Isle Royale Read online

  The teenager turned the crank on the side of the Victrola, set the needle down carefully on the disk, then stood back and listened as syncopated piano music drifted from the megaphone-shaped amplifier.

  Ian was tall for his age, with gangly arms and legs that always seemed to get in the way. His Uncle Dave from Duluth called him “Stretch,” a nickname he liked until the neighbor kids heard about it and teased him mercilessly. He had wavy black hair that was never the right length according to his father, a sharp nose, which he hated, and strange, piercing brown eyes with a tinge of green on the outer edge of the iris. His mother said they were the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. Ian just wished he had eyes like everyone else.

  Ian discovered his foot tapping to the ragtime beat and immediately stopped—ragtime was old-fashioned. He sat back down at the desk and frowned at the history book, which waited patiently, eager to inflict its dubious wisdom.

  Ian’s most heartfelt wish was to own a radio, so he could tune in broadcasts from the jazz clubs in Duluth, or maybe even Chicago on a crystal clear night. But his father couldn’t afford a radio, and besides, once a tube blew it would be impossible to find a replacement, since of course there were no shops on this Godforsaken rock his family called home. Ian fumed. Here it was, the Roaring Twenties, and they were stuck in the wilderness on Isle Royale, the most remote, accursed spot on Earth, as far as Ian was concerned.

  At least, the boy fretted as he leafed through his schoolbook again, the shipping season was drawing to a close. In a few short weeks the Lighthouse Service would pick them up for the cruise back to Minnesota. They would be home in Two Harbors before Christmas.

  Ian shuddered at the thought of missing the ferry back to the mainland. He couldn’t think of anything worse than being snowed in at Wolf Point. The year before, an early winter storm had nearly stranded them. Ten days late, the Light Service ferry finally did manage to pick them up, but making it back to the mainland had meant crashing through a solid mile of ice. The ship’s skipper had then prepared his vessel to head back out that very day, aiming to pick up the keeper and his family at Split Rock Lighthouse on the roadless North Shore. But then word got to him that the keeper, rather than wait any longer for the ferry, had trudged three miles through waist-deep snow and caught a passing lumber train heading south to Duluth. The skipper, much relieved at not having to venture out on the lake again, put his boat in for the winter.

  When he was a little boy, Ian had heard the story of Charlie and Angelique Mott, hired in 1845 to occupy a future copper mine on Isle Royale until the owners could secure financing. When winter came, provisions that had been promised never arrived, nor did a ship to take them back to the mainland. Stuck on the uninhabited island with almost no food, they suffered through one of the worst winters in memory. At one point, Charlie, delirious with starvation fever, tried to kill Angelique and eat her. But Angelique managed to wrest the knife from his weak grasp. He died shortly thereafter, nothing left but skin and bone. Angelique nearly starved to death herself, barely surviving on tree bark and an occasional rabbit she caught with a snare made from her own hair. When she was finally rescued the following May, she sat in the rowboat with her back to the island, cursing the day she had ever laid eyes on that wretched shore.

  Ian knew, of course, that the Mott’s ordeal had happened long ago, and that if he and his family ever were stranded at Wolf Point they surely wouldn’t starve to death. Every year a handful of hardy folk wintered on the island, especially at the resorts at Rock Harbor, on the north end of Isle Royale, or at Windigo, at the extreme southern tip. But since Wolf Point was situated smack in the middle of the island, that meant a twenty-mile hike in either direction through deep snow and rugged forests to reach the nearest human being.

  Ian looked up as thunder echoed over the island. What was keeping the Old Man?

  High in the lamp room, rough hands buffed and polished a section of brasswork surrounding the lighthouse lens, rubbing methodically until the brass gleamed like daylight. Clarence MacDougal stood back, satisfied at last with his work. A smile slowly crept onto his weathered, red-bearded face. Everything was in order.

  The four-ton lighthouse lens rotated on an enormous pedestal six feet above the floor. Imported from Paris, the bi-valve Fresnel lens floated on a bearing surface of liquid mercury. Hundreds of glass prisms, both reflecting and refracting, and assembled by hand inside the lighthouse, focused the blinding white light and sent a 450,000 candlepower beam shooting out into the murky night.

