Shanty Irish (11 page)

“Or whisky—or any other medicine for children,” returned the soldier from Bull Run.

“Men should never drink beer out of glasses. Heavy mugs should be used to hold the tongue out of the beer. There's a great art in drinking beer.” He felt his chest proudly.

“How about whisky,” asked my grandfather.

“You pour it on the kindling and strike a match to it.”

“Gwan—” Hughie's words were stopped in his throat.

“I've never been able to understand,” said the stranger, looking straight at my grandfather, “how men drink whisky. One may as well eat matches for breakfast and drink nitroglycerine.”

The crowd laughed.

“Do ye know how Rockyfeller got rich?” my grandfather asked.

“Su-re—in the oil business,” the stranger replied.

My grandfather looked crestfallen.

“He had his mind on bigger things than beer drinkin' anyhow.”

The wooden-legged man drained his mug. With one eye closed he remarked:

“I just heard a good one.”

“What is it?” asked my grandfather.

“It's a riddle.”

“Well go ahead,” said Old Hughie, anxiously.

“What is it that stands on one leg and barks like a dog?”

Old Hughie thought long and earnestly.

“Give up?” asked the stranger.

“Yis—”

“It's a stork.”

“But a stork don't bark like a dog,” returned old Hughie peevishly.

“Oh well—that's just to make it harder.”

“Well, I'll be sint to purgatory for mortal sin!” snapped Old Hughie.

The stranger chased a fly from his upper lip and roared in a voice of thunder:

A roar of laughter went through the saloon.

When it had subsided, the collector said:

“Give that fellow a lot of beer on me.”

The bartender placed three mugs before the wandering soldier.

While the stranger regaled himself, Old Hughie looked at the smiling faces—

“When I was a pidler in the South—”

The stranger looked up from three empty mugs.

His voice drowned Old Hughie's like turbulent water.

“I'll never forget the time I was coming from Ethiopa with my father. He'd constructed a brewery over there for Booker T. Washington and he took me with him. On the way back we boarded a frozen ship. You never saw another one like it. Its sails were always on fire. Big splashes of flame kept dropping into the ocean and sizzling the water. The ship was burning up and melting at the same time. The sailors skated around the deck right through the blazes. A lot of the most beautiful girls come over from a battleship to skate with us.”

The audience became interested. Old Hughie and John Crasby looked at each other.

“Ain't he the damnedest liar outta hell?” asked John.

Old Hughie shook his head as though it were heavy with words.

“That's what beer does to a man,” he commented at last.

“But anyway—” continued the soldier, “the girls stayed with us. An admiral, about eighty-eight years old, followed them and a sailor knocked him off the ship with a book by Oscar Wilde.

“There was an old Irishman on the ship waiting on the nigger admirals. Every time the niggers'd yell ‘Come here Mick', the Irishman would cross himself.

“We were forty-nine thousand seven hundred and eighty-one and two-thirds miles from the coast of England, and seventy miles from Ireland. We could hear the Irish roll over in bed. We heard an old mick say, ‘Thank ye Bridget!' And then he snored while Bridget got up.

“We hugged the girls tighter and laughed.

“But the admiral threw the Oscar Wilde book back on the deck and yelled—‘The curse of a just God be on all ye devils.' He got his curse.

“The girls flew away quickly. You never saw anything lovelier. Water and the sun glistened on their legs and little cakes of ice dropped from their hearts.”

The stranger looked dramatically at the ceiling and thundered:

“And as God in or out of His Heaven is my judge—we all got elephantisis. It started at our feet. They swelled till they stuck over the deck. We saw the admirals hugging the girls on the other ship and sailing away to the wars. Our ears became longer and wider than elephants.

“‘Lord have mercy' screamed the cook as he swelled out of the kitchen … ‘When this thing comes up to our hearts we'll die.'

“The roar of the water melting off the ship was like the crashing roar of ten thousand Niagaras. The heat was so terrible it melted the smoke stack. The cold was so awful it froze the first mate's mouth shut. We grew so tall with the disease that our heads poked through the clouds and our shoulders shoved the stars out of place. It started to rain and the eagles flew down and stole our watches … pecked them right out of our pockets—as God is my judge.…”

The roving beer drinker looked at my grandfather.

Old Hughie became so excited with the tale that he dropped a quarter. The stranger picked it up and said to the bartender, “A glass of beer, please,” and then to Old Hughie, “Thank you, my good man.”

He swallowed the beer. He smacked his lips.

“And believe it or not … the ship got the same disease. It began to swell over eighty miles of ocean each way.

