Alcohol, Boat Chases, And Shootouts!
Charleston, SC 29407
james_mo
book excerpts
...the fishing-schooner Eddie James pulled into port at Halifax, Nova Scotia. When the crew went ashore, they had a very exciting sea story to tell whoever would listen. While the liquor-laden Eddie James sat at anchor off the New Jersey coast near Highland Light, the crew had some visitors. A steam launch made its way from a large, powerfully built steamer and pulled up alongside the Eddie James. Five seamen, “armed to the teeth,” boarded the schooner and advised the captain that they wished to purchase some liquor. The captain agreed to a conference. The five strangers sat down in the cabin with the captain, his first mate, and the supercargo (the man in charge of the ship’s cargo). Suddenly, the five strangers started to fire their weapons indiscriminately, wounding the supercargo and driving the remainder of the crew to hiding places about the vessel. Two of the armed men held the frightened crew at bay while the others passed all 600 cases of whisky over the side of the schooner into the launch. To add insult to injury, the pirates then robbed the captain of $8,000 in cash and kidnapped the wounded supercargo. As the pirates took off with their loot and captive, one of them yelled back that they would soon be coming back for more. Of course, the crew of the Eddie James immediately raised anchor and put out to sea. On the way back to Nova Scotia, several storms tossed the fishing vessel around on rough seas.
Prohibition and Customs officials told the press that they had never heard of the schooner Eddie James as a rum-running vessel, but did say that rum-runners identified pirates as their worst enemy. Pirates attacked well outside of Federal jurisdiction and operated outside of the law. While smugglers stood a good chance of recovering their alcohol and posting bail after a Coast Guard raid, their chances did not seem as good when dealing with pirates. The new Zone Chief R. Q. Merrick was very pleased to read about the pirate attack on the Eddie James.
“It saves us a lot of work,” he told the press. Merrick added that every time a pirate attacked a rum-runner, the risk level went up and the number of willing rum-runners went down. According to reports he read in Savannah and at his new post, Merrick concluded that rum piracy was on the rise along the Atlantic Coast. Merrick cited a big bootlegger in Savannah, who claimed that he feared ‘liquor thieves’ far more than Federal agents. Rum-runners in the Highlands, N.J. began working on their pistol marksmanship to protect themselves against pirates.
While the pirates were busy shooting people and stealing rum, the press was wreaking havoc in the nation’s capital. When the D.C. police arrested a man named Joseph E. Connor for selling liquor, they confiscated his list of customers. The next day, officials in Washington opened The Washington Post and read the names of about 500 patrons of bootleggers, arranged alphabetically. The list published on March 12 ended with the letter R. Many prominent people in Washington whose names began with subsequent letters most likely did not sleep well that night. In fact, many of Washington’s elite kept the wires busy on the 12th, trying to persuade the owner of the Post to prevent the publication of the rest of the list. While the police managed to confiscate many such lists before, this was the first case where the names and addresses were published in a newspaper. There were names on the list from the State Department, War Department, and Navy Department; so Connor became known as the “State, War, and Navy” bootlegger...REPORTER RIDES WITH RUM SMUGGLERS
A newspaper reporter named James C. Young went out to witness the Christmas rum fleet himself. The number of rum ships off the New Jersey coast increased from eighteen to twenty-five almost overnight. Some of the ships carried over a million dollars in cargo. Captain Blunt of the sloop Bessie Smith told Young that it would not be much trouble to get aboard a rum-runner and learn how these things were done. Of course, the captain pointed out, a man must first be willing to take his chances. Young asked the captain what those chances might be. The captain replied that there was always the risk of getting shot, disappearing, or drowning in rough seas. A few days earlier, a small boat went out with two men. Afterward, they drifted ashore, drowned, and twenty cases of liquor came in with the same tide.
James C. Young was an adventurous reporter, so he decided to visit the rum fleet in spite of the captain’s warning. Young and Captain Blunt agreed to a start time for their trip. At the designated time, the four men (Captain Blunt, Eddie the engineer, Johnson the young cameraman, and James Young) met at the boat’s dock in Shrewsbury, New Jersey. The boat was built for adventure, a five-ton sloop with a long bowsprit and a weather-beaten look. Captain Blunt inspected the boat with a sailor’s eye while Eddie went below to start the engine. The engine was as worn as the rest of the schooner, so starting it required some coaxing. Eventually, the engine started and the boat headed down the Shrewsbury River to the sea.
It was a gray morning with low clouds that seemed to merge with the water in the distance. Captain Blunt, however, was certain that it would not rain. The Shrewsbury River was an interesting place for anyone curious about rum-runners. Any river pilot could point out the bootleggers’ headquarters in a certain hotel, and a little further on a fleet of speedboats were tied to a convenient dock. Nearby was the yard where builders assembled the boats, which were capable of thirty miles an hour with fifty cases aboard.
