The Whiskey Rebels (61 page)

“Mr. Pearson, I imagine,” I said. “I am so very flattered that you would trouble yourself to call upon me, but I must inform you that we would be much more comfortable at my inn than here. I have a most agreeable line of credit, at least with the wine.”

He said nothing. Perhaps he wished to torment me, but I don’t think so. I believe he was afraid. I believe he knew it was dangerous to engage in conversation with me and would not risk it. I made several further attempts, but he said nothing. We walked, first upon grass, and then upon soft dirt. Wet dirt, I believed. Then we walked briefly along a stone path. They led me next down a set of slick stairs. More clearly now I heard the sound and smelled the tang of a river: waters both clean and stagnant, the scent of dead fish washed ashore. The air was cool and wet, and soon I was walking in the mud. At last one of the men pushed me forward, and there were subtle differences—a shift in the darkness, the disappearance of the wind—that led me to believe I was now in an enclosed space, a room of some kind, except the earth beneath us was still wet and I could hear the river just as distinctly.

The stronger of the two men—that is, not Pearson—pushed me to my knees, and held me down. Pearson then began to bind my arms behind me with heavy rope. Next he bound my feet together at the ankles. I felt him fumbling with the ropes, and though he pulled hard to make certain his knots were tight, I knew he was inexperienced in these arts.

Once this operation was complete, they pulled me to my feet once more. With a sharp tug, the hood was yanked from my head, and I stood in near-total dark. Only inches from my face I observed the malicious grin of Pearson; by his side, also grinning, but in the easy simple way of dogs, was Reynolds.

“So this is all Duer’s bidding,” I said, “and you, Pearson, are but one of his puppets?”

“I work for Duer,” said Reynolds, “but I am willing to serve other men when time allows. At the moment I work for Mr. Pearson.”

“And the evening my landlady chased you away from her house, were you in Mr. Pearson’s service then too?”

“Aye,” he said.

My eyes having had a moment to adjust, I now looked around me. All was still in darkness, but in shades of gray I determined a few things, none of them encouraging. The earth was wet mud, and it caked my stockings and breeches from when I’d knelt. All around me were the iron bars of a prison, though this cell was very small, not four feet in length or width, wide enough for a man to sit but never lie down. It was perhaps seven feet in height, and there was a single iron door that opened along a square stone slab. The cage rested only inches from the river, and above us was blackness. I smelled the decay of old wood; perhaps we were under a disused pier.

Pearson saw my appraising glances and chose to answer my unspoken questions. “It’s an old dock, used by the British during the occupation, but it was damaged in the war and has never been repaired. A friend of mine, a British colonel, told me of this cage, and I wondered if it might someday become useful.”

“A friend of yours,” I said, “a British colonel? How shocking.”

“You may make all the quips you like, but I have you and may do with you what I wish.”

“And what do you wish?” I asked. “Why go to all this trouble?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, “the Million Bank launches. Duer wishes me to invest heavily, to deploy my own agents to buy as much as we can, keeping the share within the circle of his acquaintance. I know he has tried to dissuade investment in the launch, but you have been singing its praises. I wish to know why and what you have in mind.”

“What I have in mind,” I said, “is making certain Duer does not gain control of the bank. Listen to me, Pearson. Keep your money out of the Million Bank. You’ll lose everything. That bank will fail in a matter of months.”

“Duer doesn’t think so.”

“Duer doesn’t care,” I said. “The Million Bank can be destroyed in half a year, and it won’t matter to him. All he cares about is controlling the bank for now, using the credit such action will grant him to gain control of the market for six percents and, later, the Bank of the United States. But you didn’t know that, did you? He convinced you to use your own money in lowering the price of six percents, so he could buy them cheaply. He convinced you to buy four percents to raise the value so others would come flocking to sell their six percents in order to buy four percents. But now the four percents are worthless. Don’t lose even more in the Million Bank.”

