Whiskey & Ashes, page 34
Clarence opened the desk drawer and pulled out a single pint bottle. The last one. Sealed tight and untouched.
He slid it across the table toward the doctor.
“For the next one who’s close,” he said.
Wiley picked it up slowly, solemnly. “What do I tell him?”
The mayor leaned back, eyes distant. “Tell him we tried.”
Outside, the bells began to toll again.
Smith and Satterwhite General Store, Cumberland Street
The bell above the door jingled as the wind blew in with Clara Bell Cooper and her folded-up umbrella. The woodstove was already glowing in the corner, radiating heat that smelled faintly of coal and cinnamon. Inside, three old men sat near the checkerboard barrel, spitting tobacco and not bothering to hide their smirks.
“Twenty barrels,” said Jasper Finch, thumbing the newsprint. “All vanished. Just like that.”
“Evaporated,” muttered Amos Withers. “That’s the word they used.”
“Whiskey don’t evaporate through white oak,” said Jasper. “And it sure as hell don’t do it in winter.”
Old Milt Henley leaned back in his chair. “Might if you leave the bung out. One barrel maybe. Two if the angels were real thirsty. But twenty?” He cackled. “That ain’t divine. That’s deliverance in pint flasks.”
Clara set down her umbrella and lifted her basket. “My brother died last week. Fever cooked his lungs like a pot roast. I’d like to believe a thief drank that liquor in celebration.” She looked them all dead in the eye. “But I expect it was rationed out quiet. One swallow at a time to men in fine coats, safe in warm rooms, who didn’t need it half as bad.”
The store went quiet.
Behind the counter, young Henry pulled a bottle of kerosene from the shelf and whispered, “They say one of the gaugers Caldwell had a new buggy by Monday.”
Amos chuckled darkly. “One sip for the flu, two for the road.”
“Mayor won’t touch it,” Jasper added. “Doctor’s tight-lipped too. You’d think they saw a ghost, not a theft.”
Clara snorted. “They saw a cover-up. But there’s nothing to be done. The whiskey’s gone and the dead can’t ask for receipts.”
She took her change and her tin of coffee and left without another word.
The men stared after her for a moment.
Then old Milt leaned forward, lowered his voice.
“You think Gouge knows?”
Jasper nodded. “He knew before we did. You can see it in his eyes. Like someone drained more than just his barrels.”
Outside, the wind howled down State Street, cold and sharp as regret.
June 4, 1919 – News from Ash Street
The phone rang just after dawn. Ezekiel was already dressed.
He let it ring once more, then lifted the receiver. Static cracked on the line.
“Mr. Gouge? This is Martin down at City Fire.”
Ezekiel’s stomach tightened.
“There’s been a fire up at the old plant on Ash. The warehouse is gone.”
He said nothing for a moment.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, sir. It went fast. Both fire companies called out. We kept it from spreading to the railway shops, but… it’s all ash now.”
The silence stretched.
“Looked deliberate,” Martin added, lower. “But I can’t prove that.”
Ezekiel thanked him, hung up, and stood in the empty hallway. The ash-gray morning light filtered through the windowpanes. It had been nearly four years since that building had held anything but memory and corn.
June 6, 1919 – Courthouse, Abingdon, Virginia
The courtroom was hushed but heavy with the scent of old wood and ink. It was the first case of the morning. All of the arguments had ended the previous day. Today was just about the verdict.
J.S. Ashworth stood at the bench, thumbing the edge of his glasses as he waited for Judge McDowell to finish reading the motion.
Three years of accusations.
Three years of headlines and whispered condemnation.
Three years, and now…
“The court finds,” McDowell said, lowering the page, “that the government’s criminal indictments are hereby dismissed.”
Ashworth didn’t smile, but he nodded. Respectful. Controlled.
Ezekiel exhaled slowly at the defendants table, hands folded over his father’s walking cane.
There was still the civil matter. Still $132,000 they claimed he owed in tax. But the criminal stain was gone, at last. They took the first train back to Bristol, mostly in silence, and arrived late in the afternoon.
