THE BOOZY BANSHEE OF BRANNOCK-A-BEND

Chapter 19:  How d’Fook Would I Know Tat d’Damned Leprechaun Was Hard a Hearin’!

by
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright © 2012

It must have looked like Washington crossing the Delaware as old Pegleg stood with a foot up on the bow shouting commands.  They were nearly half way across the pond when he pointed for O’Neil at the outboard motor and for Beau, following in the rowboat, to turn towards the end of the pond that joined to the waterway leading out to Galway Bay and eventually the open ocean.

“It seems all funny to me.  T’ain’t be down here in five hun’erd years—an’ I be tinkin’ ‘never’... in da daylight.”

“If ya got somethin’ up yer sleeve, Cap’n, it better be quick.  When we left Father Sean an’ the Widder, they wuz down to their last half of a barrel.  If we run out, we’re disqualified... not to mention the riot that might follow.”

“O’Neil, ya be worryin’ too much, me boyo.  You’ll be h’ole before yer time, matey.  Ya seen da moonshiner... now you’ll see d’pirate.  H’an us pirates are always ahead of d’authorities, or we be dancin’ a jig at rope’s end.  There!  Head there!”

O’Neil searched the shore line—which seemed unchanging.  “Head where???  There’s nothin’ there but trees, rocks, an’ bushes!”

“Yes thar be, but ya can’t sees it from here.  There be a grotto, jus’ big enough fer tree good rowers to tie h’up h’under all tat green stooff.”

Sure enough, they pushed the boats through the undergrowth and, just like Pegleg had said, there was a grotto and what appeared to be a wall of solid rock.  The dead pirate was out of the boat before it even touched land.  “Foller me!” he shouted, running (something the two Americans had never seen him do—he was fast!...for a dead guy) through the water towards a great sheltering of tall bushes pressed against the wall.  He seemed to disappear into it.  Beau and O’Neil were still pulling the boats onto what little shore there was when he reappeared.

“Wad d’fook h’are you two young fools doin’?  Let them bathtubs float away if dey wants.  Thar be a real ship here—and soon as I’m dune fixin’ arses on d’O’Malleys, it’s yours!  Now get in here, I be needin’ d’help a da livin’!”  The boys tugged the boats on shore anyway, then trotted towards the bushes.  There was an opening leading into a second, more cave-like grotto; perhaps a grotto that became a cave might be more correct.  Their eyes struggled with the blackness until a sudden flurry of sparks exploded from a piece of flint striking the steel of a sword and a torch feebly chased the darkness away.  Behind the light was the face of Captain Brian “Pegleg” Paterson, who stood with a cutlass in one hand and a cup of moonshine in the other.  The face was strong and angry-looking... and a bit frightening.

“Alright, me boyos!  Clear d’deck fer action.  Thar be a h’angry ole Pegleg Paterson, who be knowin’ da time fer revenge is upon him!”

Father O’Doul even said a Mass using a small amount of moonshine instead of wine, just as Saint Paddy was said to have done.  The town fathers who ran the festival mildly protested, but O’Doul’s argument—that the first moonshine was made here by the great Saint himself—carried a lot of weight.  Finally, they had to agree—it was Saint Paddy’s divine inspiration that had created the festival.  Father O'Doul made it a solemn high Mass, so it took more than an hour to say and another hour for Communion, as the entire town (and most of Christian Europe) was there and wanted to participate—clean their souls and then drink themselves stupid, so to speak.

If nothing else, O’Doul was a showman.  At Notre Dame as an All-American football player, he’d learned to work with seventy thousand people yelling at him.  In his own humble way, he missed it.  This crowd brought all that back.  He got into it so much that he drew a standing ovation from the multitude.  Sister Maria stood at the back of the crowd, signaling him that there was still no sign of moonshine coming to fill their barrel up, so keep making with the Patre Nostres!

