David Liss - The Whiskey Rebel

It seemed to me that, whether it was what he intended or not, I was those other means. There was no reason not to press it. “What of Duer?”

“What of him?”

“What is the link between Duer and Pearson?”

“None that I am aware of,” he said.

I thought about the note I had found in the tree stump. Duer has used him monstrous ill, and it cannot be undone. That was, in itself, of no consequence. Let these men ruin one another to their heart’s content; it was nothing to me. And yet there was obviously more to it. The BUS will feel it soon enough, and Hamilton has no notion of it. All this was a scheme to harm the bank. Pearson was but a tool, Cynthia but a casualty.

“Who would like to destroy the bank?” I asked.

Hamilton sighed. “Destroy it? Jefferson, I suppose.”

“No, not malign it, or see it fail, or rejoice in its adequacies. Jefferson wishes to find political advantage. Who wishes to destroy it by his own hands?”

“No one,” he said. “No one who could.”

“And if anyone could, who would it be?”

“The rabble,” he said. “The rabble prompted by Jefferson would see it destroyed. The western rustics, filled with democratical ideas by Jefferson, would rather go to war than hand over a penny in excise taxes. Things are not so complex as you imagine, and you cannot see that only because you have been out of the game too long.”

It seemed to me they were far more complex than I could imagine. That was the difficulty.

If I was going to attempt to chip away at this complexity, the first thing I had to discover was the nature of the secret and financial relationship between Hamilton and Duer’s man, Reynolds. I might well have told Hamilton more if I could have better trusted him, but so long as he was secreting purses of gold to men of this sort, I would have to hold fast to my secrets. More to the point, I needed to know why the men who acted against me, and acted against Cynthia, wished to point me toward this man. Reynolds worked for Duer-that much was certain-but it now seemed to me that the bearded Scotsman, who was so clearly involved with the threat against the bank-wanted to make certain I noticed Reynolds and perhaps was set against him.

It was time to approach directly. Thus, that night I walked to Reynolds’s house and knocked on the door. It was later than good manners generally allow for a stranger to call, but this was an unsavory neighborhood, and lights were on. I would take my chances.

When no one answered, I knocked again, and then a third time. At last I heard footsteps upon stairs, and a woman’s voice cried out from inside, asking who called.

“Captain Ethan Saunders, on behalf of the United States Department of the Treasury,” I responded, with only slight exaggeration. This was no time to be shy. “I must gain entrance.”

The door opened. Standing there, in a state of very appealing dishevel, was possibly the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Yes, I know this narrative is crowded with beautiful women-Mrs. Pearson, Mrs. Maycott, Mrs. Lavien, Mrs. Bingham. We might form a cricket team of beautiful women. I cannot help it if they are the ones who excite my notice and so trouble myself to describe. Yet how beautiful are they? Mrs. Pearson is undeniably lovely, but it is my feeling for her that elevates her to so exalted a level. Mrs. Maycott is a bit weak in the chin, to tell the truth, but she is mysterious and poised. Mrs. Lavien has that Hebrew look about her which some may find unappealing.

This lady was beautiful, and not because her demeanor or exotic race or a longing heart provided an added advantage to elevate her. No, here was a creature of perfection, like Milton ’s Eve, the ideal of female loveliness. Her fair hair was wavy and in a state of wild disorder. Her eyes were large and so blue it was almost shocking. Her cheeks were red and round and molded to perfection. Her teeth as white as new snow, her lips the color of roses. Shall I go on? It is tedious, I know, but it is important that I make it clear that in part and in sum this was a woman, I believe, utterly without equal in the United States, possibly in the world. Those who would, in years to come, judge the frailty of a man enchanted with her, knew nothing of her astonishing charms. The man did not live who, given the opportunity to love her, would have turned aside.

“Madam, will you marry me?” I asked.

She laughed. She wore a loose gown, quite recently thrown on. It was rather generous in its presentation of décolletage, and her bosoms, large and full, moved very agreeably.

“I am afraid I am already married, sir.”

“Then I shall take my own life,” I said. “Before I do so, I would speak to a Mr. Reynolds. Does he live here?”

Her face darkened just a little. “That is the name of my husband, sir. He is not at home.”

That slovenly brute with his scarred face and lupine demeanor was the husband of this creature? How did she endure it? How could the world endure it? Under normal circumstances, I would almost certainly have inserted myself in this lady’s life to better her state, but I had other things that demanded my attention, foremost being Cynthia. I would focus on the beast and not the beauty. “I must find him.”

“He is not in town at all,” she said. “May I ask what this involves? Did you mention the Treasury Department, sir?”

“I work for Colonel Hamilton at Treasury.” Reform does not extend to lies of this sort.

“And what will you with my husband?” There was now something rather unkind in her tone, and I did not like it. I wanted her to be charmed again.

“I merely wish to talk with him about Mr. Duer,” I said, grinning amicably. “It is about that gentleman, and not your husband.”

“I see.”

“When will he return?”

“I cannot say.”

“And where has he gone?”

“He doesn’t tell me.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “you would care to invite me inside, and we can discuss this further.”

“Another time,” she said, as though she did not mean it, and closed the door.

Spring 1791

Mrs. Brackenridge insisted that I spend the night in her house, and in the morning I made my way back, not to the hunting cabin but to my own. I’d not told anyone of my plans to do this because I knew they would attempt to convince me of its imprudence. There was first the practical matter of my cabin’s condition. Much of it had been destroyed in the fire; Skye had told me as much. I found the walls scorched, and such furnishings as had been saved were blackened. The curtains, table linens, our clothes and papers-including my novel, but Skye had prepared me for this too-were all gone. The place stank of fire and dampness, but it was where Andrew and I had lived, and I would not leave it until I must.

The other principal objection to my returning was that I no longer had any right to the cabin, though I did have permission from its owner, Mr. Brackenridge, to stay there as long as I liked. It would not be long. I did not wish to remain, and doing so would be unwise. I understood, almost as soon as I’d understood anything, that Tindall had pursued us because he wished to deprive Andrew, Skye, and Dalton of the means of making whiskey. I also knew that there were more than a few wealthy farmers in the region who would be willing to buy our leases, with our equipment and instruction on the new method of distilling. For now, Hugh Henry Brackenridge held the ground rents to our lands. He assured me he would do his best to sell them to the highest bidder and to do so for no more than a 5-percent commission, though, if he wished to cheat us, we could do nothing to prevent it. It was a gamble, but I never doubted that he was worthy, and circumstances would prove me correct.