Whiskey & Ashes, page 17
Pantha descended first, poised as ever, her hat neat and her gloves still white despite the miles. Behind her came Bernice, practically glowing, arms full of wrapped packages and her cheeks pink with talk and wind. Walter followed, taller somehow, sun-browned and composed, his eyes already sweeping the platform for familiar faces.
“Papa!” Bernice cried, breaking into a grin as she rushed forward.
Pantha took Ezekiel’s arm, her fingers tight for a heartbeat before she allowed herself a breath. “We’re home,” she said.
Ezekiel didn’t speak, just nodded. It was the first full breath he’d taken in weeks. He had tried not to show his worry. But the weight of memory had lingered train wrecks and telegrams and long, silent nights years ago when he realized he could have lost his brother. This time, his family had come back whole.
Walter scooped up Orde in one arm, lifting him like a sack of feed. “I see you’ve kept the place running.”
“Course I did,” Orde replied, dead serious. “We swept the porch and counted the chickens. And you were late by two minutes.”
Walter laughed and set him down. “Must be losing my edge.”
Bernice was already handing out presents pressed flower bookmarks, a tin of apple candies, and a tiny woven basket from some roadside town in Idaho. The girls surrounded her, all talking at once.
Pantha pulled Ms. Mollie aside. “Everything smooth?”
Mollie huffed. “I kept him fed. Even got him to eat boiled carrots one night. Don’t ask how.”
Pantha smiled. “Was it a bribe?”
“More like a threat.”
As the family clustered and laughed, Ezekiel stepped aside to retrieve the newspaper he’d tucked into his pocket that morning. The ink had smudged slightly from the heat of his hand, but the headline was clear:
PARTNER IN A BIG DISTILLERY
MAKING 400 GALLONS DAILY – THE GOUGE DISTILLING CO.
His eyes scanned the familiar names: M.L. Fox exposed as both partner and political mouthpiece for Congressman Massey now tangled with the Anti-Saloon League and their hypocrisy. The tide was turning again, and trouble was coming, sure as winter. But for now, he folded the paper, slipped it into his coat, and turned back to his family. There would be time for fights ahead. But today, they were all home and whole.
That Evening, Oak Street, Bristol
The long dining table was nearly groaning beneath the weight of fried chicken, stewed tomatoes, sweet corn pudding, and Ms. Massey’s cornbread, golden and still steaming from the cast iron skillet. The smell of home settled into the wood and fabric like a hymn.
Pantha presided from her usual spot, refreshed by the trip but with the soft edge of fatigue behind her eyes. Walter and Bernice flanked her, their voices filling the room with tales from the West.
“I’m telling you,” Bernice said, waving her fork for emphasis, “they grow apples out there the size of your head. And the wind on the Palouse is like being caught in a ribbon. Gentle, then wild.”
“I thought it was just dry,” Elmer said through a mouthful of beans.
Walter chuckled. “It was dry. And hot. But it had this wide-open feel. Like the horizon was always three miles farther than you thought.”
“Did Alice still have the lace curtain I sent her?” Eula asked.
“She did,” Pantha answered. “Hanging in the kitchen window. She says it makes her think of home every morning.”
Lillian was already halfway through a slice of pie when she piped up, “Did you see Uncle Thomas?”
“We did,” Walter said. “He’s still working the farm. Said to tell you he sent a special present for the youngest of the bunch. It’s in my case and I will get it for you after supper.”
Irene let out a pleased squeal and clapped her tiny hands, though she had no idea who Thomas really was except for stories. Orde leaned forward across the table, frowning. “Did he still have that broken arm from last year?”
“No,” Bernice said gently. “He’s all healed up.”
At the far end of the table, Ezekiel reached for a second helping of cornbread. His mind had wandered back to the article folded in his coat, now draped over the peg by the door. M.L. Fox, the man he'd once trusted as a quiet partner, was now splashed across the page and the association with Congressman Massey reeked of compromise.
They’d come home just in time.
Pantha caught the flicker in his eyes and set her teacup down. “Is something wrong?”
