Isle Royale Part 1

Isle Royale.

John Hamilton.

The Storm.

1883.

And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

One black November night off Minnesota's rocky North Sh.o.r.e, a wintry nor'easter threw its icy shoulders onto Lake Superior. The Lady, as wary sailors called the lake, thrashed and howled against the storm that raged upon her surface. Churning water sprang into mountains of foam and death. Waves crashed down on some unseen sh.o.r.e, a symphony of booms, cracks, and hollow echoes lurking behind veils of black-velvet night. Sheets of rain poured from malevolent clouds, and every few seconds lightning set the sky ablaze like fiery stage curtains from h.e.l.l.

Through the tempest a ship appeared, rushing headlong into the wind. She was a sidepaddle steamer, her single smokestack puffing away, billowing soot into the already bleak night. The ship measured two hundred feet from stem to stern. She could hold her own against any storm the inland sea unleashed, but on this night her wooden hull groaned with every slap of every wave. The ship's paddle wheels dug in, propelling her forward through the surge. Stars and stripes fluttered at the stern, wind ripping the flag to shreds.

A riot of sound tore through the air-thunder boomed overhead, wind howled, waves crashed and hissed against the ship's hull. Then, another noise: the screaming of men, women, and children, as if sheer terror had risen from the water itself and lashed out against the rampaging elements.

The steamer cut bravely through the waves, advancing across the storm-tossed lake against all odds. And then, quite suddenly, she ran aground, smashing against something big, some unseen reef. The ship lurched to a halt. A groan welled up from belowdecks as wood gave way, bending and snapping. The ship lurched again, her huge paddles still churning the water, driving her higher onto the rocks, tightening the noose around her neck. Then she hung there, her bow teetering over the water, suspended and helpless.

The ship balanced on the rock a few moments more, and then a bone-crushing wave hit her side, nearly capsizing her. She lurched sickeningly, then righted herself, smashing back down into the water and drifting away from the deadly shoal.

As knee-deep water swirled on deck, a lone figure staggered toward the bridge. It was a sailor in a rain-slicked mackintosh, its edges whipping and snapping at the wind. The man made his way from the bow, feet slipping and sliding across the wooden planks. Another wave slapped down, nearly washing him overboard. He grabbed a side rail and hung on for dear life, shouting to G.o.d not to cast him into a watery grave. The water subsided, and the sailor continued his slippery trek across the deck.

Inside the bridge, another sailor wrestled with the helm. The big wooden wheel, its eight handles projecting out like spokes, jerked and twisted, trying to wrench itself free. The sailor gritted his teeth and held tight, muscled arms quivering from the strain. The man winced as hail pelted the windows. The frozen bullets hammered at the gla.s.s, threatening to shatter the thin boundary between the relative safety of the bridge and the raging maelstrom outside.

Behind the helmsman, crouched in the corner of the small room, was another sailor, sobbing, the side of his head streaked with blood.

"Olson, help me!" shouted the helmsman. But the injured man curled up tight and buried his face. "For G.o.d's sake, pull yourself together!" More sobbing. The helmsman curled his lip in disgust. Amateur. He turned back to face the storm.

Wind lashed mercilessly at the windows, driving the hail into the gla.s.s until it cracked, thin veins creeping outward like spider webs. A wave heaved up and smashed against the panes. The helmsman flinched and jerked his hand up to protect his face, but the gla.s.s held.

Just then, the man in the mackintosh burst in through the access door. He struggled at the threshold and was nearly sucked out to sea by the wind. He finally broke free and hurled himself through the doorway, landing on the floor with a wet thud. The man gasped for breath, then quickly turned and kicked at the door, wedging it shut.

"Captain!" shouted the helmsman toward the new arrival. "I couldn't hold her! That devil wind blew us right up the reef!"

