Bob sat at the kitchen table reading by the light of a coil oil lamp. Christmas was fast approaching.
“Be sure and put out that lamp ‘fore you head to bed,” Adam said as he walked into the kitchen.
Bob glanced up and nodded.
“Looks like you’re all wrapped up in that,” Adam said as he leaned against the wall.
“Yeah. Just readin’ about the union movement in the factories up north. Makes me wonder why coal miners don’t do the same thing — unionize, I mean,” Bob said.
Adam just shook his head.
“Unionize? Here? I don’t know that folks hereabouts is ready for somethin’ like that. The only thing a union could do for a miner is get him killed. Mine owners won’t stand for it,” he said.
“If the miners would stand together the owners wouldn’t have a choice,” Bob said.
“Yeah, but they won’t ‘cause they know the Milner family will throw’em out on their ass and replace’em with somebody else if they do try to,” Adam said.
“A coal miner ought to have rights,” Bob said.
“You sound like that feller down at the newspaper. He’s all the time writin’ about stuff like that but it won’t happen because the owners have the money. And you get down to it, that’s all they need,” Adam said.
“A feller at the paper in Crystal Springs has been writin’ about the miners gettin’ a union?” Bob asked.
“Yep. But it’s a bad idea. Ain’t no good could come of it,” Adam said.
“Do you know his name? The feller at the paper?” Bob asked.
“Raymond Ballew. Why’d you ask?” Adam asked.
“I’d like to talk to him,” Bob said.
“Well just be careful he don’t put no foolish ideas in your head,” Adam said.
“It could be that that the foolish ideas are already there,” Bob said.
***
In early December, Ed stood next to a still deep in the most wooded part of Mahan Mountain in Fuson County. It was a cold day and the fire from underneath the still felt good. Since Clyde Ward was elected Sheriff of Evans County, Ed and Hill quietly moved almost all of their stills and distribution into Fuson County and the confines of a well-paid sheriff’s department.
“I told you I’d get you.”
Ed turned and saw the smirking red face of Lee James Milner who was pointing the .38 special at him.
“Deputy, you’re in Fuson County. You need to leave,” Ed said.
“Bullshit. I don’t see no county markers up here. Besides, I’m a deputy sheriff. Ain’t nobody gonna believe you. You ain’t nothin’ but white trash. As soon as I haul your ass in I’ll go arrest that no good uncle of yours. While you’re in jail you think about me with that half-breed whore you’ve been shackin’ up with,” Milner said with a sneer.
Ed’s eyes narrowed. He was angry.
“And what if I don’t let you arrest me?” He asked.
“Do you know who I am boy? I’ve killed bigger and tougher men than you with my bare hands,” Milner said.
“I’ve heard of you. You’re a bastard that likes to shoot unarmed men in the back and crow about it,” Ed said.
“You stupid hayseed. If you don’t shut up I’ll cut a switch and whip your ass all the way into town. Hell, I might anyway just for fun,” Milner said.
“You are one tough talkin’ asshole. I’ll give you that. If you’re so big and mean, how is it you didn’t go to France and fight for your country? Must be that yeller streak up your back,” Ed said.
“You son of a bitch!” Milner growled and started toward Ed. He didn’t see the trip wire that released the six-foot log from the tree. Before Milner took another step the log — supported by a rope on each end — swung down and knocked him in the back of the head.
Ed walked over and picked up the .38 and stuck it in the back pocket of his overalls. He rolled the unconscious Milner over and ripped the badge off of his shirt. Ed dropped the badge in the bib of his overalls.
When Milner came to his senses he quickly realized two things. One, he was hugging a huge oak tree and his hands were cuffed so he couldn’t escape; and two, he was naked.
Ed walked around in front of him.
“Damn. Looks like you’re cold. A few more degrees and you’ll be a woman,” Ed said as Milner heard a couple of men laughing behind him.
“You let me go or so help me —” Ed cut him off.
