THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 16:  If a Little Is Good, More Must Be Better

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

By the time October rolled around, the two Americans had fully integrated into the society of Brannock-A-Bend.  Considering the suspicion they had been under but a few months ago, it seemed like a major accomplishment.  Postcards sent home said the fishing was great (though in truth, O’Neil hadn’t so much as drowned a single worm—actually, he hadn’t drowned a married worm for that matter—and Beau had gotten his butt kicked by that pike) and they told of how well-liked Aunt Ida was—of course, there was no mention of the reasons why the old girl was so well liked.  Their American generosity had helped, the defeating of the deadly Dougals had helped, but the biggest help of all was their introduction of Brian “Pegleg” MacPhail into the community.

In a very short time, the bartender of Aunt Idy’s Cave Inn and groundskeeper of Idy O’Neil’s estate had become the darling of Brannock-A-Bend.  And while it had irritated him at first, he had embraced it and actually learned to like it.  In point of fact, the old pirate was having the time of his life (or death, if you prefer).  He was the ultimate bartender.  He knew all the jokes, all the blokes, and all the folks.  He could confirm or deny gossipy rumors, knew the history of the town from five hundred years back, and impressed the b’jesus out of the locals with his vast knowledge of moonshine (which was primarily the history he knew, having been there, and the only local history anyone really cared about).  And not needing sleep, he went from tending the bar to moonshine brew master without even a coffee break.  Not that he could drink coffee...

On the minus side, Pegleg was at the top of O’Malley’s hate list, right along side of his two American boyos.  The fall and disappearance of the Dougal brothers had shaken the mayor to the core and, even though there had been a tavern full of witnesses and the rest of the town knew the brothers had been shipped off to Russia and were probably in Siberia by now, word of what had happened to the Dougals never got back to O’Malley.  The mayor now had a manpower shortage.  He could live with the town council appointing Collin Quinn and Hacky Dunn as the new sanitation department, but the mayor knew the bakery was already fermenting another shipment for Dublin and more help was needed to bottle, label, and ship the “bread”!  He couldn’t hire a local without giving away his secret operation.  His brothers-in-law, even with the help of his sisters and the children old enough to be used as child labor, weren’t going to be enough to get the work done.  Both the Dougals were dumb as stones, but they did the work of six men!  O’Malley had toyed with the idea of appointing an overseer with a whip, but his sisters would probably walk out on him, making things worse.  Then they’d seek revenge, and without the Dougals... God knew what they’d do to him.

Pegleg was a day from launch on the big moonshine unit.  The festival was starting up, so a major load of Mad Dash Irish Whiskey needed to be prepared for immediate bottling and shipping as soon as they won the contest.  All that remained to do was fill the key bottle.

For the entire week of the festival, the judges wouldn’t drink.  The rest of the town and tourists from all over the UK would be blotto for a week at no real cost, but not the judges!  The finalists on the last day would each present the judges with one virgin bottle of “whiskey” (they’d call it that for the tourists, but rest assured, it was moonshine) from which they tasted and made their final choice.  But that was a small thing.  One bottle.  The big work was done and stashed away in a place O’Malley couldn’t get into!

The barrels of shine from Idy’s still were filled and hidden in the Widder Browne’s grocery warehouse below her store.  Moonshiners tend to take pride in their stills, and O’Neil’s extended family all took a certain share of pride in that reconstructed marvel that began with an old spinster.  Every detail was a matter of pride, including where to hide the goods.  The Widder never had a need to keep much of anything on hand in her warehouse basement, already knowing what was needed for her regular weekly goods, and everybody knew that there was nothing of the Widder’s that O’Malley was getting into.  When she showed the pirate photos of the area she’d set aside with its electronic alarm system, it could have easily fit twenty of the master barrels, let alone the twenty beer-sized barrels they needed for the festival.  Pegleg was elated with her contribution, and sent the Widder Browne a gift of one more barrel—but of his whisky

Now, the Wider Browne was still a redneck at heart and a southern woman full of southern hospitality.  She knew that barrel of whisky was worth a fortune, especially if she ever gave up drinking or she needed to sell it... which didn’t seem likely, but one never knows, do one?  She also knew Pegleg was as dead as a man could get.  There wasn’t much she could do to show her appreciation.  So she put on her shortest skirt, tightest top, picked up a half-keg of Guinness ale, and drove out to the cave with the intention of teaching Pegleg how to drink Oklahoma boilermakers.  Boilermakers were an inconsequential gesture, the beer being beyond the dead man’s kin to drink.  But Calhoun and O’Neil found it a pleasant interlude and a welcome memory of home and youth in the South.

