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An aging militiaman named Jack, a veteran of the Revolutionary War against the British that ended more than a decade ago, is on the march. His feet keep rhythm with a military drum as he tramps his way across sun-parted ground. He's just one of around 500 men, many militia like him mixed with a smattering of community leaders. With laboring breath, he climbs towards a sumptuous mansion called Bower Hill.
Lined with luxurious carpets, antiques, and artworks imported from Europe, the property stands out from its neighbors, most of which are humble wood cabins. It is owned by General John Neville. A Virginian by birth, Neville has been a popular figure in these parts. He's known as someone who'll stand up for the rights of the frontier settlers of this remote corner of Pennsylvania, west of the rugged Allegheny stretch of the Appalachian Mountains. But recently that's changed.
For the last three years, Neville has been doing unpopular work for the federal government in the national capital of Philadelphia, 300 miles away over the mountains. He collects what has become known as the "Whiskey Tax." As he crests the hill, Soldier Jack takes a slug of whiskey from his hip flask, relaxing slightly as the warm liquid hits the back of his throat. Alongside him, the crowd is starting to spread out in an impenetrable ring around the mansion.
Jack joins the chant, demanding that Neville show himself and resign his government offices. At an earlier confrontation with protesters, Neville had pulled out a weapon and shot a man dead. Jack and his associates want justice. What they don't know is that Neville is not at home, having been smuggled into a ravine to hide some time earlier. Instead, it is one Major James Kirkpatrick who appears at the front door.
He is the commanding officer of a platoon of a dozen or so federal soldiers charged with guarding the residence. James McFarlane, the leader of Jack's posse, advances to talk to Kirkpatrick. Jack hushes those around him so that he might hear the negotiations. McFarlane demands to search the house and take away any papers relating to the hated tax, but Kirkpatrick refuses. The crowd's becoming impatient, but then Jack smells something.
The men beside him start looking around, alerted by the unmistakable aroma of burning wood. Jack hears the crackle of flames, just as one of the mansion's guards lets out a cry, pointing beyond the posse. Behind them, a barn is ablaze, sending thick plumes of smoke billowing into the sky. The conflagration is the work of a small, splinter group of protesters. Jack spots them running to another building, a lodging for some of the enslaved people who work on Neville's estate.
In a moment, that too is alight. Soon there is mayhem all around. As more fires are set, Kirkpatrick retreats with a handful of defenders into the mansion, where they barricade themselves in and bolt the door. Outside, Jack runs to put distance between himself and the engulfed buildings. Then, after a while, there are raised voices inside the house. One of Jack's comrades nudges him, believing that the troops are about to surrender.
The rumor spreads, and James McFarlane emerges from his defensive position behind a thick trunked tree. The rebel leader walks confidently towards the building, motioning for calm as he does so, certain that victory is close at hand. But as the clamor briefly subsides, there is the crack of musket fire. Jack watches on helplessly as McFarlane collapses to the ground, groaning with the pain of what proves to be a mortal wound.
Incensed, the crowd renews its attack, setting still more fires. Jack joins a small group to set light to a kitchen abutting the main house. Inside the mansion, the temperature is becoming unbearable. It is not long before the troops realize they cannot hold out any longer. Kirkpatrick signals out of a window. This time they really are surrendering. But though the Battle of Bower Hill is over, the war is far from won.
As for Jack, it all brings back painful memories of the battlefields of the Revolutionary War. Memories he thought he had left behind. But now here he is, in the midst of a new war. A battle against an unjust tax, but a fight also for the soul of his young nation.
A few short years after the war against America's English colonial overlords, an uprising against a levy on liquor becomes the first great test to be faced by the government of the nascent United States of America. But what drove ordinary people to take up arms against the federal government? How did a new tax highlight the great social divisions already taking hold within the country?
And why did the founding fathers, George Washington and Alexander Hamilton, icons of America's quest for freedom from tyranny, march an army against their own people? This is the story of a new nation trying to define its own limits and philosophy. I'm John Hopkins, and this is a short history of the Whiskey Rebellion.
It's late 1790. A handsome man wearing a long flowing coat, knee-high boots, and an elegant ruffled necktie walks determinedly down the south side of Market Street in the national capital, Philadelphia. He's only 33, but looks older with his white, powdered hair scraped back and tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. His name is Alexander Hamilton, and he is Secretary of the United States Treasury.
