The Whiskey Rebels (39 page)

Mr. Skye’s lips were colorless, though he’d been biting them incessantly. “You cannot go to Pittsburgh. There is a warrant out for you for the murder of Hendry.” He paused to take in a deep breath of air. “And Andrew.”

I threw off the blanket that covered me and leaped to my feet. I had been abed for days, in the same dress I had worn to Andrew’s funeral, and had I been driven by anything other than the most vivid of rages, I might have fallen over from dizziness. “Do not say it! He cannot dare to accuse me of his own crime, of killing my beloved Andrew!”

Misunderstanding my outrage for unendurable sadness, Mr. Skye moved to embrace me, but I pushed him away—more cruelly than I would have wished, but I suppose I already understood I might be as cruel to him as I liked without risk of his resentment.

“Don’t try to comfort me. How can you sit here, feeding me soup, while the man who murdered my husband blames his crimes on me? What sort of man are you?”

He looked into my face full on, something he rarely did, and I saw precisely what sort of man he was. I saw it in his unwavering eyes of cold gray, how he showed neither surprise nor anger. I did not know what I would do with him, but I already knew I would do something.

“What kind of man am I? A wanted man. I am here because the warrant has been sworn for me as well. And for Dalton, aye. Tindall means to use his crimes to end our distilling, and that’s the truth of it. Now, have you anything else you wish to say to me?”

I sat back down upon the rugged bed with its rough straw mattress and said nothing. I did not weep. My mood was too dark for that. Instead, I searched my mind for some answer, some response to this horror that would not end.

“How can he do it?” I asked finally.

“’Tis but greed, Joan,” said Mr. Skye, in his quiet and gentle voice. “That’s all. We fought the British so we would not be slaves to their greed, but we’ve greedy men enough of our own to take their place.”

“Might I trouble you to fetch me a bucket of hot water?” I asked him. “And a cloth to wash myself and a bit of privacy?”

“Aye, Joan. With all my heart. I’m glad you’re of a mind to see to yourself.”

“I don’t even know precisely where I am,” I said to him. “Will I need a horse to get to Pittsburgh? Is there a horse if I need it?”

He narrowed his eyes as he studied me. “You haven’t heard me. You can’t go to Pittsburgh. They’ll arrest you.”

“I am certain they will try. The water, if you please, John.”

He squared his shoulders, really quite broad for a scholar of his age, but then frontier living left no man scrawny. “I can’t let you do that.”

I somehow managed a smile. “You can’t stop me. Your task is to help me. Now, go fetch Mr. Dalton. I will need both of your consents in writing for what I must do.”

Already my plan had begun to take shape. It was bold and large and audacious, and to accomplish what I wished, I would need the loyalty of these men. To have that, I would need to show them I was not to be underestimated.

When Dalton returned, we sat at the cabin’s rude table, sipping whiskey, while I told them the first part of my scheme. It would not do to tell them more. Skye was willing. Skye was always willing, but Dalton looked to his friend before making any decision.

Richmond shrugged. “Do it if ye want, but not without thinking. Don’t do it because she says it’s to be done. Be your own man.”

“Don’t make trouble,” Dalton answered. “We’ve trouble enough.”

Jericho shook his head but said no more. Really, I could not blame him. Though I asked them to trust me, to trust me beyond all reason and wisdom, they gave me what I asked for. It was but my first inkling of what was to come. I had always been bold and audacious with men, and I had, in the end, never been denied anything from a man well disposed toward me. Only now did I begin to understand how such a power might be used to save a nation worth saving or, perhaps, destroy one too corrupt to save.

I
t was a rough road, and though I left while it was still morning, I was not in Pittsburgh until well after noon. I had no notion that I was so well known, but once I stabled my horse and began to walk along Market Street, passersby stopped to stare at me. Men streamed out of Watson’s Tavern as I passed. I was infamous. I was an outlaw. I suppose the notion would once have filled me with horror, but a strange sensation of mastery came over me now. I was the subject of scrutiny and, yes, fear. It was good, I thought. They
should
be afraid.