The man staggered to his feet, mouth open, struggling for air. He tried speaking, but could only hack and cough up a lungful of water. His face was streaked with blood, which oozed from a wide gash on his forehead. His neatly trimmed beard was soaked in crimson. He ripped off his coat. Underneath, he wore the blue captain's uniform of the United States Revenue Service, two gold bars flashing across each shoulder. But his wool pants were shredded, ripped and tattered by the wind and waves. He tossed his coat aside, his chest heaving from exertion.

"For sh.o.r.e!" he finally croaked. "Head for sh.o.r.e! There's nothing more we can do here."

"But...," stuttered the shocked helmsman. "The Rowan!"

"Now, d.a.m.n you!" the captain snapped, eyes blazing. "Head for sh.o.r.e or we're all dead men!"

At that moment, another wave crashed against the window. The gla.s.s screeched, then gave out, shattering inward and spraying the captain and helmsman with jagged shards. With the window now open to the night air, the wind and rain howled in triumph. But over the noise of the storm came another, more horrifying sound: the screaming of women and children. From out of nowhere it came, shrieks piercing the room, rising to a fevered crescendo until it drowned out all else.

The captain reached for the wheel to help the helmsman fight against the waves, but after a moment he fell to his knees, completely exhausted now, his face twisted in agony. He clamped his fists over his ears and shut his eyes tight, twisting his body away from the open window.

The helmsman heard a noise, different from the chaos swirling around him. He turned and looked down, and to his horror saw the captain on his knees sobbing like a frightened child. The helmsman whirled and stared back out into the storm, trying to find some landward beacon. They were doomed. "G.o.d have mercy on us," he muttered.

At the back of the bridge, the sailor huddled in the corner, who until now had remained silent, suddenly sprang up, his eyes wild with fear and torment. "The lifeboats!" he screamed, then lurched forward.

The helmsman snapped his head around. "Olson! Get back!"

But the terrified sailor was already at the door, tugging at it. With one last great effort, the door flew open. The man stumbled out and slipped on the wooden deck. Almost immediately, a tremendous wave slapped the side of the ship. The water smashed the sailor down, then grabbed him and swept him across the deck. He desperately grabbed for support, but to his shock and horror felt the side rail slip from his fingers as he was tossed out to the open sea.

When he hit the surface, the icy cold water of Superior sent shock waves through the sailor's body. He gasped and flailed his arms, struggling to keep his head above the surface. Wave after wave slapped him back down. Soon his fingers went numb, and he lost feeling in his legs. Lightning crackled directly overhead, adding to his terror. Another wave crashed over him, forcing water into his lungs. He coughed violently, still struggling.

The last thing the sailor saw with mortal eyes was the ship, listing badly now, steaming away from him. Suddenly, a huge wave, like the hand of G.o.d, smashed down on the vessel, obscuring it totally from view.

The sailor trembled once, then sighed as his body went limp. A final wave broke overhead and pushed him under the surface, the Lady swallowing him up for all time.

Chapter One.

Isle Royale.

1924.

From the water, Stone Harbor, home to treacherous reefs and many a shipwreck, is a forbidding place indeed. And on a chill autumn night, with choppy seas roiling beneath black clouds, the harbor can be absolutely terrifying. Yet this night, despite the threat of heavy weather, a yacht approached the great granite cliffs on the western edge of Isle Royale. Its hull painted jet black, its running lights switched off, the yacht merged with the inky darkness, creeping forward on the water like a phantom. Just over the horizon, beyond forested ridges rising up behind the cliffs, an occasional lightning strike lit up the cloud-darkened sky.

Named by French explorers after King Louis XIV, Isle Royale sits in the stormy northwest corner of Lake Superior. It's a big island encompa.s.sing 210 square miles of rugged wilderness, a green jewel set in deep blue. As one approaches from the west, three hours by boat from Minnesota's North Sh.o.r.e near the Canadian border, the island appears like a sleeping giant on the horizon. Drawing closer, features begin to stand out: above the rocky sh.o.r.e, thick forests of birch, aspen, and jack pine blanket the parallel ridges rising steeply from the waterline. The trees are thick and seemingly impenetrable, except for the occasional bald spot on the Greenstone Ridge, backbone of Isle Royale, rearing up over 1,300 feet and running the length of the island's forty-five miles (though only nine miles at its widest). Secluded fjords and bays beckon the weary sailor. There's a timeless quality about the place. On still nights, when the Lady sleeps, fog gently rolls in from the water, enveloping the forests and rocky sh.o.r.es in misty, dreamlike curtains.

