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.
Two 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.”
“Murd
ered?”
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.
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 governm
ent 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.”