Isle Royale Page 3

  The copper boom of 1855 opened the Great Lakes to large boats, but it was iron ore that forged America into an industrial giant. The raw ore, called hematite, was scooped out of huge open-pit mines on Minnesota’s Masabi Range, making the state one of the country’s biggest ore producers. At one time, U.S. Steel had the largest fleet of ships sailing under the American flag, and the harbor at Duluth-Superior saw more tonnage of ore pass through than either New York or London, despite a shortened eight-month shipping season.

  “Captain,” called First Mate Douglas Jorenby. The sailor stood hunched over his station on the bridge, eying with some suspicion the ship’s compass. A frown wrinkled his brow. “I think we got a good reading now. Don’t know why the blasted thing drifted before. Must be a magnetic disturbance around here somewhere.” Jorenby reached out a hand to steady himself as the ship rolled violently in the heavy seas.

  The Crescent City had left Duluth-Superior Harbor early that morning, heading for the locks at Michigan’s Sault Ste. Marie, her belly full of ore. There had been no hint of the fast-moving weather cell that would soon come roaring in from the southwest. When the tempest struck, just after sunset, the ship was blown across the lake at breakneck speed. Captain Jensen ordered ten feet of water let into the cargo hold for extra ballast, but it wasn’t enough to keep the ship from drifting. Six times they tried turning into the wind, but on each attempt, when they maneuvered sideways into the trough of the seas, huge breaking waves tumbled in from the south, nearly capsizing the Crescent City.

  The captain was a weathered old salt, with three decades of experience piloting ships. He’d grown up in Port Arthur, Ontario, and spent his entire life on the Great Lakes. He’d seen his share of storms, some fierce enough to curl the whiskers of even the most jaded sailor. But he’d never seen a storm like this.

  On their last attempt at turning into the wind, with enormous waves smashing sideways against the hull, the captain was astonished that his ship hadn’t capsized completely. He’d never before reckoned that such a massive vessel could roll so far without going over. But the Crescent City righted herself, and somehow, by the grace of God, managed to get perpendicular to the waves once again.

  From then on Jensen decided to point downwind and pray for the best. He knew he could ride out the storm if he could just keep far enough away from shore. But the wind had blown the ship so fast and far across the lake that he was no longer certain of his time and log. There was no telling where they were on the chart, unless he could find a beacon, a lighthouse perhaps, to reestablish their bearing.

  Black sheets of water crashed against the hull, and the vessel lurched with a sickening motion. The storm obliterated the horizon, presenting nothing but a solid wall of darkness ahead.

  As Captain Jensen scanned the waves with his binoculars, he suddenly had a horrifying suspicion that he knew exactly where the Crescent City had drifted. He stepped over to the compass, his eyes narrowing. He frowned as he reached down and superstitiously rapped lightly on the glass with his knuckle. Jensen frowned again. The needle seemed normal enough, considering the rocking motions of the boat.

  But then, quite suddenly, the needle jerked a few degrees to the northeast, before slowly drifting back. Jensen winced.

  “Dammit!” exclaimed Jorenby, looking over the captain’s shoulder at the errant compass. “I didn’t think there was anything in this area to make it do that.”

  “It’s the iron ore off the cliffs,” the captain declared grimly. “Isle Royale.”

  The first mate’s face went sheet white. “But that can’t be! Where’s the lighthouse at Wolf Point?” He hunched over a table set against the back wall. A single green-shaded overhead light cast a dim glow over that corner of the bridge. The mate’s eyes flitted over a large chart as his finger lightly traced what he believed to be the ship’s apparent course, based on the captain’s disturbing pronouncement. Contour lines representing lake depths jammed closer and closer. Fifty fathoms. Then, quite suddenly, twenty fathoms. Then five. His finger stopped when it ran over a shaded section denoting a land mass. Dark markings showed something big rising up out of the water—the cliffs of Wolf Point. “God help us if we’re that close,” the mate muttered.

  “Captain!” cried the helmsman. “The wind shifted! Should I adjust rudder to compensate?”

