Part 12 (1/2)

Chapter Twenty-Six.

In the relative calm of McCargoe Cove, the ancient crew of the Chippewa gathered on deck. They stood solemnly in a tight circle, their old eyes downcast, wrinkled faces creased further with worry and deep thought. By now the rains had abated, but above them the storm still echoed across the landscape; treetops creaked as the wind blew through, and frequent lightning strikes boomed up and down the fjordlike cove.

Captain Ben, his face grim, stood in the middle of the group. ”Then it's decided,” he said. He unsheathed a gleaming silver cutla.s.s. ”I'll take care of it, lads. Wait here.”

Ben marched off, cutla.s.s gripped firmly in his hand. His crew watched in stony silence.

In the captain's cabin, Ian and Sally sat side by side on a bunk, waiting. The room was small, though tastefully decorated, with just enough s.p.a.ce for a bunk, chair and table, and a tiny closet to stow gear and extra clothes. A single oil lamp burned on the table, giving the room a warm glow.

Underneath, they could feel the s.h.i.+p groan and rock gently on the water. Ian, his eyes wide, stood and stared out the single bra.s.s porthole into the black night. He'd changed out of his wet clothes and donned one of Ben's spare uniforms. It was sloppy and oversized, but warm. He watched as tall pines waved on sh.o.r.e, bending with the tempest. Ian's eyes seemed to glow from the flickering lamplight, like a fire burning within.

”What's taking so long?” he said, breaking the silence. He started pacing impatiently back and forth across the cramped quarters. He tried the cabin door again, but the handle turned uselessly in his hand. Ben had escorted them belowdecks, then mysteriously locked them in his cabin without saying a word.

”Maybe they decided to wait out the storm,” Sally volunteered.

”We don't have time for that,” Ian said.

”Ian, who are these old guys? What are they doing here?”

”I don't know,” he said thoughtfully. ”I don't think we're supposed to know.”

Just then, they heard a click, and saw the door swing open. In the entryway stood Captain Ben, cutla.s.s in hand, his jaw locked in grim determination. Sally gasped at the sight. Ian took a step backward, pressing his back against the wall. Ben strode into the room and saw the frightened expressions on their faces. He smiled and set the cutla.s.s down upon the table and showed them his empty hands.

”Easy, mates,” Ben said soothingly. ”I've got a tale to tell, but first there's something we need to do.”

A single white candle burned in the middle of the table, around which sat Captain Ben, Ian, and Sally. The two teenagers were perched on the bunk, with the table crammed up against it, giving just enough room for Ben in the cramped cabin. The captain leaned over and blew out the oil lamp, sending the room into a hazy darkness, broken only by the flickering of the little candle.

Ben gripped his cutla.s.s and turned it blade up. He pressed his thumb onto the razor-sharp cutting edge, then made a quick motion forward, slicing open the flesh. A bright drop of crimson spread quickly over the wound.

”Now you,” he said, gesturing to the cutla.s.s. Ian and Sally hesitated a moment, unsure what to do next. ”Come on, now,” Ben said impatiently, ”it won't hurt. Much. Haven't you ever taken a blood oath before?”

Ian and Sally winced as Ben sliced open their thumbs with the cutla.s.s. ”Ouch,” whined Ian.

”Baby,” Sally smirked.

Ian stared daggers at Sally, then turned to Ben. ”Now what?”

”Together, over the flame,” Ben said. The trio joined thumbs, their blood intermixing. A droplet formed, then fell into the flame and sizzled.

Ben leaned back in his chair. ”It's done, then.” He took a deep breath. With a conspiratorial air, he said, ”As blood members of the Order of the Chippewa, you are herby sworn to secrecy for that which I am about to tell you.”

Ben paused for effect, staring hard into Ian and Sally's eyes. They leaned forward, eager to hear the story he was about to tell.

”As you know,” Ben began, ”the Chippewa is a Revenue Cutter.”

”The old Coast Guard,” Ian volunteered.

”That's right, lad,” said Ben, smiling. ”My story begins the night of our last voyage. It was a vicious storm that blew in 41 years ago, the night of November 12, 1883.”

Ian stole a glace toward Sally. The candle on the table sputtered a moment, then flared bright. A droplet of their blood slowly spread downward as Ben continued.

”We knew there'd be trouble that night,” he said, his voice lowered to a near whisper. ”Always is when Superior gets her dander up. But we were ready. Not a white hair in the bunch, back then. By the time the night was over, though, we'd all be a lot older.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

I've sailed a mean stretch of water in my time. The North Atlantic in winter, The North Sea, even sailed around the Horn during heavy seas, which is how I got this gold ring in my ear. But never, in all my years of sailing, have I encountered such a dangerous piece of water as Lake Superior when the gales of November blow. The Lady, she fools you with placid water on sunny clear mornings. But when you're out in her domain, sailor beware. She can rear up faster than lightning, and she'll do her d.a.m.nedest to kill you with icy waves and hurricane winds.

