Whiskey & Ashes, page 8
Ezekiel took the clipping, scanning it with calm precision. Behind Walter came Mollie and Bernice, their chatter quieting when they entered the heavy air of the study. Mollie reached for the cradle in the corner where Earl Elmer stirred in sleep mewling as babies due when they wake hungry, her fingers gentle on the quilt. Ezekiel’s eyes lingered on her his bright, clever daughter with her sharp wit and softer smile. The one who’d stood beside him in the office last week helping tally orders. She had his ambition and her mother’s backbone. She had so much ahead. He swallowed the ache in his throat. She pulled back the quilt and gathered Elmer to her chest. “I’ll get him changed and ready for supper.” She said and motioned for the girls to follow her as she left the study.
“Thank you, Walter,” he said, folding the clipping. “Tell your mama I’ll be there soon.”
The children slipped back out, their presence like a breeze. Ezekiel sat in the silence that followed, staring again at the letter, the charges, the weight of it all. He would stand the storm was not still coming it was already here.
January 1903 - Unicoi County Courthouse
The wheels of the wagon kicked up frost along the edge of the Carter–Unicoi line, as Ezekiel Gouge pulled the collar of his coat up higher and turned the reins into the wind. His trip home from Nashville had been long, but quiet. Bond posted, papers signed, and now the real work began.
At the Unicoi County Courthouse, William B. McNabb sat behind the desk once used by his predecessor, his hand still ink-stained from filing voter rolls and land grants that morning. He didn’t look up when the door opened. He knew the weight of the boots that crossed his threshold.
“You make it home without the devil chasing you?” McNabb asked dryly.
“Devil’s in the details,” Ezekiel replied, dropping the folder onto McNabb’s desk. “And I’ve got every damned one.” They clasped hands firmly. The moment wasn’t for comfort. It was solidarity.
W.T. Sams was already there, seated in the corner with his feet propped on a stool, thumbing through a bound ledger. He looked up and grinned. “We’re not fighting revenuers with buckshot this time. This fight is with paper, signatures, and needs heads clear enough to prove what barrels were bonded and what weren’t.”
“I’ve already begun,” Ezekiel said. “Every withdrawal since 1899, cross-listed with shipping invoices, warehouse stamps, and bond registers. We’ll match them with what was sold and what’s still aging.”
“We need to get our own man to comb through what the government claims they found,” Sams said. “If they’re counting barrels we never pulled, or taxing whiskey still in bond, we need to prove it.”
McNabb nodded. “I’ve got the warehouse manifest from Limestone and from Fish Springs. I’ll pull old receipts. And we’ll need statements from gaugers, honest ones, not the ones who suddenly got forgetful. Access to the warehouse requires both the gaugers and the distillery rep to be present when opened.”
Ezekiel tapped the folder. “I’ve already written to the gauger we worked with before Essary’s man took over. He retired last year, but I know he’ll vouch for our methods if it comes to that.”
Sams stood. “Let me work the press. As Register of Deeds, I still see all of the land changes in the county and work with the press. If these charges were about crime, they’d have come years ago. This is politics.”
McNabb poured three fingers of whiskey into tin cups and slid them across. “To politics, then. May it serve us as well as it’s served them.”
They clinked metal to metal, not in celebration, but in steel-willed resolve. Ezekiel drained his cup, savoring the burn of a batch that had aged longer than any of them expected. “We show the courts and the press the truth. We show the books too, and we make them listen.” McNabb cracked a half-smile.
Ezekiel continued. “I’ve got friends on the delegation committee. Let’s use that. Every man who shook my hand in May when I stood for Republican unity better be willing to stand again when Uncle Sam comes with open palms.”
McNabb reached for the stack of deeds at his elbow. “I’ll draw up a list of character witnesses from this side of the line. We have county officials, pastors, even the man who boards the rail cars for us to swear to our honesty.”
“And I’ll get Walters and Phillips to appear for Watauga,” Ezekiel said. “My brother Thomas too he’s quiet but when he speaks, he carries the weight of honest trade. Outside, the wind howled like an omen. Inside, they plotted a defense not of desperation but of strategy. Three men bound by the same fire, refusing to be consumed by it.
