A/N: I think this 99% original fiction…For any of you who don't know Padraic, he is one of my OC's in Esprit de Corps. He is the barkeep of The Faithful Bride tavern and based on someone I actually know in real life.
Enjoy!
Pairing: Padraic, my OC
Word Count: 1,505
Prompt: Virtues and Vices
Tavern Codex
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Hypocrisy is a classic lethal mixture that leads to a double life, wearing one face until moving onto another while aiming for its own praise and profit. An au courant vice, to say the least, and all au courant vices are perceived as virtues, whether they were contemptible vices or not.
He was a man that complained about binge-drinking while serving drinks at a tavern – the thought was absolutely absurd to those of sane mind, but apparently they did not understand the folly of hypocrisy as much as the Irish.
When Padraic discovered that the average sailor in Tortuga consumed an unbelievable daily quantity of more than three gallons of liquor such as beer, hard cider, rum, sherry, and mead one is apt to conclude that they were perennially sloshed on a daily basis.
The kind of drink offered by an individual tavern was a factor in its location, the availability of supplies, and the aspirations of its keeper. Drinking habits differed significantly in the American colonies, where the majority of the inhabitants were British with a much more sophisticated palette. Rum was the most popular distilled liquor in Tortuga. It was easy enough to distill, and easy enough to sell to a brigade of thirsty pirates.
In the mornings he would make his own beer, wine, cider and mead and his reputation depended on the quality of his product, but being rumored to have the best spirits in town made it hard for him to rest at night, and inevitably caused him to sleep very little. He would watch over his life's work with a sharp eye.
Nearing his tenth year of employment at The Faithful Bride, he found that he would still have besotted sailors stumbling into the taproom after hours. If he were like any other man in town, namely his landlord, he would have been in bed when the inebriated pounding at his tavern door began.
"I want some half an' half!" yelled the man as he stumbled forward.
"Tavern's closed - get yerself home ta yer wife," Padraic said, leaning up against the counter.
"I want some half an' half," he said with more vigor, slamming his fist down upon the counter he had just finished cleaning off.
Padraic momentarily left his post and returned with the chamber pot whose contents were dumped on the intruder.
"There's yer half an' half. Half mine an' half me dog's," Padraic said, laughing as the man ran out of his tavern door just as fast as he came in.
Consequently, his tavern inflow fluctuated daily, but he was fortunate enough to offer large groups of men a reasonable drink, food, or more than a few square feet of floor space near the fireplace for an overnight's rest. The meals and services offered in another tavern naturally varied. Sailors expected food and liquor on the road to be mediocre, the choices limited, and prices haphazard. They were characteristically delighted when they reached a tavern that exceeded their expectations.
Though, Padraic didn't own the tavern, he still felt very much responsible for its business, seeing that he produced most, if not all of its profit.
His landlord, Stewart Sherman, was a man well past his prime. Frankly, he knew more about drinking liquor than actually distilling it. Padraic always thought that Sherman was bloody madman as well, mostly because used to trap bees in boxes filled with sugar in order to find their hives for honey. Though, he did handle his business most astutely when it came to making contacts. He was always concerned about the tavern's activities, especially when Padraic didn't give the customer what they wanted.
That particular morning, Sherman walked in to a taproom already full of thirsty men, stepping over one that was still passed out from the previous evening.
"Oi, Sherman, a deadly kick for a fat fucker, aye?" Padraic said with a laugh as he looked down at the man.
"Well, that depends," he replied, pulling up a stool to the counter.
"On what?"
"On what you're serving them, of course. Now, what I really need is rent and an explanation," he said, tossing a piece of parchment on top of the counter.
Padraic carefully opened the letter, running his fingers through his hair as he read through its contents.
---
The Faithful Bride Tavern
10 April: 1743
Mr. Sherman,
It has come to my attention that a rumor has being circulated about myself and your establishment The Faithful Bride. I beg to inform you that at no time have I ever slept in the tavern. However, last week on a journey from the Northern coast, I distinctly recall my horse stopping under the large tree just beside your establishment and I had stopped in since it did appear to have been well-recognized.
Though the result of renewed vigor for my journey was not what I received upon stepping into your establishment. I was hoping to receive service, but I did not. Instead I received a most vile display by your barkeep that consisted of such crudeness I cannot bring myself to write it on paper.
Health violations of this nature should be handled swiftly.
I remain your most humble servant,
Charles Hudderfield
---
Padraic couldn't help but laugh at the letter, but Sherman was far from amused, which caused Padraic's laughter to come to a staggering halt. Perhaps, the emptying of his chamber pot in his establishment was not the best idea at the time.
"Oh, fuck, come on. Don't tell me that ain't fuckin' funny."
Sherman sighed, placing a hand on his forehead. "Will you furnish me with a whiskey and some food?" Sherman said hastily, shifting in his seat.
"We 'aven't got no bread. Haven't gone ta tha mill yet today an' by the looks o' it, I'm not goin' anywhere," he said with a smile, hoping that Sherman would still find it convenient to eat anything else he had to offer.
"No matter. You know, there have been rumors going 'round the city that the Hudderfield's will soon be pulling the pumps and the washing glasses at The Blue Bell just outside of town."
"Why's that?" Padraic asked, narrowing his brow as he continued to dry his whiskey glasses.
"Hudderfield's been losing business and profit because of the Company's tariffs. Rumor also has it that we'll be going out of business as well, if you don't get your act together."
"The rumor's not exactly righ', an' if it were then I wouldn't be behind this counter righ' now. I know 'ow ta handle me customers," Padraic said coolly.
"You won't be behind that counter for much longer, if you keep driving the customers away. This isn't Ireland, you know," he said as Padraic handed him his whiskey.
Padraic rolled his eyes at Sherman's statement, watching as he swallowed the spicy liquid in one gulp.
"Damn, that's good," Sherman said, clearing his throat.
"I know, it comes from Ireland," Padraic said with a smile, pouring the man a larger glass. "Another?"
"Christ, Padraic. That's twice the fucking size of the last one."
"Save yer breath fer coolin' yer tea. Take it. It's good."
---
The next morning, Padraic went to work a new man, making molasses to replenish his rum and wine stores. In the Americas he became familiar with tapping maple trees, but surprisingly, cornstalks produced sugar of the same quality – a trick that the Native Americans taught him many years ago.
The corn stalks, green as they were, were carried to a convenient trough, then chopped and pounded so much that he could boil all the juices out from them. After pounding, he put the stalks in a large copper pot and lowered it in its own sweetness until the liquors in the glass began to break from one another. After that, he strained the stalks and boiled them again with hops.
Hudderfield would be making an appearance at his tavern soon enough now that his own establishment was no longer, but he expected no trouble.
After Sherman's unsuccessful bout with Padraic's secret stash of whiskey the previous evening, he was able to negotiate the selling of The Faithful Bride tavern to a very interested buyer – himself.
Sherman was gone on the first ship heading out of port. Though, he would imagine that the old landlord would not be too happy to wake up on a pirate ship in the middle of the Caribbean Sea.
Padraic always thought that the old bloke needed a bit of fresh air.
Before opening for business that night, he nailed a new sign to his door for all to see.
---
Tavern Codex:
This tavern requires no physical health program, nor submits to any code of conduct. Everyone gets enough exercise jumping to conclusions, flying off the handle, running down the barkeep, knifing their comrades in the back, dodging responsibility, and pushing their luck.
Have a bloody drink and shut the hell up.