He blinked, then shook his head. “Just glad you're back, all of you.”
Mrs. Massey, seated like a benevolent general at the other end, gave him a look. “You’re thinking too loud, Mr. Gouge. You’ve got that face on.”
Ezekiel smiled faintly. “Just remembering how quiet the house was without all this noise.”
“You didn’t seem to enjoy it,” Mollie muttered, but her wink belied the bite.
Walter leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice just a notch. “We saw a meeting in Spokane. Temperance folks that were loud, serious and holding signs and giving speeches. They’re gaining traction everywhere, not just here.”
Ezekiel nodded slowly. “That matches what’s in today’s paper. Fox’s name is in ink now, and Massey’s not far behind.”
Pantha’s gaze sharpened. “What’s he done?”
“Making friends on both sides of the fence,” Ezekiel murmured. “Says he supports temperance. Meanwhile, he’s neck-deep in our company with Fox.”
The room stilled just enough for the clink of a spoon to be heard. Then Orde, unbothered by politics or the silence it brought, said plainly:
“We oughta just send ‘em some pie. Fixes most things.”
And just like that, laughter returned. Bernice reached across to muss his hair. Ms. Massey snorted and passed the biscuits again, and for that moment, the storm held its distance. Outside, night gathered at the edges of the porch, and the scent of applewood from the kitchen stove drifted through the open windows. Inside, the Gouge family broke bread, passed stories, and leaned into one another strong in the quiet, and ready for what came next.
Later when the house had gone still, that deep quiet only found after a home full of children has finally surrendered to sleep. A coal in the parlor stove pulsed orange in the dark, casting shadows on the old desk where Ezekiel sat with his ledger open, pen still uncapped. He hadn’t written yet.
The article lay folded beside him, its headline sharp even in the low light. He read again the line that had been repeating in his mind like a slow, turning screw: “M.L. Fox… partner in E. Gouge Distilling Co., now producing over 400 gallons of corn liquor daily.”
Ezekiel ran a hand through his beard, fingers pausing at his jaw. Partner. That word had become too easy to use and too costly to ignore. He had brought Fox in quiet, a small stake money, not sweat. It had seemed prudent, controlled and he assumed safe. But now Fox was talking. Speaking publicly on behalf of men who’d shake your hand in daylight and stab your license papers at night. Massey, The Anti-Saloon League, they were both politics in a preacher’s suit. No man can serve two masters, Ezekiel thought grimly. Fox had chosen his.
He dipped the pen in ink but didn’t write. Instead, he reached for a second paper on the desk an envelope marked Sams in his own hand, half-sealed but not yet sent. W.T. Sams had been a steady voice in the early days of the Virginia move. Business-minded, sharp with figures. McNabb, too quiet but firm, always showing up, never asking for more than he was due. These were men he could sit across from and not count his silver afterward. But now they all needed to sit down again.
Ezekiel leaned back in the creaking chair and exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet. The options ran like a column of numbers in his head. Buy Fox out? Freeze his shares? Challenge the legality of his public advocacy while under private contract?
Or let it fester, a darker voice whispered. Let it grow until the papers name you next. He couldn’t afford that. Not just for the company. For the name. For the children now curled in beds upstairs, whose futures were being built in barrels and bonds and land deeds. For Walter, who had seen the West and returned with eyes wide open. For Pantha, who bore it all on her back like a mountain.
He took up the pen again. He would send a note to Sams and a telegram to McNabb first thing in the morning:
Meeting – Sams and McNabb
Urgent – Fox’s standing must be addressed.
Contingency: Dissolve partial holding if breach confirmed.
He tapped the pen twice against the ledger’s edge, then underlined the final line with a sure hand:
Trust is the line. Cross it and you’re out.
A floorboard creaked upstairs Bernice, perhaps, shifting in her sleep, or Orde padding barefoot to the stairwell to check if the fire was still burning. Ezekiel stood, tucked the ledger under his arm, and fed more coal into the stove. The embers flared, illuminating the family photograph above the mantel for a moment. Pantha seated, the children gathered like constellations around her. He stared at it a moment longer. The fire would keep through the night. But he’d need more than flame to survive the winter ahead.
