“Cat Johnson’s no liar, Charles—he’s an entertainer. He gets his ideas from daily life and goes on from there, exaggerating and embellishing them. Anybody who hears that story will know it’s just a tale.”
“But he was making fun of me! And some boys taunted my daughter about it when she rode through the settlement this afternoon. I can’t allow that.”
Must have been Lonny and Harry, thought Tom. They probably asked Amy how her pa’s thumb was and led her on from there.
“What you have to do, Charles,” Andy said, “is find a way to turn that joke around.”
When the preacher looked interested, Tom suggested, “How about havin’ Miz Taylor bandage up your thumb, makin’ it about the size of a egg. Then when you show up at the buildin’ site an’ the men ask what happened, you say, ‘Didn’t you hear about my accident with the hammer?’”
Andy puffed on his pipe. “Good idea. Good idea,” he said, but to Tom’s disappointment, Pa said nothing.
“That’s it, then,” said the preacher, standing up. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.” Crossing the porch, he shook hands with each of them in turn before he strode jauntily across the yard and through the gate.
As the preacher rode out of sight, Pa asked accusingly, “How come you never told me Cat’s story, boy?”
Tom pretended to be surprised. “I thought you knew. You was there when it all happened, wasn’t you?”
Andy laughed, but Pa just gave a snort and sent a stream of tobacco juice off the porch. Disappointed that his father showed no appreciation for his quick-witted answer, Tom turned to Andy and asked, “What tale are you gonna tell tonight, seein’ as you finally finished the one about the Greek kings?”
“There’s a sequel to that tale—a story about what happened next, that is. It tells of the adventures Odysseus and his men had on their trip home.”
“Tell that one, then,” Tom said, opening his whittling knife. He’d decided to make another bird.
13
“What makes you think this here mash is ready to run, boy?” Pa challenged.
Peering into the barrel, Tom ticked off the reasons on his fingers as he recited confidently, “It ain’t poppin’ an’ spittin’ no more, the foam’s gone from the top, an’ the color’s right.”
Pa grunted his agreement. “Then git that there furnace fired up. When your mash reaches its peak, that’s the time to run it—not some other time that might suit you better.”
Hearing the note of warning in his father’s voice, Tom hid his disappointment that they would miss this week’s service at the brush tabernacle. He’d looked forward to hearing the preacher’s Bible story and to catching up on all the news. As he lit the logs in the mud-chinked stone furnace he’d helped Pa build around the still pot, Tom ventured, “You think that preacher’s gonna guess why we ain’t there this mornin’?”
“He probably thinks he’s keepin’ me so busy down at that schoolhouse-chapel I don’t have no time to make whiskey,” Pa said scornfully. He checked the water-filled condensing barrel and the “worm” inside it. That coiled copper pipe was where the alcohol vapor rising from the mash heated in the still pot would cool into pure com whiskey. Looking up, Pa gave Tom a conspiratorial grin and asked, “Wouldn’t Petey Hudson just love to find this rig of ours?”
Suddenly, from behind them, a voice said, “I have found it, Higgins,” and the steely-eyed revenuer stepped forward.
It was a raid! Tom whirled around to flee and ran smack into Cory, the silent revenue agent who had come to the cabin with Hudson. Tom cried out as Cory twisted his arm behind his back and forced him to his knees. His heart pounded loudly in his ears and his breath came in rasping half sobs as he struggled to turn his head toward Pa.
To Tom’s surprise, his father was leaning against one of the mash barrels, looking as relaxed as if he were talking to Lance Rigsby. Hudson and a third revenuer, their bodies tensed, stood nearby.
“Why, Petey,” Pa drawled, “I thought I’d convinced you I ain’t no moonshiner.”
“You had,” the revenuer said grimly, “but then one of your neighbors convinced me to take another look in your woods.” With that, he signaled the third revenuer. The man filled a jar with fermented mash from one of the barrels—for evidence, Tom figured—and then set to work systematically destroying everything in sight.
Tom gasped when the ax split the hoops of the first barrel and the liquid splashed out in a great wave. Hardly believing what was happening, he watched the man splinter the other barrels and then set to work on the still itself. Tom winced as the man broke through the mud-daubed stone furnace to cut huge gashes in the copper pot and then chopped the worm into short sections.