As the Bessie Smith made its way into the bay, Captain Blunt described the contest between the smugglers and the Coast Guard as a game that required wit and daring. The captain believed that the smugglers had the advantage, but admitted that the Coast Guard made the “game” more difficult. Eddie, who was standing at the wheel, shook his head as he listened to the discussion. Eddie did not like the Coast Guard and had little use for them. His face had a three-day stubble of black and gray, his skin was like leather, and he had a penetrating eye. He was just the sort of man who would bring the whole rum fleet up the bay and tell the Coast Guard and Customs where to go.
As the schooner passed Sandy Hook, the men saw the Coast Guard station that caused the most trouble for smugglers. It was a trim establishment with a look of discipline and efficiency. Eddie did not care for it and used the language of a sailor to express his disapproval. As the Bessie Smith got closer to the rum ships, the schooner began to pass empty whisky cases bearing Scotland’s best-known names. The four men began to place nickel bets on what brand case would show up next. James Young’s brand, White Horse, appeared so often that all bets were soon off.
Eddie frequently looked through his binoculars. “There’s a rum-runner ahead,” he said. The other men looked into the distant gray without seeing anything. It took a few minutes for them to spot the smudge on the horizon. As the Bessie Smith kept chugging along, the distant dot began to look more like a ship. Eddie then spotted another rum-runner, a schooner this time, a few points to starboard. Farther out, there was yet another one.
“What’s that?” the captain asked while pointing. It was a white ship cutting across the horizon. The captain looked through his glasses and saw that it was a Coast Guard cutter. “Young fellow, I wouldn’t go aboard no rum boat with that cutter lying around,” said the captain.
“But they can’t bother a peaceable American citizen for paying a friendly call to a peaceable British citizen; can they?” replied the reporter.
“You don’t know what they are likely to do,” said the captain, “brass buttons make a man mighty proud.”
This was not reassuring to the reporter and cameraman. They had momentary apprehensions about being shot or thrown overboard, but did not think about the risk of getting arrested. As the Bessie Smith got closer to the first rum vessel, the men saw that it was a dirty old ship. It was riding high at both ends, so the two newsmen said that it must be almost out of liquor. Eddie replied that liquor does not weigh as much as gold and that one cannot tell if a ship is sold out. The captain and Eddie brought the small boat alongside the rum ship. The crew of the ship stood by the rail and stared down at the motley crew of the Bessie Smith. The crew looked like an ordinary lot of sailors. The captain was a fat, red-faced man, wearing a blue shirt without any collar and a makeshift blue uniform. He looked like an elevator man in a second-rate office building, but he waved in a friendly manner and answered the hail of Captain Blunt.
“Better sheer off and come back in ten minutes; that blarsted cutter is waiting.”
“How much for Scotch?” asked someone aboard the Bessie Smith.
“Twenty-three dollars a case, and all you want,” replied the fat captain.
The men aboard the Bessie Smith discussed what they were going to do next. The captain was dead against boarding any rum-runner with the Coast Guard cutter nearby. Eddie made the suggestion that they continue on to the next schooner. As they approached the next schooner, Eddie pointed out the whisky piled on deck, which was stacked chest-high and wrapped in straw wrappers. The captain of the schooner was a big man, six-foot-two, with a wind and sun burned face. He was leaning over a rail as the Bessie Smith came alongside.
“Can we come aboard?”
“That’s your risk; the cutter is waiting,” replied the captain.
The four men aboard the smaller boat again discussed what they were going to do next and agreed to move on to the next schooner. By this time, they were twenty miles out from the shore, daylight was running out, and dark clouds indicated heavy rain. The men saw ten rum ships scattered around them and the common report indicated that there were ten more ships in addition to the ones they could see. As they approached the next schooner, the men aboard the Bessie Smith dropped a dory over the side. James Young, Eddie, and Johnson jumped into the dory and shoved off. The men were tossed around on the heaving sea while Eddie rowed the tiny dory over to the nearby rum ship.
When the men were alongside the ship, named the Sea Witch, the crew of the ship peered down at them without even waving a hand in greeting. The Sea Witch was a new eighty-ton schooner, painted shiny black, with a white rail. The vessel had eight men on deck, about half of them Scandinavians and the others Canadians. The schooner was freshly painted and clean as a ship should be.