Outside, the sun was warm for November, but the air still carried smoke from two nights ago. Somewhere in town, folks were still whispering about the blaze about how fast it moved, how nothing could be salvaged.
Ashworth walked beside him to the waiting car at the station. Ezekiel settled into the seat and asked. “What is our next step?”
“Now we settle,” he said.
Ezekiel gave a dry laugh. “I've been settling my whole life.”
Ashworth cracked a rare grin. “Let’s do it on paper this time.”
November 23, 1919 – Spencer Street, Bristol
The Bristol Herald Courier sat folded beside the morning coffee. Ezekiel didn’t touch it. He’d already read the headline twice.
“Gouge Case Compromised – Supreme Court Dismisses Appeal.”
Three years of hearings, accusations, seizures, sales, and legal knots and it had all come down to a five-thousand-dollar check and a box quietly ticked in Washington. The charges were dropped. The appeal of Washington on the dropping of the case dismissed. His name, at least on paper, was cleared.
He hadn't owed the government a cent. And yet the whiskey would not be returned. That part of the story would never be corrected.
Pantha entered, setting a second cup across from him. “The wedding notice made the back page.”
Ezekiel nodded. “I saw.”
Taylor–Gouge. The column was barely four inches long.
He hadn’t said much when Lillian announced it. William Taylor was a decorated veteran with polite manners and no particular ambition. Pantha had worried quietly. Irene had called him “ordinary.” Ezekiel had said only: “She’s determined.”
They’d wed on November 7. No church bells. No reception. Just a family dinner in the parlor and a quiet goodnight.
Pantha sat. “What are you thinking?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“They took the barrels,” he said finally. “Wouldn’t return a drop. But they couldn’t prove a thing. Not one thing.”
“Except that they wanted it,” she replied softly.
He allowed himself a bitter smile.
“They held onto everything,” he said. “Four houses. Land. A warehouse. Corn whiskey. They posted notices like I was a criminal. Then when the courts cleared it all, they offered me back the buildings but kept the whiskey.”
“They took your name off the docket,” Pantha said gently. “That’s more than most men get.”
He looked out the window. Across the street, a boy rode past on a bicycle, a bundle of papers strapped behind him. Somewhere, church bells rang out. Sunday morning.
He reached for the paper again, this time unfolding it not to the front page, but to the fine print:
“Compromise terms require Mr. Gouge to relinquish all claims to the whiskey now held in the Bristol Post Office. The government agrees to return property valued at $152,000, and all claims against the former distiller shall be quashed.” Ezekiel tapped the page with one calloused finger.
“Three years,” he said. “Three years to write that sentence.”
Pantha stood and pressed her hand to his shoulder.
“You’re still standing,” she said. “So are we.”
Outside, wind rustled through the last of the autumn leaves. Ezekiel poured the last of the coffee, then slowly, finally, folded the paper closed.
January 1, 1920 – Spencer Street, Bristol
Snow dusted the porch railings like powdered sugar. Smoke curled up from chimneys all along the block. Somewhere down State Street, a brass band had played just past midnight, but the Gouge house was quiet now save for the faint hiss of a wood stove and the laughter of children echoing from upstairs.
Ezekiel sat on the front porch swing with a blanket over his knees and a red leather book open in his lap. The same book, worn soft now at the corners, the book he used to read to Walter. He traced the spine absently with one calloused thumb.
Inside, Pantha moved through the kitchen with practiced grace, directing trays of ham and sweet rolls while voices rose around her. Zeke had brought over Lucy and their two little girls, Eula Mae had just turned four and Ruth had been born in June. They toddled now between the skirts and shoes of their older cousins, collecting ribbons and crumbs with equal delight.
Zeke, still formally addressed by some as “Mr. H.E. Gouge,” had wiped the fruit syrup from his sleeves before coming, fresh from the holiday rush at the confectionery over on 520 State. Elmer had closed his soft drink shop early the sign now read “Gouge E. E. – Soft Drinks – 855 State” in neat lettering, the back room still stacked with crates of flavored soda bottles and a metal icebox humming with winter defiance.