At last Hudson said, “That’s enough, Ralph,” and with obvious reluctance, the man stopped.
Pa surveyed the ruined still impassively and said, “Wal, I guess I’ll be seein’ you in town Tuesday for court day, Petey.”
Hudson didn’t bother to reply. “Come on,” he said to his men. “We’ll take them in to the magistrate and then jail them.”
Jail them? Tom’s heart almost stopped. He’d never realized he might go to jail! He stumbled as Cory jerked him to his feet, and his stomach contracted with fear.
Pa spit a stream of tobacco juice so close to Ralph that the man jumped aside. “You can’t take no minor child to jail, an’ you know it,” he scoffed.
Hardly breathing, Tom looked from Pa to P. D. Hudson, wondering if that was true—and fervently hoping it was.
The revenuers exchanged glances, and then Ralph said, “We might let him go if you agree to help us.”
“Help you how?” Pa asked suspiciously.
“Tell us the name of another moonshiner, and I’ll have Cory release the boy,” Hudson said.
Tom gnawed at his lip. Some of the worst feuds in the hills began when a moonshiner found out a neighbor had turned him in.
Pa appeared to be thinking over the revenuer’s offer. “Let me git this straight, Petey,” he said. “If I give you the name of another moonshiner, you’ll let the boy go. Is that right?” When Hudson nodded, Pa stepped forward and said, “Let’s shake on that.”
Hudson grasped Pa’s outstretched hand, and Pa announced, “Hube Baker’s been makin’ moonshine for years.”
“We already knew that,” Cory said, breaking his customary silence.
Pa shrugged. “You never said it had to be some name you didn’t know.”
After a long pause, Hudson said, “He’s right, Cory. Let the boy loose.” Glaring at Tom, he snapped, “Get on home now, before I change my mind.”
Tom scrambled to his feet, and after a grateful look at Pa, he slipped away. As soon as the forest closed around him, he raced toward home. Once there, he just sat on the porch and waited, because he didn’t know what else to do.
It seemed a long time before he saw the men coming through the orchard, walking single file, with Hudson in front of Pa and the other two revenuers behind him. As they passed the cabin, Tom lifted a hand in silent greeting, and Pa called, “Tell Preacher Taylor not to expect me down at the buildin’ site no more.”
For the rest of the morning, Tom sat numbly on the top step of the porch, feeling completely alone. He’d never imagined that something like this could happen, that revenuers could actually catch Pa. He’d taken for granted that Pa was too clever for that.
Tom was sure no carelessness of his had led the revenuers to the still. He figured they must have had to search every inch of the woods to find it. There was no telltale path because he and Pa always approached the still a different way. And following the stream wouldn’t have been any help to the revenuers. It was impossible to spot the carefully concealed length of pipe that carried water to the wooden trough Pa had covered with a layer of decaying leaves. Tom scowled, remembering how hard Pa had worked to divert the water they needed for mixing the mash and cooling the vapor in the copper worm.
Finally, Tom dragged himself to his feet and set off for the
mission to deliver Pa’s message. His mind was in such turmoil that he was hardly aware of his surroundings, and he was surprised when he saw Princess running to meet him. He couldn’t remember crossing the footlog, and here he was at the preacher’s house already, he thought as he picked up the little dog. Wiggling in his arms, she managed to thoroughly lick his face as he hugged her, and Tom felt tears burning behind his eyes as he whispered, “I love you, too. Princess.”
He looked up when Amy called to him, and his heart fell when he saw her sitting on the porch with her parents. He hadn’t realized he might have to tell the preacher about Pa in front of Amy and her mother. Clutching Princess to him, Tom approached the house with faltering steps. “Pa won’t—won’t be able to work for you no more. Preacher Taylor,” he stammered. “He’s—he’s—”
Mrs. Taylor led him to a chair. “Get him some water. Amy,” she said, her voice full of concern.
“Now, Tom,” Mrs. Taylor said after he had drained the glass, “Tell us what happened to your poor father. We knew something must be wrong when the two of you missed the service this morning.”
