Spanktown Papers, the third book in the Sarah Barrett American Revolution Series, follows journalist Sarah Barrett as she investigates a murder and uncovers the truth behind the infamous Spanktown Papers, plunging her into a web of espionage, injustice, and unexpected romance during the American Revolution.

Chapter 1

It’s sweltering, not a hint of a breeze, when I slip into Lloyd’s Coffeehouse. I brace myself for the usual scowls and whispers.

The place is bustling with Philadelphia’s most prosperous merchants, lawyers and tradesmen—bewigged citizens who still go pale at the presence of a woman in their sacred space. I put up with it because Lloyd’s is the best place to pick up the latest chatter about the war—essential to my employment at the Philadelphia Weekly Sentinel.

“Good morn to you, Sarah,” chirps Rip Ripley, the dashing blond proprietor who enjoys the daily outrage my presence elicits. “Coffee?”

“Yes, strong as you have it, and your biggest slice of gingerbread.”

“Overslept again?”

I sigh. “I know, it’s sinful, and a certain hell awaits.”

“Doubt that,” he laughs, his bright blue eyes lingering on my face.

“What do you hear about the fighting, Rip?”

“Our men spotted British troops less than 40 miles away. Could be here any day.”

“And Washington’s men?”

“They’re in dire straits,” he says. “Some don’t even have shoes. Clothes are rags. They’re sickly and low on food.”

I think of Tom and my stomach lurches. Still no letter. It’s been over a month since our hurried goodbyes in New York when he set off to join George Washington’s troops. I fear the worst, and knowing Tom’s appetite for danger, it’s not a frivolous worry.

“They need a miracle,” I say.

By the time I arrive at the Sentinel, a three-story red brick mansion with white shutters, Amos Tinkleton, esteemed editor and publisher, is in a silent stew.

“Would it trouble you to be on time?” he says with cool detachment. I never know if he’s deadly serious or joking.

“Won’t happen again, Amos.”

“MISTER Tinkleton.”

Deadly serious. I remove my bonnet, and my cascade of red curls goes amok, drawing an exasperated look from my eternally composed lord and commander. But these days, everyone is on edge. The British are closing in on the city.

I try to jolly him with a tasty morsel of news. “I was at Lloyd’s and I heard—”

“Never mind that. I need you to write an article for tomorrow’s edition—that is, if you can spare the time.”

“Of course, Mr. Tinkleton,” I blush. If he weren’t a handsome gentleman of 35, and the most respected newspaper publisher in Philadelphia, I’d put up a fuss. But I’ve learned to hold my tongue, except for the most extreme situations.

His desk is a tribute to orderliness. Papers stacked with precision. Quill pens lined up like soldiers. Ink bottle gleaming. His person is the same. His dark hair tied neatly at his nape, he’s tall as a barn door and lean as a racehorse. He’s so fastidious that the slightest stain sends him off midday for a fresh shirt or breeches.

He’s a far cry from my previous employer, who bellowed orders to his terrified workers and wasn’t happy without a meat pie dripping down his front. But that was the New York Gazette, where I started out sweeping the floors but ended up exposing the hellish British prison ships in the city’s harbor. That and a few other scrapes sent me packing to Amos’s door in Philadelphia.

Amos lights his long-stem silver pipe and strikes a thoughtful pose. “It’s high time we call out these Quakers for what they are—wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

“What do you mean?” I’ve learned never to assume I know what he’s talking about. Amos doesn’t suffer fools.

“They hide behind their religion, claiming they can’t possibly support the war—too violent,” he says. “But they’re aiding the British in their confoundedly pious ways.”

“Aiding how?” I ask, risking a lecture. “They won’t fight for the British either.”

“How can you be so naïve?’’ he asks, not expecting an answer. “They’ve bedeviled us for the past year. They won’t pay taxes if even a penny goes to the fighting. They won’t accept the new Continental paper money—the only way we can pay for this bloody war. Last month Simon Plummer turned away my good money for a shipment of paper. Had to go clear to Boston.”

“Old news,” I say. “You’ve written about all that.”

The patriots, desperate for ammunition, asked everyone to dig the lead out of their clocks and windows for the cause. Last month, the Quakers refused, and Amos blasted them in print.

“Why are you riled up now?”

“Blankets. Washington put out a call for blankets and woolen socks for his men. The good people of Philadelphia offered up their best—but not the Quakers. Violates their religious beliefs to help in the least way, or so they say.”

With a starched handkerchief, he wipes imperceptible sweat from his aristocratic upper lip.