Climbing the steps of a smart three-and-a-half-story brick mansion, he raps sharply on the door. A servant answers and leads him to a room down the hallway. A pair of heavy wooden doors open, and Hamilton is warmly greeted by four men. They are President George Washington, Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of War Henry Knox, and Attorney General Edmund Randolph. And this room, in the Presidential House, is where the United States' First Cabinet routinely meet.
Hamilton flips back the tails of his coat and sits. There is important business to discuss today. It is not the first time he has broached the subject, but he has a big idea for which he wants to secure the cabinet's backing: a new tax. It is only 14 years since the United States was established with the Declaration of Independence following the defeat of the British in the American Revolutionary War. Only two years since the US Constitution came into effect, with Washington as the nation's first president.
But the government has a major problem: it is laden with debt. The cost of the Revolutionary War to the federal government exceeds 50 million dollars, with individual state governments bearing about half that amount again. In total, the US owes the equivalent to around 2.5 trillion dollars in modern money.
Hamilton, who's clawed his way up to this elevated position thanks to a brilliant mind and extraordinary work ethic, has already persuaded Congress that the federal government should take responsibility for the entire debt. It's the best way, he says, for the United States to develop the vibrant industrial economy on which to build the nation's long-term prosperity. But how will they repay what's owed? Currently, all the government's income is dependent on tariffs on imports from abroad.
Hamilton knows it is not enough, so he tells the assembled men he has devised an alternative plan: an excise tax on distilled spirits produced within the US itself, the government's first such tax on a domestic product. Hamilton has some work to do to convince the room.
Washington is instinctively against it, as is Jefferson. But Hamilton is persuasive. With determination etched onto his face, he explains his proposals with clear rationale. The government must find more money from somewhere, and surely this is better than a tax on land or essentials like bread. After all, Hamilton asks, isn't whiskey a luxury product?
and, if he is to be candid, one that poses significant harm when consumed in excess. Hamilton's rhetoric does the trick. Washington becomes convinced that popular opinion will fall behind the revenue-raising measure, and in March 1791, the whiskey tax comes into force. But public support proves hard to come by. No one likes paying their tax at the best of times, but whiskey is the "aqua vita" of the early United States.
Though beer is often safer to drink than the water available, it's expensive to transport because of its greater volume. So whiskey is the drink of choice for many. This is most definitely the case in the frontier lands of western Pennsylvania. It is a region of small and basic farmsteads dotted across wide-open vistas, serving as home to perhaps 17,000 people.
Though its largest city, Pittsburgh, is only a few hundred miles from the presidential house in Philadelphia, life on this side of the Appalachians is worlds apart. Here, out west, most live a hand-to-mouth existence. Not for them the powdered hair or the wood-paneled mansions of the rich and powerful in the capital. So, when news of the whiskey tax hits, it hits particularly hard. It is, the locals say, unfair.
For them, whiskey is not simply an indulgence, but a staple of the local economy. The money system is in its infancy and has not taken root here. Liquor is a much preferable unit of exchange, something with real value. You want a hog for your family? Someone to darn your clothes or put up a fence? The best way to pay is in drink.
Virtually without exception, every farm that speckles the sun-dappled counties of western Pennsylvania has its own still for distilling whiskey, a little to warm the spirits and the rest to trade. Farmers use their excess supplies of barley, corn, rye, and wheat to make it. And thanks to its concentrated nature, it's much cheaper and more profitable to transport a stock of whiskey to market than sacks full of untreated grain. But Hamilton's tax changes everything.
Neighbors gather together to discuss what they see as a devious ploy by the government. Because after all, it's them, the little guys, who will end up paying most. One problem is that the tax can be paid either as a flat fee or on the volume of alcohol manufactured. Big producers can afford the flat fee up front and then enjoy the benefits of economies of scale. The more they produce, the less the tax per unit of whiskey.
But it's not so easy for smaller distillers who lack capital and must therefore pay by the gallon. A farmer typically pays 9 cents in the dollar on what they distill, while larger producers get away with 6 cents. Moreover, Hamilton's scheme takes no account of what profit is made. While a distiller in the East can sell whiskey for a premium price in Philadelphia with ease, those out in the wilderness of the West have much higher transport costs.
Overheads make it much less possible to traipse, say, a couple of dozen bottles to Pittsburgh than for a rival who can wheel wagonloads of the stuff into Philadelphia. Worse still, the government wants payment in cash, not in kind. And where money is already in short supply, that is potentially devastating. Resistance is inevitable. It's the 11th of September, 1791, in Washington County, Pennsylvania.