Tom blurted out, “Pa’s in jail.”
“Thank God,” Mrs. Taylor whispered.
Tom stared at her, and Amy explained, “She thought you meant he was dead. She’s thanking God he’s alive, not that he’s in jail. Oh, Tom, how can you stand the disgrace?”
“Ain’t no disgrace,” Tom objected. “Just real hard luck.”
Obviously controlling himself with difficulty, Preacher Taylor burst out, “It’s worse than hard luck! How will my schoolhouse-chapel be finished without your father’s leadership? And what’s he doing in jail, anyway?”
Tom calmed himself by stroking Princess. “Revenuers caught him at his still this mornin’ an’ took him in,” Tom said, careful not to let on that he’d been there, too.
“At his still?” The preacher’s voice rose. “And was he planning to come to Sunday services straight from that evil work?”
Before Tom could answer, Mrs. Taylor quickly asked, “How long will your pa be in jail, Tom?”
“Depends on what the judge decides.”
Still agitated, the preacher said, “I don’t understand why Hube Baker’s walking around free and they’re keeping your father in jail till court day.”
“That’s Petey Hudson’s doin’,” Tom said, scowling. “Anyhow, court day’s this Tuesday, and I’m goin’ to the trial,” he added importantly. He’d always wanted to go to Buckton, and now he had a reason to go there and nothing to stop him.
Mrs. Taylor gave Tom a searching look. “Have you ever been to town before, Tom?” she asked. “It’s—well, it’s a long way off.”
He shook his head. “I ain’t never been, but some folks go all the time.” The distance hadn’t kept the preacher from going there to send the sheriff after Hube Baker and again to send the revenuers up to the cabin, he thought bitterly.
Mrs. Taylor gave a quick nod and said, “Come on over to the clothing bureau then, Tom, and we’ll find some town clothes for you.” She led him over to what had once been Ollie Gentry’s meat house. Inside, it still had a faint smoky scent, but otherwise it had been transformed. Shelves along one wall held shoes of all sizes and colors. Wooden boxes stacked high with folded sweaters lined the opposite wall, and in the back, shirts and dresses and pants hung from a wooden rod. Tom just stood and stared while Princess wiggled out of his arms to sniff around the small building.
“These should do,” Mrs. Taylor said, taking down a pale blue shirt and a pair of dark blue pants. “I’ll see if I can find a belt for you.”
“Miz Taylor,” Tom said, “I can’t take these things.”
“Why ever not?” she asked as she rummaged through a box.
“’Cause I can’t pay for ’em.”
Mrs. Taylor straightened up and said, “You can work off the price by chopping wood.”
Tom was just about to agree when Amy urged, “You’d better take the clothes, Tom. You certainly can’t go to town wearing what you’ve got on.”
He looked down at his faded shirt with a missing button and the overalls that ended too far up his legs. “I reckon I can go to town wearin’ whatever I please,” he said. Who did Amy think she was, telling him what he could and couldn’t do?
Mrs. Taylor gave Amy a long look, and Amy hung her head and turned away. Tom watched her walk toward the house, dragging her feet through the grass. She didn’t seem to notice Princess prancing along beside her.
“I, uh, have to go now. Miz Taylor,” Tom said, edging out the door. Amy had no right to stand there in her charity dress and shoes, criticizing the clothes Pa paid for with hard-earned cash money, Tom thought resentfully as he strode along the weedy road. He turned down the path that led to the Widow Brown’s cabin. She’d want to know about Pa, and it would do him good to talk to somebody who didn’t look on it as a disgrace—or an inconvenience—that Pa was in jail.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Brown was listening intently to Tom’s story. He was surprised how much better he felt after he’d told it all the way through—even the part about his trip to the mission. When he had finished, the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes, Mrs. Brown in her rocking chair and Tom perched on the porch rail.
At last Mrs. Brown roused herself and said, “Bring me my sewin’ basket an’ button jar off the mantel, Tom, an’ shuck off your shirt so I can fix it. Then I’m gonna take my scissors to that head of hair I’ve been wantin’ to git at for so long.”
