Isle Royale

by John Hamilton

  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

  Down 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.

  Clarence moved quickly. Stunned and nearly unconscious, the thug lay on the floor and groaned softly. Clarence reached inside the man’s pocket and snatched away his pistol and switchblade. Next, he pulled the photo from the now-shattered picture frame and tossed it in the flaming bucket.

  Clarence watched for a brief moment as fire licked at the image of LeBeck, Collene, and himself. Soon, the photo was consumed to ashes, a memory scorched from his mind.

  Clarence opened the access door to the balcony. He donned a heavy work glove, then gripped the handle of the bucket. With a deep breath, Clarence swung it with all his might, and then whipped it into the air.

  The bucket, its cargo still aflame, made a blazing arc through the darkness. It tumbled through space until, finally, it shattered on the great granite rocks far below. A wave reached in, snuffing out the fire as it dragged the bucket under, leaving no evidence that it had ever existed.

  Clarence watched from on high, a grim smile planted on his lips. He’d freed himself. Live or die, the rest would be easy. Clarence slammed the door shut.

  On the deck of the Chippewa, a crewman tried wrapping a wool blanket around Ben Sellers’ shoulders. The captain angrily brushed it aside. He rose to his feet, a scowl planted firmly on his face.

  “You should all be ashamed of yourselves!” Ben shouted.

  The sailors on deck looked confused and hurt. After all, hadn’t they acted to protect their captain? One man stepped forward, his gaze questioning. “But, Cap’n…”

  “There’s people out there need our help!” Ben snapped. “This is our chance to redeem ourselves! Can’t you see that, lads?”

  “But your heart…”

  “Damn my old heart! You’ve all seen me have spells before. I’m not dead yet, after all these years.” Ben leapt onto a deck rail, gripping a line for support as his wide-eyed crew gathered around him. “Smitty was right! Better dead than living in the shadows!” Fire seemed to spring from his eyes.

  Another old sailor hobbled to the front of the crowd. “But we’re old men, Cap’n. What can we do?”

  “What can we do?” Ben repeated incredulously. “I’ll tell you what we can do…”

  Just then, a commotion erupted from belowdecks. All the gray heads on deck turned toward the hatch and saw the gangster MacGlynn emerge, his face
bloodied, teeth displayed in a feral snarl, a wooden baton gripped tightly in his hand.

  “He’s loose!” shouted a crewman. “Get him!”

  “Wait!” Ben leapt down, holding his men back and rushing forward himself. “Watch what ‘old men’ can do, lads.” Ben advanced toward MacGlynn.

  The gangster crouched low, gesturing for Ben to come forward. “That’s right, old geezer,” MacGlynn sneered. “Come here! I’m gonna rip your head off and piss down your throat!”

  With a scream, MacGlynn raised his club and rushed forward. Ben easily stepped aside, knocking the club out of MacGlynn’s hand with a well-aimed kick.

  The two stood facing each other, exchanging punches and feints, sizing up their opponent. Then, quick as a cat, Ben darted in, brushing against MacGlynn’s side. He gripped the gangster’s neck from behind, then started whamming on his face with the other hand. After a brief battering, MacGlynn recovered, elbowed Ben, then turned and landed a vicious blow to the old sailor’s throat.

  The pair grappled once more, this time struggling to throw each other to the deck. Instead, they found themselves moving toward the side rail, each trying to kick the legs out from under the other. Finally, Ben gave a powerful shove. MacGlynn gripped Ben’s coat, and with a cry both men both fell overboard, landing in the icy water far below.

  The crew rushed excitedly to the rail, peering down, searching; they saw nothing except the rippling water where the pair had gone under.

  Suddenly, Ben and MacGlynn exploded to the surface. They were close to the beach now, still locked in mortal combat. They exchanged blow after blow. By now, MacGlynn’s face was a bloody mess.

  “God damn you old fart!” the gangster sputtered, spitting out a tooth at Ben. “I’m gonna kill you!”