  Wolf Point Light was one of the first to use an incandescent oil vapor lamp, a technological innovation making it one of the most powerful of the more than four hundred lighthouses on the Great Lakes. Filtered kerosene, brought up daily from a special storage shed next to the lighthouse, was poured into a single brass fuel assembly tank bolted just under the lens assembly. The kerosene was pumped by hand each night until enough air pressure was created to keep the light burning all night. The fuel itself was vaporized by a Bunsen burner flame and, together with specially made mantles housing the flame, made a pure white light that was blinding to the naked eye.

  As Clarence stooped to put his polishing rag away in its proper drawer, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane. He stiffened and adjusted his dark blue uniform. The suit was made of sackcloth, double breasted with five large regulation buttons on each side. He wore a vest underneath, cut low to display the top six inches of his freshly ironed white shirt. His cap, also dark blue, had a cloth-covered visor and a chinstrap of cloth held by gold buttons. In the front center of the cap gleamed the insignia of a keeper—a lighthouse surrounded by gold leaf. Clarence adjusted the cap on his head, then snapped the brim with his index finger.

  Tucking the bagpipe under one arm, the lightkeeper made his way to the steep spiral staircase that wound its way down the tower core. He gripped the handrail for support, then carefully made his way down the stairs. Clarence could feel the vibrations in the iron handrail as thunder boomed outside, the noise echoing off the brick walls.

  The life of a lightkeeper was not an easy one. He had to be a jack-of-all-trades to deal with the many things that could, and did, go wrong in the course of his duties. Pipes froze, engines failed, storms blew down sheds, the lamp was easily fouled, the fuel tank leaked, or the hand-pump leathers went on the blink. But on this night, everything seemed to be in order. A good thing, too, Clarence thought, what with the storm rolling in.

  But the trouble with everything being in order is that something always comes along to stir things up. Clarence patted his vest pocket, feeling the edges of the folded letter nestled within. He smiled grimly.

  A gust of wind rattled the windows of the sitting room. Ian looked up from his schoolbook, startled to find his father standing in the entryway, staring at him.

  “Everything alright up there?” Ian asked.

  Clarence paused, then nodded his head. “Everything’s fine, Ian laddie. Finish up yer schoolwork.”

  “Do you think Mom heard the pipes?”

  “Man’s got to practice, don’t he?” Clarence snapped. “Besides, I quit when the lightning got close.”

  “Mom said Old Ollhoff was complaining again at the fishing village.” A village in name only, the collection of never more than half a dozen tents and lean-to’s was situated about a mile up the coast. The fishermen, usually drifters with no permanent homes, stayed just long enough to take their fill of lake trout and coho, then left for the mainland.

  Clarence scoffed as he stowed the bagpipe in a cabinet drawer. “That crazy Viking wouldn’t know good music if it leapt out of the sea and bit him.” Clarence shut the cabinet and turned, a frown still on his face. “Get yer nose back in that book,” he said. “Don’t get me in trouble with yer mother, now.” He sat in a chair on the other side of the stove, his joints creaking as he eased himself down.

  Ian glanced back at his schoolbook, but knew he would learn nothing more this night. His mother, who was also his
teacher when the family was on the island, would be upset he hadn’t finished his assignments. But, with the storm rolling in, there was just too much excitement tonight.

  Ian let his eyes wander over the desk. Next to the Oliver, a logbook sat open, the night’s entry still blank. His father’s gold watch ticked away next to the log. On the other side of the room, the Victrola continued playing Scott Joplin. Luckily, his father hadn’t noticed the change in music.

  Ian reached out and picked up a small, framed photograph. He sat back and pondered the image. It showed a much younger Clarence, together with his mother and another man, frolicking on a beach somewhere. The stranger had his arm around Clarence’s shoulder. His mother knelt between them. They each smiled happily at the camera, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Ian had once asked his father who the other man was, but got nothing but silence in return.

  Ian set the picture down and gazed at his father. Clarence had taken a dog-eared letter from his vest pocket and was busy reading it, his brow wrinkled in worry. The lightkeeper looked up and noticed Ian’s stare.

