#setauket

Image 1: "Site of Home - Abraham Woodhull" (Original) — The original signage put at the site of Abraham Woodhull’s home on Setauket. It has since been replaced with one that is in better quality in the original site, and this one is currently placed near the entrance of the Three Village Historical Society building.

Image 2: Patriot's Rock Information — Patriot’s Rock is located down the road from the Setauket Presbyterian Church, and acts as a landmark for the Battle of Setauket in 1777. The site also includes a historically accurate recreation of a camp that soldiers such as Caleb Brewster may have stayed in.

Image 3: Patriot's Rock Plaque — The placard placed on the Patriot’s Rock. Highlights the involvement of Caleb Brewster, Reverend Zachariah Greene, and Jonathon Dickerson in the Battle of Setauket (1777).

Image 4: Gravesite of Abraham Woodhull — The resting place of Abraham Woodhull, also known as Samuel Culper Sr. The gravesite was actually reconstructed using bricks from the remains of the Woodhull home, which had burned down in 1931. Rocks, coins, and momentos are left on the gravesite out of respect for Woodhull and his part in the American Revolution. I left him a coin, myself :)

Image 5: Setauket Presbyterian Church Sign, Culper Spy Ring Tour — A sign erected by the Long Island North Shore Heritage Area (LINSHA), promoting the Culper Spy Ring Tour, a self-led audio tour throughout historical locations in Setauket. The Setauket Presbyterian Church is the resting place of key figures such as Abraham Woodhull, Nathanial Brewster, and numerous descendants of Revolutionary War veterans.

Image 6: Site of Home - Abraham Woodhull (Reconstructed) — The signage erected at the site of Abraham Woodhull’s home and farm in Setauket. It was originally built by Richard Woodhull, Abraham’s father, in 1690. Since the fire that destroyed the home in 1931, other homes have been erected, and currently home numerous families.

Image 7: Gravesite of Anna Strong — The resting place of Culper Spy Anna Strong. Her gravesite is at St. George’s Manor Cemetery, and she is buried beside her husband, Captain Selah Strong. Rocks, coins, and momentos are left out of respect, and I left her a coin, as well :)

Image 8: Gravesite of Selah Strong — The resting place of Captain Selah Strong, husband to Anna Strong. Fun fact, he passed away on Independence Day of 1815!

Image 9: Abraham Woodhull Costume Worn by Jamie Bell in TURN — I was quite literally shaking when I took this picture. A costume worn by actor Jamie Bell from TURN: Washington’s Spies, donated by AMC to the Three Village Historical Society. I remember this costume from the scene where Setauket’s townspeople are hiding in the church following an impending attack from the Redcoats - you know, when Simcoe shot Caleb’s uncle.

No one knew what happened to Captain John Graves Simcoe during his imprisonment with the rebels. The British man wasn't one to talk about it. Nonetheless, the imprisonment didn't make him a better person. He was an evil man and continued his wicked ways against anyone that crossed him. Although, he seemed to acquire a new target once he was no longer a prisoner. His main focus shifted the younger sister of Benjamin Tallmadge and rumored love of Caleb Brewster.

Susannah Tallmadge was the youngest in the family. She was often seen with Anna Strong after her father was imprisoned. Her mother died when she was young and her brothers were fighting in the war. Some would say that they were on the wrong side of the war. Her family were rebel sympathizers. They longed to be free from English rule. Many of their friends turned on them when the information came out.

The young woman was used to the stares and whispers from their old friends when she walked around town. However, the constant stares of Captain Simcoe left her uneasy. Across a room or across a field, he made sure that she knew that he was there. She didn't realize how her life would change when he decided to start speaking to her.

"Miss Tallmadge," his soft voice sounded in the room. He was the only one in the tavern with her. Anna had taken some time to rest. Running a tavern alone had taken it's toll on her since Selah was arrested.

"Yes, Captain?" She asked and watched him. He had on a white powder wig that she hated so much. His blue eyes looked her up and down. The woman before him was a mess. Sweat caused her brown locks to mat to her face and neck. Her face flushed red from keeping up the demands of the soldiers. Her clothes were a mess on her slender frame.

"It seems you and I have something in common," he pointed out. His eyes met hers to get a reaction. "We both are acquainted with a particular fellow,"

"I'm sure you and I know many people here, sir," she smiled briefly. "Setauket doesn't have many people,"

Captain Simcoe stood from his seat. He easily towered over her. She stared at his red coat before looking up. His gaze now burned with a fire she knew not to play with. He smiled and said nothing.

"I should really get back to cleaning then. I," she bowed her head and turned around. Captain Simcoe grabbed her elbow. Susannah turned her head to face him. She froze in her place. A familiar symptom of dread spread down her spine.

