These inauspicious beginnings fixed the disposition of the little township for the rest of the century. The feuding and the lawlessness ran amuck in the streets. Like some Wild West outpost in the fabled tales of the republic to the south, the good people of Pennyluck pummelled each other senseless in the taverns and burnt one another’s barns to the ground and shot their rival’s horses or sawed the axes of their enemy’s wagons so the whole trap collapsed on the drunken trot home.
Out of this hard-knuckled chaos came the Corrigans. Refugees lately of Tipperary, like most of the town, fleeing hardships and bad deeds. The patriarch, James Corrigan, killed a man named Patrick Cryder at a logging bee in 1884 and was sent to Kingston gaol house to await hanging under the laws of her majesty the Queen. His wife, Mary Corrigan, was left alone to raise their six children and manage the farm. When the children were taunted for having a jailbird father, Mary taught her brood to fight back and show no mercy. In the evenings, Mary wrote petitions to the courts begging clemency for her husband, father to a wayward brood in need. In 1891, James Corrigan’s date with the hangman was overturned and he returned home to a family of hard fists and grim mouths, his boys now grown into vicious young men who were quick to brawl and merciless in their fury. So feared was the clan that other families banded together in an alliance to protect themselves from the hated Corrigans. The formation of the Vigilance Peace Society was announced in church, with the blessing of Father John Donnelly, and was declared publically to keep the peace in the streets but in truth, the society was little more than a war party to fight back against the Corrigan terror.
And then it all ended one night when the inmates of the prison in nearby Garrisontown revolted and broke free. A gang of the murderous criminals fled west and laid siege to the first house they stumbled across, the Corrigan homestead. The cutthroat brigands murdered the family and dragged their lifeless bodies into the barn and burnt it down to hide their hideous sin. The severity and the horror of the murder rattled the entire community and brought an end to the lawlessness and the feuds. After that bloody night in February 1898, the township of Pennyluck settled into an era of slow prosperity and relative peace.
So much for history.
Jim closed the book and piled it atop the others borrowed from the library. He drained his pint and set the glass back into its wet ring on the table. Sorting out the details from the four books before him, he was shocked at the violence that had plagued his little town. But every town had its bad blood, its dirty history. Why would their town be any different? Only one of the books had mentioned the Corrigans and it reinforced his own vague knowledge of the tragic demise of the family. Granted some of it looked suspect, like the alliance of families who banded together in a `Peace Society` to challenge the Corrigans. That could have gotten out of hand. But the book had reiterated what little of the tale Jim knew; that fugitive convicts had laid waste to the family.
So what was the truth? What was Corrigan up to? Did he have proof to back up his claims that the other families had conspired against his own? No. All he had was a derelict house and a good spook story. Grist for any charlatan’s mill.
“You going back to school, Jimmy?” Puddycombe collected Jim’s empty glass and set a fresh pint down in its place. He nodded to the books on the table.
“Catching up on my local history.”
Puddy picked up a book and tilted his head back to read the spine. “The History of Pennyluck and its People. Sounds gripping. This a comedy?”
“More like tragedy. Out of all these books, there’s only one mention of the Corrigan murders. A brief one too.”
“Christ on the cross!” That was Berryhill, leaning on his cue and eavesdropping. “If I hear that name again I’m gonna puke.”
“You don’t think that’s odd?”
Berryhill chalked his cue. “What? You believe that asshole’s story?”
“About as much as I believe the official one.”
“You’re a piece of work, Hawkshaw. Fucking turn on your own kind like that.”
Jim gritted his teeth. Berryhill the blowhard. “This town was a pretty wild place back then. All these books agree on that.”
“That’s true,” Puddycombe said. “They used to post four constables a night just to deal with all the brawling drunks at closing time. ‘Course the constables were drunk too but there you are.”
“Drunk men fight,” Berryhill scoffed. “Big news.”
Puddycombe collected glassware onto a tray. “Wasn’t just the donnybrooks outside the pub. There’s was practically war in the streets what with all the feuding that went on. And them Corrigans were a vicious lot. They’d knock your teeth in for speaking out against them. Then torch your barn for good measure.”
Hitchens had turned away from the TV to listen in. “Puddy,” he said, “you believe that guy’s story too?”
“All I’m saying is this used to be a very rough town. And the Corrigans were Catholics, like everyone else down the Roman Line. There’s been plenty of blood spilled between them and the Orangemen at the time, on top of all the family feuding.”
Hitchens dismissed the notion. “That’s bullshit. When a fight turns to bloodshed there’s only two reasons; women or money.”
Berryhill went back to his game. “You’re both fucking crazy.”
“You’re all wrong.” Old Gallagher swung around on his stool and piled onto the discussion.
“Now look what you done,” Berryhill said. “You woke the old man up.”
Gallagher ignored the loudmouth. “It was a dispute over land. Folks used to squat on unused land in those days. Half the acreage around town was fallow with absentee landlords and whatnot.” He winked at the men. “You threaten a man’s land, well, he will kill you for it.”
“Land, money,” said Hitchens. “Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Gallagher barked. “Not to those people. Land was everything. Safety, respectability, shelter. Roots. What’s money compared to that? Nothing. Just filthy paper.”
“So says the man without any,” Hitchens fired back. A few laughs around the tables.
Gallagher ignored the fool. “Jimmy’s right, this town was a wild place with little regard for the law. The only rule folks respected was that of reprisal. And everyone was guilty of it, not just those damn Corrigans.” The Guinness trembled in his hand and he wiped the foam from his lips. “Still, there was something odd about that family. There’s a whiff of brimstone lingering yet over the Corrigan homestead.”
Berryhill rolled his eyes heavenward. “Jesus. Here come the ghost stories…”
Combat Kyle racked up the balls as the conversation drifted to the fragile state of the old man’s brains and Gallagher cursed them all for being rotten bastards and turned back to his stout.
No one noticed the new patron who strode in and stood surveying the pub. One by one the voices dropped off and all eyes swung to the man in the doorway.
Will Corrigan watched the conversation die around him, then he crossed to the bar and took a stool.
10
“BUSHMILLS.” CORRIGAN LEANED against the polished bar and nodded to the proprietor. He could almost feel the heat on his back from all those eyes.
Puddycombe pulled glassware from the steaming dishwasher. Without looking up, he said “We don’t have that.”
“What do you have that passes for whiskey around here?”
“What you see there.” Puddycombe nodded to the liquor stand. Bottles of Jack and Johnny and the obligatory Canadian Club. The bottle of Crown Royal, which confirmed Corrigan’s worst suspicions of the place.