The Whiskey Rebel

Ethan Saunders

I could not long delay speaking with William Duer. I had already learned this would be no easy thing. He did not wish to speak to me, and he employed a vicious tough who could see that he did not have to do what he did not wish to do. My only option, then, was to get to Duer where he dared not refuse me and where he could not call upon Reynolds. As it happened, I believed I knew just the place.

All Philadelphia had been discussing the upcoming gathering at the Bingham house. William Bingham was one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the nation, friends with anyone of any significance. His wife, Anne, was considered to be one of the most charming and beautiful women in the world, and it was said that much sympathy in Europe for the American cause originated with that lady’s tour of foreign courts. Needless to say, it was inconceivable that I would be welcome in, let alone invited to, their home. It was as well, then, that I did not limit myself only to those places where people might wish me to be.

It was impossible for me, as I passed the day, not to dwell upon the fantasy that Mrs. Pearson would attend the gathering that night. For many years she and Anne Bingham had been particular friends. Had Cynthia’s husband not vanished, she would certainly be in attendance. Under the circumstances, it would be impossible, but even so, I imagined what it would be like to meet with her in such a setting, in polite company, where we could stand near each other, make polite conversation, and imagine that all was as it should be.

I had met the lady at such a gathering. When I had traveled to Philadelphia during the British occupation to infiltrate a British spy ring, Fleet had asked me to keep an eye upon his daughter and make certain she wanted for nothing. I never after discussed with him my attachment to her for fear he would think I had taken advantage of the girl, though she and I intended to reveal all to him after the conclusion of the war. Later, after Fleet’s death, I could not help but wonder if I had been silly, if Fleet had thrown us together in the hopes that we would develop those feelings we found so irrepressible.

Young Cynthia Fleet was active in Philadelphia social circles, and it was at the home of Thomas Willing, Anne Bingham’s father and now the president of the Bank of the United States, that I met both Cynthia and her future husband. The latter I found utterly unremarkable and could easily have never thought of him again, had fate not continually thrown him in my way. Of my friend’s daughter, I could not cease to think. Cynthia was a fair-haired beauty with eyes of the palest, most transcendent blue. Her figure was arresting, her skin unblemished, her face a model of symmetrical loveliness. In her manner there was all that a man could find delightful and refined, and even before I heard her lively and clever conversation, I believe I was a little in love with her. Yes, it was something as shallow as beauty that made me love her, before I knew that our minds were perfectly formed for one another, before I even knew she was Fleet’s daughter.

I allowed an acquaintance of mine, a man of decidedly British sympathies (for such were the sort of men with whom I was forced to traffic), to introduce us, and I detected nothing significant in her reaction when she heard my name. Obviously Cynthia did not know I worked with her father or that I was in the service of the patriot cause. Nevertheless, she took a particular interest in me, allowing me to continue to address her for some length of time. What I found was that this lady was not only beautiful but clever, accomplished, and exceptionally well informed in matters political. She did not hesitate to offer me opinions on the most important men of the day, what they had done and written, of battles won and lost, of strategies failed and successful. She spoke quietly, for my ears alone-and I could not regret that she did so, for it was an invitation to lean in closely-but I feared for her safety. In an occupied city, she ought not to have been so free as to praise Americans and condemn the British, not to a total stranger.

At last I put a hand upon her arm and leaned toward her close. “Miss Fleet,” I said in a low voice, “do you think it wise, in such company, to speak so highly of the rebel cause? Do you not know you are surrounded by Royalists? Do you not know that the man who introduced us is a Royalist? You must assume me to be one as well.”

“No, I mustn’t,” she said, with a mischievous smile. “Not when you are my father’s associate.”

I could not keep from barking out a laugh. “If you knew that, why did you not tell me?”

“I wished to know if you would tell me yourself,” she said. “I suppose only an hour’s conversation is not enough to know what you might say in future, but I believe it shows a certain amount of restraint on your part. It will have to do.”

“Do for what?” I asked.

“For us to continue to be friends,” she said.

