The Whiskey Rebel

“Do not speak to me so. If you like, you may cast me out, but do not speak to me so.”

“I shan’t cast you out,” she said. “It is what you wish, I believe. You wish it far more than you wish me to yield to you. Who was she, Captain Saunders, that so hurt you? Was it long ago or recent? Long ago, I think.”

“Don’t act as though you know my heart.”

“How could I not, when you wear it on your sleeve?”

“I am sorry to have offended you,” I said. I looked about the room to collect my things, though I had no things to collect. “I shall go.”

“You will stay the night, and in the morning you will go see Hamilton.”

“Your husband speaks to you of his business?”

She laughed. “Should he not? You who love women so well do not think to speak to them of your work?”

I stared at this woman. Lavien, with his beard and slender shoulders and unimpressive stature, had wed a mighty creature.

“I would be grateful,” I said, “if you would not mention this incident to your husband.”

“It was he who advised me on how best to conduct myself when you approached me.” In the dim light her gaze was dark and magnetic. “You have fallen very low, have you not? Perhaps there is nothing to do but rise. Tomorrow is something entirely new, entirely unwritten, and full of possibility. Won’t you use it?”

She turned away, and the power of her gaze snapped, like the thi

Joan Maycott

Spring 1789

In the morning, our hosts gave us a breakfast of whiskey and corn cakes served on mismatched pewter plates, a luxury we would not fully appreciate until we were, as we would be soon, without any plates at all. While we ate our meager portions, Reynolds arrived to inform us that prior to visiting our land we were to speak with Duer’s local agent, Colonel Holt Tindall. Though much abused by Duer and his people, we thought it best to present ourselves to advantage, so Andrew wore clothes he had not touched for the journey, looking dignified in plain artisan’s breeches, a white shirt, and a handsome woolen coat. I wore a simple dress, far more wrinkled than I would have liked, but it was clean at least.

Though he had eyed me with open lasciviousness through our journey, when I was dirty and tired and blunted by exhaustion, Reynolds hardly looked at me now. There was something quite different in the odious man’s ma

Duer’s man in Pittsburgh or no, I expected another makeshift shack, but Holt Tindall was of an entirely different order of being. Reynolds pointed out to us Tindall’s handsome two-story structure on Water Street, recently whitewashed and looking within this primitive city much like a diamond in a barrel of coal. This, however, was not where we were to meet him. Instead, Reynolds led us once more across the river and some miles out of town to Colonel Tindall’s country estate, a vast southern-style plantation called Empire Hall. Here was a large wood-frame house, very like the one in town only larger and more stately for being surrounded not by shacks and mud but by fields of crops and barns of livestock, all of which were tended to by a dozen or more Negro slaves.

Indeed, I saw no one but Negroes. Reynolds seemed to read my thoughts, for he said, “He ain’t got a wife; he lives only with the niggers. But he takes to company.”

If the outer countenance of the mansion was surprising, the interior made us gasp. I don’t know when it happened, when we decided that we had passed from one world to another, but I now recognized that I expected never to see again such signs of civilization. From the inside of the house, one would hardly know that this was not some elegant New York mansion. The walls were lined with fine paintings and tapestries, the floors with excellent coverings that produced the most faithful imitation of tile. While Pittsburgh smelled like a necessary pot, this home gave off the fragrance of baking bread and cut flowers.

A pretty young Negro girl, light in color, met us at the door. She would not look directly at us, and so I did not notice at once the severe bruise upon her eye. Perhaps she wished to hide this from us, or perhaps she feared Reynolds, who studied her with naked desire while fingering his scar. With a torpid gait, as though unwilling herself to approach, the girl took us to a massive sitting room. This chamber boasted not only a fine rug-for here only guests without mud on their feet would be admitted-but, beyond all the handsome chairs and two sofas, a large pianoforte was propped against the far wall, where it was bathed in the light of the morning sun. It was now nine, for the tall case clock rang cheerily, echoed by chimes throughout the house and the church bell from the distant town.

At the far end of the room, before the fireplace, sitting upon an isolated high-backed armchair-looking much from its form and placement like a throne-was a stout and rugged man in his sixties. His white hair was long and tangled in the back, though he balded considerably, and he had wild gray eyes and a rough stubble upon his cheek-features that clashed with his tailored breeches, ruffled shirt, and embroidered waistcoat. All of these things contributed to give him the look of a deranged surveyor who has spent too much time alone in the wilderness. If his countenance had not given that impression, I suspect it would have been provided by the fowling piece he clutched in one hand, its butt resting against the floor, like a brutal frontier scepter. Above him hung a string of hairy things attached to bits of leather. It took me a moment to recognize them as Indian scalps.

The servant had not admitted Reynolds with us, and we were alone with this old man, who bore himself with the silent dignity of a savage chief. He opened his mouth to show us two rows of dark teeth, which he clamped together in something like a grin.

“I am Colonel Holt Tindall of Empire Hall, and I am Duer’s partner on this side of the Alleghenies.” As he spoke, I felt the heat of his gaze as it settled upon my body. He looked at me as no man should look at a woman not his wife. “Reynolds said I’d want to meet you, and he knows my business, I’ll say as much as that.” He spoke with the heavy accent of a Virginian, but it had an additional drawl, a kind of laziness I had already begun to associate with Westerners.

“Care to sit?” he asked.

“Thank you,” said Andrew.

Tindall banged the butt of his fowling piece upon the wooden floor. “Not you. A man stands in the presence of his betters. I address the lady.”

I could not endure that Andrew should be again debased for the sake of something so trivial as my appearance. I gazed upon this Colonel Tindall with hatred and contempt, lest he think I mistook his rudeness for authority, and remained standing.

“You must suit yourself,” he said, in response to my silence. “Stand, sit, don’t matter.”

He might have been a Virginian once, but evidently he had forgotten the culture of extreme politeness cultivated in those climes. All at once I knew precisely what he was-a hybrid creature composed of a Southerner’s sense of privilege and a Westerner’s brutality. There is a name for a creature that is part one thing and part another: monster.

My pulse quickened and my breathing deepened. I was afraid. I had been living for weeks in perpetual fear-fear for what would become of us, fear for our safety-but this was something much more urgent, something sharper. I looked at Andrew, and his lips curled in a reassuring smile. If he too was afraid, he would not show it.