Isle Royale (28 page)

LeBeck cried out, throwing up his arm in a vain attempt to shield his eyes. He staggered back, blinded and disoriented. Again he sensed movement, this time somebody emerging from the trapdoor. LeBeck fired in the direction of the movement. The gun boomed in the tiny room, but the dark shape never stopped.

Suddenly, Ian was there in front of him. A scream tore from the boy’s mouth as he rushed forward and shoved hard against LeBeck’s chest.

LeBeck screamed, too. He wildly pulled the pistol trigger even as he fell backward and crashed through the window behind him. He gasped as he spun upside down through space, then felt the breath knocked out of him when his hook hand abruptly caught on the iron safety rail circling the ledge. LeBeck dangled there, buffeted by the wind, animal noises and shrieks escaping his throat. He shot wildly at the figure of Ian standing over him, bullets straying high and striking the prism instead. Shards of glass flew over the boy’s head as several facets exploded.

Then, like a candle in a storm, the lamp flickered and died.

Standing on the deck of the
Chippewa
, Ben watched the lighthouse high above on the cliff, the fiery light reflected in the front element of his spyglass. Suddenly, the light blinked out.

“Damn!” Ben cursed, lowering the glass.

“What? Why did the light go out?” Clarence stood next to Ben. The lightkeeper’s worried face bobbed up and down, alternating from Ben to the darkened lighthouse. “What’s happened to Ian?”

With no time to answer, Ben shifted and focused the spyglass out on the lake. He soon picked out the freighter’s running lights through the murk, saw the ship bearing down on the island, rushing headlong for the cliffs, and cursed again. Why the hell didn’t the skipper see the light? As if in answer, a bolt of electricity streaked across the sky, followed by a booming echo that shook the timbers of the
Chippewa
. The old sailor grimaced, realizing the lamp was lit so briefly that the fools must have mistaken it for lightning. Ben clenched his fists in frustration, knowing what he had to do next.
Probably too late already
, he thought,
but what choice do I have?

He tried giving the order, but his mouth betrayed him, refusing to utter the words that would seal his doom. Finally, he tore the command from his lips.

“Off!”

“What?” said a puzzled Clarence.

“Everybody off the ship. Now!”

On the windswept catwalk surrounding the lamp room, Ian, his left arm soaked with blood, looked down on LeBeck dangling from the safety rail. The gangster aimed his pistol one more time and pulled the trigger, but heard only the metallic click of an empty chamber. Ian stared back, unflinching. LeBeck snarled and released the pistol, which fell clattering down the rocks to the water over one hundred fifty feet below.

A wind gust swept across the cliff, pulling LeBeck off the rock and battering him against the granite wall. LeBeck cried out, trying desperately now to pull himself back up before the next gust dislodged him completely. With supreme effort, he managed to lock the elbow of his good arm around the rail. He grinned up at Ian. “I’m coming for you, boy.”

His jaw locked and eyes narrowed to slits, Ian slowly and deliberately pulled his mother’s locket from under his shirt and held it out for LeBeck to see.

The wide-eyed gangster froze, dangling there on the rail, half his body still poised above the abyss. “That doesn’t belong to you, boy. Give it back.”

The two stared silently at each other a moment. LeBeck’s hand began trembling. “Give it back,” he insisted.

With a quick movement of his wrist, Ian flicked open the locket and emptied the diamonds into his other hand. He took a half step toward the very edge of the catwalk, then leaned down and offered both hands to LeBeck.

“Choose.”

“What?” LeBeck said, blinking hard. His eyes flicked from hand to hand. In one, the locket with Collene’s picture stared back at him. In the other, the diamonds glittered under the lightning-streaked sky.

“Choose. I toss the other into the lake. Choose.”

LeBeck stayed silent, his mind reeling. His whole body shook with rage and shock. “Don’t do this,” he finally croaked. The wind howled in his ears as his lower body was bashed against the lighthouse tower.

Ian leaned closer. “Which hand, damn you!”

Ian’s voice hit LeBeck like a kick in the face. The breath came raw to his throat, and for a moment he felt strangely disembodied. Then, quite suddenly, silence. The world was swept away as the answer came to LeBeck with crystal clarity. There was no storm. There was no lighthouse. No gang, no guns, no liquor. No lightkeeper. Nothing.