  “Not tonight,” Ben said evenly. The old sailor wound up and smashed MacGlynn in the face, sending him to his knees. Ben hit the gangster again. And again.

  Finally, MacGlynn teetered and fell to the rocky shore, where he remained motionless. Ben stood over him, his chest heaving. He looked up toward the Chippewa, a triumphant smile on his face. The crew lining the deck looked down on their captain, silent. Ben straightened up and planted his feet firmly in the sand. Remembering his Shakespeare, he exhorted his men to action, shouting up to them, “The blast of battle calls us out of our deep slumber, my friends. Innocent people await our help!”

  The men roared their approval.

  “Cast your doubts aside! Show me the fire in your eyes, lads, for tonight we sail victorious, or line the sea with our noble dead!”

  The crew went berserk, shouting for Ben and banging on the rail. They scrambled on deck, readying the ship to set sail.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A shadow flitted over the lighthouse compound. It moved noiselessly from tree to tree, from bush to bush, each dash for cover timed with the passing of the lighthouse beam, which arched across the storm-laden sky.

  One of LeBeck’s hired goons stood guard at the front entrance of the MacDougal house. Leaning with half-closed eyes against the wood frame of the pillar at the top of the steps, he stared out at the darkness spread in front of him, never noticing the inky shape moving inexorably closer.

  Finally, the man snapped out of his glazed-eyed stupor. He’d heard something close by, near the bushes just off the porch. At first, he thought it was the wind. But then he heard the noise again. It was definitely the sound of something rustling in those bushes. He squinted, trying to peer into the dark thicket to see if he could discern the source of the mystery. Probably another fox, he thought. A sour look washed over his face. A fox had stolen the man’s ham sandwich earlier that evening. Brazenly waltzing in from the nearby woods, the animal had waited until the thug’s back was turned, then darted in to take its pick of the gourmet food (for a fox) so deliciously laid out on the table, which LeBeck’s men were using as a sort of lunch counter on the yard. The thug had nearly caused a riot when he emptied his pistol at the retreating animal. His guard duty that night was punishment for the transgression.

  Now, in the dead of night, the thug carefully unholstered his gun, the chamber freshly reloaded with six bullets, and tip-toed down the stairs and onto the lawn, intent on exacting revenge upon the fox. He carefully, slowly, crept forward, alert for any sudden movement that might signal his quarry fleeing back to the safety of the woods. His trigger finger twitched as he drew near the dark mass of foliage. This time, he thought, the little bastard won’t be so lucky.

  Suddenly, a pair of strong hands thrust themselves out from the bushes, grabbing the thug by the throat. The surprised man dropped his gun, then gurgled as his windpipe collapsed. He felt himself being tugged into the bushes, where he struggled briefly against the iron grip crushing his larynx. Just before he passed out, the thug looked up and saw, through a hazy curtain of black, the devil himself, flaming red hair waving past eyes that burned with hate and revenge.

  Collene sat on the living room couch alongside Edward Young and his mother. The assistant lightkeeper was having a hard time of it; the flu virus simply refused to let go. With each cough his whole body went into spasm. His dark, sunken eyes registered misery, not only from his illness but also with the knowledge that his only daughter was somewhere out in the storm, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. His mother patted him gently on the back as another coughing fit seized him.

  Collene turned away, trying to clear her mind, to think of a way out of their situation. She’d driven herself nearly mad trying to come up with a plan that might work. Yet each time she reasoned out a course of action, it kept boiling down to one thing: she had to wait, at least until dawn, when the storm would hopefully blow over. Upstairs, her suitcase was packed, much to LeBeck’s delight. She’d done it as a subterfuge; there was no way on God’s green Earth she was going away with LeBeck now. She’d have to find a way to escape. And if escape proved impossible, Collene vowed she’d leap off the cliffs, if it came to that.

