Dark Tide (16 page)

The
Miliero
carried 1.3 million gallons of molasses. Van Gelder’s crew would pump six hundred thousand gallons into the Commercial Street tank to fulfill Arthur Jell’s order for the Cambridge distillery, and then steam to USIA’s Brooklyn plant to unload her remaining seven hundred thousand gallons. At 11:20
A.M.
, tank supervisor William White gave Van Gelder the go-ahead, and the captain ordered the discharge pumps to begin off-loading the
Miliero
’s cargo. Despite the severe cold, the molasses flowed smoothly through the pipe into the monstrous tank, an unexpected though not entirely unusual bonus, part of the “queer behavior” of molasses that Van Gelder had seen throughout his career.

The dock was deserted and peaceful this Sunday morning. No freight trains chugged along Commercial Street, no horse-drawn wagons or motorized trucks crowded the wharf area, no stevedores shouted as they hoisted large wooden crates, no farmers herded squealing animals onto ships, no chickens shrieked as they met their demise at the slaughterhouse across the street. The only sounds were the pulsating hum of the hydraulic pumps pushing the molasses through the intake pipe, the low tones of conversations between the
Miliero
crew members as they went about their work, the distant squawk of the gulls circling overhead, and the occasional whinny or snort from the horses in the nearby city stables.

The unloading progressed smoothly all day Sunday, throughout the night, and into the next morning. Van Gelder’s log book showed that the pumping was completed at 10:40
A.M.
on Monday, January 13, 1919, well after the Sunday-morning quiet had given way to the rush of a new workweek on the wharf. It had taken just under twenty-four hours to pump more than a half million gallons of molasses from ship to tank. “We had no trouble with this delivery,” Van Gelder would say later. “We finished the next morning (Monday) and it was a normal discharge.”

By 11
A.M.
Monday, as the wharf grew crowded with horses, wagons, delivery men, railroad cars, livestock, beer barrels, and shipping crates, Van Gelder had maneuvered the
Miliero
across the inner harbor and pointed it seaward, full-speed ahead toward New York.

Behind him, mere feet from the Clougherty house, where Bridget hung laundry; mere feet from the Engine 31 headquarters where George Layhe and his buddies worked; from the city stables and the North End Paving Yard; from the freight houses and Boston Elevated railroad trestle; from the spot where little Maria Distasio and Pasquale Iantosca collected firewood and scooped molasses into their pails; from the pump-pit where Isaac Gonzales had once slept; from the wooden fence where the American Anarchists had tacked up their placards threatening to dynamite area targets—mere feet from all of this—stood the fifty-foot-tall Commercial Street tank, gleaming in the late-morning sunlight.

Van Gelder was well into open water before the loudest of the sounds started from inside the tank, but William White heard them as he stood in the pump-pit. The firefighters heard the noises, too. So did the teamsters delivering beer barrels to the dock. The warm molasses that had just flowed from the
Miliero
’s hold was mixing with the cold, thick molasses that had been congealing inside the tank for weeks, producing a bubbling churn that vibrated against the tank’s walls. The men on the Commercial Street wharf heard those walls groaning, had heard them groan many times before, usually immediately after a delivery, but it is unlikely that they knew that when warm and cold molasses mix, the reaction triggers a fermentation process that produces gas. And in a near-full tank, that gas increases the pressure against the steel walls.

There was one other thing these men could not have known. With the addition of the
Miliero
’s latest delivery, the tank was now filled to near capacity with 2.3 million gallons of molasses that reached a height of forty-eight feet, nine inches, and weighed
26 million pounds
.

Never in Boston’s history had an aboveground receptacle held more.

PART II
Waves of Terror

SIX

Martin Clougherty walked home from the Pen and Pencil Club on this damp Wednesday morning with elation and wistfulness as his companions, both tugging at him like lovers competing for his affections.

His elation was easy to understand. Since acquiring the club outright three years ago, he had succeeded in amassing nearly $4,000, more than enough to purchase a nice home in Revere, or other points north of Boston, for him and his family. He finally could move his mother, sister, and brother out from the shadows of the elevated railroad trestle, away from the unending noise and the pervasive grime, far from the stench of horse manure and slaughtered chickens. It was time to leave the North End, and Martin finally had the means; he would meet with his accountant that afternoon to hammer out the details of selling his club and his mother’s house.

Martin’s wistfulness was nearly as strong, but more complicated to define. There were the usual feelings of anxiety that came with leaving familiar surroundings for parts unknown. He would miss the boys at the Pen and Pencil Club. He had built a successful business from scratch and considered many of the bar’s patrons his friends. He enjoyed the rich conversation he overheard while he tended bar, often joining in as he mixed and poured drinks. The spark he felt when the club was jumping, the camaraderie that warmed him as surely as a shot of top-shelf whiskey—Martin wondered if he would ever again experience those feelings.

