The Whiskey Rebel

I t was a rough road, and though I left while it was still morning, I was not in Pittsburgh until well after noon. I had no notion that I was so well known, but once I stabled my horse and began to walk along Market Street, passersby stopped to stare at me. Men streamed out of Watson’s Tavern as I passed. I was infamous. I was an outlaw. I suppose the notion would once have filled me with horror, but a strange sensation of mastery came over me now. I was the subject of scrutiny and, yes, fear. It was good, I thought. They should be afraid.

I knocked upon the door to Mr. Brackenridge’s house and was greeted by a woman significantly younger than he, yet far too finely dressed, in a handsome gown of printed cotton, to be a servant. I could only presume this to be the lawyer’s wife. She was pretty, with a mass of blond hair bundled under a saucily propped bo

“Better to be safe, yes?” Her voice betrayed a slight German accent. “Now, you’ve business with my husband, I’ll wager.”

“Yes.” Under the judgmental scrutiny I’d suffered on the street I’d felt a kind of jagged strength. Now, subjected to this stranger’s kindness, I had to fight hard to swallow my tears. “My name is Joan Maycott.”

The lady’s eyes widened in surprise, and she moved to put a hand to her mouth but stopped herself. “I’ll show you to the office, and then I’ll fetch Hugh.”

I followed her in silence. Mrs. Brackenridge had known my name at once, just as the people on the street had recognized me instantly. I could only imagine what lies Tindall had cast about to turn me into so well-known a personage.

At Mrs. Brackenridge’s direction, I took a seat in her husband’s disordered office and waited only a moment or two before the lawyer came flitting in, taking a step toward me, then one toward closing the door, then changing his mind and performing the whole dance once more. At last he settled upon closing the door and then taking my hand.

“Mrs. Maycott,” he said, his voice solemn for one who was used to speaking in such high and sharp tones. He then bowed and let go my hand and moved toward his desk chair as though he would sit, but instead walked over to the window, parted the curtains, and examined the crowd of people gathering outside. “You seem to have gained a great deal of notoriety since last we met. Have you come to me for assistance in surrendering yourself?”

He asked the question with a great deal of uneasiness. Perhaps he thought I might kill him too. How absurd it was. Here I was, a woman brought as low as any in history, deprived of all. How could I be a greater victim? Yet, the world feared me.

“Mr. Brackenridge, I’d heard rumors that charges had been set against me, but until I came to town I could not believe they were anything more than stories. Do you mean to say that I am truly called to account for”-here I paused, for I did not believe I could speak Andrew’s name and refrain from weeping-“for what has happened?”

Something in my tone must have soothed him. He removed himself from the window and took his seat. From under his writing desk, he brought forth an old wine bottle filled with whiskey and poured himself a drink into a pewter cup. Then he poured me one, as well, and slid it across the desk. “The sheriff has issued warrants for your arrest, along with Dalton and Skye.” He looked at his shoes.

I drew in my breath. I must say what needed saying and do what needed doing. The weakness must end or there was no reason in living. “They dare to accuse us of Andrew’s death.” It was somehow easier to speak in the collective, but still I clutched my cup of whiskey and drank deep. I knew it from its darkness and rich flavor to be one of Andrew’s batches, and its warmth gave me strength. Speaking without weeping gave me strength. Holding Brackenridge’s gaze-yes, that too gave me strength. There was so much out there, all for me to take, if only I would grasp it. Weakness was easy and comforting, and action tore out my very heart, but I would do it. Why else live if not to do it?

Brackenridge studied me, as though he could see something changing inside. “Yes, they accuse you of that, and of killing Hendry. Colonel Tindall claims to have witnessed it himself.”

“You must know I would never have harmed my husband, and neither would his friends.”

“It has been cast about that there was an argument, fueled by whiskey. There was some talk-well, I am loath to say it, Mrs. Maycott, but as your lawyer I must. There was talk of a matter of impropriety between you and Mr. Dalton.”

I believe I shocked Mr. Brackenridge by laughing. “That accusation could only be made by someone wholly unfamiliar with the man in question. Sir, I know we have not been long acquainted, but do you believe that I was a party to these things as Colonel Tindall has alleged?”

He dared to gaze at me. “No, I do not. I have seen many horrible things in the West, but I have never once seen any person, man or woman, so coldly dissimulate about murder. There is little wealth here, and most crimes are those of passion, and those passions are ever on display afterward. So I do not believe things transpired as we have been led to believe. I don’t know how much time we have before the sheriff arrives, so I suggest you tell me what really happened as quickly as you can.”

“And then I will need you to do something for me, sir. It will require me to place a great deal of trust in you, but you will see I have no choice.”

W e had more time than either of us imagined, the better part of an hour, before the knock came. The time proved sufficient for me to tell a much abbreviated version of what had happened at our cabin. I could not have told him a more detailed one, for to do so would be to reduce me to the weeping woman I’d been in the hunting cabin, and I would not permit that. Mr. Brackenridge suggested that the boy Phineas might yet be found to serve as witness. I did not think it likely. Even if he saw everything, I did not know I could depend on him to speak truthfully, so great was his irrational hatred of me.

We had no time for anything but my original plan. Thus, I told him as much as he needed to know and convinced him to transact my business. A hasty contract was drawn up and signed, with Mrs. Brackenridge and a literate serving girl as witnesses.

We were not done five minutes before they arrived. When Mr. Brackenridge opened the door, the stout and hateful Colonel Tindall stood there, clutching his beloved fowling piece, the very one he had fired at me minutes before killing my husband. Next to him stood a man I had seen but never met, who I knew to be the sheriff. He was nearing sixty, I supposed, but looked as fit and rugged as any frontiersman. Tall of form, wide of shoulder, he wore a plain hunting shirt, from which rose a thick and corded neck. His face sported a short and reasonably well trimmed beard, its orderliness perhaps a nod to his office. His dark and hooded eyes rested on me from under a tattered beaver cap.

There were now a hundred or more townspeople crowding the street in an effort to witness the apprehension of the horrid criminal Maycott. They blocked the muddy roadway, pressing in close for a glimpse of the evil woman.

The sheriff stepped forward, though he did not cross the threshold. He looked past Mr. Brackenridge and addressed me directly. “’Tis Mrs. Maycott I presume I’m talking to.”

“I am she.” I met his gaze, but I would not look at Tindall. I did not trust myself to do so, for I feared I must spring upon him and prove myself the creature they believed me to be.