  Outside, the wind howled, rattling the house. An occasional lightning strike cast harsh yellow bursts of light into the living room. The sharp smell of ozone hung heavily in the air. Though the storm seemed to be winding down, it still packed enough wallop, in steady gusts of fury, to send shivers down Collene’s spine. She noticed LeBeck peering out the front window, the curtain drawn away by his metallic hook. With each blast of house-rattling wind, a look of fear came over the smuggler’s face. Coward. Collene sneered and looked away.

  Suddenly, the front door burst open, letting in an explosion of noise. All heads turned toward the entrance. At first, Collene thought the wind had knocked the door loose from its hinges, but then she saw a shadow fill the hallway as something moved rapidly toward the living room. She heard shouting and heavy footsteps. Then, the shape emerged into the light. Collene gasped.

  It was Clarence, wild-eyed, his chest heaving. He held a large pistol in one hand, which was pointed directly at LeBeck. The smuggler stood frozen near the window, not saying a word.

  “Come on, Collene,” Clarence gasped in between breaths. “Let’s go. Edward, you and your mother come over here too.”

  The three captives rose from the couch and moved cautiously toward Clarence. As Collene stepped toward her husband, she stole a glance back. An amused expression slowly spread across LeBeck’s face. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with sweet venom.

  “You’re a clever man, Clarence,” he said. He took a few tentative steps toward the lightkeeper.

  “Stop right there,” Clarence warned, stiffening his gun arm.

  LeBeck halted his advance, but the smile remained. “You don’t really think you’re getting off this rock, do you? Let’s talk this over.”

  Clarence spoke sharply, his Scottish accent laid on thick. “One more word and I swear I’ll shoot!” Then, a look of revulsion swept across his face. “You make me sick.” His trigger finger twitched.

  Edward Young, silent until now, stepped quickly past Collene toward the lightke
eper. “For God’s sake, Clarence!”

  Clarence held up a hand, motioning Young to stop. The gun still leveled, he lashed out at LeBeck, the pitch of his voice rising as he spoke. “I was your friend, Jean. Now you come and terrorize me family. My boy’s out there, in the storm!”

  Collene saw fear in LeBeck’s eyes just then, and for a moment she thought Clarence really would shoot the smuggler. But then she saw a flash of confidence return to LeBeck’s face, and she couldn’t understand why. She looked back at her husband and saw beads of sweat dripping off his brow. His gun hand trembled.

  Clarence made up his mind then. He shouted at LeBeck, “And you tried to steal Collene!” He stiffened his gun arm to shoot.

  “No!” Collene screamed.

  Suddenly, a thug appeared from the shadows directly behind the lightkeeper. Just as Clarence squeezed the trigger, the man leapt, knocking the gun to one side. The muzzle flash was impressive in the small room, but the bullet fired harmlessly into the wooden floorboards. The thug followed up with a fist to Clarence’s face. The lightkeeper grunted, released his grip on the gun, then collapsed to the floor.

  Collene’s made a grab for the gun, but she found herself pushed to the side by Edward Young, who hustled her and his mother off to one side, away from the immediate danger. Collene saw the thug scoop up the pistol from the floor. At the same time, Clarence rolled to the side and got into a crouch. Then, much to Collene’s amazement, he whipped out a switchblade knife and began waving it back and forth in the thug’s direction. Lightning flashed, yellow light glinting off the sharp blade.

  The thug, ready to put an end to the altercation right then and there, stood up straight and stiffened his arm, pointing the gun directly at Clarence’s head. Collene gasped and felt her whole body stiffen. “Don’t shoot!”

  Everybody froze. Collene turned her head and saw LeBeck at the back of the room. The gangster stood there, an evil grin spreading like a tumor across his face. “Afraid of losing her, are you, MacDougal?” LeBeck stepped closer to the lightkeeper, his chest thrust outward, head held high. “Come on.” LeBeck whipped his prosthetic hand through the air. The deadly hook whistled past Clarence’s face. “You and me. For her. Right now.”