Fitzy kept a close eye on the last barrel, marking the side of the barrel with a piece of chalk as the liquor dropped and the consideration for panic rose.  After Mass, the Widder Browne showed up with a drum of ice cubes and offered shots on ice “American Style” to try and slow down the 170 proof bleeding.  Needless to say, it didn’t fly.  As watering down good whiskey with ice was beyond the Irish constitution, nothing was tried except the crowd’s patience.

“Lord, what could be keepin’ dem boys, Widder?” the nun asked.

“It’s always sompin’, Sister.  Dem dam rednecks get sidetracked more than the 5:09 to Dublin.  Alls it takes is a shiny object and a piece a’ scotch tape.  Hey,” Widder Browne said, turning to Fitz-Ryan, “did Beau take dat walkie-talkie with him?”

Fitzy looked at the Widder, then handed her the device from under the table.

She snatched it and started talking.  “Beau.  Calhoun, you in there, good buddy?  C’mon in, Beau.”  There was a moment of silence.

“Yeah, I’m in there, Widder, but don’t ask me where there is!  O’Malley done blew up the stills, Effie.  Da fucker took down d’whole hill!  He got Pegleg’s whiskey, too!”

“Oh my God!  Are you all right?”

“Oh yeah, we’re fine.  But the pirate may never be the same.”

Father Sean snatched the device from Widder Browne.  “Beau, what are we gonna do?  We’re almost out of moonshine now as it is.  Should we shut dune?”

“HELL NO!  Oh, sorry padre.  We’re comin’ to de rescue now.  Just clear a path from the bend at the river and find a wheelbarrow or four.  Beau out!”

The priest looked up at the widow and the nun.  “Best let old Hubert know they’re commin’ and ask him to round up some wheelbarrows.  Oh lord, I hope poor Sister Claire at the pub is doin’ better ten us!”

“So d’ New York bookin’ h’agent says to da man, ‘where d’fook did ya ever find a pianist only fif’teen inches tall?’  H’an da man sez, ‘I was in Irelan’ an’ I catches me one a da’ liddle people.  He sez ta me, ‘lemme go h’an I’ll grant ’cha any wish ya want...’  How d’fook would I know tat d’damned leprechaun was hard a’ hearin’!”

The bar roared and old John Cally looked at the elderly nun behind the bar.  “Sister Claire, tat joke’s even funnier tan da one ya told about the two hookers h’an the Bishop!”

“Dis here be my private stock.  It makes the stoof I cooked oop fer Queen Lizzy taste like bilge wader!”  By the glow of Pegleg’s torch, the two Americans could see about a dozen fine oak barrels stacked two high and chained against the wall just high enough to avoid the waters of  rising tides.  Running his hands against the wall, O’Neil could tell they maintained a perfect near-constant temperature, excellent for aging whiskey.

The term “man-cave” took on a whole new meaning.  There were rows of cutlasses, rapiers, muskets, pistols, and something that looked like an old blunderbuss... not to mention several petticoats and a dress or two which Pegleg explained as “left-overs.”  The two Americans had never really considered the fact that their deceased, eternally drunk friend had actually been a real by-God pirate—the kind that boards ships and shoots hostages when the Crown doesn’t pay up fast enough—but here it all was.  And here was his retirement fund.

“Evy times I comes ’cross a particularly good brew, when no one was lookin’, I’d skim some off fer me retirement... and ta buy h’off old O’Malley fer taken his woman, bot he kilt me first.  His loss.  Here!  Hav’ a’ taste a’ heaven on h’eart.”  Taking a spigot to a barrel, Pegleg hammered it in, filled two mugs, and handed them to the boyos.  “Wrap yer faces on dis.  If y’ain’t a man yet, dis’ll make ya won!”

Beau took the mug.  He could smell the vapors rising, and the first swallow said “Golden” to his throat on the way down.  It took his breath away so completely he couldn’t even get out a rebel yell.  He looked over at O’Neil.  His sunglasses were fogging up.

