Whiskey & Ashes, page 33
Ashhworth looked over at the young man. “No, Zeke. It’s spectacle. A man with a name like your father’s is worth more to them disgraced than silent.”
Ezekiel rose slowly, joints stiff, but his eyes clear. “They’ve made their move. They want to write the ending for me, but I’ve lived too long to let that happen.”
He stepped toward the table, picked up the indictment, and studied it for a long moment. He spoke quietly at first. “They want me to be the villain. They try to make me out to be a thief or a cheat. A man who would sell whiskey behind the curtain and bribe a boy with a dying mother.”
He looked up, and his voice rose calm, but thunderous beneath. “Let them come. My brother taught me a man’s land is his word in the world. Pantha’s guarded every acre like a promise. They may ransack the past, but I’ll see to it they do not own our name.”
Pantha stood. In her hand was a folded sheaf of papers, wrapped in oilskin. “These are the deeds and conveyances I put in my name long before the seizure and the auctions began. Titles on the Ridge lot, the Spenser house, even the old pasture. I made sure nothing was in Ezekiel’s or the company name that didn’t need to be.”
She placed the bundle into Ashworth’s hands. “Deliver these to the courthouse. There are things they cannot take.”
Ashworth nodded visibly moved. “I’ll file them the minute the court opens. And I’ll keep speaking to the press. If they won’t listen in Abingdon they’ll hear us from every paper stand in Tennessee. I will stop by the paper with a statement as well.”
Zeke stepped forward, voice cracking slightly. “But what if they jail you, Papa?”
Ezekiel turned, meeting his son’s eyes. “Then I’ll walk in with my head high. I’ve kept honest books, told no lies, and buried my children on land I paid for. Let them lock up my body they’ll never touch my name.”
Silence fell for a moment. Then Pantha walked to her husband, linked her arm in his, and looked at Ashworth. “Let’s give them something worth fearing.”
Bristol Herald Courier – May 12, 1917
ASHWORTH TALKS OF GOUGE CASE ---- "For nearly two years the Federal government has been investigating the question of making an assessment against E. Gouge and Company. This is based on the fact that it is claimed that various railroad officials can show records for shipments of malt to E. Gouge and Company greatly in excess of the amount which is claimed that his distillery books show was actually used in the manufacture of spirits. The government assumed that this malt was taken to the distillery and used notwithstanding the sworn statement of the Federal agents and storekeepers, whose duty it was to measure out and keep under lock and key all materials. used. Not only was it necessary to assume that this malt was taken upon the premises and used but it was also necessary to assume that about eight times as much other kind of grain was likewise taken upon the premises and used since malt constituted only one-eighth of the grain used in manufactured spirits. "Finally, this resulted in an assessment being made against E. Gouge & Company for about $150,000. Mr. Gouge immediately opposed the assessment and denied that malt was used. He furnished full affidavits of every revenue agent in charge of the distillery and other affidavits fully accounting for all malt purchased. Afterwards a special revenue agent was sent to Bristol to investigate the case and render a report. He did and advised the department against the assessment. Thereafter Agent Danderfoe was sent to make another investigation. He recommended the confirmation of the assessment, upon which the collector levied a distress warrant upon the real estate owned by Mr. Gouge, which was recently sold. This action will be contested in court. Until this time Mr. Gouge has no opportunity of presenting his side of the case in court. He has always urged that the government establish its claim by judicial proceeding, either civil or criminal. Consequently, at the recent term of the Federal Court in Abingdon he was indicted upon the same grounds as those upon which the assessment was based. There is no indictment against Mr. Gouge for undertaking to bribe and officer of the government.”
October 1917, Spencer Street Parlor
The fire crackled low in the hearth. Ezekiel, stood at the window, reading a crumpled newspaper. A fresh stack of legal documents sat untouched on the desk. Pantha watched him from her secretary desk, pen frozen mid-stroke. “Another charge?”
