Raven 1 Read online

  “I was getting to that,” the preacher continued, “You need to go to stores in Cookeville. Ask about anyone buying copper tubing, large bags of sugar, large amounts of yeast, and large copper buckets or tubs. That’s the basic needs of a corn whiskey ‘shinin’ operation,” the preacher instructed.

  “Why start in Cookeville?” Agent Rogers asked.

  “Most of the moonshine made in these parts comes from Jackson County. Cookeville is the closest place to get those items,” Sheriff Hankins responded.

  “How long are you fellows expecting to be on this job?” the preacher asked nonchalantly.

  “We’re figuring a month or so,” Agent Jenkins said.

  “Here’s what you need to do. Get on the phone with Miss Rosie and work out a deal with your contracting officer and field office chief to book room and board here for a month,” the preacher said.

  “Is there anything else?” Agent Rogers asked.

  “Two things,” the preacher said.

  He continued, “First tell Whitehorse that Raven said, ‘We’ll do the needful,’ and stay here till 1:30 pm while I run my traps.”

  “It’s a little late in the season to be setting traps isn’t it, preacher?” Agent Rogers inquired.

  “Looks like your boss just opened the season on ‘shiners,” the preacher replied with a smile.

  “Are you through with me, preacher?” the sheriff asked.

  “Sheriff, you will be helping me run my traps,” the preacher said as they walked to the patrol car.

  “What do you need?” the sheriff asked.

  “We’re taking a ride up to Crossville to talk to the Cumberland County Sheriff,” the preacher explained.

  “Preacher, I knew you were sending them on a wild goose chase in Cookeville. That is the most obvious, but least likely, place to get ‘shiner supplies,” the sheriff said with a chuckle.

  “I have been told that even a blind squirrel can scratch up an acorn occasionally,” the preacher retorted.

  * * *

  When the preacher and Sheriff Hankins walked into the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff Lockhart asked, “Have you got him saved yet, preacher?”

  “I am taking you both to the altar today,” the preacher said.

  “Say on, pastor,” Sheriff Lockhart said.

  “Two treasury agents showed up in Ferguson today needing help to find moonshine stills. I pushed them toward Cookeville to get a few weeks to move our local ‘shiners into a more legitimate line of work,” the preacher explained.

  “How does that involve me and Sheriff Hankins?” the Cumberland County Sheriff asked.

  “I know that Jackson County ‘shiners buy their supplies in Crossville not Cookeville. I also know that they haul their shine through Crossville and down State Highway 70, through Ferguson, to Nashville,” the preacher explained.

  “Keep talkin’ preacher. I’m making mental notes,” Sheriff Lockhart said with a smile.

  “You have a few Cumberland County ‘shiner families that currently survive these hard times by sending white whiskey to Knoxville and Johnson City,” the preacher said.

  “Take us to the altar. I don’t see how that affects me and Sheriff Lockhart,” Sheriff Hankins said.

  “Your jobs are to protect citizens in your jurisdictions. You are not sworn to protect moonshiners in Jackson County,” the preacher said firmly.

  “What are you proposing?” Sheriff Lockhart asked.

  “You find out when the runs are made from Jackson County through Crossville down Highway 70 and call us. Sheriff Hankins and his deputies, along with the treasury agents, will stop the car and seize the Jackson County moonshine,” the preacher said.

  “That’s not a problem. They leave Crossville on Tuesday mornings and Thursday mornings headed for Nashville,” Sheriff Lockhart explained.

  “Why is this situation our problem?” Sheriff Hankins asked.

  “Do either one of you want the feds hanging around? Do you want the feds finding illegal stills in your counties? That is very bad press. They need some successes and then they will move on,” the preacher stated.

  The two sheriffs looked at each other and Sheriff Hankins replied, “I just felt the spirit move.”

  “Me too,” Sheriff Lockhart said.

  * * *

  When the preacher returned to Miss Rosie’s, the two federal agents were waiting. They stood and walked anxiously toward him.

