David Liss: The Whiskey Rebel

It had not been so, and yet now, impossibly, it was. I had not seen the third man arrive, nor note what he did-granted, the rain beat loudly, and I was distracted by pain and the rush of blood in my head and a bit of vomiting-and had I not later come to know him, to see what he could accomplish, if I had only known him from this one act, I would have believed him a ghost, some phantom from Hell untethered by earthly laws. He was not there, and then he stood by my side, but it was more than that. Dorland’s three companions were now in the mud.

One lay on the ground clutching his middle. Another pressed a hand to his throat. A third lay flat on his back, his eyes wide, the stranger’s boot on his chest. He held a thin knife, not particularly long, yet I did not doubt its deadliness in his hands.

I stared at this man who stood still with his shoulders wide in a stance of readiness, a bound coil ready to spring. He was slight of build, evenly proportioned, but a little inclined to be short, and, even stranger, he was bearded. I could not be certain in the poor light, but I thought he might be dark of skin, a lascar-looking fellow.

Dorland shook his head at the scene before him, having no greater understanding than I. He set down his bayonet and backed away, his hands out to make clear he would offer no more tricks. “Let him go,” he said, looking at his friend writhing under the stranger’s boot.

Dorland, however, was now no longer in a position to negotiate. Without taking his foot off the chest of the fallen man, the stranger had lashed out and pulled Dorland to him, the way a frog pulls in an insect with its tongue. He pressed Dorland’s back tight to his chest with his left elbow, left hand gripping Dorland’s right hand. The stranger’s own right hand now held his knife to Dorland’s thumb.

“You’re going to feel a hot sting,” he said, “and then excruciating pain.”

He had done so much and so quickly, and I did not know him. I could only presume he truly meant to cut off Dorland’s thumb, and I could not allow it. Yes, Dorland was a fool, and yes, he had thought it a fitting thing to kill me, but he was hardly the first to think that. And I had done him harm. I’d injured him and then refused to meet him on the field of honor. Having his thumb cut off in a Helltown alley struck me as a bit more than he deserved, or, if not, then at least more than I wanted upon my conscience.

“Better to let him go,” I said to the bearded man.

“I think not,” the stranger said. “He’ll likely return to make another attempt.”

“I must insist you let him go,” I said, this time more strongly. “It’s my rescue. I’d like to think I have some say in it.”

The bearded man pushed Dorland away. He stumbled but did not fall.

Perhaps it was the darkness, but the stranger’s expression seemed to me coldly, even frighteningly, blank. He had not been out for blood before, and he was not disappointed now. He had judged mutilating Dorland the best course, and he would have pursued it had I not insisted otherwise. Now, with Dorland away, he released his foot from the friend’s chest and took several steps back from his victims, who were apparently not so badly hurt that they could not struggle to their feet. These were dandified gentlemen with no stomach for street brawling in the mud and rain. A little taste of violence and pain proved sufficient.

“There you have it,” I said. “You may flee.”

Dorland gazed upon me. “Saunders, don’t think our business concluded,” he said, apparently eager to prove the stranger’s point.

“You did not find this encounter decisive?” I asked, then vomited once more.

“You are repulsive.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Ladies are known to find me charming.”

He took a step forward but one of his friends, the one who had been struck in the throat, held him back. Dorland grabbed his fallen weapon, and he and his friends hurried off.

Leonidas hopped down from his broken pedestal, sending out a splatter of cold mud, and placed an arm around me, for he sensed it was only with great difficulty that I remained on my feet. “Let’s get you dry and warm,” he said. “Then I’ll present this gentleman, and we shall all have a talk.”

I found the stranger’s coldness unnerving, but I knew a worthy fighter when I saw one, and I owed him my politeness. “I am in your debt,” I said to him.

The man grinned-the first sign I’d seen that he possessed anything like human feeling-and it was a wide, open, likable sort of grin, but also strangely false. It was not precisely insincere but rather had the air of being an afterthought, something he had to remember to do when interacting with human beings in such a way that involved no violence.

“Entirely my pleasure,” he said, and I did not doubt him.

With the stranger lagging behind, perhaps making certain our enemies attempted no late ambush, Leonidas led me limping back into the Lion and Bell. We took a table near the fire, attracting no little attention as we did so. My man shrugged off his greatcoat, hanging it to dry, and then his hat, revealing a round head of closely cut hair. Next he took his pistols and checked the powder. The sight of this big Negro examining firearms caused a few men to gaze upon us with apprehension. Philadelphia white men are more at ease around Negroes than those in southern climes, but the sight of a muscular and broad-backed African checking his pistols is never a comforting sight. No one dared say a word, though-in part because it is unwise to be rude to a large man with firearms, but also because there was something in Leonidas’s countenance that allayed suspicion. He was black as midnight but handsome as Oroonoko, possessed of a natural dignity, and if there was but one Negro in the country you wished to see with primed pistols, surely this was he.

“You did have weapons,” I said. “I thought you were posturing.”

His mouth twitched in the merest hint of a smile. “I should have hated to shoot a hole through my coat. ’Tis a fine bit of tailoring.”

“Why do you have pistols?” I demanded.

“I have to do something with my money, as I am not permitted to purchase my freedom.”

I often had no need of his services, and I let Leonidas hire himself out as a laborer down by the docks. He had saved enough to purchase his freedom at a fair price should I wish to permit it. It seemed to me an unnatural cruelty to ask a man, made a slave through no fault of his own, to have to pay for his freedom.

While I dried myself and let the pain wash over me and crystallize, Leonidas fetched for me more whiskey, for the events of the evening had created a void within me that wanted filling, and soon. He handed me a mug and sat down next to me.

All this time, the stranger stood by in a pantomime of anonymity. He shook off his coat by the fire. He patted his hat against his forearm. He rubbed his hands together.

“Again I thank you,” I said to him. “I never asked for it, but still-very kind.”

He nodded, and I had the distinct impression he grew weary of gratitude.

“You’re fortunate we arrived when we did,” Leonidas said. “You looked quite defeated.”

I met his eye. This notion that you cannot look into a man’s eye while dissimulating is, of course, an utter falseness. I could stare into the eyes of Jesus and tell him I was John the Baptist, and should the chance ever arrive to do so unlikely a thing, I meant to try it, just to see how it would go. “A few more minutes would have set things right. Still, I am always grateful for timely assistance.”

Leonidas turned to the stranger. “May I present to you Mr. Kyler Lavien.”

“Lavien,” I said. “What sort of name is that? Are you a Frenchman?”