Borne of fire deep within the earth's crust, the island is all that remains of an ancient mountain range running southwest and northeast, parallel to Michigan's Keweenaw Peninsula. Fractured by the sinking of the Superior Basin, Isle Royale was scoured and smoothed by thousands of years of glacial sculpting. As the glaciers melted, they left behind their legacy: jagged inlets and coves and an abundant number of crystal-blue inland lakes.

But Isle Royale's beauty came with a price. Dozens of shipwrecks lie scattered on Lake Superior's bottom, prey to the island's rocky sh.o.r.es and hidden reefs. When storms blow, especially the gales of November, Superior becomes the most dangerous piece of water in the world. On the north and west side of the island especially, the lake develops slow rollers that sweep unsuspecting ships right up on the jagged rocks. Once caught between the waves and cliffs, ships are sunk immediately, or smashed and churned until little remains but driftwood and corpses.

On this dark, windswept night, with storm clouds sweeping across the sky, the black-hulled yacht slowly prowled its way toward Stone Harbor. Actually a bay embracing an archipelago of small islands and several submerged reefs, the harbor is lined with granite cliffs towering 150 feet straight up from the lakesh.o.r.e. Only a handful of places are suitable for boats to land, and even these are dicey in rough weather.

The yacht made a course correction as it rounded Wilson Island at the mouth of the harbor, its bow pointed toward a tiny spit of land jutting out from the cliff face of Wolf Point. The ship bobbed and tossed on the choppy water. A wooden dock just large enough to accommodate two boats extended from the narrow beach ahead.

A man wearing a black mackintosh emerged from the cabin of the yacht. Gripping the side rail, he carefully made his way to the bow and stood there, gazing forward, paying no heed to the wind and spray stinging his exposed face.

As the outline of the beach came into sharper view, a light atop the craggy granite cliffs suddenly pierced the darkness. The brilliant beam swept across the water, illuminating the yacht for an instant. The man on deck threw his arm up and winced. Then the light was gone, sailing far out over the surface of the lake.

A wave crashed over the yacht's bow, drenching the mysterious stranger. He held the rail tight and rode with the ship as it sank down, then shot back up, sending his stomach into tailspins. He ignored the sickness in his belly and stared upward at the light perched on the cliff. His eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to focus through the wind and water spray. He c.o.c.ked his head as he heard, above the roar of the wind and the pounding of the surf, the faint sound of... bagpipes.

A smile crept onto the man's lips. Then, like water crashing against a rocky sh.o.r.e and trickling back to the lake, the smile held for a moment and slowly faded, leaving only piercing, malevolent eyes to stare longingly at the light atop the cliffs.

Chapter Two.

The storm struck quickly that night, as most storms do on Lake Superior. Dark, boiling clouds rushed in from the southwest, borne on an ill wind that blew noisily across the water. The churning inland sea heaved, throwing up walls of water that smashed against the base of the cliffs below Wolf Point.

Thunder crashed overhead, announcing the squall's arrival. As it rolled in, the tempest wrapped Isle Royale in a blanket of gloom. But perched on the craggy granite cliffs of Stone Harbor, a light pierced the darkness.

Wolf Point Lighthouse stood watch that forbidding night, its brilliant ray scanning the black water of Lake Superior 150 feet below. As thunder and lightning battled in the heavens, the lighthouse beam plied the water, moving across the lake in regular, precise rhythm. Any pa.s.sing mariner could discern his exact location by the ten-second interval of the flashing beacon, which identified the lighthouse and the treacherous waters over which it stood guard.