  “Did you catch anything, preacher?” Agent Jenkins asked.

  “No, but there’s a big juicy load of ‘shine headed from Jackson County through Crossville and into Ferguson on Highway 70 about mid-morning tomorrow,” the preacher reported.

  “How will we identify the correct vehicle?” Agent Rogers asked.

  “It will be a black 1935 Ford sedan that has a hidden tank under a cover in the trunk. It holds about 50-gallons of moonshine that is on its way to Nashville,” the preacher replied.

  “Sheriff Hankins and his deputies will be there to help. I am told the driver is unarmed, but be careful,” the preacher said.

  * * *

  As the preacher crouched behind the rocks the next morning and waited with the revenuers and Sheriff Hankins for the moonshine transport to arrive, he thought about some words to the song, ‘Moonshiner’:

  “I've been a moonshiner

  For seventeen long years

  I've spent all my money

  On whiskey and beer

  I'll go to some hollow

  And sit at my still

  And if whiskey don't kill me

  Then I don't know what will.”

  Just like clockwork the 1935 specially equipped black Ford sedan crossed the county line headed to Ferguson and on to Nashville. The two federal agents and local law enforcement were there to greet it.

  The preacher made sure that the Cookeville Daily News Journal was there to cover the story and give credit to the locals assisting the treasury agents. They took pictures of the car and the illegal whiskey being siphoned out of the special trunk tank. After the excitement subsided, the driver, the preacher, and the law enforcement folks, adjourned to the local jail.

  “I hope your pastoring skills are as good as your ‘shiner hunting skills,” Agent Rogers said.

  “Gentlemen, what do you plan on doing with the prisoner?” the preacher asked.

  “We’ll take him to Nashville, charge him with transporting untaxed, illegal moonshine, and let him spend a few years in federal prison,” Agent Jenkins explained.

  “As I said before, I’m not in the law enforcement business. But I think you folks have both a problem and a solution,” the preacher replied.

  “How is that?” Sheriff Hankins inquired.

  “Explain what facts establish probable cause in this case. In other words, what made you stop and search that particular vehicle?” the preacher asked.

  “We had a confidential informant,” Agent Rogers stated firmly.

  “You had a man giving you monkey back hearsay, totem pole hearsay, bullshit hearsay to use to stop a vehicle,” the preacher replied.

  “Well, you can tell us who told you,” Agent Jenkins pleaded.

  “I cannot. It falls under clergy/penitent privilege. A man’s conscience led him to the altar, and he gave me the information. I cannot breach that confidence legally, morally, or spiritually,” the preacher explained.

  “You’ve got no case,” Sheriff Hankins stated bluntly.

  “They have better than a case,” the preacher said.

  “What do you mean?” Sheriff Hankins asked.

  “Again, I’m not in the law enforcement business, but they can grant immunity to the driver if he will give information about the moonshine business in Jackson County,” the preacher said.

  “He’s got to give up something to get that going,” Agent Rogers said.

  “Leave that to me,” the preacher said.

  After about half an hour, the preacher returned and said, “He has some tidbits for you but nothi
ng else until he has full immunity.”

  The two agents, Sheriff Hankins, and the preacher approached the cell. The man stood up and faced the four.

  “Tell them the information you want them to know for immunity from prosecution,” the preacher instructed.

  “There are 15 stills run by three ‘shiner families in Jackson County. They send out 150 gallons per week of moonshine to Nashville and Knoxville. Another 150 gallons goes to Johnson City every week,” the prisoner explained.

  “We’ll get the Assistant U.S. Attorney to create the paperwork and send it up on the Mountain Excursion tomorrow,” Agent Jenkins explained.

  “Is that all, preacher?” the imprisoned man asked.

  “Keep your mouth shut tightly until you sign those papers tomorrow morning,” the preacher instructed.

  “I know you said you weren’t in the law enforcement business, but it looks like you’ve had some legal training or experience,” Sheriff Hankins declared.

