The Whiskey Rebel

Joan Maycott

Spring 1791

Three days after the meeting at the church, we set out on the ride to Colonel Tindall’s home at Empire Hill. It took several hours by horse, so we left early in the morning, that we might be there well before midday. Mr. Dalton thought it dangerous to stay overnight in town; he wished to see Tindall, say what needed saying, and return to our homes before dark.

The journey was tense, and Dalton never once eased up his grip upon his pistol. For my part, I vowed I would not be entirely at their mercy. Since the encounter with the braves, I had made it a point to hide a primed pistol in my skirt or apron. I had learned from Andrew, and I would imitate him if called upon to do so.

We arrived at the estate in a timely fashion and were admitted to a sitting room on the first floor, much more primitive than the room to which we’d been invited on our previous visit. There the floor had been covered with a painted tarp to mimic black and white tiles, but this room had much more rugged furnishings-all wooden-and I quickly surmised that Tindall used this space when dealing with men of the rougher sort. Society friends were invited upstairs.

We took seats in the various chairs and awaited Tindall’s arrival, which happened soon enough. “Good morning, men, Mrs. Maycott,” he said, as he came in the room. “Fair weather we are having, do you not think so?”

“You may keep the pleasantries to yourself,” said Mr. Skye. “That don’t interest us.”

He smirked as though Skye’s response was precisely what he had hoped for, as though we were already falling into his trap. “Then what does interest you?”

“You know why we’re here,” said Mr. Dalton. “Now let’s have your end of it.”

Andrew, during all of this, remained quiet. It had been agreed that it would be wisest to let the others do the talking, for once Andrew or I spoke Tindall could easily accuse us of letting our emotions lead us to rash conclusions.

“Listen to you, putting on airs,” said Tindall. “You may strut around all you like, but I can’t say I have any inkling of what you want. I am a busy man, but as you wish to speak with me, I’ve made myself available. Now it seems you answer my kindness with insult.”

“It is you who insult us,” said Mr. Dalton. “We know perfectly well that you sent those three braves. Had Maycott not shot them, I don’t know how far the incident would have progressed, and I do not care to know.”

“The killing of Indians is a serious business,” said Tindall. “You don’t want to provoke the local savages to violence.”

“I can’t agree,” answered Mr. Skye, “that refusing to be killed is a provocation.”

“The Indians may see it differently,” said Tindall.

“You may end the nonsense,” said Mr. Dalton. “You got no right to tell us what we can and cannot do on that land, not so long as the rent is paid. This kind of insult can’t go unanswered.”

Tindall slammed the butt of his gun upon the floor. “Then answer it!” he roared. His voice was sudden, loud, a challenge so blatant and naked it seemed to me obscene. In the face of it, the three men-Andrew, Dalton, Skye-stood silent and humbled. I saw quite clearly that with me in the room there would be no violence, and Tindall might continue to taunt us as much as he liked.

No one spoke. The silence was thick and full of menace, going on longer than I could have imagined. At last the stalemate was broken when the door opened and the plump Negress whom we’d encountered on our previous visit entered the room. “I see you got yourself some guests, Colonel,” she said. “How come you don’t ask old Lactilla for refreshment? I got biscuits, I got cake, I can make some tea right quick.”

“Good God, gal,” cried the colonel, “if I wish for refreshment, I’ll call for it!”

“Well,” said the woman, “you got that lady here again, and looks like you’re being none too kind to her husband and their friends. Seems to me, if you’re going to be unkind to folks, you might as well give them some tea to make it go down the smoother.”

Tindall clutched his fowling piece. “If I wish for advice from a nigger, I will certainly call for it. Until then, I’d advise you to shut up and get gone.”

She put her hands upon her massive hips. “Don’t you talk to Lactilla that way.”

“Gal,” Tindall said, half rising from his seat, “get gone before you regret it.”

“I ain’t going to regret nothing but letting you talk that way. It ain’t right.”

