Marriage and Moonshine: Appalachian Roots

By Shae Bryant

In 1914, West Virginia passed state-wide prohibition years before it became law in the United States. This ushered in a rise of moonshiners, bootleggers, and violence between the alcohol-toting outlaws and the police. While women were part of the operations, they were usually overlooked by the authorities.

 

Polly Harrison is the daughter of a coal miner. She is destined to be the Mother and wife of coal miners. That is the last thing she wants for herself. When Polly meets widower "Dove" Varney, the two create an arrangement that benefits both of them.

Their marriage of convenience is expertly crafted to make family and friends believe Polly is about to be a dutiful wife. Even she is surprised to find out she has become the wife of a moonshiner. Will she work alongside him and collect the wealth from the illegal operation? Or, will she spill his secret to save herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shae Bryant
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201560645

Book preview

One

Chapter 1

Chapter Separator

Seven of us shared that little house halfway down the row. We were one of hundreds of white rectangles set on either side of a dirt road away from the train tracks. All the miners lived in these houses. The company provided homes for us, and we took whatever we could get.

It was warm enough in the winters, when all seven of us crowded around the cast-iron stove. I’d sit in Mama’s old chair, bundled in a fading quilt while my younger sister Bessie huddled next to me. We’d stare at the big rocks sitting on the stove, waiting for them to get warm. Mama and my older brother Abner wrapped the rocks in old rags, then slipped them under the covers in our beds.

There were two beds in the house. One was for Mama and Dad. The other fit five of us in it. The two oldest took the head of the bed, and the three youngest - including me - got cold feet every night. Abner and my sister Ethel smacked at our feet when one of us dared to move, telling us to lie still and go to sleep.

During the spring and summer, we relished in having our feet stick out at the head of the bed. Abner and Ethel could yell at us for dirty feet until they were out of breath, but they didn’t care if we threw every blanket off. The cool breeze blew from the open window, bringing in distant sounds of horses carrying their riders home from a saloon, or a nighttime train pulling into the station to carry coal from here all the way to St. Louis.

When the trains came in, I kept my eyes open. I’d watched the old lace curtain billow away from the window, hoping to glimpse at someone going by with something important to do. No one ever came by our house. Every miner and their families were fast asleep on this side of the rows.

The trains took the coal to the river. The barges took the coal all over the country. I was jealous of the men on the barges. I’d lay at night with my eyes wide open, staring at the moon shining on the window across the street. Inside of the dusty reflections were pictures of tall skyscrapers, grand shops, ladies in dresses made of silk, and restaurants with lace-trimmed napkins.

I wanted to be there in the middle of those crowded streets, carrying a parasol while wearing a brand-new dress from a ladies’ store. But I lived in a place that kept you there. You stayed, and you married a coal miner or a farmer. Then you had children who would farm the land or mine the coal.

You wore cotton and linen because it was practical and good to work in. There were no silk dresses or crinolines for us. No parasols. No cakes and tea on Sunday afternoons. Just four other children squeezed into a bed, one of us dreaming about stealing away on a barge and running off to Philadelphia or Boston.

I decided I would not marry a coal miner early on. It was just after another explosion. Dad was home early that day, sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Black dust smeared across his cheeks and gathered around his nose like someone used a powder puff to place it just so. Dark cracks lined his hands, and grime blackened his fingernails.

It was the first time I remembered Dad not washing up before sitting at the table. Mama usually had a fit if hands were dirty in the kitchen. That day, she sat a tin mug in front of him, and poured a cup of strong black coffee.

He stared at the cup, inhaling the bitter coffee until his lungs filled with the aroma. Normally, Dad’s cup of coffee perked him up. His eyes would open wide, and he broke into a grin before telling us some tall tale he heard from one of the men. Mama would sigh and admonish him for telling whoppers, trying not to laugh when she did so.

That day, he stayed slumped in his chair, shaking his head while his lips moved. The words were so quiet, I couldn’t hear a thing until Mama gasped. She covered her mouth with one hand, speaking from between her fingers.

An explosion, Allen? Are you sure?

My Dad nodded, I’m sure.

How many? Mama’s hand shook when she pushed the mug closer to him.

Ten, as far as I know. There’s over ten. They haven’t found all of them yet. Dad sighed.

I pressed my back against the wall, listening to them talk about what we’d call a disaster. The company said it was an accident. It was no accident. It also wasn’t the first explosion, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The whitewashed wall across from me had turned gray with all the soot that wafted in the house. I imagined a dark gray crack was opening up in front of me, swallowing Dad and his friends into the deep rock they mined. That was when I decided I’d never marry a miner. Mama worried herself sick every day, wondering if Dad might be the next man they carried out on a plank. It wasn’t something I’d ever worry about once I was older.

