Isle Royale Part 18

Through all this, Ian's eyes remained focused on the crumpled form lying near the bow. "Ben!" he cried again, his voice drowned out in the din. Ian skirted a large hole in the deck, blown open by the dynamite and still smoldering at the edges. He rushed to the old sailor's side, propping up his bleeding head. Ben's eyes fluttered open; he looked genuinely glad to see the boy.

"It's alright, lad," Ben said, a smile creeping onto his lips. "I've had worse." Ian, desperate to do something, pressed his hand down on Ben's head wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Ian winced as crimson oozed through his fingers.

Clarence appeared behind them in the rain. The lightkeeper looked grim. He shouted down at the half-conscious Ben, trying to be heard above the sounds of the battle and the storm. "We're not going to make it, Ben! Order your men to get us out of here!"

Ian looked up in horror at his father. "Dad, the freighter!"

Clarence gripped Ian's arm hard, his eyes boring into his son's. "It'll be on my head alone." He nudged Ian aside and knelt down, his face nearly touching Ben's. "This is madness, Ben. You know it. Get us out of here."

Ian wrenched his arm free. His breath came in ragged gasps. "Dad, no!"

Clarence whipped his head around. "Shut up, Ian! Can't you see for once I'm not thinking of that d.a.m.nable light?" He turned and shouted down at Ben again. "Get your s.h.i.+p out now! Give the order!"

Ian froze in shocked amazement. He felt like a trapdoor had suddenly opened in his stomach. His father was giving up, surrendering everything he'd ever lived for. Ian felt as if he were watching his father's soul being torn from him. He had to stop him.

Ian's eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. His hand darted out and slipped Ben's spygla.s.s off his belt. He raised the gla.s.s to his eye and pointed it toward the cliffs under the lighthouse. Yes, there it is. He dropped the gla.s.s to the deck and stood.

"Ian, get down!" Captain Ben ordered.

A bullet whizzed by, unnoticed. "A s.h.i.+p's never run aground under the watch of a MacDougal," he shouted. "They're sure as h.e.l.l not going to start tonight." Ian kicked off his shoes.

"Wha' are you doin'?" said Clarence.

Ian ignored his father. He leaned down and shouted to the stricken captain, "Keep fighting. You've waited all your life for this, Ben. Don't cut and run now." Ian sprang away, bounding for the rail. He heard Ben cursing, then his father's voice begging him to stop. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sally standing in the doorway to the bridge, a puzzled, alarmed expression on her face.

"Ian?"

Ian paused. "Make sure they don't leave, Sal." He took one last look back at his father and Ben, then leapt over the side, rocketing toward the black water below.

As the sound of battle swirled around him, Jean LeBeck, his one good hand trembling with rage, inserted a fresh clip into his .45. The Chippewa was still in the harbor, circling, trying to make its way toward sh.o.r.e. Every few seconds a blast of fire erupted from the bow cannon, causing another gangster boat to explode, or a geyser of water to hurl skyward, or a pillar of sand to mushroom as the s.h.i.+p's gunner aimed for the liquor stacked on the beach.

LeBeck heard men screaming all around him, and for a brief moment he was certain he was back in the trenches of France, battling the Huns. Then a cannon shot exploded on the beach behind him, rocking the earth and snapping him back to reality. LeBeck stiffened his arm and aimed at the Chippewa, raising the muzzle high and hoping to pick off a stray sailor or two. Then he spied Ian running across the deck and leaping into the water.

"It's that b.a.s.t.a.r.d kid!" he exclaimed to a frightened thug standing next to him. LeBeck tucked his pistol in his waistband, then ran toward the water. He stopped at the sh.o.r.eline and cursed. The boy was out of pistol range, swimming parallel to the beach, toward the cliffs on the other side of the harbor.

LeBeck ran up the beach, following Ian and keeping him in his sights. Twice the teenager disappeared under the water as huge waves crashed down on him. LeBeck was sure he'd been sucked under and drowned, but each time the boy resurfaced, sputtering water, then continued his frantic swim toward the cliffs.

