Prologue

Popps Ferry

Popp’s Ferry-1917

The final trip of the day had been made. The lone wagon ambled down the dirt path cut between the trees toward Pass Christian Road. From there it could go either way west to Gulfport or east to Biloxi. Both of the nearest cities were still miles away. No one who lived at the small tracts of land now known as Popp’s Ferry thought about or cared if one of those towns would grow large enough to encompass the causeway landings. Tonight there were to be bigger worries. Prohibition had come to Mississippi long before it was fashionable in the rest of the country and the Gulf Coast had become a location to practice ways around it. 

Whoever had come during the wee hours of this morning would be back. Paul Howell, the ferry operator, had heard their boat. He had watched the shadows made by the ethereal light of the cloud-covered moon. He was the only witness to where the strange men had gone, and what they had done.

At dawn, he went next door to John Popp. After immigrating from Denmark Popp had made a fortune in the lumber business around New Orleans.   In late 1895 he retired to the 450 acres at the causeway and began operating the ferry for the next 20 years. Even though he had sold the ferry to Harrison County the year before it retained the name Popp’s Ferry and he stayed on the property. Popp might be retired, but he was still a curious old coot.

Popp and Howell went to the spot the strange men had visited. Whoever it was knew what went on at the causeway. Though it was easy to spot from five feet away, the loot was hidden a good hundred yards from the route the ferry usually took. In other words, it had to be looked for. The men had not bothered hiding it better, because to them there had been no need.

Other than the ferry, few other boats would come this far into the bay. To the west of the jetty that marked the ferry's northern landing was Big Lake and the Tchoutacabouffa River. Little of the seafood wanted in Biloxi lived in fresh water. It preferred the salty Gulf of Mexico, or even the brackish waters east of the jetty in Back Bay. The only people sailing into the lake would be going to the river. With the recent lack of rain, the river was not much of a destination either. Only Popp or the ferry would be sailing these waters. And under normal circumstances, even they would confine themselves to the route between the landings not here.

Howell noticed the marsh grass covering the stash was still alive. It would not take long under the southern Mississippi sun to remedy that, and then the hiding spot would be visible. For that reason he knew the men would return tonight. Under the grass was what appeared to be a small rowboat. It had been anchored as well as beached on the soft, mushy ground that comprised the pseudo‑islands of the bay. The boat was so loaded down there was a good deal of water in it. Even without the beaching and the anchor, the boat would not have gone far.  Perhaps the men had tried to sink it first. 

The burlap sacks that made up the load were a mystery. Neither man had ever seen bootleg alcohol before. Howell opened one. It contained six unopened bottles of gin. Popp liked what he saw, enough that he came up with a plan. 

Passengers on the ferry usually arrived in waves and the first was due soon. Howell handled the customers and ran the ferry while Popp set his plan into motion. Just after lunch, he returned to the spot, and without even bothering to remove the now-dead marsh grass, tied the rowboat to his. Once again on dry land, both men proceeded to unload the boat. Popp hid the liquor in the marsh outside his house. 

Not wanting to waste something as precious as a boat, Howell waited until the last run of the day before towing the boat to another marshy inlet. He tied an old buoy from a crab pot to the bowline and swamped the small boat. Then they both returned to home, and started their watch.

The years had been nice to Popp, but try as he might they had come upon him anyway. He was no longer a young man, and should really have not been surprised when he was rudely awakened in the night. His all-night vigil had been shortened by the Sandman.

For his age, Popp’s senses were keen. Despite having only just been woken from a sound sleep, he summed up the situation quickly and accurately. His gun was in someone else's hands, pointed at him. The man who held Popp’s weapon also held the lantern. Three other men had weapons of their own pointed at Popp, while a fifth held a pistol against Howell’s temple. 

One of the men stepped forward and lowered his gun, "All we want is our liquor. Give it to us now!” His voice was low with a heavy drawl.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Popp,” said Howell. “I dozed off, too. It was a longer day than I thought.”

Never much of a bluffer, Popp decided if ever there was a time to try, now would be it. He nodded at Howell in acknowledgement then spoke to the man  who had talked, "Huh? What're you talkin' about?” Popp’s heavy accent made the men lean in. “I don't know about the liquor. I just live here at the ferry.”

The man knelt down to Popp’s level. He held his face inches from Popp’s. "I don't care about no damn ferry. I know you know what the hell I'm talking about. That alcohol was taken at gunpoint," he said as he cocked his pistol and pointed it at the old man's head. “We ain't against using guns to get it back."

 Popp blinked and shook his head. He could tell by the man’s breath the drawl was not all natural. After a moment of reflection Popp said, “I’m no intellectual, but I think I get what you mean. If you could just help me up.” Popp fumbled as he tried to get up. The man who had spoken lowered his rifle and held out his hand. Popp grabbed it and pushed with all his might. He shoved the man toward the gunman holding Howell, and leaped for the lantern at the same time. 

The lantern hit the ground before the man could, but not before the butt of a rifle could find its way to the back of Popp’s head. Quicker than it had started, it was over.

"Wait!" Howell yelled. "Don't hurt him! I'll help ya. I know where it is! Don't hurt Mr. Popp, please."

The man with the pistol hissed into Howell’s ear, "Well, git on with it, Negro.” And then added a shove to prod Howell into submission.

Howell and Popp watched the small catboat containing the bottles and the men glided away from the landing. Popp rubbed his head as the motor started. As the men headed east toward the open Bay they almost ran over the crab pot buoy. None of the men had ever mentioned the boat. Popp may have a knot on his head, but the day had not been a total loss.

Howell turned towards Popp and said, “I never have understood what was so dadburned important about alker-hol anyway, Mr. Popp.” 

Popp rubbed his head. “Mark my words Paul, the further you keep from it, the less problems you'll have in the long run."