“_Bloody_” _Breathitt has been exempted from the draft_. _So prompt
and general was the response of her fighting men to the call for
volunteers_, _that her quota is more than filled_. _There is no need
of conscription_. _Thus does the outlaw mountain county of Kentucky
vindicate herself in the eyes of the world_, _mocking those who would
shame her with a record more fanciful than true_.
—_News Item_.
Breathitt was at peace.
As the Cumberland sun climbed over the eastern hills, bringing the rugged
flush of morning to each crag and ridge and peak, a travel-worn rider,
astride an even more worn mare, drew up at the stile in front of a
four-room log cabin. On the rider’s smooth, strong features were marks
of a sleepless night, emphasized by a tense foreboding. As he stopped,
his mare heaved a shuddering sigh of exhaustion and lowered her head in
weary relief; the man bent one booted leg over the pommel of his saddle,
and with an expression of pity gazed at the cabin for some moments before
he called.
“Hallo!” There was no response from within the chinked walls; only the
snarl of a cur, that skulked near the rickety porch, and the lonesome
tinkle of a cowbell from the barn lot.
Again, “Hallo!” This time, after half a minute, the heavy front door
opened on its wooden hinges and a mountaineer, with untrimmed, grizzled
mustache, stepped out into the morning sunshine.
“Wal, if hit ain’t Lawyer Todd—howdy!” The old man’s face glowed with
cordiality as he approached the stile.
“Git off yer mare and come in, lawyer,” he invited. “We’ve jest ate, but
Lizzie’ll have ye some breakfast in a jiffy. Leave yer critter right
thar and come on in.”
“Thank you, Seth, but I reckon I won’t for a while.” Lawyer Todd tried
to smile in answer to the welcome, but his eyes were grave.
He was a man of middle age and some little refinement of appearance, in
spite of the mud that now besplotehed him. A native of the Kentucky
Mountains, he had taken his degree at a college in the Blue Grass, but
had returned to the hills to practice among his own people. He was one
of them: he knew their ways, their faults, their virtues, their
peculiarities, and of Seth Brannon he was particularly wise. Ever since
hanging out his shingle at the county seat, Todd had been his legal
adviser whenever Seth had seen fit to waive the local militant manner of
settling disputes and rely upon the instruments of law and order.
Between the two men there existed a feeling that was more than
professional. Seth, while many years his senior, made Todd his
confidant, looked up to him with the deference due superior wisdom, and
knew that his trust was not misplaced. In return Todd gave sympathetic
understanding to this primitive man of the hills, respected his
traditions, and stood by him in time of trouble.
It was this bond between friend and friend, rather than between lawyer
and client, that had drawn Todd over long, hard miles through the most
isolated and inaccessible part of that Kentucky county which bears the
title “Bloody.”
Todd did not dismount from his mare; and old Seth, squatting on the stile
block, regarded him keenly with eyes much used to the analysis of their
fellow-men.
“What’s on yer mind, lawyer?” he inquired. “’Pears like all ain’t good
news ye’ve brung over the hills with ye.”
He took in at a glance the mud-caked legs and belly of the mare, and the
blue clay drops that had sprayed and dried on the lawyer, from his
leather boots to his gray slouch hat.
“Ye must ’a’ come a long piece, from the looks o’ ye,” Seth resumed with
friendly concern. “Shorely, now, ye ain’t rid all the way from Jackson
town?”
“Yes,” Todd answered, “that’s what I have.”
“And what fer?”
The lawyer reached to an inside pocket and drew out a yellow envelope,
the flap of which had been torn open. With a slowness that was almost
hesitancy, he handed the envelope to the old man.
“The operator at Jackson gave that to me, Seth,” said Todd. “He knew I
sorta attended to matters there in town for you and that I’d see you got
it. It came just after dark yesterday, and I’ve been riding ever since
to bring it to you—and break the news.”
Seth scratched his mustache with a calloused forefinger, turning the
yellow envelope over and over and looking at it with curiosity.
“What is hit?” he asked. “Ye know—ye know, lawyer, readin’ ain’t one o’
my strong p’ints, and these here printed things don’t mean nothin’ to me.
What’s hit all about?”
“It’s a telegram, Seth, a telegram—about Jim.”
