The Gospel According to Gunpowder: Jack Hinson

Jack Hinson was a peaceful Tennessee patriarch—until Union troops murdered his sons and displayed their severed heads on his front gate. Then he picked up a custom .50 caliber rifle, carved their names into the stock, and became a one-man judgment day. A devout Christian who prayed before each shot, Hinson wasn’t driven by bloodlust but by righteous vengeance. He spent the rest of the war haunting the hills, dropping enemy officers with surgical precision and holy fury. This is the story of a man who didn’t start the fight—but ended it with Scripture in his soul and a rifle in his hands.

Some men pray for peace. Other men prepare for it — by clearing the land of the sort of bastards who make peace impossible. Jack Hinson was that second kind of man. Not because he loved blood, but because he knew that there are some evils you don’t negotiate with — you erase them, one round at a time.

If you don’t know his name, don’t feel bad. That’s how he wanted it. Hinson didn’t ride with a cavalry unit or march under banners. He didn’t pose for paintings or write romantic letters. He didn’t need medals. He needed justice. And he carved it into the hills of Tennessee with a .50 caliber custom sniper rifle and more biblical conviction than most pulpits can muster.

Jack Hinson was a Southern farmer, a family man, and a devout Christian — not the churchy, spotlight-chasing kind, but the kind whose hands were dirty from work, whose Bible was worn from use, and whose heart beat to the rhythm of duty. He didn’t seek fame. He sought righteousness. And when the war came to his doorstep — when Union soldiers murdered his sons and stuck their decapitated heads on the gate to his own farm — Jack Hinson didn’t break. He forged. He became wrath. Sanctified, sharpened, and steady.

This is Smite Club. The rules are simple: No soy. No retreat. No apologies. This is where we tell the stories that your history teacher was too tame to handle and your pastor was too squeamish to touch. Men like Jack Hinson weren’t perfect — they were something better. They were faithful. They were fierce. They were fathers who’d rather load a rifle than let evil have the final word. This is where the smoke still rises from holy battlefields and courage gets a tombstone.

Now saddle up.

IF YOU PREFER TO LISTEN ON SPOTIFY (FREE CONTENT ONLY) CLICK HERE

HE OWNED LAND — AND HIS PRINCIPLES

Before he became a one-man Southern sniper unit, Jack Hinson was a prosperous planter in Stewart County, Tennessee. He was known for his fairness, his hospitality, and his faith. He owned slaves, yes — as did nearly every man of means in the South — but he was not cruel, and he viewed his Christian obligation toward others with the gravity of a man who feared God more than man. He wasn’t eager for war. He was 57 years old when the Civil War broke out — too old to enlist, too settled to uproot his family, too Christian to spill blood unless it was absolutely necessary.

But Jack Hinson wasn’t neutral, either. He leaned Confederate, sure, but mostly he leaned Christian. He refused to let soldiers from either side mistreat the people in his area. Union or Rebel, you didn’t ransack a farm near Jack Hinson’s land. His reputation was that of a man you didn’t want to cross — not because he was cruel, but because he was just.

That was until the Federals crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.

THE MURDER OF HIS SONS

Jack had several children, but two of his teenage sons — George and Jack Jr. — were especially close. They were out hunting near the family farm when a band of Union soldiers caught sight of them. Accused of being Confederate bushwhackers (which they weren’t), the boys were arrested on the spot. They were not given a trial. They were not brought before any officer. They were executed, beheaded, and their skulls were nailed to the gateposts of their family home — the same gate their mother and siblings would pass daily.

This is the moment where evil goes from theoretical to personal. This is the moment when Scripture like “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord” turns into “A time to kill and a time to heal.” Jack Hinson was no longer content to be a spectator. He buried his boys, cleaned his land, and went to a local gunsmith with very specific instructions: He wanted a custom-built .50 caliber rifle, with double triggers for accuracy. One hundred percent lethal. And one hundred percent Christian rage.

Posts at Smite Club are only available to paid subscribers at Insight to Incite. Please upgrade to read the rest. I’m so confident you’ll love it, send me a message to get free trial one-month subscription.