Seven Drunken Lives

[Mirgy]

 

 

 

Pádraig Mac Duarcáin, as his grandfather insisted on calling him, was third son and fourth surviving child of John Durkin, second generation American Irishman. An aggressive abusive drunkard - worker of the shoe factory.  Born in 1874 in Boston, Patrick, like many other working-class children, grew up from a very young age in an atmosphere of poverty and struggle. Hunger, unsanitary conditions, constant fights with older brothers and peers were the companions of his young years. Short, bony and wiry, he began to steal and drink early, like many other children, left to their own devices while their fathers broke their backs in factories and their mothers gave birth again and again, in hopes that at least half of the babies would live to the age when they  will be able to work for the sake of their families, making life at least a little easier for their parents. 

His father's anger, fueled by cheap whiskey, and the constant attacks of his brothers fostered a combative, flammable character in Patrick. Always ready for a fight, always feeling the need to defend his dignity, Patrick often found himself being chased with a police baton. Near the end of Reconstruction, old John, driven by promises of a better life, moves his family south to Saint Denis, leaving his eldest sons and daughter in Boston, taking only Patrick with him.

Years followed each other, one part-time job replaced another. Only the wind walked in his pockets and the screams of his drunken, gradually dying father drove Patrick into the merciless streets of his new home - The Bowery.

After serving a couple of years in the Navy during the Spanish-American War, he returned to Saint Denis, buried his father and... threw himself to the bottom of the bottle.

 

 

[Mirgy]

 

 

What should a sailor do if he is discharged after his ship goes down? Patrick drank and drank and drank. He drank until the wind began to blow through his leaky pockets. Conscience, already speaking in a whisper, could not shout over the hungry stomach.

Getting punched in the face for money? Well, that's money!

Dead people have no use for money. So why not share it?

Hanging out on the streets between drinking sessions at O'Doyles - only recently renamed by the new owner, some Italian, to Cantina (Stupid name. It definitely won't catch on.) - and, through small, sneaky deeds, Patrick made acquaintances:

Betty Cook -  black woman, a tramp and a thief.

 

Wilson Moore and Rolf Kruger -  Bloody English  first. Other one's German. In general, not bad guys. Yes, and they talked about the opportunity to earn extra money. Timber cutting! 

 

Perhaps it wasn't all that bad... 

[Mirgy]

"...Mikey Feckin' Howlett! T'at's who!" 

It was February night. 

The snow was still heavy on the mountains of northern New Hanover, but the first signs of the approaching Spring were already showing themselves. The air was warming a little, although it was still frozen. The cowboys were preparing for the change of seasons and grazing, the imminent fairs and the start of trading.  Blackwater roared with life. Her streets were full of settlers, moving west. With new mayor in charge harbour and economy boomed, attracting more and more people to move into West Elizabeth. Rare Indian came to the town, only to be chased away by the re-awakened zealotry of the locals.  The new decrees caused heated debate among the townspeople. Someone considered the ban on the fairer sex wearing pants to be a correct and moral decision. Some called it a fight against social progress. 

Bandits roamed the prairies of West Elizabeth, and the small town of Rhodes, tightly sandwiched between two plantations, became the arena of struggle between two powerful and old families - Braithwaites and Arceneaux. 

All of that, however, was little known in the Bowery, dank and dirty underbelly of the great city of Saint Denis, the Jewel of South Tahoma. These events and processes were of even less interest to the local slob and drunkard, Patrick, who at that very moment was waving a revolver for the amusement and fear of the other bar patrons.

"Tellin' ya, lads n' lasses! Oi'll be damned, if oi haven't seen it wit' me own two eyes. N' oi did, oi dids!" - he shouted, waving the gun dangerously close to the faces of the audience. Voluntary or not.  



"He shot two or three of t'em pigs down, he did. Wit' t'ese very gun, he did! Eejits chased him over t'e City, roofs n' alleys n' all fer hours! T'ey wouldn't get 'im eit'er, if his leg wouldn't get stuck... Bloody maniac t'at he was. I saw him his last day too." 

...

Events of that bloody day, the day of Saint Denis Shootout, made it to the papers. Gun shots rangs often, but none were louder than those, that day. While the entirety of the SDPD chased the dangerous maniac murdered, local Irishman cheered from the sidewalks. 
 
"Ya wastin' time, ya know?..." 

. . . 

"He's a legend is who he is. Mikey Feckin' Howlett... Oi still have his gon, ya know? " 
 

[Mirgy]

"Patrick Durkin, ye'r an idiot!"

 

Even wretches sometime have Lady Luck smile on them. So it was for Patrick Durkin one night during February of 1900. 
Walking along the road of the nice part of town and not being chased away by the police or hired goons from La Bastille surely was nice change of pace for the local drunkard and petty thief, who waddled about the proper part of town, reeking of whiskey  and sweat. It was then when he seen her. Moira Byrne. Bowery lady through and through, with raging alcoholic father and several degenerate brothers, for Patrick she will be a muse, love of his life and his worst nightmare. 

 

Getting info a fight to impress her not two hours later, Patrick ate dirt enough to lose another teeth from his already lacking set. Yet somehow, when she peeled him off the pavement, something flickered in her eyes as well. Drinking, dancing, going together through the struggle of life in the Bowery, back breaking labor in the docks for hin, and work in the bar for her, their relatioships grew into something significant. 

Where he was full of energy, she brought much needed order into his life. Fiery lass with auburn hair, she soon began voice of reason and organiser to his chaotic wit and quickness. It was her who taught him how to write telegrams, how to respond properly to business inquiries. It was her who pushed him into opening his own company - Durkin & Co Timber. There was no "Co", but it made the name sound professional. 

So it came as no surprise that to the town of Blackwater they went as a pair. It was a business trip, sure. But Patrick had another idea. Quickly exchanging some bonds for a pair of rings with a local whore, he made a proposal on the waves of the Flat Iron Lake. 

. . .  Many months later 

 

 

 

 

And as they entered - lo! There she sat. And all Hell broke loose...

[Mirgy]

"It's gonna be grand, oi'm telling ya!" 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[LazyMozy]

Take it far 💥

[Mirgy]

"We can give  her what we never had as children." 

 

 

 

 

 

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Durkin, Durkin & Durkin

 

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I want to appreciate everyone, who ever participated in the story of Patrick Durkin. For all the fun scenes and sad ones too. And the Saint Denis community first and foremost.