Grog Wars

By Anne Sweazy-Kulju

The wild west was wild but offered challenges to those brave enough for the adventure. Burke Kaufmann, a young German who has been sent by his father to America to expand the family business, is one such man. Burke’s father and another man, who has fallen on hard times financially, arrange for their son and daughter to marry. After cr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louise Ann Kulju
• Release date: Nov 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999552230

Anne Sweazy-Kulju

Anne Sweazy-Kulju is a B&B Innkeeper-turned-storyteller. Daughter of a history teacher & granddaughter to an Irish yarn-spinner, Anne stirs in a few mediocre psychic abilities to offer book lovers unique adventures in award-winning historical fiction.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

September 1849

One more push of the rake and he would bung it down. Hans climbed the rungs to the huge wooden wort vat to check on his boil. He heard a faint resonance. A hollow and perhaps metallic tone lay just beneath the natural noises of the working brewery. The soft vibration dissipated as quickly as it had risen. Hans was too slaphappy from lack of sleep. He could not concern himself with some brief sound that he may or may not have heard, and which may or may not have been out of place in a brewhouse. He pushed the huge wooden rake around the wort vat, ensuring there would be no scorching of his grains.

He feasted his eyes on the lovely rosein barrels in which he would be storing his brews. They were stacked neatly against the deepest wall in the brewhouse, a daylight dugout style of cellar that faced the river. The chill earthen underground kept Kaufmann’s stored brews cold. Hans had arranged for the fresh hops to arrive by steamboat from Spalt, near Nuremberg. They had been traveling almost fifteen kilometers and were due to arrive at any moment. He wrung his hands nervously, but smiled broadly. Hans was a handsome man, as were all of Regis Kaufmann’s sons. He was tall, too, though not as tall as his youngest brother was. He was something more today, however—Master Brewer for the Kaufmann Bierhaus. His time had finally come!

He glanced up at the new sheet-iron vat. Earlier he had filled the vat with water and heated it to a boil over a fire. It was a sight, a pot so big! It hung from fat chains and it gurgled and hissed as though it were a monstrous living thing. It would not do to let that metal monster off its chains! Amusement crossed his face and a warm sense of pride washed over Hans as he stared at the vat. It was so strong! It held nearly two thousand liters of boiling water, and took the place of their four smaller vats made of soft copper. The giant water vat would allow the Kaufmann House to brew about 250 barrels of their various grogs, nearly all in one batch. Being able to offer their customers so many fresh-hops brews would certainly place Kaufmann House at the pinnacle of the brewing community.

They harvested hops-grains in the fall over a ten-day period. The brewer must use the freshly cut hops within four hours of cutting; otherwise, the farmer must dry the pale green cones before they brown and turn bitter. Like his competition, Kaufmann has space to accommodate three fires. The barley grist and malt, or wort, required one fire. Another fire was needed for the decoction pot, which is a much smaller vat used by brewers to raise the temperature of the wort, without scorching the malt. A brewer could siphon a proportion of the wort into a decoction pot, heat it to boiling, and then return the superheated mash to the wort. Hans had used decoction to raise the temperature of his wort at several intervals that day. The third fire belonged to the water vat. Copper versions like the ones Hans had retired held enough water to brew just fifty barrels or so, and the narrow four-hour window did not offer any time to boil more. The other brewhouses would have farmers dry all but the hops they could use immediately in their first fifty barrels; then it took the better part of three weeks to dry-hop the remaining grain.

Hans checked the firepot under the wort, which had been percolating in the big cedar tub for nearly twelve full hours. He had already bunged down a screen over the wort tub to accommodate the spicy cones. He stood ready to empty the giant grain sacks onto that screen the moment the hops arrived. The new water vat hung above the wort with a myriad of pulleys and chains. On his command, the water vessel would tip and slowly pour its contents over the hops, thereby lending their spice to the beer—the slower and smoother the pour, the better the beer. He would try to make the pour last an hour at least. An hour plus half of one would be better. He checked his watch. The time was near. It should be any moment now. He wiped his brow and smiled. His father must have believed he knew his onion, so to speak—and at the tender age of twenty-six years! He would be the youngest master brewer in the region. True enough, he was the eldest son, so the honor belonged to him; his mother had given birth to himself and his two brothers one year apart—in Burke’s case, less than one year. Still, Hans could hardly believe his father had put him in charge of the fresh hops brew. It was the most important brew of the year. Without it, their inn would run dry in a matter of weeks.

