The Whiskey Rebel

I had intended to refer to the Bank of the United States, but Duer misunderstood me. “Yes, I told him I have no co

“I have heard that you are intimately involved in the Million Bank,” I said.

“It’s a damnable lie,” he said. “Someone makes free with my name. It happens frequently, I am sad to say. It is an unfortunate consequence of reputation that when my name is attached to a project it is often viewed as a sign of inevitable success. Thus there are men who will cast it about that I have smiled upon their undertaking to generate interest among the general populace. I fear it may be so in this case. Anyone who invests in the Million Bank is certain to lose his money.”

“And what of the Bank of the United States? Did Mr. Lavien ask you about that?”

“What is there to ask?” He continued to peer at me through his fingers, which made it difficult to measure his face as I would like.

“Some sort of danger to the bank, perhaps?”

“Don’t be absurd. The bank is already a monolith. Nothing can harm it.”

“Not even the Million Bank?”

“It would be like a mouse assaulting a lion.”

I decided I would set out my concerns directly and see what happened next. “Am I to presume from what you say that you have no designs yourself against the national bank, no effort in seeing it stumble or even fail?”

“What an absurd notion. Why should I wish to see it fail? The bank could not be more dear to me.”

“Dear to you precisely how?” I asked. “The bank and government securities are quite closely bound together, and I have discovered your agents are selling government securities short. You are gambling upon the price of the stock going down, are you not? Your situation, as I understand it, would suffer considerably if the price should go up. It sounds to me that what is dear to you is the depression of our economy.”

At last he moved his hands, that he might flick his fingers dismissively. “You have many excellent talents, I don’t doubt, but you do not know a great deal about finance. Whippo, does Captain Saunders strike you as a financial man?”

Whippo slowly rotated his cadaverous head toward me. “’Tis not how he strikes me.”

“Truly, you must not think of this as a play, sir, with a hero and a villain. An agent in my employ may or may not sell short, for he is my agent, not my servant. He may engage in any number of transactions separate from, or even contrary to, my own wishes. That he does so does not mean he acts according to my orders. I am an important man and very influential. I would not have you saying in public that I sell securities short.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, “on the express from Philadelphia, I heard a group of speculators saying just that.”

Duer snickered and turned to Whippo. “He heard a group of speculators, quotha.” Then, to me: “You ca

To my surprise, the speculator had taken control of the conversation with the tenacity of a terrier and did not mean to let go.

“Now, as to the reality of the matter,” Duer continued, “I do not say what my agents buy or sell when they are about their own affairs. It is not for me to know. As for what I do, I prefer to keep that to myself, and I ask that you keep your suppositions to yourself as well. Any rumors you might spread could be very detrimental to my finances and, by extension, to America itself.”

“You have been attempting to drive down prices,” I said. “How can you say you do so for the good of America?”

“I am afraid this confusion originates from your own poor understanding of the markets. Let us say I do gamble upon the value of securities declining. Does that make me an enemy of the government? I think not. Prices are in endless shift, and if I am to wager they shall be down this moment, it does not mean I wish them to be down or expect them to remain down forever. It is but the natural ebb and flow of the market, and it is no more than what Hamilton expects-indeed, what Hamilton desires. Why else has his bank made credit so cheap, but that we might buy and sell and attempt to guess the end result? To say I abuse the markets by attempting to predict them is like saying a ship abuses the ocean by riding upon it.”

I honestly did not know where his bluster and fabrication ended and where the truth began. This was not war, where secrets relate to tangible things like troop movements, army composition, and battle plans. This was the world of finance, in which even the nature of truth can twist upon the slightest wind. I did not pursue the matter further because I did not believe I could learn more from listening to Duer spin his tales.

“What then,” I said, as though it were the natural consequence of what had come before, “can you tell me of Pearson?”

Duer allowed himself the indulgence of a brief frown, just a flicking downturn of the mouth. “Jack Pearson? What of him?”

“I would like it if you could tell me about your animosity toward him.”

He had now returned to smiling. “Animosity, you say? I know nothing of it.”

“It has been said that you are his enemy. That the financial difficulties he is currently experiencing are of your engineering. That you and Pearson are locked in some sort of duel to the death, and that he has already emerged as the clear loser.”

Duer stood up, a slow, deliberate motion. His face was now set, like a man enduring pain. Whippo observed this with some alarm, as though I were using invisible witchcraft to harm his master. He took a step toward me.

“Who told you that?” Duer demanded.

“It is something I heard,” I said casually. I finished my wine. “Have you more of this claret? It is really quite good.”

“Mr. Duer asked you a question,” Whippo said. His voice was deep and resonant but had the vague quality of the perpetually bored.

“Oh, I heard him. But I also asked a question. Regarding the wine.” I handed Whippo the glass. “A bit more if you please, fellow.”

Duer nodded at Whippo, and though the large man’s face was set in a mask of smoldering resentment-narrow eyes, flat lips, flaring nostrils-he went to the sideboard and tipped the bottle, filling the glass almost to the brim.

Once the wine was in hand, I smiled like a contented pasha. “So, much better. Now, do sit, Mr. Duer. It is bad enough that Pantagruel there menaces me, but I ca

Duer, perhaps wishing to regain the illusion of composure, returned to his seat. I sipped my wine.

“Now,” I said, “what was your question?”

“Damn you, you drunk fool, where did you hear I was against Pearson? Who told you?”

“Ah, yes, Pearson.” Lest my reader believe that I was actually inebriated, I should point out that much of this behavior was in the order of a ruse. It served my purpose to have them believe me far more drunk than I was.

I emptied my glass to the point where I could hold it comfortably without spilling. While I did so, I considered what lie would best suit my purposes. It was clear that Duer and his factotum both believed it a terrible thing that rumors of this sort should be spread. I could not tell them I had intercepted coded messages between parties I did not know. At the same time, I did not want to tell them I had heard rumors cast about in a tavern or on the express, since doing so would alarm them, and while causing an alarm was an arrow I might later want to pull from my quiver, I was not yet ready to do so. For the nonce, I wished to calm them.

“The gentleman’s wife,” I said at last. “When I saw Mrs. Pearson at the Bingham house, she expressed some concern about the nature of her husband’s business with you.”