Isle Royale (26 page)

A blast of wind rocked the boat just then, followed by the return of the rains, which splattered on deck like icy bomblets. “Below, people,” ordered Ben, gesturing toward the hatchway. The group headed for the warmth belowdecks, Ben leading the way. Ian followed close behind the old sea captain, but then stopped, waiting to allow his mother and father down the hatch first, then Sally and her family.

Ian was set to follow the group down when suddenly he saw movement out on the lake. Ian froze. He shielded his eyes from the rain and squinted, trying to peer into the inky night. He took two steps toward the deck rail, refusing to believe his eyes. “Ben!” he shouted.

Captain Ben popped his head back up on deck. “What is it, lad?”

“Your spyglass!” Ian gestured with an open palm, not taking his eyes off the water.

Ben unhooked the telescope from his belt and handed it over to the excited teenager. Ian quickly expanded the instrument and brought it up to his eye, gazing out to the horizon. Ben stood patiently behind him, his eyes haunted by some inner anxiety. “What is it, Ian? What do you see?”

Clarence joined them back on deck, curious to discover the source of their delay. He walked up behind Ben and Ian just in time to hear his son cry out, “Not again!”

Ian turned and handed his father the spyglass. The lightkeeper put the telescope to his eye and peered out in the direction Ian was pointing. He squinted for a few seconds, then saw a large shape swim into view. Clarence gasped. Barely visible in the storm was an ore freighter, churning through the water, buffeted by the increasingly vicious waves.

“Mary Mother of God,” Clarence whispered hoarsely. “They’re headed straight for the cliffs.”

With a trembling hand, Clarence handed over the spyglass to its owner. Ben put it to his eye and quickly assessed the situation. “They picked a piss poor time to drop in the neighborhood,” he muttered.

“Shoot off a flare!” Ian said excitedly. “They’re bound to see the cliffs then.”

“No flares left, lad,” Ben said, grimacing. “Used ‘em up back in ‘83, during… that awful night.”

Ben lowered the spyglass and looked to Ian, then over at Clarence. They stared back, silent for a few moments. Then, finally, Ian spoke up. Fire seemed to spring from his eyes.

“Ben, we’re not going to Rock Harbor.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

F
or a solid minute, LeBeck stared at the briefcase stuffed full of cash. Bundles of hundred-dollar bills stared back. For a brief moment, LeBeck thought he heard laughter, as if the money was mocking him. But then he realized it was only the wind, still blowing outside the lightkeeper’s house and whistling through the trees.

The lightkeeper. LeBeck felt bile rising in his throat. He grimaced and pursed his lips tightly. So much trouble for a case full of paper. LeBeck slammed the lid on the overstuffed case and held it shut with his one good hand. He slowly raised his smoldering eyes and glared at the two men standing nervously in front of him in the living room, representatives of the gang from Duluth. “Tell your boss,” the smuggler growled, “if he ever makes me wait like this again, I’ll come south and cut out his liver, storm or no storm.” The men gulped, then nodded obediently.

LeBeck latched the case shut and hoisted it under his arm. He snapped directions to his men, who stood guard in the shadows. Several of the thugs filed out of the house, Tommy guns at the ready. LeBeck addressed the two representatives again. “My boys will help you load the shipment onto your boats, then we get off this Goddamn rock. I’ve got a locket to hunt down.”

Suddenly, all heads snapped up as a loud boom, louder than thunder, echoed from outside. LeBeck felt the floorboards under his feet vibrate from the explosion. “Now what?” he exclaimed. Everybody rushed for the front door. LeBeck drew his pistol, the case full of money dangling from his hook hand. He stopped, checking to make sure the magazine was fully loaded. Satisfied, LeBeck grinned wolfishly and thrust himself out the door and into the storm.

As the
Chippewa
tried to enter Stone Harbor, it encountered fierce resistance from several gangster boats. The enemy ships buzzed around the giant paddle-wheel steamer like angry bees. Grim-faced thugs stung her hull with submachine gun fire. Adding to the terror, the storm had resumed its fury, churning the waves into whitecaps.

High above the waterline, Captain Ben strode on deck, directing his valiant crew into battle. “Fire!” he shouted to his chief gunner. The bow cannon blasted a fireball into the night. One of the fishing boats exploded, reduced to fiery driftwood. The
Chippewa
plowed through the debris, entering the harbor and heading for the dock.

