On what I believe was the third or fourth day, I began to shake off the greatest torpidity of grief. That is not to say I no longer felt grief keenly or was no longer weighed down by it. On the contrary, I knew it would kill me, and I would welcome death, if I did not find some means of converting my sorrow to something of purpose. I sat up straight and looked at Mr. Skye, who had been sitting and gazing out the little cabin’s window. “Something must be done about Tindall,” I said.
“It is not for you to do,” he answered.
“And why not? Did he not take everything from me? Am I to be content to lie quiet? I will travel to Pittsburgh and swear out an arrest on him.”
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.