A pair of birds foraging for berries on the forest floor suddenly take to the sky, their peace disrupted by the snap of twigs and branches beneath hooves. A lone horse tramples past. On her back sits a man by the name of Robert Johnson, an excise collector. He is making his way from one cluster of farms to another. Predictably, he has not been well received. Several farmers have resisted his attempts to survey their premises and make a note of the number of stills they have, but he is insistent.
Failure to register a still is an offense that can lead to a summons to appear before the courts. And not the local courts either, but those far away in Philadelphia. To appear will not only cost a farmer valuable days of lost labor, but there's the expenses of travel, accommodation, and sustenance too. In the end, Johnson usually wins the argument, but the locals are becoming increasingly vocal with their displeasure. A trot on his own through a quiet stretch of forest is a blessed relief.
Up ahead, something catches his eye. Squinting through the dappled sunlight, he makes out a group of women huddled together. More than ten of them. A funny place to gather, he thinks to himself. As he nears, he is struck by how big and tall several of them are. He doffs his hat, ready to pass the time of day. But as he does so, one of the women turns to face him. It's now that Johnson notes the masculine line of the stranger's chin, how it is speckled with stubble.
The panic begins to rise in his throat as he realizes that every one of the group is a man in disguise. One lurches towards him, grabbing his leg and pulling him from his saddle. He can barely form the words to plead for his life as another of the attackers brandishes a cutthroat razor and begins to strip the hair from his head. The other assailants roar their approval.
As he kicks out uselessly, his clothes are torn from his body. Then, from somewhere, his attackers produce a vat of hot wood tar, which they begin to pour over his naked torso. He screams out with pain, gasping for breath. Everywhere he looks is a confusion of limbs and faces contorted in rage. Now he is rolled on the ground into a pile of recently plucked feathers that painfully adhere to the tar on his skin.
Then, almost as quickly as it began, the assault is over. The gang disperses, taking Johnson's horse for booty. When he is sure they are gone, he drags himself up from the forest floor. Hurt and humiliated, not to mention naked except the tar and feathers, he begins the long, lonely walk in search of help. When he has recovered a little, he takes his case to a local judge. With Johnson able to identify two of his attackers, the judge issues warrants for their arrest.
A poor local cattle grazer is paid a small sum to act as a deputy marshal and apprehend them. But the gang are not done yet. The deputy marshal himself also faces their wrath. He is whipped, tarred and feathered too, and left tied to a tree for five hours. While not always so violent, acts of resistance against the tax are commonplace. Non-payment becomes routine, with farmers relying on power in numbers.
They hope that if enough of them refuse, the authorities will simply write the bill off rather than go to the expense of pursuing every defaulter. An unofficial assembly is formed, comprising representatives from several unhappy counties in West Pennsylvania. Delegates from Allegheny, Fayette, Washington, Westmoreland, and elsewhere meet in Pittsburgh in September 1791 in a bid to organize the resistance.
The conference is split between radicals espousing outright rebellion against the government and moderates keen on negotiating a settlement. By the time it meets again nearly a year later, it is increasingly apparent that the people of western Pennsylvania and many states beyond harbor resentment over more issues than just the whiskey tax.
For one thing, the region is at the eye of the storm of the so-called Northwest Indian War, a territorial dispute between US forces and the warriors of various Native American nations. Locals argue that they have been left without adequate protection by the federal government, abandoned as potential collateral damage in a conflict not of their making.
Another complaint is that uncontested control of the Mississippi River by the Spanish authorities who own Louisiana deprives locals of a valuable trade route. They want to know what the government is doing to address the issue. There is a growing sense that the citizens of the region owe Washington and his cabinet nothing. The 1792 Convention is dominated by radicals.
They encourage the raising of Liberty Poles, great wooden totems that served as symbols of independence back in the Revolutionary War. Once an emblem of resistance against British oppression, they are now erected in defiance of the very people who led America to self-governance. More threateningly, the Convention seeks to gain command of local militia groups, and the rhetoric grows increasingly militant.
Addressing impassioned rallies, the leaders argue that mere disobedience against the whiskey tax is not enough. Rebels should pursue violence against the rich and powerful in general. Washington, Hamilton, and the rest of the government in Philadelphia become more and more nervous. It is the first real test of their government's authority. And this is a country that has very recent experience in the overthrow of ruling administrations.