Except for the one thing.

Ian looked into LeBeck’s eyes at that moment and gasped. There was someone else in there, someone peering out from behind the wall of hate. It was a little boy, eyes tear-streaked, crying to come home.

LeBeck jerked his hand up, desperately clawing for the locket. His fingers snared the gold chain, then gripped the locket itself, just as a huge blast of wind smashed him against the tower wall and tore his arm free from his hook. Ian watched in horror as LeBeck screamed once, and then plummeted into the black abyss.

Ian leaned over the ledge, gripping the rail with white knuckles, trying to see where the gangster’s body had fallen, but Lake Superior threw a giant wave against the cliffs, scouring the granite wall with a mountain of foaming, blisteringly cold water. The wave lingered on the rocks a moment, then receded back into the depths, leaving no trace of Jean LeBeck.

Ian stood at the rail looking down, stunned, his legs shaking. Suddenly, he gasped and looked up.

The ship.

Down at the dock, the mighty paddle wheels of the
Chippewa
sprang into action, churning the water furiously. The battle-scarred vessel lurched backward, easing off into the harbor.

Ben emerged from the bridge, where he had just tied off the helm with a section of rope. Behind him the ship’s smokestack billowed black soot into the night air. Ben could feel the
Chippewa
’s heart beating full blast under his feet, the powerful steam engine shaking the wooden deck.

Ben hurriedly rolled the last of the gunpowder barrels down the bow hatch, watching as it tumbled to the lower decks to join the pile there next to the engine room. He looked up as he felt the wind shifting. The ship was nearly halfway across the harbor. Not much time.

Ben stole a glance back toward the beach, where his crew, together with the lightkeepers and their families, watched in awe as the battered ship slid backward across the water. The old crew, many of them wounded and holding bandaged limbs, stood silent; the battle was over, the remaining gangsters having fled into the woods.

Ben tugged at the bow cannon, his muscles straining with the effort. He managed to turn it around so that it faced the bridge. He pushed with all his might, forcing the heavy iron weapon across the deck toward the open hatch. Finally, exhausted, his heart pounding in his chest, he made it to his destination. He leaned on the front of the cannon, pointing it downward into the hold, then stood to the side, one hand holding a smoldering wick.

“Good-bye, old girl.”

The
Chippewa
exploded in a tremendous fireball, the force of the blast knocking the people on the beach backward. Wood and metal screamed in protest as the ancient timbers were enveloped in the inferno. Then, a second explosion rocked the night. The ship’s boiler detonated in a chain reaction, tearing off the smokestack, which rode into the air on an arch of flame.

Sally screamed in horror. “My God! Ben!” She ran to the water’s edge, wading in to her knees before her father could catch her and hold her back.

Clarence sat down hard on the sand, hands pressed over his temples, a lost expression on his face. “Mary Mother,” he whispered.

The crew and families watched in shocked silence as the hulk of the
Chippewa
burned like a torch, then began going down fast. Farther out on the lake, the roaring flames illuminated the ore freighter. Already, with a blast of its horn, the ship had begun its turn, less than a quarter mile out and with barely enough room to maneuver. Sally could just imagine the pandemonium on the freighter’s bridge as the flaming
Chippewa
lit up the cliff face directly in front of them.

The group stood watching, the wind and rain unnoticed, as the valiant
Chippewa
finally slid under the black water, plunging the harbor into darkness once more. Sally could see the running lights of the ore freighter glide by, just off the cliffs after having made its turn. As it headed out for the safety of open water, the ship signaled with its horn again, the shrill noise echoing off the cliffs. Another minute passed, and then the running lights vanished as the ship cruised beyond the point.

Sally broke down sobbing then, turning away from the water, her hands buried in her face. Her father put a comforting arm around her, trying at the same time to shield her from the tugging wind.

The
Chippewa’s
crew gathered on the beach, hats off and heads bowed, looking old and wizened, no longer like warriors. “Good-bye, Cap’n,” said one old sailor. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Suddenly, the night sky lit up, the clouds pierced by the brilliant beam of the lighthouse. Clarence snapped his face up toward the cliff, his eyes dancing. He could see the figure of Ian waving down from the lamp room. “That’s my boy!”