“Yes,” Ezekiel answered. “Perjury, now. For saying I couldn’t afford witnesses in bankruptcy court. They say I lied because the property they sold out from under me is still in my name. Like I’d hide coin in the chimney while my children swept floors for firewood.”
Ezekiel tossed the newspaper aside, revealing the headline: Gouge Is Now Charged With Perjury. “They sold our land illegally, I’ll argue it to my last breath and still they say I control it. So which is it? Am I ruined or am I rich?”
Pantha rose and crossed to him, “And the indictment?”
“Took two hours just to read. Forty-eight counts. Fifty pages. Ashworth said it plain, “For nearly two years they’ve chased this case. Claimed malt was brought in. Assumed it was used. Assumed eight times the grain was, too. Every federal agent we’ve ever had at the distillery vouched we followed the law. That wasn't enough.” Ezekiel quoted.
“Then what will be?” She asked.
“Their victory. Nothing less.”
He picked up a letter from the desk, marked U.S. District Court, Abingdon. His hands shook not from fear, but fury. “They couldn’t seize our name, so now they smear it. Let them file their papers and read them ‘til they go blind. Let them indict me by the dozen.”
He looked up, voice rising not with anger, but something steadier. Something unbreakable. “Pantha, you have been tucking away our security since the day we set foot in Fish Springs. We buried our dead with honor. I won’t bury our name in shame.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We keep our heads and fight. If the court won’t hear the truth, Ashworth will shout it from every paper that prints ink. This ain’t justice. It’s war by affidavit. And by God, I won’t blink.”
December 1917, Spencer Street
The light was weak through the lace curtains, a pale gray slant that dulled the brass trim on the sideboard. Ezekiel stood there for a long while, the newspaper folded in his hand like a blade. The headline bled bold across the front page:
E. Gouge Loses Suit Against Government.
The typeface was too pleased with itself, as though it had vanquished him with ink alone.
Ashworth paced near the fireplace, his jacket thrown across the chairback, sleeves rolled high on forearms that had known too many late nights in court and not enough victories. The fire snapped and settled. Pantha sat at her desk, her back straight, unread letters stacked neatly before her, untouched.
“They call it a victory,” Ashworth said, voice tight. “One of the greatest legal wins in the western district of Virginia. That’s what the papers say.”
Ezekiel didn’t answer at first. He laid the paper down with a precision that seemed almost reverent or like he feared it might combust if handled wrong. He stared at the headline a moment longer before speaking, low and even.
“A man’s life,” he said, “reduced to someone else’s bragging rights.”
His hand moved to the column where numbers told their own story. “They sold it under cover of tax debt,” he continued. “One hundred fifty thousand in ghost grain and phantom whiskey. But they bought it back at thirty-six. Thirty-six thousand to rob a lifetime.”
Pantha’s voice broke the stillness. “And now?”
Ashworth shifted his weight, the words coming with practiced resignation. “Now they vest title in the government. Judge McDowell dismissed our bill this morning. The ink’s barely dry.”
Ezekiel turned to the shelf and pulled down a thick bound ledger, cracked at the spine and soft at the corners from years of his handling. He flipped it open to a hand-drawn map the contours of their land inked in his own careful lines.
“They aren’t just lines on a deed,” he said. “That hill bore our name. That barn held our winter’s barley. That stream our daughter washed her hands in it before Sunday supper.”
Ashworth’s voice softened. “Ezekiel”
But Ezekiel raised a hand. “No. You said it yourself: this was never about liquor. It was about making an example. About breaking a man who wouldn’t bow.”
Pantha met his gaze then. Her expression was worn but not withered. Her strength, as ever, was in the stillness unyielding.
“And yet you stand,” she said.
His jaw moved once, twice. Then he nodded, the edge of his resolve catching in her gaze.
“Because you do.”
Ashworth exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “The appeal will be uphill. Chitwood and Byrd will use the ruling to say we’re grasping. That we lost fair and square.”
