The Whiskey Rebel

I was situated approximately in the middle of the queue, and so it came to be my turn. I handed my card to the servant, and he loudly proclaimed, “Captain Ethan Saunders!” I felt my stomach drop, the way it does before a man rushes into battle. I was full of fear, yes, but also exhilaration. And I felt shame, for all at once I saw the last decade of my life unfold before me as nothing but a string of drunken days and debauched encounters, as unsavory as they were unwise. I had once, long ago, been singled out for special notice by men who saw my particular talents as a means to serve rather than as an excuse never to achieve. Yes, I had been dealt some blows, but what excuse had I to surrender to failure and despair?

Such were my feelings when I turned to my right where President Washington stood, dressed in formal finery in his velvet suit and gloves, ceremonial sword at his side. I had not seen him close in many years, and time had not been kind to him. His skin had grown dry and papery, slashed with broken red veins. His eyes appeared sunken, his mouth winced with the pressure of false teeth, whose pain was already legendary. On top of it all, he appeared surprised.

As he did on the battlefield, he took his surprise manfully. He shook my hand and bowed slightly, and I proceeded to the circular room where I took my place alongside the other guests.

According to the custom, the doors closed at precisely half past three, and the President began to make his rounds. I had heard of the tedium of these events, but until it is experienced, it is impossible to believe that the human mind, free of the shackles of primordial tradition, could devise a ritual so designed to salt out the lifeblood of human fellowship.

Clockwise, the President turned to each of the guests, bowed, and exchanged some inconsequential words. If he knew the man, he might ask of his family or, more in Washington’s character, of his land, its crops and improvements. If he was a stranger, he might speak of the weather or some development of trade or infrastructure near the man’s home. These exchanges were not precisely whispered, but they were kept quiet to maintain the fiction of privacy.

As the President approached, I could little contain my distress. Perhaps he would refuse to speak to me. Perhaps he would condemn me as the failure I had become. Perhaps he would upbraid me as a traitor, for how could I know if he had ever learned the truth of those charges leveled so long ago? I held my ground and hoped I displayed no more signs of my terrible anxiety than the sweat that beaded along my brow.

The President turned to me and offered me a stiff bow. He smelled of wet wool. “Good afternoon, Captain Saunders. It has been too long.”

I was upon business, and though I revered him as much as any, I would not insult him by showing it. “Hamilton,” I said. “Can he be trusted?”

Washington showed no surprise. He must have intuited the purpose of my visit, and he would have certainly already determined on a course of action. His mouth twitched slightly in something like a grin, and his lips drew back over his false teeth. “He may be trusted absolutely.”

“What if appearances are against him?” I asked.

“Have you been listening to Mr. Jefferson’s supporters?”

“I’ve seen things for myself. I have seen certain associations.”

He nodded. “What do you believe?”

Eyes were upon us now. This little exchange, brief though it was, had already consumed more than the usual allotment of time. The men in the room could hear at least part of what we said, and they knew this was not a wooden exchange of pleasantries. No, there was a seriousness, an urgency, that I had not bothered to mask, and neither had Washington. But it was too late to retreat. It was too late not to accomplish what I had hoped. Let them listen. Let them wonder. It would mean nothing to them, yet it would mean everything for me.

“I believe he is, on balance, honorable,” I said, “even if I ca

“He is my closest advisor, and he is to be trusted. He might lead himself into Hell, but he would never lead another.” He made another poor attempt to smile, and I ca

“Was I ever, sir?” I asked.

No hint of a smile this time. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The world never thought ill of you. People thought you saw your duty as a game, a lark, but I knew better. I knew you hid behind the jollity a fierceness you dared not display. If you wear it on the surface, you become something else.”

“Something like Lavien,” I said.

He nodded. “Precisely.” With that he turned to bow to the next guest, and in a room of dozens of men I felt utterly alone.

E ven in my perplexity, I was not unmindful of important things. I returned to my boardinghouse to change my clothing to something less formal. I would need to pursue this thing to the end.

That night when I walked past the Treasury building, I could not but observe a light in the window of what I believed to be Hamilton’s office. I approached and inquired of a watchman, who told me the Secretary was indeed yet inside. I withdrew and retreated to the shadows, pla

Hamilton was well known for his long nights, so I was relieved when he emerged less than an hour later. I had a good view of him from across the street, and I was astonished by the look on his face-a kind of furtive, guilty, sneakish look I did not like.

I followed as he traveled away from the center of town and toward areas I knew to be most unlike those favored by fashionable gentlemen. Our Secretary of the Treasury, in short, was heading toward Southwark.

Before he reached the house, I had guessed his destination, for I had been to this neighborhood before, and in Hamilton’s wake too. This was Reynolds’s home, and it was here I expected to find answers. Philadelphia was, in general, a city of well-lit streets, but in these poor neighborhoods, a homeowner’s duties were often neglected, and I was easily able to ensconce myself in shadow mere feet from the stoop. I was no Lavien, who I suspected could glide above leaf and twig, but I moved silently enough and only men on their guard could have detected my approach.

I watched as Hamilton knocked on the door and waited to see Reynolds’s brutish face. Perhaps, I thought, I should confront the man, let him know he was exposed, that I was no longer fooled by his pretense of honor and rectitude.

Indeed, I had gone so far as to step forward when the door opened, and it was not the beastly James Reynolds who stood there but the lovely Maria.

She smiled at him and placed a hand upon his face.

He removed it. “I ought not to be here,” he said. “Your husband-”

“Did not my husband write you and beg you to visit me? He left Philadelphia this morning upon some mission for his master. Think nothing of my husband.”

“How can I think nothing of him?” Hamilton said. “He presses me for money because you and I have been together, and then, when I leave you alone, he begs me to return to you. Must I not believe that he will press me again?”

“Hush,” she said. “Come inside. We will discuss it.”

He followed her in and closed the door. As to whether or not they would do much discussing, I was in doubt, but there it was. Hamilton, with his children, his devoted wife, his staunch morals, had been drawn into a sordid affair with this woman. At once I understood this lady and her husband, she beautiful and he wretched. He’d told me his wife was a slut, and I could only presume the funds Hamilton paid Reynolds were a sort of compensation for the services she provided the Treasury Secretary. Did Hamilton not see that they both used him?