They would brew the maximum, about 250 barrels, which at more than 115 liters to the barrel, would last their little brewery and restaurant nearly six months. By the time their customers drink up all the fresh hops beer, the brewhouse will have received several more river deliveries of Nobal Spalt hops, which the farmer would have begun drying immediately following cutting. With the ongoing deliveries, Hans and his father would begin dry hopping the—that sound again…what was that? Hans looked about for something awry. Seeing nothing, he admonished himself for ticklish nerves. They would start dry-hopping the other brews: they would make Alt, an ale brewed at the lower temperature of lager brews—a local favorite; Kölsch, a lager brewed at the higher temperature of ale brews; a medley of pale ales, of course, plus some pilsners and bock varieties. The rich, darker grains and specialty malts, which his father had already purchased for crafting his pilsners and lagers, tantalized from their place on the floor across the room.

Hans knew why his father had given him this opportunity; it was because of the new water vat. In order to brew the 250 barrels of fresh hops beer that would last their inn to the spring, they needed a boiling vat that could hold nearly two thousand liters of water. Copper would never hold. Only sheet iron and rivets could safely handle that much boiling water. The vat had to be custom-made. Regis Kaufmann’s lagers, pilsners, and ales were keenly popular; the patriarch was far too busy himself to locate a reputable ironworker and all of the raw materials needed. Moreover, the single father of three young men was beginning to feel his years. He entrusted the project to his eldest son. If Hans managed the project well, his father had hinted at sending him to America, to spread the family’s interests abroad. What an adventure! His father had talked of the budding young country several times since, usually as they supped, telling his sons of the New World’s thoroughgoing freedoms and unmitigated opportunities. In contrast, industry in the Rhine Province, within the Kingdom of Prussia, was dwindling in the depressed economy. Silly inheritance laws, passed by hapless politicians, had stripped the valleys along the Rhine and Main rivers of its agriculture. Hops harvests were getting smaller and smaller. Ping! Hans looked about for the source of that strange sound but once more, he saw nothing out of place.

His father had given him the task some six months earlier. Hans had worried he would not complete it in time. He had run into trouble at the very start, in his hunt for a metal smith. He finally found someone in Frankfurt who was willing to fashion the six full sheets of iron and hundreds of rivets into a boiling vat. However, the ironworker told Hans he did not have money enough to purchase the raw materials. Hans would need to arrange for the supplies. The necessary thickness could not be found anywhere in the Kingdom of Prussia; he had to send all the way to France. The French shipped the materials to the metalworker in Frankfurt with no time to spare. The metalworker finished the vat and delivered it to the brewhouse just ten days earlier.

Hans knew his father had been growing worried as the harvest time neared. He dared not tell his father of the cack-handed difficulties he had managed; that the materials he had ordered from France arrived light on the number of rivets required, with no time to send for more. Hans instructed the metalworker to simply space the rivets a little further apart, and all would be fine. Yes, fine as frog hair! The vat held and boiled the two thousand liters perfectly. Hans pricked his ears at the sound of horses approaching. The hops had arrived! He nearly skipped down the ladder and rushed to the open doors. Hand held above his eyes to cut the white glare, Hans peered down the rolling hills toward the river. The sight of his father’s transport wagon rewarded him instantly. It kicked up plumes of dirt as it raced to the brewhouse. Hans checked his pocket watch again. The farmer cut the hops three and one-half hours earlier, but there was plenty of time to get them into the wort.

