The Whiskey Rebels

by David Liss

  Leonidas trained his gun upon Pearson. “Let the lady go.”

  “But they lie,” he said.

  “You make a better case,” Leonidas said, “if you are not holding a gun to a woman.”

  “She is my wife. I may use her as I wish.”

  “Let the lady go,” Joan said, and her voice was hard and angry. Somehow Cynthia, held upon the stairs by her husband, a gun to her back, had become the most important thing to everyone in the room—not the dead man upstairs, not the two prisoners who had gotten free, not the open door to freedom that lay behind us.

  He released his grip and Cynthia ran down the stairs and toward me. Our eyes met and she, for but a fleeting instant, nodded at me, and I knew that this was the moment when she must prove herself. She must be the woman she had always wished to be, or she would fail me. I dared to hold her eyes for a long important moment, and I hoped it would be enough for her to understand.

  “You stupid bitch,” I snapped. “This is all your fault.”

  She took a step back, the hurt on her face so real—or so seemingly real—it nearly broke my heart. “Ethan, I am sorry.”

  “I told you no one gets hurt. I told you that.”

  She shook her head. “I could not stop him,” she said. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “I tried to stop him, Ethan, but I could not. I tried. You should have been there for me, but you weren’t, and I could not do it alone.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said. “I never should have trusted you.”

  Dalton had heard enough. He turned now on Pearson. While, in general, I do not care to see unarmed men viciously assaulted, here was a case in which I could make an exception. Dalton darted up the stairs, grabbed Pearson under his armpits, and lifted him high in the air as if he weighed no more than a baby. Dalton then locked his elbows and hurled Pearson—whose mouth was open in terror too primal for noise—through the air and hard against the wall separating the foyer from the sitting room. He struck with a sharp agonizing crack, spun slightly, and then landed with his feet against a narrow chair, his head toward us, though it was cocked at the most unnatural of angles.

  Cynthia let out a moan and covered her mouth. Leonidas whispered something under his breath. Dalton took a moment to admire his work and then ran up two flights of stairs. Above, I heard him wail.

  I turned to Joan. “I am sorry it ended thus. Yours are good people, with your own sense of honor, and I do not doubt you’ve been wronged. I wish we were never opposed.”

  She shook her head. “So much bloodshed.”

  I stepped to her. “It never ought to have been like this. Joan, you are better than this. You are so much better. Imagine what you might have done had you only tried your hand at creating rather than destroying.” I touched her face. “Imagine what we could do together. Joan, you and I must be together.”

  Cynthia rushed forward. “Ethan, are you mad? You promised it would be me. You swore you loved me.”

  “You silly woman,” I said with a laugh. “How could I love someone like you?”

  Leonidas let out a throaty laugh and began to clap his hands. “I must say, I am remarkably impressed. You cannot have practiced this, and yet it is so easy and natural.”

  Joan turned to him. “What do you mean?”

  Leonidas laughed again. “I have seen it a hundred times, though never when the stakes were so high. It is Ethan Saunders being Ethan Saunders, when lies and false notions and absurd claims roll off his tongue; we all watched him. But now I look up and see his point. Even I, who ought not to have been fooled, was caught up. Do you not notice someone is missing?”

  And indeed he was. I could not say when Lavien had slipped away. I had made a point not to look at him myself, hoping that if he was invisible to me he might be invisible to all. Joan Maycott now rushed to the door and looked out into the morning light. I moved behind her, prepared to place my hand over her mouth should she try to call to Dalton, but she made no effort. She stood there in confused silence. Far away, upon the distant King’s Highway, appeared a single awkward figure upon a gray horse, riding hard and fast like Paul Revere, to save a country that was not even his own native land. I did not believe that there would ever be ballads sung of this ride, but oh, how worthy, how glorious, it was. And it had been made possible by my actions, which I could not but like.

  Cynthia once more collapsed into my arms. She trembled, and I could not be surprised. She had witnessed more violence in a few minutes than most women see in a lifetime. Her husband, however foul a man, had been killed before her eyes, killed upon false pretenses and owing to her own machinations. It would not be easy for her in the days to come, but I meant to help her all I could.