11
The Line in the Barrel
January 1911, E. Gouge & Co. Office, Bristol, Virginia
The telegraph boy left with a silver coin in his hand and snow on his shoulders. Ezekiel stood at the window just long enough to see the boy vanish into the blur of gray morning before folding the cable slip into his coat pocket.
TO: J.T. MARBLE – CARTER CO. FARM
INSTRUCT VET TO CULL REMAINING HOGS. DO NOT PURCHASE MORE. SELL BACK FEED GRAIN IF CLEAN. DISPOSE OF BODIES FAR FROM CREEK. HOLD FOR FURTHER WORD.
E. GOUGE
Behind him, the office door creaked open. Walter entered first, closing the door with a soft click. He wore a serious look, the kind Ezekiel recognized more and more as the boy grew into the man. Sams and McNabb followed, their coats dusted with melting flurries, hats in hand.
“Trouble at the Carter place?” McNabb asked, settling into a leather chair.
“Hog cholera,” Ezekiel replied. “Hundred head gone, maybe more. Second wave in six months.”
“Damn bad luck,” Sams muttered.
“Or damn poor timing,” Ezekiel said, striding toward the table. He removed his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, then dropped them next to the contract folder already waiting. Walter pulled the string tie loose and opened the folder to the first page. No one spoke.
Ezekiel looked between the two men his oldest and steadiest partners. “We’ve got another kind of disease closer to home.”
They knew what he meant.
Sams nodded once. “Fox.”
“Fox,” McNabb agreed. “Too visible. Too involved in Massey’s games.”
Walter stayed quiet, watching. Ezekiel leaned on the desk, both hands flat. “He spoke where he shouldn’t. Gambled his name while it was tied to ours. That can’t continue. The longer we let it sit, the more dangerous it becomes.”
Sams scratched his chin. “You want to push him out?”
“Buy him out,” Ezekiel clarified. “Quietly. Fair market value. No headlines. Let the record show a shift of minor interest. We keep the core intact.”
Walter tapped the pen once against the folder’s edge. “If he resists?”
McNabb shook his head. “He won’t. He’s feeling the heat from both sides now Anti-Saloon eyes and political pressure. He’ll take the money and call it a relief.”
Ezekiel looked at Walter. “You’ll draft the papers. Clean. No chatter about motives. We’ll file the transfer in February after the ink dries.”
Walter nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Sams glanced toward the window. “That’s one rot we can cure. Now what about the hogs?”
Ezekiel exhaled slowly. “I’ll lose money this quarter. But I’d rather lose pigs than lose standing. That farm will recover.” The men nodded again. The matter was settled.
As the partners stood and began gathering their coats, Walter lingered a moment. Ezekiel met his eye.
“You handled that well,” Ezekiel said.
“I watched you,” Walter replied. “You’ve handled worse.”
A flicker of a smile tugged at Ezekiel’s mouth. “We’ll leave this one behind us. Quiet and clean.”
By the next month, a small property transfer one line in a long list would appear in the back pages of the local paper:
M.L. Fox and wife to W.T. Sims, W.B. McNabb and E. Gouge, interest in distillery property and assets of E. Gouge & Company; consideration $2,350.
Minor interest purchased back and a major risk removed, and in a quiet corner of 6th Street, the distillery’s future was pulled back from the edge once again.
April 1911, Oak Street, Bristol
Evening settled softly over Oak Street, casting long shadows across the parlor’s lace curtains. The gas lights over the piano flickered gently, throwing warm light over the stitched armchair where Ezekiel sat with the evening paper folded in his lap. Pantha sat across from him, thimble on her finger and mending basket by her side, though her needle had paused mid-stitch.
“The girls made the honor roll again,” Ezekiel said, smoothing the newsprint with his thumb. “Lillian, Eula, and I expect that’s our Mabel there too though they’ve gone and spelled it Eula twice.”
Pantha gave a quiet smile. “They’ll fix it next month. But yes, that’s our bunch.”
