Barnabas Stone lived alone on Second St. in a brick rowhome a few doors down from the City Tavern. He had managed to avoid lodging any British troops, although he wasn’t sure how. He had offered, telling his British officer friends that he would be happy to accommodate. But most, it seemed, preferred homes with servants to ensure their needs were met.
He was in the parlor just before 7 a.m., preparing to leave for the City Tavern, when he heard a light tap on the back door. Accessed via an alley, the rear entrance was rarely used—not even by him. Something was amiss, he just wasn’t sure what it was. He entered the kitchen, saw a man’s frame through the window, hurried to the door and opened it.
“Barnabas, I need your help,” Patrick blurted as he scanned the alley, ensuring no one watched