Another boat rammed the cutter amidships. A thug perched on the bow scrambled across the deck and managed to grab hold of a slat on the sidewheel paddle. With a cry, the man jetted upward, then was flung into the air. Miraculously, the thug landed on his feet square on the deck of the
Chippewa
. He shook his head, woozy from the ride. When his vision cleared, he saw a group of white-haired sailors, cutlasses and pistols waving in their bony hands, screaming and running directly for him. Without thinking, the thug turned tail and ran for dear life. He shouted and leapt overboard, preferring to take his chances down below.

Ian peered out from a window on the bridge, where Ben had shepherded the families after making their decision to rescue the lighthouse. Sally and the others knelt down below the glass, out of the line of fire.

A stray bullet punctured the window, inches from Ian’s face. Clarence grabbed his son and tugged him down. “Ian, get yourself down and stay there!”

A sailor manning the helm turned briefly. “Do as your father says, boy,” he said sternly. “Don’t be foolish.”

“But we won’t get past these boats in time!” protested Ian. He wriggled out of his father’s grasp and moved to the port window. Reaching over and snatching up a spyglass sitting on a chart table, he peered out toward open water. Ian could see the freighter through the sheets of rain, closer now than before. The ship was heading straight for the cliffs, and showed no sign of changing course.

The
Chippewa
lurched suddenly from a gust of wind. Ian stumbled, nearly dropping the spyglass. “We’re wasting too much time.”

Back on deck, Captain Ben exhorted his old crew to fight. They took their positions faithfully, shooting at the fishing boats and ducking return fire.

The bow cannon blasted again, sinking a gangster boat with another direct hit. A cry went up among the crew.

“That’s it, lads!” Ben cried. “Give ‘em what for!”

With the
Chippewa
now well within the relative safety of the harbor, the bow gun began firing at will. Another gangster boat took a hit, blowing in two and sinking instantly.

When Jean LeBeck appeared on the narrow strip of beach, briefcase dangling from his hook and pistol gripped in his good hand, his eyes darted maniacally, picking details out of the gloom. Several of his men ran past, some shooting wildly into the harbor, others taking shelter behind the barrels of whiskey stacked up on the beach near the dock. LeBeck peered into the dark bay, his eyes narrowing, trying to focus on the object of his men’s terror. But all he could detect were cannon flashes and automatic gunfire, plus the roar of explosions and screaming of men, carried across the bay by the howling wind.

Suddenly, LeBeck saw it—a ghostly shape emerged from the blackness of the storm, heading straight for the dock. It was a ship of some kind, impossibly huge, with gigantic sidewheel paddles churning the water and propelling her forward. He saw several of the Duluth gang’s ships circling the mysterious vessel, men on deck raking her hull with blistering machine gun fire. A ball of orange flame erupted from the bow of the big ship, transforming one of the fishing boats to ashes and driftwood. LeBeck felt an icy fist closing on his heart. It was the Coast Guard. It had to be. But it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

LeBeck ran to the dock. He found two thugs kneeling down, strafing the intruder with their Tommy guns. He grabbed one of the men by the shoulder, lifting him up and whirling him around. “Who are they?” he demanded.

“Don’t know, boss,” the thug said, wide-eyed.

LeBeck stammered with rage. “Well, to hell with them!” He released the man, then opened fire at the ship with his pistol, screaming with each pull of the trigger. He took fiendish delight at the roar and muzzle flash of his weapon. This ship would be no problem. He would simply kill everyone on board, then be on his way.

By now, the
Chippewa
had veered away from the dock and was running in circles within the harbor, with several gangster boats still swarming around her, pumping lead into her hull. As the great ship came about, heading for the dock once again, she passed by LeBeck’s yacht, which was still at anchor in the middle of the harbor. Through the rains, LeBeck could see a man at the bow of the
Chippewa
, a bow-spined sailor hunched over the single cannon mounted on deck. Even at that distance LeBeck swore he saw the man give a skullish grin directly toward him. As the
Chippewa
slid past the yacht at starboard, near enough to touch, the man fired.

The cannon blast rocked the night, fire billowing off the ship’s bow like flames shooting from a giant dragon. The explosion completely sheered off the top deck of the yacht, the remaining hulk set aflame amid oil and splinters.

LeBeck’s voice rose to a murderous falsetto. “My boat!” Eyes blazing, he emptied his last round at the
Chippewa
, then dropped the suitcase as he fumbled in his pocket for more ammunition.