“You’ll what? You’re bare-assed naked and chained to a tree. I’ve got your gun and badge,” Ed said.
“The sheriff will get you. You won’t get away with this,” Milner said.
“Bring him around boys,” Ed said as Milner’s eyes widened.
Before stood Sheriff Clyde Ward wearing nothing but the metal handcuffs that linked his wrists behind his back. Hill held a double barrel 12-gauge shotgun at the back of the sheriff’s head.
“I want you to pay attention Sheriff,” Ed added to Hill, “If he looks away, shoot off his right foot.”
Ed picked a thick hickory switch and walked behind Milner.
“What are you doin’?” The cuffed man cried out in fear.
“You’ll see. You’re such a mean man you’ll like this,” Ed said as he brought the slender tree branch around hard and fast. Milner yelped as it left an angry red welt on his butt cheeks.
The next time he made contact with the switch it was near the shoulder blades. The third time the hickory landed it struck Milner across the back of his thighs.
Each time he was struck Milner cried out in pain. After the fifth blow landed, Milner started sobbing like a child. After the seventh blow he started begging for Ed to stop.
“You’re a mean man! You’re tough! You can take it!” Ed yelled.
As he watched his deputy take the beating of a lifetime, Ward turned ghost-white pale. He didn’t even notice he was urinating.
The beating didn’t stop until Milner’s back, backside, and legs were a bloody mess. Ed still seethed and the clouds of steam bellowed as he was breathing heavily from the exertion. Ed took one final swing with the switch. He struck the upper portion of Milner’s left ear. He hit it with such force that it lopped off half an inch of the upper ear.
“That’s for callin’ my woman a whore. You say anything about her again, I’ll cut your balls off,” Ed promised.
Milner passed out and collapsed, sliding down the tree until his knees hit the ground. His limp body slumped against the tree.
Ward didn’t pass out but his knees buckled.
“You ready for your turn Sheriff?” Ed asked.
“Please, no, please,” Ward begged, sobbing.
“You’re gonna put an end to me and my family. Remember sayin’ that?” Ed asked.
“Please. I’ll never bother you again. I’ll never say another word against you. Please...please just don’t whip me,” Ward sobbed.
Ed looked over to Hill who was grinning and simply shrugged.
“You better never cross me or any of my people again — you or that bleedin’ piece of shit over there. If you do, so help me I won’t be so kind next time. No, next time I’ll be mad and I’ll make you watch me do your whole family like this and then I’ll whip you the same way before I kill every last one of them right in front of you before I kill you. I don’t make idle threats. You understand?” Ed asked.
Ward nodded profusely.
“I understand, I understand,” he said quickly.
Ed produced the .38 special and the badge.
“I’m hangin’ onto these. You can tell your gun thug there if he wants’em back to come take’em from me,” Ed said.
“Yes, yes. I’ll tell him,” Ward said, still sobbing.
“Get’em out of here,” Ed said.
“What about their clothes?” Hill asked.
“Burn’em. Let’em go back to town like that,” Ed said.
“You can’t do that! I’ll be a laughingstock around the state!” Ward said.
“Put his Republican ass against the tr
ee,” Ed said.
“Wait! I’ll go, I’ll go!” Ward said as several of the men snickered.
Ed threw what remained of the hickory into the fire under the still.
***
A couple of days after his conversation with Adam, Bob walked into the offices of The Crystal Springs Democrat located at 1776 Main Street across from the Fuson County Courthouse. The building was only a couple of years old and the sound of the press running shook the building.
The pale green walls already smelled of ink but the tile floors were polished to a high sheen.
A short, heavyset man with wavy white hair looked up from his desk in the front office.
“Can I help you?” He asked.
“Yes sir. I wanted to talk to Raymond Ballew,” Bob said.
“Well, you’re talking to him. I’m Raymond Ballew, editor and publisher of The Democrat,” he said.
“My name is Bob Fulton and —” he was interrupted.
“You play football up at the college don’t you?” The older man asked.