  For her part, Joan Maycott looked hardly less stunned. “I underestimated you, Captain Saunders. You too, Cynthia. I thought you were but a victim, but you are clever enough to deserve the captain.” She took out a watch and studied it. “Your friend may yet save the bank.”

  “You appear less distraught than I would have thought,” I said.

  “Even if Hamilton can save the bank, Duer’s ruin is accomplished and cannot be undone, and his fall will be a terrible blow. There will be panic and chaos, and the Hamiltonian plan may not be utterly demolished, but it will be discredited. I had four goals, Captain Saunders: to destroy the bank, destroy Hamilton, destroy Duer, and enrich myself. Even if the bank survives, Hamilton’s career will end, and with the collapse of the market for overvalued six percent securities, I will profit handsomely on my own four percents, whose value will rise. By the way, Mrs. Pearson, you husband was a principal owner. I advise you to sell them the moment they rise above par. They won’t stay there long.”

  “She is good in defeat,” I said to Leonidas.

  “And what are you like in victory?” she asked. “Do you think to apprehend me and my men?”

  “No,” I answered. “Lavien may have felt otherwise, but he is gone, and I don’t believe Leonidas would permit it. For my own part, I do not want to see you plotting more against the nation, but I would not see you in prison.”

  She nodded. “You and Cynthia may take horses from the stables, but I beg you get gone.”

  “It is Mrs. Pearson’s house,” I said.

  “Perhaps this is not the time to stand upon ceremony,” said Leonidas.

  Joan Maycott’s man was dead upstairs, and there were five more dead on the King’s Highway. She would learn of it soon enough, and I would not be there. “Right. We shall get gone and allow you to make your escape.”

  Cynthia, ashen and trembling, clung to me as we made our way from the house. We did not look back to wonder what Leonidas or Joan or Dalton would do next. We went to the stables, found beasts to our liking, and rode hard to overtake the rather sluggish Lavien, who struggled mightily with his leg. I left Cynthia to ride with him, and I went on ahead to Philadelphia to deliver the news to Hamilton, that he might act swiftly and with great skill to save the nation. Thanks to me.

  Joan Maycott

  July 12, 1804

  It took twelve more years to gain the full revenge I wished, though, if truth be known, it was not so sweet as I imagined. My schemes in 1792 came to far less than I had hoped and cost me far more than I would have believed. So many of our whiskey boys dead—all because we underestimated Kyler Lavien and Ethan Saunders. I bore those men no ill will, however, and never sought to strike back at them. They did what they believed to be their duty, and they did it without malice. In particular, I could never have sought to harm Captain Saunders. I had the feeling his path and mine would cross again, and though we were never what one might call friends, when it happened we bore each other respect.

  Mr. Dalton and I parted ways shortly after I collected on my investments in Duer’s failure. He went west again, this time to the territory of Kentucky, where he established a large still to make whiskey in the new style. He intended to use his money to pay his taxes until such a time as the whiskey excise was revoked. Men are strange. Having done so much
scheming and violence, in the end he was content to retire to private life and let political affairs sort themselves out in their own time.

  Mr. Skye, however, remained faithful to me, and with his help I was able, in the end, to complete my revenge.

  The markets did not collapse because of Duer’s failure, for which I blame Lavien’s frenetic ride to Philadelphia. The bank did not fail. Hamilton sent men to the City Tavern and fast riders to Boston, New York, Baltimore, and Charleston, and with the power of the Treasury Department they bought depressed issues and soothed frightened speculators. I caused a panic, not a failure. I staggered a nation—I, a border widow whom the great and powerful had used as their plaything—but I did no more than stagger it. The nation did not collapse or fly apart or buckle under the weight of its own corruption. It merely stumbled and regained its footing. I did not even bring down Hamilton. His reputation was tarnished by the panic and by Duer’s ruin and provided fodder for his enemies, but he was more determined than I would have imagined, and I saw it would take more than a panic in the markets to destroy him.