Not a week later I met her at a ball hosted by a British colonel, and though she was promised to an unpleasant officer for the first two dances, she and I managed-much to this officer’s displeasure-to find many opportunities to dance together and even more to speak. It was soon after the dance that I received an invitation to dine at the house of her late mother’s sister and husband-people of Royalist sentiments with whom she lived-and I did not hesitate to use all my charms upon these people, that I might become a regular fixture within their circle. Cynthia and I soon found other occasions to be together. We strolled the streets, took tea, or visited the sights. She had an almost insatiable appetite for tales of my adventures, and though I often had to withhold particulars, I told her enough to thrill her.

I was no stranger to female companionship, yet I could not believe I had been so fortunate as to secure the interest and affection of Cynthia Fleet, a woman who seemed molded by nature for the sole purpose of being my companion. We lived in such happiness for two months, but then the man whom I followed left the city, and I was forced to do the same. Cynthia and I exchanged vows of love and determined to marry upon the war’s conclusion. I could not say when I would return to Philadelphia, but we would write. Indeed, we did, and on many occasions, after the British gave up the city, I managed to find my way back to visit her. The last of these was but three months before Fleet and I were accused of treason. A decisive battle was coming, and as I kissed her goodbye I believed in my heart that the time would soon come when we could declare ourselves and commit to law what was already in our hearts. The next time I saw her, however, all had been altered. Her father was dead; a malicious fate had made it impossible we could ever be together. I would live with the false accusation of treason if I must, but I could not endure casting such a stigma upon her.

T wo hours before the Bingham gathering was scheduled to begin, Leonidas informed me that Mr. Lavien was below and wished to see me. I was already dressed and had no objection to passing time in his company, particularly if he might impart to me some useful information.

He came into my rooms and shook my hand with his usual reserve. I offered him a drink, which he declined, and I was glad of it, for if he took one, I would have been forced to join him, and I wished to remain clearheaded as long as I might.

Once we were seated, Lavien said, “You are rather well dressed this evening.”

“A man cannot dress poorly at all times,” I answered.

He knew my evasion for what it was, but he did not pursue it. Instead, he leaned forward, and there was something rather lively in his eyes. I believe this was what passed for excitement in a man of such rigid control. “I have learned something interesting,” he said, “and I wished to share it with you at once.”

“About Duer?”

“No,” he said. “About Fleet.”

A chill came over me, as though I’d heard a whisper of a dead man’s voice. I now wished heartily I had taken a drink, with or without him. “I told you to leave the matter be.” My voice, not nearly so steady as I would have liked, betrayed my agitation when I wanted cold anger.

“I know you did, and I meant to do what you asked, but then one thing led to another and I ended up doing what I wished to do instead. I don’t know how it could have happened. In any event, you will want to hear what I have to say.”

“No, I won’t.” I rose to my feet.

My disposition had no effect upon him. He remained seated and still, as though we were still engaged in a friendly exchange. “Information once learned cannot be unlearned, and I believe you will not be easy until you hear what I now know.”

I sat, for there was no denying what he said.

“I troubled myself to call upon General Knox, who I thought, as the Secretary of War, might be able to assist me. Indeed, he directed me to some archives that proved useful. You recall, I am sure, Major Brookings.”

I nodded. Of course I remembered him. He was the man who had uncovered the damning evidence in the linings of our travel packs.

“It seems that even after the war’s close, Major Brookings remained interested in your case. He became increasingly convinced that you and Fleet were done a terrible wrong. His notes show that he had found some evidence to at least suggest that the case against you had been fabricated by an enemy-likely British-who wished to see the most effective American spies removed from the field.”

I swallowed hard and did my best to master myself before speaking. “If he thought so, why did he never tell anyone?”

“Based upon what his notes tell me, he wished to form a definitive conclusion and uncover the names of the perpetrators before announcing his suspicions, but he died before he could complete his task.”

“Murdered?”

Lavien shook his head. “Nothing so mysterious. This was two years ago, and as you will recall, he was not young when you met him. His heart apparently failed him while he was riding with his children. There can be no thought of murder, only ill luck, for him and for you. It is not enough to clear your name absolutely, but it is enough for us to begin making further inquiries.”

“I want you to let it be,” I said. My voice was quiet, and at first I feared he had not heard me. I attempted to speak more forcefully. “You must not pursue this.”

“Is it because you fear Fleet will not, in the end, be proved innocent,” he asked, “or because you cannot endure the knowledge that you have suffered all these years for nothing?”

I did not answer him. I would not, and waited for him to excuse himself and leave me be.