Isle Royale (21 page)

As Ben, Ian, and Sally walked toward the upside-down MacGlynn, Ben took Ian aside for a moment, gripping his arm. He bent down to Ian’s eye level and spoke in a grave voice. “I don’t approve of disobeying orders, Ian.”

Here it comes, the boy thought. It’s the cat-o-nine tails for me for sure.

“But that was one hell of a shot,” Ben continued, a wide grin on his face. “If we ever need another gunner, you’re first on my list.” Ben stood up straight and walked away. Ian stepped quickly behind, triumphant.

The trio stopped in front of the thugs. Ben crossed his arms and watched them swing back and forth for a few moments, then barked at the gangsters. “So. Out after my young friends here, eh? What else are you scum up to?”

MacGlynn and his partner clammed up, swaying silently across the deck.

Ben prodded them again. “What business have you at the lighthouse?”

MacGlynn sneered at Ben, quickly breaking his resolve not to talk. “Go to hell, old geezer.”

Sally suddenly snapped. She grabbed a nearby mop and began beating on the thugs with the handle. “What have you done to my dad!” she demanded. She screamed and swung harder, determined to give the thugs a good thrashing.

“Get the brat away!” shouted MacGlynn, flailing his arms and trying to protect his face. “Get her away!”

Ben threw his arms around Sally, forcing her to drop the stick. “Easy, Sally, easy.”

“Let me go!” she demanded. “Let me go!”

“No need to beat ‘em senseless,” the old sea captain said, trying to simmer her down. “There’s better ways to make these scabs talk.”

At Ben’s command, a large wooden barrel was rolled up on deck. Gnarled hands lifted the heavy lid. Inside was a sold mass of smelt, wriggling and flapping their tiny fins by the thousands. The barrel was placed directly under the two dangling thugs.

“Maybe you’d like to swim with the fishes, eh?” said Ben, smirking.

“Go piss up a rope,” MacGlynn said, his mouth practically frothing.

Ben glanced up at a sailor perched on the mast, who controlled the line holding the thugs. At Ben’s signal, the grinning sailor let the rope out.

The thugs dropped quickly, their heads submerging into the barrel of squirming fish. They thrashed around in the water, their faces occasionally breaking the surface, mouths open and struggling for air. After about a minute, Ben signaled for the rope to be raised.

MacGlynn and the thug rose up out of the barrel, gasping for breath and spitting little fish out of their mouths. Ben took a step closer. “What say now, scum?”

“LeBeck!” MacGlynn blurted out. “He’s the one who wanted to use the lighthouse. Thought it would be a good place for everyone to meet.”

Ben smiled to himself. He was always amazed at how quickly a man could be made to talk once he got the smelt treatment. “Meeting for what?” Ben said.

“We’re moving liquor across the border,” blubbered MacGlynn, “selling it to people from Duluth. They’re taking delivery tonight.”

“What time?”

“Don’t know. They’re late.”

“The storm, most likely,” said Ben, looking up at the dark clouds rushing past overhead. “If they’re fools enough to try.”

“They will,” said MacGlynn. “Nobody keeps LeBeck waiting. Now cut me the hell down!”

Ian stepped forward, his hands bunched into fists. “What about my mom and dad?”

MacGlynn looked nervously to Captain Ben, who half unsheathed his sword, his eyes narrowed menacingly.

“Don’t know,” stuttered MacGlynn. “Should be alright. Maybe. I suppose.”

Ben frowned and thought for a few moments, letting MacGlynn dangle and fret. Finally, he waved his hand at his crew, commanding that the thugs be cut down.

“To the brig with ‘em,” he said curtly, turning away, disgusted with the wretches.

The jeering crew cut down the gangsters and led them away at knifepoint. MacGlynn shook and jerked, brushing little fish from his hair and shaking them from the inside of his shirt.

With his gleaming sword now drawn, Ben turned and exhorted his crew. “Prepare to set sail for the lighthouse, lads. To the rescue!” The crew roared their approval and beat on the railing with excitement.

Just before being pushed belowdecks, MacGlynn turned, a look of gleeful contempt plastered on his face. “
You’re
going to the lighthouse? LeBeck’s gonna snap your bones to pieces, you old fossils!”

The gangster made an attempt to bolt free from his captors, but was held tight by the old crew. They quickly hauled him belowdecks before he could cause any further disturbance.

