Isle Royale (18 page)

Captain Ben, his face grim, stood in the middle of the group. “Then it’s decided,” he said. He unsheathed a gleaming silver cutlass. “I’ll take care of it, lads. Wait here.”

Ben marched off, cutlass gripped firmly in his hand. His crew watched in stony silence.

In the captain’s cabin, Ian and Sally sat side by side on a bunk, waiting. The room was small, though tastefully decorated, with just enough space for a bunk, chair and table, and a tiny closet to stow gear and extra clothes. A single oil lamp burned on the table, giving the room a warm glow.

Underneath, they could feel the ship groan and rock gently on the water. Ian, his eyes wide, stood and stared out the single brass porthole into the black night. He’d changed out of his wet clothes and donned one of Ben’s spare uniforms. It was sloppy and oversized, but warm. He watched as tall pines waved on shore, bending with the tempest. Ian’s eyes seemed to glow from the flickering lamplight, like a fire burning within.

“What’s taking so long?” he said, breaking the silence. He started pacing impatiently back and forth across the cramped quarters. He tried the cabin door again, but the handle turned uselessly in his hand. Ben had escorted them belowdecks, then mysteriously locked them in his cabin without saying a word.

“Maybe they decided to wait out the storm,” Sally volunteered.

“We don’t have time for that,” Ian said.

“Ian, who are these old guys? What are they doing here?”

“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think we’re supposed to know.”

Just then, they heard a click, and saw the door swing open. In the entryway stood Captain Ben, cutlass in hand, his jaw locked in grim determination. Sally gasped at the sight. Ian took a step backward, pressing his back against the wall. Ben strode into the room and saw the frightened expressions on their faces. He smiled and set the cutlass down upon the table and showed them his empty hands.

“Easy, mates,” Ben said soothingly. “I’ve got a tale to tell, but first there’s something we need to do.”

A single white candle burned in the middle of the table, around which sat Captain Ben, Ian, and Sally. The two teenagers were perched on the bunk, with the table crammed up against it, giving just enough room for Ben in the cramped cabin. The captain leaned over and blew out the oil lamp, sending the room into a hazy darkness, broken only by the flickering of the little candle.

Ben gripped his cutlass and turned it blade up. He pressed his thumb onto the razor-sharp cutting edge, then made a quick motion forward, slicing open the flesh. A bright drop of crimson spread quickly over the wound.

“Now you,” he said, gesturing to the cutlass. Ian and Sally hesitated a moment, unsure what to do next. “Come on, now,” Ben said impatiently, “it won’t hurt. Much. Haven’t you ever taken a blood oath before?”

Ian and Sally winced as Ben sliced open their thumbs with the cutlass. “Ouch,” whined Ian.

“Baby,” Sally smirked.

Ian stared daggers at Sally, then turned to Ben. “Now what?”

“Together, over the flame,” Ben said. The trio joined thumbs, their blood intermixing. A droplet formed, then fell into the flame and sizzled.

Ben leaned back in his chair. “It’s done, then.” He took a deep breath. With a conspiratorial air, he said, “As blood members of the Order of the
Chippewa
, you are herby sworn to secrecy for that which I am about to tell you.”

Ben paused for effect, staring hard into Ian and Sally’s eyes. They leaned forward, eager to hear the story he was about to tell.

“As you know,” Ben began, “the
Chippewa
is a Revenue Cutter.”

“The old Coast Guard,” Ian volunteered.

“That’s right, lad,” said Ben, smiling. “My story begins the night of our last voyage. It was a vicious storm that blew in 41 years ago, the night of November 12, 1883.”

Ian stole a glace toward Sally. The candle on the table sputtered a moment, then flared bright. A droplet of their blood slowly spread downward as Ben continued.

“We knew there’d be trouble that night,” he said, his voice lowered to a near whisper. “Always is when Superior gets her dander up. But we were ready. Not a white hair in the bunch, back then. By the time the night was over, though, we’d all be a lot older.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I’
ve sailed a mean stretch of water in my time. The North Atlantic in winter, The North Sea, even sailed around the Horn during heavy seas, which is how I got this gold ring in my ear. But never, in all my years of sailing, have I encountered such a dangerous piece of water as Lake Superior when the gales of November blow. The Lady, she fools you with placid water on sunny clear mornings. But when you’re out in her domain, sailor beware. She can rear up faster than lightning, and she’ll do her damnedest to kill you with icy waves and hurricane winds.

