Whiskey & Ashes, page 25
Ezekiel touched the brim of his hat. “Walter’s first letter came this week. He’s made it to the Canal Zone. I thought the young ones might understand it better with a map or something they could hold in their hands.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the man, stepping out from behind the counter. “We just unpacked a shipment yesterday booksellers in New York sent down the latest titles on Panama. The big project’s stirring all kinds of interest.”
He led them to a narrow table near the front window. Two books lay side by side: one thick and glossy with an embossed spine, the other a smaller red volume with gilt letters fading at the edges.
“This one here,” he said, tapping the larger book, Panama and the Canal in Picture and Prose by Willis Abbot, “is popular with the schools full of photographs, and even a few hand-colored plates. Here’s a water-color of the locks at Pedro Miguel. Quite stirring.”
Orde leaned in, his fingers grazing a page with a sun-drenched painting of Ancon Hill. “That’s where Walter said he’s living,” he whispered, as if the mountain could hear him.
“And this one,” the bookseller continued, lifting the slimmer red volume, The Panama Canal by Frederic J. Haskin, “has the better writing. More precise. And see here inside the cover’s a foldout map of the Isthmus. About two feet long in color. Very detailed. Your boy might’ve had this one in hand himself.”
Ezekiel took the book gently and unfolded the map across the table. The paper crackled softly as the blue of the oceans, green of the land, and fine red lines of railways and locks unfurled between them.
“There,” Orde said, pointing, “is that Balboa?”
“Just so,” Ezekiel nodded. “And that line there that’s the canal itself. Looks like a snake trying to swim through the mountain.”
The bookseller chuckled. “More like the mountain tried to swallow it first. But the Americans got it through. Just about ready to open this summer, from what I hear.”
Ezekiel traced the map’s winding path with one callused finger, his face unreadable. Then he folded it back with care and nodded.
“We’ll take both.”
The Parlor on Spencer Street, Bristol – Two Days Later
The books lay open across the parlor floor like treasure maps. Orde knelt near the hearth, gently turning the glossy pages of Panama and the Canal in Picture and Prose, while Irene leaned over the red-covered Haskin book, tracing the canal’s twisting path with one serious finger.
“I think the Culebra Cut looks like a canyon,” she announced. “But with mud that slides instead of rocks that fall.”
“You should’ve seen the dredge in Walter’s letter,” Orde replied. “Like a giant metal insect with a steam whistle.”
Pantha sat in her rocker by the window, mending a shirt but keeping half an ear on the children. She glanced down at the pages they’d spread on the floor. One showed a color plate of laborers dark-skinned, shirtless, straining beside a rail cart piled with earth. Another showed white-suited engineers standing atop a lock gate, one hand on the rail, surveying the scene like generals.
“They don’t look the same,” Irene said, furrowing her brow.
“What do you mean?” asked Pantha, setting down her mending.
“The men working look tired. Dirty. But the others stand and watch. Why’s that?”
Pantha didn’t answer right away. She rose and crossed the room, smoothing Irene’s hair as she looked over her shoulder. “Because the world’s like that, child,” she said gently. “But not all watchers are lazy, and not all workers are low. Sometimes it takes both to make a thing like this. Walter’s one of the watchers, but he watches with his hands, too.”
Orde looked up. “Mama, can we ask him things? Like... do the locks really lift the ships like they say? Or is that just in the drawing?”
Pantha smiled. “Of course we can ask. But remember, letters are like stew they take time to reach the table.”
She pulled a clean sheet of paper from the writing desk and settled beside it with a fountain pen. The children gathered close as she dipped the nib in ink. She wrote slowly, her handwriting steady and upright:
Bristol, Virginia
April 20, 1914
My dear Walter,
We received your letter, and it has already been read three times over, twice aloud by your father, once by Orde to Irene as they studied your books. Yes, we have them both now. Your papa took Orde to Kemble-Cochran’s, and they came home with your Haskin volume and the big picture book by Abbot, which has kept the children in Panama all weekend, at least in their minds.
