There is more to recount than I feel I am likely to have time to so do. Certainly not with any eloquence.

Firstly, I see that I have concluded my last entry without relating my interaction with Walter Havens.

Shortly before midday, Mr. Havens did bring what was left of his catch to the kitchen door, and Sally B. obediently called for me to come see.

At that time of day it is no surprise he had what would have been of very little interest to our household any other day left to sell. Nevertheless, I entered into parley over a price for what there was remaining of his catch.

I knew I could not allow the negotiation to go on very long before being discovered (by more than just Sally B.), and my heart was barely in it, hoping only not to owe too much for what he had to offer (and dreading having to explain my abrupt inability to exercise restraint regarding the household accounts to Mama).

I confess I do not even recall what Havens was saying when I moved to interrupt him in a way that had to have proven unsettling.

As he was caught off-guard, I was struck suddenly with the realization that nothing in my education had prepared me for such a moment. Young ladies are taught deportment, they are schooled in being proper and suitable when in company. We are not trained in ways in which to be certain one is taken seriously. And I knew enough to know that wearing the right color or fabric—tying a ribbon just so—were to be of no help in this particular—this dire—endeavor.

I attempted to call that which years of watching and listening to two men of Setauket, highly esteemed and greatly respected, had shown me into effect. I attempted to speak with the combined authority and clarity of Judge Woodhull and Reverend Tallmadge. And told myself I must believe my words would be similarly received.

"You must leave Setauket," I said, making no effort to try and disguise the worry in my voice or countenance.

"Miss Jenny?" Walter Havens said, as one might expect-befuddled by my abrupt conversational change from buying the day's fish one moment to warning him away from his established home the next, though he had to have marked the unusual circumstance that I should be arranging the purchase of fish (and a late-in-the-day one) and not Cook or Mama.

"You must not ask how I know," I said, and I prayed he would not press me to tell him, "but you must know first that the King's Men—and John Robeson—are in search of the petition to send Selah Strong to the New York Congress," I had to stop him before he began to speak in protest. I raised my voice in a way I had certainly never been taught (though only firmly and loudly enough to over-speak his beginning protests), "Furthermore, I know without a doubt, your name to be signed to such a document. You must take all precaution." Here I extended him coin, though we had not yet jointly agreed upon a price. "You are a good man, Walter Havens. I have no wish to see you jailed." I did not list further the things I would have no wish to see His Majesty's Regulars enact upon him.

It was clear he had no expectation in the slightest of hearing such words from, of all Setauket, Jenny Outerbridge. He took a moment to collect himself.

Did he believe me? Did he trust me? Did he doubt my words or actions; me, an Outerbridge—well-known since the arrival of Major Hewlett's garrison as Loyalists of the highest degree? Did he, perhaps, think my words a trap?

Would he repudiate my warning? Demand to know how I came by such knowledge?

He cleared his voice, laid the fish atop the woodpile for our kitchen cookfire which was in arms-reach, and without counting it, accepted the coin from my hand.

"Do the others know?" he asked, before catching himself. His eyes were looking wild with concern, and it was clear he was thinking very quickly. "Do you…know of the others?"

"I know," I told him, trying to keep whatever I had been able to conjure of Richard Woodhull and the Reverend in my voice. "But I cannot request their presences at our kitchen door without causing talk."

In this, he agreed.

"If you find you cannot go home," I told him—though I've no authority to do so—"our stables may shield you for a night—though not likely more." But in this I perhaps overstepped myself.

He nodded, did not thank me, still seeming startled by the encounter, and said no more.

I thought for a moment I had not hung on to what I had been able to summon of the Judge and the Reverend. This was why he did not mark my final instruction. And yet, I felt most strongly I had no wish to become further firm or further authoritative. Such words were character traits to which I had never aspired. I resented having to manufacture such things from within myself. Being desperate and unpleasant had made me cross. The world had fallen out of balance.

It was the King's Men who had brought me to this: telling grown men their business, instructing them on where they might seek sanctuary for the night, addressing them as not only their equal, but their better.

