For 23 years, Phillip Tomberlin traipsed the backwoods and by-ways
of Florida looking for illicit moonshine operations. B
He was a Florida state beverage agent who had the authority to
cross over into Georgia and Alabama, if circumstances made it
necessary.
He knew the Baker County moonshiners, most of them anyway, by their
first name. They called him 'the white-haired man' or Phillip,
because they couldn't remember his unusual last name.
He chased them on foot through the native palmetto thickets,
treacherous swamps, and along the sandy river banks, He risked his
life at speeds of 115 miles-per-hour, racing down the narrow
two-lane highways and dusty unpaved backroads in his revved-up
Chevrolet with its Corvette engine, pitted against the shine
hauler's souped-up Chryslers.
Now, at the age of 81, he has little trouble recalling the many
events of those days when moonshining was, he said, 'a way of life'
for many Baker Countians, And he holds the distinction of being the
first lawman instrumental in uncovering the county's first
underground moonshine still operations.
"I had a keen smell for fermenting mash and whiskey, as he recalled
the days that are definitely a part of Florida's history, yet
largely remain unrecorded by those who lived through them. I was
kinda like a bird dog.
It was a clear day, back in the early '50's, when Tomberlin and
four of his state agent buddies were riding south of Macclenny,
heading west on Woodlawn Road.
An east wind blew through the windows of their non-airconditioned
car. Tomberlin sniffed the air He was certain he smelled
whiskey.
"Back in those days, we carried our lunch to work with us in a
paper bag, so we decided to stop down by this creek to eat and have
a look around. We checked the area out, but couldn't see any signs
of an operation. I told Miriam, who was driving, to stop at this
nearby residence. There was a cypress pond on the east of the
property that you couldn't see through, and I could smell something
that reeked of whiskey or fermented mash.
I got out of the car. The home had a picket fence around it, and
directly south adjoining it, was about two acres. I recall it was
fenced-in with barbed wire. So I left the vehicle and walked south
of this fenced-in area, climbed over the fence and went around to
the east side of it. I couldn't smell it anymore.
As I stood there, I saw four old-fashioned chicken coops behind the
house, located on the south side of the residence, I noticed a
green rubber hose coming from one of the coops and observed that
some fluid had run out on the ground. I picked up some of the damp
sand and smelled it.
"By this time it was about 4:30 in the afternoon and Miriam was
hollering, 'Lets go, lets go,' so I returned to the car. I said to
the agents, 'Well, we have heard about these underground stills,
but we have never found one.
About that time, a car drove up in front of the residence and agent
Miriam said, "Well, if you feel that way about it, I'll go back up
there to the house and talk to the man.
I walked to the first chicken coop and looked in to discover Ball
fruit-jar cases stacked up about shoulder high to me, and I'm about
six feet tall. And as far as I could see was wooden barrels, I had
found the underground still. It was relatively new.
The man, who was Tommy Register, told us he had just come back from
making arrangements about shipping the whiskey out that night. He
talked to us freely, and was very nice. We took our fire axes and
started tearing the operation up, but the more we tore up, the
deeper it got and the stronger the fumes, so we had to get
out.
We went back the following morning and we put dynamite in there to
blow it up.
"By golly, two weeks later we got a call about another underground
still about four or five miles north of Margaretta.
It was at a place we referred to as the old Kelly place and it had
an old two-story home up there on it. We couldn't get too close to
watch it, but used binoculars from a distance. We saw enough to get
a search warrant.
"When we arrived, the still was in operation. We had seen a man
several times come up from the underground with a jug of whiskey on
his shoulder, and then he'd go back down with a sack of
sugar.
One of those we arrested that day was Hamp Register, brother to
Tommy, And just before dark, we saw headlights coming down the
road. It turned out to be Junior Crockett driving a brand-new
Cadillac. We were surprised that he would show up at one of the
stills because he was one of the big ones. Then, driving in right
back of him, was Glen Johnson, driving either a ton-and-a-half or a
two-ton truck that had 640 gallons of moonshine in one-gallon tin
cans, Crockett didn't attempt to run but Johnson ran and got away
from us.
Tomberlin's feat received headlines in The Florida Times Union on
January 29, 1953, heralding the arrest of Junior Crockett,
'Kingpin' of the Baker County moonshine operations.
The still was said to consist of a 600-gallon capacity distilling
pot and 70 barrel fermenters, containing 3,500 gallons of mash, The
agents reported seizing approximately 1,000 gallons of moonshine
liquor in one-gallon cans, wrapped in onion sacks.
I never could classify a man making whiskey with a man that would
rob a bank, shoot somebody, or steal a car, or things like that. I
just think this was a way for them to make a living like their
fathers before them. They'd been raised up that way.
Tomberlin said his work picked up after the state provided him and
another state agent with better more powerful vehicles.
Mr. Grady Cochran, who was the state beverage department director,
lived in Lake City and I got well acquainted with him. We told him
if he wanted us to catch those shiners, he'd have to provide us
with faster cars.
So me and another state agent, a fellow by the name of Bill Eddy,
were each ordered a 1957 Chevy with a Corvette engine and two four-
barrel carburetors.
They would run 115 miles per hour in second gear After that we were
able to compete with their Chryslers. That's the kind of car most
of them preferred to haul whiskey in because they could load over a
ton of whiskey in one of them and it would still cruise at 115
mph.
Tomberlin retired in March of 1972 and today lives a quiet and
tranquil life with his wife in their lovely Mandarin home located
on the beautiful St. Johns River.
Most of my old buddies are scattered now, and I seldom run into
them any more. Some have even passed away. I'm 82 and sometimes it
takes me a minute to think about those days, but when I do, the
events come back to me as if they happened yesterday.