Irene wants to know if the children there really go barefoot everywhere, even near the steam engines. Orde asks whether the locks really raise a ship, and how long it takes. He also wants to know if you’ve seen any snakes as big as the ones drawn in the margin of the map.
Your papa says to tell you he is proud, though he did mutter about freight records and crooked ledgers again after reading your postscript. He sends his love in the form of quiet pacing and folded arms.
I send mine with this ink, and a kiss for your cheek if I could reach it.
Write when you can and tell us what your own eyes have seen.
Yours,
Mama
She folded the letter carefully and reached for the envelope. Orde handed her the red book, flipping to the map inside the cover.
“Shall I mark where to send it?” he asked with a grin.
Pantha laughed softly. “Let’s hope the postmaster’s aim is true, or your brother’s letter might end up in the jungle.”
~
June 4, 1914, Balboa Heights, Canal Zone
Dear Mama,
Your letter reached me on Monday, along with Orde’s careful list of questions and Irene’s fine drawing of a barefoot girl with a parasol riding a dredge. I pinned it up on the wall beside my desk, and it’s been admired more than once by my bunkmates one even asked if I’d drawn it myself, so you can imagine the scandal when I told him my sister is only seven.
I’m glad to hear you’ve all been studying the canal in those books Papa found. Yes, the Haskin volume has the right of it for the most part, though I chuckled at the page describing our daily meals as 'ample and nutritious.' That’s technically true, but only if you like boiled meat and bread that sweats in its wrapping. I have indulged and eaten at the commissary or hotel on occasion though.
As to Orde’s question the locks do raise the ships, just as described. I watched the SS Ancon rise twenty-eight feet last week, smooth as if lifted by angels. The engineers here have more confidence than gravity itself. It’s a strange sight, seeing the Pacific waiting below like a promise and a threat all at once.
I have been moved to a new room closer to the freight office, which is quieter, but the ceiling leaks when it rains. The rainy season has begun, and every day the hills look like they’re steaming. The heat is constant thick enough to taste.
Your news about Bernice gave me joy. Dr. Shoun is a fine man, and I think she’ll make a splendid wife and a stubborn patient. October seems far off and much too near. I imagine the parlor is filled with women talking lace and linen. I envy them, truly. There is no softness here no mother’s voice or rustle of skirts. Just boots, brick, and paper.
Speaking of paper I’ve begun to notice something odd. The supply manifests I’ve been reviewing don’t always match the cargo logs. A few items heavy equipment mostly seem to vanish between the dock and the books. I flagged two entries last week, but Mr. White, one of Morris’s men, waved it off and said, “It’s not your job to chase shadows, son.”
Still, I’ve made a private note. Perhaps it is nothing. But Papa taught me to read every line and let none slip past.
Please tell Bernice I want a photograph of her in her wedding dress when the time comes. I’ll be here at least through the fall, and Lord willing, I’ll be back in time for Christmas, though no promises. Mr. Morris says some of us may be needed beyond the official opening, for “post-project stabilization.”
Tell Zeke I’ve spotted a steam-powered cart with gearing that looks like the brass clockwork he tried to build last spring. I’ll try to sketch it for him if I get a minute.
Tell Elmer they have Soda Fountains here. The sasparilla is not as good as his but it does remind me of home.
All my love to the girls and Papa, and please keep writing. The words from home carry more weight than you know.
Yours always,
Walter
P.S. The rain has started again no thunder, just a steady drumming. You would hate it, Mama. It feels like time itself is melting.
Independence Day on Spencer Street – July 4, 1914
The scent of scorched sugar and pine hung in the evening air, drifting from the backyard where Elmer stood proudly beside a tray of clinking glass bottles.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with theatrical flourish, “I present to you the finest cherry-vanilla soda ever brewed on this hill.”