“‘My God,' yells the captain. ‘We'll have to shove this ship away from the coast of Ireland—we'll be grounded in the mud if we don't.' So we all waded in the ocean and put our shoulders to that ship. The captain stepped on a whale. You could hear it squish. ‘Them damn worms. They always come out on the ground when it rains in this latitude.'

“The moon fell out of the sky and splashed water all over Ireland. A million geese bigger than ships swam over the sea and ate the moon up quick like a piece of yellow corn bread. Then the sun fell into the ocean and went out like a match in a bucket of water. A dippy dossis, that's a fish a thousand times larger than a whale, got its tail burned as the sun fell and it flew right against the ship and hit the captain in the eye.

“Suddenly there was no more light like me and you have seen. It turned green and blue. Then it faded and a pink-blue light came in over the sea. Dazzling angels colored like peacocks and more beautiful than the bubbles on beer, flew arm-in-arm together a million miles above us.”

The stranger laughed as though something had caught in his throat.

“The second mate, like every sailor since oceans were made, had thoughts of women where his brain was supposed to be.

“He looked up at the angels and screamed, ‘Oh—look—look—they're women and men angels—they're huggin' each other.'

“I looked up. They were ten thousand feet long. And believe me or not, gentlemen, their gigantic osculations shook the sky. Millions of little baby angels began to fly and sing—

“‘Down where the wurzburger flows—'

“The sky kept shaking till it fell into the sea. Another sky formed like new skin on a baby's breast. It was the strangest thing you ever saw.

“I looked at the captain. His face was as scared and empty as my glass.” The stranger frowned.…

“Bartender!!”

The mug was filled.

The beer disappeared as though it had been thrown into a funnel. “Suddenly the angels began to bray. They flew a few hundred thousand miles closer and I saw that their ears were longer than ours … they looked exactly like jackasses on wings—only they had no tails … they were eating shamrocks out of the meadows in the sky. Their wings went still and they all dropped right into Ireland.” The stranger looked at Old Hughie. “And that's how the Irish came to the world.”

Another roar of laughter followed.

Old Hughie, with a look of disgust, explained: “Indade it was not in Ireland they dropped—there's no jackasses in Ireland.”

“No,” returned the veteran quickly, “they've all come to America.”

Old Hughie, like a proud man, ignored the thrust.

“It was in some brewery they dropped—where your father worked.”

“Indeed not,” retorted the stranger, “a jackass is not smart enough to light in a brewery—see there,” the stranger pointed to a whisky advertisement on the wall—the picture of a mule heavily laden with whisky, “that proves what I say—I saw that mule falling in Ireland.”

M
Y
grandfather, anxious to turn the tide of battle, said to the stranger:

“I'll tell ye what I'll do. I'll dhrink two whiskies to aich mug o' beer ye dhrink—an' I'll put ye to slape under the brass railin' here.”

The keen old Irishman knew that men in the crowd would furnish the drinks.

The whisky collector spoke up:

“All right—I'll bet on Hughie an' buy liquor for both.”

The hero of Bull Run'turned to Old Hughie and said:

“Stranger—why are you so rash … don't you know that my father was a brew-master in France for sixty years …”

“I don't give a damn if he was Quane Victoria's aunt—I'm goin' to dhrink ye unconscious as ye should be—a stranger comin' in to groups o' gintlemen an' talkin' about yere damn wooden leg.”

“Now it's glass for glass,” said the bartender … “the man here'll be allowed two minutes more on each drink, Hughie—he's got more to drink.”

“Who—me?” asked the one-legged man. “It's even, Stephen—as far as I'm concerned—minute for minute—glass for glass—I'll take no unfair advantage of a man. I learned chivalry at Bull Run—every man had a chance there—and they all took it.”

“All right then.… I'll dhrink three glasses o' whisky to one of his beer—I'll taich him to brag.”

“My wooden leg is hollow stranger—it holds a barrel.”

“Oh—an' I don't give a flip o' the praist's cassock if it holds two barrels. If ye got a brain in yere talky head at all I'll make ye dhrunk.”

The crowd stood close and laughed. Liquor was placed on the bar.

Old Hughie was steady as an iron rod.

The stranger reeled about the saloon. He raised a hand.

“All I ask now, gentlemen, is that you don't give the bout to my whisky drinking opponent—until you see me lie down and close my eyes for an hour. Was it not the Duke o' Wellington who yelled, ‘Don't give up the ship,' I am of the breed—what would my grandfather, who was the greatest brewer of ale in Ireland, think of his son if he lost to a man like that? And if I lose I will do so like Attila the Hun at Valley Forge—who explained to Washington in the retreat from Bull Run—‘The grass never grows where my horse's feet have slipped.' I am not a man who cries in his beer. I'll die fighting.”

“Niver mind—dhrink yere beer—we'll make up our own lies,” grunted my grandfather.

