The Whiskey Rebels (66 page)

W
e rode the express coach, but it took us nearly four days to return to Philadelphia. Three hours after crossing the ferry to New Jersey, we were struck by a malicious snowstorm that slowed our movement to a crawl. We were forced to stop for the night at the dismal town of Woodbridge, having progressed no more than thirty miles. I should like to say we fared no better the next day, but that would be presenting things in too pleasant a light. Our equipage struck a gap in the road and overturned near New Brunswick, a town even more miserable than Woodbridge. Two of our fellow travelers, both speculators, were hurt quite badly, one breaking his leg and being in serious danger of dying. The carriage was fixed by late morning of the third day and the roads were somewhat clearer, but muddy, and our progress was slow. We stopped for the night in Colestown—tantalizingly close to our destination—and arrived in Philadelphia early the next morning.

Lavien rode off at once to report his findings to Hamilton. I had other business and walked from the City Tavern, where we wearily departed from our coach, to the Pearson house. I had no intention of knocking upon the door, but I wanted to see it, I wanted to get a sense from the outside that all was well within. Perhaps, I told myself, I would catch a glimpse of her at an upstairs window. Perhaps she would see me as well. Our eyes would meet and a thousand unsaid things would pass between us.

As I approached the house, I felt the cold air pierce my greatcoat; it had the eerie chill of foreboding. There was a large cart parked outside, and a dozen or more laborers were in the process of removing furnishings. I watched as three men carried a heavy oaken writing desk.

I rushed to them. “Hold. What happens here? Where is Mrs. Pearson?”

One of the men turned to me. He was a burly fellow, the sort usually found down at the docks. He was no doubt glad of the work, hard to come by in the heart of winter. “Don’t rightly know, but ain’t no one living in there, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house has been sold. We’re working for a Mr. John Becker, what’s bought it. He’s marked the furnishings he don’t want, and we’re taking them to store for the auction.”

I took a step closer, chilled at once by a thousand possibilities, but one above all else. I should have followed Lavien’s first advice. I should have let him cut Pearson’s throat when we were in New York.

It took a moment, but I found my voice. “When did this happen?”

He shook his head. “Can’t tell you. We started work here this morning, but I can’t say when the house was sold.”

I got from the man the location of his employer, and went to see this Becker, but he was of little help. He bought the house, he told me, through a broker, and while he had been in negotiations for some time, the deal had only been finished two days earlier. As for Mr. Pearson, he had no knowledge of where to find that man—or his wife.

With no better notion of what to do, I took myself back to the City Tavern and began to question men at random if they had heard anything of Pearson. I forced myself to remain calm and easy, and merely presented my questions as though I had business with the gentleman. “I am searching for Jacob Pearson,” I said, “in order to conclude a transaction begun sometime earlier. Can anyone here direct me to him?”

“Good luck, friend,” said one man. “He’s run from his creditors. Sold his properties in town, or else they were taken from him. Sold his house in Germantown and the one in Bristol. He’s gone for good.”

“I hear he went to England,” said another.

“I heard it was the West Indies,” said another, “but he killed his wife and children first.”

“He did not kill them,” said another man. “He sold them to pirates. That’s what my footman told me, and Harry is never wrong about such things.”

Such things
? Was there a category of things that included selling one’s family to pirates? Not that I believed the tale. The rumors were ugly, but when a man flees, his fellows are always eager to believe the worst, and while I thought little was beneath Pearson, and I feared for Cynthia’s safety, this story, at least, I could dismiss. But that brought me no closer to the truth, so I called for a pen and paper and wrote at once to Colonel Burr, begging him to make inquiries for me. It seemed futile, but I could think of nothing else to do other than lament that I had let Pearson slip through my fingers. I vowed that, given the chance, I would not do so again.

I
staggered out of the City Tavern, hardly able to continue my search, not knowing where I might go. I accepted that after four days of punishing road travel, I needed my rest, so I returned to my lodgings, threw myself upon my familiar bed, and slept perhaps five hours. By the time I awoke and arranged myself, it was dark, approaching six o’clock, and though it seemed unlikely I should meet with success, I decided to try Hamilton at his office.