Brought me to this and yet stranded me, as I have said, by the fact that I had no freedom to walk about the village conversing with whom I pleased. Had I been Papa, had I been even young Abner I might have, over the course of several days, arranged quick, private words with all but two or three of the names on the petition.

And now perhaps it was growing too late, and Walter Havens, himself in peril, was left to attempt such a task. Or to leave the village without finding the opportunity to do so at all.

It is yet another thing His Majesty's greed for these colonies has taken from me.

I shall place it upon a list alongside the carefree innocence of my youth, any pleasant society, the honor of my family, and my foreseeable romantic future.

'Twas Sally B. who stepped out from behind the door once Walter Havens had departed. I thought—erroneously—she did so only to accept the fish I'd gotten us.

"You done been in your Papa's study," she said to me. "Where else you find a paper like that? With them names on it? Rebel names."

"There is nothing there regarding freedom papers, Sally B.," I told her, and I probably had something of the schoolmarm in my voice.

At this we had something of a spat, which I will not further shame either of us with re-counting in detail here. In the end I lost my temper, no doubt brought on by my own guilt of having withheld from her the truth I had found.

"Far from being free," I told her—and in the moment I fear I may have relished it. "For what I found shows you are not at all Papa's to free. You are still property of Selah Strong, and in his death, of his wife, Miss Anna. Papa has only been leasing your services here. His ledger shows what is paid into the Strong account yearly. For you."

This concluded our spat with some finality, and we quit one another's company.

Within the hour, Papa was announced as having returned home. 'Twas Nan who ran about the house and yard telling us of it.

We assembled in the sitting room (thankfully free of officers at this time of the day) to greet him, including Sally B. (who gave a very gloomy greeting which on any other day would have been remarked upon), Cook and the kitchen girl. Papa stood with Cleopas just to his back, and looked not at all of a man who had been ill—but not of a man who had no cares in the world, either. He greeted each of us in our turn.

Myself, he presented immediately with several letters in Bess' hand, which he had been carrying within his coat.

"I regret, Wife," he said to Mama, "that our conversation I shall have to postpone some short space longer. News has come to us on the road—indeed it had traveled as far as Huntington—that Lucas Brewster has been arrested, and I mean to discover about it what I can, and resolve several pressing business concerns in the village before the afternoon is lost."

And so, after arriving home and being indoors for less than a quarter of an hour, Papa had left us again.

As we waited for Papa's return (I would say none more than Mama, with her news of the baby—but I must consider also my own need to speak privately with him), I had an hour or so over which to read Bess' communication, which I did. And I daresay in less-concerning times, her letters and their contents would swell entire pages of this account.

As it stands, she is well and happy. Delighted in York City and her new life at the Fisks. Even the terrible child of Mr. Fisk's dotage brings her nothing but joy (or did at the time of her writing).

She has seen enough of the city to know she wishes to see more. The Fisks have a wide acquaintance, including some Quakers from Oyster Bay (the Fisks transact much business with those of the Quaker faith, as the deceased Mrs. Fisk had family from among their numbers), in whom Bess seems to take an interest (though she has uncharacteristically refrained from mentioning if this Oyster Bay family has unmarried sons, though unmarried sons are common enough in most families, I daresay).

She writes of her travel into the city: "It stood, visible as we passed, though from a safe-enough distance we were told: HMS Jersey. That very ship where they have sent Selah Strong as his punishment. It was thrilling and gruesome to see it, towering over us as we were brought into the harbor. No prisoners were visible to us upon its decks, but our boatman declared he has often enough seen inmates jump—only to be shot as they try to escape, or drown in preference to living in chains upon it another day. And though the smells of the wharf are far from pleasant, the ship gives off such an odiferous scent I think 'twould be hard for one to ever shed it—even were they released from such bestial captivity."

She has devoted nearly half an entire leaf of paper to detailing a new frock she is sewing for herself, and included a piece of the fabric she chose.

I am an ungrateful sister and I can hardly stand it. So much news and goodwill in her written word. And I cannot enjoy a quill stroke of it.

I want to shoot holes in the Jersey and sink it to the bottom. Any good Setauket boy could swim himself to safety. I have never yet met a King's Man who could swim.