Wonderful! Wonderful! he shouted as the men unloaded the four enormous grain sacks filled with floral-scented, pale green cones. Bring them right inside here. Hans pointed to the base of the wort tank. The moment the workers dropped the first sack, Hans dug his hands into the grain contents and inhaled deeply. That’s good! he said. He fetched the second ladder and tipped it against the wort tank beside the other. When the last bag was set down, Hans pointed to the biggest of the men. Your shoulders are quite broad. We will heft a sack onto your right shoulder and I will support the sack at its bottom. When you get to the top of the ladder, we will both tip the sack upward and shake the hops out onto the screen. Then I will begin spreading the hops out, while you get the next bag ready, and so on. Yes?

Yessir, Mr. Kaufmann.

Oh no, it’s Hans. Call me Hans, he clapped excited hands together rapidly. Now, let’s get to brewing!

They already had three of the four bags spread out on the enormous screen. Hans checked his pocket watch; they still had fifteen or so minutes to spare. He smiled down at the laborer as he descended to heft the final sack. There is no better smell in the whole world, is there? he inhaled with vigor. I love to smell the earthiness of the crushed barley with rye, and the delicious barley malt with all its promise of flavor…ahhh. The bouquet of freshly-cut hops—

Ahhh! the big man below exclaimed much louder than Hans did. He suddenly dropped the sack and grabbed for the small of his back.

Are you suffering a cramp, sir? Hans asked, worried the big man may have hurt himself.

The laborer turned to look up at the brewmaster. He wore a ghastly grimace as his hand kneaded the spot in his back. I got bit, sir! By somethin’ with fangs, I fear! He pulled up his shirt in back. Can ya see anything?

Hans went white at the sight. Don’t pull at it! I think you’ve been shot! He started down the ladder. All of the sudden, there rang out a loud musical thrum. A deep-tunnel groan followed that. Hans looked up in time to see the third rivet along the same seam of the new water vat blow. Clear out! he screamed as he leapt from the ladder. He was too late. A ton of boiling water, in scalding sheets, sprayed Hans before his body hit the floor. It mattered little that dozens of rivets were pinging around the brewhouse like large-gauge projectiles. Several of them even found their mark on poor Hans, but he was already gone. The laborer escaped with his life, thanks to Hans’s warning. Nevertheless, the poor man suffered scalding on his lower extremities, which would menace him with pain and limited use for the rest of his days.

Regis Kaufmann’s youngest son wondered, not for the first time, why God had not taken him instead. He had only to look at his father’s face to know Regis Kaufmann wondered at the self same thing. It was a stinging truth that, when paired with his aching heart for the brother he had loved, left Burke feeling more alone and brooding than usual. He was missing Hans sorely.

The father and two remaining sons had buried Hans next to his mother, on the west side of the family estate. Two fortnights had since passed, and their father had not uttered a single word. Bryce, now the oldest son, was managing the restaurant as best he could. Meanwhile, Burke had the old copper vat reinstalled. He had brewed several batches of mead by fermenting honey and water, so their bier house had something to serve dinner guests. It was a poor man’s ale, but necessary if they wanted to hold their guests over until the dry-hops brews were finished. That was Burke’s order of business this night. He intended to spend a good portion of it until the wee hours, mashing barley and grains into grist, boiling the wort, and blanching the dried hops in preparation for brewing pale ales. Burke worked carefully and precisely. He had been brewing in small batches, completely unsupervised, sometimes by day and sometimes by night, for weeks. The smaller vats meant fermentation would complete in four days instead of ten. It was twenty or so days passed since the brewhouse disaster, but Kaufmanns’ now had barrels of ale and lager varieties to serve, some alt thrown in for the old men, and of course the last of the mead.

It turned out that Burke Kaufmann had a natural talent for brewing. Moreover, he was nicely adventuresome. He had thrown in some ground coriander with the honey and water when he made one of his batches of mead, just to see if the flavors were right together. The old men in the burg loved it. They happily drank Burke’s mead until the lagers and ales came available, and that meant the family would keep the doors open and financial ruin at bay.