Ezekiel closed the ledger, his hand resting on the cover like one might rest a hand on a headstone or a Bible. “Then let them say it from the stand,” he said. “I’ll be there to answer.”
He looked at the fire, then back to the quiet strength of his wife and the weary resolve of his friend.
“This isn’t the end,” he said. “It’s the intermission.”
Chapter 20
20
Final Judgement
Ashworth’s Office, January 1918
The morning fog hadn’t lifted when Ezekiel arrived at Ashworth’s narrow brick office, Ashworth & Hockett, 514 Cumberland. The legal stacks were taller than usual. So was the silence.
“It’s been six months since the appeal was filed,” Ezekiel said, setting his hat down. “You hear anything?”
J.S. Ashworth didn’t look up at first. He just pulled a single page from the file, held it like bad news. “The case is still pending before the Department. No court date. No dismissal. Just... delay.”
“So they mean to starve us,” Ezekiel said flatly.
Ashworth finally looked up. “Or bury you in it. Paper by paper.”
“They’ll need more paper than that,” Ezekiel replied. “I’ve built my name on rock, not parchment.”
Ashworth folded his hands. “They want you to give up, but we’re still standing. And…” he paused, cracking a grin, “Pantha’s careful accounting may outlive us both.”
Ezekiel allowed a faint smile. “They didn’t count on her. They never do.”
He stepped to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Beyond the glass, mist hovered low over the rooftops like a shroud. He didn’t turn back when he spoke again.
“She kept ledgers of her own. Opened accounts in her maiden name before any of the children were born. Tucked money into parcels of land that bore only the Buchanan title. Gifts, she called them. Her quiet things. One in Garfield, another in Bluff City. A share in a dry goods concern in Johnson City she’s never once stepped foot in. She holds it through a cousin’s wife.”
Ashworth nodded slowly, un-surprised. “That’s how she paid the taxes when they froze the accounts, isn’t it? How she kept the note on Arlington Avenue current. I checked the county rolls everything tied to her name is clean and untouchable.”
Ezekiel turned from the window at last. “They assumed a wife had nothing unless her husband gave it to her. That’s the loophole. They wrote the laws to protect men and to ignore the wives, mostly. Pantha used their blindness to protect the whole damn family.”
Ashworth exhaled, almost smiling. “She’s the best lawyer I know, and she never needed a degree.”
Ezekiel grunted his agreement, then bent to pick up the folded newspaper on the edge of the chair. The headline was days old now, but the sting of it remained:
Gouge Property Seized, Sale Confirmed
He handed the paper to Ashworth without a word.
“She said it last week,” Ezekiel murmured. “Told the girls: ‘They can’t take what they can’t see. And they’ll never find what I never signed.’” The two men stood in quiet accord a long while after that, the fog outside lifting by imperceptible degrees.
The Gouge House, Later That Week
Irene stood by the window, pressing her fingers to the frosty pane. Across the street, girls in coats the color of peppermint sticks were skipping rope. Her name Irene Gouge hadn’t kept her from being invited this time. A birthday party on Goodson Street.
“Do you want me to walk you?” Pantha asked, adjusting the ribbon in her daughter’s hair.
Irene shook her head. “No, Mama. I can go on my own.”
Pantha smiled, but her eyes followed her long after the door closed.
In the kitchen, Lillian folded linens while Eula read a novel aloud. Elmer and Orde had taken to fixing an old phonograph in the attic half tinkering, half therapy.
Pantha returned to her desk in the front room. She opened a ledger, not her husband’s, but hers kept quiet, and separate, for nearly twenty years.
“Let them think wives are helpless,” she murmured. “It’s the only advantage we get.”
October 5, 1918 A Letter from City Hall
The letter had arrived two days earlier delivered by hand from City Hall, folded crisp and stamped with the seal of the mayor’s office. Ezekiel hadn’t needed to read past the first paragraph to know what it meant.