“We’ll takes the whole lot wid h’us,” Pegleg declared.  “I anticipates ole Hubert doin’ ’bout half a barrel his own damned self.  Ta man knows a good hooch.  D’judges will get the boddle a’ shine I already filled from yer auntie’s still, so’s it’ll be all legal like, bot we uses all dis ta gets ta den!  Don’t ’spect I’ll be missin’ this stoof t’much.  Take it all, boys.  Let’s ends dis ting, once and fer all.  I’ve grown tired a’ bein’ a shiner.”

O’Neil shook his head.  “We’ll take five barrels, that’ll do it fer now, Pegleg.  Who knows what that old creep O’Malley’ll try next.  An’ wot if ya change yer mind about bein’ a shiner?”

“Aye, lad, ya be learnin’.  Scalawags can’t be trusted—d’mayor or me.  Good tinkin’.”  He started walking to a dark corner of the grotto.

O’Neil leaned into Beau’s ear and whispered, “This ain’t Idy’s property, and he ain’t yelped once since we got here.  What’s goin’ on?  He shouldn’t be able to be here, especially so quietly!”

The big man looked up with a wide-eyed expression.  “Boss, we were off Idy’s property ’bout three yells and a mile back!”

“Herrr, now you be my shipmates, boyos.  Help me drag ’er ta da water.”  In the flickering torchlight, they saw the ghost pulling canvas sailcloth off a lengthy, narrow form.  It was a long boat complete with a mast that could be hoisted with sail, and there were slots for three oarsmen on each side.  “She still be yar, mates.  No rot, no holes in the sail.  If she holds ta’gither, we’ll float ta victory in ’er!  It’s from da Norweegan lapstrake style, I likes it better tan an English rower.  She’ll takes well t’open seas, so’s if I ever have ta makes me a serious git-away...”

They loaded the barrels up and shoved off, pushing the craft through the overgrowth hiding the grotto.  As soon as the ship was free and on the lake, old Pegleg (with help from Beau) hoisted the mast and raised the sail.  The sail billowed in the wind and, with the pirate at the tiller, arched a half-circle like a bird in flight and sped through the narrows that dumped into the river.  “Herrr, ya wondered why I hates tat dam ’lectric ting?  This be real sailin’, me boyos!  Welcome to a pirate’s life.  Now, ya hearties, foller me an’ h’I’ll shows ya how to run some moonshine!  Jus’ won more ting ta do ta makes it abs’lutely genu-wine!  Where’s me damned flag?”

Father Sean, good man of God that he is, was getting a little angry, nonetheless.  O’Malley and his rented army were slowly surrounding the moonshine stand and closing in for what Sean was certain would be the “kill.”  There was no doubt that they were starting to frighten away the tourist—hell, they were frightening the townsfolk, nuns, old lawyers, and widows!  Kelly had been right.  It looked like these boys were bent on bodily harm.  Fitzy, who must have had a good life insurance policy, warned the ruffians several times to mind their behavior.  But everyone in the Mad Dash Irish Whiskey stand couldn’t shake the feeling that there were buzzards circling overhead.  Then the head buzzard decided to land and poke the body to see how much life was left in it!

“Ga’day ta ya, Foder O’Doul.”

“Ga’day, Mayor O’Malley.  Would ’cha care ta taste wat honest whiskey tastes like?”  There was feigned laughter from the politician, which was returned in kind by the priest.

“Ah, Foder Sean, ’tis a real Irish sense a’ humor you’re possessed of.  Now, if we could only git the Widder Browne to share in—”

“Da Widder Browne’s jus’ fine, boys.  An’ there ain’t nuttin’ wrong with my sense a’ humor that a permanent vacation from you wouldn’t—”

“My God!  What on earth is tat?”  The priest’s interjection called attention to a rising din.  The huge crowd had massed together and was facing the bend of the river the town had been named for.  A sail had appeared on the horizon and was heading right towards the town.  From the top of the mast, a black flag with a white skull and crossbones flapped in the breeze.  It was still about a quarter-mile out when a cannon overwrote the crowd noise and brought cheers from the throng for what seemed to be a festive salute.  However, when the cannonball landed dead center on the roof of the mayor’s bakery, bringing most of the structure down, the realism of the event got the town fathers a little upset.  The mayor damn near had a stroke as his liquor business flushed down the same drain Pegleg’s had!

