LIKE A THUNDERBOLT THE DEPUTIES STRUCK … Pounced Upon Liquor Dealers, Tied ‘Em Up and Nailed ‘Em Down.” So read part of the Bangor Daily News’ lead headline on Monday morning, Aug. 19, 1907. The long-expected Sturgis Commission blitzkrieg finally had rolled into the Queen City.

For weeks rumors had been abroad. The much feared Sturgis deputies were about to raid Bangor. The commission had been established in a burst of enthusiasm to enforce the state liquor law if locals weren’t doing the job. Everyone knew Bangor was enforcing the law haphazardly at best.

Saturday was S-Day for the Queen City. Sturgis men had been sniffing around town under cover. That evening a dozen agents, divided into four squads, started draining one watering hole after another. First they had to get by “the wireless” – the system of spotters stationed outside the bars to spot lawmen.

Sturgis men were strangers to Bangor. “They passed the lookouts without question and were as welcome as a Rory off a 100 days drive,” said the Bangor Daily News, borrowing a metaphor from the logging industry that would have been familiar to everyone. “The liquor dealers of the city were completely outwitted.”

The alarm spread quickly, however. “As it was fully known that the jam was started, there was the greatest hustle for the shore known in years,” according to the colorful Bangor Daily News writer. “The ‘wireless’ was red hot. Telephones jingled in scores of barrooms. Customers were hustled out, doors locked, curtains drawn, stocks dumped or rushed to hiding places.” That night, “Crowds gathered on the street corners … Intense excitement prevailed. Thirsty pilgrims meandered through Hodgdon street, around Pickering square, down Broad street and ‘The Acre,’ and found every gin-mill quiet and dark. Lower Exchange Street was in gloom …”

The first raid occurred shortly after 6 p.m. at Maurice P. Gallagher’s place on Central Street. It was necessary to use a wagon to carry all the booze away. And so it went for weeks, the prizes getting harder to find as even the most brazen dealers ducked underground.

One of the strangest seizures, a few days into the invasion, was two barrels of ale hidden under the steps of the Bangor Auditorium at the corner of Buck and Main streets, a place normally reserved for opera performances. Clement Smith had been seen rolling one barrel from the barn at the nearby Commercial House, where he conducted a liquor business, to the auditorium steps.

The Sturgis men pulled out all stops. Chief Deputy Ferdinand Stevens announced he was planning to take the unheard of step of prosecuting owners of buildings where saloons were harbored. Meanwhile, an unnamed deputy, possibly Stevens, threatened to use the nation’s new Pure Food Act against the many dealers selling bad liquor. “It is the vilest, most evil liquid that man ever let burn his throat … A plain and criminal case of drugging,” he sputtered.

A few days later, the deputies took on the “express companies,” one of the many clever stratagems devised to flout prohibition. Using names like the Portsmouth & Bangor Express Company, these newly formed corporations ordered liquor legally under federal law from out-of-state mail-order distributors for customers’ private use. But they were known to sell stored-up goods illegally under state law to anyone who walked in.

The mayhem reached a high point late on the evening of Aug. 29 when 20 Sturgis men surrounded some tenement buildings including the Glenwood Hotel on Harlow Street. Hundreds gathered in the street to watch the festivities. “The tenderloin was in a turmoil,” chortled the Bangor Daily News.

The deputies approached the buildings in squads “like well trained soldiers.” Doors were smashed and windows broken. Once inside, the Sturgis men worked with surgical precision, moving from room to room “to the accompaniment of hysterical laughter, smothered screams and muttered curses.” As lights began to flash on throughout the buildings, “white-gowned feminine figures flittered before the windows to the edification of the gaping crowd in the street below.” Nothing was seized.

The raids knew no boundaries. Several other hostelries, including the Windsor Hotel, the Globe Hotel and the Aroostook House, were targeted. Even the exclusive Bangor House lost its barkeep in a raid. Nor were the social clubs off-limits (except the Tarratine’s new palace). On Sept. 14, the deputies raided the Bangor and Orono aeries of the Fraternal Order of Eagles, rummaging through the members’ private lockers and hauling away wagon loads while onlookers threw mud and stones.

No dealer was too insignificant as much of the liquor trade moved into the streets. Richard A. Lamb, allegedly a pocket peddler, was arrested after he leaned over to pat a dog and a “long-necker” was observed protruding from his hip pocket. At the Eastern Maine State Fair a man was arrested for selling 10-cent sips through a tube stretching from a bottle hidden in his coat.

Just what did all these strong-arm tactics accomplish? Not much if one counted up the drunks still on the street. Nearly a month after the raids had begun, on Sept. 15, drunken men still roamed Exchange, Broad and Front streets, said a Bangor Daily News editorial. The next weekend, the paper reported that 30 men were arrested for intoxication.” The arrival of the Sturgis deputies … has changed the Bangor dealers’ methods of effecting sales … but so far as reducing the amount of liquor sold in Bangor, the deputies have made small change,” chided the newspaper.

Wayne E. Reilly can be reached at wreilly@bangordailynews.net