Guns

We have passed a very worrying number of days.

When I think of Papa arriving home, I no longer feel it will prove as relieving an event as I had once thought.

I have returned the papers and the coded ledger book to the study's concealed spot, but I have kept the petition copy back. It feels as dangerous to replant it there as it does to fold it within the binding of this kept-secret diary.

I puzzle over whether to put the copy (the original of which John Robeson told me was the object of Captain Simcoe's desire) to rest in the boathouse cabinet, where a certain stray dog may find it and know how best to use it as proof there are still men in Setauket who are willing to risk themselves for the Patriot cause.

I turn this quandary over in my thoughts without respite.

Similarly, without respite, I refuse to let myself think on Samuel, only that I recall I must pray for him, and that if my own sorrow for him is the trial I must bear in this, he is bearing far worse, and no doubt far-more valiantly so.

It is said Anna Strong stood upon the deck of that very ship (the Jersey) on her trip to York City, thinking to collect Selah but learning of his death-but I have not the courage to approach and ask her if she sighted Samuel, or even knew that your brother was also on-board.

I should, perhaps, make a plan to re-visit Carrie Brewster and let her know Eastin's Captain Simcoe is on the track of Brewsters. Though I know not what steps she might (or could) take to shield herself from such a hunt.

Mama has received a rare letter today. It is from Papa, and she has read it to me. At the time of its writing he was in New Rochelle, with hopes to be able to return to Setauket and us, soon.

He gives reports on Amity and baby Malachi, and informs us James is well and soon to be a father also. But there is no mention of Michael.

A curious thing, him to write of Michael's wife and child and James—almost as though (to any person unfamiliar with our family) James were Amity's husband, and in whose home Papa was staying.

Mama's grave face held all the concern such a letter might inspire in a mother (or a sister).

Something is wrong in New Rochelle, but we must wait for Papa to return and recount it in person.

Papa adds, in language most oblique, that if anyone enquires after him, we are to say that he fell ill during his travels home, and has been detained with his convalescence. And yet, he does not write in such a way as to share with us that he has been at all ill. Only that we are to so mention an illness should anyone enquire.

Certainly he would have shared with Dr. Mabbs any pains or imbalances in his humours had he been feeling ill, Dr. Mabbs as good a hand with a man as with a horse, it is commonly held.

I will not begin this entry with any attempt at salutation or pleasantry: Major Hewlett (who Dr. Mabbs shared with us had to shoot his own mount) has ordered the arrest (of all people anywhere) of Lucas Brewster.

Lucas Brewster!

The Major's horse was fed an apple the doctor believes was tainted with poison in some way from a bowl which also holds the apples from which the Major eats. The apple, it has been agreed by all without objection, was bought from Brewster's orchard.

To say, of all Brewsters, half-crippled with palsy Lucas Brewster set out to poison a British officer (or his horse) is only slightly less unbelievable than to charge Carrie with such a crime.

It sounds more of the work of a certain stray dog, to me, though I cannot think what such a feat might accomplish for the Continental Army—the British are strong in their numbers (particularly on the water), and it would be nothing for their navy to drop off another Major in Setauket before afternoon, should we render this one further useless by death.

And yet, Woodhull and Hewlett do sit side-by-side (often, but most-publicly) when the villagers enter the barracks church to have their grievances heard in the assizes. And the person I can most think has a large grievance against the two at present is Anna Strong.

I must stop thinking this way. Certainly it is unchristian.

It is said Lucas Brewster has been shackled in the tavern cellar; so bragged the young private who came to our door to announce that in light of the Magistrate's shooting, all guns in the house must be brought out to Major Hewlett by luncheon tomorrow.

(One is meant to assume it is to examine the weapons and attempt to locate the guilty party, but it may just as likely be an easy way to leave Setauketers without any defense, or recourse-by-force. Something any King's Man must surely applaud.)

I impressed Sally B. into attending upon me in the matter of carrying the Outerbridge pistols and rifles to Major Hewlett this morning.

When he learnt we were going out and why, Abner insisted on coming, and so I let him hold the small pistol, which Papa has always declared was more for decoration than function. It has a beautiful whalebone grip, though I cannot recall Papa ever wearing it as any sort of decoration. Perhaps he did so as a young man-about-town in York City.

A queue had already formed when we arrived, Sally B. with an antique chest of dueling pistols that had belonged to the Belard family. I had Papa's two Charleville muskets, which together at nearly 20 pounds made for quite an armload, and oil from them spotting my kerchief, no doubt.

We had walked the rise of the hill up toward the table set out by Major Hewlett, and taken our place in line. Further up near the table, Major Hewlett could be heard holding court. He blessed Abe Woodhull for participating.

I should, perhaps, have recognized Reverend Tallmadge's head and shoulders (they were visible over that of the shorter men) as he strode through and past the others present to the head of the line, but I did not until he spoke—and then there was no denying him.