LeBeck continued running parallel to Ian, then was forced to stop when the beach came to an abrupt end at the base of the sheer granite cliff of Wolf Point. Ian swam past, into the roiling waters that crashed against the rocks.

LeBeck, his hand bunched into a fist, veins sticking out of his neck in rage, shouted after Ian, but his voice was drowned out by the howling wind. He raised his eyes skyward in anger, then froze. High above him, perched silently on the cliff, was the darkened lighthouse.

Sally, Ben, and Clarence stood at the deck rail, watching in disbelief as Ian swam away from the Chippewa, heading for the murderous cliffs on the other side of the harbor. Sally took a step back. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. She felt the wind tugging at her small frame, urging her on, then glanced toward the bridge to see Ian's mother banging on the gla.s.s, her mouth contorted in a scream. Sally turned back and saw the adults standing there, immobile.

Sally blinked twice, then wound up and hit Ben hard on the arm. "What are you waiting for?"

Ben came out of his stupor as if he'd been jolted by electricity. Holding a b.l.o.o.d.y rag to his head, he marched toward the bow, rallying his crew. "To battle lads! To battle!"

A mighty roar went up among the sailors. Seeing their wounded captain striding up and down the burning deck, cutla.s.s waving in the air, whipped them into a frenzy. They swarmed over the deck rail, jeering down at the gangsters circling in their boats.

The bow gunner, cackling through the gap-toothed grin sprouting from his skull, let loose another volley. An enemy boat just off the port bow exploded amid a hailstorm of debris.

More boats appeared on the starboard side, gangsters blasting away with Tommy guns. In response, a dozen ancient sailors swung down from ropes tied to the deck rail. Agile as monkeys, knives gripped in their mouths, silver hair flowing behind them, the men dropped barefoot onto the decks of the enemy s.h.i.+ps, growling and coiled, ready to spring. Like toothless, wild-eyed devils, they drew their cutla.s.ses and engaged the enemy in hand-to-hand combat. Most of the gangsters gave up readily, shocked into submission by the a.s.sault from the maniacal old salts. Those who fought were quickly run through with cold steel, or forced overboard into the stormy black water.

Ben, his face smeared with soot and blood, ran up and down the deck, directing his men. He waved to his helmsman on the bridge deck, gesturing for him to steer the s.h.i.+p directly for the dock. Time to storm the beach, Ben decided, come h.e.l.l or high water, and d.a.m.n the torpedoes! The helmsman acknowledged his captain, gritted his teeth, then steered the Chippewa directly into the path of one of the smaller boats, crus.h.i.+ng it under the weight of the giant paddlewheel steamer.

Ben felt the impact in his teeth and bones, shuddered at the crunch of wood on wood, then steadied himself as the Chippewa made its run for the dock.

Ian swam hard, making for the cliff-face directly under the lighthouse. The water was shockingly cold. The instant he'd hit the surface of the lake he thought his heart had stopped beating; his skin felt as if electric eels where writhing over him. Then, a huge adrenaline surge coursed through his veins. Ian felt his heart smas.h.i.+ng against his ribs. He sliced through the water and swam for his life. A huge wave smashed down on him, threatening to pull him under for good, but after a few terrifying moments he popped back to the surface, gasping for air. He made a frenzied push through the water, trying to reach the rocks before the next wave struck.

He almost made it.

Ian barely reached the slippery boulders at the base of the cliff, his outstretched fingers scrabbling for a firm grip, when another breaker hurled down on him. Ian's brain refused to register what was happening. He was dimly aware of a mountain of foam enveloping him, the sound of a freight train from h.e.l.l roaring through his head. His body slammed into something hard. Then he felt an awful tugging, as if the devil himself were trying to drag him down to the depths of Superior.

When the wave subsided, Ian found himself clinging to a lone pine tree growing right out of the granite wall. It was a witch's pine, as they called it on the island, no more than a foot long, with only a few gnarled branches protruding from the rock. Without pausing to think, Ian grunted and threw himself against the cliff wall, trying to get a handhold on the sharp granite. Another wave crashed over him, nearly sweeping him off his perch, but somehow he managed to hang on once again.

Gasping for breath, Ian scrambled up the jagged cliff face. The climb seemed agonizingly slow as he battled the wind and the waves, until at last he cleared the cras.h.i.+ng water below.

