way,” she said.
George commanded his dog, but Jefferson didn’t budge. Betsy reached for him and pulled his back end off the crate so that he had to shift his weight or fall. In an instant she had him in her arms.
“Jefferson!” George shouted as he jumped up to take the dog. The crate he’d been steadying tipped, and Betsy grabbed the one above it to avoid taking a tumble. She felt Jefferson slide in her grasp, and she held him as tightly as she could with one arm.
“Sit down!” she shouted.
George plopped back down and ste
adied the second crate until Betsy had climbed down, then he popped back up and took the frightened dog in his arms.
“Jefferson.” He stroked his dog on the forehead. “Don’t run away like that again. You should have stayed with Betsy.”
“Richard’s violin!” Betsy cried. In her haste to chase Jefferson, she’d left it next to Silverstreak’s hitching post. She dashed back down the street toward the horse and sighed with relief when she spotted the violin case and her lunch pail exactly where she’d left them.
George, with Jefferson’s lead rope wrapped around his hand, loped up behind her. “You run fast for a girl,” he said.
She nodded. Since she’d hemmed her skirt up to hide the holes Jefferson had created, she didn’t have to hike up her skirt to run or even to walk. Not that she would forgive the dog for that.
“Father!” George yelled as their parents made their way toward the hitching post. “Betsy saved Jefferson’s life,” he declared in a loud voice that stopped other pedestrians, who turned to hear the story.
All eyes focused on Betsy, and she blushed crimson as George explained about the crates and the other dog. George had a flair for the dramatic, and once again he had made her the center of attention even when she’d done him a good turn.
“You should see her run,” George said. “She’s so tall she has a long stride.”
If possible, Betsy turned even redder.
“That’s wonderful, Betsy,” Mother said. “Let’s gather our things and start for the inn.”
Betsy gave her mother a grateful glance as the small group of travelers picked up their possessions and walked on.
“What about Silverstreak?” Betsy asked Father.
“I’ll get her to a stable as soon as we get your mother settled.”
Mother’s skin was still pale, and her step was slow as they walked the block to the inn where they’d be spending two nights.
As soon as Mother and Betsy were in their room, Father left them to attend to traveling matters. He promised Betsy he’d show her around the city later that day.
It was after the evening meal before Betsy and Father knocked on the door to the Lankfords’ room at the inn. Father had decided to take George along on their tour of Philadelphia, despite Betsy’s protest. The last thing she wanted was to share her father with George! But Father had insisted George’s parents would appreciate the silence George’s absence would allow.
“Are all the details taken care of?” George asked, when Father had answered all of Uncle Paul’s questions and the threesome was on the street outside the inn. Before Father could answer, George yelled, “A lamplighter! Do you think he’d let me light one?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but flew down the street to the side of the man climbing the ladder beside the lamppost. “What do you use for fuel?”
Betsy could easily hear George’s excited question, but she had to strain to hear the lamplighter answer, “Whale oil.”
“It sure smells. Could I light one?”
George followed the lamplighter to three posts before the lamplighter let him light one. The poor lamplighter must have figured that was the only way to get rid of the boy.
“Father, why don’t you order George to stay with us?” Betsy asked. She normally wouldn’t question Father’s judgment, but George was back to his old tricks, being the center of attention.
“Oh, he’s a boy and just naturally curious. If I thought he was annoying the lamplighter, I’d stop him. He learns a lot by asking questions. He’s a smart boy.”
Betsy stopped and looked at her father. Was he disappointed that his only child was a daughter? Did he want her to be more forthright and less shy? She couldn’t help her personality, could she? She would never speak to a stranger the way George had just done.
“Did you see me?” George asked when he returned to Betsy’s side.
“Yes,” was her only reply.
Father showed them the statehouse where the Constitution had been signed. He pointed out the University of Pennsylvania, too.
“The medical school here is excellent. I visited the Pennsylvania Hospital briefly today and talked to several doctors about new procedures. Have you thought about becoming a doctor, George?”
So Father did want a son! He wanted someone to follow his lead and become a doctor. Betsy’s posture slumped, and she looked down at the street as they walked along.
“I want to make things,” George said. “Maybe ships like my father makes. Or maybe new things that haven’t even been invented yet.”
“There’s a whole new world out there,” Father said, “and we’re going to be a part of it.”
Betsy wanted to be part of it, too, but she felt that Father was talking only to George, a boy—a curious boy. She listened inattentively during the rest of their walk and was glad when they returned to the inn for the night.