Tom threaded the needle for Mrs. Brown while she emptied the buttons into her lap and searched for the closest match. She pounced on one, then poured the others back into the jar and handed it to Tom, saying with mock severity, “Now don’t let them folks in Buckton git close enough to see this button ain’t got but two holes an’ the rest have four, you hear?”
“I hear. Miz Brown,” Tom said, grinning.
By the time he started for home, Tom was in better spirits, but back at the cabin the gloom he’d felt that morning returned. Instead of eating the biscuits and fried chicken Mrs. Brown had sent home with him, he stored them in the crock in the spring box and choked down the com bread left from breakfast—com bread Pa had baked before they went to the still.
Tom sat on the porch, brooding in the silence, for a long time before he went up to the loft and rummaged in his box until he found his slingshot. For a while he amused himself by seeing how far he could shoot the kernels of corn he found on the porch floor around the corn sheller, but he soon tired of that and sat on the step, dejected.
He’d been alone lots of times when Pa stayed at the still overnight to run his whiskey, but this was different. This time Pa was twelve miles away in a cell over in Buckton. The way the hours from Sunday evening till court day on Tuesday seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of him, Tom didn’t think he could stand it if the judge sent Pa to jail for a year. He would have to move in with the Widow Brown, as she had urged that afternoon.
Tom’s arm ached from Cory’s rough treatment, and he rubbed it absently, remembering how he’d longed to go and live with Mrs. Brown during the lonely months after Ma left. Now he had the chance to do just that—and to share the loft with Andy, too. But all he wanted was to stay here with Pa.
When he heard Andy’s holler some time later, Tom felt a little better. He’d forgotten that Andy had promised to stop by on his way back from the far side of the ridge, where he’d gone hoping to collect some stories.
“Hey, Tom!” Andy called as he neared the gate.
Running to meet him, Tom burst out, “Pa’s in jail, Andy!”
“Jail!” Andy’s eyebrows rose. “What happened?”
Tom swallowed hard and hoped his voice would be steady. “That Petey Hudson came back with his men an’ caught us over at Pa’s still.”
“When was this?” Andy asked, lowering himself into the rocking chair and laying his notebook on the porch floor.
“Early this mornin’.” As Tom described th
e raid, he felt a shadow of the terror that had filled him when Cory grabbed him. “Somebody told Petey Hudson to look ’round on Pa’s land again,” he said, finishing his story.
“But why’s June in jail? I thought—”
“That Petey Hudson don’t know how things are done ’round here!” Tom said heatedly. “He took Pa in to see the magistrate, an’ he’s keepin’ him in jail till court day. That’s this Tuesday.”
Tom paused, breathing deeply to calm himself. “I still can’t figure who could of told Petey Hudson. Unless,” he said slowly, “unless maybe it was Eddie Jarvis gittin’ back at Pa for makin’ him pay Preacher Taylor for that pile of boards he’d set fire to.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t mention that suspicion to anyone, especially your pa,” Andy said meaningfully.
A chill passed through Tom as his eyes met Andy’s. He hoped Eddie would keep his mouth shut and not gloat about what he’d done to King Higgins. If he really had done it, that is.
Andy rocked silently for a few minutes before he said, “There’s room in Mrs. Brown’s loft, if you want to come back with me.”
Tom shook his head. “Not tonight. I might have to do that after court day, though,” he said, resignation in his voice.
“Buckton’s close enough that you’ll be able to visit your pa,” Andy said.
“If the judge gives him a year, they’ll send him to the federal prison in Atlanta instead of keepin’ him at the town jail,” Tom said glumly. He’d heard that Atlanta was so far away it wasn’t even in Virginia.
After a moment Andy said, “From what Mrs. Brown tells me, your pa has a lot of influence around here. I wonder what the results of his absence will be.”
“For one thing, there probably won’t be no school.”
“I thought the building’s almost finished.”
“It is. But without Pa in charge, all them neighbors are gonna spend more time arguin’ among theirselves than workin’. An’ when the preacher comes over an’ starts quotin’ Bible verses at ’em, they’re gonna remember how they didn’t want no mission here in the first place. An’ that’ll be the end of it till Pa comes back.” Tom sighed. “I’d really been countin’ on learnin’ to read an’ write.”
Moonshiner's Son Page 7