It had been many a year since old Pegleg had a woman come looking to thank him and he was truly overwhelmed.  While Beau was dragging the large aluminum half-keg in, the ghost ran around with the shirt O’Neil had taken off while working (because he didn’t want to get it dirty), and brushed off a place where the Widder could sit.  It was a lovely social visit... until Beau got the keg inside.

“Wad d’fook is tat ting?”  Pegleg bent over the keg and knocked on it.  He could hear the beer splashing inside.  The fact that the keg was cold to the touch mystified him.  “Ya keeps yer ale in dis ting?  Ya drinks it... cold??? ”  Pegleg looked up at his friends.  They could see he was deep in thought.  Finally he straightened up.  “I swears ya all into da Pirates’ Code a’ secrecy... actually, it’s more like guide... jus’ keeps yer mouths shut about wad I be ’bout to shows ya!”

The cavern the stills were in was a good size, and at the far end sat a huge boulder, taller than a man, and it looked a ton!  But Pegleg told them to roll it away, and Beau and O’Neil pushed it aside with absolutely no problem.  The boulder had been hollowed out and was nothing more than a shell!  Pegleg lit Idy’s kerosene lamp and led them all into a second chamber.  To the three Americans, it was obvious that Pegleg and his crew had hollowed out the entire mountain and cunningly hidden their work.

“It tooks us nearly tree years to makes dis cooper’s shop ta custom-make deese ’ere barrels,” Pegleg began.  “We dug straight through, and I lost some good men when da roof gives in.  Queen Lizzy paid h’us a fortune h’an expected da bes’.  In 1543, dey passed a law perhibiten d’exportin’ a’ casks larger den barrels, an’ it was still h’on d’books in Lizzy’s day.  I needed big barrels.  Ya see the barrels in da cave?  Each won holes ten beer barrels an’ more.  Tall as a short man and twice as long.  Most made from Memel oak, some from oak from as fer away as yer own Verginny!  Aye, barrels originally meant fer da beer trade, but sez I, there be no h’real money dere.  Beer was a family h’operation in deese here parts back den, no one drank water—hell!  Fish fooked in h’it an’ ya could git sickened if ya did!  Ladies-in-waitin’ at the court of Henry VII, Lizzy’s gran’da, an ’undred years afore me, dey wuz allowed a gallon a’ beer for breakfast alone.  Talk about yer breakfast of champions!  An’ good Queen Lizzy?  It wasn’t only Irish whiskey d’ole girl loved!  When traveling through the country, she always sent lackeys ahead to taste the neighborhood ale.  If it didn't measure up to the quality required by a Queen, a supply had to be shipped from London for her High Holy Nibs.  An’ if it didn’t arrives in time fer supper, someone’s head came off!  Da need fer top-quality liquor-ready barrels were in-tents.  There were times dis here cooper’s shop werked more loot from Lizzy den me whiskey.  Ahh, God rest’er, she was a good woman, a royal pain in da arse, and a better drinkin’ mate ya couldn’t find!  H’an... maybe more den a little fookin’ nootz.”

At the mention of “God,” the cavern began to flood with light.  “Will ya knock it d’hell h’off!  I’m werkin’ here!” Pegleg shouted at it, and it went away.

“Ta continue... a week er’ so back, I was flippin’ da channels at half time, and I sees the very same play I sees at da The-hay-ter in London by me friend, Willie Shaxspeare!  I be glad he be ’membered, I always enjoyed ’is werk.  But talk about yer pirates!  Dey used ta calls him William da bluedy Conqueror.  Him an’ dat Burbage feller, his cohort... there wasn’ a pair a’ teats in all a’ England was safe when dem boyos was ’round, haha!”

“Ya knew William Shakespeare?  Ga’wan!”

“I swears ta ya, Widder.  I did business with his Da in the days I was startin’ out in ta liquor business.  His da was a conner...”

“He was Irish?”