Ian craned his neck upward. Twenty feet directly above him, flapping against the cliff in the roaring wind, was the frayed end of the rope he'd used to climb down the previous day. Ian gritted his teeth and pulled himself up. The cliff at this point rose sharply, becoming more sheer, with less footholds. Ian slipped once, but stopped his fall by snaring a rock outcropping. He cried out in pain as blood streamed off his gashed hand. Then he cursed. The blood would make the climb more slippery, as if the wind and rain didn't make it difficult enough. Ian twisted his neck around and peered out onto the lake. He couldn't see the freighter, but he knew it was there, speeding headlong for the jagged rocks.

"d.a.m.n you, LeBeck!" Ian shouted with fury, his Scottish brogue laid on thick. The anger brought him strength, and he hauled himself farther up the granite wall, commanding his muscles to move. He looked up and saw the end of the rope, flapping just out of reach. With a huge burst of energy, he leapt up and out, totally committing himself. If he missed his target, he'd be dashed on the rocks below and dragged to his death by the waves.

He did not miss.

Ian snared the rope with both hands, then hung on for dear life as the wind slammed him into the cliff. He felt his head smash against the rock. He saw stars dance in front of his eyes, but through desperation summoned up a strength he never realized he possessed, something deep in his soul, and managed to retain his grip on the rope. His hands were numb with cold, but he locked his fingers tight, squeezing with every ounce of energy. He finally swung his legs around and got himself planted against the cliff, feeling warm blood oozing down where the granite slashed the bottoms of his bare feet. Then, battling the wind and rain, his hands slipping on the slick rope, certain he would be struck by lightning at any moment, Ian began the long, painful climb to the cliff top high above.

Down in the harbor, the gangsters broke rank and began a hasty retreat. The remaining boats turned tail and headed for the open lake, preferring to take their chances with the storm than challenge the Chippewa any longer. The thugs on sh.o.r.e scattered into the woods as the huge sidewheel steamer approached the dock. As the s.h.i.+p loomed closer, the bow cannon spat fire once again. Barrels of liquor stacked high on the sand exploded, sending hundreds of gallons of whiskey cascading over the rocks and into the lake. The deck gun fired again, causing more barrels to disintegrate.

The helmsman carefully maneuvered the s.h.i.+p closer, reversing the engines at just the right time, causing the bow to gently nudge the very end of the dock, as close as he dared take the s.h.i.+p. Several old sailors gave a war cry and swung down from ropes onto the dock. They drew their cutla.s.ses and scampered off into the woods, in hot pursuit of the fleeing gangsters.

Captain Ben crouched on deck, aiming his spygla.s.s up toward the darkened lighthouse. "Come on, lad. Hurry."

Two hands came over the lip of the granite cliff, white knuckles gripping the rope that was anch.o.r.ed on the tree growing near the ledge. Ian's face appeared, contorted with pain and fatigue, the veins on his neck popping from the strain of pulling himself up the slippery rope. He grunted and forced his arms to lift one more time, finally hauling himself over the edge to safety. Ian flopped onto his back, lying there on the cold, wet gra.s.s for a brief moment, his chest heaving, blood pounding in his temples. Suddenly, a blast of wind and rain slapped him in the face, causing him to roll over and crouch on his hands and knees. He felt the urge to vomit then, but held it down. Plenty of time to be sick later.

Ian staggered to his feet, then stole a glance down toward the lake. His heart skipped a beat as the clouds parted for a moment, revealing the running lights of the freighter still closing fast on the jagged rocks, not much more than a mile out now.

Ian turned, his eyes quickly scanning the lighthouse compound for signs of life; it was completely deserted. Lightning exploded overhead, causing Ian to jump backward. His foot slipped on the edge of the cliff, but he quickly regained his balance. A harsh laugh escaped his throat. Funny to make it all this way, just to be scared to death. Ian clenched his fists, then made a mad dash for the disabled lighthouse.

The run across the lawn was maddeningly slow. Ian slipped and fell twice, unsure whether to blame the rain-slick gra.s.s or the blood coating his bare feet. Finally, he reached the sitting room at the base of lighthouse. He reached out and practically wrenched the door off its hinges.