  “Schoolwork done?”

  “Time to wind the gears, Dad.” Every two hours, the gears to the lens assembly had to be hand cranked. This sent a large counterweight to the top of the tower shaft. As the weight slowly dropped, it turned the pedestal upon which the lamp rotated.

  Clarence reached across the desk and picked up his gold watch. It was his prized family heirloom, which his father had passed down to him in Scotland shortly before putting him on a boat for America. The lightkeeper opened the engraved face and glanced at the time. He nodded his head as he snapped the watch shut, then slipped it in his coat pocket. “That’s a good lad. Come on, then.”

  As Clarence rose, he snatched up the photo on the desk. Ian waited as his father stood there a moment, contemplating the image, his lips pursed.

  “Everything alright, Dad?”

  Clarence snapped out of his trance. “Hmmm?”

  At that moment, a bolt of lightning flashed directly overhead, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder. Ian jumped out of his chair as the tower shook. The Victrola rocked on its pedestal, sending the needle skidding off the record.

  “Cripes!” Ian shouted, his eyes wide.

  Clarence slipped the photo into his coat pocket and then glanced out the window, which now rattled with the sound of pelting rain. “Bad storm,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Worse to come.”

  Just then, three loud knocks exploded off the front door. Ian jumped again, and this time Clarence was startled as well. “Ach!” he said, his Scottish brogue thickening, “Who in God’s name is that?”

  Clarence strode to the door. Ian followed close behind, wondering who on Earth would be crazy enough to be out in such foul weather. He watched as his father gripped the brass handle and then swung the heavy oak door open wide.

  A dark figure stood in the rain just outside the threshold, his head down, covered by a broad-brimmed hat. Water dripped off a black mackintosh, splattering on the entryway. As lightning crackled above, the figure raised his head, revealing a scowling face peering out from under the rain gear.

  Ian gasped as the man took a step into the light spilling from the open doorway. It was the same man in the photograph, older but unmistakable.

  The stranger took another step forward, but Clarence stood his ground, blocking the doorway. “I got your letter, LeBeck,” he said, his voice as cold as a Minnesota blizzard.

  The man in black stopped, momentarily confused. It seemed to Ian that, just for a moment, the man looked… hurt. Then his face went rigid, and he stepped back into the rain.

  “Clarence, old friend,” the stranger said evenly, his deep voice laced with a heavy French-Canadian accent. “So many years.” He paused, his eyes boring into the lightkeeper’s. Then they shifted to Ian. The teenager shuddered involuntarily as he stared into the stranger’s eyes. It was like gazing into a deep, black pit. “Your boy,” the man said, reaching out his hand. Ian instinctively stepped well back behind his father.

  The man called LeBeck withdrew again. He stood there in the rain like a granite slab, impassive. Ian gasped again as LeBeck reached up to scratch his stubbly chin with a hook in place of a left hand. The hook gleamed menacingly in the pale yellow light.

  “Back from Europe, finally,” said Clarence, not budging from the doorway. “Took you long enough.”

  LeBeck winced, but the pained expression on his face washed away in an instant. “I’ll be back in Paris soon enough,” he said. “Have you been to France, MacDougal? No, I suppose not.” LeBeck let his gaze wander around the rustic sitting room. A faint sneer crept onto his lips.

  “Ye’re early,” said Clarence. His grip tightened on the door handle. “You said you’d come next week.”

  “Things change, old friend.”

  “Impossible,” snapped Clarence. “What you’re askin’ is impossible, LeBeck.”

  The dark man shrugged his shoulders, then said sweetly, “But what’s the harm, Clarence? My men come by with cargo. Customers find their way to the lighthouse, no trouble in any weather.” LeBeck grinned, flashing a perfect set of pearly white teeth. “You see,” he said, pointing to the sky, “I found my way here even tonight.”

  “Ye’re a damn fool for crossing over,” said Clarence.

  LeBeck dropped his smile and narrowed his fathomless eyes. “You’ll get paid every week, nice and regular. Everybody wins, Clarence.”