Ben sat down on a small wooden stool to rest his weary legs. He looked up at Ian and Sally’s anxious faces.

“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “These old bones aren’t as brittle as you think. We’ll be fine as long as the storm doesn’t get us.”

In response, Ian said simply, “You’re a brave man, Ben.”

A look of pain washed over the old sea captain’s face. He turned his head away from the teenagers.

Just then a cry went up. A group of men gathered around a sailor lying prone on the deck. “Smitty!” cried Ben, rising to his feet and moving quickly toward the gathering crowd. Ian and Sally followed, their heads peering in toward the center, where the old sailor lay stricken, his breathing labored, his skin a sickly shade of alabaster.

A sailor attending the man looked up as Ben elbowed his way through the crowd. “He’s shot, Captain.”

“What?” Ben reached down and opened the man’s coat, then recoiled, his hand coming away dripping blood. The whole side of the sailor’s shirt was stained crimson. Ben bent down low. “Smitty,” he said, cradling the man’s head with his other hand. “Can you hear me?”

The sailor moved his head toward Ben’s voice. His eyes fluttered open. He focused on Ben and gave a faint smile. “Gave ‘em a run for the money, didn’t we Cap’n?” Smitty coughed and clutched at his chest.

Ben held on tight to the dying man. “Easy, easy,” he said in a soothing voice. “Why didn’t you tell us, Smitty? For God’s sake, man, you let yourself bleed to death.”

“I’ve had enough, Cap’n,” Smitty said in a level voice, as if he was finally at peace with his soul. “I’m ready. Time for me to set sail.”

Ian took a step back, as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He nervously ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wide with horror. He turned to Sally and said, his voice trembling, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have shot that cannon.”

Smitty overheard Ian’s comment. He coughed violently, then tried to sit up. He reached out a hand for Ian. “No, lad,” he croaked out. “Nobody’s fault. Grateful to you. You let me go honorably. Thank you, lad.”

With that, Smitty convulsed again. He gripped the lapel of Ben’s coat, gurgled once, then closed his aged eyes, never to open them again.

Sally turned away, her face stricken with sorrow. Ian put a comforting arm around her, then felt tears fogging his own eyes. He’d never seen death up close before, and especially not when it was his fault. Despite the old sailor’s forgiveness, Ian felt wracked with guilt.

The old crew of the
Chippewa
formed a tight circle around their fallen comrade. They stood there silently. The only sound came from the wind whistling through the trees, and the clap of distant thunder.

Ben reached down and gently closed the dead man’s vacant eyes, tears welling up in his own. “The many men,” he uttered in a far-off voice, “so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand, thousand slimy things lived on; and so did I.”

Sally turned, suddenly remembering her poetry. “Coleridge,” she said out loud.
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

Ben, grim faced, rose to his feet. His men waited solemnly, hoping for some words of comfort from their captain. Ben stood there a moment. To Ian, who watched near the deck rail, Ben seemed a bit wobbly on his feet. The color drained from the old man’s face.

Ben suddenly stiffened. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a guttural moan escaped his lips.

“Ben!” Ian called out. “What’s wrong?”

Ben’s eyes began bulging out as he gripped at his chest. Sweat poured off his brow. And then, quite suddenly, his legs trembled and gave out from under him.

“No!” Sally shouted.

A cry went up among the crew as they rushed to help their stricken captain. Ian and Sally moved forward, trying to help, but were pushed roughly back by the crew. The two teenagers stood helplessly by the deck rail, watching as the crew got Ben to sit up, then loosened his shirt collar.

“It’s his ticker!” exclaimed one man.

“This is madness!” cried another. “We’re old men. We can’t set sail in this storm!”

Ben, still unable to speak, shook his head violently.

“Easy, Cap’n,” said a crewman, trying to soothe the agitated Ben. “Just lie still. We’ll take care of things.”

At the deck rail, Ian leaned over and gripped Sally’s arm. He whispered in her ear. “Doesn’t look good, Sal. If we don’t get to the lighthouse tonight, our families are dead.”

A crewman gestured toward the two teenagers. “What about them kids?”

“Lock ‘em below,” said a burly looking sailor. “We can sail for Rock Harbor in the morning, after the storm’s blown over.” The man began moving toward Ian and Sally. There was a look of determination in his eyes.

Ian didn’t stop to think about his next action; all he knew was that he had to get off that ship. “Jump, Sal!” he shouted as he climbed onto the deck rail.

