The Whiskey Rebels by David Liss

clear, for I would not expose her to more danger, not for the world, and yet I must help her. I knew not how to do it, but I must.
     
    I crossed Fifth until I reached the grounds behind the Pennsylvania Statehouse, across Walnut Street from the jail and, perhaps more ominous for me, the debtor’s prison. The Statehouse offered handsome gardens, full of trees, even if they were devoid of life in the heart of winter. With no better thing to do, I brushed snow off one of the benches and sat alone in the growing gloom, the cold jabbing its sharp needles into the armor of my tattered clothes and the dimming warmth of drink. The park was near empty, but not entirely. Here there was a small group of boys playing with a lopsided leather ball that made an unappealing wet noise whenever it struck the ground. There an old man watched his trio of dogs folic. Closer to the Statehouse, only yards away from the courtyard where this nation declared its liberty, a young man attempted to obtain the liberty of a young lady’s petticoats. Behind me, on Walnut Street, a steady stream of pedestrians and carriages passed. I was tired, and despite the cold, I thought I might fall asleep.
    “Captain Saunders. A moment, if you please, sir.”
    I opened my eyes and saw before me a tall man with long reddish mustaches and a wide-brimmed hat that sat high enough upon his crown to reveal his apparent baldness. He spoke with the thick brogue of an Irishman, and was—I guessed from the lines upon his face—perhaps fifty years of age, but a rugged fifty. He had the look of a man used to hard labor, physically imposing but not menacing.
    “Do I know you?” I asked.
    “We have not yet met,” answered the Irishman. “But I’ve a feeling we’re to become excellent friends. May I sit?” He gestured toward the bench.
    I nodded and moved to give him more room, but I was on my guard and already thinking through my options.
    He removed the rest of the snow, sat next to me, and reached into his beaver coat. “I am told that you are a man who enjoys whiskey.” From the coat came a corked bottle, which he handed to me. “It is the best produced upon the Monongahela.”
    I pulled out the cork and sampled the contents. It was, indeed, quite good. It had a depth of flavors I had not known before in the drink, a kind of sweetness I found surprising and pleasing. It hit my empty gut hard, though, and a warm feeling built there to near hotness. I bent over hard, holding out the bottle so as not to spill it.
    “Too strong for you, lad?” the Irishman asked.
    I shook my head, once I’d sat upright again. “’Tis a mite powerful, but that’s not it. The stomach is a bit queer these days.”
    “Powerful or no, I can see by your face that you enjoy it.”
    “It’s good stuff, quite unlike any I’ve had before.” I took another drink, bending over only slightly this time. “Now, tell me who you are and what you know of me.”
    “I am an admirer,” he said. “I have heard of your acts during the war.”
    My guard was up. “Those who have heard of me are generally not admirers.”
    “I, for one, do not believe the charges leveled against you. I know the taint of falseness when I hear it, and I know a patriot when I see one. You see, I fought in the war myself, sir, serving under Colonel Daniel Morgan.”
    I was now interested. “You were at Saratoga?”
    He grinned. “I was, lad. In the thick of it, with Morgan’s riflemen. Have no doubt of it.”
    “I congratulate you, then. And I think, as one soldier to another, you perhaps can tell me what you wish of me.”
    “I know you have come upon hard times. I believe I can help you.”
    “And how can you do that?”
    “You require money.”
    I looked at the Irishman. He had a ready grin and the sort of face that most men would find easy to trust, but I was on my guard. “You want to give me money? For what?”
    “You are concerned about Mr. Pearson, though I know he is no friend of yours. Mrs.