I knocked upon the door to Mr. Brackenridge’s house and was greeted by a woman significantly younger than he, yet far too finely dressed, in a handsome gown of printed cotton, to be a servant. I could only presume this to be the lawyer’s wife. She was pretty, with a mass of blond hair bundled under a saucily propped bonnet. The lady looked at me, smiled, and prepared to inquire of my business until she saw a group of two dozen or more onlookers creeping forward to watch the proceedings. She ushered me inside and closed the door. After pausing for a moment, she slid shut the bolt.

“Better to be safe, yes?” Her voice betrayed a slight German accent. “Now, you’ve business with my husband, I’ll wager.”

“Yes.” Under the judgmental scrutiny I’d suffered on the street I’d felt a kind of jagged strength. Now, subjected to this stranger’s kindness, I had to fight hard to swallow my tears. “My name is Joan Maycott.”

The lady’s eyes widened in surprise, and she moved to put a hand to her mouth but stopped herself. “I’ll show you to the office, and then I’ll fetch Hugh.”

I followed her in silence. Mrs. Brackenridge had known my name at once, just as the people on the street had recognized me instantly. I could only imagine what lies Tindall had cast about to turn me into so well-known a personage.

At Mrs. Brackenridge’s direction, I took a seat in her husband’s disordered office and waited only a moment or two before the lawyer came flitting in, taking a step toward me, then one toward closing the door, then changing his mind and performing the whole dance once more. At last he settled upon closing the door and then taking my hand.

“Mrs. Maycott,” he said, his voice solemn for one who was used to speaking in such high and sharp tones. He then bowed and let go my hand and moved toward his desk chair as though he would sit, but instead walked over to the window, parted the curtains, and examined the crowd of people gathering outside. “You seem to have gained a great deal of notoriety since last we met. Have you come to me for assistance in surrendering yourself?”

He asked the question with a great deal of uneasiness. Perhaps he thought I might kill him too. How absurd it was. Here I was, a woman brought as low as any in history, deprived of all. How could I be a greater victim? Yet, the world feared me.

“Mr. Brackenridge, I’d heard rumors that charges had been set against me, but until I came to town I could not believe they were anything more than stories. Do you mean to say that I am truly called to account for”—here I paused, for I did not believe I could speak Andrew’s name and refrain from weeping—“for what has happened?”

Something in my tone must have soothed him. He removed himself from the window and took his seat. From under his writing desk, he brought forth an old wine bottle filled with whiskey and poured himself a drink into a pewter cup. Then he poured me one, as well, and slid it across the desk. “The sheriff has issued warrants for your arrest, along with Dalton and Skye.” He looked at his shoes.

I drew in my breath. I must say what needed saying and do what needed doing. The weakness must end or there was no reason in living. “They dare to accuse us of Andrew’s death.” It was somehow easier to speak in the collective, but still I clutched my cup of whiskey and drank deep. I knew it from its darkness and rich flavor to be one of Andrew’s batches, and its warmth gave me strength. Speaking without weeping gave me strength. Holding Brackenridge’s gaze—yes, that too gave me strength. There was so much out there, all for me to take, if only I would grasp it. Weakness was easy and comforting, and action tore out my very heart, but I would do it. Why else live if not to do it?

Brackenridge studied me, as though he could see something changing inside. “Yes, they accuse you of that, and of killing Hendry. Colonel Tindall claims to have witnessed it himself.”

“You must know I would never have harmed my husband, and neither would his friends.”

“It has been cast about that there was an argument, fueled by whiskey. There was some talk—well, I am loath to say it, Mrs. Maycott, but as your lawyer I must. There was talk of a matter of impropriety between you and Mr. Dalton.”

I believe I shocked Mr. Brackenridge by laughing. “That accusation could only be made by someone wholly unfamiliar with the man in question. Sir, I know we have not been long acquainted, but do you believe that I was a party to these things as Colonel Tindall has alleged?”

He dared to gaze at me. “No, I do not. I have seen many horrible things in the West, but I have never once seen any person, man or woman, so coldly dissimulate about murder. There is little wealth here, and most crimes are those of passion, and those passions are ever on display afterward. So I do not believe things transpired as we have been led to believe. I don’t know how much time we have before the sheriff arrives, so I suggest you tell me what really happened as quickly as you can.”

“And then I will need you to do something for me, sir. It will require me to place a great deal of trust in you, but you will see I have no choice.”

