The Whiskey Rebel

“I am glad to hear you approve.” And, strangely, I was. It is easy to hate a man we mistakenly believed wronged us, for it gives us the opportunity not to consider our own prejudices or mistakes. It was true enough that, even if I had been wrong about his sins of the past, I had reason enough to suspect him, and even so, I could not help myself; I enjoyed his praise. I knew not if I admired the man, if I wished somehow to return to a different time, or if it was Hamilton’s own proximity to Washington that excited these feelings, but they were there, regardless of their source.

“And then,” he continued, “there is the matter of the money that you reported missing. It does indeed look like Duer took $236,000 from the Board of Treasury. It is too early to tell for certain if we can prove it, but I have my man Oliver Wolcott inquiring into it, and thus far we believe there may be cause to bring action against him.”

“And until such a time, what shall you do?” I asked.

“It seems that Duer and I are at odds. He is attempting to control six percent securities, and he is attempting to control bank scrip. The Million Bank was a setback, but he yet appears to have ample funds, thanks to the greedy fishmongers and milliners of New York. Nevertheless, I can make things hotter for him. I have directed the bank president to begin calling in short-term loans and restricting new ones, which should effectively shrink the entire credit market. In addition, I am dispatching my agents to every trading center in the country. I can try to thwart his plans. If he is a threat to the bank, as Mr. Lavien believes, he is a threat we can contain by freeing up six percents at a reasonable price. That will allow bank scrip investors to continue to maintain their holdings. It is a slow process, so for now we must wait.”

I cleared my throat. “Have you heard anything of Pearson?”

He nodded. “He has sold his house and fled town. They say he has sold his other properties out of town as well, though I ca

“Have you no suggestions?”

He gazed upward in thought. “Perhaps you should ask your slave to inquire. There are networks of information among the Negroes that can be useful.”

“Of course,” I said, wishing to say no more on this topic.

“Now, Captain, I have much work to do. If you will excuse me.” He spoke suddenly in clipped tones, like a man saying one thing to avoid saying another. It put me in mind of his relationship with Reynolds, which I could not help but suspect as being the source of his ill ease.

“Are you well, Colonel? You appear perturbed.”

“I am overtaxed,” he said rather curtly, “and you have been dismissed.”

I rose from my chair, strode across the room, and opened the door. Outside was dark. Most of the clerks had retired for the evening and the candles had been snuffed, but a few oil lamps burned still, and in the gloom I could see a man waiting for Hamilton’s attention. I could not at first see his face, but then he turned and I knew him at once. It was Reynolds.

Was he here as the man who threw me into Pearson’s dungeon or the one who rescued me? I was in no mood to find out on his terms. He was just then turning to me, a foolish grin upon his face, and I swung out with my fist. I am no man of action, I have said so, but even I can throw a good punch at an unready opponent. Reynolds, however, was apparently always ready. He reached out with his hand and caught my punch. I felt my fist slam hard into the bones of his hand, and the pain echoed up my arm to my elbow. He hardly moved.

“That’s unkind,” he said.

Hamilton was out of his chair and rushed over to the doorway. “What happens here?”

“The captain here took a swing at me,” said Reynolds.

“Captain Saunders,” Hamilton shouted, sounding less like an army officer than a Latin master, “you will leave at once!”

My fist was still entangled in Reynolds’s meaty hand, which held on with a firm unchanging grip. I felt myself start to perspire. “This man attacked me in New York.”

“I told ye,” he said. “It were just business. I was paid to, and so I did. And I made it right, didn’t I?”

“Where’s Pearson now?” I asked.

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

“So you are back to working for Duer?”

“Reynolds’s business is not your concern,” said Hamilton. To the beast he said, “Let go of his hand. Captain Saunders is now leaving.”

“I demand to know what you do with him,” I said.

“Who are you to demand?” Hamilton answered.

Reynolds let go his grip. I said not another word but strode from the building, too angry to devise another option. Hamilton had secret dealings with Reynolds. I had long known that, though not why. Surely it wasn’t possible that the animosity between Hamilton and Duer was a mere illusion, meant to confuse his enemies. Hamilton had dedicated himself to government service at the expense of his personal economy. It was conceivable he would do terrible things, even destroy his own brainchild, the bank, rather than remain poor forever, but I did not believe it. Hamilton would never sacrifice the bank for anything, let alone greed. And, in any case, Leonidas had seen Hamilton pay Reynolds, not the other way around.

Reynolds had made it clear that he would hire himself out to other men to perform other tasks, unsavory tasks. Hamilton had Lavien, but he’d made it clear he was uneasy with Lavien’s scrupulous view of duty, which meant that whatever business Hamilton had with Reynolds was something he did not wish discovered by the world.

I did not know what any of this meant, but I was determined to find out. There was but one man in the world to whom I could pose a question on Hamilton’s character, and I meant to ask him immediately.

T here are few things in this world for which I am prepared to show reverence, it is true, but for this appointment I would show all the respect I could muster. I’d refrained from drinking the previous night, and so I awoke Tuesday morning well rested and easy. As the time for the visit approached, I dressed myself quite neatly, making frequent use of the mirror to make certain all was in order.

Rather than risk soiling my pumps and stockings with filth from the street, I hired a coach to take me the distance to Sixth and Market, where the great mansion stood. It was one of the first houses in the city, owned by merchant Bob Morris but now rented to his distinguished tenant. As I approached the door, a liveried Negro held out his hand for my invitation.

“I do not have an invitation,” I said.

“Then you may not enter.”

“My name is Captain Ethan Saunders,” I said. “I must speak with him, and I must do so in this ma

It was evident to me that he did not know if he ought to, and yet he seemed to sense the force of my request. Asking another usher to take his place, he disappeared into the house for several minutes. When he returned, he told me that I might proceed.

I was ushered inside an antechamber, all red and gold furnishings, filled with some of the first people of the city as well as visitors from the several states and even a few foreign dignitaries. None knew my name, and though I knew many of theirs, I was not present to make idle chatter, to gossip, or find my social footing. I merely stood by the window and made small conversation, for I was called upon to do it, with an Episcopalian bishop named White.

At precisely 3 P.M. the doors to the receiving room opened, and we queued up obediently. On the left, another liveried man a