A/N: This "chapter" is made up of multiple entries written by Jenny over the course of a month. Please take a long pause at the lines dividing them, as her thoughts may jump and be less cohesive than in prior chapter entries which cover less time. This is only the first of several "section/chapters" that will deal with the episodes in its title.
We have had a social call from Doctor Mabbs today.
He has come by (but shortly, he's much to do) to clarify for us that we may have imperfectly received his message of encountering Papa traveling upon the North Road.
Dr. Mabbs did see Papa and Cleopas on his trip back from York City. It was early-on in the doctor's travel back to Setauket. Papa did tell him to send us his regards, and that he had letters from Bess to bring home. But the true message that was meant to be sent was that he was unable to return home directly, as there was urgent need for him to visit my brother, Michael, and his family in New Rochelle. James, the eldest, was expect to be on his way there from Norwalk to also meet with Papa.
What the nature of this urgency is was not shared with the doctor, and so he can do nothing to inform us further. Only, Papa was well enough for travel when he saw him, and this necessary side-journey is what has kept him still from us here.
Trying to keep her spirits up, I know, Mama told me later that by the time Papa returns, her loosened stays will inform him of the coming child before she can speak the news aloud.
It is no longer merely local gossip now, but confirmed that Anna Strong indeed traveled (as I saw) to York City with Abe Woodhull. He, to sell the last of her family's attaindered crop; she, to bring home Selah Strong from off the Jersey prison ship, so long as he pleased Judge Woodhull by signing a paper that stated he would not contest the Crown's attainder against his property. ('Twas Sally B. who brought me this news from one of Whitehall's slaves come to the village with Aberdeen to shop.)
Earlier this month, Mrs. Strong had been heard declaiming loudly to both the Magistrate and Major Hewlett as they sat hearing grievances in our former church, that no evidence against her husband was ever found.
And yet how simply I might now dispute her. Might dismantle her protest. For I've a copy of Selah Strong's treason in my possession. And with it I am proved as much in error as she. I, for thinking my father had no knowledge of such a document, much less a copy amongst his hidden things. A copy showing the signatures of many men in the village, and several from the countryside. Influential, good men; frustrated younger men who looked up to him. A copy of the petition to send Selah Strong to the New York Convention (for so it is notated) as a delegate. Here, among Malachi Outerbridge's things.
In his daughter's hands, all the proof needed to send ten or more men (could they all be found) to the prison ship Jersey (or worse), all that would be needed to keep Selah Strong himself there indefinitely. To curse those men with the fate Carrie Brewster told me had befallen Samuel Tallmadge.
Though they've none of them enlisted, none of them taken up arms.
Only but put signature to paper, wishing to send someone to represent us in matters of governance.
And in doing so committed treason; without violence, without limitation to its being prosecuted and punished.
And yet there is no thought in my mind but to think of a way to keep such a damning paper safe—or destroy it altogether, though it be no true property of mine.
It shows no signature of any Outerbridge. And yet it was given here for safekeeping. Given, and accepted.
Papa cannot have forgotten he possessed such a thing.
It has come to us that Selah Strong has died some months ago, upon the prison ship Jersey.
I try not to think of Samuel, or of Carrie Brewster hearing this news.
I wonder, do you know? That Selah was there, or that he has died in that frightening place? That everything was taken from him before he lost his life as well?
I hope you do not know about Samuel. Do not know that he is there, no doubt also teetering upon losing his own life.
I pray you do not know.
I think I would rather not know.
I have again managed to overhear some of the officers billeted with us. They were lingering at table while Sally B. started her tidying up. Eastin and Williams were discussing Captain Simcoe's (an officer with concerns oft on Eastin's lips) recent return to Setauket and service to His Majesty. Eastin was informing Williams of what he knew in the matter.
"Captured by Continental Dragoons," he said, "bloody damned ambush."
Williams grunted, or made some other unmemorable reply.
"And the names among those men you will find familiar enough: names of Tallmadge and Brewster!" Eastin declared with some gusto, as though they were the punchline in a tavern jest.
"Steady on, Eastin," Williams said. "Those names run like wildfire through this village. What say you we do? Jail them all? Third cousins once removed? Step-fathers and maiden aunts?"
"A Tallmadge and a Brewster," declared Eastin with a swear I will not write herein, "That's who's responsible for the wound to Captain Simcoe, his disrespectful treatment and his capture."
"I'll not wish the village torn apart over his ordeal, impressive though his braving it may have been. I like it here," Williams countered.
"Bah," sneered Eastin, perhaps not wishing to be too bold, as his rank of corporal places him well under the Lieutenant.
"Once we get the politics of the place sorted, I've a mind to settle here," Williams went on. "There are many pretty girls about, and the ones less pretty make up for it by being highly agreeable."
"I cannot see you nursing along an orchard," Eastin replied, "nor mothering cattle, no matter how fetching and rich the wife you take."