I want to declare no young lady may wear a new or flattering frock until our freedom from King George is secure and our families are returned home. Why should we dress gaily? Why allow Loyalists and Bloodybacks to enjoy our figures or coloring?

I am wretched, and what is worse, I know it.

I am become more unhappy by the day, and less certain I understand why we have stayed in Setauket, or why we sent Bess to York City instead of taking our family and resettling in territory held by the Continentals.

So tend my thoughts.

Before Papa returned, there was another letter to be read—though I am certain it was given me in error. The letter that Papa received from Michael's wife Amity in New Rochelle.

Papa must have been keeping it with Bess' letters to me, and in his hurry to leave for the village mistakenly handed it over as well.

I now know the reason for Papa's long detour home, though. Michael has left his family to go for a soldier. He has joined the Continentals. Amity writes to Papa for money. She is alone, with baby Malachi and another on the way. James is nearer her (than are we) in Norwalk, but still a goodly distance. She needs help, and has not heard from Michael in four months' time.

It is no surprise that Papa felt he must hazard a visit to New Rochelle.

Papa has returned home from the tavern. He looks years older than he did just an hour gone.

He arrived in time for the evening meal, but our family remained in the sitting room whilst the officers ate it, us having no stomach for it after the news Papa brought.

Reverend Tallmadge has been arrested.

He is charged with shooting Judge Woodhull, with intent to kill him. Also, I think, there were charges of sedition. Unlawful assembly, treason.

He is being held in the tavern cellar, with Lucas Brewster.

It feels to me as though the last few lines I have written in the dying light of the day are copied from an implausible novel. Surely they cannot be true, could not have come to pass here in Setauket among what I know are its goodly, decent citizenry.

It can be no coincidence, a Brewster and a Tallmadge, taken and charged by the Regulars. We are under attack as surely as were Major Hewlett's cannons on the hill aimed down, into the center of the village.

"Sally B.," Papa said, "I have received permission to furnish Master Lucas and the Reverend with meals. You and Cook may see to it. The sentries have been told to expect you." At a look from Mama he added, "DeJong refused to feed them unless the Army reimbursed his coffers for the labor and expense." He shook his head, "He is quite hot about them being held in his cellar."

"When?" asked Mama, though I was not certain what she asked—when should Sally B. take them food? When had he encountered Maarten DeJong?

"In two days' time," Papa answered, dragging his handkerchief across his brow. "The trial will be in two days' time."

There is no room for joy or happy anticipation tonight. If Mama has told Papa about the baby (and I do not know if she yet has), our hearts are too heavy to celebrate it. We talk instead, and turn over what has happened in the lowest possible tones, lest the officers overhear and assume we linger not in the sitting room visiting with our returned father, but sharing concern and dismay over the arrests, and they choose to charge us with sedition as well.

I do not care what anyone says. I do not believe it. If Lucas Brewster was the last man on earth to arrest for poisoning Major Hewlett's horse, then the notion of Reverend Tallmadge shooting Richard Woodhull is equally nonsensical.

And equally contrived.

Both indicted by a man whom Corporal Eastin has announced—in this very house—is at hunting Brewsters and Tallmadges.

And now, now he has caught them.

And what room left, for joy or celebration, for anticipation in my life? Papa is returned. Bess has written. But those facts seem more and more like dry vestiges from an old life. A life Before.

I do not feel it is being dramatic to predict herein that I will not sleep this night. I will think on Carrie alone in her uncle's house, surrounded by her uncle's orchard, fearful of what shape her future (and his) will shortly take.

I will think on the Reverend in the tavern cellar; the most respected man in our village being housed like a rat.

I do not doubt his soul is right with the Creator, but I cannot bear the thought that you cannot be told of his plight. It is far too late for a letter. It seems as though it has long been too late for a letter, or words, or action to prevent what has occurred.

There has never been enough time here in Setauket. Not enough time for growing up, or courting, not enough time to understand the importance of liberty, of freedom from tyranny.

Not enough time to hope to see a certain stray dog again.

And now there is of a sudden less time, and I know whether I see your face again or not, whether we take up the many conversations we never seemed able to finish-as long as I live I will never again sleep easily if I cannot do something to help your father.