Isle Royale (17 page)

As they moved to midship, the huge starboard paddle wheel towered over them. On deck they could see part of the diamond-shaped “walking beam” engine sticking up out of the superstructure. The forward end of the beam was connected to the engine’s single gigantic piston. The other end hooked up to a pair of cranks, which turned the paddle wheels. Ian saw no moss growing on the wooden slats of the wheels. He guessed that the ship was taken out on the lake occasionally. But by whom?

Sally tugged at Ian’s wet coat sleeve. He was so enthralled at the sight in front of them that he’d forgotten that he was soaking wet and shivering in the cold night air. He followed Sally’s gaze upward to the deck. A dark form hovered over them, walking to keep pace with the dinghy. It carried a green nautical lantern to light the way.

“Another ghost,” said Ian. He turned back and stared at Captain Ben. “Who are you?”

Ben kept silent as he looked upward toward the deck. Sally sat back, her brow furrowed in thought.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a paddle steamer on the lake before,” she said.

“They’re pretty rare nowadays,” said Ian, reaching out with one hand and touching the ancient hull. The wood felt soft and crumbly as his hand slid across its surface, like it had been sitting in the water for many, many years.

“The
Chippewa
,” Sally said. “What’s a revenue cutter, anyway?”

Ian shrugged. From the stern of the dinghy, Ben said, without lowering his eyes, “It’s the old Coast Guard.” He sat there, waiting for something to happen.

Sally followed his stare upward. “Who
are
these guys?”

Ian quit rowing when they reached the ship’s aft. They all looked up in anticipation. The figure on the deck stooped down and lowered the lamp, illuminating the trio with an eerie green glow. After a few moments, the figure stood back up and turned. To unseen companions he blurted out, “I
told
you it was the Captain.”

“Sorry, Captain,” said another voice. “Come aboard.”

A rope ladder dropped down next to the dinghy. Ben grabbed it and scrambled up with ease, leaving Ian and Sally alone in the boat.

“Come on, kids,” he said from the ship’s deck. “It’s okay.”

Ian looked at Sally, searching her eyes. “Well?”

She shrugged and pointed at the ladder. “You first.”

Ian gripped the ladder steadily, then started climbing. With Sally close behind, they clambered up the hull of the old ship. At the railing, strong hands gripped their arms and hauled them aboard.

With their feet planted firmly on deck, Ian and Sally leaned against the rail, slightly out of breath. They looked up and froze, drawing in their breath in surprise.

Standing in a semi-circle around the two teenagers was the crew of the
Chippewa
, about two-dozen strong. The men were old, in their seventy’s and eighty’s, some sporting long white beards, others hunched over and supported by canes. Their uniforms were nautical, but of another time, long ago, the fabric now faded and threadbare. Each man held a lantern, all now lit, which cast a bizarre green light that washed over the ancient wooden deck. Silently, the crew parted, letting a man stride through toward Ian and Sally.

“Ben?” Ian said, disbelieving his eyes.

Old Captain Ben stepped up to Ian and Sally as he peeled off his mackintosh. Underneath he wore a crisp navy-blue uniform, with brass buttons that gleamed in the lantern light. He smiled warmly at the pair. “Welcome aboard,” he said.

Ben turned toward his crew, raising his voice for all to hear. “We had an adventure tonight, lads. Got chased by some rumrunners. They’re under the lake now, though.”

A man in back piped up, his voice scratchy with age. “What’s the Lady doing tonight, Cap’n?”

“She gave us a run for our money,” said Ben, grinning from ear to ear as he gestured toward Ian and Sally. “But we made out just the same, didn’t we?”

An old sailor approached Ben, a worried look on his timeworn face. “What if there’s more of them smugglers, Cap’n?”

“Right,” Ben said firmly. “Best keep a watch out, just in case.” He gestured to a man near a stairway on the port side facing shore. The sailor clambered down the gangplank, leapt the short distance to shore, then headed up through the woods, his green lantern guiding his way.

“Hendricks,” Ben snapped. “A blanket.”

Another sailor produced an old wool blanket, which Ben wrapped around Ian. The teenager was soaking wet and shivering. “There you go, lad. Come along, then, we’ll warm you kids up in my cabin.”

