Moonshine, Coal, and Hope

by Richard Allen Evans

  Moonshine, Coal, and Hope: A Kentucky Yarn

  Kentucky Yarn, Volume 1

  Richard Allen Evans

  Published by Richard Allen Evans, 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  MOONSHINE, COAL, AND HOPE: A KENTUCKY YARN

  First edition. October 3, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Richard Allen Evans.

  ISBN: 978-1536507751

  Written by Richard Allen Evans.

  Also by Richard Allen Evans

  Kentucky Yarn

  Moonshine, Coal, and Hope: A Kentucky Yarn

  Stolen Memories

  Stolen Memories: Assassin's Redemption

  Standalone

  Only When I Dream

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Richard Allen Evans

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  For my grandfathers, Bob and Edward, the best of Kentucky.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The mud in France wasn’t much different from the mud in Kentucky — unless you counted the stench of dead bodies, blood, and lingering fumes of mustard gas, Ed Elkins thought. The eighteen-year—old private crawled through the thick mud as bullets whistled overhead. Explosions shook the earth and sent huge chunks of mud and water flying everywhere. Occasionally, the explosions sent bodies or parts of bodies airborne as well. He remembered the first time he crawled over an arm separated from a body. Ed vomited violently.

  That happened only three weeks before.

  And now, here he hardly noticed as he pushed past dead bodies and the scattered bits of human anatomy.

  “Fall back! Fall back to the trenches!” The lieutenant shouted.

  “Dammit!” Ed swore as he wheeled in the quagmire and started crawling thirty yards back to the lice—infested trench he crawled out of moments before. Seven agonizing minutes later, he slipped back into the trench.

  Ed took a deep breath. He was exhausted physically and mentally. It was September 1918 and he had been in France since his unit — mostly young men from Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina — arrived in August.

  He unscrewed the cap on his canteen and took a long swallow. He coughed as he nearly strangled on the warm water.

  The company medic and boyhood friend — John Fulton — dropped next to him. He whipped out a metal flask and took a slug before handing it to Ed.

  “What is it?” Ed asked.

  “Ain’t real sure what the Frogs call it but it beats the hell out of water,” John said.

  Ed looked at his friend. John was nineteen. He was taller than average at 6’2 and had a stocky build. His brown hair was closely cropped. His eyes were hazel and one eye was lazy. It had a tendency to drift to one side, especially when he got tired. John had glasses that helped but he recently broke his last pair and supply was slow in replacing them.

  Ed looked at the flask and shrugged. He took more than a sip and felt the burn in his chest.

  “It ain’t what pap and Uncle Elmer make but you’re right, it damn sure beats water,” he said.

  John took another knock before pocketing the flask.

  “Assholes ain’t gonna be happy ‘til they get us all killed,” he said.

  “How many’d we lose?” Ed asked.

  “Don’t rightly know yet. I know Thompson and Howard are dead. Ingram took some shrapnel in the chest — but he was alive the last time I saw him,” John said.

  “I miss that little artillery captain from Missouri. At least we could understand what he was sayin’,” Ed said.

  “Hell, I miss Battery D. A little artillery fire at the German lines wouldn’t hurt my feelin’s a bit,” John said.

  But the expected counterattack never came. Darkness fell and the men in Company K settled in and ate supper. Ed ate a spoonful of cold beans from the can. They weren’t tasty but they were filling.

  John ate his beans too.

  “From what I hear, as bad as this shit is, what the Germans have to eat is even worse,” he said.

  Ed wrinkled his nose.

  “They’d have to try awfully damn hard to make it worse than this. The world’s best cornbread couldn’t help these things,” Ed said as he tossed the spoon back in the can.

  “That’s a natural fact,” John said.

  “You reckon we doin’ any good here? We got here last month and I can’t tell we’ve moved twenty yards since then. It all looks the same,” Ed said.

  John took out some rolling paper and a pouch of tobacco. He started rolling himself a cigarette.

  “All I know is the officers are usin’ up men like bales of hay,” John said as he lit his cigarette.

  He offered the pouch to Ed who shook his head.

  “Reckon how long we’ll be here? In France I mean,” Ed said.

  John blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “I’m guessin’ a long time. The only quick way out is to get killed, wounded, or go over the hill — and that’s the same as gettin’ killed,” He said.

  “I don’t wanna die but I think I’d rather get killed as get crippled up or lose an arm or even get blinded. Don’t know how you’d get by,” Ed said.

  “Oh, you’d get a pension but a feller couldn’t raise a family on a measly little guvment pension,” John said.

  “Family? Shit, I don’t want no family. A piece of ass is a fine thing but I don’t wanna have to ask anybody when I can drink, fish, hunt, or bet money,” Ed said.

  “Just be careful while you’re over here. These French whores carry diseases I can’t even pronounce,” John said.

  “Ol’ Pete said the worst is that German disease,” Ed said.

  “German disease? Which one?” John asked.

  “Rotyourcockoff,” Ed said as John snorted.

  “I guess that would be bad,” John agreed.

  “So you figure on marryin’ when you get home?” Ed asked.