The family, gathered in chairs along the porch and blankets on the lawn, cheered at the mock ceremony. Irene clapped, Bernice raised her glass, and even Pantha took a cautious sip before arching an eyebrow.
“It’s got bite,” she said, “but it’ll keep the flies off our tongues.”
From the edge of the yard, Orde and Zeke shouted countdowns to each other as they prepared their next “illuminated display” a contraption of wires, spark plugs, and a row of tin cans filled with colored powder. When they lit the first fuse, a bright blue plume shot skyward and popped with a modest hiss.
“That one’s for Walter,” Orde declared. “He said the canal’s nearly finished. That deserves a flare.”
Four more fired in quick succession. The boys grinned in triumph as the colors showered down over the yard. As dusk deepened, the sky over Bristol shimmered with scattered fireworks from across the city. The family could see it all from the ridge, the bursts blooming like flowers above rooftops and treetops, followed by the hollow crack of sound arriving a second late.
Pantha sat in her rocker, Bernice curled beside her, already talking about October linens and train tickets to Oklahoma. Eula and Lillian talking about the dresses they wanted to wear at the wedding. Irene, holding a sparkler with solemn reverence, looked up and whispered, “Do you think Walter saw fireworks today?”
Ezekiel, who had been quiet all evening, cleared his throat. “If he didn’t,” he said, “I hope he at least heard the sky.”
July 5, 1914
Following the night of fireworks and soda, the kitchen table was quiet by the Gouge family’s usual standards. The peace of Sunday morning settled over them like a quilt warm, worn, familiar as they broke their fast with scrambled eggs, bacon, and hot biscuits drowned in gravy.
Ezekiel sat at the head of the table in his usual chair, unfolding the morning newspaper with deliberate care. He read every page, as he always did equal parts delight and dread in each crinkled fold.
The headline caught his eye as he poured his coffee:
"THE PROHIBITION QUESTION IN VIRGINIA"
He read in silence, jaw tightening as his eyes scanned the page. The article’s tone was smug, almost gleeful describing Richmond’s turn toward prohibition as a kind of moral revival. It mocked the idea of local self-government, called it a “farce,” and predicted a sweeping tide of temperance sentiment even in cities like Bristol.
He folded the paper tighter than necessary and set it down beside his plate.
“They talk about and celebrated our liberty just yesterday,” he muttered, “and today they cheer to take it away.”
From the stove, Pantha stirred the last of the gravy, her face calm but her voice clear. “Whiskey has always been a fight of freedom, a stand against tyranny. You know that.”
She turned, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Write Walter,” she said simply. “Let him hear your voice before it gets lost in all the noise.”
Bristol, Virginia
July 5, 1914
My dear Walter,
We thought of you the whole day yesterday. Orde and Zeke made a light show that startled half the squirrels off the hill, and Elmer brewed up a soda that nearly lit the rest of us on fire from the inside out. We watched fireworks over the city from the porch blue, red, gold, like the Lord’s own lanterns. Irene held a sparkler for you and said she hopes you heard the sky. I believe you did.
Bernice is stitching table linens and talking about train routes to Oklahoma. Dr. Shoun is a steady man, and I know she’ll be looked after. I just wish you could be here to send her off.
Papa read something in the paper that got him pacing again. I’ve tucked it in with this letter. He’ll add his own thoughts below.
All my love,
Mama
A post-scriptum was added in Ezekiel’s hand.
Walter
I read your last note three times. If seven crates were signed for and only five arrived, that’s not shadows, it’s theft. Keep your own record separate. Trust no one who tells you not to look too close. The world is shifting under our feet, son don’t let it swallow your footing.
We’ll be watching the papers here. You watch the books there.
Papa
~
July 28, 1914 Balboa Heights, Canal Zone
Dear Papa,
Thank you for your letter. I read it three times, same as you did mine. I tucked the newspaper clipping inside the red book you sent, just behind the map, and I’ve marked Bristol with a red pencil so I can see home when I’m feeling far off. I could almost hear your voice in the postscript short, careful, and not without weight.