Fish Springs, Tennessee – October 1903
The smell of drying apples and woodsmoke drifted through the open kitchen windows as Pantha moved between the stove and the long pine table, her sleeves rolled to the elbows and her hair pinned back in its usual no-nonsense bun. A kettle hissed on the back burner, and the baby, little Pantha Lillian, fussed softly in her cradle until Lockie scooped her up and began humming something tuneless while bouncing her gently.
The house was full again. It always was when the weather turned cool. Zeke was teaching Elmer to play marbles on the floor near the hearth, arguing over whose shot had knocked the other's shooter clean out of the ring. Nora sat at the table sorting dried beans, tossing the wrinkled ones into a tin pail with deliberate flicks while Eula mimic her moves with her own pile of beans to sort. Bernice was thumbing through catalog, daydreaming aloud to Bertie about a new dress she might save up for.
“I think we ought to do it at our place this year,” Alice announced, suddenly breaking the rhythm of the room. She stood in the doorway, with her infant son wrapped tightly to her body with a length of cloth and her two small daughters clinging to her skirts and peeking shyly around her legs. “Thanksgiving, I mean.”
The room stilled. Even the boys stopped arguing.
“At your place?” Pantha looked up from the bread dough she was kneading, brows raised but not unkind.
Alice smiled, clearly nervous. “Yes. The girls are old enough now, and Will’s folks will be there anyway. I just thought it might be nice to host. I was thinking of you after all” she said to her mother. “You’ve got your hands full with everything, and with the case dragging on like it is…”
Pantha wiped her hands on her apron, considering. Her first instinct was to say no. It didn’t feel like a year for handing off tradition. Ezekiel was still on edge most days, coming in from the distillery and the hog farm everyday with his jaw set tight, reading every letter from the lawyers three times over. The warehouse incident back in January hadn’t helped either. His only bright spot was spending days with Walter, now twelve, and his father’s constant companion and shadow at work. Walter also was learning to balance the ledgers and was showing a good head for numbers and a keen eye. There was a long time until the May hearing in Greenville and the waiting was more unsettling than the initial accusations. It lingered like a bad smell, sour and unfinished.
Her eldest daughter was trying to step into something new, to take a burden off her shoulders. Pantha smiled at Alice and her mother’s heart warmed at the thought of the kindness she was showing.
“I suppose it might be time,” she said, her voice measured. “You’ve got a good kitchen, and the girls would like having everyone there.” Her eyes flicked toward Mollie, who was standing by the window, absently braiding and unbraiding a strand of her hair. Mollie looked up, startled, then smiled faintly.
“I’ll help cook, if you want,” Mollie offered. “We could ride over the morning of.”
“We’ll ride the night before,” Pantha said firmly. “No galloping across the ridge with pies in your lap.”
That got a laugh from the room, and some of the tension eased. “Just don’t make me sit next to Alice’s father-in-law at the table,” Bernice muttered under her breath.
“You’ll sit where I put you,” Pantha said without looking up, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
As the children chattered and Alice knelt to adjust her girls’ scarves, Pantha allowed herself a small sigh. For a moment, the legal troubles seemed far away. She knew they weren’t but for now she would take a breath. Ezekiel and Walter would be home before dark with another stack of papers to read and another round of hushed conversation by the fire, but for now, the house was warm, her children were under her roof, and the fall leaves outside glowed gold in the last light of day. There would be time for trouble later. There always was.
November 27, 1903 – The Ride Home
The sun hung low in the cold November sky, a sharp wind curling down from the ridgelines and rustling the bare limbs overhead. The air smelled of woodsmoke and frost-bitten leaves. Mollie tightened the buttons on her coat, still laughing as she stepped down from the porch of her sister Alice’s home.
“Tell Papa, I am sorry the turkey was dry,” Alice teased from the doorway, cradling her baby boy on one hip, her daughters peeking from behind her apron with wide eyes.