“Right behind you!” Sally scurried up next to Ian and looked down, gulping and closing her eyes before taking a tentative step into space.

“Hey, you kids!” the sailor snapped. He ran toward them, arms outstretched. But before he could reach them, Ian and Sally leapt off the rail, hurtling into the water below with a thunderous splash.

When he rose to the surface, Ian cleared the hair from his eyes and looked up. He saw the crew lining the deck, looking down on him and Sally. The two teenagers swam quickly to shore, which was only a few short strokes away.

The pair hauled themselves out of the water onto the beach, soaked but none the worse for wear. Ian looked back and saw the crew on the ship’s deck, still staring silently down at them. Sally grabbed his arm and together they made a dash for the forest ringing the cove. In a few seconds they were safely hidden in the woods.

“The lighthouse isn’t too far from here,” Ian said, shivering, as he stumbled over the rough, rain-slicked terrain. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour’s hike, if we hurry.”

“At least in the woods the wind isn’t so bad,” said Sally, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm.

“It won’t get bad until we make it to the coast.”

“Then we don’t go near the coast.”

Ian shook his head. “We can’t risk getting lost wandering around the interior. No time. Who knows what LeBeck is up to now?”

“I hope Ben’s okay,” Sally said, looking back in the direction of the cove.

“Can’t worry about that now,” Ian said. “Come on.” He tried breaking into a run, but stumbled on a tree root. He swore as Sally helped him up. “I don’t know if we can make it bushwhacking through these woods.”

“Don’t worry,” Sally said. “The Minong Ridge trail ends near McCargoe Cove. It has to be here somewhere close.” She grabbed Ian and pulled him along. Together they stumbled through the dark, thick forest, searching for the trail that would lead them toward home.

Back on the
Chippewa
, Ben managed somehow to rise slowly to his feet. The pain in his chest was subsiding, but he still felt shaky and nauseous. A crewman tried to help steady him, but Ben angrily waved the man off. He staggered to the deck rail and watched in despair as Ian and Sally disappeared into the dark woods.

“Ian!” Ben shouted, his voice echoing up and down the cove. But the kids were gone, set out on their rescue mission.

Ben’s legs gave out again, this time from stress and exhaustion. He sat down hard on the deck, his hands trembling. The wind picked up then, whipping through the pines on the dark, unfeeling hills that looked down on Ben and his ancient crew.

Chapter Thirty-One

D
own in the lower section of the lighthouse tower, the giant clock mechanism whirred away, keeping accurate time so that the lamp above could continue spinning at its precise ten-second revolution. Huge gears turned quietly, powered by weights suspended from the ceiling.

Clarence MacDougal inserted a small, bent iron rod into a gearbox and began winding. The metallic
clickety-clack
of the mechanism echoed sharply off the walls. Clarence watched as the cylindrical iron weight began rising upward.

At that moment in time, Clarence didn’t give a damn about the lighthouse.

“How long you lived on this rock, squire?”

Clarence glanced behind him at the gorilla-like thug standing idly in the corner. The lightkeeper grimaced as the man picked at his teeth with a switchblade knife.

“Long enough,” Clarence said sharply, turning back and finishing his work. He put the winding rod back on the shelf and then pointed upwards. “I must check the lamp.”

Without waiting for a reply, Clarence idled up the long winding staircase. The thug craned his neck and peered up at the dizzying height. He reluctantly followed, his heavy boots clanging on the iron steps.

When the big man finally made it to the top of the stairs, his chest heaving from the exertion, he stopped in amazement at the sight before him. There was Clarence, standing next to the gigantic, rotating lens, tossing wads of cash into a metal bucket.

“Hey!” said the thug as he tried to catch his breath.

Ignoring the man, Clarence poured a cup of kerosene into the bucket, soaking the bills.

Alarmed now, the thug asked, between gasps of breath, “What the hell you doing?”

“Get’n rid of unwanted company,” said Clarence. Stonefaced, he calmly lit a match and flicked it into the bucket. With a whoosh, the cash went up in flames.

“Don’t!” the thug shouted. He made a dash for the fiery money, bending down to snatch the bucket away. But as he did so, Clarence stepped aside and swung his arms down hard.

The heavy framed picture in Clarence’s hands shattered on the thug’s skull, sending shards of glass flying. The thug grunted once, then dropped heavily to the floor.