Orde, nearly grown at sixteen, had excused himself from the table before dessert and disappeared into the attic, where copper wire, batteries, and crystal radios formed a web of quiet ambition. At night, he still scanned for signals no one else could hear.
Irene was dazzling at fourteen, full of wit and quick with a joke. She had new shoes, a deep green dress with glass buttons, and more suitors circling than Pantha dared count aloud. But she was careful like her mother.
The married children were busy with their own broods Nora and Lee Davis just down on Commonwealth, running their grocery store and raising a pack of bright-eyed, sharp-tongued children. Lockie and Bertie had written from farther out, promising spring visits. The others, scattered like the last seeds of the old tree, sent news and names Pantha kept in a family bible by the hearth.
Zeke stepped outside, letting the screen door slap behind him. He sat beside his father with a heavy sigh and a patent file folded under one arm.
“They acknowledged receipt,” he said, holding it out. “Just before Christmas. Might be official by next year.”
Ezekiel took it with slow fingers. The title caught his eye: Electric Steering System – H. E. Gouge. A sketch of a long-nosed motor vehicle sat stamped in the upper left corner.
“Well done, son,” Ezekiel murmured.
Zeke shrugged. “We’ll see what it’s worth.”
Silence settled a moment between them.
Then Zeke added, “Elmer says he wants to add a soda counter next summer. Maybe a nickel jukebox too. He’s got plans.”
Ezekiel chuckled, low and soft. “He always had more experiments than sense.”
Zeke smiled. “He’s steady, though. Stubborn.”
Pantha’s voice floated from the door. “Like someone I know.”
Ezekiel looked up to see her leaning against the frame, towel in hand, brow arched.
“Thinking of building again,” he said, without prompting. “A place out from town. We could have chickens maybe and a garden. A small field. Nothing big.”
Pantha didn’t reply. She studied him with the same shrewd gaze she’d turned on lawyers, land agents, and thirteen children.
“We’d need good soil,” she said finally. “Close enough to visit, far enough for peace.”
He closed the red book on his lap and set it gently beside him.
“Your brother’s place out west he says it’s quiet,” Ezekiel murmured. “But too far. This land… I understand it.”
“So we start there,” she said.
Then she stepped inside, already turning over the idea in her mind like a seed in her palm.
Ezekiel stayed a moment longer, letting the cold air touch his face. Behind him, laughter bubbled up from the parlor, the clink of china, the pop of a wood log shifting in the stove.
The new amendment to the Constitution had been ratified, and on January 17th, National Prohibition would take effect. The fight for his whiskey empire lay in ashes like the warehouse. The decade ahead was a mystery, but the page had turned.
21
Knoxville
Ball Camp Pike, 1930
The house stood with quiet confidence at the curve of Ball Camp Pike, its wide wraparound porch framed by tidy hedges and shade trees. Built on fifteen acres just west of Knoxville, it was no mere farmhouse. It was a statement a testament to survival, planning, and the fierce will of Pantha Gouge. The government can’t it. The courts have no reason to reach for it. The temperance crusaders who’d come for Ezekiel’s whiskey empire had managed to burn it down, but they had built a new life from the ashes.
They had moved to the new farm in 1925, leaving behind the embers of Bristol for something steadier. Knoxville offered proximity to the L&N Railroad, where steady work could still be found if not always guaranteed in the deepening shadows of the Great Depression. The land provided fruit from a small orchard, rows of vegetables in the garden, and meat from a couple of pigs fattened each fall. Down in the cool basement, shelves bowed under the weight of preserved food, and behind a locked door sat a dwindling cache of bottled whiskey, remnants of another life, sealed tight like memory itself.