  “Do it,” Jensen ordered. “Stand by to let go the anchors.” Worry lines sprung up on his face. If he dragged the ship’s anchors, they might catch bottom, which would hold them off the cliffs. Then again, if they slowed down, the ship might lose steerage and drift, which would be disastrous with the wind blasting behind them, shifting and dancing like the devil’s own. After a moment’s hesitation, the captain made up his mind. He couldn’t risk going sideways into those mountainous breakers again.

  “Belay that last order!” the captain snapped. “Full ahead. We need steerageway. Get some water moving under the hull!”

  “Hold course, sir?” The helmsman turned to face Jensen. He already knew the answer. He also knew what was waiting for them out there in the darkness.

  The captain paused a moment, pursing his lips. “Dead ahead.”

  The first mate couldn’t believe his ears. “Captain, if we guess wrong and hit those cliffs at full steam…”

  “Then we’re dead men,” Jensen roared. The impertinence of the man! “Helmsman! Do as I say!” The man at the wheel cringed and carried out the order.

  The captain raised his glasses and scanned the night again, searching, searching. “I know you’re there,” he muttered. “Come on. Show me a horizon.” To make the compass behave so erratically, they had to be close. Very, very close.

  The ship lurched underneath again. Jensen grabbed a handrail to keep from tumbling to the bridge deck.

  Where was that bloody lighthouse?

  Chaos erupted in the lamp room. Ian, his lungs heaving, paused at the top of the stairs and surveyed the damage. The lightning strike had knocked out a window on the outer wall. Wind and rain poured into the room. The lamp, though still turning on its pedestal, was snuffed out.

  Ian’s father dashed for a small trap door set near the base of the prism. He disappeared for a moment, then his head popped back up inside the lamp housing itself. The lightkeeper searched frantically for the cause of the failure.

  Ian stood next to the prism and tried to make his voice heard over the storm. “What’s wrong?” he shouted, but his father didn’t look up. Ian pulled up his collar to shield himself from the wind blasting through the shattered window. His teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  Ian thought he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to face the open window, squinting and peering into the darkness, wind stinging his face. The, he saw it flash again—a ship’s running lights.

  “Dad!” Ian turned and cried out frantically, waving his arms to get his father’s attention. “A ship! Headed for the cliffs! A ship!”

  “The lamp’s fouled!” Clarence shouted from inside the prism. “Kerosene! Go!”

  Ian whirled around, searching for the kerosene canister. It was nowhere to be found. A shiver went down Ian’s spine. The canister was downstairs, where he’d left it that morning after doing his chores. Stupidly, he hadn’t thought to put it back in the lamp room, where it belonged. Ian dashed out the door, back to the stairs. He paused and glanced down at the winding staircase, which snaked around the central core of the lighthouse, leading to ground level forty feet below.

  Ian hesitated just a moment, then sat down and grabbed hold of the metal rail. He gritted his teeth and pushed off. With blinding speed, the boy slid down the rail, faster and faster, round and round, until finally he tumbled off and went sprawling to the ground.

  Ian wiped the hair from his eyes and saw a brass canister marked “kerosene” sitting on the floor, right where he’d left it. He stole a glance into the sitting room through the open doorway. LeBeck was nowhere to be seen.

  Ian grabbed the kerosene and took the first step up
the staircase. He stopped briefly to catch his breath, then craned his neck up and surveyed the dizzying height above him. He gripped the handrail and pulled himself forward, forcing his legs to move. As he raced up the stairs, he heard the frantic voice of his father echoing through the tower core. “Ian! The ship!”

  On the bridge of the Crescent City, First Mate Jorenby stared out the window in fear, listening for a sound he prayed he’d only imagined a few minutes before. He looked over at the captain, who stood behind the helmsman, beads of sweat dotting his brow. “Steady… steady…,” he heard the captain murmur. He glimpsed at the helmsman’s hands as they wrestled with the wheel—the sailor’s knuckles were ghostly white.

  Jorenby suddenly jerked his head up—there it was again! The sound of breakers rang in his ears, waves smashing up on some unseen shore.