  “This is a lighthouse, LeBeck, not your personal hideout.” Clarence clenched his jaw, then stepped closer to LeBeck. “You’ve come in this storm for nothin’. Go back to Quebec. Or your precious France. But leave me alone.”

  LeBeck pursed his lips. The wind came up, tugging at him. He hissed out an answer so quietly Ian had to strain to hear. “Listen, MacDougal, I didn’t choose you and your damn lighthouse because I need you. I’m doing it for her. For Collene.”

  Ian felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He looked up at his father and saw him start to speak, then falter.

  LeBeck cut in. “Look at yourselves,” he said contemptuously. “Look at your boy. You wear rags, for God’s sake.” Ian felt his face flush red. “When was the last time the government paid you on time? Or even got proper supplies to you on this wretched rock?”

  “I get by.”

  LeBeck broke into laughter, a kind of barking noise that nearly drowned out the thunder. “I don’t give a damn about you, MacDougal.” LeBeck leaned forward and whispered, “But you’re a cheap bastard to turn me down and make her live like this.”

  The two men were at a standoff, one on either side of the threshold, staring at each other, the silence seeming to go on forever until Ian could bear it no longer. “Dad, what’s mom got to do with…”

  “Shut up, boy,” Clarence snapped.

  Lightning crashed again. Ian stepped back, startled. His father was gruff, but had never told Ian to shut up before.

  LeBeck, grinning now like a wolf about to snap its jaws shut on a lamb, pulled a bundle of cash from under his raincoat. He tossed the money at Clarence, who nearly dropped it in surprise.

  Clarence held the bundle lightly, like it was a coiled snake. “I can’t…”

  “Don’t you dare say no,” LeBeck shot back.

  As the lightkeeper stared at the money, Ian could almost see the thoughts flashing through his father’s mind. Taking regular payment from LeBeck was out of the question, but if he took it just this once, it might get rid of the man, at least for now. Come on, Dad, thought Ian. Stand up to him. Outside, the storm lashed the island with increasing fury. Ian glanced past the open doorway and saw dark clouds boiling overhead.

  LeBeck spoke again, his voice tightening the noose around Clarence’s neck. “That’s for the first week, in advance. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “First week? But I never…”

  Suddenly, a lightning bolt shot out of the clouds and struck the top of the lighthouse. For an awful spli
t second, the bolt of electricity played on the tower, dancing across its surface like a mad artist splashing bright paint on canvas. A chunk of brick and mortar exploded off the face of the lighthouse.

  Inside the sitting room, Ian felt the floor rock under his feet. A lightning ball appeared in mid-air and raced around the room. Ian watched, stunned, as an entire wall seemed to catch fire. Blue and orange flame shot out of the water tap from the sink. The typewriter danced crazily on the desk, keys clacking away under the force of some unseen electric ghost.

  Ian heard the sound of glass shattering. His eyes darted toward the window and watched with horror as the lighthouse lamp first flickered, then was snuffed out.

  “Ian!” he heard his father cry out. “The lamp!”

  The pair scrambled out of the room and launched themselves up the long spiral staircase to the lamp room, leaving their strange guest to stand grinning in the rain.

  LeBeck opened his mouth. A laugh burst from his throat, the demonic noise echoing up the tower and ringing in Ian’s ears as he ran to catch up to his father. The lightkeeper’s shoes clanged on the metal stairs as he ran up two at a time.

  “The lamp!” cried Clarence again. “The lamp!”

  Chapter Three

  “Damn this weather.” Captain Niels Jensen stood on the bridge of his ship, scanning the dark inland sea with binoculars pressed against worried eyes. Jensen was the skipper of the giant ore carrier Crescent City, a 406-footer that had been plying the Great Lakes since her maiden voyage in 1897. Typical of “lakers,” her wheelhouse was situated at the bow, with a single funnel mounted at the stern. She sported a reddish hull, with white cabins and bulwarks. A powerful 1,800-horsepower, triple-expansion steam engine propelled her through the water at nine knots, even when fully laden with 8,000 tons of iron ore, as she was on this bleak night.