  “Probably...hell, I don’t know. All I know is I ain’t gonna see the inside of a mine again,” John said.

  Rufus Calhoun flopped his large frame down next to Ed. He stood six feet, five inches tall and tipped the scales at robust two hundred and sixty pounds.

  “See you boys had some of them Army beans too,” Rufus said as his face contorted.

  “If you fart so help me I’ll stab you right here,” Ed said as the big man laughed.

  “Y’all heard the latest rumor?” Rufus asked.

  “Which one?” John asked.

  “I heard we gotta new C.O. coming in. Supposed to be a whiz with them new whatchamacallits...tanks,” Rufus answered.

  “Yep, we heard,” Ed said.

  “All that means is more boys gonna die makin’ him famous,” John said.

  “Shit. Hadn’t thought about that,” Rufus said.

  “Don’t they teach you Perry County boys to think?” Ed asked.

  “Kiss my ass. Like you ridge runners in Evans County is any better,” Rufus fired back.

  “We are. If you want to live you’ll watch us and do what we do,” Ed said.

  Even in the darkness, John could see the anger rising in Rufus’ eyes.

  “Settle down Rufus, we’re all Kentuckians. Nobody’s better or worse than anybody else,” John said.

  His words seemed to have a calming effect. Rufus just shook his head.

  “All I wanna d
o is live through this and go home,” he said.

  “Don’t we all,” John said.

  “Ain’t what I was expectin’. I figured I’d get more women over here and the food would be better. And I damn shore didn’t think we’d live like hogs in the mud,” Ed said.

  “None of us counted on that. Them boys at the recruitin’ office left that part out,” John said.

  “Y’all make a feller feel good about things,” a dejected Rufus said.

  “Here,” John said, handing the flask to Rufus. “Have a taste. It’ll do you some good,” John said.

  The big man’s face lit up.

  “It might at that,” he said.

  ***

  Fifteen year—old Bob Fulton shoveled coal into the cart from his knees. His back ached like it did every day he set foot in the Milner Mine Number Three in Newman, Ky. The kerosene lamp hanging on a nail gave him light. He didn’t know what time it was and as tired as he was, he really didn’t care.

  For the past month, he walked to the mine at four in the morning and walked out at eight o’clock at night. The sixteen-hour days were adding up but not in pay. His pay lingered at one dollar per day for a twelve—hour shift. Bob earned an additional thirty—five cents for the four hours he worked beyond the normal shift.

  He shoveled up the coal and thought of his brother John far away in France. Bob wished that he were older so he could have escaped the mine like John and his best friend, Ed Elkins. He wondered what they were doing. It had to be better than being stooped over with a short—handled shovel.

  “Hey Bob! It’s time to go to the house. Foller the car out,” said Paul Stoddard, his foreman and pastor of Newman Baptist Church.

  When they got outside, Bob started rolling a cigarette.

  “Don’t forget church in the mornin’,” said Paul, a short, slim man in dire need of a haircut.

  “I won’t. I’ll see you in the mornin’,” Bob said as he lit his cigarette.

  He walked through the mining camp. Dozens of other men just like him walked home. Most lived in company housing at the camp. A few — like Bob — lived in one of the communities away from the camp. He lived with his parents in a little community called Maple Creek. Will Fulton had a forty-acre farm with two square-log barns where he raised hogs, chickens, tobacco, and sweet sorghum.

  Will and Becky Fulton raised six boys on that farm while Will worked in the mines and ran a saw mill to help pay for the farm. Once the farm started showing a little profit, Will left the mines for good.

  Bob thought about the years of hard labor his father had worked. Forty acres — about fifteen of it good bottom land with a creek running through it — and praying for rain didn’t seem like enough in return. He had heard his father wheezing and coughing up black dust. Bob wondered how long it would be before his lungs were filled with the same dust.

  It wasn’t fair. People with money working poor folks into an early grave. The Milner family had a big house over in Fuson County outside of Crystal Springs. Bob had only heard stories about it; he had never laid eyes on it or Jefferson Milner, who owned most of the mines in Eastern Kentucky.

  He was pretty sure the Milner family didn’t care for the miners or any of the folks in the Newman camp.

  There had to be a better way of life for coal miners. The company didn’t pay in cash. Like almost all mines, they paid in company scrip, which was only good in the camp or at the commissary — the company store. The commissary would exchange the scrip for cash but they only paid seventy—five cents on the dollar. Bob reasoned the practice should be illegal but the government accepted it.

  Somebody needed to stand up to Jefferson Milner — that’s what John always told him. But John was in France and even if he wasn’t, he had never made a move to stand against the mine owner either. Bob wanted to do something but he felt powerless. He needed the job. It had been a dry summer and crops weren’t going to bring what they should this year. At least the cow was still giving milk and the hens were still laying eggs.

  It was already dark as he made his way up the dirt road. He had made the trip so many times he could almost do it with his eyes closed. Sometimes he felt like he did. At last, in the distance he saw a lamp burning in a window. Bob walked through the tobacco patch and crossed the little wooden footbridge across the creek. He walked up the hill and onto the porch.

  “I got a tub of hot water in the kitchen. Go on and get cleaned up. I got your supper in the warmer on the stove,” said his mother, Becky.