“About Jim—my Jim?” The old man groped for a moment. “Why, lawyer, Jim
knows his pa can’t neither read or write. What’d Jim send me a teleygram
fer?”
“Jim didn’t send it. It came through the Canadian War Department, at
Ottawa.” Todd braced himself in his saddle. “Seth, when Jim went away,
did you ever reckon you mightn’t see him again?”
The old man’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t reckon much about hit a-tall,” he
said. “Fact is, Jim went withouten my lief and agin my best jedgment.”
He paused, but as the lawyer made no reply, went on:
“Ye see, Jim ’as plumb crazy to go to war, soon as he heard hit had broke
loose over yan. But I says, says I, ‘Jim, this ain’t none o’ our war;
hit’s a-happenin’ way outside o’ these mountings whar we ain’t got no
business. I’m a ole man and I’ve come to love peace. Ten year ago,
after we’d fought and fought and finally whopped the Allens, over on
South Fork, I swore thar’d be no more war if I could help hit. And I’ve
purty well kept my word. Now, Jim,’ says I, ‘this feller Keeser and his
Germins ain’t hurt we’uns. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ’em. And, what’s
more, I don’t want we or no other Brannon o’ the name to be startin’
trouble with sech people.’
“‘Pa,’ says Jim, ‘I ain’t a-goin’ to start trouble. Keeser’s already
started hit. He and his Germins done sunk a lot o’ ships and kilt a
whole mess o’ wimmen and chil’ren, some of ’em Amerikin wimmen and
chil’ren too. The English and the French been a-fightin’ him over thar
fer nigh on two year. Now hit looks like this country’s a-goin’ to take
a hand. The army men at Washington says thar jest ain’t no way o’ our
gittin’ ’round fightin’ Keeser; either we got to help lick him over yan
in Eurip or he’ll lick us over here.’
“‘Then let him come on over and try hit,’ says I. ‘I ain’t shot skunks
and Allens and wildcats all my life fer nothin’,’ says I. ‘The same ole
rifle-gun my granddaddy brung up from North Calliney and kilt Injuns with
ain’t so rusty and no ’count that I can’t shoot a few shoots at this
Keeser feller and his Germins.
“‘But, Jim,’ I says, ‘Jim, ye know a mounting man fights best on his own
ground. Hit ain’t in nature fer him to go scrappin’ on furren soil
amongst furreners. Up a hillside, behind a bunch o’ laurel, is a heap
better place fer a mounting man than in them trenches yer talkin’ about.
Fust o’ all,’ says I, ‘I’m fer peace; but if ye’ve got to fight, then
stay home and fight nigh yer own front door.’
“Them’s exactly the words I spoke to him, lawyer,” continued Seth,
cramming a handful of tobacco into his mouth. “Wait till somebody’s hit
ye, then hit back and hit back damn hard. But don’t go meddlin’ ’round
in a country ye don’t know nothin’ about, ’mongst folks what ain’t no kin
to ye. That’s what I says, jest about them very words.”
“And yet Jim went,” said Todd. “Those two years you gave him at Berea
College, Seth, made Jim more thoughtful than most boys hereabouts. He
read war, he studied war; and, impatient at the delay of his own
government in getting into it, he went up to Canada, enlisted in her
armies and shipped to France—”
“Yas, that ’as the way hit was,” assented the old man. “All his ma and
me could do couldn’t keep that boy from goin’ oncet he’d sot his head on
hit.
“That ’as ’most a year ago. Course we miss Jim and all that,” Seth
added; “but even if he has gone to war agin’ Keeser and his Germins, the
rest o’ us here ain’t bearin’ no grudge toward ’em so long as they leaves
us in peace.”
“They aren’t leaving you in peace, Seth; that’s just it.” Todd watched
him closely to see the effect of his words. “Already when Jim enlisted
Keeser and his Germins’ had killed American citizens by the score. Since
then they’ve killed other Americans; helpless, unoffending people who
believed as you do that because they hadn’t harmed the Germans, the
Germans wouldn’t harm them.
“You had some reason for opposing Jim’s enlistment. We weren’t at war
with Germany then. He was under no personal or patriotic obligation to
fight. He acted mostly from the urge of conscience, I know, and after
much far-sighted deliberation. But now it’s different, Seth. Last week
our men in Washington declared war on Germany. We’ve got to fight as a
nation whether as individuals we want to fight or not. Otherwise your
rifle-gun and mine, and all the rifle-guns in these mountains, won’t save
our homes and our women and children once the Germans land in this
country. Don’t you see how it is, Seth? Our boys have to go to war, to
save from war those who are left behind. Don’t you feel differently now
about Jim’s going the way he did?”