Even if he would never hear the sentiment fall from his father’s lips, he knew he had done well. No matter, he cared little for the sort of success that counted with his father. Burke knew he would never share his father’s motivations, and that was all right with him. He was softhearted, which was not a characteristic desired of Kaufmann men. Apparently, he was much as his mother had been in that respect. It must be true, because Burke knew he would readily trade everything his father considered valuable, only to hear a sincere woman say she loved him. A rich life, he believed, wasn’t a matter of bank accounts and property; it was one in which much love is given, and much is received—a wellloved life. That is the sort of rich Burke desperately wanted to be. So far, he remained bankrupt. In the meantime, his recent brewing successes should have brought him some sense of personal satisfaction. Burke felt only indifference. His life, his mortality, such thoughts ranged from insouciance to mild curiosity, at best. His father would always blame him for his mother’s death. He would never feel his father’s love. He should move on. However, knowing what he should do, and being able to do it, had Burke Kaufmann caught betwixt and between.

Of course, he didn’t blame himself for his mother’s death; why would he? For the offense of daring to exit his mother’s womb and take breath, his father could barely look at him. It had been nearly twenty-four years. For twenty-four years, he had tried to fade into the damask wall covering that was once his mother’s pride. He had been careful to remain quiet in his father’s presence, so that he might forget for a time he had a third son. He had tried to believe otherwise, but he knew the only person who had ever truly loved him or wanted him in this world had died when he’d entered it.

He knew his brothers held affection for him, and maybe it was love. It wasn’t love strong enough to mend the open pit in his heart, though—a vulnerable place in children who are divorced from their parent’s love. Now Hans was gone. He once was, and then he was not—a feather in the wind. It had Burke wondering about life and death, mostly death. In the dead hum of silence within the brewhouse, Burke could almost hear the grass growing over his own grave. He sighed. At least they had all loved Hans. At least they could say that much for him, as they stood before his handsome marble marker. What would anyone say over Burke’s own grave? He halted his reverie to swallow a sob and squeeze traitorous tears from his pooling eyes. Why am I here, Lord? He wondered, as he absently pushed the big rake around the vat. He had one brother, one human being on the whole vast planet, who somewhat cared whether or not he existed.

Burke was emotionally numb, but he wasn’t slack. Far from being a do-nothing, Burke Kaufmann persevered with a strong work ethic and a need to stay busy. He hefted the forty-weight sack of barley malt and climbed the stepladder. At the top of the tank, he sliced open the sack and watched as the malt poured smoothly into the barley grist and sank below its boggy surface. All the while, Burke drank in the soft, comforting aroma. It smelled like warm breakfast on a cold day. Burke recalled memories of crisp mornings in the big Kaufmann kitchen, with coals glowing in the great stone fireplace. Their governess would serve to them grains with brown sugar, warm strudel, and milk-coffee with sugar. He acknowledged this wave of pleasant nostalgia with fondness, however thin. Suddenly tears ambushed him once more. He dropped the empty sack and slapped his hands recklessly at his cheeks and eyes. He hated that weakness in himself.

Well? Can you do as your brother can? Are you able to craft the ales and lagers, the pilsners, the Hefeweizen? Regis Kaufmann inquired sharply as he rapped his cane against the floor."

Bryce traded looks from his father to his brother, Burke, who was younger by just eleven months. I…I suppose I could, with some mentoring, but, father, have I not managed the food and innkeeping to your satisfaction? Are the books not healthy, despite our…rough season?

Eyes narrowed and the skin of his father’s scalp seemed to stretch back tightly as if it, too, wished to crawl away from the confrontation. Rough season…?

I’m sorry, father, Bryce stared at his shoes.

