Once more Willie threw over his switch and sent a call flashing through the air. “Keep pace with the Surveyor,” he called, when he had gotten responses from the other craft. “Proceed through the Narrows, and take up patrol stations across harbor entrance. Don’t let anything get by you. If necessary, shoot. If they fire back, shoot to kill.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PURSUIT IN THE DARK
Already dusk was at hand. Though it was about the hour for the sun to set, no sign of that glowing orb was visible in the sky. Dark clouds obscured the heavens. Columns of smoke were pouring skyward from hundreds of tall stacks along the shores of the Bay. And this smoke, driven down again by the heavy atmosphere, added to the general murkiness. A uniform dull, dark, gray blanket of cloud hung low over the harbor.
Beneath, the waters of the Bay reflected this dull, dark gray. The steel-colored hulls of the sub chasers were hardly distinguishable, even at a few hundred yards, from the heaving gray waves. The air was raw with the dampness of an approaching storm. The wind soughed ominously. Somewhere out on the great ocean, a swirling storm was sweeping landward. Night was close at hand. When darkness came, it would be as the darkness of Egypt—dense, impenetrable, almost tangible. It was indeed a good night for rum runners.
But the darkness had no terrors for the little party in the Surveyor. Rather they welcomed it. The darkness would allow them to creep the closer to their victims. Once they were near at hand, the powerful little searchlight of the Surveyor would dispel the darkness. Fog alone could cloak its beams. They would hope that fog would not form. If it did, they could only trust to luck.
On went the little fleet. Already the sub chasers were lost to sight, though the roar of their motors was still audible. In close formation the boats of the Collector’s squadron pushed on down the Bay. On their right the flaming torch of Liberty flashed high above the murky waters. Far on the western horizon myriads of twinkling lights shone along the Jersey shore. Behind them rose the dream city of Manhattan. From a million windows, reaching from the ground seemingly into the clouds themselves, flashed countless electric lights. Nowhere else in all the world was there a sight like it. Willie almost forgot himself and the adventure on which he was bound, as he gazed at the glowing towers of New York. When he swept his eyes farther around the circle, he saw the lights along the Brooklyn shore, reaching far behind and stretching far ahead of the little fleet. The great Bay, miles in diameter, was like an ebony bowl rimmed with glittering lights.
Steadily the little fleet pushed forward, tossed by the waving waters. The air was rent by the shrieking whistles of many vessels. All about them ships were moving. Behind them ferryboats were shuttling back and forth from Jersey to the Manhattan shore. From Staten Island to the Battery, six miles as the crow flies, the huge municipal ferries were plowing the waves. Broad belts of light shone from their illumined decks, carpeting the waters with gold as the full moon might have done on a fair night. Coastwise steamers for New England ports were rounding the end of Manhattan, for their nightly run up the East River and the Sound. Tugs were bustling busily about, some with strings of barges atow, some side by side with huge lighters. In that broad arm of the Bay between Robbin’s Reef Light and the torch of Liberty were moored numbers of tramp steamers, each with its lights aloft. While toward Brooklyn and the Bush terminal, sailing ships rode at anchor, their lanterns swaying aloft as the boats rocked gently with the waves.
Fairylike, indeed, was the scene, as every moment drew the curtain of darkness lower, and brightened the gleam of glowing lights. Yet wickedness lurked beneath those lights, and crime all too often rode the waves of this magic harbor. No fairy business was this before them, and no one understood that fact better than Willie did. Not for nothing had he listened to Larsen and his fellow smugglers on the pier, or watched them in their South Street den. He knew them for exactly what they were—reckless, wayward, desperate members of society, who observed the law only when it suited them or because they had to. Indeed this was no fairy business he was engaged in, but a desperate hunt for desperate men.
On went the little fleet. Soon the chugging craft was abreast of Robbin’s Reef. Its warning gleam flashed bright across the waves. Beyond that light rose the towering shores of Staten Island, now made dim and indistinct by the dusk, the street lights climbing upward from the ferry along the sloping roads. Farther down the island shone the lights of Quarantine. Beyond was darkness—the great, abysmal darkness of the untamed sea. And somewhere out in that darkness rode men in motor-boats—desperate men they were seeking to catch.
Night was upon them before the little fleet had passed the forts that guard the Narrows. Where the sub chasers were they had no idea. Somewhere out in the dark void before them, the fleet of steel-gray power boats was rushing through the night, with lights doused, in search of their prey. Through the Narrows went the Surveyor at top speed, with her companion boats about her. On and on they pressed, alert for every sight and sound of incoming craft. But no boats passed them save one or two large steamers, the waves from which set the little patrol boats to dancing merrily.