Isle Royale (19 page)

The crewman’s arm was ripped from my grasp. I watched in horror and utter helplessness as the man, his face registering shock and surprise, fell into the churning dark waters below.

I screamed in protest, but my voice was drowned out by the howling wind. I wrapped my arm around the guardrail, hanging on for dear life, and felt the
Chippewa
rush forward, swept directly onto the rock promontory that had crippled the
Rowan
. When she hit, I heard and felt the wooden hull scream as the bottom was torn open to the lake.

Somehow, I got to my feet, but almost immediately was nearly washed overboard by another wave. Miraculously, my coat snagged on a guardrail post. I dangled over the side a few moments, like a marionette manipulated by some insane puppeteer. Finally, I managed to reach back and pull myself up. I flopped back on deck, my heart ready to burst out of my chest.

The wind suddenly shifted, whipping us around 180 degrees and pushing us toward Isle Royale, away from the
Rowan
. All I remember then is staggering on the wave-swept deck, gripped with terror, willing to sell my very soul to be on dry land. I didn’t look back at the stricken passenger steamer. To my shame, all I cared about then was somehow getting home alive.

I burst into the bridge. Everything was blurry; something was obscuring my vision. I could feel blood streaming from a gash on my forehead. I wiped it from my eyes and tried to give orders. My helmsman was in full panic.

“We hit the reef, Captain!” he wailed.

I tried catching my breath. The words came haltingly. “Head for shore,” I croaked. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

“But Captain,” the helmsman protested. “The
Rowan
!”

“Now, damn it! Head for shore or we’re
all
dead men!” I think the lake must have heard me then, for at that moment a blast of wind blew out a window on the bridge, spraying us with razor shards of glass. I tried to help my helmsman with the wheel, which spun madly. But with the window gone, the storm marched inside the bridge, wind and rain and, worst of all, the screaming of the passengers of the doomed
Rowan
.

I slid over to the port window and peered out as our ship steamed away, toward the island. Through the storm I made out the
Rowan
, half sunk in the water. She shuddered once, then started going down fast. The passengers, huddled on deck like ants, shrieked as the
Chippewa
steamed away.

I could hear the collective screams of one hundred terrified people racing across the water. The wind, howling like some mad beast, gave way to their death cries. I knew it was impossible, but I know I heard Lenore’s voice rising up above the rest, until it was her solitary, accusing scream that rang inside my head, shattering my soul.

I turned away then, shutting my eyes tight, my clenched fists crammed against my ears. I fell to the deck, wracked with torment, and then my world came to an end.

Later that night, we limped into the protected waters of McCargoe Cove. To this day, I don’t know how we made it, whether it was by the grace of God, or, more likely, some cruel trick played on us by the devil himself. We’d found sanctuary in the cove, escaping the storm by the skin of our teeth. But I lost twenty men to the lake. Twenty men. Blood on my hands.

I wish now I’d been swept overboard. Death would have been easy. The looks of those people as their ship went down, the cries of Lenore echoing through my soul every night in my dreams… We failed our duty, and would pay the rest of our lives.

We beached the
Chippewa
, running her aground at the end of the cove so we could do repairs to her shattered hull. Before dawn, our terrible decision was made. We stood on shore, myself and the thirty remaining members of my crew. They circled me as I stood in the center, sword in hand. The men stretched out their hands as I went around the circle, cutting each thumb and collecting a droplet of blood on a parchment, upon which we had scribed our vow.

And so it was we decided, in our shame, to banish ourselves. For all anybody knew, we too had gone down in the storm, swallowed by the lake. From that point on, we would be dead to the world. And ourselves.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
he little candle casting dark shadows over the Captain’s cabin burned much lower than when Ben first began his tale. Molten wax dribbled to the table, marring its polished surface.

Ben slowly rose from his chair, a haunted, faraway look on his face. He turned and stared out the porthole, gazing into the empty blackness of the night.

Sally glanced over at Ian. Neither had said a word during Ben’s story; it was almost too fantastic to believe. Sally finally piped up, breaking the silence. “You’ve been here all these years?”

“After we patched up the ship,” the old sailor said, still turned away from them, “we made a camouflage net and hid the
Chippewa
at the end of the cove.”