Regis Kaufmann waved one hand in the air, brushing aside the apology as he dismissed his son’s rationale. We’re on the wrong side of German politics of the day. These small villages along the Rhine are under constant assault—Austria’s one day and Prussia’s the next. The same is true for our grain growers in the northern lowlands. Anyway, many have already sold their farmlands to factories or had them divided into inheritance oblivion. It is a constant struggle to maintain supplies. If we are to survive, we must grow our interests. There is nothing for it here in the Fatherland. Protestants live just across the Rhine threatening our ways of life, our values. However, our biggest danger is the Prussian army; they want you. Hans— a pause; a cough. Your brother’s accident reminded them there were three Kaufmann sons over the age of eighteen. Your uncle arranged for a dispensation for one of my sons to manage our business interests here. The other must hide. You will go to America. We will expand our brew and hide you there.

Bryce Kaufmann felt panic rise up rapidly from his gut to his throat and it raced right on past his lips. The small guttural cry made off before he could quell it. America…? You want to send me to the far side of the world, a-alone?

This family has needs, he answered his son.

That place has savages across the land, his son reminded him.

There is fair competition, Regis Kaufmann countered.

There are shipwrecks, Bryce pleaded. Half of the ships that set sail for the new continent are not seaworthy! At the slightest turbulence, their passengers end up drowned, or else food for leviathan sea creatures!

Regis Kaufmann leaned on his cane heavily, an affectation born of his first son’s burial. There is really no cause for you to come apart so, son. I will be sending Burke.

In a flash of their father’s woolen wrap, he was gone, leaving two astounded young men to stare after him through the empty doorway. Bryce ratcheted his head Burke’s direction, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then he bolted from the brewhouse!

What? Burke exclaimed. After a surprised instant, he chased his brother. Bryce was flat-out running at his top speed toward the stables, located between the inn and the river. Burke, his junior by eleven months, was a good four inches taller, and all of it in the length of his legs. He overtook Bryce in no time.

The two men tumbled and rolled a little ways down the hillside. Burke ended up on top and held one knee on Bryce’s chest, his hand gripping a wad of the other man’s shirt. Why did you run? What is wrong with you?

I’m sorry, Burke. I don’t want to go to America. I’m sorry that you have to, because I am not brave. Do you see? I even ran to deny you the satisfaction you deserve. I’m sorry, Burke. Bryce squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the blow.

Burke simply let go of his brother’s shirt and lifted his knee.

He was not the hitting sort. So, you think father would have sent you, had you not expressed your…dispassion for the place?

Of course, I am the oldest child now.

You are practically an only child now, by gosh, Burke mumbled softly as he sat beside his brother.

Oh, Burke, I’m sure you are equally his son in his heart. Father is just a traditional man, and it’s tradition to promote the eldest son to success before promoting any other children. You know that.

Tradition, eh? Tradition says the first-born son takes the name of his father’s father, as Hans did. The second-born son is to take the name of his mother’s father, as you have. If there is a third son, he’s to take the name of his father. I am his third son, Bryce. Why am I not named for him?

Bryce appeared to be struggling for an answer. After an awkward pause, one finally came. Regis means royal, and Burke means castle. It’s practically the same.

But it is not the same. Burke rolled over onto his back and enjoyed how the late afternoon lawn felt cool against his sweat soaked shirt. For a few moments, he watched clouds roll passed him in a cornflower blue sky. It was a beautiful autumn day. Burke loved Germany. He didn’t know anything about America. Eventually he turned toward his brother and told him, I don’t mind going, Bryce. I want to go. There is nothing for me here.

Lily Angelina Brucke stoked the embers of her cooking fire and repositioned her pot of coffee toward the edge to keep warm. The aroma filled the cottage. She could hardly wait to pour herself a generous cup, which she took as tasse, made with many spoons full of raw sugar, a bit of cocoa and fresh sweet cream. She knew the coffee drink tended to darken her teeth, but try as she might she could not stay away from the steaming brew. She recently purchased a new brush for scrubbing her teeth, made from carved cattle bone and swine bristles—three rows worth. She had also ceased using the common tooth powder made from chalk, crushed bone, and oyster shells in favor of a new dentifrice crème made with crushed eggshells. The alchemist mixed in herbal mints and salts for freshening the breath, which Lily appreciated.

