I report that my diary remains in its place, lodged therein with my fervent prayers for its discovery by a friendly hand. (And the petition copy along with it.)

Even so, I have torn what blank pages of it I might, so there may be someplace to carry on this narrative insofar as this narrative continues to unfold.

It was only this morning, as we sat breaking our fast with no particular plans (as a family for the coming day), that Mama abruptly joined us, dressed in her cloak for going out, as if to church.

We each of us looked up from our plates, astonished at her ready-to-go-calling appearance at such an hour.

"Mistress Outerbridge," Papa asked, after some period of silence, during which he finished slowly chewing his ham. "Where might you be bound this morn?"

And then I knew what Mama would answer (though I did not understand it, though I would not have imagined it possible in long years).

"We shall attend upon this trial," Mama said. "All of us."

Papa's brow cocked. "But do you think that wise?"

Mama's face had a look about it we have each of us seen at one time or another. A look of compassionate matter-of-factness after which she could not be naysaid. "We shall not let our neighbors look out upon those present and see no friendly faces."

Without replying, Papa brought his napkin to his face, signaling that his breakfast was complete, and went straightaway to freshen his cravat.

I did not interrupt and remind Mama that she had declared previously that she would never again enter Reverend Tallmadge's former church.

I did not hurry to catch Papa and ask for him to explain why suddenly Outerbridges, staunchest Loyalists, second—if not first—among Setauket Tories, were undisturbed with showing public concern for their imprisoned neighbors accused of treason, murder, and accused of having put their names to a rebellious and seditious document.

What I have (I think) of late discovered about my family (much if not all of it recounted within my prior diary pages) is not that Outerbridges are outright Patriots. For they would never be comfortable with such a term (or not at least for many years to come). And less, still, would they feel at home espousing the cause of any liberty earned through rebellion and war.

No, Outerbridges see themselves as Setauketers through and through. When Papa had been asked to safeguard a document signed by men of Setauket, he did so—though he did not sign it himself. He kept the name and account of Setauket's own Selah Strong current and profitable, and safe from attainder, hidden within his ledgers.

When the King's Men arrived ostensibly to protect and serve Setauket's safety and guard its port of commerce, Outerbridges complied.

Mama and Papa might feel it a bridge too far to consider themselves Americans, supporters of the Continental Army, Patriots, but they are more than colonists, more than British as were Papa's people. No, they are Setauketers.

And the more the King and his minions soldiering here hurt and target our neighbors, the closer Mama and Papa shall come to their own crisis of rebellion.

To taking on that badge of Patriot.

And so, Benjamin, we Outerbridges shall attend the trial. I shall see Lucas Brewster and your Reverend father again. And though it has been desecrated as a horse barn, I shall be in a church, our beloved church, which can do nothing if not embolden my prayers for your Providential appearance, and their rescue.

Excuse my hurried hand. I have quit the trial before it adjourned, and I've but a moment to write herein. Perhaps someday I might have means and leisure to recount what else has passed beyond this: I shall depart Setauket before the hour is out, Sally B. companioning me.

I have sent her to Carrie Brewster's stable, for we must have horses if we intend to travel at any speed of pace, or I to pass scrutiny as a woman of any means.

She balked at horse theft, to be sure (though in days to come, such an action might be less shocking than what else we encounter, or find a necessity in the doing of). I worked to assure her that Carrie alone has no need of every horse in her uncle's stable, and were we to accomplish the task I mean to take on, she shall bless rather than curse us upon our return.

Sally B. is to take the horses and wait with them outside the village for my arrival. I was sure to remind her not to pick one too grand for her own, as doing so would only call unnecessary attention to us among any travelers and soldiers we shall meet.

I have written upon two of these loose leaves, letters for taking my leave. The first I shall place upon the dining table for Mama and Papa to find when they return.

"Dear family,

I write this note of farewell for the present, as James has come to take Sally B. and I to Amity, who has great need of helping hands in her present delicate condition.

I thank you, Papa, for arranging things so expertly that little care had to be taken on mine or Amity's part to plan for this journey.

I pray for your continued good health throughout my time away, that the children will do their best to keep to their studies, and that I might be returned to you still,

Your loving daughter,

Jenny"

A second letter, not meant for others' eyes, I shall place within Papa's secret compartment in his study. I have no doubt he shall look therein upon receipt of the first letter, as that communication is predicated upon a lie he, too, must now perpetuate in order to protect Sally B's and my flight from the British and the countryside they occupy. And in searching that most clandestine space, Papa shall note as well the absence of coin among his notes, in the amount as is necessary for a journey of any length and duration.

"Papa,

I am sorry for you to have to learn that your daughter is not the obedient child you thought her (mostly) to be. I confess herein that I am a liar, and now, having stolen coin from you, a thief. I have absconded, also, with your small, pearl-handled pistol.

I shall not say herein where we are bound, but I do expect that at some point it is entirely possible we might yet make our way to Amity.

I am sorry, truly, to have to leave Mama with the education of the children, and the care of the new baby, preparations for its arrival. In happier times I believe I could have been content with such tasks. And I dare to hope that I might, someday, be so again.

You must believe me, though, that my journey away from you is not consequent of any occurrence within our family. Rather, I love you all as dearly as did I the day I was born into our happy home, and I pray for a time when we may re-unite and I may tell you such things without reservation.

Please make excuses for my not of writing (in my coming absence) to Bess. It will be best, I am resolved, if she learns news of my leaving Setauket as tardily as possible.

It would be imprudent to place into words the reason behind my flight. You must trust that in my judgment it is important enough to brave the risks of such an endeavor.

And you must at all costs, as you know, adhere to the tale that I am but traveled to Amity's aid.

I do not say I leave my heart with you all, for I am grown a woman now, and where I go I take my heart with me—and pursue my heart's bidding in my appointed task-but I pray you, doubt not my lasting tender feelings and ties to you all.

Your daughter,

Jenny"

These final pages I shall momentarily carry out to join their brothers (sadly, still present) in the boathouse cabinet. Not that they are of any broader interest or consequence, not that they carry any useable military information-only I have not the presence of mind to decide upon any other fate for them, than to rest within the volume from which they were originally torn.

It is in this final act I take my leave of Setauket and flee, determined to find aid for the men now captive in their own church.

In this act I take back the responsibility of my own self-determination. In this act I forever brand myself a Patriot, a rebel, a willful enemy of the King and his illegal and immoral rule of my country.

In this act, I risk everything Providence has ever gifted me; my place in a loving family, my status within an admirable, upright village, my reputation as a virtuous unmarried girl, unto even my very life.

I do so with no doubt that my chosen course of action is right, and best.

I do not mean to fail.