“It’s the last straw, the final insult,” he seethes.

It is galling when I imagine Tom, his feet bloodied for lack of shoes, no warm clothes for the coming winter, and his gritty determination to fight the British to the end, whenever that is.

“That’s what I want to write,” he says. “We’ve been patient too long. It’s time we inflict consequences for their obstinance—jail, fines, loss of property.”

What he really means is he wants me to write it. I look at the grandfather clock in the corner and curse my tardiness.

“Of course, Mr. Tinkleton. Anything else?”

“Dress it up with your usual thoughtful and convincing verbiage.”

Empty praise, though I thought my—rather, his—last article damning the British for some ridiculous tax was clever, even witty.

He starts to walk away, then stops. “And my library needs a good dusting. Make sure Tess does a decent job this time. I know someone has been in there poking around. If I find out who it is—”

“Wasn’t me,” I say, with mock innocence. But he’s already gone.

His library, which takes up the entire second story, is his precious baby. He claims it rivals Benjamin Franklin’s collection of 4,000 volumes. I only go in there when I know he’s out of town, and I can safely sneak out a volume and return it by morning.

I find Tess, a petite former slave with a serious but pretty face, cleaning the privy with lye soap and a bucket—an unpleasant chore she faces daily, per Amos’s orders. He won’t tolerate a hint of filth.

“Tess, Mr. Tinkleton would like you to dust the library.” She looks up at me, sweat coating her face. I don’t have the heart to tell her to do a ‘decent’ job of it this time. She already pours everything into keeping the print shop immaculate, along with his quarters on the third floor.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Thank you, Tess. Please call me Sarah.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Amos can be demanding and insulting at times, but he bought Tess’s freedom last year, so I can forgive just about anything he does to annoy me. He’s never spoken to me about it. As for Tess, she’s said no more than ten words to me since my arrival at the Sentinel last month.

At my desk, I open a bottle of ink, dip my quill pen, and begin to write what I hope will satisfy Amos yet also be somewhat married to the truth.

He hangs over my shoulder, eager to criticize. It irks me but not as much as my other duties: combing through old newspapers from here and abroad for news Amos deems fit to reprint in the Sentinel. Today’s find is a warning to ladies venturing out in stormy weather: Steer clear of metal hair pins to avoid death by lightning.

At noon the owner of Nelson Mercantile, Andrew Nelson, strides through the front door with heavy purpose. Being a Quaker, he doesn’t remove his broad-brimmed felt hat—no doubt irritating Amos. They disappear behind closed doors for two hours. By the time they emerge, both men look worn to a nub and unhappy.

I know the Quakers have not had an easy time of it lately. For decades, they held sway over the government of Pennsylvania. Rich and powerful, some ride in grand carriages and retire to summer homes when the rest of the city swelters. But now the patriots control the government, and business for the Quakers has dried up.

I hear the press creak to life and see Amos’s apprentice, Jacob, begin to print the latest pamphlet that the Continental Congress is disseminating about the war. When Amos isn’t printing the Sentinel every week, he prints anything and everything, from books to almanacs to new laws to sermons.

All afternoon I struggle with the words that usually come fast and furious. I’m conflicted about the Quakers. The truth is, I live with a Quaker family—Charles and Rachel Porter, and their five children. Amos knows this, though it doesn’t stop him from ranting about the Quakers.

The Porters rented me a bedroom in their spacious home overlooking the Delaware River when no one else would. Apparently, it’s scandalous for an unmarried woman such as myself—Miss Sarah Barrett—to seek lodging in the city of Philadelphia.

So when I knocked on the Porters’ front door, I’d concocted a little white lie to smooth the way. I introduced myself as Sarah Jordan, whose husband Tom Jordan is away fighting with General Washington’s troops. At least part of it is true.

Finally, I finish writing and present it to Amos. “A fair effort,” he says. “I’ll just make some changes.”

Just once, I’d like to hear him say, “That’s perfect, Sarah. I wouldn’t change a word.” Nor will I get any credit for writing it. It’s his name that graces the newspaper’s masthead. But I stifle my resentment. I know how lucky I am to have this job. I’m the only newspaper woman in the entire city, maybe the entire colony.

I glance at the clock. It’s a bit past 5.

“Tomorrow be prompt. Even better, be early,” he says as I head for the door.

“Why?”

“I have it on good authority the city will be in an uproar. We must be the eyes and ears of our readers when it happens.”

“Is it the British?”

“No. I’ve already said too much. God willing, no one will be hurt.”

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