The old man shook his head stubbornly. “I tell ye, lawyer, hit ain’t any
o’ our war. What happens outside o’ these hills don’t consarn me and my
folks. ‘What happens amongst these hills we can take care of when hit
comes. Let them as wants to fight, fight. We’uns don’t axe nothin’ o’
other folks and other folks ain’t got no business axein’ nothin’ o’ us.
That’s whar hit stands with me, lawyer.”
“Listen, Seth.” Todd leaned toward him from his saddle. “You know, the
people outside of Breathitt don’t think much of us who live here. Not
only in other parts of Kentucky, but in all the other states and even
abroad, they call us ‘Bloody.’ That’s because we’ve been a bit too handy
with our guns. We’ve killed too many of our own folks. We haven’t paid
much attention to the law. Now this war gives us a chance to show the
outside world that there’s more good than bad in us; that we can leave
off fighting each other and use our lead on the Germans.”
Todd leaned closer to the old man, enthusiasm in his voice. “Listen,
Seth. The President wants volunteers for the army. He’s got to have
soldiers, lots of them. And the best soldier material in the country is
right up here in these hills. We men of Breathitt are born to the
trigger. Most of us soldier in a manner all our lives. Now, I say,
we’ve got to stop aiming our rifle-guns at each other and point ’em
toward the enemy. I’ve been thinking about it considerably lately and I
want your help in bringing this very thing to pass.
“You, Seth, have more influence with the people than any one man in this
county. You’re connected by family to every big clan in Breathitt. When
you say peace, they keep the peace; when you say war, they fight. For
years now there’s been no general trouble. That’s because, as you
declared, war don’t pay. And you’re right, indeed you are, where feud
wars are concerned. We’ve had enough of them, God knows!”
Todd continued: “Seth, they’re framing a draft bill there in Washington.
They’re going to make men join the army if they won’t join it
voluntarily. Now our boys never had to be kicked into battle, Seth.
They’ve got the good old Kentucky warrior blood in their veins; and the
better the cause, the harder they fight. Let’s show the country that
Breathitt isn’t as bad as printer’s ink has painted her. Let’s not wait
for that draft bill. Tell your men, Seth, that this is the worst war and
the best war that ever happened. Tell ’em it’s the most wicked war and
the holiest war in which a Kentuckian was ever privileged to draw a bead.
Say the word, old friend, and every son of Breathitt will rally to the
flag, to wipe the stains from their own hills and help clean the world’s
slate for the universal writing of the name Democracy!”
Again old Seth shook his head. He waved his hand with a gesture of
finality, then brought his fist to his knee with a dull thud.
“Yer a mighty purty talker, lawyer, and I ’low ye means what ye says—but,
I tells ye, I ain’t got no consarn in this here war. Keeser and his
Germins ain’t done nothin’ to me and my folks. Them men o’ Breathitt who
wants to fight, can fight. I won’t stop ’em. But, lawyer, I ain’t
a-goin’ to call ’em to war till that feller Keeser makes the fust move
agin one o’ us. That’s what I says to Jim and that’s what I’m a-sayin’
to ye,” he added defiantly.
Lawyer Todd said nothing. He knew the mettle of his people. He believed
in them. He also knew that old Seth was a victim of isolation and the
teachings of a primitive creed; that his opposition sprang from
ignorance, not disloyalty. It was the inborn nature of a mountaineer to
prefer battle among his own hills, whose every rock and peak and cove he
had studied with an eye to offense and defense, rather than wage war in
the enemy’s country where he was a stranger. Besides, as Seth himself
had said, the Brannons and their kin had not yet smelled blood. “Keeser
and his Germins” must first offer direct injury to one of them before
they could feel the personal touch of war and answer the challenge from
oversea.
With this realization Todd broke the silence in a firm voice, pointing to
the yellow envelope in the old man’s hand.
“Seth, that telegram holds bad news for you folks.”
Seth’s attitude of defiance relaxed. Taut cords stood out beneath the
dry skin of his throat as the inner man gripped himself.
