David Liss - The Whiskey Rebel

I did not know what any of this meant, but I was determined to find out. There was but one man in the world to whom I could pose a question on Hamilton’s character, and I meant to ask him immediately.

There are few things in this world for which I am prepared to show reverence, it is true, but for this appointment I would show all the respect I could muster. I’d refrained from drinking the previous night, and so I awoke Tuesday morning well rested and easy. As the time for the visit approached, I dressed myself quite neatly, making frequent use of the mirror to make certain all was in order.

Rather than risk soiling my pumps and stockings with filth from the street, I hired a coach to take me the distance to Sixth and Market, where the great mansion stood. It was one of the first houses in the city, owned by merchant Bob Morris but now rented to his distinguished tenant. As I approached the door, a liveried Negro held out his hand for my invitation.

“I do not have an invitation,” I said.

“Then you may not enter.”

“My name is Captain Ethan Saunders,” I said. “I must speak with him, and I must do so in this manner. I cannot have the world know I conferred with him, and so it must be a public and seemingly vacuous exchange. He will certainly see me if he knows I am here. Will you present my name to him?”

It was evident to me that he did not know if he ought to, and yet he seemed to sense the force of my request. Asking another usher to take his place, he disappeared into the house for several minutes. When he returned, he told me that I might proceed.

I was ushered inside an antechamber, all red and gold furnishings, filled with some of the first people of the city as well as visitors from the several states and even a few foreign dignitaries. None knew my name, and though I knew many of theirs, I was not present to make idle chatter, to gossip, or find my social footing. I merely stood by the window and made small conversation, for I was called upon to do it, with an Episcopalian bishop named White.

At precisely 3 P.M. the doors to the receiving room opened, and we queued up obediently. On the left, another liveried man announced each guest’s name. This servant was not a Negro, since his role including reading, and a literate Negro might offend Southerners.

I was situated approximately in the middle of the queue, and so it came to be my turn. I handed my card to the servant, and he loudly proclaimed, “Captain Ethan Saunders!” I felt my stomach drop, the way it does before a man rushes into battle. I was full of fear, yes, but also exhilaration. And I felt shame, for all at once I saw the last decade of my life unfold before me as nothing but a string of drunken days and debauched encounters, as unsavory as they were unwise. I had once, long ago, been singled out for special notice by men who saw my particular talents as a means to serve rather than as an excuse never to achieve. Yes, I had been dealt some blows, but what excuse had I to surrender to failure and despair?

Such were my feelings when I turned to my right where President Washington stood, dressed in formal finery in his velvet suit and gloves, ceremonial sword at his side. I had not seen him close in many years, and time had not been kind to him. His skin had grown dry and papery, slashed with broken red veins. His eyes appeared sunken, his mouth winced with the pressure of false teeth, whose pain was already legendary. On top of it all, he appeared surprised.

As he did on the battlefield, he took his surprise manfully. He shook my hand and bowed slightly, and I proceeded to the circular room where I took my place alongside the other guests.

According to the custom, the doors closed at precisely half past three, and the President began to make his rounds. I had heard of the tedium of these events, but until it is experienced, it is impossible to believe that the human mind, free of the shackles of primordial tradition, could devise a ritual so designed to salt out the lifeblood of human fellowship.

Clockwise, the President turned to each of the guests, bowed, and exchanged some inconsequential words. If he knew the man, he might ask of his family or, more in Washington’s character, of his land, its crops and improvements. If he was a stranger, he might speak of the weather or some development of trade or infrastructure near the man’s home. These exchanges were not precisely whispered, but they were kept quiet to maintain the fiction of privacy.

As the President approached, I could little contain my distress. Perhaps he would refuse to speak to me. Perhaps he would condemn me as the failure I had become. Perhaps he would upbraid me as a traitor, for how could I know if he had ever learned the truth of those charges leveled so long ago? I held my ground and hoped I displayed no more signs of my terrible anxiety than the sweat that beaded along my brow.

The President turned to me and offered me a stiff bow. He smelled of wet wool. “Good afternoon, Captain Saunders. It has been too long.”

I was upon business, and though I revered him as much as any, I would not insult him by showing it. “Hamilton,” I said. “Can he be trusted?”

Washington showed no surprise. He must have intuited the purpose of my visit, and he would have certainly already determined on a course of action. His mouth twitched slightly in something like a grin, and his lips drew back over his false teeth. “He may be trusted absolutely.”

“What if appearances are against him?” I asked.

“Have you been listening to Mr. Jefferson’s supporters?”

“I’ve seen things for myself. I have seen certain associations.”

He nodded. “What do you believe?”

Eyes were upon us now. This little exchange, brief though it was, had already consumed more than the usual allotment of time. The men in the room could hear at least part of what we said, and they knew this was not a wooden exchange of pleasantries. No, there was a seriousness, an urgency, that I had not bothered to mask, and neither had Washington. But it was too late to retreat. It was too late not to accomplish what I had hoped. Let them listen. Let them wonder. It would mean nothing to them, yet it would mean everything for me.

“I believe he is, on balance, honorable,” I said, “even if I cannot comprehend his actions.”

“He is my closest advisor, and he is to be trusted. He might lead himself into Hell, but he would never lead another.” He made another poor attempt to smile, and I cannot say if it pained him more than me. “And what of you, Captain Saunders? Are you to be trusted?”

“Was I ever, sir?” I asked.

No hint of a smile this time. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The world never thought ill of you. People thought you saw your duty as a game, a lark, but I knew better. I knew you hid behind the jollity a fierceness you dared not display. If you wear it on the surface, you become something else.”

“Something like Lavien,” I said.

He nodded. “Precisely.” With that he turned to bow to the next guest, and in a room of dozens of men I felt utterly alone.

Even in my perplexity, I was not unmindful of important things. I returned to my boardinghouse to change my clothing to something less formal. I would need to pursue this thing to the end.

That night when I walked past the Treasury building, I could not but observe a light in the window of what I believed to be Hamilton’s office. I approached and inquired of a watchman, who told me the Secretary was indeed yet inside. I withdrew and retreated to the shadows, planning nothing more than to wait for him, perhaps follow him home and speak to him there. I suppose I could have entered the building and walked into the office, but the truth was I preferred lurking in the shadows and trailing men across empty streets. It made me feel useful and involved.