The 4th was celebrated here with much fanfare. A picnic hosted by the YMCA stretched the length of the parade ground, with tables full of fried chicken, baked beans, and watermelon the size of barrels. Children ran barefoot through the grass, and the brass band played everything from Sousa to Oh, Dem Golden Slippers.
After sundown, we were invited to the social club near Ancon. The grounds were decorated with paper lanterns and flags, and I sat beside a young engineer from Ohio who said, half in jest, that this might be the last real American summer before we all start fighting over Europe. He meant nothing by it, but I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
At the closing ceremony, someone read aloud a message attributed to President Roosevelt, though I’m told it may have been repurposed from earlier years. It said:
“This canal is the work of the American people, wrought by American strength and skill, and it will stand as a monument not only to industry, but to will.”
The applause nearly shook the flagpole. And I’ll admit I clapped too. There is pride here, Papa. Earned pride. We’re standing on one of the great accomplishments of our age, and every man here knows it. But in that pride, I see something else stirring. Something more hurried.
The canal is almost finished. Word is the first formal passage may come before mid-August. And because of that, men are moving fast. Deals once made in daylight are now spoken in corners. A man I met last month named Harwood hasn’t been seen in days, but I found his name three times in an invoice for freight that never arrived.
I’ve started keeping a second ledger. I don’t file it in the office. I keep it wrapped in oilcloth beneath the floorboard of my bunk. It’s not just numbers, but names. Notes on conversations. Slips of paper tucked into folders that didn’t match the rest. Mr. Morris hasn’t said anything directly, but I’ve noticed White watching me more closely lately.
If I vanish for a few days, you’ll know it wasn’t on account of fever.
I’m still doing my job. Still walking to work each day past the American flag and the crowing roosters and the barefoot boys playing marbles in the dirt. But I’m writing it all down, because truth doesn’t always wait for a safe moment. Sometimes it needs a witness.
Give my love to Mama, Irene, and the rest. Tell Bernice I want a full report on the wedding linens, and if Elmer brews anything explosive again, remind him it’s best served cold.
Yours always,
Walter
~
E. Gouge & Co. Distillery, Bristol – Early August 1914
The air in the distillery yard shimmered with heat and the bitter smell of cooked grain. Ezekiel stood on the loading platform, shirt sleeves rolled, watching as a new shipment of barrels was stacked under the side shed.
“Mind the angle!” he called to the younger man guiding the mule team. “You lose one of those barrels and we’ll be scraping mash off the dirt ‘til frost.”
Inside, the vats hissed. Lee Davis and another worker argued softly over a stuck pipe in the new condenser. Business was still moving, barely, but trouble shadowed every corner now. Fewer buyers came in person. More whispers drifted through town than orders.
Ezekiel pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiping the sweat from his neck as he stepped into the cool of the office. At the desk, he sat with deliberate purpose and took up his pen.
August 3, 1914
Private
Mr. B.J. Atkins
Freight Office – Virginia & Southwestern
Abingdon, VA
Ben
Hope this finds you steady. I’ve a quiet inquiry I’d appreciate you keeping it between us. My son Walter is currently employed under Commissioner Charles Morris with the Canal Zone Project. He’s a good boy, sharp with figures, and he’s seen a few things lately that suggest someone in Morris’s circle may be cutting their own path through the books.
I do not believe Mr. Morris himself is crooked only perhaps well-positioned for men of lesser scruples to move freely under his flag. You’ve always had a sense for names and the ones that ride quietly in the second car, if you follow me.
If any of those names White, Harwood, or others tied to freight from this end ring a bell in your ledgers or your memory, I’d be grateful for the hint. My boy keeps a private log now, and I’d like to help keep him alive long enough to finish it.
Your friend,
E. Gouge
Ezekiel had barely finished blotting the letter when Lee Davis pushed open the office door, newspaper in hand. “They printed it, Papa Gouge. Right there on the second page.”
