Enough, you’re thinking. Now you know what Prohibition is, now you know why it became law. Now let’s hear about the bootleggers. The term “bootlegger” harks back to the gold rush in Klondike, where every man stuck a bottle of booze in his bootleg. If I tell you a few of the many tricks people use to sneak alcohol in, you mustn’t conclude it’s all that easy to find wine, beer, or any other kind of liquor. American law punishes not only alcohol sellers, but consumers as well. The punishment for the former, however, is certainly more severe. In fact, the cruelty of these punishments is one of the reasons why opponents of Prohibition are turning against this law. It has fomented a certain type of elite among the unscrupulous, as only the most intrepid and audacious become bootleggers. Let’s first track them on the sea, where their operations begin. The law specifies that no ship carrying alcohol may come closer than fourteen miles to the American coast. This is where America’s so-called territorial waters begin; at this demarcation, even ordinary passenger liners coming from Europe must seal off their supplies of alcohol. The big export companies wanting to sell their liquor in America don’t even consider facing the perils of smuggling. They order their freighters to drop anchor just outside the territorial waters, where American customs ships can see them but can do nothing to them. But more importantly, the bootleggers can see them; day and night their little smuggling boats zip across “Rum Row,” the name given to this border in honor of rum smuggling. The challenge is to transport the cargo to a secret unloading point on the mainland while evading the attention of customs ships and exploiting every advantage to do so: fog, moonless nights, bribes to customs officials, and, above all, stormy seas, which make pursuit more difficult. Police and smugglers must constantly try to outwit one another with their cunning.
Here are two little tales in which first the smugglers and then the customs wardens got the upper hand, using a similar ruse. One day a Coast Guard cutter was pursuing a petroleum boat whose cargo seemed suspicious. When the cutter had almost reached the boat, whose engines were not so powerful, the smugglers came up with a novel idea: they threw one of their own into the water. While the cutter slowed down to rescue the man, the boat disappeared in a flash, leaving behind a terrific wake.3 As I said, however, the customs authorities do not always lose out. There’s the story of a steamer, the Frederic B. from Southampton, which had been loaded with 100,000 cases of liquor and champagne worth 180 million francs. This ship, whose mysterious captain went by the name of Jimmy, was the cause of many a sleepless night for customs officials. The American government promised a great reward to whoever captured Jimmy. A very young man, first name Paddy, took on the adventure, and off he sailed with a few dollars and a handshake on behalf of the entire customs authority of the United States. A few days later a very large cargo steamer, the same Frederic B. of Southampton, which would often hang around Rum Row not far from the Bahamas, collided with a fishing boat. The steamboat naturally took on board the castaways, four men and a cabin boy named Paddy. The four fishermen were taken ashore as they requested, but the cabin boy asked to stay on board and work, and his wish was granted. Before the second night had barely passed, the cabin boy lowered a rope overboard, and four brawny men grabbed it and climbed on deck. Revolvers in hand, they seized the rudder, then the telephone, and the game was won. The men in the engine room believed they were following orders from Captain Jimmy, and the Frederic B. of Southampton pulled into Miami Harbor, where it was greeted by the customs authorities, who proceeded to pour the 180 million francs of cargo into the sea.4
Rum Row, permanently policed by around 400 coastal vessels, is just one of the fronts on which the battle between alcohol bandits and the state unfolds. In the American interior, at the border between Canada and the United States, are the Great Lakes. Here, events typically play out in the following manner. The customs authorities have, let’s say, three ships. The smugglers then employ twelve. In the best case, the three can hold in check, or pursue, four or five boats. When things become dangerous, the boats being followed turn around halfway and peacefully head back to Canada, whereas the seven or eight others dock unmolested somewhere on the shores of the State of Illinois. “OK. Then why don’t the customs authorities use twelve cutters as well?” I asked the American friend who told me this story. He looked at me, smiling, and explained: “Then the smugglers would use thirty-six.” In other words, they earn so much, there’s no expense they would spare. Even so, don’t think their position is such an easy one. Sure, if the customs authorities were their only adversaries, they would have it made. But I’ve yet to mention their truly feared enemies: hijackers, the name for the type of bandits who get their alcohol supplies not off of ships like the bootleggers do, but off of the bootleggers themselves. Only they don’t pay for them, they steal them. For years the conflict of interests between smugglers and robbers — because that’s fundamentally what it’s about — has governed the infamous and storied underworld of Chicago. Most murders on the open streets are handled as private affairs between these two kinds of gentleman. Chicago is also the scene of an interesting story told by an American journalist, a certain Arthur Moss. He was just walking into his club when he noticed a crew of respectable-looking fishermen unloading an entire shipment of small sharks from a truck smelling like sea salt. Although shark fins are a popular delicacy, they’re hardly common, and Mr. Moss wondered to himself since when had sharks been in such high demand. While he was pondering this, it struck him how gingerly each of the little sharks was being rolled from the truck down a ramp and then lifted and carried with careful hands. Then a seemingly mild, unassuming man approached the truck and, despite the rather discourteous, even ornery reaction of the seamen, insisted on prodding one of these delicately handled fish. It turned out that the man was with the police, and inside each fish was a bottle of whiskey.5