Ben led them forward, toward midship. He turned his head to look back at his crew, who were still standing there at the stern of the ship. “It’s alright, lads,” he called out after them. “As you were, then.”

The old mariners murmured quietly, then hobbled off to their posts. One man broke away from the group, struggling to catch up to Ben and the kids, a look of quiet concern on his old face.

“But Captain,” he said under his breath, turning his back on Ian and Sally. “These kids have seen our hidey hole. What’s to become of ‘em?”

“We’ll deal with that later, Hobbs,” said Ben through gritted teeth.
“Now back to your post.”
For one instant, Ian saw a flash of rage in Ben’s eyes, and was glad not to be the object of his wrath. The worried sailor withered under Ben’s order, then slunk away. The trio continued on, Ben striding down the deck as if nothing had happened.

As they moved toward a hatchway leading down, a band struck up a song. Ian and Sally watched as a playful group of old sailors sang a salty tune about whales, mermaids, and girls left behind in port.

Ian saw movement to his left and watched in amazement as one sailor, as old as the hills, clambered up one of the ship’s two masts like an agile monkey.

“Who are all these guys, Ben?”

“My crew, lad,” the old captain said. “My crew. In we go now.”

Ben gestured toward the open hatchway. Ian and Sally took one last look around at the group of old sailors, then began climbing down a narrow metal ladder into the ship’s dark lower decks.

Chapter Twenty-Five

C
larence groaned in pain as the muzzle of the Tommy gun was shoved brutally into his kidney. He staggered forward, moving across the lawn as best he could on his ruined legs. He wiped blood from his eyes, then felt inside his mouth, his finger pushing past swollen lips to gingerly probe a loose tooth. He winced as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his jaw. Clarence hesitated a moment, but then felt the machine gun jabbing into his back again, forcing him onward. The brutish thug wielding the Tommy gun chuckled to himself, enjoyed the memory of the beating he’d just given the lightkeeper.

As they trudged across the compound, Clarence stole a glance behind him and saw the lighthouse beacon piercing through the storm clouds. The winds blowing off the lake bent the treetops overhead. After a brief respite, the storm had returned with a vengeance, more powerful and vicious than ever. Bursts of lightning lit up the sky. Walking out on the grassy field, wide open to the elements, Clarence was genuinely afraid of being struck and electrocuted. But his greatest concern was for the lighthouse. His brow furrowed with worry. So many things could go wrong. On a night like this, any ship passing in the vicinity could easily find itself crashing up on the craggy cliffs surrounding Wolf Point. Clarence knew the clock mechanism would soon need winding. He’d tried explaining this to the pair of thugs who had come to fetch him, but rather than let him stay they had beat him mercilessly, then dragged him outside.

Clarence grimaced. His captors had smashed his shins with their clubs, not breaking bones but leaving him bruised and battered. Each step was agony. As they approached his house, Clarence saw that all the lights inside were on, with several shadows moving across the windows. Clarence figured that LeBeck must have moved most of his men inside, sheltered from the tempest. As if in answer, a lightning bolt streaked down and jolted the ridge beyond the lighthouse compound, causing a sonic boom that nearly rocked Clarence and the thug off their feet.

After recovering his wits, Clarence staggered onto the front porch. He glanced over at Assistant Keeper Young’s home and saw only dark windows, vacant and lifeless. Clarence paused at the top step to rest a moment, then stole another look back at the lighthouse.

At that moment, Clarence realized with some shock that he wasn’t, after all, worried one bit about the light. What really worried him was his son. Where was Ian now? Had he made it safely to Rock Harbor? Had he obeyed his order not to go out on the stormy lake? Clarence shut his eyes and began to invoke a little prayer, but then he felt cold steel jabbing at his kidney again.

“Inside,” the thug said sharply.

Clarence stepped across the porch, grasped the door handle, and pushed. The warm yellow light of kerosene lamps greeted his eyes. A group of bored thugs milled about, rummaging around the house. They all looked over at Clarence for a moment, who stood in the doorway speechless, then continued their looting unabated, as if the owner of the house hadn’t just walked in.

