{"id":6974,"date":"2025-03-02T06:52:16","date_gmt":"2025-03-02T06:52:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/read-an-excerpt-from-spanktown-papers-by-jane-hulse\/"},"modified":"2026-08-03T19:48:43","modified_gmt":"2026-08-03T19:48:43","slug":"read-an-excerpt-from-spanktown-papers-by-jane-hulse","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/read-an-excerpt-from-spanktown-papers-by-jane-hulse\/","title":{"rendered":"Read An Excerpt From Spanktown Papers By Jane Hulse"},"content":{"rendered":"

Spanktown Papers<\/em><\/a>, the third book in the Sarah Barrett American Revolution Series<\/a>, 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.<\/p>\n

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Chapter 1<\/h1>\n

It\u2019s sweltering, not a hint of a breeze, when I slip into Lloyd\u2019s Coffeehouse. I brace myself for the usual scowls and whispers.<\/p>\n

The place is bustling with Philadelphia\u2019s most prosperous merchants, lawyers and tradesmen\u2014bewigged citizens who still go pale at the presence of a woman in their sacred space. I put up with it because Lloyd\u2019s is the best place to pick up the latest chatter about the war\u2014essential to my employment at the Philadelphia Weekly Sentinel.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morn to you, Sarah,\u201d chirps Rip Ripley, the dashing blond proprietor who enjoys the daily outrage my presence elicits. \u201cCoffee?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, strong as you have it, and your biggest slice of gingerbread.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOverslept again?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sigh. \u201cI know, it\u2019s sinful, and a certain hell awaits.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoubt that,\u201d he laughs, his bright blue eyes lingering on my face.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you hear about the fighting, Rip?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur men spotted British troops less than 40 miles away. Could be here any day.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Washington\u2019s men?”<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re in dire straits,\u201d he says. \u201cSome don\u2019t even have shoes. Clothes are rags. They\u2019re sickly and low on food.\u201d<\/p>\n

I think of Tom and my stomach lurches. Still no letter. It\u2019s been over a month since our hurried goodbyes in New York when he set off to join George Washington\u2019s troops. I fear the worst, and knowing Tom\u2019s appetite for danger, it\u2019s not a frivolous worry.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey need a miracle,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould it trouble you to be on time?\u201d he says with cool detachment. I never know if he\u2019s deadly serious or joking.<\/p>\n

\u201cWon\u2019t happen again, Amos.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMISTER Tinkleton.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

I try to jolly him with a tasty morsel of news. \u201cI was at Lloyd\u2019s and I heard\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever mind that. I need you to write an article for tomorrow\u2019s edition\u2014that is, if you can spare the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, Mr. Tinkleton,\u201d I blush. If he weren\u2019t a handsome gentleman of 35, and the most respected newspaper publisher in Philadelphia, I\u2019d put up a fuss. But I\u2019ve learned to hold my tongue, except for the most extreme situations.<\/p>\n

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\u2019s tall as a barn door and lean as a racehorse. He\u2019s so fastidious that the slightest stain sends him off midday for a fresh shirt or breeches.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s a far cry from my previous employer, who bellowed orders to his terrified workers and wasn\u2019t 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\u2019s harbor. That and a few other scrapes sent me packing to Amos\u2019s door in Philadelphia.<\/p>\n

Amos lights his long-stem silver pipe and strikes a thoughtful pose. \u201cIt\u2019s high time we call out these Quakers for what they are\u2014wolves in sheep\u2019s clothing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d I\u2019ve learned never to assume I know what he\u2019s talking about. Amos doesn\u2019t suffer fools.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey hide behind their religion, claiming they can\u2019t possibly support the war\u2014too violent,\u201d he says. \u201cBut they\u2019re aiding the British in their confoundedly pious ways.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAiding how?\u201d I ask, risking a lecture. \u201cThey won\u2019t fight for the British either.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow can you be so na\u00efve?\u2019\u2019 he asks, not expecting an answer. \u201cThey\u2019ve bedeviled us for the past year. They won\u2019t pay taxes if even a penny goes to the fighting. They won\u2019t accept the new Continental paper money\u2014the 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.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOld news,\u201d I say. \u201cYou\u2019ve written about all that.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you riled up now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBlankets. Washington put out a call for blankets and woolen socks for his men. The good people of Philadelphia offered up their best\u2014but not the Quakers. Violates their religious beliefs to help in the least way, or so they say.\u201d<\/p>\n