The 1930 Census gave a snapshot of the household: Ezekiel and Pantha, now in their early seventies, still very much the patriarch and matriarch of a sprawling clan. Their son Elmer, 29, worked as a Towerman for the L&N Railroad, steady and loyal. Orde, 25, lived with his wife Viola and their three children in a sturdy frame house nearby, one of two properties Ezekiel had wisely acquired on the next street over. Orde and Viola’s eldest, T.O. (Thomas Orde Gouge Jr.), was six and ready to start at Claxton Elementary just up the hill. The twins, Paul and Pauline, were five and already inseparable, often found trailing behind Pantha in the kitchen or chasing chickens around the orchard.
Pantha had seen to every detail. She was the one who found the property, arranged the purchase, and saw the house built to her standards with strong bones, wide eaves, room enough for the grandchildren to grow up knowing stability. Ezekiel often said she had more business sense in her pinky finger than most men had in their whole head. She had protected what they built, first the distillery, then the land, then the family. The house was hers as much as it was his.
Inside, the study still held echoes of an earlier empire. Red leather-bound books lined the walls volumes he’d bought in 1902 for the children. Walter had loved them. Mollie too. A glass bottle etched with “Happy Valley Whiskey - E. Gouge & Co.” rested on the mantel beside a delicate shot glass from the First and Last Chance Saloon, and an old 1914 calendar print of young Irene holding a puppy. Together they told a story: the rise, the fight, the losses and the roots that held.
Knoxville was a return, in a way. A return to Tennessee. To something that resembled the old mountain rhythms of his youth with gardens, work, and children’s laughter. Irene, the baby of the family, had married a young man from Sevier County just to the East and settled in Seymour. She had always seemed like a city girl born after the Carter County years but now she lived nestled in the hills her great-grandparents once crossed with oxen and grit.
The house on Carnation Avenue one of two Ezekiel had bought for both income and security now served Orde’s growing family. Its side addition had been converted into a small general store, a neighborhood anchor in lean times. Ezekiel had encouraged it. The railroad was no longer reliable, not with the Depression deepening. But groceries? Staples? Soap, bread, and lamp oil? Those things still mattered. And Orde’s shortwave radio skills gave them something more: connection. Orde took in radios for repair and had even been featured in an article explaining how they work. The Gouge name had once meant whiskey; now, it meant signal clarity and survival.
And every so often, as dusk came down and the first stars blinked awake, Ezekiel would sit with a grandson on his knee, tell a story from long ago, and wonder quietly what chapter would come next.
Ball Camp Pike, 1931
The house smelled like fried apples and old newspapers. Pantha was folding laundry in the front room, her back to the fire, while Elmer fiddled with a busted radio on the kitchen table its insides scattered like a disemboweled clock. Wires, screws, a screwdriver, and a biscuit shared equal space.
Ezekiel stepped into the doorway, brushing dust off his coat, one arm in a sling.
Pantha turned, eyes narrowing.
“What happened to you?”
“I had a… moment,” he said, with exaggerated calm, as if reporting the weather. “It’s all handled now.”
Elmer looked up, spotted the torn elbow in Ezekiel’s sleeve, and squinted. “Pop, did you fall off the tractor again?”
“I wasn’t on the tractor,” Ezekiel muttered, crossing the room. “I was registering to vote.”
Pantha dropped a pillowcase. “And?”
“And I got hit by a car.”
Elmer blinked. “You what?”
“Not hard. Just a bit of a tap.” Ezekiel gingerly flexed his fingers. “Arm’s a touch broken, maybe. They say it’ll mend. The wanted me to stay overnight at the hospital but I declined.”
Pantha stepped forward, eyes scanning him. “Who hit you?”
“Fellow named Merriman from Fountain City. Said he meant to hit the brake but got excited and stepped on the gas instead. I told him, ‘Son, you don’t mash the Constitution when you’re aiming for democracy.’”
Pantha clucked her tongue and disappeared to fetch bandages.
Elmer tried not to laugh but failed. “You still went to register, though?”
“I did register,” Ezekiel said, settling stiffly into his favorite chair. “It takes more than a Model A and poor judgment to keep me from the ballot box.”
Pantha returned with a bottle of liniment and a roll of gauze. “Next time,” she muttered, “try voting by mail.”