"Would you like to know this particular fellow that I am speaking about?" He asked. His grip tightening around her elbow. There was only one correct answer here.

"I... Sure," she forced a smile. His grip immediately loosened and then he let go.

"His name is Caleb Brewster. Ever heard of him?"

"I may have ran into him once upon a time. He sounds familiar. He is friends with my brothers," she downplayed the relationship. Her heart pounded in her ears. Butterflies flew around in her stomach. The corners of his mouth raised in an evil smile.

"Perfect. Now I know the face you are making when you lie,"

"I... I'm not,"

"He is rather fond of you for someone that you ran into once upon a time," he interrupted. She gulped as her breath caught into her throat. The room felt like it was getting hotter. "Love is a great weakness,"

"We aren't in..."

"Love? Oh my dear that was all he talked about to your brother when those cowards held me. Torturing an officer, despicable," he muttered with a look of disgust.

"Captain, I don't understand," she whispered almost afraid to hear her own voice.

"I thought perhaps imprisoning your father and Brewster's uncle would draw them here, but I think you would make a greater prize for my trap," he smiled. She closed her eyes as a tear slid down her cheek.

Prologue

Benjamin Tallmadge’s head was spinning. The blue of the continental uniforms, the silvery greens and pinks of the ladies’ dresses, and the light of the candles were swirling before his eyes in an ever-moving blur. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He knew that much. He wasn’t all quite familiar with this feeling, certainly not as familiar as his best friend Caleb, but from his little experience he knew what it was; he felt drunk. 

Completely wasted.

He could only remember feeling this way once before. One of the many times that his old Yale friend, Nathan Hale had propositioned him to go to one of the many pubs he frequented; the one time he took him up on the offer. It was the day he learned he could not hold his drink well. Granted, at that time he was a lanky and bright-eyed seventeen-year-old, however, after that time, he did not venture to test his limits again. Still, he remembered the feeling of being completely and utterly powerless over his body all too well. The fuzziness in his head, the swirling of colors in front of his eyes, and the nausea in his stomach were hard to forget. Nathan had practically dragged him back to the dorms that night, but not before stopping multiple times on the street to allow Ben to empty his stomach of the spirits he’d consumed. All in all: it was not a pleasant experience.

And it was one Ben had made a point not to relive. He didn’t like having no control of his body, and even more so, he didn’t like the raging headache it gave him the morning after. Yes, he remembered the feeling of drunkenness all too well. But something inside him told Ben that drunkenness wasn’t what was wrong with him. He’d only had one glass of sherry that night. 

The party had moved smoothly. After all, for Ben, it was only for formalities. General Washington needed his presence at an address to Congress in Philadelphia, to urge them to recall the congressional dollar. It was absolutely necessary to avoid the economic downfall of the newly born United States. Washington and his guests were invited to the party at the house of General Benedict Arnold during their stay in Philadelphia, an event Ben was all but eager to attend. He wanted to get in and out of the city as quickly as possible, in order to get back to where his mind really was: the war.

  It wasn’t only that Ben was eager to get back to return to where his real work was needed, it was that he did not feel as though he fit in with these people, in this setting. He knew that General Washington came from money, and that some of the most affluent people in Philadelphia and in the colonies were going to be attending this party, but he didn’t expect it to be this lavish. It seemed as though Arnold had at least a dozen servants, always eager and at the ready to serve you refreshments or fill your cup at any time. The house itself, Penn Mansion, was magnificent, with grand furniture and upkeep, as well as one of the most spacious homes he’d ever been in; He was sure that it was more than four times the size of his own home. The men, well, those who were not in uniform, were dressed impeccably, with such adornments he thought would be fit for a duke, and the women all dressed in velvet and silk gowns of every hue in the rainbow. He felt utterly out of place. After all, what would a minister’s son from a backwater town such as Setauket, Long Island find himself here for anyway? 

If only my father could see me now,  Ben remembered thinking to himself while stealing away to a corner of the large ballroom to avoid conversation. Of course, that didn’t last long. If there was one thing General George Washington was good at rather than military strategy, it was finding ways to change Ben’s well thought out plans and strategies. In this situation, with a little help from Martha Washington, it was easily accomplished.  

It began with a Miss Rebecca Gerard, the niece of one of the old war friends of Washington’s and only a few months Ben’s senior. Martha ‘let it slip’ that she would make a “lovely” match for a young major such as himself, but Ben knew exactly what she was up to. She’d managed to introduce him to four more young ladies, and convince him to dance with three of them before he was able to steal himself away again. If he hadn’t felt uncomfortable before, he did now. 