And he was as grand as ever—no thought to who he was facing down, no holding back his disgust at every villager being grouped under suspicion of the Judge's shooting. His eloquence was like fresh water to the thirsty shipwrecked. And yet there was little to be had of discretion in it. I did not mark the lack of it. He spoke what I wished to hear, and in the tone I wished to myself use. He proved himself, as I had long-believed, an equal if not a better to our wounded magistrate in discourse and articulacy.

I could not have been more moved, more transported by words had they been spoken by his son—or Thomas Paine himself.

"May I hold something for you, Jenny?" I heard at my elbow, and it was Abe Woodhull, having just finished his turn with the Major and his clerk.

"Thank you kindly," I said, feeling more than ever after hearing the Reverend like I needed to arrive at that table with powerful words of my own, elegantly rendered, and a little impatient with having my thoughts interrupted. "But they are no trouble," I protested, "And they are Outerbridge weapons. An Outerbridge ought be seen turning them over." I tore myself away from staring at Reverend Tallmadge's noble figure to turn and look Abraham in the face.

A deeper frown line appeared between his brows. "Malachi is still not returned, then?"

"No," I knew the answer expected of me by Papa himself. "He is convalescing from an illness, and cannot travel at present." Craning my neck, I tried to resume watching the Reverend and the Major.

"That is sorry news," Abraham seemed not to notice my preoccupation. "I am certain your mother wishes him home."

"But all talk has been of your father!" I fully turned my attention (against my will) away from the Reverend Tallmadge. "We hear terrible things, and keep him daily in our prayers."

"I'll thank you for that," said Abraham with a nod. "We are hopeful he will recover."

"I cannot think of who would have done such a wicked thing—though I have tried," I said, though most likely I should have not let on that my thoughts tended so in the matter.

For the shortest moment, Abraham looked at me as though he had never quite seen me before—as though we had never met long ago as children in the village, our acquaintanceship never intimate yet always in effect, however shallow the depth to which it might have settled.

A look, and then he was back to where we had been a moment prior: passing the moment with small cordialities.

"He is too stubborn to let anyone have the upper hand for long," he said, which is about as perfect a description of Richard Woodhull as one is likely to hear.

"And you think to find the instrument of his wounding in this way?" I raised my eyebrows toward the table before us. "Moreso than to ponder who might in some way benefit by his loss?"

The corner of his eyes creased in a way I have come to expect in tandem with spoken words (generally unpleasant ones), but he said nothing in defense nor in praise of Major Hewlett's scheme to smoke out his father's would-be assassin.

It was Walter Havens who approached him from behind and laid a hand upon his shoulder in way of greeting, and so Abraham no longer had to answer my perhaps-too-keen questioning.

The new arrival nodded his greeting to me, touching his hat and bobbing his head. "Miss Jenny," he said. "That's quite a good-looking pistol, there, Abner," he said to my proudly-grinning brother. "I should be loathe to give it up, had I one like it."

Abner's grin stretched ear-to-ear.

Mr. Havens and Abraham exchanged a few words, some of which I could hear, and some I could not.

I found myself with the freedom to examine them as they spoke and Sally B., Abner and I waited in the line.

Walter Havens, Prudy Havens' uncle, has a boat of his own (which the Regulars have not taken from him, neither have they greatly interfered with his trade, yet), and is known to be a plain-spoken and sympathetic sort of man. His wife died before Major Hewlett and his soldiers arrived, and his children are with families of their own. He has a grown daughter, married and living away from Setauket; we are perhaps meant to forget her father named Liberty, and she is now more commonly referred to in conversation as Libby.

And I now have first-hand knowledge (undeniable even in the lowest candlelight) that his signature graces the petition to send Selah Strong to the New York Congress. And so, he is a Patriot. And though his name be neither Brewster or Tallmadge, a patriot in danger. For Robeson or some redcoat will find the original—or even, God forbid—find the copy, and things will go as badly for him as they have for Selah, for Samuel—for Lucas Brewster.

And then there is Abraham Woodhull. Brother of Thomas, son of Richard, husband to Mary and father to Thomas. Surely that is how he is thought of nowadays—perhaps even by myself. But what about son of Siobhan? What of the always-smaller-than-the-other-boys, yet fierce as fed fire Abe? He feared none when it came down to what was right and fair. He'd not tolerate bullies—he'd not hesitate to jump Caleb Brewster himself, and match him wild for wild if his sense of fair-play were tweaked enough.

And what about that other title he wore all those years? Best friend of Benjamin Tallmadge. Benjamin Tallmadge, Student and later schoolmaster. Benjamin Tallmadge of the Connecticut Dragoons. Benjamin Tallmadge, Dedicated Patriot.

