At the sound of the word “cannon,” MacGlynn came out of his stupor. He picked up the Tommy gun, then tossed another to the thug. They rose and stood shoulder to shoulder, bracing themselves. When the Chippewa was within twenty yards, looming over them like some giant sea monster, they opened fire, pouring hot lead into the ship.
Kicking like a mule, the Tommy gun felt good against MacGlynn’s shoulder. He grinned as he watched the muzzle hurl fire at his enemy, and felt a warm sensation inside when he heard the tinkling of the spent shells collecting around his feet. He saw splinters flying off the old hull of the ship. This must be what it’s like, he thought, to bring down one of them big African elephants. In his frenzy, MacGlynn actually thought that if he held his ground, he just might sink the ship.
As the Chippewa overtook MacGlynn’s small boat and pulled alongside, he finally stopped shooting and looked up. He saw an old, toothless sailor on deck, grinning like a demon and pointing a cannon directly down at them.
MacGlynn dropped the Tommy gun. He flashed a smile and raised his hands. “Sorry!” he called up. The old man just cackled down at the gangster, then touched the fuse with the glowing wick.
Sheer panic gripped MacGlynn. “Jump!” He hopped onto the rail and then hurled himself into the water. The other thug made it overboard just as the cannon went off, scoring a direct hit. The boat exploded in a firestorm of splintered wood and twisted metal.
MacGlynn and his companion bobbed helplessly in the water, coughing and sputtering. They watched the Chippewa churn past. MacGlynn heard a cry go up over the water as the aged crew let out a victory yell.
MacGlynn kicked and splashed, trying to keep afloat in the near-freezing water. He gasped for breath and coughed up what seemed like a lakefull of water from his lungs. He watched as the Chippewa made a slow turn and then began heading back in their direction. Damn those old codgers, he thought. Damn lake. And a curse on those damn kids.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Collene MacDougal sat on the edge of her bed, nervously tapping her front teeth with half-chewed fingernails. Outside in the hallway, LeBeck talked in hushed tones with one of his henchmen. The bedroom door was nearly closed, and through the narrow opening she could see her former lover raise his good hand, making some sort of urgent gesture to his underling, who stood unseen just behind the doorway. They hissed and growled quietly, obviously trying to spare Collene’s ears from whatever business demanded their attention.
Collene turned away, trying to keep the whispered secrets from her mind. Shortly after Clarence was whisked back to the lighthouse, LeBeck had taken her by the arm and led her upstairs to her bedroom, to pack he’d said, but she knew it was also another excuse to be alone with her.
Collene sighed as she stared at the barren wood floor, a faraway gaze in her eyes. How, she wondered, could she make Jean see that she didn’t love him anymore, that both their lives were so different now? They’d traveled paths down which they could never return. He’d gone to Europe, fought in the Great War, seen the world.
As for herself… Collene pondered the question. What had she accomplished as the years had drifted by? She’d married a lightkeeper and started a family, of course. And she was happy with her life. Yes, she decided, she was happy. Happy as a lark. Collene bit her lower lip hard, nearly making herself bleed. Stop it, she scolded herself. Clarence is a good man. You love him.
LeBeck had promised her a new life, full of excitement and adventure. Come to Europe with me, he’d said seductively. We’ll dine on caviar and sweet wine. Then, on to Greece, he’d whispered in her ear, arms wrapped around each other at sunset with a warm Mediterranean breeze blowing lightly against their skin.
Collene scoffed, remembering how the war had changed LeBeck so. Jean, the man she’d loved so many years ago, was dead, replaced by some sort of monster who beat innocent people and held them at gunpoint. No longer the kind, gentle man she once fell in love with, he was now a man transformed, a killer with base instincts that served his own selfish gain. He couldn’t possibly love her the way he once did, with an open heart and caring hand. Collene closed her eyes, her mind drifting against her will, remembering the way he used to caress her cheeks, then lightly run the backs of his hands across her neck, pressing ever-so-gently, causing shivers to run up and down her spine.
No, she thought, snapping her eyes open, trying to come to her senses. That man is gone, never to return. Besides, she reminded herself, I’ve got a husband and child now.