He paused, just long enough for me to see that my words disquieted him. “And why should I believe you? Why should I take your advice on any of these matters?”

“For the sake of your wife,” I said. “The only reason she has not fled from you is because a woman and two children enduring poverty exposes herself to more dangers and abuse even than living with you. I could not endure to see her living in poverty
and
with you.”

He did his best to appear untroubled. “Well, we shall see. I will wait a hour or so after the launch before deciding what to do, and then, based on what I have learned, I will come back and see if you have, perhaps, been withholding important information from me.”

Here Reynolds took a step forward. “If I may, Mr. Pearson,” he said, “it is my experience that it is always a poor decision to leave an enemy alive—particularly a sly one like Saunders here. Now, I don’t have nothing against him. He lives or he dies, it don’t signify one way or the other to me. If I’m paid to hurt him or kill him, that’s what I do. But leaving him here? It’s just foolishness. If he escapes, he’s going to make your life very difficult. Mine too, likely.”

“Likely,” I agreed. “I hate to agree with him in a matter so detrimental to my well-being, but Reynolds is right. It’s bad policy to leave me alive.”

Pearson spat upon the earth. “I’ll not be goaded into giving him what he wants.”

“You’re mad if you think what Saunders wants is death,” Reynolds pointed out. “He is playing a game with you. He is attempting to convince you to leave him be. Don’t give him what he wants.”

“What he wants is to keep something from me, and if he believes it will aid my wife, I have no doubt he is foolish enough to prefer to die than speak the truth. All these soldiers with their romantic notions, they all want death. But he shan’t get it without telling me everything first.” He turned to me. “This little jail makes for an excellent means of revealing the truth. My friend, the British colonel, told me of its operation. This door, as you shall see, is far too heavy for any one man to open and close, though we shall lock it all the same. You will be bound within, unable to move your arms or legs. You will be cold and hungry and thirsty, and, when the tide comes in, you will suffer tremendously. The water will not drown you, but come up to your waist perhaps. Very unpleasant in January, I should think. You will have no means to relieve yourself but in your breeches. When I return in a day, or perhaps two, I will find you desperate, demoralized, and pliable.”

“Don’t leave me here,” I said. “Kill me now, or you will regret it.”

“Listen to him,” Reynolds said.

“I do listen to him,” Pearson said. “He tells me he knows something he wishes for me never to learn. I will find out what it is. I will let the cold and the river and his own misery extract it from him. Finish with the rope.”

With my ankles tied together and my wrists bound behind my back, I was already in a poor state, but now Reynolds placed a small ball of cloth—fortunately not too dirty—in my mouth and held it in place with a strip of the same cloth, tied around my head. I have never loved being gagged, for it is a most dreadful feeling, and the idea that I would remain that way for a day or two was unbearable.

I watched as Pearson and Reynolds left the little cage and, together, pushed hard against the door. It did, indeed, seem to take all their energy to get the heavy door to move. They leaned into it, their backs bent, and, pushing from their legs, managed finally to put the door into place. Breathing heavily from his exertions, Reynolds now took a metal chain and wrapped it through cage and door, securing it with a lock. It seemed a needless precaution, but I supposed they wished to make certain that, even should I be discovered, I could not be easily rescued.

Pearson gazed at me from the other side of the cage. “Your easy manner suggests you think yourself in possession of some secret, but you will not escape this prison. No one ever has, not one. Do you believe you can accomplish what all who came before you could not? You have no secret advantage, and you shall no more escape than did the others.”

I shrugged to show that I did not much mind or, perhaps, that I conceded his point without truly believing it. The two men stepped into the night, and though I thought it would be Pearson who turned around to gaze at me, he did not. Instead, it was Reynolds who briefly stopped and stared. In the dark, I could understand neither his expression nor his meaning, if he meant to convey one, only that he looked for a moment and then walked on, leaving me alone and cold and bound.