If the protests across the Appalachians build up a head of momentum, who knows where they'll end? The French Revolution, at full throttle across the Atlantic Ocean, further serves as a clear reminder of what is at stake. In September of 1792, Washington issues a proclamation, largely authored by Hamilton, condemning resistance to the tax. But it does little to turn the tide.
If anything, there is an upturn in acts of intimidation against those associated with administering it. It's 2 a.m. on the 22nd of November 1793. Tax collector Benjamin Wells awakes with a start to the sound of breaking glass downstairs. In the time it takes him to realize there are people inside his house, the heavy footsteps are up his wooden stairs. A group of men, their faces obscured by handkerchiefs, force him roughly out of bed as his wife screams.
He tries to remain calm, though this is the second break-in at his home in just a few months. On the previous occasion, he had been away, but the intruders threatened to harm his wife and children if he did not resign his position. This time, as he's dragged from the room, he sees that two of the gang have their cocked pistols aimed at him. He tries to reason with them and find ways to mollify them, fearful for his terrified family cowering a little way off. But the intruders have no such concerns.
They bellow at him to hand over all the papers related to his job, telling him their plan to destroy them. At first, he refuses, a roll of the dice to see how they respond. But it is a hopeless cause. He can tell from their tone that there is no room for compromise. With gun barrels still trained on him and threats of execution in his ears, he retreats to the room next door, retrieves his logbooks, and lays them all out on a table. They greedily gather up the papers and make to leave.
but not before one final demand. His letter of resignation must appear in the Pittsburgh Gazette within two weeks, or he can expect another visit. Wells' experience is by no means unique. Anti-tax violence escalates through 1794, spilling out of Pennsylvania and into neighboring states.
Elsewhere, for instance, the home of a Virginian tax collector is surrounded by a posse of 30 during a three-day siege which sees him forced to disguise himself as a slave in order to effect an escape across a nearby river. Things come to a head at the Battle of Bower Hill on the estate of General John Neville. A few days after that, in late July 1794, one of the movement's most radical figureheads, a lawyer called David Bradford, springs into action.
He leads an assault on a postal rider plying the route between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, seizing the mailbags and racing off to a safe house. There, he and his associates troll the correspondence, searching for evidence of local officials working against the anti-tax movement. They uncover a handful of letters condemning recent rebel activity. It's a meager hoard, but they present it as proof that the time has come for stronger action against their enemies in the government.
Bradford puts out a call for those sympathetic to his cause to assemble at Braddock's Field, a few miles outside of Pittsburgh, on 2 p.m. the 1st of August. They should bring with them, he says, sufficient provisions, including arms and ammunitions, to see them through a few days. It does not take a mastermind to realize that he has his eyes set on Pittsburgh. In the event, some 7,000 people turn up. An army, by anyone's standards.
The atmosphere is fervid, but it's clear that not all those present are farm owners with whiskey stills protesting an unjust tax. By now, the movement has become much wider in scope. Many here are the desperately poor and dispossessed, people who are wondering just what it is the government is doing for them. One man rides through the crowds wielding a tomahawk, ominously announcing that this is only just the beginning. Pittsburgh, one of the speakers declares, is a modern Sodom.
Some of Bradford's colleagues begin to worry that the crowd may be difficult to control. Others, though, are invigorated by the turnout, Bradford included. He gives speeches that stir up his audience not just against the whiskey tax, but the rich in general. There is talk of independence from the federal government and even an alliance with America's recent international enemies, Great Britain and Spain.
Some of the leaders want to attack nearby Fort Lafayette, a federal stronghold, and load up on weaponry before an attack on Pittsburgh itself. But just as it seems like events are reaching a tipping point, something changes. A delegation of citizens from the city meekly arrives, offering words sympathetic to the rebels' cause. They make promises of hospitality, and before long, barrels full of whiskey start turning up.
A great way to parch a crowd's thirst when it's been out all day beneath the summer sun. A squadron of the would-be rebels makes its way towards Fort Lafayette, but they back off when they see how heavily guarded it is. Instead, they simply ask permission to march around it. By sunset, what had seemed like an insurrectionist mob, ready to take the fight to the enemy, quickly becomes altogether less threatening, not to mention well-oiled.
Plans to take Pittsburgh entirely loses its momentum, and people start to go home instead. There are nonetheless more acts of rebellion over the coming days and weeks. The property of Kirkpatrick, the military commander from the Battle of Bower Hill, is razed to the ground. More tax collectors are targeted and brutalized. Liberty poles spring up all over the place, but the congregation at Braddock's Field will prove the high-water mark of the Whiskey Rebellion.