The Treasury building was not locked, and Hamilton was not yet gone. He agreed to see me in short order, and I went into his office and took a seat before him. He looked tired himself, haggard and uneasy, as though he had been awake several nights in a row. Nevertheless, he forced himself to smile.

“Apparently,” he said, “you did not heed my warning to stay away from the inquiry.”

“Apparently.”

He smiled again. “Mr. Lavien tells me you performed extremely well. You thwarted Duer’s efforts to take command of the Million Bank. Had he succeeded, it might have had disastrous consequences for the economy.”

“I am glad to hear you approve.” And, strangely, I was. It is easy to hate a man we mistakenly believed wronged us, for it gives us the opportunity not to consider our own prejudices or mistakes. It was true enough that, even if I had been wrong about his sins of the past, I had reason enough to suspect him, and even so, I could not help myself; I enjoyed his praise. I knew not if I admired the man, if I wished somehow to return to a different time, or if it was Hamilton’s own proximity to Washington that excited these feelings, but they were there, regardless of their source.

“And then,” he continued, “there is the matter of the money that you reported missing. It does indeed look like Duer took $236,000 from the Board of Treasury. It is too early to tell for certain if we can prove it, but I have my man Oliver Wolcott inquiring into it, and thus far we believe there may be cause to bring action against him.”

“And until such a time, what shall you do?” I asked.

“It seems that Duer and I are at odds. He is attempting to control six percent securities, and he is attempting to control bank scrip. The Million Bank was a setback, but he yet appears to have ample funds, thanks to the greedy fishmongers and milliners of New York. Nevertheless, I can make things hotter for him. I have directed the bank president to begin calling in short-term loans and restricting new ones, which should effectively shrink the entire credit market. In addition, I am dispatching my agents to every trading center in the country. I can try to thwart his plans. If he is a threat to the bank, as Mr. Lavien believes, he is a threat we can contain by freeing up six percents at a reasonable price. That will allow bank scrip investors to continue to maintain their holdings. It is a slow process, so for now we must wait.”

I cleared my throat. “Have you heard anything of Pearson?”

He nodded. “He has sold his house and fled town. They say he has sold his other properties out of town as well, though I cannot confirm that. I know of nothing else, but I understand your connection to this matter, and if I hear more I will let you know.”

“Have you no suggestions?”

He gazed upward in thought. “Perhaps you should ask your slave to inquire. There are networks of information among the Negroes that can be useful.”

“Of course,” I said, wishing to say no more on this topic.

“Now, Captain, I have much work to do. If you will excuse me.” He spoke suddenly in clipped tones, like a man saying one thing to avoid saying another. It put me in mind of his relationship with Reynolds, which I could not help but suspect as being the source of his ill ease.

“Are you well, Colonel? You appear perturbed.”

“I am overtaxed,” he said rather curtly, “and you have been dismissed.”

I rose from my chair, strode across the room, and opened the door. Outside was dark. Most of the clerks had retired for the evening and the candles had been snuffed, but a few oil lamps burned still, and in the gloom I could see a man waiting for Hamilton’s attention. I could not at first see his face, but then he turned and I knew him at once. It was Reynolds.

Was he here as the man who threw me into Pearson’s dungeon or the one who rescued me? I was in no mood to find out on
his
terms. He was just then turning to me, a foolish grin upon his face, and I swung out with my fist. I am no man of action, I have said so, but even I can throw a good punch at an unready opponent. Reynolds, however, was apparently always ready. He reached out with his hand and caught my punch. I felt my fist slam hard into the bones of his hand, and the pain echoed up my arm to my elbow. He hardly moved.

“That’s unkind,” he said.

Hamilton was out of his chair and rushed over to the doorway. “What happens here?”

“The captain here took a swing at me,” said Reynolds.