"No doubt some land, some earthy task is just what I shall wish for once this war is settled," said Williams, and I had to walk on, away from my listening post, lest I be discovered by Sally B. coming through to the kitchen.
And so I have learnt it must be you and Caleb who have wounded Eastin's revered Captain Simcoe—and not thought to protect your kin by hiding your names. (For what other Tallmadge and Brewster might there be so tight-woven among Washington's men that their names would be so linked?) How very grave your indiscretion may yet prove, for if Eastin knows of it, he will tell all soon enough.
I take no comfort in this, save knowing that it brings me proof you yet live and faithfully serve the Patriot cause (and Caleb as well).
But I cannot think Lucas Brewster would not give his nephew a tongue lashing for such thoughtless work, as now each and every Brewster and Tallmadge shall bear the burden of that connection; for little as even I know of him, I well know Eastin's best Captain Simcoe is no one with whom to trifle. And I am now left to wonder if it is he who set John Robeson on the track of this worrisome petition.
And whether it be Tallmadge and Brewster names he hopes to find thereupon.
The wheelwright sent his boy over this morning to say that our wagonwheel is repaired, and with permission and payment it would be delivered out to Amos Hayman's farm and put upon our wagon, and then driven back to our house in the village. (The wheelwright is often at the disposal of Major Hewlett's men, else we would have had it back far sooner, yet serving the Crown has given him a sight of village work he must put aside until the time to take it on opens up for him.)
Following lessons, I expected the wagon returned to us at any moment this afternoon. (Surely Amos Hayman is growing weary of boarding our team—no matter how neighborly he appears in the gesture.)
Just after two by our clock, the boy arrived back, put the wagon and horses away and came to the kitchen door, carrying with him the distressing news that Richard Woodhull has been shot, most desperately. He reported that Dr. Mabbs was with him at Whitehall, and his son Abraham as well.
The shooter is unknown, though it is said Captain Simcoe is sworn to discover him.
Corporal Eastin was not at the breakfast table this morning, and so I wonder if he was not also attending upon Whitehall at the time.
The whole village waits upon tenterhooks to hear of Judge Woodhull's survival, or death.
Oddly, there was also news today that a particular horse of Major Hewlett's has died, rather nastily, inside Reverend Tallmadge's church.
Mother will no doubt be pleased at the Major's loss, but further saddened at the continued desecration her once-beloved church, as dead horseflesh is a business for the gluemaker, not the clergy.
Who should wish to kill the Magistrate? I ask myself. The men's names on the petition to send Selah Strong to the New York Convention? I know these names, I know these men. Would they not more likely strike out against the King's Men than the magistrate who assists those men?
Richard Woodhull would not have his position if Setauketers did not have some faith in him and his judgment. The matter of the gravestones seems long ago and soberly settled. Of those who might have argued with him I can think only of Anna Strong, and she got her way from him in the end. Had Selah still been alive she might have brought him home.
Would she seek Judge Woodhull's blood to appease her loss? A loss for which she might blame him?
I do not know how to say what I think I must say. To write things here, which could someday be found might seem a folly. And yet, should the Continentals come, what word but my own might save Outerbridges from being tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on rails? And so in writing here I may damn or bless my father, my family entire, but I think I must take the risk and do so.
I have said already in my father's secret place I found several documents and a small ledger book. Among these documents was, surprisingly, a copy of the petition for the New York Convention naming Selah Strong. Malachi Outerbridge's name was nowhere to be found upon it.
However, in the ledger book which I have studied, using my knowledge of the system in which my father encoded his business dealings, I have found monies designated using his code for Selah Strong.
I say this, and yet it has been long years since I have seen Selah Strong in my father's study on business, or in this house socially. The transactions are dated, well before Selah's arrest and sentence. In point of fact, they go back closer to the time the petition was dated. As though Selah (and my father) fully expected the likelihood of him having his estate and fortunes taken over by the Crown. And so here is a list of assets (mostly money) that is designated as his. Kept secretly among this ledger book in such a way that Major Hewlett's attainder would never be able to touch it.
It shows that Sally B., who came to us around that time, is not our slave at all—but still Selah and Anna's—my father paid a yearly rent upon her into Selah's hidden account.
I see facts in this ledger book I can scarcely believe, it shows such a different Papa than I had come to understand.
It is no wonder we do not risk ourselves. It is no wonder we entertain and board officers in our home, and by doing so surrender it, in hopes to keep them out of Papa's office, and the treason it safeguards.
Today, I find I would not be over-shocked to learn 'twas an Outerbridge who shot Richard Woodhull, an Outerbridge involved in the loss of Major Hewlett's prized horse.
To find that Papa has not yet returned home because he has bought himself a commission.
Anything should happen, and I would now be wise enough to swallow back any protest of my own understanding. I have never felt my own apprehension so lacking.
I find no papers at all to support the notion that Papa plans to free our slaves in order to curry further favor with Major Hewlett.
This will disappoint Sally B. (as may the news that she is still owned by the Strongs). I am not confident in how to manage her.