My eyes were upon this woman, so I did not see what Tindall did next. From the corner of my eye, however, came the red flash of flame and the smoke and the crack of the discharged fowling piece. All at once, Lactilla’s face was covered with blood. There were small holes in her plain white dress, across which erupted rosettes of blood like crimson fireworks against a night sky.

Tindall had fired the weapon from a distance of fifteen feet, and I presumed it contained birdshot. It was plain the poor woman would not die of her injuries, though she was lucky to have escaped blindness. I knew Tindall had missed her eyes, because they were wide with surprise, her mouth open and slack. Then, understanding what had happened, she let out a shriek and ran from the room.

Tindall set down the smoking gun, returned to his seat, and smiled at us. “I beg your pardon for the interruption. You were saying?”

It was Mr. Skye who spoke first. “You’re mad.”

Tindall shrugged. “I will not be challenged in my own home. There is no serious harm done, but I believe that nigger should be well behaved for a little while at least. When she forgets herself, I shall know best how to remind her.”

Andrew shook his head. “You have convinced us that you are a villain, but you have done nothing more than that. You may own our land, but you do not own us. We did not fight in the war to be slaves here at home.”

“I am sick to my death of the war as an excuse for every beggar who wishes to prop himself up. You tell me that you did not fight to be a slave. Well, I fought that I might keep my slaves, so that puts us rather at odds, doesn’t it?” He pointed at Andrew. “You allege I sent red men after you but now stand there silent. Did you fight in the war so you might enjoy the luxury of being a coward later?”

Andrew began to move forward, but I put a hand upon his arm.

Tindall grinned at me. “I see you are governed by your wife. I cannot blame a man for wishing to please so pretty a lady, but he must also know when to be his own master.”

My heart quickened, and I feared that in the end he would goad Andrew into doing something foolish. “You may try to provoke us,” I said, “but it is your deeds and not your words I hate.”

“Don’t be so eager to dismiss my words,” he said. “I’ve not yet finished speaking.”

There was something in the air, and we felt at once that Tindall had been playing games with us.

“You think that because I am against your brewing whiskey I am somehow threatening you? That I have no better things to do with my time than to toy with my poor insignificant tenants? You fools. I am only looking after your interests. You, in your little hovels away from the world, have no knowledge of what is happening back east. You don’t know what the government says of you, or that indeed it says anything at all.”

Mr. Skye took a step forward. “If you have something to say, then say it.”

Tindall smirked. “I don’t know if you are familiar with the plans being orchestrated by Alexander Hamilton, the Secretary of the Treasury. His most recent project is to establish a national bank, separate from the government but closely allied to it. The revenue for launching the bank will have to come from somewhere, so Hamilton has decided to place an excise tax upon unnecessary luxury items, those people desire but can do without. There is no better way to raise revenue, he has argued, than by putting an excise tax on something no one actually needs and only hurts the fabric of American life.”

“And what is this luxury?” Mr. Dalton asked.

“Why,” said Tindall with a grin, “’tis whiskey, boys. It has been planned for some time, but I have just received confirmation by fast rider that Hamilton has convinced Congress to pass the whiskey tax, and what you owe will be based not upon how much you sell or how much you earn but on how much you produce.”

Mr. Dalton rose from his seat and took a step forward. “They cannot do it!” he cried. “We make no true money from whiskey but use it for trade. We have no money to give.”

“You need not shout at me,” said Tindall. “I did not devise the law. No one consulted me. It has been passed, and nothing can be done about it.”

“And that is why you were so eager to see us?” asked Andrew. “So you might gloat over imparting the knowledge that the government has passed a tax designed to ruin us?”

“No,” he answered. “Not at all. I wished to speak to you to inform you that my old associate General John Neville has been appointed local tax assessor, and he has secured my services to make certain the money owed the government is collected. In the weeks to come, I will determine how much each of you owes, and I mean to collect your debts. If you refuse to pay, I shall take what you owe in land or equipment. It is the law of the land, and I mean to enforce it. That will be all, gentlemen.” He looked at me. “And lady, of course.”