J
ack and Gerard spent the rest of the morning cooking and eating and getting reacquainted. Gerard said if Jack wasn’t in a gol-dern hurry to get to wherever he was going to, he was welcome to stay as long as he pleased. It was nigh on time to plow and sow the fields and he could use the help but he ain’t got no money to pay for labor. He said he aimed to plant a one-acre garden of vegetables for home consumption and thirty acres of corn for revenue.
Jack asked where he took his corn to market.
Gerard replied, “You certainly have lost your memory or you wouldn’t need to ask.
“A small portion of the corn is for the livestock plus I eat some myself. I got two draft horses, Mabel and Jerome, and two saddle mules, Oscar and Tulip. I got one milch cow. Her name’s Matilda. Then I butcher a pig each fall for meat but I don’t name him on account of I aim to eat him. Don’t think it would be fittin’ to eat an animal I named.”
“Your animals eat corn?”
“The pig does and in a manner of speakin’ the others do too, especially the horses and mules if’n the corn is sweet.”
“Hmm.”
“Usually, I got around two dozen chickens and I feed them some corn but I eat the ones what ain’t good layers so the numbers vary. Speakin’ of chickens, the pooch and I have our work cut out for us keepin’ the foxes out of the henhouse.
“I sell most of the eggs to Woodrow Falstaff a couple of times a week, which he sells out of his general store down at the crossroads at Clifford Pike and the Louisa Road. Remember his store? Plus, I sell him several dozen bushels of corn when it’s in season so long as it’s sweet. He’ll also buy up whatever fresh milk I don’t need, which is nearly all of it. Mostly, betwixt the eggs and the milk, he keeps me in coffee and sugar and smoking tobaccy and whatever else I need like ammo or oncet in awhile shoes or clothes. I grow a little tobaccy to make my own plugs for chewin’ but it ain’t that good for smokin’.
“Gettin’ back to the corn, I sell a little bit just so’s I can honestly say it’s a cash crop but that ain’t the real reason I grow it. I got me a three-barrel still out in the woods and that’s how I make most of my income. I’m small potatoes as far as sellin’ liquor is concerned but I make a good product and sell it at a fair price. I ain’t greedy and I don’t take no chances sellin’ to strangers nor folks I don’t know real well.
“I don’t want no trouble with the big outfits. A man could get his self arrested or kilt if he got too big for his britches. I’m pretty sure Sheriff Harned knows I make a few quarts, but like I said, I keep my head down low plus my shine is top shelf. It’s pure, smooth, and ain’t got nothin’ harmful in it like lead or dead possums or such as that in the mash. It breaks a good bead and it’s always a hunnert proof and then some. It ain’t gonna inflame your gullet nor your guts nor make you go blind.”
“You mean Moses Harned, the state fair champion hog caller, is high sheriff?”
“Yep.”
“Ain’t he a Baptist?”
“Yep, but if it wasn’t for the Baptists, I’d only have a one-barrel operation instead of a three-barrel rig. Shucks! I’m a member of the Holy Ghost Baptist Church myself but I don’t advertise my product at the alter. Heck! Jesus turned water into wine. Says so in the Good Book! Why can’t I turn corn into moonshine? Besides that, some of my best customers belongs to the church. One of ‘em is a deacon but I ain’t saying who.”
“How much shine you make in a year?”
“Oh, it varies. I’d say maybe three hundred gallons for profit. It all depends. It’s better to cook it during the cooler months but it takes the mash longer to ferment. It’s hard work. I stock up in the winter so I’ll have a steady supply in the spring when I get back to farmin’. I store it in gallon jugs but sell it in quart jars.
“It took me a long time to build up my inventory of gallon jugs. I got plenty now. I ask all my customers to return the empty jars. Some does and some doesn’t. The reason is, I try to keep the mercantiles from getting too darn nosy. Besides Falstaff’s, I get jars from the Sears and Roebuck catalogue and sugar from Ellicott’s Mercantile in Louisa whenever I’m over that way. If’n I was to start buyin’ Ball jars twenty or thirty cases at a time, it wouldn’t be no time afore the law or some greedy evildoers would be on me like white on rice. A single man like me don’t have no need to do that much cannin’. Understand?”
“I do. How much you sell it for?”
“A buck a quart. That may sound high to you but my profit is only half of that and it’s a lot of hard work. Afore Prohibition, my shine was only two bits cheaper than run-of-the-mill, eighty-proof bourbon. Today, bootleg store-bought whiskey is three or four times that if’n you can even get it and then it’s prob’ly rotgut.
“All I can say is, ‘thank you’ to all the fools who voted in the Volstead Act. They ought to have had more sense than to try to separate a man from his whiskey but they didn’t.