Yet Abraham's signature is absent from the petition. Then again, awarding the man of the woman you once (or still) loved with a position of some power and influence (however illegal) perhaps trumps one's patriotism.

We did all hear him say his oath to the King, not long ago.

And yet you were his best friend, too. No doubt in the minds of any villager the affection was mutual.

Is it a tragedy between the two of you, then? One to fight for King, the other for Liberty from tyrannical monarchs? Or is it something else that you saw—that you would have always seen and always known inside the outmatched bully-beater, something which lies dormant even yet, until its embers are stirred and troubled to flame?

Abraham Woodhull, Tardy Patriot?

Two men stood before me, each with things to lose, but only one I knew for certain was on the coming precipice of immediate peril. Both Robeson and the Regulars were searching for the petition, even if the village at large did not yet know it.

I turned to Sally B., and told her she must tell Walter Havens to bring what was left of his catch to the house this afternoon—to bring it by the kitchen door, himself. I stressed to her that he must come himself and use that door.

She looked at me like I was acting more than a little strange, but did not question me aloud.

"Mama has said she has a craving for fish," I told her, "and with us having to do this," I jostled about the rifles in my arms, "we have lost our chance to buy the best at the wharf."

"He must come to the kitchen door, himself," she repeated.

"Yes. And come tell me when he arrives."

"He's to wait for you?"

"Yes."

"Uh-huh. But you can't speak to him yourself. He right over there, Miss Jenny."
He was, in truth, barely a yard away from me, still speaking to Abraham Woodhull.

"Do as you're told, Sally B.," I said, as I might say to Abner, my voice probably less polite than it might have been without the ill-feelings of knowing a secret about her that I wasn't telling painted upon it.

"My dear Miss Outerbridge!" I heard the Major exclaim upon seeing us in the queue, and he strode over to our group, causing Walter Havens and Abraham Woodhull to scatter like chickens when a carriage drives by.

"This is—this is shocking, and you must accept my apologies." His uniform was impeccable. It was as though he floated over mud, over puddle or dust. It appeared for all the world that he began each day with a new-made wig. "With your father still detained on business, I did not for a moment expect you to take such a task upon yourself!"

"I am sure it is no more trouble for us than for the other citizens of Setauket," I said. "I have Abner to help, and our Sally B."

"Ah, yes, your father's man—"

"Cleopas,"

"He is with him, still."

"They are expected home any day, Sir."

"Yes, that is good to hear. But this is appalling! A young lady caused to carry weapons to the barracks!"

(In point of fact I had seen at least two other young women-one married, one with an ailing father—in the queue, and he had paid them not a moment's mind. Then again, they were in rough brown cloaks of no particular beauty or fashion. And I had worn my dark green wool with the black velvet-lined hood.)

"A certain private came to the door yesterday and said we were to bring any guns to you before luncheon, should we wish to avoid incarceration."

"But where is Corporal Eastin?" He looked genuinely discomfited. "Could he not have submitted them for you? Where is his head? Or Lieutenant Williams? Surely you could have enlisted his aid?"

Not having civil words to share regarding either of these two gentlemen, nor what it might take for me to 'enlist their aid' upon a matter, I merely smiled, though not broadly.

"Well, let us see here, let us see," the Major muttered to himself, compelling us to the front of the line (past others who had waited longer, and had already lost something of their place when the Reverend refused to wait his turn), by taking my elbow (I had no arm to give him as I was holding both muskets).

Upon arrival at the table, he relieved me of both, making certain his clerk marked the guns down as my father's—and not mine.

"Though this is all entirely for the sake of due course. Mr. Outerbridge has been away from Setauket for weeks," he said, apparently absolving my father of any possibility in being the shootist, and my mother and I being too silly, or too retiring, to possibly know how to load—much less fire—a shot.

He balked at Sally B. and the case of dueling pistols. He lifted the lid and saw them lying there, the Belard name carved upon the case. "These are," he offered, "a family treasure, I do not doubt. From years gone by," he said more loudly, almost over our heads, as if trying to let the others know he by no means believed my family might support the practice of dueling. "They will not be needed, but may…continue to gather dust in their case as they clearly have so done for long years," he finished quickly.

It was Abner's turn to present the short, whalebone handled pistol. No doubt he expected it to be made-over, something like Walter Havens had done upon seeing it.

"Oh, dear me, no," the Major declared. "We shall not need this," and he waved the pistol, and Abner, away. "That is far too small to be the culprit. It would not be able to fire anywhere close to the distance over which Rich—the Magistrate—was shot. It is for closest range possible. A last line of personal defense, if you will."

With that, and a few other social words, we concluded our business with the British Army, hopefully, for the day. At least until the officers return to be fed and to sleep.

And I needed Walter Havens to pay his call to the kitchen before that.

It was then an hour or more before luncheon.