Chapter 44 #2
Mr. Daniel laughed. “I heard the groan of that ramp then a loud crack! The plank snapped and that bull, he reared up and gave a bellow that shook the earth. Then he charged straight for a group of old-timers from town who’d come to watch the unloading.
I remember thinking they were done for, and they likely would’ve been, too.
But for Dodge here.” Pride softened his tone.
“Mrs. Dunham, you should have seen him. In a flash, he ran toward that bull, yelling and waving. That beast skidded to a stop, sent dust and dirt flying everywhere. Men were running, screaming, Loose bull!” Mr. Daniel’s gaze grew hazy with memory, his focus moving to Dodge.
“I’d never seen anything like it before in my life, or since.
The way you dove this way and that when that bull charged you.
How he didn’t gore you five times over, son, I’ll never know.
Then how you got him into the corral and hopped back over that fence like nothing happened.
All the hands were laughing and cheering.
That was some mighty fine dodgin’ you did, they all said.
And—” He looked back at Josephine. “The name just stuck.”
She stared. “How on earth did you do that?”
Dodge shrugged. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Oh you had a choice, all right.” Mr. Daniel pointed at him. “That was the day I knew you were special. That you had a gift.”
“For what?” Dodge laughed. “Dodging bulls?”
“For doing what was best for others despite the cost to yourself.” Mr. Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “And also a gift with animals. No one else could ever handle Goliath like you did.” He glanced at Josephine. “That’s what we named that bull. He’d actually let Dodge get close enough to rub his neck.”
“He really was a gentle soul,” Dodge said.
“Gentle soul, nothing! He looked at everybody else like they were a target ready to be run through. All except for you . . . Hezekiah.”
“And there we are.” Dodge shook his head, but Josephine caught the hint of a smile, from both him and Mr. Daniel.
“Hezekiah?” she asked.
Nodding, Dodge exhaled through his teeth. “You know, from the Old Testament. My mother, God rest her, loved the story about how he constructed that tunnel to move water through the bedrock beneath the City of David.” He shrugged. “Is it any wonder I welcomed the nickname?”
They all shared a laugh until Mr. Daniel opened the ledger and began perusing the columns, then the conversation turned to Mr. Prince’s inspection, along with the cattle and Texas fever, and Josephine moved to a side table and continued where she’d left off with correspondence the previous afternoon.
But anxiety over her plans made it difficult to concentrate.
Her gaze kept returning to the gauger’s book.
Changing even one entry so that the amount of barrels filled on any particular day didn’t match the number of barrels stamped with that same date in the warehouse would be a minor error.
But if she changed several that might be a significant enough error for a revenuer to halt production of whiskey.
For a week? A month? That remained to be seen.
Her chest ached with the weight of it all, but one thought of Calla and her resolve strengthened.
Rapid footsteps sounded on the porch. The front door burst open. “Mr. Coburn! There you are! We got us a problem in the stillhouse, sir!”
Josephine recognized the young man as a new worker. He’d had his first payday a week ago.
“What kind of problem?” Dodge asked.
“It’s a hissing sound. Like a break in a pipe! Like something’s about to blow!”
Dodge was already out the door in the time it took Mr. Daniel to gain his footing.
“Go on, I’m coming!” Mr. Daniel yelled.
Dodge called back, “No need for you to—”
“A hurt foot might slow me down, but it’s not going to stop me! I’m right behind you.”
As Dodge and the young man took off, Mr. Daniel grabbed his hat and had barely gained the porch when a woman hurried up the steps.
“Oh, begging your pardon, Uncle Jack. I didn’t mean to nearly waylay you, sir.”
“No harm done, Mrs. Watson. We have us a bit of an emergency, so if there’s something you need, I’ll be back directly.”
“Oh no, sir, I was just . . .”
The woman peered past him, her gaze nervous, almost paranoid, and made eye contact with Josephine, who intuitively knew why she was here.
“Mrs. Watson!” Josephine crossed to the door, never having seen the woman before. “How kind of you to stop by. Please come in, and we can visit for a moment.”