However, over in Philadelphia, President Washington still fears the situation could escalate further. He is shaken by what he regards as a "near miss," an existential threat to one of the major cities in the state the presidency calls home. Moreover, the unrest is spreading—to counties in Western Maryland and in Virginia, Ohio, and Kentucky, too. On the 2nd of August, Washington calls a cabinet meeting. Hamilton marches up to the presidential house, more belligerent than ever.
The uprising needs to be put down by a decisive military action, he proclaims. But where Hamilton is instinctively impulsive, Washington urges caution. He refuses to overstretch the remit of his powers as governed by the Constitution. Before any decision to act, he wants legal authority. It arrives two days later when the Supreme Court declares that Western Pennsylvania is in a state of rebellion. With such an acknowledgement, Washington is happy to make a call to arms.
At the same time as demanding that the insurgents peaceably disperse by the end of the month, he gathers an army of almost 13,000 men from New Jersey, eastern Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. It is a force of two distinct parts. On the one hand are the officer class of gentlemen volunteers, hungry for adventure and keen to defend the integrity of their new nation. They dress in smart uniforms, often at their own expense.
But the majority are the militia corps, comprising the poor and rootless, many of whom are persuaded to sign up on the promise of a regular meal and a solid wage. Together, the army heads out in its quest to tame the wilder elements of the frontier lands. The troops soon earn a terrible reputation, not least for stealing food and trampling fences and crops in the process.
The locals nickname them the Watermelon Army, partly because of their fondness for taking ripened crops and partly as a slur against their effectiveness as a fighting force. But their reputation is about to get a whole lot worse. It's the 29th of September 1794. A rank and file soldier by the name of Smith stares wearily at the Appalachian Mountains ahead as his boots squelch in the sodden earth beneath him. Opening a hip flask, he gulps down a mouthful of liquor.
It's his only defense against the cold permeating his ragged uniform. He is marching with his brothers in arms near the town of Carlisle in Pennsylvania. The man beside him, he has discovered, was a vagrant like himself until he signed up to serve. As they navigate the rough path ahead, they discuss whether they weren't better off in that old life. For several days now, the rations have been so stretched that they are barely less hungry than they were as beggars.
And at least before, they weren't exhausted from enforced marching over all sorts of inhospitable terrain. A mounted officer clocks past, and Smith glances sneeringly in his direction. He doubts the belly inside that stiff uniform is as empty as his. All through the ranks, Smith's frustrations are shared. The men grumble about the hunger, the tiredness, the lack of warm blankets and other basic provisions awaiting them wherever they go.
Even when they camp, drunkenness and gambling routinely descend into violence. It's also been the first signs of an outbreak of dysentery. The officer stops in front of Smith and a few others, who quickly stand to attention. Then, from the saddle, he barks his orders. They are to set out immediately to track down whoever is responsible for putting up the new Liberty Poles on the road to Carlisle.
Smith, despite himself, is pleased to have a proper job to do. Something better than when he was sent to hunt for deserters a day or two back. Though he'd kept it to himself, he had nothing against anyone with the gumption to take off. But chasing down the actual enemy is another matter altogether. Smith and his comrades head off in the direction of nearby Meyerstown, hoping for a result before the light starts to fade. Soon, they come across a gang of young men sat chatting on the ground at a crossroads.
Smith's group surround them and begin the questioning. What are they doing out here? Why aren't they at home? What do they know about those poles? All the while, Smith's finger twitches around the trigger of his musket. The youths stare nervously at the ground, reluctant to speak. Smith's senior officer yells at them to get to their feet, but one of the youths is struggling. Perhaps he is injured or ill, it's difficult to tell, but he is unable to follow the command to stand.
So the officer orders him to lie on the ground instead, aiming his cocked pistol as an encouragement to cooperate. Suddenly, there's an ear-splitting crack. Smith stares at his superior, who in turn is transfixed by the weapon in his hand that has accidentally gone off. In front of him, the boy writhes on the ground. He has been shot in the groin. His face is a rictus of agony as blood pools around him. It does not take long for him to bleed out.
and he won't be the last of the Federal Army's victims. Two days later, a squad of troops visits a bar in the town where they encounter a local character who has had more than his fair share of drink. To the Whiskey Boys, he toasts ironically in their direction. When he is threatened with arrest, he hurls a tirade of more earthy abuse at them. A scuffle breaks out, and he is fatally injured in the melee. Success to the Whiskey Boys are the last words his lips will ever utter.