With a starched handkerchief, he wipes imperceptible sweat from his aristocratic upper lip.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the last straw, the final insult,\u201d he seethes.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what I want to write,\u201d he says. \u201cWe\u2019ve been patient too long. It\u2019s time we inflict consequences for their obstinance\u2014jail, fines, loss of property.\u201d<\/p>\n

What he really means is he wants me to write it. I look at the grandfather clock in the corner and curse my tardiness.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, Mr. Tinkleton. Anything else?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDress it up with your usual thoughtful and convincing verbiage.\u201d<\/p>\n

Empty praise, though I thought my\u2014rather, his\u2014last article damning the British for some ridiculous tax was clever, even witty.<\/p>\n

He starts to walk away, then stops. \u201cAnd 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\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWasn\u2019t me,\u201d I say, with mock innocence. But he\u2019s already gone.<\/p>\n

His library, which takes up the entire second story, is his precious baby. He claims it rivals Benjamin Franklin\u2019s collection of 4,000 volumes. I only go in there when I know he\u2019s out of town, and I can safely sneak out a volume and return it by morning.<\/p>\n

I find Tess, a petite former slave with a serious but pretty face, cleaning the privy with lye soap and a bucket\u2014an unpleasant chore she faces daily, per Amos\u2019s orders. He won\u2019t tolerate a hint of filth.<\/p>\n

\u201cTess, Mr. Tinkleton would like you to dust the library.\u201d She looks up at me, sweat coating her face. I don\u2019t have the heart to tell her to do a \u2018decent\u2019 job of it this time. She already pours everything into keeping the print shop immaculate, along with his quarters on the third floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, Tess. Please call me Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n

Amos can be demanding and insulting at times, but he bought Tess\u2019s freedom last year, so I can forgive just about anything he does to annoy me. He\u2019s never spoken to me about it. As for Tess, she\u2019s said no more than ten words to me since my arrival at the Sentinel<\/em> last month.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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<\/em>. Today\u2019s find is a warning to ladies venturing out in stormy weather: Steer clear of metal hair pins to avoid death by lightning.<\/p>\n

At noon the owner of Nelson Mercantile, Andrew Nelson, strides through the front door with heavy purpose. Being a Quaker, he doesn\u2019t remove his broad-brimmed felt hat\u2014no 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.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

I hear the press creak to life and see Amos\u2019s apprentice, Jacob, begin to print the latest pamphlet that the Continental Congress is disseminating about the war. When Amos isn\u2019t printing the Sentinel<\/em> every week, he prints anything and everything, from books to almanacs to new laws to sermons.<\/p>\n

All afternoon I struggle with the words that usually come fast and furious. I\u2019m conflicted about the Quakers. The truth is, I live with a Quaker family\u2014Charles and Rachel Porter, and their five children. Amos knows this, though it doesn\u2019t stop him from ranting about the Quakers.<\/p>\n

The Porters rented me a bedroom in their spacious home overlooking the Delaware River when no one else would. Apparently, it\u2019s scandalous for an unmarried woman such as myself\u2014Miss Sarah Barrett\u2014to seek lodging in the city of Philadelphia.<\/p>\n

So when I knocked on the Porters\u2019 front door, I\u2019d 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\u2019s troops. At least part of it is true.<\/p>\n

Finally, I finish writing and present it to Amos. \u201cA fair effort,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019ll just make some changes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Just once, I\u2019d like to hear him say, \u201cThat\u2019s perfect, Sarah. I wouldn\u2019t change a word.\u201d Nor will I get any credit for writing it. It\u2019s his name that graces the newspaper\u2019s masthead. But I stifle my resentment. I know how lucky I am to have this job. I\u2019m the only newspaper woman in the entire city, maybe the entire colony.<\/p>\n

I glance at the clock. It\u2019s a bit past 5.<\/p>\n

\u201cTomorrow be prompt. Even better, be early,\u201d he says as I head for the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI 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.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs it the British?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I\u2019ve already said too much. God willing, no one will be hurt.\u201d<\/p>\n

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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\u2019s sweltering, not a hint of a breeze,<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":6975,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[352],"tags":[349],"class_list":["post-6974","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-excerpts","tag-gad"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6974","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6974"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6974\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/6975"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6974"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6974"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/justpaste.in\/blogs\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6974"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}