The word soon spread along Spring Street that Old Hughie Tully was trying to put a beer drinker “under the table.” The saloon was soon filled. Men stood on chairs and watched the rivals.

“We're out of Three Star Hennessy, Hughie—will Old Taylor do?”

“Shure,” replied Hughie—“I can bate this bum dhrinkin' if I dhrink rat poison.”

“Well, that's what ye're drinkin', stranger,” said the man, scraping his wooden leg on the floor.

John Crasby looked in a mug which the stranger placed on the bar. “There's another sup in there yet,” he said, lifting the mug. “Drink it all—no fair leavin' any.”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, that was an oversight—such mistakes are often made by the leading beer drinkers.”

The saloon did a rushing business.

Everybody drank. The wine rooms and the back yard were filled with men. Many wagers were made. To Old Hughie's credit as a drinking citizen, he was a two to one favorite.

“But watch this other fellow,” said a well-known German beer drinker from New Bremen, ten miles away. “He was in New Bremen last week. He put the four Hauser boys under the table in six hours.”

The stranger with a mug in each hand, pounded his wooden leg on the floor and yelled—

“Remember what Newton said, gentlemen—give him a lever and he'd roll over the world—the same here, men—give me a big enough tank and I'll drain the breweries of Egypt. My father wasn't a brew-master in Germany seventy years for nothing.”

Old Hughie, like a grim fighter, lost no motion. He seemed to feel that the least effort might tilt his brain into alcohol. On his face was the expression of a drowning man who tries to keep his chin above water.

His rival staggered about the saloon, talking loudly. He took the battered hat from his head.

“See the holes in this hat, gentlemen—shot through by whisky drinkers after I put 'em under the table.”

Old Hughie made no direct comment.

“Kape yere eye on him,” he said to John Crasby. “They're beginnin' to git licked whin they brag.”

John Crasby watched the stranger. He examined each mug as it was placed upon the bar.

Hours passed. Still the men drank.

“Let's give them a recess,” suggested the collector, “we'll be arrested for drownin' 'em—is it all right with you, Hughie—and you?” turning to the one-legged man.

Hughie conferred with John Crasby.

“Only fifteen minutes,” said Old Hughie.… “I don't want to git outta the swing of the drink agin—my brain is in fine fettle now.”

It was agreed to suspend liquid hostilities for a quarter of an hour.

The one-legged man stood with his back to the bar, arms outspread. “He'll be fallin' soon,” said John Crasby to Hughie.

“I'm afraid not—the dhrunken scalawag—thir niver was sich a dhrinker since the night o' the big wind in Ireland.”

Old Hughie scratched his head.

“But at any rate—whin I was a pidler in—”

“Gentlemen,” shouted the one-legged man, “you have perhaps forgotten my original mission among you. I have come as a patriot home from the wars—wounded—legless—but not dead—I come among you to obtain money with which to buy a new leg—this leg I now wear is worn and warped with the years. I was not an officer in the army, gentlemen—officers do not lose their legs in the cause of glory. I fought and died, gentlemen, that all men might be free to escape from the Bull Runs of the soul—my distinguished opponent here perhaps does not understand that emotion that kindles in the heart of the soldier—for did he not call my poem a lot of mush?”

“He'll talk himself under the table,” Old Hughie whispered to John Crasby. “It's the talk that makes min dhrunk—it unsits their brain.”

“Now whin I was a pidler—”

“And, gentlemen—hidden away as we are here from the stress and strife of daily life—I would fain say a word about how legs are lost—

“I too was a soldier in the army of love. I fought under the banner of the noblest young woman in Turkey. She was more beautiful than the wondrous maiden of whom our great drinking companion, Lord Byron Burns, of other days wrote …

“She loved me as truly as a woman ever loved a man. And she was false. She entered the Sultan's harem against my wishes. She became the Sultan's favorite against her own.

“My old father came from the brewery in Kansas and pleaded with the Sultan. ‘The boy has only one wife to give the Sultan—' my father said—‘Please do not make her your favorite,' but it was all of no avail—at last I found the Sultan on the top of his building forty stories up—he was all alone—‘Suit'—I said—‘they will read in the papers to-morrow that you committed suicide. Even he who doubts will believe it—if he thinks of your fifty wives he will believe that you fell forty stories into the very arms of your women. It is a terrible vengeance I seek—caused by a terrible grief—but desire for women is the graveyard of greater men than yourself—you shall be folded forever in the company of the greatest men that ever lingered among us—”