  “I graduated from Vanderbilt Law School in Nashville with their boss. I went on to earn a Master of Divinity degree from there,” the preacher replied.

  “If you’re a lawyer, why are you a preacher?” Agent Rogers asked.

  “There won’t be many lawyers in heaven,” the preacher replied tongue-in-cheek.

  “What about the car?” Agent Jenkins asked.

  “The County Attorney will file for forfeiture on it. The moonshiners won’t show up to claim it. Sheriff Hankins will get a fairly new, hot rod patrol car,” the preacher said.

  “Works for us,” Agent Rogers said.

  “You two go back to Miss Rosie’s and talk to your boss man. Tell him Raven sends his best. Sheriff Hankins and I are headed to the store for a snack and a soft drink,” the preacher said.

  After the agents left, Sheriff Hankins said, “Preacher, the feds got their ‘shine, I got a patrol car, and the driver got immunity. Now that’s simply amazing.”

  “It’s like Moses told the children of Israel when they were facing the Red Sea with the Egyptian army closing in on them: ‘Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you,” the preacher replied.

  “I ain’t a-movin’, preacher. I ain’t a-goin’ nowhere,” the sheriff responded.

  4: The Smith Brothers

  When the preacher walked into Jack Wright’s store, he was met with an odor that reeked of decaying fish. It was so noxious that he was forced to cover his nose with his cupped hand.

  “What is that terrible smell?” the preacher asked.

  “I’m enjoying a tin of Possum Brand sardines and crackers,” the proprietor said proudly.

  “Good,” the preacher continued, “I thought your cat had dragged in a dead fish from Miller’s pond.”

  “These are hard to get, preacher. They come all the way from Prospect Harbor, Maine,” Jack explained.

  “No doubt,” the preacher replied.

  “I eat ‘em with that Louisiana Hot Sauce. You want some?” the storekeeper asked.

  “I’ve enjoyed them enough vicariously,” the preacher said sarcastically.

  "Now these are the good kind. They're packed in extra virgin olive oil instead of plain soybean oil," the storekeeper explained.

  The preacher grunted affirmatively.

  "Preacher, I know what virgin means. Is extra virgin real good like the Virgin Mary?" Jack Wright inquired.

  The preacher replied, "Extra virgin olive oil is the highest grade. The olives are the first run through a cold press. The oil has the best taste and is the most nutritious."

  "I told you that these sardines were the best!" Jack exclaimed.

  "You can have my share," the preacher said somewhat sarcastically.

  “Do you want something else?” Jack inquired.

  “I’m fine. I had bacon, eggs, and grits this morning,” the preacher beamed.

  “You must have made an early visit to Miss Rosie’s,” Jack remarked.

  “I made a visit to Martin’s Salvage after getting two dozen eggs, five pounds of grits, and a slab of bacon in donations on Sunday,” the preacher explained.

  “What did that old skinflint Finis Martin sell you?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “I got a used two cap hotplate, a few used cooking utensils, and some mixed pattern dishes,” the preacher replied.

  “How much did that set you back?” Jack inquired.

  “Mr. Martin was so pleased with his increase in foot traffic and sales from the train passengers that he just donated them to the church,” the preacher answered.

  “Did he get conviction in his heart?” Jack asked with a chuckle.

  “I think it was more in his wallet,” the preacher replied with a big smile.

  “I guess it’s like that poem in the book you loaned me, ‘Light Shining Out Of The Darkness’ by Mr. Cowper,” the proprietor remarked.

  “God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform,” the preacher recited.

  “Finis Martin wouldn’t pay a nickel to see a piss ant eat a bale of hay. If he made a free will donation to the church, that is truly mysterious and wonderful,” Jack Wright stated.

  “Amen!” the preacher exclaimed.

  * * *

  The two men heard a vehicle come to a stop outside Discount Grocery. They peered out the door and saw a red 1933 Ford van pulling slowly to the gas pumps.

  “That’s Cecil and Randall Smith and the boys!” Jack Wright explained.