“I will not!” Mollie called back, waving a mittened hand. “He says no such thing ever leaves your kitchen!”
Nora and Bertie were already leading their horses from the little paddock, the sound of hooves on the frozen ground echoing in the stillness. They had stayed the night after Thanksgiving to help Alice clean up and put the house back to order. It had been a warm, crowded celebration full of laughter, babies underfoot, and storytelling long into the evening until their parents had insisted they had to get the young ones back home to bed. Now it was late morning, and with the gray clouds pressing in and the wind biting harder, it was time to return home to Fish Springs.
“We best make it by sundown,” Nora said, tugging her shawl tighter. “You know how Mama worries.”
“I know how Papa reads better,” Mollie grinned, swinging into her saddle with practiced ease. “He promised us Gibbons tonight. I’m not missing the fall of Rome!”
Bertie rolled her eyes. “That old red book again?”
Mollie clicked her tongue at her mare. “Race you to the bend!”
“Mollie…” Nora started, but the wind caught her warning as the younger girl kicked her horse forward, a burst of laughter trailing behind her.
The mare surged, hooves pounding the hard-packed road. Mollie leaned into the gallop, hair tugged loose under her scarf, cheeks flushed from the cold. The bend loomed ahead, a sweep of shadow beneath a stand of oaks, the road slick with a thin film of ice where sun hadn't touched all day.
A rabbit darted from the brush. There was a cry. A stumble. A sudden, sickening thud. And silence.
Nora barely had time to dismount before she was at Mollie's side. Her sister lay in the cold dirt of the road, her bonnet half-off and tangled in her loosened hair, one glove missing, her face scraped and pale.
"Mollie!" Nora's voice cracked as she knelt beside her, brushing mud from her sister’s cheek. Mollie's eyes fluttered open and then squinted against the pale afternoon light.
"I'm alright… I think," she said weakly, but the wavering tone in her voice betrayed the lie. She winced as she tried to sit up. "Dizzy but not hurt bad. The horse… it spooked. I don’t know why. "
"You took that bend too fast, fool girl," Bertie snapped, already slipping off her own horse. But her voice softened as she knelt. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck.”
Mollie tried to smile but winced instead. “I wanted to beat you home.”
Nora carefully examined her, touching the back of Mollie’s head. There was swelling beneath her hair, warm and tender. “We need to get you home,” she whispered.
Bertie stood and swung herself back onto her saddle with urgency. “I’ll ride ahead home and get Papa. Nora, go slow with her. I’ll bring him to meet you on the road.”
Mollie made a small noise of protest, trying to stand. Her knees buckled. “I can ride,” she insisted.
“No,” Nora said. “You ride with me.”
She helped Mollie into the saddle, then secured Mollie’s horses reins to her horse’s saddle and climbed up in front, securing her sister’s arms around her waist. Mollie leaned forward, her forehead pressing into Nora’s shoulder.
"Hold on. Don’t make me explain two falls to Papa," Nora said, forcing a weak chuckle. She spurred the horse into a careful trot, her hands tight on the reins, heart tighter still. Behind her, she could feel Mollie’s breath, soft and shallow. Occasionally, Mollie muttered things that made no sense. A prayer? A memory? Nora couldn’t tell. “Just hold on,” she whispered again squeezing Mollies hand in reassurance has she set a slow but steady pace with her horse. “Papa will make it alright.”
~
Pantha stood on the porch, arms crossed against the cold, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The sky had already begun to darken, and she could feel the cold creeping through the boards beneath her feet. She had returned the night before from Alice’s Thanksgiving. The girls had stayed overnight to help Alice clean up and share a rare visit with their sister now that she was married and a family to raise. Pantha had expected them home well before dusk. But something inside her tugged at her chest an unease that had grown with each passing hour. Bertie had rode in earlier like her hair was on fire and after a hurried explanation, Ezekiel had rode out with her to meet Nora and Mollie. Pantha sent up a prayer that everything was ok and Bertie was just being dramatic in her explanations.