At sunrise the next morning, the Millers and the Lankfords stood under the willows near the navy yard with hundreds of other worshipers for the Reverend William Staughton’s service. The pastor was fiery in his delivery of the sermon. He shouted about human failings. He thundered about God’s love.
When he read a verse from Isaiah about God’s treatment of Israel, he caught Betsy’s attention. “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.” Betsy knew he wasn’t talking about their journey, but she took heart that God would be with them as they traveled. She dwelled on that while the pastor yelled about confessing. He roared about salvation. And he tore the air with his loud hallelujahs.
“He knows how to rile up a body,” George said. He and Betsy followed behind their parents as they walked back to the inn.
“Yes, he’s a powerful speaker,” Betsy said. She much preferred the preacher at home who spoke more softly, but she had to agree that Pastor Staughton had reached a lot of people with his booming voice.
That was the biggest church service she had ever attended. No wonder it had been outside. A building couldn’t hold that many people. And everyone had been quiet, so the preacher could be heard. Only the noise of the river had disturbed his words.
Betsy looked toward the Delaware River. Maybe Mother would let her go to the wharf this afternoon for a last look at the water that flowed to the sea—one of God’s greatest creations. She shuddered at the thought that she might never see the ocean again.
CHAPTER 4
The Stinky Cheese
At daybreak the Millers and the Lankfords stood at the stagecoach office, loading their belongings onto the top of the stage. Betsy didn’t trust the driver to safely anchor Richard’s precious violin, so she stood in the doorway of the cab and leaned over the top.
“Move, George,” she said. He had climbed all over the stage to inspect it and now sat on top in her way. He shifted a little, and Betsy secured the violin between bags.
“Take your valise,” Paul Lankford instructed his son. “Here’s another bag. Can you push it over there?”
Betsy ducked inside the cab. The interior of the stage allowed room only for passengers, and this time the six of them would be traveling alone. Even though George was small, there wasn’t room for another person.
Betsy was appalled that Jefferson was allowed inside the coach with them. She sat beside the door and hoped George and his dog would be against the other door on the other side. That would be as far away from him as she could get in the cramped interior.
Within a few minutes everything was loaded. The driver came out of the stagecoach office with a satchel. “U.S. Mail” was printed on its side.
“He’s putting it in the front boot, under the driver’s box,” George informed her. He had his foot on the passenger step, and of course he sat down on the bench seat directly opposite Betsy.
“Heyah,” the driver yelled at the two teams of horses, and they were off.
George kept up a constant stream of chatter, pointing out landmarks they’d already seen as they rode across the une
ven streets. Betsy figured he’d give a tree-by-tree description as they traveled the three hundred miles to Pittsburgh, but she watched the landscape move by, too.
Soon they approached the bridge over the Schuylkill River and awaited their turn to cross. The clomping of the horses’ hooves echoed as they crossed the first long wooden expanse. Betsy had never been on a bridge this tall before, and she strained to see over the edge into the water below. George was hanging out the window.
“Look how high we are,” he said. “How would you make a bridge like this?”
“In sections,” his father answered. He poked his head out the other side of the stage. “Each arch is supported by stone piers. It’s like a wharf, but it goes across the river instead of into the bay. It has to be tall enough to allow sailing vessels to pass underneath.”
They were headed downhill now as they had crested the first arch, and Betsy braced herself against the window. Their descent was quick, but going up the steep second arch was a long process. By the time they had descended the final arch, Betsy was ready for level ground. As they rounded a curve and she could look back at the three arches, she saw another stagecoach on the bridge. Its passengers were walking across the bridge so the horses would have an easier pull.
Traveling was tiring, Betsy discovered. They jolted along at a fairly good clip on the turnpike, and every ten miles they stopped and paid a toll. Every time they stopped, George jumped out and let Jefferson run around. Betsy checked on Silverstreak, who was tied to the back of the stagecoach.
By dusk, Betsy was ready to scream. Jefferson had climbed all over her and everyone else. Good thing he was a little dog, but that didn’t change her opinion of him licking her shoes and barking when they passed any wildlife or livestock. She tried to take a nap, but every time she’d nod off, they’d hit a bump and her head would hit the back of the cab.
She ached all over when they stopped for the night at an inn beside a toll booth. There weren’t enough beds, since other travelers had stopped before them, so she claimed the floor with the quilts she’d used for cover in the cold coach. Next to her was Richard’s violin and her lunch pail. Even with the lid on, the pail leaked whiffs of the putrid cheese. She was tired of carrying the pail, and she was ready to get on with the plan of keeping George from being the center of attention. Certainly today he had monopolized the conversation.
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