The Whiskey Rebel

Mr. Pearson now turned to Mrs. Maycott and attempted something like a smile. Perhaps at some earlier time in his life, before he allowed a pretty wife and fine house to convince him he was the emperor of the universe, he might have charmed a woman or two with that smile. If the day had been foggy or the candles dim, anything was possible. Now he appeared grotesque, a mask of human skin atop something diabolical and unsavory. Yet he clearly believed himself to be the embodiment of charm and sought to shore up his position by bringing to his side the only unattached woman in the room, always the jewel of greatest value in any gathering.

“Do you hear, Mrs. Maycott?” he said, his voice now a calm, unctuous vibrato. “‘Such people as the Binghams,’ says my sister, as though she, the wife of a lawyer of but indifferent reputation, can sit in judgment of the first families of the nation.”

“I think,” answered the good lady, “that in this republic, there is no one family that may be elevated above another, as all are equal before the law.”

From another, less charming, set of lips I supposed this comment might have launched an entirely new course of outraged oratory, but not so now. He merely smiled his death’s-head smile. “A good joke, Mrs. Maycott. A very good joke.”

“I should like to hear more of Captain Saunders’s co

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Vanderveer, a drowning woman wrapping her arms about a piece of conversational flotsam. “Such exciting times there, I should think, with the bank and such.”

Mr. Pearson would not be soothed. “Yes, yes, you must always flatter,” he said to his sister. “You flatter me, you flatter my guests. What shall it get you?”

“I believe I was merely making an inquiry,” said the lady.

“You’ve never merely done anything in your life, Flora, so let us not pretend otherwise.” He turned to me. “Shall I tell you what it means to serve Hamilton at Treasury?”

“You may attempt to do so,” I answered, “but as I’m the one who is so engaged, and as you are not, I ca

Mrs. Pearson laughed and then covered her mouth. Her husband grimaced, as though this mirth had caused him physical pain. He then turned back to me. “ Hamilton is a worm. Did you know that?”

“Once I cut him in twain,” I said, and then leaned forward to whisper theatrically, “and now there are two of him.”

“He is a worm, but he is a worm who does the businessmen’s bidding. His bank is a ruse to trick the nation into funding a scheme to make Hamilton and his friends richer, but you may be sure I’ve taken advantage of it. Because of the bank, there is an excess of credit, and that means a man of significant commerce, such as myself, can find the money to invest in government issues when before it might have been difficult. I do not like Hamilton, but I will use him. What do you say to that?”

I sipped my wine. “It’s all very interesting, but it does not precisely tell me what it means to serve Hamilton at Treasury.”

“My partner in business once worked for Treasury, and he informed me in no uncertain terms that Hamilton is a prig with no imagination and no spirit.”

I sat up straight. “Who is your partner?”

“William Duer. I thought all men knew that-or all men of substance, I suppose. Once you are drummed out of the army, you no longer hear the same things as the rest of us.”

“Jack,” said Cynthia.

“I say no more than the truth,” Pearson said. “If he does not like the truth, let him stop up his ears. We have no shortage of candles. Where is the footman? Nate, bring us some soft wax for this gentleman’s ears. He wants them stopped at once.”

I closed my eyes and turned away, trying to shut out the noise, though I would not resort to candle wax to effect this aim. Pearson’s words did not trouble me, not in the way he intended. If he wished to rub salt in the old wound, I could endure it. I turned not in pain but because I needed to think. He believed Duer was his partner, and yet the communication I had intercepted informed me, in no uncertain terms, that Duer was his enemy. And Duer had, most clearly, attempted to avoid being seen by Pearson at the Bingham house.

I understood then that there would be no answers to these questions without speaking to Duer, and Duer had returned to New York. I would have to follow him there. Cynthia was here, and Cynthia needed me, but I could no longer avoid the simple truth that I must go to New York to protect her.

I had turned away from Pearson and his harsh words, and then I had set my face in determination. It must have looked like pain, for I felt a hand upon mine, and when I looked up Mrs. Maycott was smiling at me with warm sympathy. Who was this good woman, I wondered, to feel so strongly for a stranger in what she thought was distress?

I cast her a glance and I smiled, hoping to show she had misunderstood my mood. Then I turned to Pearson. “What is the nature of your business with Duer?”

“What concern is that of yours?”

“I believe he is inquiring to be polite,” Mr. Vanderveer said.

“I believe you are a fool,” Pearson answered. “Well, Saunders, why do you wish to know? Did Hamilton send you to ask me? The Jew gets nothing, so he sends a drunken traitor, is that it?”

“I was invited here,” I answered. “ Hamilton did not send me, and this gentleman is correct. I merely make conversation.”

“Make it about something else,” Pearson said. “My business with Duer is private. We are engaged in a new venture, and we play it quietly. That is all you need to know.”

It was not all I needed to know, but it was something. The entire world speculated on Pearson’s declining capacity. What were the chances that William Duer would trust him with a secret venture?

Any further questions were forestalled by the arrival of a plump, buxom, and not unattractive serving girl. She informed us we might remove ourselves to the dining room. I was pleased to find myself next to Mrs. Maycott and not next to Mrs. Pearson, for I should have found that awkward. That lady did her best to avoid looking in my direction the entire evening, and though Mrs. Maycott made much polite conversation with me, we said nothing of further import-no matters of government or Washington or even accusations of malicious flattery. Mr. Pearson was the sole arbiter of conversational topics, and he chose to speak only of the excellence of his own food, the comfort of his dining chairs, and then, toward the end of the evening, the gripping narrative of his rise from son of the owner of an importation business to the exalted heights of being himself the owner of an importation business. Mrs. Maycott and Mrs. Vanderveer both gamely attempted to join the conversation, but Mr. Pearson would not have it. As for the lady of the house, she had, I could only presume, long ago abandoned all efforts at civil discourse.

I therefore endured pea soup, boiled potatoes with bacon, roasted pig, chicken in wine sauce, roasted apples in sugar, and a whipped syllabub-all of it without a single pleasant exchange. The wine, however, flowed. Mr. Pearson seemed unduly interested in his wife’s consumption, commenting rather loudly when she finished her first glass and accepted a second, which went sadly unfinished. More than once, our eyes met over the embrace of this communion. She looked away. I did not. Mr. Pearson made the occasional unkind observation, but it altered neither conversation nor behavior. When Mrs. Pearson accepted a glass of port with her baked apples, her husband began such a paroxysm of tuts and clucks he sounded like a henhouse at feeding time.

“Have you not had enough to drink already?” he asked.

She now met her husband’s eye, and her expression was dark and foreboding. Perhaps she had indeed had too much wine. “I believe I am the best judge.”