Clarence was prodded toward the living room, which was a short walk down a hallway to their left. Once there, he saw with great relief Collene on the couch next to the wood-burning stove. She looked terribly alone sitting there, hugging her knees, a blank stare on her face. Sitting next to her were Edward Young and his elderly mother. Edward didn’t look at all well; his face had a kind of pasty quality some might associate with a dead person. Perhaps they
were
all dead, Clarence mused, then dashed the thought from his mind. He quickly took his place next to his wife and put one arm around her, then looked up expectantly at their captors.

LeBeck was there, limping nervously back and forth in front of the window overlooking the lighthouse grounds. The windowpane rattled violently from the wind battering the house. LeBeck watched Clarence take his seat next to Collene, scowled, then turned to a thug standing near the entranceway. Clarence heard him ask, “How long has MacGlynn been out there?”

The thug checked his watch, a grim look on his face. “Over an hour,” he said quietly.

LeBeck frowned. “Lake probably got them all.”

At this, Collene came out of her stupor, only to bury her face in Clarence’s shoulder, sobbing. He tried to comfort her, holding her close and patting her head with a gentle hand. “I told that boy not to take the boat,” he said bitterly.

Edward Young began wheezing and coughing, his eyes misting over. Between the flu and the news of his missing daughter, he was in total misery. Sally’s grandmother put an arm around him, holding him tight as his body was wracked with spasms. She looked up and glared at LeBeck.

“What do you want?” the old woman asked, contempt burning in her eyes. “Why don’t you leave us alone?”

LeBeck glared back at her, then broke the stare and turned away. With his hook hand, he parted the curtain and peered through the window at the lighthouse across the compound. High up inside the lamp room he saw the form of a man, who raised a kerosene lamp and swung it twice from side to side.

LeBeck dropped the curtain and turned around. The thug at the doorway looked expectantly toward his boss. “Still no sign from the Duluth gang?”

“What’s keeping them?” LeBeck muttered to himself. “Are they afraid of a little wind?”

At that moment, a sudden gust shook the house, forcing open a window in the adjoining dining room. The wind blew down a lamp, which ignited a rug on the floor. Pandemonium erupted as the group of thugs rushed to extinguish the flames.

“Shut that blasted window!” shouted LeBeck once the fire was put out. He looked up to the ceiling as the tempest raged outside. The wind beat on the house, screaming now like a demon. For the first time, fear surfaced on LeBeck’s face.

Once the window was secured, Clarence, his face haggard, dried blood clotted on the side of his head, spoke up. “This storm, she’s just get’n started,” he said. All heads turned toward the lightkeeper. Clarence continued, his voice lowered and menacing. “Went through a blow once, back in ‘18. Night just like this. Superior, she reached in and swept away half a village.”

“Shut up,” snapped LeBeck.

“Bodies washed up on shore for weeks after that.”

“I said shut up!” LeBeck reached down and lifted Clarence to his feet, then jerked him forward so that they were face to face. He hissed through clenched teeth. “Maybe they’ll find
you
washed up on shore tomorrow, eh?”

Collene leapt to her feet. “Jean!”

LeBeck looked to Collene and saw the fear in her eyes. After a moment, he released Clarence, who staggered back into his wife’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Clarence,” LeBeck said softly. “We were friends once.” Then, with menace lacing his voice, “Don’t ever cross me again in front of my men.”

“The lamp, she’s winding down.”

LeBeck blinked once, then stared blankly at Clarence. “What?”

“If your friends really are sailing tonight in this storm, they’ll need the light to guide ‘em. The clock’s winding down. She’ll stop soon.”

LeBeck mulled this bit of information over for a moment, scratching his chin stubble with his hook. “Alright, go wind your clock.” Speaking loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, he added, “Earn your money, lightkeeper.”

Alarmed, Collene glanced over at Clarence. His eyes downcast, he took her hand and squeezed it before being led away. He paused at the front door, then exited the house, the wind howling after him.

Once the door slammed shut, LeBeck turned and said with finality, “I’m getting you out of here, Collene. This is no place for you. We leave tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

I
n the relative calm of McCargoe Cove, the ancient crew of the Chippewa gathered on deck. They stood solemnly in a tight circle, their old eyes downcast, wrinkled faces creased further with worry and deep thought. By now the rains had abated, but above them the storm still echoed across the landscape; treetops creaked as the wind blew through, and frequent lightning strikes boomed up and down the fjordlike cove.