Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 57/Number 5/Hatching a Volcano/Chapter 2

NOWN as “Jud” to his associates, and as a resourceful, daring, and altogether slippery quarry to the Federal agents along the Florida coast, Captain Korry headed his nameless, forty-footer into the shimmering Gulf. The powerful engines below deck purred rhythmically, the Sharp bow plowed through the water and. left a bubbling pearl and green whirl pool streaked with phosphorescence in the wake of the boat.

Contrary to maritime rules, no lights were showing, except a tiny, shaded one over the compass; but the stars were bright, the air clear, and the water as quiet as a pond.

Korry was a man of middle age, picturesque, muscular, with brutelike shoulders and head, and with the parched, leathery complexion of one baked in the oven of the tropics. Born of a Spanish mother and “Conch” father, a tiny, palm-fringed key had been his birthplace. He never had been farther north than Jacksonville—and always by boat. The mainland—traveling afoot or on wheels—never attracted him.

His ragged, black mustache and unshaven cheeks gave him a decided piratical look; and his deep-set, sinister eyes glowed with all the reputed villainy of a Captain Kidd or Bluebeard.

He was, in no small way, an offspring of the buccaneers although history has failed to record it. His father and grandparent before him had been “wreckers” along the uncharted reefs between the mainland and Key West, luring vessels ashore by false beacons, consigning the remnant crews to the depths, and dividing the spoils.

Although the cargo of Korry's craft contained neither pieces of eight nor precious stones, it was none the less valuable, and the risks he ran were great. No skipper of a pirate ship was kept more on the alert; none more keen to realize the dangers that constantly threatened him.

At regular intervals, the single member of his crew, Meech, making his first trip out of Havana as a combination engineer, mate, and general utility man, came upon deck for a breath of fresh air and a drag at a cigarette. He was, in appearance, as forbidding as his skipper, whose capable hands controlled the wheel.

Meech was undersized compared with Korry; his cheeks were hollow, his cheek bones and nose prominent. His thin lips twisted at an ugly slant when he spoke. East Side New York had known him a few months before, and the police along the river front had his record—an unsavory one. Their sudden activities, along with evidence left behind, had forced Meech to spend a vacation in the tropics.

He knew what he was up against when he shipped with Korry; but he had been in the habit of taking chances—and a great many other things—when the remuneration was alluring. Besides, Cuba had its attractions, and a thirsty man could drink in the open. Meech had spent the best part of his career as nursemaid to highspeed marine engines, and keeping them in good behavior had more than once kept him out of danger. That was why Korry signed him on and paid him five dollars for every hour out of Havana port. Speed was often priceless; and there were times when a balky engine would have meant disaster.

Meech came up on deck an hour after the boat had left the harbor. By that time the amber glow in the sky from the lights of the Malecon was far astern. He came up to where Korry sat before the wheel and busied himself with the rolling of a cigarette.

“How're the monkeys?” Korry asked.

“Haven't heard a peep out of 'em,” the engineer responded. “If it keeps as smooth as this,” he added, referring to the weather and water, “guess none of 'em will get sick.”

“The weather'll hold all right,” the skipper asserted with a confidence born of long experience. “I'm not worried about the monkeys getting sick, if your engines don't.”

“Huh, they're? runnin' sweet. Doin' twenty right now, ain't they? And we ain't crowded 'em a bit. You sure got a neat piece of machinery below.”

Korry grunted. “What did you expect to find?” he retorted contemptuously. “One of them rowboat kickers you pack in a grip? we can show our heels to anything in these waters. Maybe we'll demonstrate before the trip's over. The revenue cutter's ahead of us somewhere.”

Meech grinned. “Suits me! I ain't had enough excitement in the last month to keep my blood from stagnatin'.”

“What did you do with that bird you rapped to-night?”

“Packed him down to the warehouse and dumped him in. Afraid to leave him in the alley, 'cause a cop showed up. Knew if I'd run he'd be after me. So I told him the guy was drunk.”

Meech chuckled reminiscently. He did not take the trouble to inform his employer about the wallet he had deftly extracted from his victim's pocket. Korry might not condone such practices. Meech had taken the twelve dollars. The wallet he had retained for personal use; and the steamship ticket it held might be disposed of at a discount to some unsuspecting stranger. All was grist that came to his mill.

“Did the cop follow you?” Korry demanded sharply.

“Naw! One of the other boys come along, and we packed the dreamin' bird out of danger. He didn't wake up either. Maybe I croaked him; don't know. Dumped him in the warehouse and locked the door. Told Carter to unlock the place before mornin'. If the man's able to get out he won't find anybody around to answer questions.”

“Don't be so quick with your rapping after this,” Korry admonished. “Likely to get us in wrong with the Spiggoty authorities.”

The skipper took pains to keep in good standing with the Cuban police. He wanted no trouble on that end of his route; there was enough to contend with between Morro Castle and the Florida Keys.

“But he was spottin' for the hijackers, boss,” the other declared, prompt to defend his actions. “He was followin' me. If he'd seen us puttin' off to-night he'd wire his pals up the coast to put the screws on us.”

