Stitch By Stitch

“Stitch By Stitch”

by Karla S. Bryant

When a room is in total silence, you can hear the pull of thread through muslin held taut in an embroidery frame. I focus on the sound and for a moment, roll the needle pressed between my thumb and forefinger back and forth. The open fireplace to the left is darkened with soot, but a fine fire keeps our sewing group warm. It’s unseasonably cool for September, and I’d worn my wool cloak when I went to the market earlier at Head House. Now I can hear thread pull through fabric from every woman seated in the half circle. I begin sewing again and focus on a blank spot on the pattern, stitch by stitch.

“They say,” Jane Blanchard’s voice is soft, yet we each startle a bit at the break in our silence, “that Anne Glenn is bringing fifty new bags of wool to town come Thursday.”

We all nod in turn.

Mary Hastings shrugs, “If only she would bring it already spun. I’d pay an extra half-pence for it.”

Elizabeth Hall clasps her hands, “I’d pay a whole pence not to spin it myself!”

The heavy waistcoat she’d been mending falls off her lap onto the floor.  

We laugh lightly.

A gust of wind blows down Elfreth’s Alley, as if to dampen our brief lightening of spirits. In Philadelphia in 1773, it’s rare for spirits to stay light for a good length of time. John, my husband, has proven himself a brave and selfless man. From the beginning, he put himself at risk working behind the scenes towards independence from England’s tyranny.

As he has told me more than once, “Not for me, not for us, not even for our children, but for our great-great-grandchildren, Sarah. It is for them.”

I glance briefly at the lowered faces before me. Jane, Mary, Elizabeth. Though none of us have ever dared speak a word about our husbands’ stands on the rebellion, one of them is here for a vile reason. One of the three, I now know, is married to an informant and she is here solely to try to extract even the tiniest hint of betrayal to the crown.

But which one? Though not a thing was never uttered, I’d believed all four of our husbands were on the side of independence. None of us would dare say it out loud and I took our mutual silence as a shared understanding. Saying anything suggesting support for the rebellion could send husbands to prison and be an unthinkable downfall for their wives and families.

Just last month, Isaiah Moore had been dragged to a jail cell on a British ship at harbor. To support herself and their three small children, his wife, Rebecca, had resorted to odd jobs to pay for food and firewood. That morning at Head House, I saw her seated on a small stool, selling kerchiefs she must have sewn during the night. Fear overwhelmed my compassion, and I walked past her. I couldn’t risk anyone associating me with her.

“Sarah? Sarah Burns?” Her voice sounded like a plea.

And I’d continued walking, as though I hadn’t heard her. My face burned in shame at the memory.

“Well,” Elizabeth snips off her thread and ties a knot on the inside of the waistcoat, “I hear a harsh winter is in store for us.”

Mary looks at each of us and winks. “Because the woolly caterpillar had a wide stripe on its back? Shall we all start piecing extra quilts this evening?”

A polite laugh.

Elizabeth draws back her shoulders. “No, not because of the woolly caterpillar, Mrs. Hastings, but because it is predicted in Poor Richards’ Almanac.”

I force my fingers to not miss a beat in my steady rhythm of stitches.

“Between us,” Jane leans forward, “I heard that it’s written by Benjamin Franklin.”

“It’s written by Richard Saunders,” Elizabeth states firmly.

No one says a word.

Mary raises her eyebrows. “Richard Saunders could simply be a pseudonym.”

I shrug. “One would have to be familiar with the writings of Benjamin Franklin to find similarities with that of Richard Saunders.”

Jane laughs. “Well, I can’t read, so I have no opinion on the matter.”

“I don’t read either,” Elizabeth adds.

There is a silence.

Mary tilts her head. “But, Elizabeth, then how is it you knew a harsh winter was predicted in Poor Richard’s Almanac?”

“Because I have keen ears! At market, I overheard a gentleman say as much and kept it to memory.”

Jane turns to me. “Sarah, you read, don’t you?”

“The little time I have for reading is dedicated to the Holy Bible and the Book of Common Prayer.”

We each return to our sewing. Last month, there had been an additional woman in our group, Rebecca Moore. It had been a typical August day in Philadelphia, hot and humid. All the young children played outside in the street while we sewed. It was a day easily given to distractions and light conversations that flitted from one thing to the next, not unlike a moth hovering too close to a flame.

Rebecca had put down the robe she was sewing and sighed. “I’m grateful for this beautiful day, it hopefully foretells a clear evening – and the moon will be full as well.”

Jane shrugged. “Harder to sleep under a bright moon.”

“And yet its shine on the water will make things easier.”

Our stitching became a bit faster. I wonder how many others had felt fierce panic rise in their throats. True, we all had an assumption that each of our husbands was working on the side of liberty. But what if that wasn’t true?

As it turned out, it was not the case. That evening, just as a small group of men had gathered near Penn’s Landing to take in contraband cargo from France, Royalists encircled them. Several men, including my beloved John, dove into the water and swam away to safety. Isaiah Moore had been the first one captured. My cheeks felt hot once more thinking of my earlier snubbing of Rebecca.

For the past month, we knew there was one among us who could not be trusted. But which one? Were any of them looking at me and wondering if I was the one who had informed their husband, who had in turn told the British militia?

The quietness of the room was in itself unnerving. It was our custom to chatter the hours away, turning our sewing tasks into a pleasure. I wish Elizabeth had never mentioned Poor Richard’s Almanac. I wish that Jane had not spoken the name “Benjamin Franklin”.  And that Mary hadn’t suggested Richard Saunders could be a pseudonym for Benjamin Franklin. But didn’t each of those comments point to the speaker’s innocence?

The afternoon is now growing late. The sun casts long, stretching shadows in the room. I can hear some of the children outside beginning to fuss.

Mary takes off her small, rectangular glasses and rubs her eyes. She folds the coat she’d been working on and places the metal buttons yet to be used in a small glass jar.

Jane folds her hands. “I’m done for the day as well. My eyes cannot keep up with my ambition.”

“Well,” Elizabeth smiles, “is it not good fortune we all live on the same block, wall to wall? No one is too far from home.”

She stands up, as do we all. I stand by the door, bidding each one a good day. I give Jane a light embrace as she leaves and the same for Elizabeth. As I watch them collect their children, I feel a hand at my elbow. I turn to Mary.

Mary watches the others until they’re out of earshot. She leans in to whisper in my ear.

“They cannot be trusted.”

My eyes widen. “What are you saying? Neither one?”

She shakes her head. I touch my hand to my chest. I knew there was one who could not be trusted, but never thought there could be two. My eyes meet Mary’s.

“Are you certain? They never gave any cause for me to think they weren’t on our side.”

Mary slowly nods. “Both of them. They are traitors. I have proof their husbands are in close association with the falsely named Patriots.”

My mouth is so dry that I can’t speak for a moment. “Proof?”

“Yes. And I have already reported all of it. These fools must be stopped before they pry us away from the British Empire altogether.”

I look into Mary’s eyes and see venomous hate. She returns my gaze and I pray she sees nothing.

She gives me a quick hug and whispers, “God save the King!”

I close my eyes and reply in a low voice, “God save the King.”

Mary leaves and gives a glance over her shoulder before she hurries to her home.

I am stunned. I am numb. I think of how close I came to possibly saying the wrong thing. Something that could have been the ruin of everyone I love. I sit down in my chair and pick up my sewing. John will be home shortly. I look outside and see our children playing with a hoop, rolling it back and forth and laughing. I stare down at my sewing and pick up the needle. I begin filling in a blank spot in the pattern, stitch by stitch.