High up in the tower, Ian stood on the iron catwalk, waving to the group on the beach. He glanced behind him to check the rotating lamp. The blinding light flashed out into the night, sending its warning beacon to any other ships caught in the storm. Several facets of the prism were shattered, but enough remained to cast a straight beam. More serious were the bullet holes in the kerosene reservoir under the lamp. Ian had worked quickly to plug them up with rags, then refilled the reservoir with a canister of fuel hauled up from the lower level. The repair job was crude, but it would get them through the night.

Ian turned back and waved again. All was well.

The group moved up the path toward the shelter of the lighthouse compound, the old men shuffling along, stumbling on the unlit dirt path, rain and wind pelting them. The lightkeepers and their families brought up the rear, anxious to be back in the warmth of their houses, yet somehow reluctant to move on, to abandon the site of Captain Ben’s heroic sacrifice. Sally was last in line, hot tears washed by the rain. She turned her head back as they moved up the path, hoping somehow to catch one last glimpse of the old sailor who had stood there so valiantly on the burning deck. But she saw nothing except darkness in the harbor, empty black water.

Then, a noise, a faint splashing. Sally froze, her heart skipping a beat. Was it just a fish jumping in the water? “Wait,” she commanded the others, then dashed back toward the lake.

Captain Ben floated face down in the oily water, clinging weakly to a charred wooden plank. He raised his head out of the water briefly. He gasped for air, blood streaming off his forehead. The initial explosion had blown Ben clear of the ship and into the water, with nothing more serious than a ruptured eardrum and a gashed leg, but when the
Chippewa’s
boiler blew Ben was showered with flaming debris. Now he clung precariously to the small piece of driftwood, barely conscious from the trauma of a massive head wound. He could feel the freezing water sapping what little life was left in his shell of a body. Still, he clung to the plank, fingers clawing at the wood, struggling to keep his head above water. Finally, Ben’s eyes fluttered, and he felt his muscles begin to relax.

High above him on the cliff, the lighthouse shone its bright beacon onto the lake. The beam swept across the harbor, snapping Ben back to consciousness. His eyes twinkled for a brief moment.

“Can you forgive me now, Lenore?” he whispered, ready to surrender himself to the lake.

Then, he saw her.

She appeared first as a pinpoint of light far out on the lake, then swept in close, walking over the water toward Ben. She was an angelic beauty, radiant skin glowing bright yellow, dressed in shimmering white and gold samite that flowed behind her in an ethereal breeze. She smiled at Ben, bright eyes twinkling, then knelt down and with long, delicate hands cupped his face, caressing him, washing away the pain. She leaned over and kissed him lightly. She whispered his name in his ear.

And then, she was gone.

Ben gave a faint smile and exhaled once, then his eyelids fluttered and he slowly, peacefully, slipped under the lake.

Strong hands shot down into the water, gripping Ben by the coat lapels and hauling him back to the surface. Ben sputtered water. His eyes snapped open, and he saw Sally above him, leaning over the side of a rowboat. She struggled to keep Ben’s head above water.

“You’re not getting out of here that easy, Ben.”

The old captain managed a feeble grin, then kicked his feet to tread water, feeling new life flowing through him. Sally struggled to haul him into the boat.

Suddenly, the pair was illuminated by the bright beam of a searchlight. Sally turned her head and looked toward the mouth of the harbor and saw a ship, a large Coast Guard cutter, white with red trim, steaming toward the dock. She raised an arm to hail them.

“About time they showed up,” Ben said as he flopped into the rowboat.

“Better late than never, Ben. Better late than never.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

A
radiant sun shone down on Rock Harbor, low in the sky but still warm for a late November afternoon. Still, the closing of the seasons was unmistakable—the trees had long since lost their covering, bare branches now waved in the cool breeze, crisp leaves crunched underfoot. In less than a month, Lake Superior would ice up, the shipping lanes would close, and the lightstations would shut down for the season. But on this day, the waves lapped gently upon the rocky shores of Isle Royale. The Lady rested now, her fury spent, waiting for the icy shoulders of winter.