  “Let go the anchors!” ordered Captain Jensen. “Reduce speed, adjust course ten degrees port!” Jensen looked down, shocked to see his hands actually trembling.

  The first mate looked back out the window and gasped. A huge waved crashed over the bow, washing a mountain of churning white foam along the deck. Jorenby finally cracked. “We have no business being out here!” he cried as the wave exploded off the glass.

  “It’s all right!” shouted the captain, trying to keep his first mate calm. “We’ll ride her through as long as we stay off those cliffs.” The captain turned back as another wave battered his ship. His face turned ashen. He muttered under his breath, so his crew could not hear. “God have mercy.”

  Inside the lamp room, a pair of weathered hands, slightly trembling, struck a wooden match, then raised the burning stick up inside the lens assembly. A hissing sound filled the room, and then a ‘whoosh’ as the lamp ignited.

  The room suddenly erupted in fiery white light. The lighthouse beacon snapped on, its beam piercing the storm like a lance.

  Horror overcame the captain as he saw the beacon shoot through the clouds. The ship was headed straight for the cliffs, less than a quarter mile away. Jensen reacted instantly.

  “Full left rudder and damn the breakers!” The captain knew he had to risk turning into the wind again or die on the cliffs. “Give me full power!”

  The helmsman flung the wheel over as hard and fast as he could to portside. The ship lurched violently, throwing everyone to the bridge deck. Underneath they could hear the hull plates groan and howl in protest as the Crescent City sank into the wave troughs, huge walls of water smashing into her side. Captain Jensen was positive they were all headed for a watery grave.

  But this time, the ship continued its turn. The bow swung into the wind, and the bridge crew, once they’d scrambled to their feet, found themselves steaming safely away to open water. By some miracle they’d escaped the jagged reefs of Isle Royale.

  The captain fought back the nausea creeping into his throat as they slid away from the cliffs. Too close, he thought, trying to steady his trembling hands. Much, much too close.

  Ian, his chest still heaving from climbing the stairs, stood with his father, watching through the broken lighthouse window. Down below, the ore carrier finished its turn and then steamed toward open water, away from the dangerous cliffs. It was safe for now. Ian breathed a sigh of relief.

  Clarence MacDougal turned to face his son. He pursed his lips tightly, barely containing his temper. A vein on his temple throbbed. As he spoke, his Scottish brogue thickened, as it always did when he was angry. “Ian. Did you clean the intake valves this morning like I asked you?”

  The question cut through the boy like a knife. He looked down at his cheap brown shoes. His mind raced as he desperately tried to create a believable lie. He stammered briefly, unconnected words rolling off his lips and vanishing into the air. But there was no excuse, merely the truth. He hesitated a moment longer, then looked back to his father’s stern face.

  “I was on the lake with Sally,” he finally confessed.

  Clarence threw his arms up in exasperation. Ian cringed and bowed his head. Words spilled out as he tried to explain. “It was clear weather this morning! We were just catching trout!” He looked up again tentatively, only to be met by a withering stare.

  Clarence’s eyes bored into his son’s. “You know bloody well you’re not allowed on that lake alone, boy.”

  Ian looked down again. “Yes,” he muttered.

  “And you knew Mr. Young was down with flu today. I can’t do all this work myself. I must have an assistant. You should have cleaned those valves like I asked.”

  “But the lightning,” Ian said in self-defense. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Maybe if you’d done your job, the lightning wouldn’t have mattered.”

  Wind whistled through the broken pane of glass. Ian felt raindrops on his face. Or were they tears?

  Clarence’s voice became razor sharp. “What if that ship had hit the cliff? It would have sunk for sure tonight. And it would have been on the family’s head. No ship’s ever run aground while a MacDougal’s on watch.” Clarence thrust his hands on his hips and stood there glowering.

  Ian waited in silence, counting two full rotations of the lighthouse lens before deciding to speak. Each time the beam passed over them, he saw, through squinting eyes, his father turn sheet white, like some ethereal spirit.

