Page 119 of In These Hills

“Mr. Daniel.” She leveled a stare.

“You are far too easily winkled out, Mrs. Dunham. But we’ll fix that immediately once I start teaching you how to play poker.”

“As if that day will ever come, Mr. Daniel.”

“I’ll tell you what day is coming . . . the day you’ll call me Uncle Jack.”

“Oh please, not this again, sir.”

They stared at one another for a long moment. Him smiling. Her scarcely able to breathe for the stranglehold guilt had on her when confronted by this man’s generosity.

He glanced toward the door. “I’ve known Margaret Watson before she was knee-high. Watched her grow up, recall when she and Daryl married, and welcomed their first child, and their next and their next . . .” He smiled. “Then when she buried her folks. Good people who died too young when the influenza swept through here a few years back. But never in all that time has Margaret visited this distillery. Not once. Until you.” He pointed in the direction of the stillhouse. “My foot was throbbing so badly, I had to pause for a minute and sit on that old oak stump outside the stillhouse. So I saw Margaret leave.”

Josephine looked away.

“No, no. Look at me, please,” he said softly.

Culpability weighing heavy, and over so much more than he realized, she did as he asked.

“I knew hiring a suffragist would be a risky business.” His trademark charm sparkled in his eyes and somehow deepened his Tennessee drawl. “After all, there’s got to be a part of you that would rejoice at seeing this distillery go south, so to speak, which may well happen soon enough, what with all the talk of prohibition. But never did I imagine that the suffragist I hired would end up helping the families of the men who work here. And from her own pocket, no less.”

Seeing the sincerity and warmth in Mr. Daniel’s expression, she didn’t wish to get into an argument with him. But neither could she simply let the compliment stand. “To be frank, Mr. Daniel, I don’t view what I’m doing as helping the families of the men who work here. I see it as helping the wives and children of men in this town who drink alcohol—and your whiskey, in particular—to excess. Who choose to spend their wages on liquor instead of feeding and clothing their families. But yes, many of those men, I’m sure, do work for you.” She hesitated to share what came next to mind, then decided he should know. “Do you know what one of the women said about the last Friday of each month? The day you give every employee a free bottle of Old No. 7?”

His expression didn’t change, yet she sensed silent acknowledgment.

“She said it helps them with having enough to eat that week. Because that’s one less bottle her husband has to buy.”

A flash of displeasure flickered across his face. “Mrs. Dunham, I don’t dispute that some men drink too much. But is that the whiskey’s fault or the man’s? A hammer in a person’s hand can either build or destroy. Should we then outlaw hammers?”

She shook her head. “That’s false equivalence. A hammer’s purpose is to build. Whiskey’s purpose is to intoxicate, to dull a man’s senses, to rob him of his faculties.”

“Or, perhaps, to help relax a man after a long day’s work, to bring comfort to a hurting soul, to help friends celebrate together. And it’s to be enjoyed responsibly.”

She forced a laugh, but he held up a hand.

“From your perspective, Mrs. Dunham, I realize you see only the drunkard and the abuser. And I cannot—and do not—fault you for that, based on the unconscionable cruelty I believe you have suffered. But what about the hardworking man who sips and enjoys the relaxation my whiskey offers and never raises a hand to anyone?”

“But how many men truly stop at sipping, sir? I’ve stood outside countless bars and saloons, and have yet to see a man leave one of those places merely having sipped. And how do you account for so many women who are begging and marching in the streets for prohibition? Surely you’ve seen evidence of women in this town who’ve been beaten and abused by their husbands who were intoxicated.”

Mr. Daniel looked across the desk at her, something weary in his eyes. “I will not deny that I’ve seen women bearing bruises and other, again, indefensible injuries. But I make and sell whiskey, Mrs. Dunham. Not cruelty. Not rage. A good man drinks and continues to be goodhearted. A bad man drinks and turns mean as a snake. It wasn’t the drink that made him bad. The drink merely let out what was already inside.”

“Does that distinction help Mrs. Watson when her husband comes home full of whiskey and anger?”

A long moment passed.

“No,” he finally answered. “It doesn’t.”

She chose her next words carefully. “You’ve been very successful in your endeavors, Mr. Daniel. And even though I don’t know you well, I know you well enough to know you’re not a cruel man. You treat your workers with kindness. Your generosity has touched people all over this town. Including me.” She worked to soften her next question, her intention not to accuse, but to provoke thought. “But can you honestly tell me that you’ve never, not even once, questioned whether the good your business does outweighs the harm?”

He stared at some point beyond her. “Maybe I have. But that doesn’t mean the answer is a simple one.”

“But it is simple. Stop making whiskey.”

“You think if I stop selling whiskey, the men who beat their wives will suddenly become saints? That they’ll take up Scripture reading and drink sarsaparilla instead? If it’s not my whiskey they drink, it’ll be someone else’s. And if prohibition becomes law, they’ll make whiskey in a barn with fire and lye.”

“So because the evil won’t be completely eradicated, you choose to continue profiting from it?”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Dunham, I choose to make a product that’s the best of its kind in the world. That men—and women, mind you—seek out to enjoy, and I’ve spent a lifetime getting here. I pay my employees—again, men and women—fair salaries. More than they could make anywhere else in this town, or in other towns larger than Lynchburg. Because I know I couldn’t be doing what I’m doing without them.” His jaw tightened. Earnestness moved into his eyes. “I care about the people who work for me, everyone from the farmers who grow the corn, to the men who drive the wagons crated full of aged whiskey down to Tullahoma. All of them have helped me grow this distillery. I keep them fed and clothed. I also pay taxes, and a lot of them. Shoot, the Federal Treasury has made a fortune off me. If Jack Daniel Distillery is shut down, what happens to my workers? To this town?”