The Whiskey Rebel

“I shoulder the risk in this investment,” Duer said. “Should the new government decide to assume the war debt, then I will profit. If it chooses not to-well, the land was got cheaply, and the loss will not do me great harm. In any exchange of this sort, each side makes a wager that he will be better off than he was before, but a speculator must also look at the consequences of losing. In my case, I will be poorer for the loss, but I must lose sometimes, and I do not chance what I ca

Andrew wore a serious expression, but I knew it belied his enthusiasm. He would be imagining the farms of our youth, a table on which a suckling pig steamed, surrounded by bowls of cabbage and carrots and potatoes and warm bread, all arising from the work of his own hands. Maybe the land would not be worth much to sell, but that was now. What of our children? Andrew believed the city air unhealthy. We would have children in the country, and they would inherit the land, which, as the nation moved west, would increase in value.

I was not, however, so eager. “I am concerned about Indians,” I said. “I have read more than one account of Westerners set upon by them. Men killed, children killed or abducted, women forced to become Indian brides.”

“It is a clever woman,” Duer said to Andrew, “who thinks of such things. And she is well informed, I see. I congratulate you, sir, upon her excellence.”

“Perhaps you should congratulate the lady directly,” Andrew suggested.

Duer smiled very politely-at Andrew. “Yes, the savages were a menace during the war, but that was owing to the influence of the British. Now the Indians have been run off-all but those who’ve embraced our savior. Just as their pagan brethren can be savage beyond imagination, the ones who accept religion become like saints. They live upon the most Christian principles, never raising their hands in violence. All say they make better neighbors than the white men. Not that white men have excessive faults, but the novelty of Christianity inspires the Indians to take its teaching to heart and to keep its doctrines foremost in their minds.”

“Perhaps we could go look at the lands,” I said. “Then we will let you know.”

“Your excellent wife proposes an excellent idea,” Duer said. “Many prefer to do so. I know of a group traveling out that way in two weeks. It should take them no more than a month and a half to make the journey, though it may take you some time more to return, for you will need an eastward-heading party. In the lands we speak of, the Indians have been quite quelled, but in the wilderness between it is still safe only to travel in large groups.”

Andrew shook his head. “I ca

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“It should depend upon the person, I agree. And it would help to speak to such a man. As it happens, I know of a landowner who is in town this very week,” he said. “Perhaps I could persuade him to take a few moments to answer your questions.”

W e agreed it would be a worthwhile conversation to have, and two days later he was back in our parlor, this time accompanied by a rough-looking fellow called James Reynolds. He was perhaps no older than my Andrew, but his face was cracked and wind-beaten and sun-blasted. Across his right eye a scar stretched from his forehead down almost to his mouth, half an inch wide, a deep gulf of violence that had mysteriously left his twitching eye intact. He wore homespun clothes of a rugged material, but they were nicely tailored and by no means out of fashion. Indeed, he carried himself with the rigid posture of a proud gentleman planter, though his ma

He sipped at his tea, holding the whole cup with a strange caution, as though he might forget himself and crush it like an empty eggshell “So, Mr. Duer here wants me to tell you about Libertytown.” His voice was thick, as if his throat were coated in gravel.

“Libertytown,” Andrew repeated.

Reynolds smiled. “Most of us served in some way or another, during the war.”

“Are you satisfied with your life there?” Andrew asked.

“You have to understand, I wasn’t born to money. My mother was a seamstress, and my father died young. In Libertytown, I work my own land, and I take orders from no one. I grow more than I need, trade some of the surplus to the other farmers, and the rest we cart back east. I’ve got a little bit put away now. I didn’t have that much debt to exchange, not so much as you, so I’ll never be rich off my land. But I’ll tell you this: I won’t never be poor neither.”

“In your opinion it is every bit the paradise that Mr. Duer describes?”

He ran a hand through his hair, which fell freely to his shoulders, was unevenly cut, and was very black but flecked with gray, or perhaps ash. “I wonder,” he said to Mr. Duer, “if you could give us a few scant minutes alone.”

“Come, sir,” Duer protested. “There is nothing you can say that I may not hear, surely. We are all friends to be honest with one another.”

“Only a moment, if you please.”

“Only a moment, then.” Duer stood, offered us a bow, and left the room. In but a moment, I could observe him out the window, pacing upon the street. He did not seem to me particularly uneasy, but more like a man who had other things to do with his time and did not care for matters to run longer than he had expected.

With Duer gone, Mr. Reynolds let out a sigh of relief, like a man who has overdone himself at feasting and now unbuttons his trousers. He set down his teacup and leaned forward slightly in his seat. “Here’s the truth of it. Duer there, he’s as straight as they come. Even so, you have to understand, he wants to exchange land for war debt. That’s his business, and so he puts things in a particular color.”

“It is not paradise,” Andrew said.

“Ain’t no paradise on this earth, Mr. Maycott. Nothing even close, so don’t believe those stories. The winters ain’t as mild as he might suggest; we get big snows just like everyone else. Summers can be hot and muggy and full of flying things that you sometimes think will drive you mad. We’ve had problems with bears from time to time. Couple years back, a friend of mine was mauled to death when his rifle misfired, hitting the thing in the leg instead of the head.”

“Do you regret exchanging your debt for the land?” I asked.

“Not for a moment,” he said. “It ain’t perfect, but I ain’t never had a chance at anything better. The land is wondrous fertile, and the crops nearly grow themselves. The society-well, you couldn’t ask for better folk. He told you about the dancing, I reckon. He loves to talk about the balls. There’s all sorts of societies and clubs. We get newspapers and pamphlets and books-we get them late, but we get them.”