The Whiskey Rebels Read Free Page A

wanted to anger him, of course. I’d wanted to seal my fate, but even then, having scorned his pride, having insulted him before his friends, I knew I could have altered events. It was but the work of a few words, well-chosen comments to appeal to their mercy, to make them feel grand and gracious. I’d saved myself from worse, for it was my particular talent. It was why Fleet, my mentor during the war, had chosen me to work with him, and it was what he had taught me to refine.
    The blade rose high, and I fought hard to keep my eyes open. Better this had come at the hands of the British ten or twelve years ago, when I might have died a hero. Now I was much decayed, but that was the world, after all—a series of things that were not so good as we would wish. I awaited the blow, ready and determined if fearful of the pain. No blow came. Instead I heard a voice call out, “Stay your hand! You’ll not want to commit murder before a witness.”
    There, not fifteen feet from our little confrontation, obscured by sheets of rain, stood the massive shape of a man, all silhouette in the downpour and darkness. He stood upon the prop of a broken keg, his greatcoat fluttering in the cold wind, and under the coat his arms were raised as to protect two pistols from the wet.
    I knew the voice, but Dorland would not, just as I alone knew there could be no real pistols secreted away.
    “This is a matter of honor and not your concern,” Dorland called out.
    “If it were a matter of honor, you would be meeting beside the Schuylkill at dawn,” my defender said. “Here are four men setting out to kill a fifth, and I see no honor in it.”
    Dorland snorted and wiped rain from his eyes. “What will it cost to be rid of you?”
    Poor Dorland, believing his money should answer all, knew nothing of how to regard an enemy, to measure his worth and his means. No, Dorland was a product of Hamilton’s new America, standing in the shadow of the Bank of the United States, and Dorland’s defiance came from wealth, from his utter assurance that it made him superior to any ball of lead, to any martial prowess. This man with his arms outstretched in the thunderous rain was but one more thing to be bought and sold. Like Dorland’s wife—what was her name? Sally or Susan or something of that sort. Lovely woman. Very red lips.
    All at once, the clouds shifted; the rain lessened and a full moon shone above, casting light upon all, including my rescuer, who towered above us, wild and demonic.
    “’Tis but a nigger,” said one of Dorland’s friends.
    “Hear me,” said Leonidas, for it was indeed my man. “I am a slave, and you threaten the life of my master. I’ve a rare opportunity to kill white men and be excused for doing so.”
    I would not have chosen to save myself, but Leonidas was involved, and now I had a duty to him. He would not rest until I was safe, and I would not risk his life.
    “’Tis but one man,” said his friend again, “and only a nigger.”
    “Begging your pardon,” I interrupted, “but there are, in fact, two men.” This point might have given my enemies greater pause had I not punctuated it by vomiting on my shoes.
    “Reckon how you like, then,” Dorland said. “You are yet outnumbered. We are four to your two.”
    “Are you certain?” asked Leonidas, his voice quite arch.
    “What the devil do you mean?”
    “I mean look at me when I speak. Yes, over here; that’s right. What, a Negro is not worth your attention? I mean you miscount.” I could not see his face, but I knew his tone. He spoke slowly, and he drew Dorland’s attention for a purpose. Something had turned. “We are three to your one.”
    It had not been so, and yet now, impossibly, it was. I had not seen the third man arrive, nor note what he did—granted, the rain beat loudly, and I was distracted by pain and the rush of blood in my head and a bit of vomiting—and had I not later come to know him, to see what he could accomplish, if I had