“Is Jim hurt?” There was a tremor of paternalism in the question. The
yellow envelope fluttered to the ground near the mare’s feet.
Todd looked Seth steadily in the eyes. “Worse than hurt, old friend, yet
better than hurt,” he replied. “Jim is dead.”
Not a cry, not a tear, not a groan, not even a quiver of the world-worn
mouth and brow. Only an expression of incredulity that hardened into
sternness.
“Dead?—dead! My Jim dead.” Then, after a while, “Hit’ll go plumb hard
with his ma, her Jimmy dead.” The keen eyes widened and the wrinkled
face was lifted to the hills.
Directly, in a calm, low voice: “Tell me, lawyer, who kilt him? How was
he kilt, my Jim?”
“He was killed in action, Seth, killed by ‘Keeser and his Germins’ while
bombing an enemy’s trench.”
“Bombing a trench! Whar in hell was his rifle-gun?”
“He wasn’t using it then.” Todd drew on his imagination. “But he sold
out at a high figger, Seth, that boy of yours. A dozen Germans went down
before they got him.”
The old man’s eyes flashed. “Ye say they did? Jim he kilt a dozen of
’em?” His friend nodded. “Lord!—now don’t that beat all!” Seth
chuckled an unhealthy chuckle. “Kilt a dozen of ’em!”
When he next spoke, however, it was briefly and through lips parched and
drawn.
“Wal, I reckon that settles hit. Yas, lawyer, I reckon that mighty nigh
settles hit.” And with shoulders bent forward, his chin in his hand, the
old man lapsed into lonely meditation.
Todd left him there, seated on the stile, and with a sigh of relief that
his mission had been thus far accomplished, rode his mare around to the
barn. The Breathitt country that day vibrated with a silent but
compelling call. Bare-footed couriers, wizards of short cut and bypath,
slipped through valley and over ridge, up rocky creek bed and down steep
decline, bearing a message from their chief. The lesser clan heads
received the message; and from beneath their clapboard roofs, they in
turn sent forth couriers to their followers. Along the waters of
Troublesome, Middle Fork, Quicksand and Kentucky River, the word flashed.
A hushed suspense closed over the hills. Men greeted one another in
undertones, sensing rather than speaking what each had in mind. Action
was the necessity of the hour; swift, tense action that tarried neither
to question nor to reason, but obeyed.
But little time elapsed after Lawyer Todd left old Seth at the stile,
before the Brannons and their kinsmen began to gather at the cabin of
their chief. They straggled in by ones and twos and threes, some mounted
and some on foot. Among them were grandfathers, with stooped shoulders
and snowy beards; others were mere boys.
Most of the men bore modern rifles and revolvers; a few had shotguns.
One, on whom the hookworm had set its blight, had been able to muster
only a pitchfork. Another was armed with a kitchen knife and a hickory
club. Besides their weapons all the equipment the men carried was a
bundle of food, done up in a greasy paper, consisting of chunks of corn
bread, a bit of salt and several strips of bacon.
Some of the “neighbor wimmen” had come to Seth’s cabin to tender their
services and sympathies to the bereaved mother. Old Seth himself sat
alone on the edge of the weather-warped porch, brooding. His rifle lay
across his knees, and while one hairy hand stroked the polished stock,
his eyes were fastened on the horizon above the eastern hills. The only
hint of emotion in his face was the dumbness of an emotion too deep for
expression.
The men stood about the yard in little groups. Out in the barn lot
several of the younger men pitched horseshoes. Others played mumble-peg
near the stile block, or lounged against the rail fence, whittling. The
patriarchs of the clan squatted at a respectful distance from their
chief, waiting to be called to council.
And upon them all poured the warming rays of the afternoon sun. The
pine-fringed mountains, green with the fresh, soft green of spring,
closed in grim but kindly embrace about the little army in the valley
below. A dove cooed plaintively from a near-by hollow; beneath the cabin
porch the cur whined and howled with a sense of approaching crisis.
After a while old Seth arose, steadying himself against the corner of the
porch. And silently his followers gathered about him.
“Boys,” he said, “I reckon ye all know why I sent fer ye. Jim’s been
kilt. Him that was o’ my flesh and blood, and o’ yer flesh and blood, is
dead. Keeser and his Germins kilt him, boys. Nothin’ on this airth that
me or ye can do will bring him back to life.