The loss would soon extend beyond Martin’s world, and perhaps that was the true cause of the sad nostalgia that played around the edges of his otherwise good spirits. Prohibition was coming. In a matter of days, maybe
a single day
, one of a handful of states vying for the honor would become the thirty-sixth state—representing three-quarters of the nation’s forty-eight—to ratify the Constitutional amendment that would prohibit the legal sale and consumption of alcoholic beverages. There would be a one-year grace period to allow manufacturers, distributors, and tavern and restaurant owners to prepare for the economic impact of the law, and then Prohibition would be in full effect.

It was a foregone conclusion that by January 1920, the United States would be dry.

No longer would Americans be able to experience the warm glow of a tavern on a snowy evening, or the taste of a cold beer as the summer sun baked the city streets. No longer would working men be able to unwind with a drink after a dusty day of hauling cargo on the docks, nor would journalists enjoy swapping raucous opinions about Wilson’s peace plans while ordering double shots of brandy to fuel the debate. Martin thought that Prohibition would make it more difficult to make friends, meet women, conduct business, and enjoy life. These thoughts alone were enough to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm.

Martin reached his home, and once inside, scribbled a note to his sister, Teresa, asking her to wake him at 12:30
P.M.
, which would give him more than enough time to get ready for the 1:30
P.M.
meeting with his accountant.

Amid his conflicting emotions—the elation about moving, the melancholy about leaving the club, the uncertainty of Prohibition—Martin was clear about one thing: Life as he knew it was about to change.

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom and was fast asleep in moments.

Today should be a quiet day at the molasses tank, a rarity, William White thought. The
Miliero
had discharged her huge shipment two days ago, and no new molasses deliveries would arrive for at least three months. Within the next few days, and continuing for weeks afterward, White would be busy. He would supervise the process of filling railroad tank cars with molasses and transporting them to the USIA Cambridge distilling plant. He would fill out enough paperwork to bury his small office that sat next to the pump pit. Today was a bonus day, a “middle day,” the calm between the
Miliero
’s arrival and the frenetic production cycle that followed a major delivery.

White was thankful for the pause, even more so when his wife, Sarah, had called a few moments ago from South Station asking if he could meet her at the Jordan Marsh department store to help her choose some dresses she wanted to buy. She suggested that they could have lunch at a downtown restaurant following the brief shopping trip. White, who usually ate at his desk, thought he deserved a lunch-hour away from the tank, and saw the invitation as a good opportunity to indulge his wife. Besides, the weather had warmed considerably in the two days since the
Miliero
’s delivery, with temperatures soaring from 2 degrees to 40 degrees Fahrenheit. It was another good reason to venture downtown and walk around a bit.

He grabbed his coat and hat and set out to meet Sarah, happy for the break in his routine in the middle of the workweek.

The thought crossed his mind that the tank would be left unattended while he was gone, but no harm—he would be back in his office within an hour.

Pasquale Iantosca and Antonio Distasio crouched behind the giant molasses tank and watched the two adults scold Antonio’s sister, Maria. The children’s parents had told the youngsters to collect firewood from around the molasses tank while they were home for lunch from the Paul Revere Elementary School on Prince Street. Pasquale complained to Antonio that he knew his father would be watching him from the window of their home across the street to make sure this chore was done, a task made all the more difficult with the two sweaters Pasquale’s parents forced him to wear to keep from catching cold. Antonio smiled when he looked at his friend; Pasquale was so bundled up that he had a hard time moving, and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead on this mild winter day.

Hiding behind the tank, both boys were frightened and restless as they watched two big railroad workers wagging their fingers at Maria, whom they had spotted gathering wood between a railroad freight car and the molasses tank. The men were shouting at her to leave the area.

Antonio felt sad that his sister was suffering alone and he left his hiding spot next to the tank to help her. Little Pasquale—Pasqualeno—remained where he was, hunched between the tank and a railroad freight car.

Antonio emerged from behind the tank and circled to his right. He watched as Maria turned toward him, and away from the men who were scolding her. Then everything happened fast.

The railroad workers screamed and Maria swung her head back to face them, her long hair trailing across her face. Antonio saw that the men were no longer yelling at Maria. Their mouths agape, their eyes wide, they were focused on something
behind
his sister, fixed on the spot that he had just vacated, where Pasqualeno still hid. Terror darkened the men’s faces, and, in the same instant, Antonio glimpsed a blur of movement to his left and saw a shadow falling across his sister …