“‘Sir'—said the Sultan—‘don't be a God damn fool—you take your women seriously—my business in life is women—a mere jump of forty stories would not kill me—and if I am not out of breath when I fall—I will hound you with all the soldiers of civilized Europe and the women-loving children of Ireland—I will chase you over mountain and dale and pin you to the walls of Jerusalem with the bullets of my soldiers—' he shrugged his shoulders—‘What is a woman, however beautiful, to a man like the Sultan,' he patted his chest, ‘who can get another—I would bid you be careful—senorita—and besides—this woman you love so devoutly—who is she—do you remember all the roses in your walk through a garden—be civilized, my friend—you were intelligent enough to run from Bull Run—then why do you show such crass stupidity here—ho—ho—ho—ho—because you love a woman—go careful with murder my friend—you come from more ignorant shores—there are no murders in Turkey over women—wise men—we make them wear veils—their beauty is that which we men alone may see—in your countries—or at least it was when I traveled incognito over the realms of women with Edward the Seventh, then the beloved Prince of Wales—the beauty of women is for themselves—they preen before mirrors—and as they preen—in their minds comes the destruction of men—remember friend—men were free before mirrors were invented by a man who was insane—'”

“The time is up,” shouted Old Hughie.

“Let him finish his tale. We must be courteous to the stranger within our gates,” said the bartender, “besides, Hughie—have compassion—this man has loved a woman.”

“Thank you—thank you profoundly,” bowed the man with one leg—“you are a greater philosopher than most men who wipe bars—

“The Sultan weighed six hundred and six pounds. His body was gray and blue like rubber. But he was twenty feet tall so he did not seem so heavy.

“‘Women love a tall man,' he continued—‘if a tall man just remains quiet he will pass for Solomon with the smartest woman alive. The reason my realm is one of beauty and joy everlasting is because women do not think. They are told what to think in your nation—and what have you—more silly opinions—and less beauty.'

“He walked to a chart.

“‘When did your wife leave you?' he asked.

“‘Three months ago,' I replied.

“‘Then why this haste,' he thought seriously for some moments. ‘It will be at least eleven months according to the most precise regulations of my women tabulators before I can even see her. Some very beautiful women have remained in my harem for as long as three years before they could even be admitted to my presence. Only four years ago I had to call in four kings from Christian Europe to help me give them audiences. So you see—sad man of love—that that which breaks your heart is but a dreary incident in the life of another man. All the troubles in the world, my sad man of love, are caused because men cannot lie still in bed.' He turned swiftly from the chart.

“‘What were you doing in Turkey with your beautiful wife?'

“‘I was a missionary, Sire—and my wife worked with me in the saving of souls. Only three nights before she was captured for your harem she had saved forty of your heathen Turks. She was devout—and read her Bible each hour.'

“The Sultan raised his hand. ‘It's no wonder she left—your Bible—I am told—does not bring peace to women. Only love can do that—and you denied it to her. No beautiful woman wishes to convert heathens. My long years as Sultan have taught me that. My men have searched the realms of the world for beautiful women. No beautiful woman was ever found among the lady missionaries. Saving souls is for ugly people with minds bitter as the thoughts of death. For what does it matter, my friend, how you walk to the grave—the test is always—what is important. Whether one be a scavenger of souls—or in love with a woman.'”

The stranger wept for a moment.

“But ah, she was lovely. Before we took ship for Turkey she converted a man in New York who said he was an alderman. She was alone with him in a room for several hours. And when they came out the man said he was saved. ‘Much can be done with prayer,' the alderman said.

“She was being wrongfully detained by an evil woman in an evil house when I discovered her. After she, by the evil machinations of this evil woman, had stolen seven dollars from me I decided it was time to convert her and let her see the world.

“I used to teach women the way of virtue in such houses. It was a hard task.

“At last she consented to elope with me and save sinners if I gave her the seven dollars. And when we were married she told me of her sinful life. And, ah, gentlemen—she too had her Bull Run of the soul.

“I thought of her wrongs as I stood before the Sultan.

“‘Jump—' I yelled, pulling a big gun from my pocket.

“The Sultan jumped out of the window. I watched him land on the pavement below. I turned from the window and started to leave the room.

“The Sultan had bounced back and stood before me.

“‘I have thought it all over,' he said politely—‘I shall not chase you from my dominions. You are free to wander where you will. But still you will be in prison. For well I know that the man who takes one woman seriously will never be free. I bid you good morning.' He pushed me out of his presence.”

“What became of the wife?” asked the whisky collector.

Before the man could answer he collapsed.

“I knew it,” smiled Old Hughie, “he talked himself under.”

“Well he's just a travelin' bum,” put in John Crasby.

“Indade, an' he's worse than that,” returned my grandfather, “he's a beer drinker.”

He rubbed his chin—

“Now whin I was a pidler in the South—”