Never in his life had he been in the presence of such wealth and notoriety in one place, and never before had he been watched like a hawk by so many women, young and old. He chalked it up to be the lack of young men in the city due to the war, but either way, it unsettled him. It wasn’t only the lingering stares that made Ben uncomfortable, but his attire as well. Washington had advised him to wear his formal uniform as opposed to the one he wore everyday at camp. They were not much different in look, but the formal one was not only cleaner and newer, but had been worn on very few occasions, so Ben had little time or opportunity to break it in, or have it altered. Due to this, not only was the coarse linen of his britches stiff and unyielding, but the shoulders of his blue overcoat too small, making mobility more difficult. 

He mulled over these things in his head as he glanced at the grandfather clock in the opposite corner of the large, crowded room. 

9:30, it read. If it were up to Ben, he, Washington, and Billy would have left nearly an hour ago. Still, he doubted that he would be stepping foot outside of Penn Mansion any time soon, by the looks of it. Tapping his foot impatiently, he spotted Martha Washington across the room, at a table surrounded by many of the young ladies in attendance, her slightly aged face glowing with a smile on her lips. 

“Exquisite, is she not?” came a voice from his left, unexpectedly. 

Ben turned his head, though he already knew whose voice it was. He would recognize it anywhere. He inclined his head in a bow of respect towards his commander-in-chief, as Washington joined his side, observing the room around them. 

“Aye, sir,” Ben smiled, glancing toward Mrs. Washington again. “She’s a lovely woman, she’s been very kind to me.”

“As I’ve noticed, Major Tallmadge,” Washington replied, smirking over at Ben out of the corner of his eye, “Am I correct to assume that she has not yet made a dent in breaking down your strictly professional attitude this evening?” 

At this, Ben turned his head, “I beg your pardon sir? I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Washington wore an amused expression on his face. 

“Benjamin, as I’m sure you have noticed, my dear wife has made countless efforts this night to call to your attention at least half of the eligible, affluent young ladies in attendance here tonight. And as far as I am aware, she has been unsuccessful. My question is why. You’ve seemed more… stiff than usual tonight. As if we were here to conduct business, rather than mingle with Philadelphian society. Is this party not up to your standards in some way, or has someone here said or done something to offend you?”

“No, sir.” Ben began, “No one here has done anything to offend me, and the,” he paused, trying to articulate his words in the best way possible, “conditions of this party have been more than adequate, but, sir, forgive me--”

“Yes, Benjamin?” Washington looked at him amusedly, swirling his drink. Put Ben in front of a whole dragoon of men, he’d be fine, but in front of his commander-in-chief? He couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“Sir, how do you do this?”

Washington’s eyebrows furrowed, “I’m sorry?” Ben sighed.

“How do you sit here, in places like these,” he gestured to the well-lit room, filled with prestigious art and furniture, “knowing that there’s a war on, and we could be out there, concerned with defending our liberty, not here fraternizing with these people as if we’ve won the war when there is still so much to be done----”

“I’d encourage you to lower your voice, Major.” Washington interrupted in a low, severe tone, glancing at two men in powdered wigs to their right who had glanced over. Ben hadn’t realized that he’d raised his voice. His heart was racing as well, and his hands had begun to get clammy. He felt that annoying pull in his chest. 

“I assure you, my wife meant no harm by her actions today, and I do hope you’ll rejoin us, once you’ve cooled down a bit.” The older man paused again, before looking over his shoulder at Ben for a final thought. “Oh, and Benjamin? Try not to look so miserable.” 

Before Ben had time to reply, the General turned his heel and set off to converse with two congressmen from New York, leaving Ben to stand there and kick himself, thinking over what he had just said. His father and brothers both had always told him that his temper would get him in trouble one day. If only he’d learned how to tame his tongue. 

Ben felt a presence next to him, and turned to find a beautiful tall young woman to his right, holding two glasses of a red liquid. She had a long, narrow face with a petite nose and chin, with small dark eyes and golden hair styled up into an intricate updo of French fashion. Her dress was a lovely dark rose color, and she wore a small smile on her face. Like she knew something he didn’t. This was a woman that Ben didn’t recognize from the ladies that Mrs. Washington had introduced him to earlier that evening. 

“Good evening, major Tallmadge, is it?” She asked, arching one sculpted eyebrow. Ben cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing a smile. 

“Have we met before Miss..?” 

“Esther,” She answered charmingly, “Esther Taylor,” she smiled. Ben bowed his head in greeting. 

“A pleasure, Miss Taylor. I’d introduce myself to you, but it seems you already know who I am.” Ben smiled. Esther Taylor giggled at this, an obnoxious, fake-sounding laugh that seemed forced. Still, Ben smiled politely, remembering Washington’s words about looking miserable. 

“Well, major, your reputation precedes you,” She smiled, taking a gulp from her glass. Ben’s eyes followed the movement. Upon realizing this, Esther’s eyes widened, as she quickly swallowed the spirit. 