  If anything, he was emboldened. He continued to pursue his whiskey tax, and the men of the West grew ever more angry and restless. On the one side were government men who would demand that distillers pay money they could never have had. On the other, the angry populace led by David Bradford and shored up by angry men with frontier spirit and an American belief in their own rights. Between these two forces the wise, amiable Hugh Henry Brackenridge stood for the ordinary man, tried to negotiate peace, and was nearly hanged for his efforts. Hamilton led an army of thirteen thousand men—the size of the entire Continental force in the Revolution—into the West against a rebellion that he could not, despite his best efforts, locate. There were no insurrectionists to fight, so some twenty men were rounded up and two sentenced to die, though they were both, in the end, pardoned.

  Secretary Hamilton had been determined to stretch the limits of federal power, and Colonel Hamilton did just that. In the war, it is said, he longed to command an army, and in peace he created a conflict so he could have his wish. I cannot say if he took any satisfaction that the enemy he pursued was entirely of his own manufacture, and mostly in his own imagination.

  I could not remain in Philadelphia or anywhere else I was known, but I was not done with revenge. I would not act so rashly as I had once, but I would act. Two years later, I delivered a series of anonymous letters, informing Hamilton’s republican enemies of his affair with Maria Reynolds, and if I embellished his crimes, suggesting he used federal money to pay off the lady’s husband, I will not apologize. Hamilton was not above dirty tricks, and I saw no reason to be above them either. The affair ruined Hamilton for public office and made it impossible that he could ever stand for President. It would be enough for the time being.

  After more than ten years had passed, I dared to impose upon my friendship with an old associate of Hamilton’s, Aaron Burr, previously the senator from New York and now vice president of the United States. He and Hamilton had once been friends, but they had ended up on opposite sides of the Federalist divide. Burr was well known for showing preference for the ladies. He was a handsome man, though not tall, and already his hair was beginning to recede, but he never failed to charm, and I always enjoyed his company.

  It had seemed for so long, particularly in the wake of the Maria Reynolds affair, that Hamilton would destroy himself. Yet, as the years went by, Hamilton moved from one disaster to another and always survived, always remained in the public eye, always voiced his long-winded opinions publicly and vociferously. I began to whisper in the vice president’s ear of the many wrongs Hamilton had done him, the terrible things Hamilton said of him. A man of Mr. Burr’s stamp could not long endure insults.

  Burr arrived at my front door the afternoon of July 11, 1804. His hair was wild, his clothes stained with mud, his hands shook. “I ought never to have listened to you,” he said, standing on my stoop. “I’ve killed him.”

  I could not suppress a smile. “Come inside.”

  He stepped in but turned to face the door. “I cannot stay. I must flee. I’ll be wanted for murder.”

  “Nonsense. You are the vice president.”

  “This is a nation of laws, Mrs. Maycott. Being the vice president will count for nothing. Why did I ever listen to you and allow this petty squabble to escalate? He insults your honor, you said. He mocks you in print, you said. He will not duel, you said. Well, he did duel, and I’ve shot him.”

  “Is he dead?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. Not yet. But he will be soon. He was shot in the hip and bled tremendously. It was a terrible wound. He cannot live long.”

  “He was a monster. He is one, so long as he lives.”

  “He threw away his shot,” said Burr. “My God, he fired first and threw away his shot, and I, cool as you please, aimed directly at him. I am not a good shot. I never thought I would hit him. I only wanted him to see my earnestness.”

  “I will not have you regretting it. It is no more than he deserves for what he did to Andrew.”

  “Who is Andrew?” asked the vice president.

  “It doesn’t matter now. Not to you. Hamilton brought this upon himself, and you cannot be blamed. The world will not blame you. Hamilton is hated, and you will be loved for this.”

  This turned out not to be the case at all. Hamilton’s scandals, his British leanings, his Federalist schemes, and his insane plan to march on South America at the head of an army, a New World Bonaparte—all these things were forgotten. Hamilton in death was recast as a hero. Once word of the duel circulated, one would think the vice president had dug up the body of George Washington and shot it full of holes at Weehawken.

