The Whiskey Rebels (34 page)

“The Indians may see it differently,” said Tindall.

“You may end the nonsense,” said Mr. Dalton. “You got no right to tell us what we can and cannot do on that land, not so long as the rent is paid. This kind of insult can’t go unanswered.”

Tindall slammed the butt of his gun upon the floor. “Then answer it!” he roared. His voice was sudden, loud, a challenge so blatant and naked it seemed to me obscene. In the face of it, the three men—Andrew, Dalton, Skye—stood silent and humbled. I saw quite clearly that with me in the room there would be no violence, and Tindall might continue to taunt us as much as he liked.

No one spoke. The silence was thick and full of menace, going on longer than I could have imagined. At last the stalemate was broken when the door opened and the plump Negress whom we’d encountered on our previous visit entered the room. “I see you got yourself some guests, Colonel,” she said. “How come you don’t ask old Lactilla for refreshment? I got biscuits, I got cake, I can make some tea right quick.”

“Good God, gal,” cried the colonel, “if I wish for refreshment, I’ll call for it!”

“Well,” said the woman, “you got that lady here again, and looks like you’re being none too kind to her husband and their friends. Seems to me, if you’re going to be unkind to folks, you might as well give them some tea to make it go down the smoother.”

Tindall clutched his fowling piece. “If I wish for advice from a nigger, I will certainly call for it. Until then, I’d advise you to shut up and get gone.”

She put her hands upon her massive hips. “Don’t you talk to Lactilla that way.”

“Gal,” Tindall said, half rising from his seat, “get gone before you regret it.”

“I ain’t going to regret nothing but letting you talk that way. It ain’t right.”

My eyes were upon this woman, so I did not see what Tindall did next. From the corner of my eye, however, came the red flash of flame and the smoke and the crack of the discharged fowling piece. All at once, Lactilla’s face was covered with blood. There were small holes in her plain white dress, across which erupted rosettes of blood like crimson fireworks against a night sky.

Tindall had fired the weapon from a distance of fifteen feet, and I presumed it contained birdshot. It was plain the poor woman would not die of her injuries, though she was lucky to have escaped blindness. I knew Tindall had missed her eyes, because they were wide with surprise, her mouth open and slack. Then, understanding what had happened, she let out a shriek and ran from the room.

Tindall set down the smoking gun, returned to his seat, and smiled at us. “I beg your pardon for the interruption. You were saying?”

It was Mr. Skye who spoke first. “You’re mad.”

Tindall shrugged. “I will not be challenged in my own home. There is no serious harm done, but I believe that nigger should be well behaved for a little while at least. When she forgets herself, I shall know best how to remind her.”

Andrew shook his head. “You have convinced us that you are a villain, but you have done nothing more than that. You may own our land, but you do not own us. We did not fight in the war to be slaves here at home.”

“I am sick to my death of the war as an excuse for every beggar who wishes to prop himself up. You tell me that you did not fight to be a slave. Well, I fought that I might
keep
my slaves, so that puts us rather at odds, doesn’t it?” He pointed at Andrew. “You allege I sent red men after you but now stand there silent. Did you fight in the war so you might enjoy the luxury of being a coward later?”

Andrew began to move forward, but I put a hand upon his arm.

Tindall grinned at me. “I see you are governed by your wife. I cannot blame a man for wishing to please so pretty a lady, but he must also know when to be his own master.”

My heart quickened, and I feared that in the end he would goad Andrew into doing something foolish. “You may try to provoke us,” I said, “but it is your deeds and not your words I hate.”

“Don’t be so eager to dismiss my words,” he said. “I’ve not yet finished speaking.”

There was something in the air, and we felt at once that Tindall had been playing games with us.

“You think that because I am against your brewing whiskey I am somehow threatening you? That I have no better things to do with my time than to toy with my poor insignificant tenants? You fools. I am only looking after your interests. You, in your little hovels away from the world, have no knowledge of what is happening back east. You don’t know what the government says of you, or that indeed it says anything at all.”

Mr. Skye took a step forward. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

Tindall smirked. “I don’t know if you are familiar with the plans being orchestrated by Alexander Hamilton, the Secretary of the Treasury. His most recent project is to establish a national bank, separate from the government but closely allied to it. The revenue for launching the bank will have to come from somewhere, so Hamilton has decided to place an excise tax upon unnecessary luxury items, those people desire but can do without. There is no better way to raise revenue, he has argued, than by putting an excise tax on something no one actually needs and only hurts the fabric of American life.”

“And what is this luxury?” Mr. Dalton asked.

“Why,” said Tindall with a grin, “’tis whiskey, boys. It has been planned for some time, but I have just received confirmation by fast rider that Hamilton has convinced Congress to pass the whiskey tax, and what you owe will be based not upon how much you sell or how much you earn but on how much you produce.”

Mr. Dalton rose from his seat and took a step forward. “They cannot do it!” he cried. “We make no true money from whiskey but use it for trade. We have no money to give.”

“You need not shout at me,” said Tindall. “I did not devise the law. No one consulted me. It has been passed, and nothing can be done about it.”

“And that is why you were so eager to see us?” asked Andrew. “So you might gloat over imparting the knowledge that the government has passed a tax designed to ruin us?”

“No,” he answered. “Not at all. I wished to speak to you to inform you that my old associate General John Neville has been appointed local tax assessor, and he has secured my services to make certain the money owed the government is collected. In the weeks to come, I will determine how much each of you owes, and I mean to collect your debts. If you refuse to pay, I shall take what you owe in land or equipment. It is the law of the land, and I mean to enforce it. That will be all, gentlemen.” He looked at me. “And lady, of course.”