“When Jim went to war, he went withouten my lief. I’d fought a lot in my
time and I wanted him to keep outen sech trouble. But he went; he got
the notion he ought to go, and all I could say wouldn’t stop him. Jim
says that Keeser and his Germins ’as killin’ wimmen and chil’ren over
yan. He says this country’d soon be at war and that we folks o’
Breathitt ought to git ready and fight same as the rest o’ the people. I
studied on hit a heap then—and today I’ve studied on hit some more.
“As Jim ’lowed hit’d be, boys, this here country’s at war. I don’t
understand all about hit myself, about this de-mocracy we’re a-fightin’
fer or what we’re goin’ to do with the thing after we gits hit. Lawyer
Todd says hit’s jest another name fer freedom and liberty. Maybe hit is.
Anyway, boys, since I’ve thought hit over, thar ain’t been a war yet when
us fellers o’ the hills ain’t took a hand. Some fought fer the Union,
some fer the South. Some fought in Cuby, and some o’ our kin helped whop
them sassy niggers in the Fillerpines.
“Whenever we’ve fought, boys, we’ve had a reason fer hit, a mighty good
reason. Do ye remember back thar, several year ago, when Bulger Allen
plugged Hal Brannon in the heart as Hal ’as comin’ home from meetin’ with
his gal? Do ye recollect how hit riled us and how we got our rifle-guns
and went after them Allens? They’d kilt one o’ our folks, they’d broke
the peace. But afore we got through with ’em, they seen hit ’as
healthiest to leave our folks alone and keep their lead to themselves!”
Seth paused, swallowed, then went on:
“Boys, Jim’s been kilt. Yesterd’y we weren’t holdin’ nothin’ agin’
Keeser and his Germins. They hadn’t hurt none o’ we’uns. What devilment
they’d done, they’d done outsider these hills whar we ain’t got no
concarn. But now hit’s different. Hit’s jest another case o’ them
Allens, boys. Hit means we got to draw blood fer blood. Had Jim been
one o’ ye or yer sons, I’d say the same thing. A Brannon’s life has been
took: ye and me and all our folks has got to take lives to pay fer
hissen. That’s the way we do hit up here in these mountings. That’s the
way we got to do hit with Keeser and his Germins.”
Lawyer Todd, standing on the edge of the company, frowned and bit his
lip. He had been listening to the speech. Inwardly he had rejoiced.
But now he felt a pang of disappointment. Seth, he feared, was about to
overshoot the mark in his newly aroused enthusiasm. He was reckoning on
personal vengeance against “Keeser and his Germins,” something that could
not be but which would be hard for him to realize.
Todd, trying to attract as little notice as possible, edged through the
crowd until he stood at the old chief’s elbow. As he paused in his
delivery, the lawyer caught his attention.
“Seth,” he began in an undertone, “Seth, it doesn’t pay to be too hasty
about this thing you’re doing. You know, those people at Washington
don’t believe in fighting exactly the way we do down here. They go about
it different. It’s the young men who are sent to war. The government
takes only those who are in their prime, and it’s the government that
picks out the guns they’ll shoot and the clothes they’ll wear and tells
’em how to act and what to do. Don’t misunderstand me, Seth. It’s all
right for you to want to go to Europe and whip ‘Keeser and his Germins,’
but Seth, you just naturally can’t go.”
The old man looked at the lawyer in surprise.
“Can’t go?” he repeated aloud. “Ye mean to say I’m too old to go?”
There was wrath in the tone. Those near by moved closer, listening.
“Why, lawyer, I’m as young in feelin’s as any boy here. I can tromp as
fer, shoot as straight and stand as much as any sodjer the gover’nent’s
got.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Todd; “that all may be very true. But it’s only
the young fellows they want. Lead your men down to Jackson, let the
recruiting officers there pick those who are fit: then you and the rest
come back here to your farms, raise more crops, pray for them that’s
gone, and be good citizens. That’s your part in the war, old friend.”
“I’ll be damned if hit is!” Seth threw up his grizzled head in anger.
“I can fight as well as the best of ’em. I reckon I’m an Amerikin too.
Hit’s my country and my war and my Jim what’s been kilt. Won’t they let
a pa fight them as murdered his son? Won’t they let him shoot them as
shot him? By Gawd! o’ course they will, lawyer, and nothin’ in all
creation can make me stay home!”