The three men in the dory climbed a rope up the side of the Sea Witch, one at a time, as the ocean tossed the dory around. Once aboard, the crew of the Sea Witch continued to scan the three men closely. The reporter and photographer did not look like their usual customers. The two men thought about this as they remembered all the stories they have heard of men who never came back from the rum fleet
The supercargo was a whale of a man from the East Side of New York City. The reporter told him that a certain New York club was running short on Christmas liquor and needed to be re-supplied. Fortunately, the supercargo bought the story and the men were safe. The men then discussed what liquors the Sea Witch had in stock and haggled over the price per case. Thirty dollars was too high, the men of the Bessie Smith argued, because they already had a quote of twenty-three dollars from another ship. The supercargo told them that he would have to ask the skipper and went forward.
The skipper was even bigger than the supercargo, by about fifty pounds. He did not like the looks of the three customers...
A DRUNKEN SHOOTING SPREE
...One of the police of the N.Y.P.D. Marine Division, David A. Owens, cracked under the pressure of the investigation. Owens had gotten into trouble while on duty before...
A few days after the investigation started, Owens worked a full daytime shift. After work, he got drunk and staggered down 55th Street. There were boys and girls on the street playing a game of tag and they decided to include Owens in the game by tagging him. Owens was a good sport about it and played along. The children shrieked with laughter at his drunken attempts to catch them.
With a broad grin on his face, he staggered into Francis’ Restaurant, at 319 West 55th Street. After falling into a chair, he mopped the sweat from his brow with a napkin and looked at the menu, which he held upside-down. The proprietor noticed that Owens was drunk and rowdy. For the short time he was actually in the restaurant, he was abusive and harassed the diners. Francis managed to get him out of the restaurant and slammed the door in his face.
Angered by this, Owens kicked the door several times. When it seemed clear to him that he was not going to get in, he moved along. His young admirers, who had been clustered at the restaurant window during his brief visit there, gathered around him and tried to tease him into another game. This time, Owens would have nothing to do with them. He shook them off angrily when they grabbed at his arm and staggered up the street muttering profanities. Police Officer Owens then saw two uniformed “negro hallboys,” as the New York Times described them, standing in front of the Stanwood Apartments on West 50th Street. One of the “hallboys” was the elevator operator and the other was the phone operator.
“Want to fight?” he asked them. “I can lick any one on the block, and I’m going to start now.” He lunged at one of the hallboys, who blocked the blow before both of them fled into the building. Owens chased them, grabbing the phone operator, who managed to break free and hide under the stairs. The elevator operator ran and took cover in the elevator. As Owens started to leave the building, one of the boys poked his head out of his hiding place and the policeman turned. He drew his pistol and fired a shot which hit the wall. As he stood in the front doorway, he fired another shot. Women screamed and children fled into their homes, while others ducked into basement areaways. The cry of “Someone is shooting!” echoed throughout the block.
Owens backed into the street, clenching his pistol, and started walking down the middle of the street toward Ninth Avenue. Half way down the block, he bumped into a sixty year old waiter named Luce, who just left his home opposite the Stanwood as the first shot rang out. Luce patted Owens gently on the shoulder and tried to take the pistol from him. The two walked side by side as spectators watched from covered positions and from windows. Luce tried to persuade Owens to give him the pistol and the effort seemed to be working until Owens suddenly pushed the old waiter away and shouted, “You want to fight, too? You’ll get it!”
Owens raised the pistol and...
RUM AIRPLANES
Since the ships of the rum fleet were always on the move, bootleggers on land hired pilots to fly a “rum-spotter” out to sea. The rum-spotter knew which ship he was looking for and used a pair of powerful binoculars to locate the vessel. After finding the rum-ship, the spotter charted the position and brought it back to shore, where the smaller boats used the information.
During the winter of 1923-24, there were at least a dozen flying boat accidents offshore due to bad weather and mechanical problems. One of these flying boats was a common sight over New York, where it seemed to be doing a good business carrying sightseers. However, nearly all of the pilot’s customers came from the rum-spotters, who paid from $200 to $300 for each trip off Sandy Hook.
One afternoon, the plane with its pilot, mechanic, and spotter did not return. A general alert was sent out. The Navy sent out planes to scan the sea. Radio men sent wireless messages to ships to be on the lookout for the plane. A sudden storm and a misfiring engine caused the trouble. Once the plane was over the rum fleet, the spotter tried to signal one of the schooners. At that point the engine stalled and the little plane came down on the waves, which were being kicked up by a fierce wind. The vessels of the rum fleet pulled anchor and moved out a few miles to safer water. No one saw, or if they did they failed to recognize the frantic signals from the flying boat. Night came and the men on board were cold and hungry. They dared not smoke, for in trying to fix the engine they had flooded it with gasoline. The gasoline seeped down into the hull and there was no saying where it lay ready to be ignited. The men were deathly sick with the constant pitching of the waves and remained belted to their seats throughout the night. By morning, the waves were pounding the water-logged plane into wreckage that might sink at any moment. The rum fleet was nowhere in sight.