Ian strode in, pa.s.sed through the dark sitting room to the interior of the base of the lighthouse, making directly for the clock mechanism, his way lit only by the flas.h.i.+ng of lightning overhead. As he suspected, the gangsters had allowed the gears to wind completely down. Ian quickly wound the clock springs, watching as the counterweights rose toward the ceiling. He paid no attention to the wind howling through the entryway behind him, the door thumping madly against the brick wall.

After several seconds, he decided it was enough for now. He stopped winding and stepped back, then watched the gears as they began their seesaw movement. He heard a soft whirring, coupled with a grinding from up above as the prism in the lamp room began rotating on its pedestal. Now, to light it.

Ian opened a tool chest on a nearby shelf. He fumbled inside until his fingers grasped a small metal cylinder of matches. Grasping the cylinder tightly in his palm, he turned to start up the winding staircase.

Suddenly, lightning crackled across the sky. Ian turned his head and saw a dark shadow move across the threshold of the open doorway in the adjacent sitting room. Instinctively, Ian ducked down. A shot rang out. The sound boomed inside the room, nearly loud enough to shatter Ian's eardrums. Wide-eyed, Ian looked up and saw Jean LeBeck standing in the doorway, a feral snarl curling on his lips, pistol in hand, pointed directly at the teenager.

"Kill you!" LeBeck roared, firing again.

The cement floor next to Ian exploded. He felt a jagged chip fly up and strike him in the cheek. Ian got into a crouch, his hands desperately searching the floor for something, anything, to use as a weapon. He saw LeBeck take several strides into the lighthouse interior. He was no more than ten feet away now. The gangster lowered his arm and took aim.

Ian's hand latched onto an object, an open can of kerosene. Without thinking, he launched it into the air. The can hit LeBeck square in the chest, splas.h.i.+ng kerosene upward into the gangster's eyes. Ian saw LeBeck scream and jerk back, his gun clattering to the floor. The gangster immediately dropped down, raving like an animal as he groped in the darkness for his weapon. Ian sprang up and dashed for the spiral staircase.

LeBeck swept the floor with his hand, searching for the pistol. "I'm gonna kill you, boy!" he shouted up at Ian. His hand finally b.u.mped against cold steel. He tightened his fingers around the pistol grip, then rose quickly, straightening his arm upward. He could see Ian's form dash up the spiral staircase, could hear his bare feet slapping on the metal steps. LeBeck snarled and snapped off five rapid shots, the reports booming inside the enclosed central core of the lighthouse. Up above he heard a sharp cry of pain, then more hurried footsteps. LeBeck roared and bounded up the stairs in pursuit, taking three steps with each stride.

When he reached the halfway point up the long metal stairway, LeBeck spied a dark splotch staining the handrail. He bent down, touching the warm liquid with one finger. He examined it with predator eyes. Lightning seared across the sky, turning the inside of the tower a harsh yellow, and for a brief moment illuminating the droplets of blood on LeBeck's fingers. Ian's blood. He grinned like a wolf on the hunt, then rushed up the remaining steps.

LeBeck burst into the darkened lamp room and immediately went into a half crouch, pistol at the ready. Ian was nowhere in sight. LeBeck frowned, then looked down and followed the blood trail to the far side of the huge gla.s.s prism in the center of the room. The unlit prism turned quietly on its liquid mercury bearing.

"Come out, boy," LeBeck muttered, creeping forward in the dark. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

LeBeck came to a halt and frowned again. The blood trail ceased at a trapdoor set near the lamp. LeBeck stood pondering this for a moment, and then he came to a horrible realization. He whirled around to shoot, but it was too late. He sensed a pair of hands inside the lamp a.s.sembly striking a match and touching it to a wick, and then suddenly, with a might whoosh, the lamp erupted with a blinding white light brighter than the sun.

LeBeck cried out, throwing up his arm in a vain attempt to s.h.i.+eld his eyes. He staggered back, blinded and disoriented. Again he sensed movement, this time somebody emerging from the trapdoor. LeBeck fired in the direction of the movement. The gun boomed in the tiny room, but the dark shape never stopped.