Todd stepped back. He saw the futility of further argument. He even
doubted the wisdom of his speaking as much as he had.
Seth wrestled with his emotions for some moments in silence. Then the
passion left his wrinkled features. He was thoughtful, debating with
himself. Finally, his selfcontrol regained, he turned to the waiting
multitude before him.
“Maybe Lawyer Todd’s right, boys,” he said with sudden frankness. “Maybe
hit’s so that we can’t all go to war agin’ them as kilt our Jim.” He
flashed a friendly glance of reassurance over the heads of his followers
to where the lawyer stood. “Hit’s different outsider these hills ’an hit
is here. We ain’t the only ones a-fightin’ Keeser and his Germins. The
whole nation’s a-got hits dander up. Lawyer Todd says that afore the
break o’ another spring thar’ll be more’n a million sodjers ’long side o’
us, ready to whop them Germins. I reckon I spoke kinda hasty jest now.
We can’t have hit all our way. We’ll jest have to fit in with the rest
wharever we can. Hit may be a close fit and hit may pinch at times,
boys, but hit’s best. Lawyer Todd and them army men knows. We’ll try
and make up our minds to do what they ’lows is fer the good o’ all o’ us.
“So we’ll go down to Jackson town, to that re-cruitin’ office, and axe
them sodjer fellers thar to git us to Eurip. They’re showin’ others the
way and I reckon they’ll show us. Some o’ us won’t come back, boys, like
Jim won’t come back. Some o’ us is liable to lose a arm or a leg. But
remember this, boys, wharever ye go or whoever ye’re fightin’, that ye’re
men o’ Breathitt. Remember ve’re not only goin’ to kill Germins but to
kill the bad name that the world ’as give us. Me and Lawyer Todd stands
together on that. We’re goin’ to stop wastin’ powder on our own folks.
We’re goin’ to show them people in the Blue Grass and all over the
country, that the men o’ these mountings is men no different from them
when hit comes to shoulderin’ a rifle-gun and pertectin’ their homes and
wimmen and chil’ren. We’re goin’ to make Breathitt stand fer somethin’
else besides Breathitt blood.”
Old Seth picked up his rifle from where he had leaned it against the
porch wall. His hand was steady; he pressed the gun over his heart as if
to breathe into its lifeless mechanism a part of his own warrior spirit.
“Boys, time’s up,” he said. “War’s on. Jim’s body over yan is callin’
us to come. Hit’s a-callin’ us men o’ the hills, us men o’ Breathitt.
We’re a-goin’”—he raised his voice. “Wars on, I say, boys, war’s on; and
Keeser and his Germins is goin’ to catch hell—Breathitt hell—and hell
a-plenty!”
As their chief concluded a wild yell burst from ten score mountain
throats, a weird and ringing yell that surged through the neighboring
valleys, beat against the stolid walls of rock and pine, and bounded
upward and beyond, the answer of the Breathitt folk to humanity’s call to
arms.
Lawyer Todd, a smile lifting the weariness from his face, sat his mare
and watched the departure of the little army. There was no saying of
farewells to the women and children; there were no handclasps or tears.
Old Seth, astride a long-eared mule, led the way. The others straggled
after him in irregular order. Those who had mounts rode them; the rest
followed on foot. With their packs of food slung over their shoulders,
their guns in the crook of their arms, the men filed out of the cabin
yard and through the valley toward a distant gap in the hills.
“My people, my people!” softly exclaimed Todd, as he moved after them.
“Kentuckians all, Americans all, this day you give the lie to the slander
put upon your mountain race. My people, my noble people!”
Dry-eyed women, shading their brows with toil-scarred hands, lingered at
their cabin doors, their children clustered about them, and watched their
men go by. Occasionally one of them waved, and an answering salute came
from among the irregular ranks.
Beyond the western ridges the sun dropped into a saffron sky, crowning
with a halo of gold the reborn feudland, touching with mellow light the
crags and peaks that stood out proudly in the dusk. High above the misty
valleys a bald eagle circled, forward, backward, forward, backward, over
the country of warrior clans; while through the distant gap marched
mountain men, men of soul and heart and brawn.
Breathitt was at war!
_Lewis H. Kilpatrick_.