All that day, they saw nothing but the sun and sea. The waves rolled over the wings and constantly drenched the men. They were so thirsty that they drank the oily, rusty water from the radiator. They managed to crawl out on the upper wings and fastened undershirts to either end as a distress signal. Toward sundown, a single smokestack appeared over the horizon and then went on. Other ships followed that ship, but it was too dark. The stranded men had no flashlight and stood a fair chance of being run down by a larger craft. They spent that night wide awake and watching.In the morning, when they were half asleep from exhaustion...
REPORTER RIDES WITH THE COAST GUARD
James C. Young, the same reporter who wrote about his ride on a rum-running boat in December, spent a week aboard the Coast Guard Cutter Seminole in May of 1924. The cutter left port in bad weather. The wind howled as the rain washed in a torrent across the deck for two days. It was pointless to look for rum-runners in such harsh weather, so the Seminole spent the first night at anchor.
Young spent the night in the wardroom listening to tall stories about rum-runners and other things. Young also had a chance to get well acquainted with Philip C. Scott, commander of the Seminole. With 28 years of service, Scott was the kind of man a visitor would expect to meet at the helm of a cutter. Scott viewed the difficulties of the rum patrol as a minor matter because he had encountered every sort of problem known to the Coast Guard. Scott found relaxation in studying Latin classics from original texts and composing his own rhymes. He was in the middle of reading Caesar’s Gallic War when Young interviewed him. After telling the reporter that they would have to wait for the weather to clear up before chasing rum-runners, Scott spoke in detail about why he thought Caesar was the greatest man who ever lived. As Scott talked about the historic figure, rain poured on the deck above and pounded on the portholes. Finally, a bell indicated that it was 12:30 AM and time for the crew to change watch. The tired reporter then went to sleep.
When Young woke up in the morning, heavy rain, wind, and high seas pounded the cutter. The Seminole remained anchored all day and did not head for Montauk until after dark. The sky finally cleared and a silver moon shed light upon the Atlantic as the Seminole went down the Main Ship Channel, then into Ambrose, between the two blinking lines of buoys, past the pilot ship, the lightship, and into the open Atlantic.
Lieutenant Rae B. Hall explained to James C. Young how to take a star sight. After the lieutenant’s explanation, Young was even more confused; however, he did at least learn that a star sight is something a mariner uses when he cannot use anything else to navigate by. The lieutenant explained that first he found a star, then figured how far it was from the star to the horizon, and back from the horizon to the ship. After completing that process, a mariner could tell where he happened to be, providing he chose the right star and did his math accurately. By the time Young understood the process somewhat, it was time to hit the rack again. He wrote in his article that “it cramps the soul to sleep aboard ship.”
When he woke, Young was disappointed to see an overcast sky with rain clouds hovering low. Scott told the reporter that the weather conditions were excellent for rum-running. The commander was soon proved correct as the men on the Seminole spotted a possible smuggler. The fugitive boat came out from the protection of Montauk Point late on that rainy Sunday afternoon. For an hour, the rum-runner raced along the horizon, appearing as a dark smudge sandwiched between the foggy sky and dark water. The skipper of the boat may have believed he was below the Seminole’s line of visibility, but he was wrong. The men aboard the Coast Guard cutter were still able to spot him with a looking-glass.
The confident rum smugglers pulled up alongside a loaded rum ship, twenty miles off Montauk Point. As evening came, the small vessel hid on the opposite side of the rum ship to avoid detection, but it was too late. As the Seminole maneuvered toward the two ships, the small boat quickly broke away from the larger ship. The time for stealth tactics was over as Scott ordered full speed ahead.
Daylight was running out as the two ships raced across the Atlantic waters. The Seminole’s speed was no match for the rum-runner’s, but the six-pound guns were. The guns could shoot a target accurately from three miles. During the pursuit, Scott kept asking his crew if the smugglers were within range. The answer was no every time. The Seminole got within four miles of the rum-runner and there were only about twenty minutes of daylight remaining. Scott knew that it was now or never.
“Put up your sights as far as they will go and then tilt the barrel some more,” Scott ordered.
The boatswain barked the order to the gunner. He and his crew did a lot of tricks with the gun, then passed back the word that the gun was ready.
“Fire when ready,” said Scott. The boatswain barked the order to the gun crew in a way that showed he liked that particular order. As the gun went off with a loud bang, there was a shower of paper wadding and the smell of gunpowder. Every eye aboard watched for the splash. For James C. Young, it seemed like an eternity before the artillery...
TAKE
A
SNEAK
PEEK!
Charleston, SC 29407
james_mo
