The Whiskey Rebels: A Novel by David Liss

Author:David Liss [Liss, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Historical fiction, Historical, Whiskey Rebellion; Pa.; 1794, Pennsylvania, Married people, Suspense fiction, Eighteenth century, Thrillers, Missing persons, Veterans
ISBN: 9781400064205
Publisher: Random House Digital, Inc.
Published: 2008-09-30T04:41:03+00:00

Joan Maycott

Spring 1791

There were days lost. I do not apologize for that weakness, though when some remnant of clarity returned to me, when I escaped the deepest fog of grief, I vowed I would never again give in to such madness, not on any account. They were days when my enemies ate and slept and prospered and advanced their goals, while I did nothing, and in doing nothing I aided them, for that is how it is when faced with evil men. One must either resist or, in varying degrees, collaborate.

The day after he was murdered, we interred Andrew in the churchyard. Several men from the settlement unceremoniously hauled Hendry’s body to town and dumped it in the mud of Pittsburgh, as it deserved. I took no pleasure in the contrast. After Andrew’s funeral, my friends guided me to the isolated hunting cabin shared by the men of the settlement. They told me it was important not to remain in my own home, that it had been damaged, though not destroyed, in the fire. I was too lost in my own confusion to inquire of the details.

At first my grief was so great I was like a woman sleeping with her eyes open, seeing all about me, understanding none of it. Then at last, after some days, I began to emerge from this first numb stage of grief, though what came next was worse by far, for I understood the enormity of what had been wrenched from me. I had lost my Andrew, I had lost our child, I had lost my work, my home, my purpose. In this whole universe, nothing was left that meant anything to me. It was as though some great hand had come and wiped away all that had ever given me cause to take a breath.

I could do little more than weep and clutch my knees to my chest and lament. Mr. Dalton and Mr. Skye, for reasons I did not yet understand, spent long periods of time in the hunting cabin. When not out in search of game, the Irishman stomped about the cabin in a rage, swearing vengeance, clenching his fists, ripping off bites of his tobacco twist as though he could rip off Tindall’s flesh by doing so. Mr. Skye, in his far more subdued manner, sat by my side. He made perpetual efforts to feed me venison broth and bits of buttered corn bread, and it was by his efforts that I did not starve.

When Mr. Skye grew too tired or restless to tend to me, Jericho Richmond sat in his place. I took comfort in his silent company, yet there was a darkness in his gaze too. His brooding wood-colored eyes hung on me—in pity, yes, but something else.

Once I turned to him and said, “I am dead now. I have lost everything.”

“You are not dead,” he said. “But you are different.”

I looked away, for I did not wish to hear more.

“Be mindful of it,” he said. “You have sway over these men.

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