W
hat a terrible situation. If only there were a clock visible so I could time myself to see how quickly I managed to extricate myself, how much better would I be able to recount the story later. Yes, I faced my challenges with a certain confidence, but then I had many advantages, which perhaps Mr. Pearson did not trouble himself to consider. First: I had been captured many times during the war and had, each time, escaped when I chose. Second: He had never before, most likely, captured a prisoner, let alone one with my record for escape. Third: I did not believe the universe was ordered such that he could triumph over me so entirely.

Thus, once I was certain they had left me alone and my actions would go unobserved, I began. The first step was to place my hands before me, and this was easily accomplished, though by no means as easily as it had been ten or fifteen years ago, when I was younger and more flexible. I sat upon the earth and slowly, with some discomfort, put the loop of my arms under my bottom. I then folded my legs and, straining considerably at the shoulders, pushed my arms up. I felt an unpleasant popping, and for a moment feared I had dislocated something, which would have answered my arrogance nicely, but it was merely the straining of underused joints. I gave one last push and my hands were now in front.

When taking a prisoner, if you wish to be certain he does not escape, I highly recommend tying the thumbs, for they are invaluable in freeing oneself from ropes. In addition, when binding the ropes, be certain that the wrists are as close together as can be managed. If the prisoner is clever, he will keep his wrists as separated as he can contrive without drawing attention to this fact. This I had done, so when I began to work at the ropes, they were already quite loose and pliable. It would have been far easier had I not been gagged, for I might have used my teeth, but I had slack enough to angle my right wrist toward my body and use my thumb and index finger upon the left wrist. My task was not to untie the rope, for the knot was well constructed, and I could not easily do so. Rather, I pulled at it, expanding the slack as much as I might. I then gripped it hard and pulled upward with my right wrist, backward with my left. The rope burned into my flesh, but soon it was just below the knuckles, the widest portion of the hand. Experience had taught me that even the tightest of ropes might then be moved piecemeal, if not all at once, but in this case one great shove answered the business and the rope came free.

Using my free hands, I now immediately untied the gag about my mouth and then slid the remaining rope off my wrist. The ankles were no more difficult, and only required that I remove my boots to be free of that burden. Now, before I replaced the boots, I removed from within them my useful little picks and began to work at the lock upon the iron door. This was no challenge and the darkness no impediment, since the picking of locks is done by feel and sound. In a moment I heard a click, and the lock fell away.

I was pleased with myself, and with good reason, but I still had one great object before me: the door. I placed the lock picks back in my boot and attempted to push the door open. It did not move. I thrust my shoulder into it, and the door reverberated wildly but did not move. I lay down upon my back and attempted to push it with my feet, but again nothing. Pearson had said it required two men at a minimum to move it, and that appeared to be the case.

I took a moment to consider my circumstances. All, of course, was not lost. In the morning, I would have a better sense of my surroundings. I might hear others walking nearby and call to them. I might, if necessary, replace the lock and pretend to be bound when Pearson and Reynolds returned. Provided I could convince them to open the door, I would then have the advantage of surprise.

These were options, but they were not agreeable options because, more than simply wishing for freedom, I wished for immediate freedom. I had work to do, and if I were not free, Duer might well succeed in taking for his own the Million Bank. Should he do that, he would at worst take possession of the Bank of the United States, at best produce a financial panic. I needed to get out of this cage, and yet I could think of no means of doing it without the help of at least one other person. Gone were the days when I might hope for the sudden and fortuitous arrival of Leonidas.

I sat upon the earth, thinking I should enjoy sitting before the cage began to flood. I considered everything, certain I had not neglected some path to freedom, but forcing myself to turn everything over again and again. It was all I thought of, and it was what I was thinking of when I saw three figures emerging from the dark. One was tall and broad, one quite small—a woman, I thought—and it was not until they were only feet away did I recognize them as Reynolds, the Irishman from the Statehouse, and Mrs. Joan Maycott.

Joan Maycott