Ethan Saunders

A
ll the world wished to be at the Bingham gathering, and I was not invited. This was of no moment, for I had no doubt getting in would be the easiest thing in the world. As I approached on Market Street I observed the lanterns lit all along Bingham’s mansion. Here was one of the jewels of the city, a private residence of remarkable splendor and taste, hardly less massive and grand than the Library Company building. For those Europeans who believed America to be a country of fur-clad man-beasts, possessing nothing of arts or subtlety, I should defy them to see our finest architecture, of which this house was certainly an example—a monument to American sturdiness, modesty, and opulence.

A queue of coaches made its slow, important way through the circular path along the front of the house, but I would not join with them. Instead, Leonidas and I went around back to the servants’ entrance. Much to our surprise, this was locked. I had anticipated a busy stream of servants moving in and out, among whom we could be lost, but apparently the Binghams had prepared long in advance.

Leonidas asked not my plans nor made snide remarks upon my lack of preparation. He knew me too well to think I would regard this locked door as any sort of impediment. I reached into my right boot, in which I kept a hidden pouch containing several useful lock picks. I found the one best suited for the device before me, and within a minute the lock sprang and I turned the knob. Replacing the picks in my boot, I pushed open the door. Here we found a dozen or more cooks, chefs, and servers hurrying about not in chaos, but with a kind of mechanized determination. Upon the stoves, steam billowed forth. From the ovens came fiery blasts of heat. One woman set pastries upon a white porcelain tray. Another used a massive pair of tongs to pull small fowl from a pot of boiling water. Into this fray we ventured, and I commenced a lecture to Leonidas on the proper placement of cheeses, a lecture that lasted the breadth of our stroll through the kitchen. If anyone considered it remarkable that a man should walk through this room lecturing a Negro on the art of serving food, no one mentioned it to me. Thus, emerging from the kitchen, we found ourselves in the massive house, where we had only to follow our ears and ascend a set of stairs to reach the main body of the festivities. Thus settled, I sent Leonidas to find where the other servants were gathered.

There were several dozen guests in attendance, and in addition to the room that had been cleared to create a space for the dancers, the revelers were spread throughout three large rooms that appeared to have been furnished with such gatherings as this in mind. Each room contained pockets of chairs and sofas, so guests might sit and converse, and every chandelier, sconce, and candleholder was stuffed with a fat taper, lighting the room so that it seemed almost daytime. In one room, several tables had been set out with cards for gaming. Wine and food was served freely, a trio of musicians played in one corner, and our beautiful hostess, the incomparable Mrs. Bingham, beautiful and elegant, enfolded in her massive nimbus of golden hair, flitted from guest to guest. In the ballroom, the great and important and pompous of the city, and so the nation, turned about with elegance or clumsiness.

I minded neither the candles nor the food nor the fiddlers nor even the dancing. I was less comfortable with the company, for here was nearly every man of substance in the city. There was Mr. Willing, president of Hamilton’s bank. There the great windbag John Adams, the vice president, with his agreeable wife, Abigail, by his side. Missing, much to my simultaneous disappointment and relief, was the great man himself, Washington. It was said he avoided such gatherings, for he alone had to forge the public role of the President and knew not if it would be too frivolous for the leader of a republican nation to attend a gathering of this sort. It was for the best, I decided. In my fallen state, how could I face a man revered by all, and by me more than any other?

However, there was Hamilton, standing next to his wife, Eliza. I had flirted with her many years before, but if she recognized me, she made no sign of it. She was still vaguely pretty, but she’d grown a bit plump and dowdy, having given birth to so many children I believed even the parents had lost track. The two of them bred Federalists like rabbits. It was an easy enough thing to mock him, but when I observed the happiness with which she looked upon her husband and the comfort he took when he held her hand, I felt keenly why I was in that room. I was there for Cynthia and for all I had lost, all that had been denied me.

I took a goblet of wine from a passing servant and acted as though there were nowhere else in the universe I belonged so well. I wished above all things not to be noticed, for there were many men in that room whom I did not know well but who might yet recognize me, might yet recall my name, my face, and the crime of which I had been accused. I wanted to do what I must before being generally seen.

I was not to be so lucky, however. I had only begun to scan the room when I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to face Colonel Hamilton himself, with Eliza still by his side. Diverting her gaze for a moment, she smiled at me. “Captain Saunders, it has been many years.”

I bowed to her. “Far too many, and yet while I have aged, you look no different than when last I saw you. I trust you are well?”

So went our exchange of nothings. She, politely, made no mention of my having been disgraced since I last saw her. Very polite woman. After a moment of this, Hamilton excused himself from his wife and pulled me a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

“I did not mention I was invited? It’s strange. You know, sometimes I think we are not so close as we used to be.”

“Saunders, I don’t want you muddling things. You have no business here. I don’t want you making enemies.”

“What do you care if I make enemies or no?”

“I don’t want you making enemies for me,” he clarified.

“Oh,” I said, noting that his eyes moved past me to nearly the other end of the room where stood a man of about the same stature of Hamilton. He had red hair and a handsome face that beamed with pleasure, in no small part, I thought, because he was surrounded by a small group of men who appeared to hover over his every word.

“Why, that’s Mr. Jefferson,” I said, more loudly than Hamilton would have wished for.

“Please leave,” Hamilton said.

“You know,” I said, “if you did not wish Jefferson and his minions to associate the two of us together, all you had to do was ignore me. Now here we are in close conversation. Looks quite bad for you.”