That November morning in 1883 was picture-perfect: sea like gla.s.s, gulls floating high above on a gentle breeze. Their shrill cry hearkened me back to my seafaring days. But on that morning, I was a Revenue Service Captain, fresh from training, with a fine crew and a finer s.h.i.+p. The Chippewa, with its twin sidewheel paddles, could outrun almost any vessel on the lake, and we would, in the course of our duty. Smugglers, mostly, is who we were after, using the lake to avoid customs, or transporting illegal goods, things like guns and liquor. Even stopped a s.h.i.+p once hauling slaves, ”mail-order brides” stolen from Vancouver Chinatown, heading for some rich pathetic b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who don't know the meaning of the words humanity or kindness or decency. But we put a stop to 'em, we did. It was our duty, and that was the most important thing.

We set out from Duluth Harbor that morning, full of spit and vinegar. It was nearly the end of our tour of duty. Ice would choke off the lake in the next few weeks, and barge traffic was thinning out already. Barring any emergencies, our mission that day was a simple one: sail to Isle Royale and put in for the night at Windigo, at the end of secluded Was.h.i.+ngton Harbor on the southern tip of the island. There, we would meet the Rowan, a sightseeing steamer coming out of Two Harbors on the Minnesota coast. Among her pa.s.sengers were family members of my crew, come to celebrate the completion of our first season on the lake. My bride-to-be, Lenore, was on that s.h.i.+p.

They say that, with time, all wounds heal, that horrible events fade from memory until they're but a whisper in the mind. But they're wrong. Dead wrong. I remember that night clear as crystal, like it happened just moments ago. I relive it every day, and every night in my dreams.

We never made it to Windigo. By midday, the Lady crept up on us and unleashed her fury. I had to make a decision then-head back and maybe limp into Two Harbors, or press on to the island, which was the shorter route. In those days, Isle Royale was wilder than it is now, just lumber and mining camps, mostly. But I knew we could ride out the storm at Windigo. Was.h.i.+ngton Harbor is deep and well protected, a narrow finger of water that projects several miles inland.

But I also had the Rowan on my mind. I had to be sure the little steamer was safe and sound. She was due to arrive on the island hours before us. If the storm had caught her by surprise as well, I was sure the captain would put in to Windigo to ride out the tempest. I made my decision and gave the order: full steam ahead!

It was slow going pus.h.i.+ng into the maelstrom. By sundown, we were staring down forty knots of wind, with dark seas and sky crying. An hour later, the wind was hard enough to blow dogs off chains. I began to regret my decision not to turn back. Black waves crashed over the side of my s.h.i.+p, smas.h.i.+ng into the bridge and blotting out the storm-swept lake. The waters cleared, only to be replaced by yet another bone-crunching wave. I felt the Chippewa lurch to the side, sending me and my crew scrambling to hold on. For the first time since we'd sailed Lake Superior, fear crept its way up my spine.

I stood there in the wheelroom, forty years younger than I am today, prim and proper in my navy blue uniform, gold braid hanging from my shoulder. I remember nervously rubbing my black beard as I stood next to the wheel, scanning the horizon. My eyes nervously darted from side to side, searching for the island. We were close, I knew. Very close.

”Steady, lads,” I said to the terrified men on the bridge. ”Steady.” If I could keep my crew from panicking, I knew we would make it. I prayed to G.o.d that the Rowan was already safe and snug at Windigo.

No sooner had this thought pa.s.sed my mind, when a flare, a distress signal, shot up not far off the starboard bow. My navigator was the first to spy it.

”There!” he cried, pointing out the window into the black night. ”There she is!”

I moved close to the window and peered out between the beating waves. I felt the blood drain from my face as I beheld a most horrific scene.

On her approach to Windigo, the Rowan had smashed up on Rock of Ages Reef, a nasty spit of granite five miles offsh.o.r.e from the southern tip of Isle Royale. It sits there on the lake like a giant set of fangs reaching up from the deep, ready to tear open the hull of any s.h.i.+p unlucky enough to wander onto its sh.o.r.e. Just six years earlier, in 1877, the steamer c.u.mberland was sent to a watery grave on just this spot.

The Rowan must have been making good speed when she struck, because nearly half her bottom was projecting out of the water, resting on the reef. The s.h.i.+p looked savaged by the storm. I could plainly see, near the waterline, a huge gash tore straight through the hull.

Dozens of men, women, and children crowded the deck, despite the high winds and rough seas bas.h.i.+ng at the s.h.i.+p. I could see the captain and his small crew trying in vain to calm the panicked pa.s.sengers. I could almost imagine their screams of despair drowning out the gale winds that tore through them.

The Rowan was taking on water fast, rocking and swaying on its tenuous perch. She shuddered once, then began to list, threatening to fall over completely and dump her precious cargo into the freezing inland sea.

We were still too far away. I beat my open palms on the window, as if doing so would magically transport both s.h.i.+ps to the safety of Windigo. Mad with terror, I could only watch helplessly as the Rowan was repeatedly battered by wave after bone-crus.h.i.+ng wave.

Then I saw her. She was standing on deck, near the stern, white dress flapping in the gale. My beloved stood there, a calm look on her face, as if she knew I was coming to her rescue. ”Lenore,” I whispered.

The Chippewa steamed bravely through the waves. We were close now, almost close enough to shoot a line over and grapple. Suddenly, I saw everyone on deck scream as the Rowan lurched and tilted wildly. Several pa.s.sengers were tossed overboard. In vain they tried swimming for the wind-swept rock, but the waves slapped them back, drowning them like rats.