He read aloud from the clipping: ‘Lillian Gouge… Eula Gouge…’ and then trailed off with a soft, satisfied breath. “Mountain-born and city-taught. That’s a fine thing.”
Pantha’s needle resumed its work. “They come by it honest. Your father would be proud.”
Ezekiel nodded. “And maybe surprised. I’ll clip it and send it in my next letter, maybe with a note from the girls”
Across the room, young Orde was sprawled on the rug with a pencil and paper, drawing what appeared to be a hog wearing spectacles. Walter, now taking on more of the business's day-to-day, had left not an hour before to attend a temperance debate, just to listen, not to speak. Bernice was upstairs, reviewing arithmetic with Irene tucked in beside her.
“The whole brood,” Ezekiel murmured, “bright, stubborn, and sharp as flint. Good stock.”
Pantha looked up. “That includes you, you know.”
He waved it off. “I'm just the stone they strike against.” He turned the paper to another article, one with a bold headline:
“$40,000 Paid Into City Treasury by Saloonists”
His finger found his own name in the middle of the list: E. Gouge & Co. – $4,450
He grunted. “Seems they remember us most at tax time.”
Pantha raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the way of it?”
“City gets thirty thousand of that. State takes the rest. And none of it feeds back to us, but we’re the ones keeping the wheels greased.” He tapped the edge of the page. “They condemn what we do in Sunday sermons but line their streets with our money on Monday morning.”
Pantha set her mending aside, her eyes steady on him. “You still believe in the work?”
He met her gaze. “I believe in feeding families like the ones who bottle for us, haul for us, and grow the corn that feeds our stills. I believe in keeping honest men on their feet and my name in good standing.” He paused. “Even if the ground under us gets a little shakier every spring.”
They were quiet for a while, listening to the sound of Orde humming softly and the ticking of the parlor clock. Finally, Ezekiel folded the paper and placed it neatly beside the lamp.
“Let them print what they will. So long as my children’s names appear in the honor roll, not the arrest sheet, I’ll count that as credit enough.”
Pantha’s smile was faint, but firm. “And that’s a measure no court can shake.”
Bristol, Virginia – Spring 1911
Walter stood in the vestibule of the Board of Trade offices, smoothing the cuffs of his gray wool suit. The window behind him let in a halo of spring light, casting his silhouette onto the polished floor. His name had just been added to the roster. Youngest member by a stretch, but a Gouge nonetheless. He’d spoken well at the last meeting clear, confident, numbers in hand. One of the older members had even clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Your father’s sharp but you’ve got a steadier voice.” That praise had stayed with him. He’d written it in the margin of his daybook like a bookmark in time.
Back at the Oak Street house that evening, the lamplight glowed warm over the supper table. Pantha dished greens onto each plate while young Orde jabbered on about the invention of a flying machine that could cross oceans. Lona sang the spelling words she’d memorized that week. The girls’ names Lillian and Eula had been in the paper again, on the Jefferson School roll of honor. When Pantha read it aloud, Ezekiel gave a short, proud nod. “Birchfield brains,” he muttered, but Walter saw the twitch of a smile. That was the last quiet supper before the storm.
Distillery Office – Bristol, VA
The telegram arrived mid-morning, though the news had already begun leaking out on the street before it landed on the desk in the rectifying house office. Walter hadn’t had time to read it. He didn’t need to. A barrel just one damn barrel had been detained. He stood at the edge of the rickhouse, hand resting on the railing, looking down over the warehouse yard where summer heat shimmered and carts clattered. From this high corner of the distillery complex, he could see the cooper’s shed, the storage ramp, and the rail spur but it all looked frozen. Like the place had been caught mid-breath.
Inside the barrel house, ten thousand gallons of whiskey were now useless. Not a single order could be filled. Not one bottle moved. Downstairs, voices sharpened W.T. Sams and his father, deep in argument with a federal gauger, Mr. Alley. Walter didn’t recognize the second man standing with them, but the badge glinting on his lapel made his gut twist. Deputy Collector Bowers. Or maybe it was Pierce. The revenue men always came in twos now.