I got a little older. Old enough to understand what Dad was doing when he sat on the sofa with Paul Ohlinger and George Duncan. The three of them shouted and banged their fists on the wooden arm, twisting their faces in anger while they yelled about the company. There was a strike in another town. Men lost their jobs, and strikebreakers were starting fights.

It happened more often. The other kids at school whispered about it. Their Dads had the same talks at home, and theirs shouted and yelled just like mine. The more I knew about it, the more I wanted to leave that town and run away from the restless miners and their tyrannical superiors.

Abner turned sixteen not long after the first strike happened. He could have gone anywhere, but he went to join Dad at the mines. He was the first to leave home and get married. The newlywed couple didn’t go far at all. They moved into a house in the same camp we all lived in to raise their family of future miners.

Ethel was the next to go, moving to Matewan with her new husband. After that, my older brother Will got himself married. Bessie and I were the only two left. I was too young to get married. I thought I was, but Mama had different ideas.

By the time I was nineteen, she had introduced me to every young man in Logan County. Most of them were nice enough, and a lot were lookers. But I didn’t want to marry a man from Logan. I wanted to marry a man from Boston or Philadelphia or New York. A man who would take me on a train with red leather seats to a place far away from home.

Bessie got married when she was seventeen. No one ever said a word, but I noticed Mama bought an extra wide sash to go around her waist. The lavender sash covered a small bulge in her stomach, and Bessie had her first baby just a few months later. He came early, according to Mama. Some babies do.

That left me alone in our room. I was the last to stay at home, and I’d be the last to get married. If I ever got married. By the time I was twenty-three, both of my parents feared I’d be a spinster. I got married just the same, but it wasn’t what they hoped for. It wasn’t what I hoped for, either. Not at the beginning.

* * *

I woke up to the sound of the train coming into the yard. Some mornings, it was nice to wake up by myself and stretch my limbs out over the aging bed. It was getting warmer outside, and the brass rails cooled my cheeks as I pressed against them while I watched the window.

Nothing had changed since I was a child. The same horses went by every morning. The same people shouted to each other, and the same women stood on their porches and gossiped. Even the wind felt like the old wind that blew into my room, carrying with it the scent of coal dust, coal smoke and horses.

Dad had gone to work before the sun came up. Mama was in the kitchen mixing something up for supper. Her wooden spoon clicked against the big tin bowl in a rhythm that fell in time with the idling train engine some streets away.

I pulled on my blue linen frock and washed my face in the basin, shivering as the cold water splashed on my warm skin. There was a small mirror next to the basin. It had been a wedding gift for Mama. She left it there for us, saying we must take care to inspect ourselves every morning. And every morning we looked at our faces in the mirror, taking care to be presentable.

I brushed back a few strands of blond hair that fell in my face, smiling at the strawberry highlights I never grew into. Dad always said that I’d be a carrot top one day like his Mother. My Grandmother had hair like copper with silver streaks in them, and big barrel curls that were always swept into a tight bun. She said she covered it because the children teased her so when she was little. I dreaded growing into the red hair and being teased like she was. As I got older, I only wished my hair was blond like Mama’s and fewer waves.

After fixing my hair with a ribbon, I gave my cheeks a little slap to make them a bit more rosy. Rosy cheeks and pale skin were the way to look like a lady, after all. My cheeks may have been pink, but my skin was tanned from so much work outside. And my hands were roughened from all the house-work I had to do.

I scowled at a piece of dried skin around my nails, tearing it away without a second thought. Grand women in Boston didn’t have to deal with such things. They had ten pairs of gloves each and never had to scrub a floor or iron clothes all day.

Speaking of irons, the unmistakable smell of hot metal filled the house. Mama had the irons on the stove, preparing for the rest of the laundry. I mourned my poor hands before walking out the door into the big room of the house.

Like every other house in the camp, we had one room that served for dining, living and kitchen. The front of the rectangle was an open space with an old stove to one side and a counter Dad made of old lumber. A few shelves served as a pantry, and our Grandfather had given us a table he and Dad made together.

During the day, Mama pushed the table nearly to the sofa so we’d have more room to work in the kitchen. Her dough sat proofing in the windowsill, covered with one of the towels to keep flies away. A big iron tub sat on the stove next to the two irons, already steaming for the laundry.

Polly. Mama said. Go down to the store and get some blue starch.

What else do I need? I asked, knowing Mama always forgot about something.

Mama pushed her white cap back, showing the silver streaks forming in her golden hair. She surveyed the stove, staring at the washtub that bubbled. Her eyes fell on the cake of soft home made soap that we set aside for laundry.

Coffee. She said. We’re running low.

Coffee. Blue starch…? I looked at her.

That’s all. Mama pushed against my hip. Now, get! And don’t take all morning. We’ve got work to finish.

I won’t. I won’t. I