“What they done, is to make outlaws out of everyone who makes or sells alcohol or even drinks it! They thought they was making folks who likes to imbibe illegitimate, but that’s darn near everyone ‘cause most folks likes to drink now and then. So, when there is more illegitimate folks than legitimate, the illegitimate become the legitimate and vice versa. Think about it. Are there more bastards than kids whose folks are married? Of course not! It’s like the tail wagging the dog!”
“I follow your logic but I bet the teetotalers never thought about it that way.”
“No doubt. Remember when you asked if my livestock eats corn and I said in a manner of speakin’?”
“Yep.”
“Well, there’s certain folks that I trade moonshine to for the things I need and don’t grow myself. Example. I don’t grow oats. Old Man Bailey and his four boys do. They also like shine. I trade them shine for oats which I feed to the horses and mules, especially in the winter. I figure the corn what goes into the shine I trade for oats is their share of the corn. What I trade for necessities is separate from what I consider shine sold for profit.”
“Gerard, you don’t have to justify your business to me. Volstead is why my flask is empty. Darn all the teetotalers! Besides, it’s got to be hard for you to make do when you’re all alone. Farming’s an iffy proposition anytime, especially if you ain’t got a wife or kids to help out. Two bad years would put almost every farmer into bankruptcy. This brings me to my point. Would you like some help?”
“The short answer is ‘yes’ but you need to think about it carefully. There’s always a risk of bein’ raided by the sheriff and gettin’ the still all busted up and windin’ up in jail if’n he gets pushed too hard by the Prohibitionists. However, he has to have twelve teetotalers on the jury to convict. That would never happen unless the jury was stacked by the judge or commonwealth attorney, but I know both of them likes to take a nip so this ain’t nothin’ too serious to worry about.
“Worser than the law though, is the possibility of gettin’ robbed or kilt by thieves who don’t want to go to all the trouble of making their own elixir or because they’re in the business theirselves and want to rub out the competition. Truth is, I reckon this is even less likely than gettin’ raided by the sheriff ‘cause I’m a small fry in the liquor business. I ain’t takin’ no business away from none of them big city boys nor would I want to. The bottom line is, I don’t believe either of these possibilities are worth losin’ sleep over, but they’s still a risk. If’n you make shine, accordin’ to the law, you’re an outlaw.”
“I’m all in, but I still have a few more questions.”
“Glad to hear it. Shoot.”
“Where do you store your product?”
“They’s a couple of caves on my property nobody but me knows about. Even you don’t know about ‘em from all them years roamin’ around here as a kid. They’re well hidden. Plus, I’m always careful whenever I go to either one.”
“How about the still?”
“It’s well hidden too, but it’s easier to find than my stash. I got some telltales set up on the farm and if’n I catch someone sneakin’ around, it’ll be to their dismay. That’s all I got to say about it. Up to now I ain’t aware of no one who’s curious enough or stupid enough to come lurkin’ about but that could always change. It goes without sayin’ that the two of us can do a better job runnin’ the business and keepin’ a weather eye out for trespassers than me all by myself.”
“You bet. How often do you sell your product?”
“Normally twicet or thricet a week assumin’ I have the stock. I have set locations I check periodically. Buyers leave the cash, usually in their empty jar, and check the next day for a resupply. I seldom do a hand-to-hand but I do oncet in awhile.”
“All righty, then. I’m ready to begin today but first I need to buy some clothes and a gun. Does Woodrow Falstaff sell clothes and guns as well as groceries? If he does, I’ll buy what I need today.”
“Hopefully you’ll remember Woodrow and his store when you see him. He sells ‘bout ever’thing a body needs but you don’t really have to go today unless’n you just want to. You and me are ‘bout the same size. I got some old clothes you can have for free unless’n you just want some new duds. Also, I got a twelve-gauge, double-barrel shotgun that your pappy traded to me that you can have. I also got some buckshot to go with it. Consider that my gift to you for joinin’ up.”
Well, that’s mighty kind of you. I accept, but I still need to buy some clothes and I may want to get me a revolver or a rifle. When do you normally go to town? Don’t you need to trade some eggs or milk?”
“Well, this is Saturday. Normally I wouldn’t go until Monday. I go to church tomorrow and you are welcome to come. In fact, I hope you do. I don’t have no second set of church duds to give you but you can certainly wear what you got on. You’re a bonafide war hero and a lot of folks would like to shake your hand and thank you for your service. However, the war’s been over for a year-and-a-half and you might get some nosy questions as to why you’re still in uniform. If’n you prefer not to satisfy their curiosity, we better go to the store and get you some duds today. We can hitch up the horses and go take care of business right now.”