  “Why did you lead me to this?” Burr cried out. “Oh, never mind. I haven’t the time to hear why or how. I shall flee at once, to South Carolina, I think, to be with Theodosia.”

  This was his daughter, whom he loved beyond all else. It is nice for him that he had someone to whom to turn in his dark hour.

  And so he left me. I thought about seeking out the dying Hamilton, to confront him with what he had done and all he had to answer for, but if he were alive, he would be in pain and he would be prayerful. He would beg my forgiveness like a dying Christian, and it would only plant in me feelings of regret. I had no interest in that, so instead I returned to my sitting room, where I read a charming novel called Belinda by Maria Edgeworth. It was amusing but slight, as novels were becoming. I thought, as I often did, that perhaps I should attempt once more to write one of my own, but I could not help but feel that novels had missed their chance. They were but silly things, and nothing I had to say would rightly belong in one.

  Historical Note

  As with my previous historical novels, this is a work of fiction based on genuine events. Unlike the previous novels, this book intertwines fact and fiction more liberally. Necessarily this note contains “spoilers,” so I recommend holding off until you’ve finished your reading.

  In previous novels I have always tried to focus more on major historical events and trends rather than on historical figures, but it is difficult to write about the Federalist period without including at least a few canonical figures. Though the principal characters in the novel—Joan Maycott and Ethan Saunders—are fictional, many of the people within these pages are real, and I’ve done my best to portray them with at least reasonable accuracy. Readers will, of course, be familiar with Alexander Hamilton, but other figures from history include William Duer, Hugh Henry Brackenridge, Philip Freneau, Anne Bingham, and James and Maria Reynolds. Aaron Burr, as most readers will know, did shoot Alexander Hamilton in a duel on the plains of Weehawken (thus becoming the first sitting American vice president to be involved in a scandalous shooting incident), though it is a matter of some controversy as to whether or not he shot Hamilton on purpose or if Hamilton threw away his shot.

  Hamilton’s pet project was, indeed, the Bank of the United States, and while William Du
er’s reckless trading habits brought about the first American financial panic in early 1792, I’ve fictionalized the matter of the plot against the bank. The historical buildup to the Panic of ’92—the machinations in government securities, the attempt to overtake the Million Bank, and Duer’s bankruptcy—are all a matter of record. I’ve merely made Joan and her Whiskey Rebels the cause of these events.

  This novel, in many respects, details the events that led up to the Whiskey Rebellion of 1794, which numerous historians and novelists have dealt with in much depth. The insurrection was indeed caused by an onerous tax levied upon whiskey, a commodity more used for trade and consumption than generating revenue, by Alexander Hamilton, who was eager not only to raise money but also to test the new power of a strong federal government. Conditions on the western frontier were every bit as brutal as I describe, and probably more so.

  Acknowledgments

  Historical fiction is never written in isolation, but this novel has been a far less solitary project than anything I’ve done before. My previous historical novels have focused on relatively minor and under-researched events, but attempting to get a handle on the Revolutionary War and Federalist periods, the founding fathers, New York, Philadelphia, and western Pennsylvania of the late eighteenth centuries, and countless other subjects has been one of the most challenging projects of my career. Thus I’d like to begin by thanking those who made the research possible.

  In Philadelphia I was very fortunate to receive the help and support of many wonderful people and institutions. Many thanks to The Library Company of Philadelphia, with its amazing collections and people, especially Wendy Wolson, Sarah Weatherwax, Phil Lapsansky, and John C. Van Horne. I must also thank the Historical Society of Philadelphia, perhaps less gregarious, but with an invaluable collection. I was delighted by how much helpful, specific, and scholarly information I received from Philadelphia’s many living historians, especially Mitchell Kramer. Jack Lynch, my old friend and walking eighteenth-century encyclopedia, provided much help and pointed me to much-needed resources. Bernice T. Hamel, a total stranger, literally pulled me off the street to help me with research on the Man Full of Trouble tavern, and Paul Boni also provided much help on my research into eighteenth-century tavern life. I also received help from Edward Colimore and from the National Museum of American Jewish History.