“Yes sir — well, I did. I’m a senior and football is over for me,” Bob said.
“I thought you looked familiar. Heck of a game. That Donahue fellow is pretty good. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk football. What can I do for you?” He asked.
“Well Mr. Ballew, I want to talk to you about somethin’ you wrote about the coal miners needin’ a union,” Bob said.
“My friends call me Ray. Don’t tell me you’re against a miners’ union,” he said.
“No sir, uh, Ray, I am all for it. What I want to know is, how do you go about gettin’ one started?” Bob asked.
Ray grinned broadly.
“Finally, a bright young man. Come on over here and get a seat,” he said.
***
“Supper was good,” John said as Rachel walked out onto the porch to join him in the porch swing.
“Just fried chicken and biscuits,” she said with a smile.
“How many scraps was left?” He asked as he started rolling a cigarette.
She giggled.
“Not enough for breakfast,” Rachel said.
“Not enough to feed a bird,” he quickly corrected her as he struck a match and lit the cigarette.
“Sometimes I think you’d eat a pine tree if I cooked it,” she said.
“I would — if you cooked it,” John said.
“Have you talked to Bob lately?” Rachel asked.
“Ain’t seen a lot of him since he started hangin’ ‘round the newspaper a couple of weeks ago. He goes from the farm to classes and to the newspaper,” John said.
“Yeah, Mama said she don’t know how he finds time to eat,” Rachel said.
John chuckled.
“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout that. I know Bob. He ain’t gonna go too long without eatin’. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he may have found out what he wants to do after college and it won’t be law school,” John said.
“Could be. Do you think he can make enough money workin’ at a newspaper to support a wife?” She asked.
“I think we’ll find out soon enough,” John said.
“So you talked to your mama today? Her an’ your daddy doin’ alright?” He asked.
“They’re fine. Since we got a telephone and they got one, it don’t hardly seem like we see each other that much,” Rachel said.
“Why don’t you go out the farm tomorrow and spend the day. I’ll come by after I leave the office. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see Bob too,” John said.
Rachel smiled.
“Well, we ought to have plenty to talk about,” she said.
“Really? Somethin’ happen?” He asked.
“Maybe. I need a doctor to make sure. Know where I can find one?” Rachel asked.
John looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Somethin’ you need to tell me?” He asked.
“I think I’m gonna have a baby,” she said.
“You sure?” John asked.
“Not until you tell me,” Rachel said.
He grinned.
“I think I can do that,” John said.
CHAPTER THREE
Bob walked with Daisy on their way to church. It was Christmas Eve and folks were already milling about on the road on Sunday morning, also on their way to the services.
“So what are you gonna do?” She asked as they walked slowly up the road. She wore a winter dress and long cloth coat, with a scarf covering her head and ears.
Bob wore his best clothing — a pair of dress slacks, a white button— down Oxford shirt, freshly shined shoes, and a heavy cloth coat.
He walked with his hands in his coat pockets.
“I’m workin’ a lot at the paper now that football season is over,” Bob said.
“What about that man that wanted you to move up north to Illinois? The one that said he’d pay you to play football?” Daisy asked.
“I think Stump is actually thinking about leaving and taking a coaching job up there. I mean that Halas feller is a friend of his after all,” he said. “But that won’t last long. I can’t see anybody makin’ a livin’ playin’ football.”
“How does the paper pay?” She asked.
“Not near as good as I get on the farm but it is extra money for a few months,” Bob said.
“At least you ain’t diggin’ coal no more,” she said.
“That’s a fact,” he said.
“John’s wife seems nice. She’s a real pretty girl,” Daisy said.
“She’s a fine woman but she ain’t got nothin’ on you,” Bob said as she smiled briefly before it faded away just as quickly.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be Bob?” She asked.
“If I can save enough, I’m hoping sometime next summer,” he said.
Her eyes lit up.
“Really?” Daisy asked.
“Yeah. I figure I’ll have enough to pay rent on a place and I figure I can make enough on the farm for us to get by,” he said.