“Oh! Forgive me my impotence, major, would you like some Sherry?” 

She offered the other, full glass to Ben, which he accepted gladly. Perhaps some alcohol would to him some good, lift his spirit. Finally taking a page out of Caleb’s book, he took a large gulp. 

He and Miss Taylor conversed cordially for the next half an hour, though mostly Ben listened as she bantered on and on about this lady’s dress, or that man’s affair. Ben wasn’t much of a conversationalist, especially among those he did not know well. Even among those he did know well, he was soft-spoken. Besides, Miss Taylor gave him little room to get a word in edgewise, and when he did manage to ask her a question about her family, or her connection to General Arnold in order to be invited to this party, she always evaded answering. 

They continued on like this for God knows how long, until, oddly enough, Ben’s senses began leaving him. 

It began with his hearing. The words that Miss Taylor was uttering became awfully muffled, and he struggled to understand all of what she was trying to get out. Then, his vision began to go blurry. First around the edges, then all at once. Something didn’t feel right. 

“And then, you won’t believe this, his WIFE found out…” her voice trailed off into nothingness, then came back again with the same fluctuating volume. It seemed like a hazy dream.

“...and I’m no saint, but never would I dare to…” 

He felt himself stumble, as his vision began to go blurry, the dark blues and golds and pinks fading together. He was completely disoriented at this point, his vision going in and out of focus.

“...Major? Are you alright?” Esther’s voice didn’t sound surprised or concerned at all, in fact, she sounded... smug? 

It was then that he realized he was no longer in the ballroom, but rather in a dimly lit, side hallway, being led towards the back of the house by whoever had the vice-like grip on his forearm. Miss Taylor. 

He knew something was wrong, in his barely lucid state, and he willed his feet to stop moving. Being the large man he was, standing at just over six feet tall, as soon as his one foot ceased to move, he went stumbling over Miss Taylor in his disoriented state, sending her falling into the nearest wall, a large thump resounding. 

“Dammit!” He heard her curse.

 He felt himself fall to the ground. He only now realized that somewhere along the way, Esther Taylor must have put his arm over her own shoulder to support his weight.

 “Looks like moving you’s gonna be harder than I thought, huh Patriot? I need McDermit. Don’t. Move.”

 She’d said that last part gripping his face, forcing him to look up at her. Her hair had come out of its done-up style and now fell over her eyes in straight strands. Her face was red from exertion. She didn’t look beautiful in this light, she looked menacing. He didn’t realize how tight she was holding his face until she let go, his head falling onto the worn wooden boards of the floor as he watched her figure hurriedly move down the hall. He didn’t know how long he lay there in the dark, unable to move.

He was in deep shite. And he needed to get out of there as fast as possible. He knew that much. He tried to pick his head up, but it only lulled to the side. He tried moving his legs. Nothing. 

No, he thought. No, no, no, no. This cannot be happening. 

He tried again. And again. And again and again and again, and no progress. He’d all but given up when he heard it. Footsteps. 

The lightest, steady-paced footsteps, walking down the hallway toward him. 

This is it, he thought. He didn’t know what her motive was, but surely this was Miss Taylor, or whoever she was, coming to finish him off. As they drew closer, he opened his eyes, hoping to see through his blurry, unfocused vision who it was approaching him. 

He was able to make out the swishing of a dark-colored skirt and brown leather shoes as they stopped just feet from him, before his vision became blurry again as the figure moved. What happened next was a blur. 

Ben remembered his head being lifted from the floor, and a hand supporting his back, as well as dry, cold hands gripping his face. The rest he remembered in fragments: a lock of strawberry blond hair loose from a bun, an apron, the blurry face of a… maid, perhaps? He had no clue. Words splashed across his ears that he had trouble making out as he drifted in and out of consciousness. 

“...Drugged, it looks like...a tory, perhaps… One hell of a hangover…move you before they find you...” and after he’d felt himself almost walking, (he wouldn’t call it walking, necessarily, when he was practically being dragged and this small creature was bearing the brunt of his weight), “You’ll be fine, you’ll be okay.” 

He couldn’t tell if it was in his head or not, but as this woman was lowering him to the ground on something soft, he thought he’d heard himself mumble, “Washington…” 

“Shh, rest now,” He felt one last touch, a hand brushing away a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, as he opened his eyes, trying to make out the features of the person that had saved him. 

He caught only a glimpse of the most brilliant pair of sea-green eyes he’d ever seen, before his eyes fluttered shut, unable to be kept open any longer. His head fell to the side as he listened to the retreating footsteps of the person that had saved his life, before he fell out of consciousness for the second time that night. 

In his drug induced sleep, he was haunted by visions of those deep, sea-green eyes; The only proof he had in his mind that his savior even existed.