“Evy’time I be tinkin’ dere be hope fer ya, Beauregard, ya opens yer mouth!  Not Connor, da name!  Conner, da job.  Willie Shaxspeare's father was an ale-tester!  Wad we be callin’ ‘conner’ back in the day.  A conner tested the ale by pourin’ some h’on a bench and sittin’ on h’it while drinkin’ the rest.  If there was sugar in the ale or it was tainted, ’is leather breeches would stick ta da bench after settin’ fer a while.”

“You could git paid fer doin’ dat?”

“Well ya could, O’Neil, but ya ran da risk a’ dyin’ a’ da rottin’ crotch from all dat sugar in yer shorts.  But it sez a lot ’bout how seriously d’English take their liquor.  An’ Willie’s foder was d’ bes conner in d’UK!  Haf’a England called him d’ candy-assed king a’ beers!  So ya sees, m’frens, barrels was a serious part of shinnin’.  A good barrel makes fer a good beer... and a good whiskey!  But tat ain’t why I be bringin’ ya here!  Dis Is wood.  Ya grows a tree, cuts it dune an’ if ya does it right, an ’undred years later it grows back fer ya ta cut dune again.  But dere was sompin’ ya needed, an’ it was sompin’ ya couldn’t grow.”

Pegleg stopped at what appeared to be a crevice in the wall and, looking his companions in the eye one at a time, pushed the lamp into the opening.  It lit up with a reflected light.  “Beau, I don’t tink yer gonna fit through t’opening here, so’s joos stick yer face through!  You udders... mind yer feet, hands, an’...” he looked at the Widder, “an’ dairy’ hairs!  In my day, d’English could werk wood fer a barrel... but glass?  Not so much.  Most local glass back den was, well, ugly and more likes pottery.  More like d’jugs ya drinks yer ’merican shine from.  But I was d’moonshinner a’ royalty.  Evy new run had ta be sol’ ta dat ole witch on England’s throne an’ all her fooked-hup buddies.  I learned early; da package be da product.  Takes a looks, me hearties, here be a pirate’s real treasures!  A pirate’s lifetime!  Ya don’t tinks a glass as wealth na’more, but in my day?  I sailed ta Cathay, ta d’Orient.  I raided towns fer glass, and by God!  Here it be!  More den a king er’ queen’s ransom in glass.”

If there was one thing the Widder Browne knew as well as country music, it was antiques!  It was the real reason she had agreed to go on tour in Europe.  What she saw here was taking her breath away.  These weren’t just bottles and jugs, they were works of art!  They were creations by artists from all over the world—and each one was, indeed, a royal ransom!

“My God, Pegleg.  I’ve never seen this many beautiful things in one place at one time!”

“Aye, missy!  H’an’ ya won’t, needer!  Der be blood on dem, lady, be assured a’ dat, but it was a dark work had ta be done fer Ireland.  It got me inta places most didn’t git!  I heard wat hads ta be heard, saw wat hads ta be seen, and told wat hads ta be said!  It hurts ta hear I be called ‘traitor’ by the sons and daughters of dose I risked me bloody life fer.  My hatred for dat lyin’ dog O’Malley—da man wat tainted me reputation—be burnin’ wit a hot fire.”

Pegleg had a strange faraway look in his eye.  Then he nodded to himself and beckoned them forward.  He lifted his lamp, and on a shelf cut right into a rock wall stood a glistening and fabulous bottle.  It was a fine, fine crystal with an elongated base.  This was not the onion-bottomed glass bottles of his day.  It had a chiseled, sculpted look that would grace the parlor or boudoir of any self respecting king... or queen.

“Here be yer key bottle, boyos and girlie.  I took it from h’a h’Arab Mukluk, along wid his head!  Aye!  I did.  It was goin’ ta Queen Lizzy when the powder barrel hit the flames!”

“So when can dey be here, Reilly?  I need men now!  Tuesday?  Dat’s ta best ya kin do after all da money I’ve made fer you through da years?”  The mayor tugged at his tie.  Tuesday was fine, but Monday would be better.  If six leg-breakers were good, ten would be better.  It was the family motto: If a little is good, more must be better.  Yes, he could do it with a few thugs, but a small army?  It had been almost two hundred years since any Brannock-A-Bender had challenged an O’Malley.  He needed to set an example that would cut off all resistance once and for all!  These two upstart Americans!  Who did they think they were, undercutting his family business!  And that obnoxious, dirty gardener of theirs!  They’d be made to pay!

“Monday?  All good men?  Him???  Ahh, now ya be understandin’!  A serious, serious man!”

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