Suddenly, Ian was there in front of him. A scream tore from the boy's mouth as he rushed forward and shoved hard against LeBeck's chest.

LeBeck screamed, too. He wildly pulled the pistol trigger even as he fell backward and crashed through the window behind him. He gasped as he spun upside down through s.p.a.ce, then felt the breath knocked out of him when his hook hand abruptly caught on the iron safety rail circling the ledge. LeBeck dangled there, buffeted by the wind, animal noises and shrieks escaping his throat. He shot wildly at the figure of Ian standing over him, bullets straying high and striking the prism instead. Shards of gla.s.s flew over the boy's head as several facets exploded.

Then, like a candle in a storm, the lamp flickered and died.

Standing on the deck of the Chippewa, Ben watched the lighthouse high above on the cliff, the fiery light reflected in the front element of his spygla.s.s. Suddenly, the light blinked out.

"d.a.m.n!" Ben cursed, lowering the gla.s.s.

"What? Why did the light go out?" Clarence stood next to Ben. The lightkeeper's worried face bobbed up and down, alternating from Ben to the darkened lighthouse. "What's happened to Ian?"

With no time to answer, Ben s.h.i.+fted and focused the spygla.s.s out on the lake. He soon picked out the freighter's running lights through the murk, saw the s.h.i.+p bearing down on the island, rus.h.i.+ng headlong for the cliffs, and cursed again. Why the h.e.l.l didn't the skipper see the light? As if in answer, a bolt of electricity streaked across the sky, followed by a booming echo that shook the timbers of the Chippewa. The old sailor grimaced, realizing the lamp was lit so briefly that the fools must have mistaken it for lightning. Ben clenched his fists in frustration, knowing what he had to do next. Probably too late already, he thought, but what choice do I have?

He tried giving the order, but his mouth betrayed him, refusing to utter the words that would seal his doom. Finally, he tore the command from his lips.

"Off!"

"What?" said a puzzled Clarence.

"Everybody off the s.h.i.+p. Now!"

On the windswept catwalk surrounding the lamp room, Ian, his left arm soaked with blood, looked down on LeBeck dangling from the safety rail. The gangster aimed his pistol one more time and pulled the trigger, but heard only the metallic click of an empty chamber. Ian stared back, unflinching. LeBeck snarled and released the pistol, which fell clattering down the rocks to the water over one hundred fifty feet below.

A wind gust swept across the cliff, pulling LeBeck off the rock and battering him against the granite wall. LeBeck cried out, trying desperately now to pull himself back up before the next gust dislodged him completely. With supreme effort, he managed to lock the elbow of his good arm around the rail. He grinned up at Ian. "I'm coming for you, boy."

His jaw locked and eyes narrowed to slits, Ian slowly and deliberately pulled his mother's locket from under his s.h.i.+rt and held it out for LeBeck to see.

The wide-eyed gangster froze, dangling there on the rail, half his body still poised above the abyss. "That doesn't belong to you, boy. Give it back."

The two stared silently at each other a moment. LeBeck's hand began trembling. "Give it back," he insisted.

With a quick movement of his wrist, Ian flicked open the locket and emptied the diamonds into his other hand. He took a half step toward the very edge of the catwalk, then leaned down and offered both hands to LeBeck.

"Choose."

"What?" LeBeck said, blinking hard. His eyes flicked from hand to hand. In one, the locket with Collene's picture stared back at him. In the other, the diamonds glittered under the lightning-streaked sky.

"Choose. I toss the other into the lake. Choose."

LeBeck stayed silent, his mind reeling. His whole body shook with rage and shock. "Don't do this," he finally croaked. The wind howled in his ears as his lower body was bashed against the lighthouse tower.

Ian leaned closer. "Which hand, d.a.m.n you!"

Ian's voice hit LeBeck like a kick in the face. The breath came raw to his throat, and for a moment he felt strangely disembodied. Then, quite suddenly, silence. The world was swept away as the answer came to LeBeck with crystal clarity. There was no storm. There was no lighthouse. No gang, no guns, no liquor. No lightkeeper. Nothing.