When the horses finally appeared, she didn’t need anyone to tell her something really was wrong. Mollie wasn’t upright in the saddle; she was slumped against Ezekiel’s chest, held cradled in his arms like he did when he carried her to bed as a small child. Nora rode alongside, her mouth tight, eyes wide. Bertie was already off her horse and running up the path.
Pantha didn’t shout. She didn’t weep. She turned, and issued commands. “Bernice, hot water and clean cloths. Lockie, go to the kitchen and ask Eula to bring the doctor’s bag in. Walter,” she said, her voice steady but sharp, “is he here?”
“He’s inside, Mama. He brought the doctor he’s with him now.” Lockie answered as he turned to follow her mother’s orders.
Pantha didn’t nod. She didn’t need to. She stepped back as Ezekiel carried their daughter past her on the porch and into the house, up the stairs to the room she shared with Lockie. Mollie stirred faintly, wincing at the motion, her voice soft. “My head, Papa... it hurts.”
“I know, baby,” he said. “You hold on. Papa’s got you now.”
The doctor came in to the room moments later, just after they’d settled Mollie on the bed, propped up gently with pillows. He examined her with care, but his brow furrowed. When he stepped into the hallway with Ezekiel and Pantha who were holding hands to support each other in this time of uncertainty, he did not offer reassurance.
“The bruising to her scalp is pronounced. She may have a bleed deeper in the brain. I can’t promise anything. The next few hours will tell.”
Pantha took a deep breath, then nodded once. “What can we do?”
“Keep her still. Keep her warm. Speak softly. She’ll either come through or...” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
That night, the house moved in hushed tones. Bertie and Nora hovered like shadows in the parlor in case they were needed. Lockie sat on the floor outside the room, hugging her knees. Walter paced until Ezekiel asked him to sit and work on numbers in the ledger book in the study. I would give him something to steady him. Eventually all of the children were sent to bed. There was nothing else they could do.
Pantha finished tucking them in and then returned to Mollie’s side. Ezekiel did the only thing that felt right. He fetched the red-bound volume the one Mollie had always begged him to read from his study and sat by her bed. He read about the fall of Rome in a quiet, measured voice, like he had so many nights before. Mollie opened her eyes and smiled faintly at first. Then she closed them and just listened until she fell into a very deep sleep. More than slumber it was unnatural and very still. Sometimes her hand twitched or she would moan or mumble, but as the night deepened, her breathing changed. It became slower and shallower.
Pantha sat on one side of the bed, Ezekiel on the other, each holding one Mollie’s hands. They watched as the life left their daughter, and when it was over, Pantha leaned forward, kissed her girl’s forehead, and whispered a prayer known only to mothers and the mountains. She was gone taken quietly, like the sun slipping behind the ridges. The ache in the house was vast and echoing. And though the fire still burned and the youngest children still stirred in their sleep, something in Fish Springs would never quite be whole again.
Burial by the River
The morning of Mollie Delilah’s burial dawned with a brittle sky, pale and cloudless. Snow lay in frozen sheets across the valley, muffling the sounds of the mourners as they gathered near the river, where the old cottonwoods stood sentinel over the family plot. The Watauga moved slow in the cold, like it grieved too.
Ezekiel stood still as stone beside the open grave. The rosewood casket rested atop wooden braces dusted with frost. Its polished surface gleamed in the winter sun, but all he saw was the absence inside the grave. He had chosen the rosewood himself and had it sent by train from the big casket maker in Knoxville, its strength a poor but small comfort that it might protect his precious daughter in her eternal rest. Pantha had said the words aloud the night before: “She was named for your grandmother. For Delilah. The mountain woman who walked barefoot to haul water and hold babies. Our Mollie was meant to carry that name forward.”
Now the name would sleep beneath the frostbitten earth, beside Pantha’s parents Allen Buchanan, the proud Confederate veteran who returned to his farm and orchard after the war, and Sarah Davis Buchanan, the matriarch, second wife of Allen and the source of Pantha’s quiet strength. Their stones set to the left the new grave, bearing witness as another generation joined them far too soon at the riverbank.