Mayor Clarence King had written with formal politeness but unmistakable urgency. The State Board of Health had approved immediate use of medicinal spirits held under federal seal. The twenty barrels stored in the basement of the Bristol Post Office marked plainly as E. Gouge & Co. were to be tapped by week’s end. The Spanish Flu as it was being called, had been ravaging any community that it touched and Bristol was suffering.
“I am aware the matter of ownership remains unsettled,” the mayor wrote, “and I will state publicly that the barrels belong to you pending resolution. But in this emergency, we must act for the public good. I trust you understand.”
Ezekiel had folded the letter in silence. He did understand.
October 7, 1918 Ezekiel’s Study, 406 Spencer Street, Flu Pandemic
The front door clicked shut behind the boy from the post office, the faint thud of his boots retreating down the porch steps. Ezekiel stood holding the envelope he’d handed over a formal government seal pressed into the flap.
Pantha called from the kitchen, but he didn’t answer.
He stepped into the study, sat in the leather armchair beneath the window, and cracked open the letter with the edge of his thumbnail. The heavy paper unfolded stiffly, still creased from Washington.
He read the mayor’s typed report once. Then again, slower.
All twenty barrels discovered empty. All that remained was the scent.
Evaporated, the crew claimed.
Ezekiel exhaled through his nose, long and silent. His thumb brushed the edge of the paper until it bent. He reached for the small crystal decanter on the desk one of his own stock of Happy Valley Reserve poured two fingers into a short glass, and drank it in one slow swallow.
Pantha appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“What was that about?”
“They opened the barrels today,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “The ones at the Post Office?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“Empty,” he said flatly. “Gone. Just the smell left.”
Pantha crossed her arms. “And what’s their explanation?”
“Evaporation.”
She scoffed. “Twenty barrels? That’s not evaporation. That’s theft.”
Ezekiel smiled bitterly. “Well, if it was, they took it slow enough not to leave a trail.”
She watched him a long moment. “You gonna fight it?”
He turned toward the window, looking out at the gray street, the cold creeping in through the glass. “No. Not this time.”
Pantha’s voice softened. “That was Walter’s batch, wasn’t it? The last he helped mark.”
Ezekiel didn’t answer. He just reached for the glass again, remembered it was already empty, and set it down with care.
“I hope,” he said, “whoever drank it needed it more than the ones gasping for breath in the hospital.”
Pantha stepped closer, resting her hand on his shoulder.
“Maybe they did,” she said.
He didn’t believe it and neither did she.
That Afternoon – Mayor Clarence King’s Office
The ledger lay open on the mayor’s desk, its pages smudged with ink and sweat. Clarence King leaned on one elbow, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbows of his white shirt. Outside, the church bells had finished tolling. Inside, the room was quiet, too quiet for a Sunday meant for saving lives.
The Bristol City physician, Dr.George Wiley, stood across from him, arms folded, expression lined with fatigue and disgust.
“I had four men die this morning,” the doctor said. “Two more by sunset, likely. You know what might’ve bought them another day? That whiskey.”
Clarence rubbed his temple. “Don’t remind me.”
“Twenty barrels,” Wiley said. “Gone. Poof. Just damp wood and a whiff of what should’ve saved a dozen lives.”
“I filed the request,” Clarence said. “I got the approval from Washington. I signed the damn distribution orders.”
“But you didn’t get the locks changed,” Wiley snapped. “Or check the seals. Or post a man to watch it.”
Clarence looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. “Do you think I didn’t try? This town wouldn’t stand a week against federal eyes. You know how many of them came through here during the raids on Gouge’s place? I wasn’t about to accuse them of sipping contraband on duty.”
Wiley turned away, pacing. “So that’s it? Gone? Just let it vanish?”
“I wrote to the regional office. I’ll get the usual: ‘We regret to inform you, due to insufficient documentation, no further inquiry will be opened at this time.’"
He paused. “You want to dig up proof that a federal gauger helped himself during a dry run?”
“I want to tell the families I did something,” Wiley said. “That we didn’t just let their family members die hurting while our medicine aged in oak.”
