The Whiskey Rebel

T he rain fell hard and cold, rousing me lest I sleep through my own murder. My head ached along the temple from far too much whiskey and from what I judged to be a rather cruel kick delivered to an already fallen man. Very uncivil. Sharp pain jabbed into my ribs-from, I surmised, the ongoing kicks to my side, but in these I found less fault. What is there to do with a fallen enemy but kick him in the ribs? The head, however-that is bad sport.

I gagged on the metallic taste of my own blood and the soot of filthy snow, which was piled high against my face. The blood, I presumed, was mine, as I had no memories of biting anyone. I pushed my face, numb from the cold, away from the snow and saw the alley was wet with rain and mud and horseshit. My pants were wet too, and I could not be absolutely certain, but I had likely pissed myself.

Had this event transpired, it ca

“Get up. You are a disgrace.” The feet stopped kicking. In the heavy rain, Nathan Dorland’s face shone spectrally in the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the cover of charcoal clouds. Dorland’s features twisted into a snarling rage, simultaneously wolfish and petulant, sharp despite his plump, jowly looks. His nose was too long and carrotish, his chin too weak, his teeth unhealthy, and his eyes baggy. Nature had been unkind to him, and so had I. There was no victory in taking liberties with the beautiful wife of an ugly man, and had I known him before I met the lady, I would have restrained myself, for I am not unfeeling.

I managed to gain my feet in slow and awkward motions, my hand sliding in a pile of shit as I tried to gain leverage. A loose nail-rusty, by the uneven feel of it-cut into my palm. Once standing, I remained doubled over, unable to straighten. My hat had fallen off somewhere between the tavern and the alley, and now the cold rain ran down my face, washing the blood from my sundered lip.

There were four of them: Dorland and three friends, all of about his age-perhaps ten years older than I was-and all as plump, as uncomfortable in their bodies, as unlearned in the school of war. These were not men to fear, but I was drunk, they had the numbers, and, most significantly, I had no fight left in me.

Dorland held out his hand, and one of his companions placed within it a military bayonet. “In past days, men carried swords upon their person, but our times have decayed.” He altered his grip upon the blade, weighing it in his hand. He drew close, as did his friends, two of them as near as he, though one hung back. “Have you anything to say before I end your life?”

I cleared my throat. “Dorland, I am sadly disappointed with the man I have become. I am drunk not only at this moment but perpetually. I have had no steady source of income in half a decade, and I am incorrigibly addicted to gaming, so that the money I steal or borrow or, on those rare occasions, earn, is gone as soon as it is in my hands. My clothes are old and tattered and frequently pungent to the nose, and above all of that I believe that during your attack I lost control of my bladder and pissed upon my own person.”

“You think this should make me spare you?” Dorland asked. “Do you think your pathetic condition will stay my hand?”

“No, I only wished to make note of the sort of man your wife admitted to her bed.”

For a moment, despite the dark, Dorland’s face glowed white, a second moon, and then disappeared back into the blackness. I had seen faces contorted with rage before. I had killed men with such looks upon them, but that was war and this was murder, a crime even I considered too base for contemplation.

I’d wanted to anger him, of course. I’d wanted to seal my fate, but even then, having scorned his pride, having insulted him before his friends, I knew I could have altered events. It was but the work of a few words, well-chosen comments to appeal to their mercy, to make them feel grand and gracious. I’d saved myself from worse, for it was my particular talent. It was why Fleet, my mentor during the war, had chosen me to work with him, and it was what he had taught me to refine.

The blade rose high, and I fought hard to keep my eyes open. Better this had come at the hands of the British ten or twelve years ago, when I might have died a hero. Now I was much decayed, but that was the world, after all-a series of things that were not so good as we would wish. I awaited the blow, ready and determined if fearful of the pain. No blow came. Instead I heard a voice call out, “Stay your hand! You’ll not want to commit murder before a witness.”

There, not fifteen feet from our little confrontation, obscured by sheets of rain, stood the massive shape of a man, all silhouette in the downpour and darkness. He stood upon the prop of a broken keg, his greatcoat fluttering in the cold wind, and under the coat his arms were raised as to protect two pistols from the wet.

I knew the voice, but Dorland would not, just as I alone knew there could be no real pistols secreted away.

“This is a matter of honor and not your concern,” Dorland called out.

“If it were a matter of honor, you would be meeting beside the Schuylkill at dawn,” my defender said. “Here are four men setting out to kill a fifth, and I see no honor in it.”

Dorland snorted and wiped rain from his eyes. “What will it cost to be rid of you?”

Poor Dorland, believing his money should answer all, knew nothing of how to regard an enemy, to measure his worth and his means. No, Dorland was a product of Hamilton ’s new America, standing in the shadow of the Bank of the United States, and Dorland’s defiance came from wealth, from his utter assurance that it made him superior to any ball of lead, to any martial prowess. This man with his arms outstretched in the thunderous rain was but one more thing to be bought and sold. Like Dorland’s wife-what was her name? Sally or Susan or something of that sort. Lovely woman. Very red lips.

All at once, the clouds shifted; the rain lessened and a full moon shone above, casting light upon all, including my rescuer, who towered above us, wild and demonic.

“’Tis but a nigger,” said one of Dorland’s friends.

“Hear me,” said Leonidas, for it was indeed my man. “I am a slave, and you threaten the life of my master. I’ve a rare opportunity to kill white men and be excused for doing so.”

I would not have chosen to save myself, but Leonidas was involved, and now I had a duty to him. He would not rest until I was safe, and I would not risk his life.

“’Tis but one man,” said his friend again, “and only a nigger.”

“Begging your pardon,” I interrupted, “but there are, in fact, two men.” This point might have given my enemies greater pause had I not punctuated it by vomiting on my shoes.

“Reckon how you like, then,” Dorland said. “You are yet outnumbered. We are four to your two.”

“Are you certain?” asked Leonidas, his voice quite arch.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“I mean look at me when I speak. Yes, over here; that’s right. What, a Negro is not worth your attention? I mean you miscount.” I could not see his face, but I knew his tone. He spoke slowly, and he drew Dorland’s attention for a purpose. Something had turned. “We are three to your one.”

It had not been so, and yet now, impossibly, it was. I had not seen the third man arrive, nor note what he did-granted, the rain beat loudly, and I was distracted by pain and the rush of blood in my head and a bit of vomiting-and had I not later come to know him, to see what he could accomplish, if I had only known him from this one act, I would have believed him a ghost, some phantom from Hell untethered by earthly laws. He was not there, and then he stood by my side, but it was more than that. Dorland’s three companions were now in the mud.