Pegleg never slowed down.  He ran the boat right up onto the shore.  He walked defiantly to the bow with a cask of priceless Irish whiskey under his arm.  “I’m Cap’n Brian ‘Pegleg’ Paterson,” he shouted at the multitude.  “Enemy a’ Queen Lizzy’s navy, an’ friend of Irish partisan Shane O’Neill.  I’m a pirate an’ a Irish patriot, but most a’ all, I be a moonshiner.  I’ve h’run d’river out ta Galway Bay by the glow a’ da moon, an’ I brings ya whiskey without taxations!  D’bes moonshine ya’ve ever tasted!  Back in da day, I made me own and ran it to Kings and Queens right h’under the noses a’ da Watch.  Now I runs it for me boyos, O’Neil an’ Calhoun... an’ fer you!  Da good folk a’ Brannock-A-Bend.”  He lifted the cask over his head.  “Now tells us d’truth!   H’ain’t dis d’bes shine ya ever tasted!  Ya be wantin’ anudder moog, I ‘spose!”

The crowd went wild.  Constable Callahan and his assistants had been called in, and now pressed the crowd back to let the captain and his barrels through.  Three of the mayor’s ruffians walked up to Pegleg to stop him, but he drew his cutlass and pressed it against a throat or two, “One wrong move, boyos, and I be carvin’ ya a second mouth ta takes home ta yer muders.”  Remembering the cannon shot, they backed down.  O’Malley hadn’t told them that there was an old coot here that was even crazier than they were, and dying for the mayor wasn’t part of their contract.

As he had done the night of the Dougal beat-down, Pegleg walked amongst the crowd passing out mugs of his moonshine.  Hubert followed up behind with more stump blaster for when Pegleg’s pitcher ran low.  And a three-day party ensued, nobody noticing the town’s famous banshee had not howled a once.  Everybody was so inebriated that no one really cared.

As they were unloading the barrels, the Widder grabbed Beau by his ear and dragged him off to the side.  She’d had a sip of the not-so-white-lightnin’, and it lit her like up like a neon light.  Her cheeks were bright red, and against her more-than-white complexion it made her look like a circus clown.

“Wat d’hell is this stuff?  And don’t tell me ‘moonshine’!”

“Well, five centuries back, it probably wuz.  Pegleg had it stored in some a’ the best oak barrels I ever seen.  It was great moonshine, and somewhere in history it turned into great whiskey!”

“Can we get away with this?”  Father Sean had walked up from behind.  “Is it legal?”

Beau rolled his eyes.  “Father, stop dinkin’ like a Protestant Vicar and dink outside the box... or in our case, the barrel, ’cause we’re out a’ cheeks ta turn.  Old man O’Malley blew up evything we had, but!  We started off here with our stills, and Mad Dash went over big.  Den, we went over to Pegleg’s and nobody knew the difference.  Same color, same taste—sort a’—same effect on the nervous system.  Now we’re up one step from there.  But da basic recipe is da same!”

“H’an’ all we did was what O’Malley forced us to do?”

The big guy slapped the priest on the back.  “There ya go.  Not even God could complain.”

“Hmm.  Wat about ta key boddle fer the judges?”

The Widder smiled a nasty grin.  “Already filled from a run off of Idy’s still.  Pegleg was a step an’ a haf ahead of all us rednecks!  He’s got it hidden.  So’s, when we give it to the judges...”

“It’s Beau and O’Neil’s moonshine.  Lord be praised!”

The crowd was pushing in.  All the other stands except O’Malley’s were shutting down and conceding as the operators and brew masters pressed in for a mug of Pegleg’s whiskey, too!

The Widder was scanning over the crowd, looking for the Mayor and his troop of hired uglies.  “I wander wot the Mayor has to say ’bout all dis?”

The priest had a very calm smile on his face.  “If I were to venture a guess, Widder... curses!  Foiled again!”

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