“Let’s do it, but before we go, let me change into those work clothes you offered. I’ll return ‘em soon as I buy my own. Also, I’d like to take a gander at the shotgun to see if it satisfies all my needs. I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, and as the sailors say, ‘any port in the storm will do’, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. Maybe I won’t need to buy a gun after all.”
“You bet.”
Gerard went into the bedroom while Jack waited in the main room. (The bedroom was the only other room in the cabin.) When he returned, he had a pair of well-worn overalls and a long-sleeve white shirt in one hand and the shotgun in the other. He handed it all to Jack. Then he said, “By the way, you can keep them clothes. I got enough to suit my needs. Maybe that’ll save you a couple of bucks.”
Jack uttered a sincere thanks. He set the clothes down on a chair. He examined the shotgun carefully. It was a well-maintained Remington with twin full-choke bores and rabbit-ear hammers. The barrels were 28-inches long. There was some wear on the bluing but no rust. The butt stock had a checkered English grip (instead of a pistol grip). The butt and fore stocks had been treated with linseed oil and rubbed down with boiled chicken leg bones to preserve the wood. This gun was in great shape! It didn’t look like it was more’n ten or fifteen years old. Why didn’t he remember it?
Jack broke it open. Two wax-treated cardboard shells were ejected about a half-inch from the breech (so you could grasp them with your fingers. Empty shells would eject five or six feet away.) He inspected them thoroughly. They were Peters brand, double-aught buckshot, meaning that each shell held nine .33 caliber balls. The full-choked 28-inch barrels would maintain a decent spread of the nine balls, but no more than thirty or so yards. Any shot farther than that aimed at a man’s chest might only result in one hit - or none. Getting closer would certainly be better.
Jack would have preferred number four buck, which has 27 .23 caliber balls. The pattern of 27 balls would be much tighter than one with only nine, and thus should be effective (more hits) out to forty yards. It could well mean the difference between life and death.
Jack asked, “Where did my pappy get this gun? I don’t recollect it.”
Gerard responded, “Do you remember your Uncle Clive Jamison? I think your pappy said he lived up in Boyd County somewhere near Ashland. He was married to your momma’s sister, Nellie. He was a blacksmith.”
“I vaguely remember the name. I think I saw him once when I was a youngun. If he’s the man I’m thinking of, he was fat and jolly. How do you know all this?”
“Your pappy told me. Anyway, the gun belonged to Clive. He died of apoplexy and Nellie asked your daddy to sell it. I needed a gun and he sold it to me. I give ten bucks for it. She th’owed in several boxes of shells and a cleanin’ kit, too.
I told your pappy I was skinnin’ him. He said no never mind. Nellie was some kind of Women’s Christian Temperance Union battle axe who disliked alcohol, tobaccy, firearms, and men in general and truthfully all she wanted was to get rid of the darn thing. He said he would’ve kept it for hisself except’n each time he looked at it he was reminded of her and how much she made him want to throw her into a pit full of nasty, aggravated vipers. I give him the money and he give it to her and we three all felt like we come out ahead. Anyway, you was gone in the Army I s’pose, so that’s why you don’t remember this gun.”
“Well, how about instead of you giving me this gun, I buy it for ten dollars? Then I can feel like I came out ahead, too?”
“You’re twistin’ my arm. I’ll take it, but it’s completely unnecessary. I feel like you should have it since it was in your family. It’s all that’s left for you but them twelve acres. If’n you really want to buy it, you can have the cleaning kit, too. I’ll give you what’s left of the buckshot but it’s only about a dozen shells. I done shot all the number sixes what come with it.”
Jack shelled out his single eagle and handed it to Gerard, who pocketed it and scurried back into his room. He returned with a half-box of Peters double-aught buck, the cleaning kit, leather carrying case, and a leather sling he got with the shotgun that he had removed because he didn’t use slings.
Jack thanked him and asked, “Out of curiosity, what kind of guns do you own?”
“Well, I got me a Harrington and Richardson (most folks call it an H&R), single-shot, sixteen-gauge shotgun, which was my first gun. I still use it for small game and bird huntin’. I also got my new Winchester lever-action rifle. It’s a .30-30 caliber. Holds eight rounds if’n there’s one in the chamber. It’s my go-to gun for deer and scoundrels.
“Oncet I took up the liquor business serious-like, I got me a .32 caliber Iver Johnson, Owl Head, five-shot, break-top revolver with a three-inch barrel. This’n is nickel-plated. Cost me five bucks, which is a lot cheaper than Colt or Smith and Western. I carry it in my pocket when I’m out and about and can’t very well tote my rifle. And afore you ask, I got at least forty ca’tridges for each of ‘em.”
“Sounds like you’re well-heeled if the Yankees up and decide to pick a war again.”
“Darn tootin’ I am. Get yourself changed while I hitch up the wagon with Mabel and Jerome.”