Unseen by LeBeck or the anyone on the deck of the
Chippewa
, a gangster boat made its way to the huge ship’s port side. The boat cruised close to the bow, its engine gunned at full speed to keep from being drawn back into the sidewheel paddle, which beat the water furiously just behind them. Braced near the stern, a gangster with claw-like hands held a burning stick of dynamite. The fuse danced and hissed like a rattlesnake. The pilot of the fishing boat gave a signal, and as the vessel veered off, the thug grunted and tossed the explosive upwards.

A thunderous explosion ripped apart a section of the
Chippewa’s
deck, sending men flying. When the smoke cleared, old bones lay crumpled amid burning wood and twisted metal, and the smell of cordite and blood hung heavy in the air before being whisked away by the roaring wind.

At the bridge, Ian thumped his hands against the glass. He watched in numbed horror as Captain Ben fell limp to the deck, his head struck by a hunk of flying debris.

Ian let out a strangled cry. “Ben!” He stood frozen a moment, his pulse roaring in his ears, then rushed for the door.

“Ian!” his father commanded. “Stay put!” But Ian was already gone.

The teenager scrambled across the deck, his feet slipping in rain and blood. Chaos swirled around him; sailors with gritted teeth and wild hair ran back and forth, war cries torn from their old throats. Hot lead danced through the air like angry hornets.

Through all this, Ian’s eyes remained focused on the crumpled form lying near the bow. “Ben!” he cried again, his voice drowned out in the din. Ian skirted a large hole in the deck, blown open by the dynamite and still smoldering at the edges. He rushed to the old sailor’s side, propping up his bleeding head. Ben’s eyes fluttered open; he looked genuinely glad to see the boy.

“It’s alright, lad,” Ben said, a smile creeping onto his lips. “I’ve had worse.” Ian, desperate to do something, pressed his hand down on Ben’s head wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Ian winced as crimson oozed through his fingers.

Clarence appeared behind them in the rain. The lightkeeper looked grim. He shouted down at the half-conscious Ben, trying to be heard above the sounds of the battle and the storm. “We’re not going to make it, Ben! Order your men to get us out of here!”

Ian looked up in horror at his father. “Dad, the freighter!”

Clarence gripped Ian’s arm hard, his eyes boring into his son’s. “It’ll be on my head alone.” He nudged Ian aside and knelt down, his face nearly touching Ben’s. “This is madness, Ben. You know it. Get us out of here.”

Ian wrenched his arm free. His breath came in ragged gasps. “Dad, no!”

Clarence whipped his head around. “Shut up, Ian! Can’t you see for once I’m not thinking of that damnable light?” He turned and shouted down at Ben again. “Get your ship out now! Give the order!”

Ian froze in shocked amazement. He felt like a trapdoor had suddenly opened in his stomach. His father was giving up, surrendering everything he’d ever lived for. Ian felt as if he were watching his father’s soul being torn from him. He had to stop him.

Ian’s eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. His hand darted out and slipped Ben’s spyglass off his belt. He raised the glass to his eye and pointed it toward the cliffs under the lighthouse.
Yes, there it is.
He dropped the glass to the deck and stood.

“Ian, get down!” Captain Ben ordered.

A bullet whizzed by, unnoticed. “A ship’s never run aground under the watch of a MacDougal,” he shouted. “They’re sure as hell not going to start tonight.” Ian kicked off his shoes.

“Wha’ are you doin’?” said Clarence.

Ian ignored his father. He leaned down and shouted to the stricken captain, “Keep fighting. You’ve waited all your life for this, Ben. Don’t cut and run now.” Ian sprang away, bounding for the rail. He heard Ben cursing, then his father’s voice begging him to stop. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sally standing in the doorway to the bridge, a puzzled, alarmed expression on her face.

“Ian?”

Ian paused. “Make sure they don’t leave, Sal.” He took one last look back at his father and Ben, then leapt over the side, rocketing toward the black water below.

As the sound of battle swirled around him, Jean LeBeck, his one good hand trembling with rage, inserted a fresh clip into his .45. The
Chippewa
was still in the harbor, circling, trying to make its way toward shore. Every few seconds a blast of fire erupted from the bow cannon, causing another gangster boat to explode, or a geyser of water to hurl skyward, or a pillar of sand to mushroom as the ship’s gunner aimed for the liquor stacked on the beach.