  “Tell me about the Smiths,” the preacher implored.

  “They are really, really good musicians. Old time music is their specialty, but they do gospel and country western, too,” the storekeeper explained.

  “I’ve not heard of them. Are they from around here?” the preacher asked.

  “They live to the west of Ferguson, but they’ve been on tour since you’ve been here,” Jack said.

  Cecil Smith walked through the door of the store with his wallet in his hand and said, “I pumped 23 gallons so how much do I owe you?”

  “I didn’t think your tank would hold that much,” Jack Wright said.

  “I filled a five-gallon jacket can, too. Some of the places we travel don’t have services,” Cecil replied.

  The preacher offered his hand and said, “I’m Thomas Mann. I’m the preacher in Ferguson.”

  Cecil Smith shook hands with the preacher and replied, “I mean no disrespect preacher, but I didn’t have much luck with your predecessor.”

  “I’m not sure that I understand what you mean,” the preacher said.

  “He was against dancing and any music but church hymns. He never let us play music in the meeting house. He told our wives that we were on the devil’s errand and already had a reservation in hell,” Mr. Smith explained.

  “I understand that you’ve been on tour,” the preacher said gently changing the subject.

  “We travel toward Chattanooga into northern Georgia, west to northern Alabama, and then northeast into southern Tennessee playing county fairs, barn dances, music shows, cake walks, reunions, big weddings, and anywhere else where they need a band,” Mr. Smith replied.

  “What brings you back to Ferguson?” the preacher inquired.

  “Planting season is upon us. We spend our summers making crops and growing burley tobacco. Six months of music money won’t take you a full year,” Mr. Smith responded.

  “I wish I could hear you and your band,” the preacher hinted.

  “I’ll get the boys and tell them to bring their instruments,” Cecil Smith exclaimed.

  In just a moment, six musicians strolled into the store bearing a Gibson mandolin, a National resonator guitar, a Kay fiddle, a Mastertone banjo, a Kay upright bass, and a six-string CF Martin guitar. They had every appearance of an old-time string band.

  “What’s your pleasure, preacher?” Mr. Smith inquired.

  “Do you know ‘Honey In The Rock’?” the preacher asked.

  As soon as the words left the preacher’s mouth, the music started, and it wasn’t long befo
re the lyrics followed:

  “I’ve got a home in that rock, don’t you see?

  I’ve got a home in that rock, don’t you see?

  I’ve got a home in that rock just beyond the mountaintop.

  I’ve got a home in that rock, don’t you see?

  Oh, there’s honey in the rock for me!

  Oh, there’s honey in the rock for me.

  There’s honey in that rock just beyond that mountaintop.

  There’s honey in that rock for me.”

  The band finished. Just as he was about to request another song, the phone at the store rang. Jack Wright picked up the receiver and answered.

  “It’s George Hickman. He wants to see you. He said it was about business,” Jack said.

  The preacher nodded, turned toward the band and asked, “How long are you fellows going to be around Ferguson?”

  “We’re here till frost,” the younger Smith said.

  “What about playing a square dance on Saturday night in Ferguson? It will be tips and donations only.” the preacher inquired.

  The band members looked at each other and smiled. They saw it as something of a welcome home event.

  “Where at and what time?” Cecil Smith asked.

  “Come at 5:00 pm on Saturday to the church across the street. You can move some benches and get in a little practice before we start at 6:30 pm. We’ll wind the clock at 9:30 pm,” the preacher explained.

  “Preacher,” Randall Smith said, “You’ll be in hell with the rest of us.”

  “We’ll see about that, but at least they’ll hear some good music down there,” the preacher said with a chuckle.

  * * *

  The preacher walked into Harriman Bank and looked around. He saw Drusilla Hickman but didn’t see her father, George.

  “Your father called the grocery store and asked to see me,” the preacher said.

  “He’s working in the vault. I’ll get him,” she replied.

  The banker emerged from the vault with sleeves rolled up and his shirt collar loosened. He was carrying a stack of files.