The Whiskey Rebels Read Free

cruel kick delivered to an already fallen man. Very uncivil. Sharp pain jabbed into my ribs—from, I surmised, the ongoing kicks to my side, but in these I found less fault. What is there to do with a fallen enemy but kick him in the ribs? The head, however—that is bad sport.
    I gagged on the metallic taste of my own blood and the soot of filthy snow, which was piled high against my face. The blood, I presumed, was mine, as I had no memories of biting anyone. I pushed my face, numb from the cold, away from the snow and saw the alley was wet with rain and mud and horseshit. My pants were wet too, and I could not be absolutely certain, but I had likely pissed myself.
    Had this event transpired, it cannot be reckoned the result of fear. I believe this point worth making. I had decided that death was an agreeable outcome and was not only determined to be philosophical, I was philosophical. Life, death: I had no strong predisposition for one or the other. No, if I had pissed myself it was because one of those kicking feet had made contact with my abdomen and pressed into my full bladder. Nothing but anatomy, natural philosophy, human mechanics. There are diagrams in books to explain.
    “Get up. You are a disgrace.” The feet stopped kicking. In the heavy rain, Nathan Dorland’s face shone spectrally in the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the cover of charcoal clouds. Dorland’s features twisted into a snarling rage, simultaneously wolfish and petulant, sharp despite his plump, jowly looks. His nose was too long and carrotish, his chin too weak, his teeth unhealthy, and his eyes baggy. Nature had been unkind to him, and so had I. There was no victory in taking liberties with the beautiful wife of an ugly man, and had I known him before I met the lady, I would have restrained myself, for I am not unfeeling.
    I managed to gain my feet in slow and awkward motions, my hand sliding in a pile of shit as I tried to gain leverage. A loose nail—rusty, by the uneven feel of it—cut into my palm. Once standing, I remained doubled over, unable to straighten. My hat had fallen off somewhere between the tavern and the alley, and now the cold rain ran down my face, washing the blood from my sundered lip.
    There were four of them: Dorland and three friends, all of about his age—perhaps ten years older than I was—and all as plump, as uncomfortable in their bodies, as unlearned in the school of war. These were not men to fear, but I was drunk, they had the numbers, and, most significantly, I had no fight left in me.
    Dorland held out his hand, and one of his companions placed within it a military bayonet. “In past days, men carried swords upon their person, but our times have decayed.” He altered his grip upon the blade, weighing it in his hand. He drew close, as did his friends, two of them as near as he, though one hung back. “Have you anything to say before I end your life?”
    I cleared my throat. “Dorland, I am sadly disappointed with the man I have become. I am drunk not only at this moment but perpetually. I have had no steady source of income in half a decade, and I am incorrigibly addicted to gaming, so that the money I steal or borrow or, on those rare occasions, earn, is gone as soon as it is in my hands. My clothes are old and tattered and frequently pungent to the nose, and above all of that I believe that during your attack I lost control of my bladder and pissed upon my own person.”
    “You think this should make me spare you?” Dorland asked. “Do you think your pathetic condition will stay my hand?”
    “No, I only wished to make note of the sort of man your wife admitted to her bed.”
    For a moment, despite the dark, Dorland’s face glowed white, a second moon, and then disappeared back into the blackness. I had seen faces contorted with rage before. I had killed men with such looks upon them, but that was war and this was murder, a crime even I considered too base for contemplation.
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