For the cleared space above the fire, she threaded an abandoned foil of her father’s through the makeshift basket that held her thickly sliced bread, and held it over the glowing coals. Her eyes danced as she watched her bread change color to golden brown. It worked! She removed the bread, turned it over, and toasted the other side. She repeated this with three more pieces of the bread. She spread two slices with butter and jam, which she would eat with her tasse. She had another idea in mind for her father.

Lily was just finishing when she heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs. She rubbed a little more rendered fat into the newsprint and began wrapping her invention. Lily had taken two golden-brown pieces of thick bread and spread them with butter. She then piled on two slabs of wonderfully tender brisket from their meal the night before, and some thinly sliced hard cheese. A smear of her homemade horseradish relish completed the architecture. She had built a complete meal for her father; she wrapped it in such a way, so her father could handle the meal without the use of utensils. She hoped he liked it well enough to take such a meal for his midday break every day. Lily thought her father was working himself too thin. As if to punctuate the thought, her father’s tenor parted the morning silence with his familiar greeting.

Hi Lily, hi Lily, hi looooow…

Papa. She turned and smiled as she offered her cheek.

He snapped his suspenders into place and obliged with a warm kiss. Over her shoulder, he watched as she folded triangles of greased paper over the tower of toasted bread and whatnot. My lovely Lady Lily is so industrious this morning! What are you doing there, daughter?

This—she turned, glowing, the wrapped meal in her hands—is for you to eat in the mid-day. You can hold it in your hands, wrapped in this paper. It should preserve well until the day warms. Will you try it, Papa?

You are a good daughter. You will make a good wife, someday.

You mean to say, I will make a good wife for Josh someday?

Her father pulled on his gloves and grunted for his answer.

Papa… she started.

I don’t think he is good enough for you! He looks down his nose at us, at our cottage, at me, and—no, no, Katia, I have heard him say his insults.

Papa, you just called me ‘Katia.’ Do you really think I look so much like my mother? Her smile was hopeful. Lily trifled with a small bit of her hair that failed to join her braids and began worrying the glossy locks into tight kinks, which could hardly be good for her hair’s health. She caught herself at it and ceased abruptly. She began the exercise of untwisting the lock and tucking it securely behind her ear.

Huh. For just a wink, Axel’s mind had needed to search for her name. Then he’d needed to quell the tick of panic that followed. It was only for as long as it takes one to bat an eye, but his daughter’s name had slipped from his memory; such moments had been happening more and more. Axel found it an uncomfortable oddity. He found his train of thought again before his daughter could note his confusion. Yes, so much. Lily…you changed the subject. Your beau thinks he is so very clever when he utters his scorn below his breath, Axel Brucke talked over his daughter’s objection. But does his family have money? No. They have no status. His father delivers milk for the dairy. I drive a cart. They are no better than we are, but he thinks they are. Better how? I don’t like him. And he is not good enough for my sweet, lovely Lily, he shook his head emphatically. Then he lifted his head and gave his daughter a delighted smile. Is that our brisket of last night I smell? And, is that—

Stop trying to guess what is in there. It should be a surprise. Anyway, you are making yourself late for your first fare. She tucked the meal into his knapsack, careful not to let it touch her father’s cigars. She handed her father the strap and kissed him back. You will tell me the truth whether it is good to eat or if it is not?

My sweet little Lily-pad…How could your angelic hands have made for me anything less than ambrosia? He winked, tipped his cap. Do you know how much I love your long braids gathered up in that way, the way your— He stopped and smiled heavy with melancholy. My Lady, you are, indeed, the breathtaking image of your mother. He turned and left to gather his horse and carriage.

She walked stealthily to the window of the office where Josh apprenticed as a bookkeeper. He was in his fourth year and would soon have the experience needed to venture forth on his own. She peeked around the window frame and saw her beau scratching furiously with his quill amid stacks of ledgers, journals, and bills of sale. She tapped on the frame lightly and up rose Josh’s head; he saw Lily and walked over to the window.

"Lily, I am happy