“Just like Captain McCargoe,” Sally said.

“Huh?” Ian looked at her, puzzled.

Sally wrinkled her nose at him. “Asleep in class again?” Ian frowned at her. “Captain McCargoe,” she continued, “was the skipper of a British man-of-war, the
Recovery
, that patrolled the Great Lakes. During the War of 1812, he didn’t want to fight his American friends, so he hid the ship here on Isle Royale. He used sticks and tree branches, just like the net we passed under to get to the
Chippewa
. They waited out the whole war here.”

“But that was so long ago, before anyone else was on the island,” Ian protested. “
Somebody
must have seen you after all these years.”

Ben shrugged. “There was a mining camp here just before we arrived. The copper played out, the miners pulled up stakes. Nobody’s been up here since. We built a little fishing village, the one we passed on our way in the dinghy, in case anybody ever wanders this far up the cove. Not many do.”

“But how can you live way out here?” Sally asked.

“We eat fish, wild berries. We’ve got a small garden, and we forage around the island. At night, mostly.”

“The ghost lights,” Ian said.

“There
are
some supplies we need from the outside, occasionally.”

Ian stood up, suddenly understanding. “Ben the fisherman.”

Ben finally turned to face them. “That’s right,” he said, his old face lined with somber reflection. “And a good disguise it is. And will remain.” He lifted his thumb, the red wound standing out like a beacon.

The teenagers glanced down at their own thumbs. Ian looked up. “We won’t tell anyone, Ben.”

Sally said anxiously, “But we need to get to Rock Harbor. Tonight. Will you take us?”

“We don’t have much time,” Ian added. “You and your crew have been sitting around doing nothing all these years. Maybe now’s the time to help.”

Ben bit his lower lip, then turned to stare out the porthole once again. The
Chippewa
groaned underneath as it shifted on the water. After a few moments, Ben said, “The crew’s getting the ship ready now. We should set sail any minute.”

“Super!” Sally said. Broad smiles broke out on the teenagers’ faces. Sally leaned over, threw her arms around Ian, and gave him a bear hug. To her surprise, Ian responded with a kiss full on the lips. She was so startled she didn’t know what to say. She sat back, flustered, feeling her cheeks burning. “Ian! What…”

“You know,” interrupted Ben as he gazed out the porthole into the blustery night, “it was a storm just like this when we wrecked all those years ago.”

Suddenly, a voice cried out from above decks. “Ship ahoy!”

All three jerked their heads up in surprise. “What in blazes?” cursed Ben, striding toward the door. “You kids stay here.” He rushed through the door and disappeared down the narrow hallway.

Ian glanced at Sally with a conspiratorial look on his face. “Come on, Sal,” he said. “Let’s go see.” He got up and ran to the door.

“Ian, wait,” she said, rising and following quickly behind, wondering just how much more trouble they could pack into one night.

When Ian and Sally emerged from the lower decks, they spotted the rest of the aging crew on the side rail, looking out over the cove. Ben heard them coming up the steps and turned, scowling when he saw them.

“I told you to stay below,” he grumbled, not used to having his orders disobeyed.

“Who’s out there?” Ian asked, moving to the rail with Sally. He squinted, trying to peer out over the water. The huge camouflage netting, which hung by wires connected to opposing pine trees on shore, obscured his view. Overlaid with branches and twigs, the netting was a perfect cover, allowing the men on deck a partial view out, yet keeping the
Chippewa
invisible to those on the cove.

“Ready on your order, sir,” snapped a sailor. Ian looked over to his left and saw the man near the bow. He was holding a smoldering wick next to a cannon, a small carronade.

“Steady, lads,” Ben intoned. “They haven’t spotted us yet.”

“Who are they?” Ian asked, still trying to see.

“Here,” said Ben, handing the boy a small telescope. Ian held it up to his eye and scanned the water.

At first, he couldn’t make out anything other than the black water of the cove. But then he saw movement and locked the glass on an area about one hundred yards from the ship. A small motorboat came into view. Two men sat huddled inside, shivering from the cold. Ian instantly recognized them. “LeBeck’s men,” he said.

Ben snatched back the telescope and peered out, a grim look on his face. He watched the gangsters for a few moments, then grimaced. “Sorry-looking bunch,” he muttered.