That November morning in 1883 was picture-perfect: sea like glass, gulls floating high above on a gentle breeze. Their shrill cry hearkened me back to my seafaring days. But on that morning, I was a Revenue Service Captain, fresh from training, with a fine crew and a finer ship. The
Chippewa
, with its twin sidewheel paddles, could outrun almost any vessel on the lake, and we would, in the course of our duty. Smugglers, mostly, is who we were after, using the lake to avoid customs, or transporting illegal goods, things like guns and liquor. Even stopped a ship once hauling slaves, “mail-order brides” stolen from Vancouver Chinatown, heading for some rich pathetic bastards who don’t know the meaning of the words
humanity
or
kindness
or
decency
. But we put a stop to ‘em, we did. It was our duty, and that was the most important thing.

We set out from Duluth Harbor that morning, full of spit and vinegar. It was nearly the end of our tour of duty. Ice would choke off the lake in the next few weeks, and barge traffic was thinning out already. Barring any emergencies, our mission that day was a simple one: sail to Isle Royale and put in for the night at Windigo, at the end of secluded Washington Harbor on the southern tip of the island. There, we would meet the
Rowan
, a sightseeing steamer coming out of Two Harbors on the Minnesota coast. Among her passengers were family members of my crew, come to celebrate the completion of our first season on the lake. My bride-to-be, Lenore, was on that ship.

They say that, with time, all wounds heal, that horrible events fade from memory until they’re but a whisper in the mind. But they’re wrong. Dead wrong. I remember that night clear as crystal, like it happened just moments ago. I relive it every day, and every night in my dreams.

We never made it to Windigo. By midday, the Lady crept up on us and unleashed her fury. I had to make a decision then—head back and maybe limp into Two Harbors, or press on to the island, which was the shorter route. In those days, Isle Royale was wilder than it is now, just lumber and mining camps, mostly. But I knew we could ride out the storm at Windigo. Washington Harbor is deep and well protected, a narrow finger of water that projects several miles inland.

But I also had the
Rowan
on my mind. I had to be sure the little steamer was safe and sound. She was due to arrive on the island hours before us. If the storm had caught her by surprise as well, I was sure the captain would put in to Windigo to ride out the tempest. I made my decision and gave the order: full steam ahead!

It was slow going pushing into the maelstrom. By sundown, we were staring down forty knots of wind, with dark seas and sky crying. An hour later, the wind was hard enough to blow dogs off chains. I began to regret my decision not to turn back. Black waves crashed over the side of my ship, smashing into the bridge and blotting out the storm-swept lake. The waters cleared, only to be replaced by yet another bone-crunching wave. I felt the
Chippewa
lurch to the side, sending me and my crew scrambling to hold on. For the first time since we’d sailed Lake Superior, fear crept its way up my spine.

I stood there in the wheelroom, forty years younger than I am today, prim and proper in my navy blue uniform, gold braid hanging from my shoulder. I remember nervously rubbing my black beard as I stood next to the wheel, scanning the horizon. My eyes nervously darted from side to side, searching for the island. We were close, I knew. Very close.

“Steady, lads,” I said to the terrified men on the bridge. “Steady.” If I could keep my crew from panicking, I knew we would make it. I prayed to God that the
Rowan
was already safe and snug at Windigo.

No sooner had this thought passed my mind, when a flare, a distress signal, shot up not far off the starboard bow. My navigator was the first to spy it.

“There!” he cried, pointing out the window into the black night. “There she is!”

I moved close to the window and peered out between the beating waves. I felt the blood drain from my face as I beheld a most horrific scene.

On her approach to Windigo, the
Rowan
had smashed up on Rock of Ages Reef, a nasty spit of granite five miles offshore from the southern tip of Isle Royale. It sits there on the lake like a giant set of fangs reaching up from the deep, ready to tear open the hull of any ship unlucky enough to wander onto its shore. Just six years earlier, in 1877, the steamer
Cumberland
was sent to a watery grave on just this spot.