Mr. Daniel tipped his hat and made arduous progress in the direction of the stillhouse.
Josephine closed the door behind them, glancing at the gauger’s book, knowing time was limited. “Mrs. Watson, how are you this morning?”
“I’m mostly fine, I guess, Mrs. Dunham.”
No longer surprised when people she hadn’t met knew her name, she invited the woman to sit. No bruises on the young woman’s face that she could see, but she had a timidity about her, an undercurrent of trepidation that she recognized.
“Oh no, ma’am. I don’t aim to fill up your time. I’m just wondering if—” She briefly bowed her head. “I hate to be asking this and got no right to it, you not even knowing me, but—”
“Do you need food, Mrs. Watson? For you and your children?”
Shame filled her eyes. “Clara Hackett done told me I could come to you for help,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I had any other way of filling the mouths of my younguns.”
“I’m so glad you did come. If you’ll wait here, I have a box of food in the back.
” Having decided to keep some supplies on hand on a lower, out-of-the-way shelf in the storage room, Josephine found an empty box and filled it.
She’d bought enough food and other staple items to make another two boxes, hoping Mrs. Carver would send others.
Between what she’d paid Miss Mary, the money she’d set aside to send to Sarah, and the purchases at the mercantile, she’d spent most of her earnings so far. But today was Wednesday. Payday.
She carried the box to the front. “If you know of anyone who needs food, please send them to me. Discreetly, of course. And I’ll help as much as I can.”
“God bless you for your kindness,” Mrs. Watson finished in a whisper. “I’ll be praying for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, and I’ll be doing the same for you.” The commitment felt hypocritical, in a way. But as she’d prayed that morning for Calla, just because she no longer believed God heard prayers on her own behalf didn’t mean he wouldn’t hear them for someone else.
Mrs. Watson insisted on hugging her before she left, and as soon as the door closed behind her, Josephine hurried back to the desk, grabbed a pencil and opened the ledger, then quickly scanned the most recent entries. Her determination grew stronger by the second.
Each entry recorded the day, month, and year of the measurement of whiskey, along with the barrel location within the warehouse—shelf and position number.
Each barrel had been assigned a unique number, then there was the fill date, which she assumed was when the whiskey had been stored in the barrel.
Several other columns bore title notations that she wasn’t quite certain about, then a column with the title “Tax Paid/Bonded.” Each entry either contained a check mark with a date or had been left blank.
But what her gaze snagged on was the column furthest right—where the initials DC had been neatly scripted on almost every line.
The pencil in her grip suddenly felt like a dagger.
She couldn’t do this. Then again, how could she not?
When compared to the damage alcohol had done to countless women and children and for so long, this was such a small retribution.
She felt like she needed to do it for the cause alone.
She’d gleaned enough from her father being an attorney to know she would be breaking a law in changing the figures—tampering with official government records.
But Miss Anthony had broken a law too, when she’d voted as a woman.
And what if the distillery being shut down even for a brief time gave people opportunity to reconsider? Perhaps even Jack Daniel himself would—
No, she was fooling herself if she thought he would change his mind. But perhaps others might.
Her mind racing, her palms sweaty, she thought of Calla again, the hopelessness in the woman’s eyes, and quickly rescanned the columns.
She chose four random entries—not bearing the initials DC, but someone else’s .
. . GC. She quickly checked the payroll roster from the past two weeks.
No one with those initials. Perhaps that person no longer worked here. Which was all the better for her.
She carefully changed the numbers in the columns marked Mash Tub/Still No., Capacity (gallons), Proof Gallons Produced, and Warehouse Entry—then added either a check mark to the empty Tax Paid/Bonded column, or carefully erased the check mark already there.
Reviewing the edited entries, she could hardly tell what she’d changed, so doubted whether anyone else would be—
A forceful knock sounded on the office door and her heart catapulted to her throat. Before she could answer, the door opened just as she slammed the ledger shut.