“Captain Saunders,” Hamilton shouted, sounding less like an army officer than a Latin master, “you will leave at once!”

My fist was still entangled in Reynolds’s meaty hand, which held on with a firm unchanging grip. I felt myself start to perspire. “This man attacked me in New York.”

“I told ye,” he said. “It were just business. I was paid to, and so I did. And I made it right, didn’t I?”

“Where’s Pearson now?” I asked.

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

“So you are back to working for Duer?”

“Reynolds’s business is not your concern,” said Hamilton. To the beast he said, “Let go of his hand. Captain Saunders is now leaving.”

“I demand to know what you do with him,” I said.

“Who are you to demand?” Hamilton answered.

Reynolds let go his grip. I said not another word but strode from the building, too angry to devise another option. Hamilton had secret dealings with Reynolds. I had long known that, though not why. Surely it wasn’t possible that the animosity between Hamilton and Duer was a mere illusion, meant to confuse his enemies. Hamilton had dedicated himself to government service at the expense of his personal economy. It was conceivable he would do terrible things, even destroy his own brainchild, the bank, rather than remain poor forever, but I did not believe it. Hamilton would never sacrifice the bank for anything, let alone greed. And, in any case, Leonidas had seen Hamilton pay Reynolds, not the other way around.

Reynolds had made it clear that he would hire himself out to other men to perform other tasks, unsavory tasks. Hamilton had Lavien, but he’d made it clear he was uneasy with Lavien’s scrupulous view of duty, which meant that whatever business Hamilton had with Reynolds was something he did not wish discovered by the world.

I did not know what any of this meant, but I was determined to find out. There was but one man in the world to whom I could pose a question on Hamilton’s character, and I meant to ask him immediately.

T
here are few things in this world for which I am prepared to show reverence, it is true, but for this appointment I would show all the respect I could muster. I’d refrained from drinking the previous night, and so I awoke Tuesday morning well rested and easy. As the time for the visit approached, I dressed myself quite neatly, making frequent use of the mirror to make certain all was in order.

Rather than risk soiling my pumps and stockings with filth from the street, I hired a coach to take me the distance to Sixth and Market, where the great mansion stood. It was one of the first houses in the city, owned by merchant Bob Morris but now rented to his distinguished tenant. As I approached the door, a liveried Negro held out his hand for my invitation.

“I do not have an invitation,” I said.

“Then you may not enter.”

“My name is Captain Ethan Saunders,” I said. “I must speak with him, and I must do so in this manner. I cannot have the world know I conferred with him, and so it must be a public and seemingly vacuous exchange. He will certainly see me if he knows I am here. Will you present my name to him?”

It was evident to me that he did not know if he ought to, and yet he seemed to sense the force of my request. Asking another usher to take his place, he disappeared into the house for several minutes. When he returned, he told me that I might proceed.

I was ushered inside an antechamber, all red and gold furnishings, filled with some of the first people of the city as well as visitors from the several states and even a few foreign dignitaries. None knew my name, and though I knew many of theirs, I was not present to make idle chatter, to gossip, or find my social footing. I merely stood by the window and made small conversation, for I was called upon to do it, with an Episcopalian bishop named White.

At precisely 3
P.M
. the doors to the receiving room opened, and we queued up obediently. On the left, another liveried man announced each guest’s name. This servant was not a Negro, since his role including reading, and a literate Negro might offend Southerners.

I was situated approximately in the middle of the queue, and so it came to be my turn. I handed my card to the servant, and he loudly proclaimed, “Captain Ethan Saunders!” I felt my stomach drop, the way it does before a man rushes into battle. I was full of fear, yes, but also exhilaration. And I felt shame, for all at once I saw the last decade of my life unfold before me as nothing but a string of drunken days and debauched encounters, as unsavory as they were unwise. I had once, long ago, been singled out for special notice by men who saw my particular talents as a means to serve rather than as an excuse never to achieve. Yes, I had been dealt some blows, but what excuse had I to surrender to failure and despair?