David Liss - The Whiskey Rebel

“Come, sir,” Duer protested. “There is nothing you can say that I may not hear, surely. We are all friends to be honest with one another.”

“Only a moment, if you please.”

“Only a moment, then.” Duer stood, offered us a bow, and left the room. In but a moment, I could observe him out the window, pacing upon the street. He did not seem to me particularly uneasy, but more like a man who had other things to do with his time and did not care for matters to run longer than he had expected.

With Duer gone, Mr. Reynolds let out a sigh of relief, like a man who has overdone himself at feasting and now unbuttons his trousers. He set down his teacup and leaned forward slightly in his seat. “Here’s the truth of it. Duer there, he’s as straight as they come. Even so, you have to understand, he wants to exchange land for war debt. That’s his business, and so he puts things in a particular color.”

“It is not paradise,” Andrew said.

“Ain’t no paradise on this earth, Mr. Maycott. Nothing even close, so don’t believe those stories. The winters ain’t as mild as he might suggest; we get big snows just like everyone else. Summers can be hot and muggy and full of flying things that you sometimes think will drive you mad. We’ve had problems with bears from time to time. Couple years back, a friend of mine was mauled to death when his rifle misfired, hitting the thing in the leg instead of the head.”

“Do you regret exchanging your debt for the land?” I asked.

“Not for a moment,” he said. “It ain’t perfect, but I ain’t never had a chance at anything better. The land is wondrous fertile, and the crops nearly grow themselves. The society-well, you couldn’t ask for better folk. He told you about the dancing, I reckon. He loves to talk about the balls. There’s all sorts of societies and clubs. We get newspapers and pamphlets and books-we get them late, but we get them.”

“And the Indians?” Andrew asked.

He appeared amused at our silly question. “The bad ones been run off, the good ones are like children to look at them. They don’t do nothing but work and pray. You ask them to trade you one of your ears of corn for their six, they’ll take the trade and thank you for it. To some folks the redskins are a bit unsettling, but they don’t never do harm.”

“Do you feel that most people out there share your sentiments?” Andrew asked.

“There’s always some that don’t take to it. There’s some that never worked land before, even easy land, and they find they don’t care for the labor. Or they come from Philadelphia or Boston or New York and find they don’t like our simple houses and simple clothes. There ain’t nothing in this world that’s good for all folk, and that’s the truth, but when someone wants to leave, there’s always been a neighbor who’s done well and is willing to buy him out.”

“I thank you for your candor,” Andrew said.

Reynolds shook his head. “No more than I ought to do. We ain’t that big a settlement, Mr. Maycott, and we don’t want people who don’t want to be there. But a patriot like you, I can promise that you’d find yourself most welcome. And I’ll tell you another thing,” he said, looking about our parlor, his eyes falling to the shelves of books we could ill afford. “I see you got books, so be sure to bring them. You’ll get a better price in the West, if you’re looking to sell, and if you’re willing to lend, you won’t find no better way to make friends.”

Mr. Reynolds left, Mr. Duer returned, and we talked more. When we were alone, we said nothing of it, merely going back to our respective duties, but the next morning I woke up with Andrew holding my hand and studying my face in that way he did when his love felt fresh and new. I understood then that all was decided. Andrew, after struggling to keep his shop profitable, could return to the independence of working the land. I, for my part, had become convinced that this was the opportunity for which I had been waiting. If I wished to write an American novel, what better opportunity could I have than to experience a uniquely American way of life? I would go the frontier, live among settlers, write of their ways, of land-clearing and farming, of Indians and traders and trappers, of western folk who lived by their strength and wits and force of will. I would write the novel that would define, for years to come, the very nature of its American form. My enthusiasm grew so great that I could not have imagined the land would fall short of our expectations in any way, yet I would soon enough learn we had been tricked into trading the hope of our future for nothing but ashes and sorrow.

The rain had mercifully abated, and so the three of us strolled away from the Pearson house with at least some comfort. I did not know what to make of this strange experience. How had Mrs. Pearson learned I was in Philadelphia? Why had she chosen to contact me and then sent me away once more? Did she truly think that, upon seeing my injuries, they were somehow linked to her husband’s disappearance?

Yes, all these questions raced through my mind. Old habits, the ones Fleet had taught me, die hard. Silently I made lists and checked fact against fact, weighed theory against knowledge, proposed notions and dismissed them almost as quickly. Yet while I did this, one thought dominated: Cynthia Pearson called for me. She was in trouble, and I was the one to whom she turned. This filled me with hope and joy, yet at the same time I found myself wracked with bouts of unspeakable melancholy.

I would have to wait until I was secure in my own rooms, bottle of whiskey in hand, before indulging my sadness. While the stranger walked with me, there was work to be done.

“How long has Mr. Pearson been missing?” I asked Lavien.

“Perhaps a week,” he said, his voice neutral, even distant. It was the voice of a man who wished to reveal nothing except, perhaps, his wish to reveal nothing.

“Why would she change her mind about wanting help?” Leonidas wondered.

“I don’t know,” said Lavien, “but I cannot believe her when she says she has dismissed her concerns as silly. Perhaps, Captain Saunders, I can call upon you tomorrow and you can tell me more of your impressions. Knowing Mrs. Pearson far better than I, you may have some useful insights, but I believe we are all too tired to be very productive tonight.”

“Of course,” I said, not at all certain I would share anything with him. I believed I liked him, but I did not precisely trust him. He knew, or suspected, far more than he was willing to share with me, and I found it irksome that he expected my notions to be given gratis while his were tucked safely away.

“I shall make my own way home,” he said. “It is but a short walk to Third and Cherry.”

I thanked him again for the service he had rendered me earlier, and so saying we parted ways. Leonidas and I, meanwhile, turned toward the river and my own lodgings at Spruce and Second. “What is your impression of him?” I asked Leonidas.

His face assumed a series of lines-eyes squinted, lips pressed-as it did when he grew thoughtful. “I don’t know. He is certainly competent. When we came upon your trouble in the alley, he immediately-or I should say instantly-began to set forth a strategy, telling me what I must do and how I must do it. And I had no difficulty doing precisely what he said, such was the confidence and authority in his voice. But that matter with Dorland’s thumb. He is cold in a way that is almost unnatural.”

“A kind of stoic efficiency,” I said. “Like a surgeon.”

“Exactly,” Leonidas said. “He knows his business, I’ve no doubt, but I don’t think he is telling us everything. It’s strange. I would think he’d want your assistance in finding Mr. Pearson.”