Alexander Hamilton just wanted to pay off the national debt. But what is it they say about good intentions?

In 1789, the national debt, following the establishment of the United States Federal Government, had reached heights nearing the tune of $70 million all said and told. This was largely thanks to the previous government, under the Articles of Confederation, being unable to levy taxes, and as such was forced to borrow money to meet its own expenses. Taxes on imports were one of the Federal Governments only reliable sources of revenue at the time. The first Secretary of the Treasury believed that these taxes had been raised reasonably enough. He proposed and promoted a domestic tax on the production of distilled spirits. Hamilton, eternal optimist that he was, believed that taxing the people's distilled spirits (specifically, their whiskey) would be the least offensive tax possible. In March of 1791, the whiskey tax was passed into law.

While this might not have been Hamilton's worst decision of all time (that specific honor being reserved for agreeing to duel Vice President Aaron Burr fifteen years later, resulting in Hamilton's very brief flirtation with paralysis and subsequent death), it was certainly one that brought him under considerable political fire, and was the direct cause of a number of assaults and fatalities in the years that followed.

This tax, while certainly unpopular all over the country, was particularly unpopular in the Western districts of Pennsylvania, where small farmers, who had typically distilled their spare grain into whiskey, felt inordinately discriminated against. The reason for this was that the whiskey tax allowed for two separate methods of payment: paying a flat rate or paying by the gallon. For larger distilleries, the flat rate was the obvious choice, but for farmers with smaller stills, their income forced them to opt for the by-the-gallon method.

So, when the tax agents came to the farms to collect, the farmers took what they felt was the most reasonable course of action: They brutally assaulted the tax agents, mercilessly beating them within an inch of their lives. Which is really a completely understandable reaction if you think about it.

Upon hearing this, the Federal Government, in an attempt to staunch the outbreak of further violence against government agents, assembled and ratified a one cent reduction on the tax.

The protestors' reaction to that, when the tax man came around to collect once more?

They formed a gang, disguised themselves, set upon the tax agent, and proceeded to literally tar and feather the man.

The government's reaction?

Send a guy to serve warrants for the attackers. They tarred and feathered that guy too, but first, just to make sure they were getting their point across, they whipped him first.

So, upon learning that not only was diplomacy not working, but that it had been killed, cooked, and served for dinner, what did the government do to make sure these kind of violent attacks never befell another one of their tax agents?

They held another diplomatic assembly, because it worked so well the first time. Things finally came to the breaking point in July of 1794, when thirty disgruntled militiamen surrounded the home of General John Neville, the Federal Tax Inspector for western Pennsylvania, and demanded, at gunpoint, Neville's surrender. John Neville, being something of a stubborn, principled man had other plans and was not particularly agreeable to giving himself over to an angry mob. He fired a single shot into the crowd, killing a man named Oliver Miller. This enraged the rebels, and they opened fire onto Neville's house, to no effect.

Taking this under consideration, the rebel militiamen fell back and returned the next day, over six hundred strong, led by Major James McFarlane, a revolutionary war veteran. When, in the midst of the conflict between the militiamen and the men in the house, McFarlane was shot and killed, the militiamen lost all sense of common courtesy, gave up shooting at the house (and, presumably, the men inside it) and just set the house on fire.

It's at this point that President George Washington stepped in to attempt to regulate the situation. Being a cautious man, Washington was presented with two options: negotiation and reconciliation, or military response. Washington chose both, but only because he knew the kind of people that he was dealing with. So, while he dispatched three men to initiate negotiations, he started building up a military force to combat the militiamen.

Now, it's important to realize that when you're dealing with a group of people who are willing to beat, whip, tar and feather, surround and open fire upon the homes of their enemies, then attempt to burn them alive, you have successfully gone far, far beyond the line of peaceful political negotiations. It's simply something that won't work, no matter how much you want it to.

But you know what does work, when those negotiations invariably fall apart?

Showing up to their doorstep with a military force of some thirteen thousand troops.

As soon as Washington marched into Pennsylvania, brandishing that army, the rebellion fell apart pretty directly. Trials were soon after held, and only two men were found guilty of treasonous activities and sentenced to death by hanging - though both of these men were pardoned by President Washington.

The moral of the story?

People love their whiskey. It's been a staple of the United States landscape since the United States had a landscape to speak of, and though it's sometimes been a luxury and sometimes an economic necessity, it's always been an important facet of national life. The Whiskey Rebellion of the 1790s can teach us that to some people, not only is whiskey worth fighting for, it's worth dying for.

Just something to think about next time you're grumbling about the cost of that bottle of Knob Creek.