And yet, Paris…
Collene’s eyes traveled to the chest at the foot of the bed. She froze when she saw the edge of an envelope sticking up from under the heavy oak lid. In her haste, she’d neglected to put LeBeck’s letters away in their proper place at the bottom of the chest. Instead, she’d simply set them on top of the pile of clothes and shut the lid, intending to finish later. But with all the commotion she’d forgotten to go back and hide them properly. She’d kept them secret from Clarence all these years; it would be a disaster if he discovered them now.
Collene stood and moved to the foot of the bed. She bent down and opened the oak chest, shocked to find her hands trembling. Stupid, she thought, keeping those letters. When their ordeal was over, she made up her mind to burn the whole lot of them. She collected the envelopes in a tight bundle, wrapping them up with a piece of red ribbon. As her trembling fingers struggled to tie the knot, Collene knew at that moment what was truly important to her, and it most certainly wasn’t Paris. It was her family. A wave of nausea washed over her. What had become of Ian? And what if Clarence had accidentally stumbled upon her secret…
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
Collene froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Clutching the bundle to her chest, she whirled to find LeBeck, alone now and standing in the doorway, staring at her with dark, probing eyes. She stared back, answering him with silence.
LeBeck stepped into the room, then closed the door quietly behind him. “Did you save them all?”
Collene glanced down at the letters in her hand. Her fingers tightened involuntarily, squeezing the envelopes until they groaned under the pressure. She looked up again as LeBeck took a few tentative steps toward her.
“You do still love me,” he whispered, reached out his arms, expecting her to fall into his grasp. Instead, Collene recoiled, her lip curled in a feral snarl.
Collene waved the stack of envelopes in front of him. “This is the man I loved,” she said, her words laced with venom, making no effort to keep her voice quiet. “He’s dead now.”
“That’s not true,” LeBeck implored, stepping closer, hands reaching for her. “You know it’s not, Collene.”
He took another step, towering over her now. With a short yell, Collene suddenly flung the stack of envelopes at him. They exploded off his chest in a blizzard of parchment, stopping him in his tracks. Collene, pointing out the window behind her, shouted at him, her voice raised to a fever pitch. “If what you say is true, if you really are the Jean I used to love, then get out there and find my son!”
LeBeck stood there, silent, watching the letters settle to the wood floor. He waited a moment longer, then slowly lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. Collene gasped. For one, brief moment, she saw the old Jean peering out from behind the facade. LeBeck’s eyes became a looking glass to his soul, and for an instant she saw an innocent child trapped behind an iron curtain of hate.
Then, just as suddenly, the porthole slammed shut, replaced by inky black globes absent all light and love. Collene felt her skin crawl. His eyes were almost reptilian now, devoid of humanity. She wondered if he would kill her then.
LeBeck finally spoke, shattering the silence with such force that Collene was very nearly knocked backward. “You loved me once,” he snapped. “You wouldn’t have saved those letters otherwise.” He walked away and jerked open the door. He turned back to her, his eyes narrowed. “Pack your bags. We leave at first light.”
Chapter Thirty
&nb
sp; Captain Ben Sellers stood on the deck of the Chippewa. He faced Ian and Sally, his arms crossed and looking smug, a faint smile creeping onto his lips. “Not bad for ‘old men,’ eh?”
The two teenagers looked at each other, then laughed with relief. For a brief moment, a thought had passed through Ian’s head that, for disobeying orders and firing the cannon, he might have been made to walk the plank. Or perhaps even been keelhauled. But to his relief, Ben and his crew seemed more proud of themselves than angry at him.
The Chippewa sat at anchor at the end of the cove once again. The sailors scrambled to raise the camouflage net to conceal the ship, and then set to work repairing the damage to the hull wrought by MacGlynn’s machine gun.
Behind Ben and the two teenagers, MacGlynn and his thug companion hung together upside down from a rope tied to one of the masts. About six feet off the deck, the gangsters were lashed back-to-back, their arms left to dangle and wave freely. The hapless duo cursed obscenities as the white-haired crew jeered and poked at them, then set them swinging back and forth.
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!”
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