'REMINISCENCES OF A RUMRUNNER

Evening Star, Issue 21138, 25 June 1932, Page 2

'REMINISCENCES OF A RUMRUNNER

[Written by X., for the ‘ livening Star.’]

Instead of taking isolated facts about life on a rum-runner, it might be easier to consider one trip out and back. Tho details of tho voyages blur together, so tho picture of this trip will be more or less a composite one, rather than an exact record. As my vessel worked only on the northern half of tho Atlantic Const, I cannot tell anything about tho vessels running from the Indies, or those in tho Pacific, but I believe that the methods of all are fairly similar. Where to start tho story is a difficulty. I suppose that the point when tho agent of the “ boss ” came down to tho docks to toll us we would bo leaving in a day or two, is as good as any. Then tho last stores wore brought aboard, and I flew hack and forth between the office and the radio dealer’s and the vessel, trying to win one or two more necessary or desirable parts from the boss. Once, when ho figured that there was no need to provide me with paper, for the messages, I had to go aboard a coastguard vessel alongside and persuade the operator to give me a few message pads. Finally, at tho very last moment, the skipper and 1 would get our code books, and tho engine would splutter and roar, and settle into its steady rumble, and then, with three long blasts of farewell, the lines would bo cast off, and wc were twisting through tho mudflats to the open sea. Those first two or three days', from X to St. Pierre, were always the most uncomfortable of the whole trip. Tho wind was pretty well ahead, picking up a short lop that made our tiny eighty-six-footer pound unmercifully, and every other sea broke with a jarring shock on our bows, with the lashing spray completely obscuring vision. I had no schedules to keep on the way out, so there was nothing to do hut lio in my bunk, take a hand in tho evening game of crib, eat, or take a trick at the wheel. Heading was impossible because of tho pounding and tho vibration, so sleep was the way of passing time off duty—which, in my case amounted to about twenty-three hours and thirty minutes, At, last, however —threo days can seem like a long time—wo would signal for the pilot at St. Pierre, and shortly tie up near the liquor warehouses. St. Pierre is a charming wee place. It is a tiny village port on the bare, rocky islet of tho same name, in the French-owned Miquelon Group, off the south-west corner of Newfoundland. English is understood by some, and spoken bv a smaller number of the inhabitants. The Grand Banks fishing licet and the rum fleet are the support of and the reason for the place. The harbour is well sheltered and quite capacious, with the wharves and the town along one side and tho end. The streets arc steep and narrow, without sidewalks. 1 think I saw one automobile. Saloons and “ hotels ” there are in plenty, but without bars. The driukiug is done at small tables, and except when things aro getting pretty gay, in the evenings, there is no general and indiscriminate treating of strangers. As- soon as wo tied up, I would visit the operator on the vessel nearest. Then wc would wander to the next, and eventually up to the hotel. Coffee and cognac seemed to be the most popular forenoon drink for the “ ops.” Being a teetotaler and a Prohibitionist, like many of the rum runners, I did not try the cognac, but I irot pretty familiar with the French coffee. In spite of what many travellers say, the stuff is vile—black, bitter, and three-fourths chicory. AH that can he said for it is that it is better than New Zealand “ coffee.” But that’s no recommendation. Omelette, though, and French rolls, with fresh butter—how delicious they were after our sea fare! . . Soon we would start loading, twelve quart cases of cheap corn whisky made up most of our cargo. Horrible stuff it was. Our crow would not consider drinking it. For our use the boss gave us a few cases of beer or some other comparatively non-intoxicating drink. While our vessels were loading, wo “ops” would visit around, or wander through the town. In the evenings were celebrations at the hotel, with tho operators—most of them just boys, and the youngest ot tho crew—leading the game. Hus type of fun was too expensive for me, so I wasted my spare money, instead, on food that could not be got, or was too expensive in Canada. Pate do fois gras, with truffles, anchovies, French sardines in white wine, fancy cheeses, and so on, cost surprisingly little. Luckily for me, the crew would not touch any of it, especially ‘ the cheese. Tho captain once threw my Roquefort cheese in the slop bucket because he did not like the smell. Bu. that attitude was cheaper in the long run. By the next day we were loaded, and had to proceed. Leaving St. Pierre was always less pleasant for me than leaving our Canadian port. In Canada one was just another sailor, engaged in a rather doubtful business, but at St. Pierre a sailor from a rum runner was an nrtistocrat. As half the commerce of St. Pierre depended on him lie was treated with respect. And an operator was of the cream of the “ rummies.” Everybody was polite, kind, eager to make him comfortable. Tho Government even put in gaol a fellow suspected of being a United States Government spy. The Moon’s last quarter, however, was waning rapidly, and we were proceeding. The next few days were spent in the usual way. Then 1 made contact with our shore station and received our orders. Usually there was a day or two to wait off the coast. On this trip this period started off with fair weather and a calm sea, and tho time passed very pleasantly. We stopped the engine and drifted idly, rolling in the swell. Lazily and happily wo loafed in tho rare but comforting December sun. Bedding was hung over the rail to air. As tho cook was now able to prepare more pretentions meals without tho beans spilling-in the oven and the potatoes being thrown off the stove we ate enormously. Bottles were thrown over the side, and my armament was used to smash them. My guns wore tho only ones aboard. The captain did not like to have them, but I had no place to store them ashore. So he permitted mo to bring them along. 1 reckon 1 had almost enough to repel a cutter on my own account. There wore a .450 double-barrelled rifle by Alexander Henry (of Edinburgh, I think), a .375 Mnunlicher (Win. Evans, London), a double-barrel 12 gauge and the inevitable .22, in this case a B.S.A. target rifle with telescopic sightcr. Also I had acquired, illegally a 9 m.ni. Luger. Soon the skipper made ns cease shooting, ,as lie found that tho noise of gunfire might attract a cutter. So wo had to turn our attention to fishing. The handlines were got out and we started jugging. Cod were fairly plentiful, and wo soon got a couple of barrels. .When we cleaned them the cu-

