Iron Shirt. John Collins

      Knott County, Kentucky

      Isaac and his father left their three-room log cabin at first light to hoe corn on the side of the rocky hillside in Knott County, Kentucky. Will had bought the small farm on a land contract, and he and Isaac had broken their backs grubbing out roots and rocks to clear enough land to plant a small corn patch on the side of the hill.

      Isaac’s dad was famous for his moonshine whiskey. But this year’s corn crop was failing due to drought. Will told his son, Isaac, that he could not recall a dryer year. “The corn had dried up on the stalk and made no ears. The grass has turned brown, the leaves are turning, and it’s not yet fall. The ground is baked hard as a whore’s heart.” A rabbit would have to pack his lunch just to cross this farm.

      Isaac asked his dad, “What can we do?”

      He said, “Son, it is going to be a real slim year with winter coming on, and it will be a lean one. Son, we are not going to make it on this rocky East Kentucky hillside with no money coming in.”

      Isaac’s dad was getting on in years. How old, he was not sure. His mother, Martha, died two winters before of pneumonia. No doctor would come from Whitesburg for fear of not getting paid. That left his dad and Isaac bitter.

      At noon, both sat down for lunch. Isaac had fried fatback, flatbread, and buttermilk for lunch. They ate in silence until Isaac said, “Pa, we can sell our horses, your buckskin gilding and my chestnut mare.”

      “Absolutely not,” his dad said. “Without our horses, we are sentenced to a life of poverty. We will think of something else.”

      “But that Union officer said he would pay good money for both horses.”

      Kentucky was a divided state, part North and part South. Brother fighting against brother, most people in East Kentucky were willing to fight for whichever side paid the most. This left the state bitter, broken, and war-torn.

      Will said, “Son, it’s bad but not bad enough to sell our horses. But what we can do is ride down to Lexington. I have a little money and shine to get us a stake to buy horses.”

      Isaac said, “Pa, those are all thoroughbreds. We can’t afford them.”

      “There’s a lot of good saddle horses in and around Lexington too, son. Money is tight, and people need it. We will buy horses and sell them to the Union army for a profit.”

      “Why not sell to the Confederate army?”

      “Son, the war is lost. The South’s money is worthless if we sell to them. All we will end up with is ass wipe paper.”

      “But how can we get the horses back through Confederate lines?”

      “That we will have to ponder on, son.” Will’s eyes grew misty as he looked at his son. “Boy, you are a blessing to your ma and me. After four miscarriages, you came along. One of my biggest regrets, your ma did not have time to school you in your letters. I know she started but did not have time to finish.”

      “Pa, I don’t need all that. I can read a little from the Bible and print my name.”

      “You will need more someday. The world is changing. After this war is over, a man who can’t read and write will be left behind. I want you to promise me, if you get the chance, you will learn. I will not always be around.” Then Will went out back and dug up his cash—20 double eagles, 20 half eagles, $315 greenbacks, and $500 Confederate bills. He would spend the Confederate notes first while they still had some value. He then went to a small creek, moved some brush, and uncovered nineteen gallons of white lightning at $10 a gallon. He and Isaac would have a good stake for horse-trading in the bluegrass.

      In the small cabin, Will told his son to go to the barn and saddle his buckskin and put a packsaddle on his mare and load the shine. Isaac had already fixed their supper—salt bacon, leftover soup beans, and leftover flatbread—so as his son left for the barn, he sat to eat. It would be a long ride to Whitesburg to sell the shine. He could sell local but for far less than in the county seat. It was a far greater risk, but no risk, no reward—he thought—so he would ride all night.

      Isaac returned and said, “Pa, you’re loaded.”

      Will reached over the fireplace and retrieved his Springfield .44-70 rifle and his old Owl Head pistol. He looked at his son with pride, standing six feet three inches, broad-shouldered, a full-grown man at only eighteen. He said, “Son, be ready to ride at daybreak. Pack us some grub and our bedroll and gear.”

      *****

      Will rode out into the night. It was clear; the stars seemed so close that he could almost touch them. The half-moon was just peeking over the hilltops. The night was quiet. The dark and unknown forest lay ahead. Only the night creatures ran off into the dark timber to watch who had dared to enter their domain.

      Will’s farm was a small rocky hillside, but even so, it had taken over ten years to pay off on a land contract. He thought of the ten years of a wasted life. No way was he going to let Isaac end up old and broken down with nothing to show for it but a broken body and, even worse, a broken spirit. It was not fair for such a wonderful boy.

      When he thought of Isaac, his chest swelled with pride. He had been his wife Martha’s pride and joy. She had often said he was her only reason for living, and then she was taken from them. Will was devasted. He had married Martha at age fifteen and, for a long time, had been his whole life till Isaac came along.

      He let his mind wander a minute longer, and then he snapped out of his fog. He had better watch what he was doing. The trail down Troublesome Creek was known for thugs and cutthroats. It’s often said that evil things come out at night, looking for an easy target to prey on.

      His ride to the creek went uneventful. He then turned left toward Whitesburg.

      Later that night, when he was four miles outside of town, he came to the tavern of John Stumbo. Will rode up to the dark building. He knew John slept at the back. He knocked on the side door. A few minutes later, John’s booming voice asked, “Who is there?”

      “It’s William Collins, John. I came to do business.”

      The door slowly opened. John stood in his Union suit and a Navy Colt in his right hand. “You alone?” he said.

      “Yes, John. I have nineteen gallons of shine, double-ran and tempered to sale.”

      John said, “If my customers get some good liquor, I will never sell that slop I usually do. How much you asking?”