Korry shrugged, apparently but half convinced. The hijackers had troubled him in the past and doubtless would in the future; but they wouldn't catch him napping. “I'm heading for a new landing this time,” he said. “Got a shore agent on the ground who'll keep his eyes open.”

The next time Meech came on deck Korry gave him the wheel. “Hold her on the course. I'm going down to inspect the cargo.”

After stretching himself leisurely, the skipper descended the steep companionway ladder, unlocked the door of the after cabin and stepped inside to inspect the twelve Chinamen—known to the trade as “monkeys” or “pieces of silk”—who, docile and sheeplike, were huddled in the narrow room.

The cabin was stifling hot and thick with cigarette smoke, although as a rule smoking was forbidden. Korry permitted it on most occasions because it kept his sweating, human cargo in a better mood. But in spite of the tobacco smoke, the cabin reeked with an indescribable odor.

The Chinamen were dressed in American store clothes, even to hats and shoes, starched collars and cravats. The smuggling tong in Havana supplied the outfit gratis as part of its bargain to deliver their contraband safely. Everything except a few personal belongings had been taken from the dragon worshipers before embarking. The aliens were separated from any scrap of paper of souvenir which could, in case of later and unforeseen difficulties, connect them with a smuggling transaction.

Immigration officials, constantly on the alert to frustrate the subrosa influx of Celestials, were trained to recognize the symptoms of “greenness” in the newly smuggled aliens.

Korry scrutinized each of the Chinamen in turn with an eye that searched for flaws. He was a critical stage director that inspected his supernumeraries narrowly before permitting them to go upon a scene. Those with suits too large were ordered to exchange with companions whose attire fitted too snugly.

All things considered, the men looked fairly presentable. At a glance they might have been taken as a group of more fortunate brethren gathered in the streets or shops of any American Chinatown. whether they felt as comfortable in their new clothes as they had, a few hours before, somewhere below Marianao, in muslin jumpers, native hats, and slippers, was a question. But Korry did not permit that to concern him. Appearances were what he was after.

Two hundred dollars a head was the stipulated price per passenger—half down when the cargo came aboard at the Havana rendezvous, the balance when it was put ashore on the Florida coast.

Korry and his speedboat represented the next-to-last jump in the long pilgrimage between the Far East and the multitude of cities in the United States—a distance of a hundred miles, sometimes less, frequently more.

By what method and manner, the yellow men reached Cuba—the storehouse for the powerful smuggling tong—Korry did not concern himself; nor did he speculate upon the dangers they ran on the final lap ashore, once they had been safely deposited on Florida soil and the receipt for them rested in his pocket.

Although two sources of danger threatened Korry's life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, he had nothing but profound contempt for the handful of immigration officers and the revenue patrols. What he feared most of all were the breed of cunning, unscrupulous jackals known in the trade as “hijackers,'” freelance bad men, who were on the alert to stage surprise parties at the most inopportune times.

The successful hijacker, getting wind of a certain job, was in the habit of appearing on the scene at a critical moment, either when a cargo was being taken aboard or discharged, holding up the chink runner under threat of exposure, or bodily harm, and collecting an unofficial share of the booty.

They prospered in the heyday of rum, dope, and chink running; but as a rule they did not attain old age. As a representative of the new and honored pursuit of furnishing labor for Chinese laundries and cooks for chop-suey parlors, to say nothing of domestic help for Anglo-Saxon households, Korry had put the graveyard sign on several hijackers himself.

One of the Chinamen of his cargo could understand and speak a bit of English, and it was through him that Korry delivered orders. The skipper had been transporting the yellow men for three years, but had picked up little of the language. It wasn't worth the time and trouble. Usually he made himself understood by signs.

His inspection completed, Korry relocked the cabin door, taking no chances of an inquisitive passenger showing himself on deck, mounted the ladder and relieved Meech at the wheel.

Presently Meech betook himself between decks to attend his engines. Hour by hour they had performed without a miss or splutter. Meech, with more than ordinary pride, tinkered with them, pampered them with oil, adjusted the feeds, and listened for distress symptoms.

Hour after hour Korry squatted on a camp stool before the wheel, keeping the bows in line with his needle—a silent, grim figure.

A pin point of light flashed on and off—the first of the lighthouses along the keys. Korry changed his course slightly, but did not check the throbbing motors. Better than twenty knots they were doing. Dawn must find them deep among the inlets and friendly lagoons that surround the thousand nameless, barren islands fringing the Florida coast.

The first streaks of pearl and coral in the east found them within a few miles of the dreary, palm-dotted shores; also it found Korry with binoculars riveted to his eyes, getting an introduction to a suspicious-looking craft that had appeared suddenly from behind an island.

A few minutes later, when the skipper lowered his glasses, Meech appeared on deck. A quick glance astern gave him an inkling of trouble.

“Yes; it's the cutter,” Korry confirmed in answer to the man's startled query. “I was expecting it, but hoped she wouldn't turn up so soon.”

“She isn't gaining any,” Meech remarked, after a prolonged scrutiny.

“Not likely to, either,” the skipper responded, apparently undisturbed. “I could leave her a dozen miles astern in another hour if I'd a mind to; but that isn't necessary. We'll duck in around the next point and play a little hide and seek. We're drawing three feet of water to the cutter's six. Nothing to it!”