The
Rowan
must have been making good speed when she struck, because nearly half her bottom was projecting out of the water, resting on the reef. The ship looked savaged by the storm. I could plainly see, near the waterline, a huge gash tore straight through the hull.

Dozens of men, women, and children crowded the deck, despite the high winds and rough seas bashing at the ship. I could see the captain and his small crew trying in vain to calm the panicked passengers. I could almost imagine their screams of despair drowning out the gale winds that tore through them.

The
Rowan
was taking on water fast, rocking and swaying on its tenuous perch. She shuddered once, then began to list, threatening to fall over completely and dump her precious cargo into the freezing inland sea.

We were still too far away. I beat my open palms on the window, as if doing so would magically transport both ships to the safety of Windigo. Mad with terror, I could only watch helplessly as the
Rowan
was repeatedly battered by wave after bone-crushing wave.

Then I saw her. She was standing on deck, near the stern, white dress flapping in the gale. My beloved stood there, a calm look on her face, as if she knew I was coming to her rescue. “Lenore,” I whispered.

The
Chippewa
steamed bravely through the waves. We were close now, almost close enough to shoot a line over and grapple. Suddenly, I saw everyone on deck scream as the
Rowan
lurched and tilted wildly. Several passengers were tossed overboard. In vain they tried swimming for the wind-swept rock, but the waves slapped them back, drowning them like rats.

I turned from the window and shouted orders to my crew. “To starboard! Get the lines ready!”

No sooner had the order passed from my lips, when a gigantic wave crashed into the
Chippewa
. The ship groaned, then began tipping over, the windward paddle lifting clean out of the water. The bridge crew, myself included, tumbled down like dolls thrown against the wall by some angry child, limbs strewn every which way.

Miraculously, the ship righted herself. I scrambled to my feet and gripped the wheel, desperate to keep on course for the stricken
Rowan
. My helmsman, his head streaming blood from the fall, grabbed the wheel and took over.

“We’ll never make it, Captain!” he cried, his eyes wide with fear. “We’re all dead men!”

“Shut up!” I barked. “Do your duty!” I glanced out the window and gasped. The force of the giant wave had caused the
Rowan
to slide down into the water. Now clear of the reef, the ship listed drunkenly. She would sink any minute now.

The
Chippewa
cut through the waves, closing the gap at breakneck speed. Pulling alongside was a suicidal maneuver in those rough waters, but my men were seasoned and ready, the best crew on the lake. We got as close as we dared, nearly parallel with the
Rowan
. The helmsman fought to hold our position as several brave sailors ventured out onto the open deck. I watched as they fired lines to the crippled ship, only to have their bravery made futile by the wind and waves.

Lenore. My eyes scanned the deck of the
Rowan
. Insane with fear, I held my breath until, finally, I saw her again, huddled down, clutching the rail for support, the wind tearing at her. I had to do something.

“I’m going outside!” I announced to my bridge crew as I donned a coat and made for the door.

“Captain!” my helmsman shouted after me. “No!”

I stepped out on deck and was immediately blown to my knees by the force of the wind. A wave crashed over the side, soaking me. I struggled to my feet and lurched toward the starboard bow, where the rescue effort continued. Over the storm’s fury, I could hear the wailing of the passengers on the
Rowan
, so close, yet so very, very far away.

I managed to reach two sailors preparing another lifeline. The
Rowan’s
desperate passengers wailed pitifully, just out of arm’s reach, pleading with us to save them. We were set to fire the line when disaster struck.

An enormous wall of water rose up from the deep and thundered into the
Chippewa
. One of my men was instantly washed overboard, the other slid screaming toward the abyss. I leapt to the floorboards and grabbed his wrist just as he slipped over the edge, halting his descent, his whole body dangling over the side. I held on desperately, gripping his arm with both hands.

“Hang on!” I shouted, confident I could pull him up if given the chance. But the Lady showed no mercy that night. She tossed up the mother of all waves against us then. It was like a giant wall of black hell, rising up above us, then crashing down to smother every living thing. I heard the ship groan, and felt her lurch to the side as the devil wave smashed into us.