Except for the one thing.

Ian looked into LeBeck's eyes at that moment and gasped. There was someone else in there, someone peering out from behind the wall of hate. It was a little boy, eyes tear-streaked, crying to come home.

LeBeck jerked his hand up, desperately clawing for the locket. His fingers snared the gold chain, then gripped the locket itself, just as a huge blast of wind smashed him against the tower wall and tore his arm free from his hook. Ian watched in horror as LeBeck screamed once, and then plummeted into the black abyss.

Ian leaned over the ledge, gripping the rail with white knuckles, trying to see where the gangster's body had fallen, but Lake Superior threw a giant wave against the cliffs, scouring the granite wall with a mountain of foaming, blisteringly cold water. The wave lingered on the rocks a moment, then receded back into the depths, leaving no trace of Jean LeBeck.

Ian stood at the rail looking down, stunned, his legs shaking. Suddenly, he gasped and looked up.

The s.h.i.+p.

Down at the dock, the mighty paddle wheels of the Chippewa sprang into action, churning the water furiously. The battle-scarred vessel lurched backward, easing off into the harbor.

Ben emerged from the bridge, where he had just tied off the helm with a section of rope. Behind him the s.h.i.+p's smokestack billowed black soot into the night air. Ben could feel the Chippewa's heart beating full blast under his feet, the powerful steam engine shaking the wooden deck.

Ben hurriedly rolled the last of the gunpowder barrels down the bow hatch, watching as it tumbled to the lower decks to join the pile there next to the engine room. He looked up as he felt the wind s.h.i.+fting. The s.h.i.+p was nearly halfway across the harbor. Not much time.

Ben stole a glance back toward the beach, where his crew, together with the lightkeepers and their families, watched in awe as the battered s.h.i.+p slid backward across the water. The old crew, many of them wounded and holding bandaged limbs, stood silent; the battle was over, the remaining gangsters having fled into the woods.

Ben tugged at the bow cannon, his muscles straining with the effort. He managed to turn it around so that it faced the bridge. He pushed with all his might, forcing the heavy iron weapon across the deck toward the open hatch. Finally, exhausted, his heart pounding in his chest, he made it to his destination. He leaned on the front of the cannon, pointing it downward into the hold, then stood to the side, one hand holding a smoldering wick.

"Good-bye, old girl."

The Chippewa exploded in a tremendous fireball, the force of the blast knocking the people on the beach backward. Wood and metal screamed in protest as the ancient timbers were enveloped in the inferno. Then, a second explosion rocked the night. The s.h.i.+p's boiler detonated in a chain reaction, tearing off the smokestack, which rode into the air on an arch of flame.

Sally screamed in horror. "My G.o.d! Ben!" She ran to the water's edge, wading in to her knees before her father could catch her and hold her back.

Clarence sat down hard on the sand, hands pressed over his temples, a lost expression on his face. "Mary Mother," he whispered.

The crew and families watched in shocked silence as the hulk of the Chippewa burned like a torch, then began going down fast. Farther out on the lake, the roaring flames illuminated the ore freighter. Already, with a blast of its horn, the s.h.i.+p had begun its turn, less than a quarter mile out and with barely enough room to maneuver. Sally could just imagine the pandemonium on the freighter's bridge as the flaming Chippewa lit up the cliff face directly in front of them.

The group stood watching, the wind and rain unnoticed, as the valiant Chippewa finally slid under the black water, plunging the harbor into darkness once more. Sally could see the running lights of the ore freighter glide by, just off the cliffs after having made its turn. As it headed out for the safety of open water, the s.h.i.+p signaled with its horn again, the shrill noise echoing off the cliffs. Another minute pa.s.sed, and then the running lights vanished as the s.h.i.+p cruised beyond the point.

Sally broke down sobbing then, turning away from the water, her hands buried in her face. Her father put a comforting arm around her, trying at the same time to s.h.i.+eld her from the tugging wind.

The Chippewa's crew gathered on the beach, hats off and heads bowed, looking old and wizened, no longer like warriors. "Good-bye, Cap'n," said one old sailor. "May G.o.d have mercy on your soul."