trails were thrown overboard, bringing quantities of sea birds, some edible (more or less). This was too good a chance to miss, so I dug out the Luger again and tried to use it. Can you imagine shooting at swooping gulls from the bow of a rolling, pitching boat, with an untargeted, large calibre automatic pistol ? Need I say that there were no casualties —though I swear I just grazed olie of them? The third day of this idyllic , life brought a black smudge ou the horizon. No spars were visible, so it was probably not a cutter. We cruised carefully towards the object, and soon it shaped into a low, squat-lookmg grey little vessel, with boards over her name. In other words, another “ rummy.” We ran alongside and tied up. 1 sincerely hope that we were not as tough a looking gang as those lads. When a mate is unshaven it is merely a slight alteration to a friendly countenance, but an ugly stranger in patched trousers, dirty shirt, and week’s beard looks a bad figure from ’wayback. They were friends, though, and we “ chewed the rag” for a couple of hours before separating. Another hour went peaceably—and then:—The lookout saw the slender grey line barely visible on the horizon, under a faint grey haze. .Down to the engine room dashed the duet, the helmsman span the wheel, the skipper scrambled to the lookout, suid the rest of us tore the bedding from the rail and braced ourselves tor the surging start —and waited, and waited. There was a cough from down below—and we waited, aud a splutter—and we waited, and the faint grey line was a bit clearer now. The skipper began to dance and his face turned greenish white. Then another cough, aud the skipper flung himself to the engine room door and asked: “ Why -—, and why - the engine was not .. turning over 4 ” The chief was feeling too sick to argue. He wasn’t the only one that was feeling sick by that time. At long last into the chief’s brain percolated the sad fact that the air pressure in Ins tanks was insufficient, and he put lighted fuses into the diesel’s cylinders. How weak a word is relief to express our feelings when that shuddering rumble broke out below and the old tub swung off in the direction of the open sea. Down ou his knees in the chart rooin was the skipper, cursing despairingly over the chart, ns he strove to find some course away from the ciitter, from the mainland astern, and from capo on our bow. To the lookout that slender spar was now quite plain, the hull below it was visible, and then the vessel altered its course—towards us. There was no doubt about it. \ve were tagged! .• (To be continued.), (