  “What about the money, dad?”

  The question took Clarence by surprise. Pain welled up in the lightkeeper’s eyes. He quietly withdrew LeBeck’s stack of money from his coat pocket and set it on a small table in one corner of the lamp room. His hand felt something in his other pocket. It was the photo. He set it also on the table, then stood back, trying to put distance between himself and the objects.

  “I don’t know, Ian,” Clarence said finally, worry lines creasing his face. “I’m in a spot of trouble now, I think.”

  “LeBeck was your friend, wasn’t he?” Ian nodded toward the photo on the desk.

  Clarence winced. “Once, lad. No more.” He glanced at the photo. The three faces stared back, mocking him.

  “What happened?”

  Clarence blinked. He turned and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Not a word to your mother, understand? This is between us men.”

  Ian nodded dutifully.

  “Now, off to bed with ye. I’ll finish up here tonight.”

  Clarence took a wool blanket from a cabinet drawer and tried to cover up the hole in the window, but without much success.

  “What about this mess?” the boy protested.

  “I’ll clean it up. Go and get your sleep, laddie.”

  “But I want to help… “

  Clarence turned and said sternly, “Good night, Ian. Don’t push your luck.”

  Ian clenched his fists. It was useless to argue. He was in enough trouble already. He turned and headed down the stairs.

  Clarence stood in the lamp room, listening to the sound of his son’s footsteps retreating down the iron staircase. He heard the door to the sitting room open, then slam shut.

  Moving to the table in the corner of the room, Clarence picked up the bundle of cash and held it at arm’s length. He pondered the money a moment, then, with a scowl, tossed it back on the table.

  The money landed next to the framed picture, knocking it over. Three smiling faces stared upward as rain spattered them from the shattered window.

  As Ian exited the sitting room at the base of the lighthouse, rain immediately began pelting his face. He pulled his coat tighter against his skin, then hurried along a narrow walkway through a courtyard that led, fifty yards down the path, to two identical brick houses. Ian lived in the house closest to the lighthouse, which was customary for the head lightkeeper and his family. The assistant keeper, Mr. Young, together with his family, occupied the second.

  Each house was a square two-story affair, with a red tiled roof and a small porch out front. They sat on a narrow stretch of land cleared of trees from the surrounding forest above the great cliffs. Beyond the houses rose the heavily wooded Minong Ridge, and beyon
d that, the Greenstone Ridge, the spine of Isle Royale.

  As Ian walked through the rain, he passed the oil house, a small round brick building to the right of the path. This was where they stored the kerosene that the lighthouse burned each night. The building was dug partly into the ground, like a pillbox, and had a wooden roof designed to blow straight up in the event of an explosion.

  The only other structure on the property was a small barn built in back of the houses. Since it was never practical to raise domestic animals, the families used the barn mostly for storage.

  As Ian hurried along, he heard rain gurgling through the system of gutters arranged on each house. The gutters traveled down into basement cisterns, where rainwater from the roof was collected. At least, Ian thought, pulling his jacket tight against the chill wind, he wouldn’t have to haul fresh water up from the lake in the morning.

  The front porch door opened just as Ian turned off the walkway. Collene MacDougal stood waiting on the threshold, a worried look marring her otherwise sweetly expressive face. She craned her slender neck out the doorway and peered past her son toward the lighthouse.

  “What’s happened? What was that noise?” She flinched as electricity raced across the sky. Her sparrow-brown eyes darted left and right in apprehension. Goosebumps sprang up on her milky skin as the wind tore through her worn flannel nightgown.

  “Lightning hit the tower, Mum. Everything’s alright now.”

  “Did I hear your father playing the pipes?”

  “No, Mum.”

  Collene pursed her lips a moment. “Hurry in, then. You’ll catch your death out here.”

  Ian reached the wooden steps leading up to the porch, then halted a moment to look at the neighboring house. He saw a young girl peering at him through a second-story window. She smiled and waved. Ian’s face brightened despite the wind tearing at him. He raised an arm and waved back.