News of such unruly antics disturbs Washington and Hamilton. They want to crush the kernel of opposition, but they fear their army is only nurturing further dissent. On the 4th of October, the president arrives at Carlisle in person. Washington cuts a striking figure on his gray horse. He is decked out in a buff colored waistcoat and breeches beneath a long elegant blue wool coat, the sun glinting off its golden buttons. A tricorn hat sits on top of his head.
He inspects his troops who have laid off the alcohol and scrubbed themselves up for the occasion. A military band plays rousing tunes. The commander-in-chief's presence is certainly raising spirits, even among the most disgruntled soldiers. But Washington is not only concerned with his army. This is a show for the country as a whole, to serve as a warning to anyone questioning the government's authority. It is a demonstration of presidential power and prestige.
Washington spends a further nine days out in the field with his troops, but returns to Philadelphia on the 20th, leaving the army under the command of General Henry Lee. It is becoming evident, though, that the army is unlikely to see any real battlefield action. The Whiskey Rebellion has run out of steam. They know they cannot hope to match the might of Washington's army. In the face of the federal government's show of force, the movement's leaders have been cowed. In new peace talks, they adopt a decidedly conciliatory line.
It seems that, after all, the hunger for truly radical action has disappeared. Folk are less bothered about overthrowing the government than just dodging the expensive tax. Instead of congregating at fiery rallies, they resort once more to simple non-payment and hope they don't get hauled in front of the courts. Like an opened bottle of whiskey left out too long, the uprising's potency and flavor have faded. Nonetheless, the government and its army remain keen to impose their power upon the people.
to snuff out any whiff of further rebellion and teach the rabble-rousers a lesson they won't forget. Every day, more and more suspects are arrested and interrogated. In the dead of night on the 13th of November 1794, no less than 150 individuals are rounded up in western Pennsylvania alone. Through the pitch black, they are marched half-naked along muddy roads for seven miles to Pittsburgh. The breath of their captors' horses clouding around them as they go
Once they make it to the city, many are shoved into muddy pens with no roof to protect them from the sleet cascading down. If anyone dares test the confinements in the hope of sharing the warmth of their captors' fire, they face finding themselves at the end of a bayonet. The guards lob odd ends of uncooked dough and raw meat onto the ground in lieu of meals, and loudly debate whether their quarry ought to be hanged or shot. Other captives are locked in a stable, and still more in a murky tavern cellar.
When one man collapses under the duress of it all, he is lashed to a horse's tail and dragged through the city streets. But the authorities' plans for show trials are falling into disarray. They may have plenty of prisoners, but none of the Whiskey Rebellion's true heavyweights. Several of the ringleaders have slipped undercover into the safety of the wilderness further out west. Others have taken up offers of amnesty from the government in return for their cooperation.
By the middle of November, the government boasts just 20 supposed rebel leaders. Although everyone knows none are main players, it is clear that several of the defendants suffer from various mental illnesses. On November 19, most of the president's army is given orders to return to their homes, while the captives and their guards head for Philadelphia. Only a fraction of the Watermelon Army stays in and around Pittsburgh to maintain order.
At the subsequent trials, all but two of the defendants are acquitted. The pair who are found guilty are minor league participants at best. This has not been the show of strength Washington envisaged, but now he fears making martyrs out of two relative non-entities. Instead of seeing them executed, he gives them presidential pardons.
It is perhaps a suitably low-key denouement to an uprising that for a brief while seemed set to threaten the very foundations of the new United States of America, but which burned itself out just as it might have caught a flame. Ironically, the whiskey tax itself dies out before long. It proves as tricky to collect as it ever did. And in 1802, by which time Washington's erstwhile Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson has become president, it is repealed.
But the Whiskey Rebellion remains a crucial chapter in the story of the United States. It revealed the early signs of division of a nation in its infancy, the fissures between East and West, between a perceived urban elite and struggling rural communities, between those who believed in a strong, interventionist federal government and those who wanted the government to leave them alone.
It might also be characterized as a battle between those who believed in the promised bounties from the Revolutionary War and those convinced that its ideals were already being left behind. As such, the Whiskey Rebellion sparked off a much larger discussion about what the nation wanted to be and how it saw itself. It was a moment when a nation, still bathed in the exhilaration of its own creation, was forced to re-evaluate its values and to begin to define itself for the years to come.
A process, many will argue, that continues through to the modern day.