  Bob wordlessly walked to the kitchen and stripped. He grabbed a bar of homemade lye soap and sat down in the number nine washtub. The white bar of soap was soon black from the coal dust but Bob’s skin was at least looking cleaner.

  In a few minutes, the bath water was black and Bob dried off and was dressed in well—worn, but clean overalls. He dragged the tub of water over to the kitchen door and dumped it out into the yard.

  He pulled a plate and a bowl out of the warmer. Pinto beans, cornbread, greens, and fried potatoes. His stomach growled.

  Bob sat at the table and devoured the meal with a glass of cold milk from the springhouse.

  He left his dishes on the table and walked through the dark house toward his bedroom. Once, Bob and his older brothers Matthew and John shared the little room. Clayton — the oldest — shared a room with Luke, Daniel, and Eli. With John gone to fight in the Great War and all of his brothers married, Bob had the room and the featherbed to himself.

  His thoughts shut down as soon as his stripped off the overalls and his head rested on the pillow. In less than a minute, he was asleep.

  In what felt like a few minutes, Bob woke up to the smell of frying bacon. Strands of daylight had just started to show through the modest curtains made from flour sacks, when his feet hit the floor.

  He walked out onto the front porch and there sat his father in a cane—bottom rocking chair.

  “‘Bout time you was gettin’ up. It’s right at six o’clock,” Will said.

  “I’m wore out. They’re killin’ us down at the mine to get more loads out,” Bob said.

  “For the war effort I imagine. Everybody’s stockpilin’ for the winter. They’ll cut back to twelve hours soon — probably on back to ten in the middle of winter,” Will said.

  “Yeah, that’s about how it goes,” Bob said.

  “As soon as I get this biscuits out of the oven breakfast’ll be ready. Y’all wash up,” Becky called out from the kitchen.

  “Alrighty,” Will yelled back to his wife. “I know it’s a hard life son but think about this: The war won’t last forever. When all of them boys come they’ll be more men than jobs. Don’t make nobody mad or you’ll be out of a job,” he told his son.

  Bob nodded.

  “Imagine you’re right,” he said unhappily.

  They walked inside and washed up at the pump in the sink. The two sat down at the table as Becky set a big bowl of sawmill gravy in front of them.

  They waited for her to sit down and Will asked the blessing on the meal. Bob’s mouth watered at the spread before him — gravy, biscuits, bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes, fresh butter, fresh honey, coffee, and cold milk. His family might not be rich but they ate well enough, Bob thought.

  As Will peppered his eggs, Becky quietly shook her head.

  “What’s wrong Mama?” Bob asked.

  “I was just thinkin’ of John and all them boys in France. Reckon what they’re eatin’ for breakfast or if they’re gettin’ to eat at all?” Becky asked.

  “Now don’t go to borrowin’ no trouble. We just have to have faith that the Lord will watch over John,” Will said.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said Daddy; about when the boys get back from the war. What are they gonna do for jobs?” Bob asked.

  “I imagine they’ll do like everybody else. They’ll take what they can find and be glad for it,” Will answered.

  “But if all of the jobs in the mines is took, what’s left for ‘em?” Bob asked. />
  Will chewed a bite of bacon.

  “I don’t rightly know son. Some of them will farm, some will go back makin’ moonshine — like that Elkins boy that John runs with.”

  Will never cared for Ed Elkins. “I reckon some of them will just move on to where the jobs is. I hear the mines up in Harlan County are hirin’ — they hit a big seam the other day, and they just started a big mining camp up over in Bell County. I hear they call it Davisburg,” his father said.

  Bob reached and picked up the plate of eggs and slid three more off onto his plate. He also picked up two more biscuits, another big spoonful of potatoes, several more pieces of bacon, before covering his plate with gravy.

  “You’re gettin’ to be a pretty good sized feller,” Becky said.

  “You’re like Eli, Matthew, Daniel, and John. They filled out about the same age. You boys take after my side of the family,” Will said.

  Indeed they did. Bob, like his father and three of his older brothers, was well over six feet tall. Luke and Clayton were short and stocky like the men in Becky’s family. But where Eli and Matthew, John, like Will, was heavier and more muscular. He was barrel chested with huge biceps and forearms.

  Bob was starting to resemble his father in that aspect as well. Wielding a short handled shovel had a tendency to build muscles.

  “Speakin’ of that, you need to start takin’ your pay in scrip for the next two or three weeks. You need some new clothes. You’re bustin’ your britches as it is. Winter’s coming up, you’re gonna need new shoes too,” Will said.

  “What about cash to help out here?” Bob asked.

  “We ought to be fine no longer than that. Besides, I’m sellin’ a hog to old man Bailey this week. That’ll help too,” Will said.

  “Finish your breakfast Bob. We gotta ready for church,” Becky said.

  ***

  As October gave way to November, the mood in the trenches was more upbeat. The new commander – Major George S. Patton — had set a fire under his command and they moved forward, taking a great deal of territory from the Germans. The Americans were taking more and more prisoners. It seemed as though the German P.O.W.s were weary of war and almost relieved to put down their weapons.