Out in the motorboat, a twenty-footer with a beefy outboard engine, MacGlynn sat shivering, his arms wrapped around his body, huddled against the cold. He stamped his feet against the wooden hull in a futile attempt to keep warm, then looked back at the thug manning the motor in the stern.
He
doesn’t seem cold, MacGlynn thought. Bloody weather.

As they slowly idled through the water, the ship’s motor made a low growling noise that echoed up and down the steep hills of McCargoe Cove. It was as if they were in some ghostly world separated from reality. MacGlynn glanced nervously at the empty seat near the bow; they’d lost a man overboard passing through the maelstrom at the cove entrance. MacGlynn wasn’t sure how he and the other man had managed to escape death. All he knew was that, when this night was over, he never again wanted anything to do with Lake Superior.

As they passed the deserted fishing village, MacGlynn cupped his hands together and yelled at the moss-covered buildings on shore. “Hello there!” he bellowed, his voice echoing over the silent cove.

The thug at the stern cupped his ear, listening, but no answer call was returned. “Place is deserted,” he grumbled, then shrugged and gave the engine a little more gas. Blue smoke poured from the rear, and a slick of oil trailed behind them like a mass of black rats following their master.

“Well,” said MacGlynn, spitting into the water, “no way in hell we’re going back on that lake tonight. Don’t care what LeBeck says. Let’s see if we can find a place to camp on shore. Head in.”

Having come within fifty yards of the hidden
Chippewa
, the boat turned ninety degrees and made a beeline for the abandoned fishing village.

Captain Ben lowered the telescope from his eye and frowned. “Looks like they’re spending the night at the village. Gonna be tricky sneaking out of here.”

Ben gestured to the man standing ready at the cannon. At Ben’s command, the sailor put down the wick in a ceramic bowl, then turned away to assist another man stowing away barrels of some sort.

Ian couldn’t believe their rescue effort was about to be derailed by a couple of cheap thugs in a boat. He tugged at Ben’s uniform sleeve. “Why not just take them hostage?” he pleaded.

“Can’t risk it,” Ben snapped. “They’d find out our secret.”

“But we can’t just hide here!”

Sally grabbed Ian by the arm, trying to calm him down. “Ian, they’re old men. What can they do anyway?”

The sailors on deck, Ben included, glared at Sally. Ian stepped in front of her, his hands bunched into tight fists.

“Is that it?” he demanded. He blustered, trying to goad them into action. “You’re all too old and afraid?”

Ben bristled, but held his ire. “Sorry, Ian. We’ll wait till they go to sleep, then I’ll send a couple men over to conk ‘em on the head, blindfold ‘em. They’ll think they were robbed by bandits.”

“But we can’t wait!” Ian pleaded, embarrassed to be whining like a child, but not knowing what else to do.

“Sorry, lad,” Ben said curtly. His mind made up, he turned away to watch the gangster boat, which was moving quickly away toward the fishing village. He handed the telescope to Sally so she could get a good look at the thugs.

Ian bit his lower lip and looked around. His eyes went wide when he spotted the cannon, which had been left unattended. He sauntered over, unnoticed by any of the crew; their attention for the moment was riveted on the gangster boat. Ian casually nudged the small carronade, trying to line up the sights without being too obvious. “Time somebody does something around here,” he muttered.

The cannon, though small, was made of solid iron and weighed far too much to be nudged with just one foot. Ian finally had to resort to bending down and giving the weapon a good shove. At the noise of the cannon swiveling, Captain Ben spun around and froze. He saw Ian pick up the still-smoldering wick.

“Ian!” shouted Ben, taking a step forward.

Without hesitating another moment, Ian touched the wick to the fuse, which instantly began hissing and crackling with a red-orange glow. In another second, the cannon went off. With a roar, it slammed backward and knocked Ian to the deck.

In the gangster boat, MacGlynn heard the report and looked up. He saw fire burst forth from the far shore, then heard a terrible shrill whistle ripping through the air. “What the...”

A section of the boat’s stern suddenly erupted in a hail of splintered wood and flame, nearly knocking MacGlynn and the thug into the water. Both men screamed, then rushed to put out the fire.