W
e had more time than either of us imagined, the better part of an hour, before the knock came. The time proved sufficient for me to tell a much abbreviated version of what had happened at our cabin. I could not have told him a more detailed one, for to do so would be to reduce me to the weeping woman I’d been in the hunting cabin, and I would not permit that. Mr. Brackenridge suggested that the boy Phineas might yet be found to serve as witness. I did not think it likely. Even if he saw everything, I did not know I could depend on him to speak truthfully, so great was his irrational hatred of me.

We had no time for anything but my original plan. Thus, I told him as much as he needed to know and convinced him to transact my business. A hasty contract was drawn up and signed, with Mrs. Brackenridge and a literate serving girl as witnesses.

We were not done five minutes before they arrived. When Mr. Brackenridge opened the door, the stout and hateful Colonel Tindall stood there, clutching his beloved fowling piece, the very one he had fired at me minutes before killing my husband. Next to him stood a man I had seen but never met, who I knew to be the sheriff. He was nearing sixty, I supposed, but looked as fit and rugged as any frontiersman. Tall of form, wide of shoulder, he wore a plain hunting shirt, from which rose a thick and corded neck. His face sported a short and reasonably well trimmed beard, its orderliness perhaps a nod to his office. His dark and hooded eyes rested on me from under a tattered beaver cap.

There were now a hundred or more townspeople crowding the street in an effort to witness the apprehension of the horrid criminal Maycott. They blocked the muddy roadway, pressing in close for a glimpse of the evil woman.

The sheriff stepped forward, though he did not cross the threshold. He looked past Mr. Brackenridge and addressed me directly. “’Tis Mrs. Maycott I presume I’m talking to.”

“I am she.” I met his gaze, but I would not look at Tindall. I did not trust myself to do so, for I feared I must spring upon him and prove myself the creature they believed me to be.

“That’s the shameless whore who killed my man!” Tindall cried.

A gasp arose from the crowd, and I first believed it was owing to the cruelty of his words, but I soon realized it was in response to the fierceness of my expression. Perhaps they believed I might strike again, and any of them could prove victim.

“I’m afraid you’ll needs come with me, madam,” said the sheriff, attempting a civil tone.

“I don’t believe that either necessary or advisable,” said Brackenridge. He stepped forward, and now he was in his most lawyerly mode. He still appeared birdlike to me, and his eyes flitted here and there, but he had a kind of regal quality to him that I had not previously witnessed, and I imagined he must be a formidable presence in the courtroom.

“Advisable be damned!” Tindall shouted. “And you be damned too, Brackenridge! Are you so desperate for money that you will take to your bosom a woman who would slaughter her own husband? Murderous Indians are no longer enough for you?”

“It is not advisable,” repeated Mr. Brackenridge in a stately tone, “and I say that for your sake. I can conduct our business in the full light of day, before all these witnesses, if that is what you wish, sir. I think if we do so, it will be much harder for you to choose a favorable outcome. Now, I beg you both come into my office, where all may be set out in private.”

Tindall must have understood the note of triumph in Brackenridge’s voice, for he assented. In a few minutes, the two of them sat in Mr. Brackenridge’s office across from the desk. The lawyer sat facing them, and I stood behind him, too agitated to do otherwise.

“I don’t much see the meaning of this,” said the sheriff. His cap was off and resting in his lap. Mrs. Brackenridge had offered to take it, but he assured her it was too crawling with lice to be welcome upon her hat rack. “There’s a warrant sworn, witnessed by the colonel himself.”

“I have a great deal to say,” answered Mr. Brackenridge. “To begin with, there are witnesses who will contradict the details that Colonel Tindall has provided.”

“Witnesses,” barked Tindall. “No doubt the woman’s co-conspirators. No one will credit anything such men say.”

Mr. Brackenridge smiled. “They are among the witnesses, but not the only ones. We spoke with a group of Indians who say that you hired them to harass this lady and her husband.” Brackenridge, I must point out, did not lie, but repeated a lie I had told him.

Tindall snorted. “That’s nonsense, sure enough. Those Indians are dead.”

The sheriff now turned to observe Tindall. “I am sorry, Colonel, but precisely
which
Indians do you believe to be dead? You do not deny hiring the dead ones?”