She shook her head in wonder.
“I can’t imagine livin’ in a town,” Daisy said.
Bob shook his head dismissively.
“Ain’t much different from livin’ here — just more people livin’ closer together,” he said.
They made it to the church and Bob hung her coat on a nail on the wall and hung his on a nail next to it. Dasiy made her way to the front of the church where Leonard Lane, one of the deacons, tossed some more coal in the pot-belly stove. A short, squat man with wavy brown hair, the 25 year-old Leonard was a coal miner.
“Merry Christmas Daisy,” he said with a friendly smile.
“Merry Christmas Leonard,” she said, returning the smile on her way to the pew where the rest of her family sat.
“Merry Christmas Bob,” Leonard said as he extended his hand.
“Merry Christmas Leonard,” Bob said, as he shook hands with the deacon.
“How’s life in town?” Leonard asked.
“Cold — ‘bout like it is here. How’s things at the mine?” Bob asked.
Leonard shook his head.
“Worse’an ever. They shortin’ us on timber. We got a lot of shaky tops. Tryin’ their best to keep from spendin’ any money that’d help a feller get out of that hole alive,” he said.
“Reckon they figure as long as they get their money it’s alright,” Bob said.
“Sounds ‘bout right. Ever run into any of them Milners in Crystal Springs?” Leonard asked.
“No, but I ain’t been lookin’ for any of ‘em either,” Bob said.
Leonard chuckled.
“Somebody shore run into one of ‘em here a while back. Remind me to tell you after church when they ain’t no women around,” he said.
Bob nodded went to the pew.
Henry Donald, the song leader stood up. A tall, slim balding man with a deep baritone voice, he picked up a hymnal. The little church had no piano or any other musical instruments.
“Since it’s Chris
tmas Eve, I figured we’d start with “O Come All Ye Faithful,” he said.
Since the tiny church didn’t have hymnals for everybody — and a good number couldn’t read anyway, Henry spoke the words in an almost sing—song rapid fashion. “O come all ye faithful joyful and triumphant.”
The congregation sang the first stanza.
“O come ye o come ye to Bethlehem,” Henry said.
Again the congregation sang out.
Suddenly the door to church swung open and a young man nearly out of breath looked terror stricken. He gasped for enough air to speak.
Paul Stoddard, the pastor and longtime miner jumped to his feet.
“Luther Ray! This is the house of the Lord!” He said.
“I’m sorry preacher,” Luther Ray said. “But the mine...it caved in! They’s men trapped and they need all the help they kin git!”
For a couple of seconds a hush fell over the congregation. The pastor shook them back to the task at hand.
“Alright, here’s what we do. I want every one of you down here on the altar. We gonna pray and then every able bodied man is goin’ to the mine. The best thing you women folk can do is go home and start cookin’. Folks’ll be workin’ ‘round the clock and they’ll need to eat. Gather ‘round and hurry! Let us pray...”
Every man in the church – twenty—one all told – hurried to the mine. Almost all of them were or had been miners.
When they got to the mine, a crowd was gathered near the opening. Paul grabbed one of the men, Silas Silver, a foreman.
“Silas, what happened?” He asked.
“Cave in, number five — ‘bout a hundred and fifty yards back,” Silas said.
“How many?” Paul asked.
Silas opened his mouth and his eyes widened slightly, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Paul shook him angrily.
“How many men Silas?” He asked again.
“We think...thirty—three,” Silas said in a coarse whisper.
“Thirty—three? On Sunday? It’s Christmas Eve,” Paul said.
“The company...they’re pushin’ us for more. Boss brought in extra men so we could run a partial shift tomorrow,” Silas said.
“I don’t guess the Boss ordered any extra timber to shore it up back there did he?” Leonard asked.
“Timber? Don’t start stirrin’ up trouble Leonard. The Boss is in a bad way already,” Silas said.
Moonshine, Coal, and Hope Page 8