Constructed of steel and brick, the octagonal tower was perched on the very lip of Wolf Point, adding forty feet to the sheer cliff face. The base of the tower was made of white and yellow brick, while the top was capped with black-painted steel, with a grid of iron and gla.s.s that opened to lakeside. Inside the lantern room, an incandescent oil vapor lamp lighted a huge six-ton bivalve lens. Brighter than the sun, it was impossible to look directly into the lens without being blinded. Because of the height of the cliffs upon which the lighthouse perched, the beam could be seen for over sixty miles on a clear night.

Circling the upper level was a narrow maintenance ledge called the lantern deck, upon which a man stood facing the inland sea. Dark welder-type gla.s.ses shielded him from the overpowering eye of the lamp. With both hands he gripped a strange contraption that appeared to grow right out of his body, with long, straight tubes projecting up and behind.

As he blew on a narrow pipe, he simultaneously squeezed a bag of plaid cloth under his arm. A horrible noise erupted from the device. A strange smile came over the man's face. The music from the great Highland bagpipe drifted outward, playing an eerie counterpoint to the sound of the approaching storm.

Suddenly, lightning flashed overhead, too close for comfort. The wind gusted, tugging at the man. He stopped playing and gripped a side rail for support. The icy steel bit his weathered hand, but he barely noticed. He pushed the dark gla.s.ses up over his forehead. He squinted and scanned the water for pa.s.sing ships. Far out on the lake, between Isle Royale and the North Sh.o.r.e, he thought he saw the running lights of an iron ore freighter. The man grimaced. It was a bad night to tempt the Lady.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time. Reluctantly, the man opened a small access door, no more than four feet tall. He hunched down and pushed himself through, retreating to the safety of the lighthouse.

Ian MacDougal stood at the window of the sitting room, looking up at the lighthouse tower. When he saw his father disappear inside the lamp room, the sixteen-year-old breathed a sigh of relief. Sooner or later, he fretted, the Old Man is going to get himself killed playing up there. At least the infernal racket was over for now. Ian shook his head and sat down at a small desk occupying a corner of the room. Next to the desk an iron stove crackled and glowed from the coal fire burning in its belly.

The sitting room was small, a one-room affair built against the base of the lighthouse. Here, the lightkeepers sat watch during the long nights, climbing the tower occasionally to check the timing and condition of the lamp. Or play bagpipes.

Ian stared at a schoolbook lying open in front of him. It was a history text as dry, dusty and boring as any produced by the American school system. Ian picked it up and flipped through crinkled yellow pages. Next to him on the desk was his father's typewriter, an old black Oliver on which the lightkeeper filled out his daily reports. Without thinking, Ian put one hand on the keyboard and absentmindedly jabbed at a key-snap, snap, snap-as he wondered why on Earth anyone cared about James Madison, the Monroe Doctrine, or the War of 1812.

Ian rarely studied in the sitting room. But the a.s.sistant lightkeeper, Mr. Young, was ill with stomach flu that night, and Ian had begged to help his father. His mother had consented only on the condition he finish his homework as well. Ian agreed, but as usual, was having trouble concentrating. There were so many distractions in the lighthouse, so many more interesting things for a teenage boy to pay attention to.

A pedestal on the other side of the room held a worn-out Victrola, from which the great opera singer Enrico Caruso belted out a melody from I Pagliacci. Ian gazed at the phonograph a moment, then got up, happy to delay his homework a while longer. He took the heavy needle off the record, then slipped the sh.e.l.lac disk back in its sleeve. He frowned as he flipped through his father's music collection. Nothing but opera and ragtime. Ian shrugged, found a Scott Joplin recording, and put it on the platter. Ragtime was old-fashioned, but anything was better than opera.

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 G.o.dforsaken 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 Sh.o.r.e. 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 pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 bra.s.swork surrounding the lighthouse lens, rubbing methodically until the bra.s.s 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 gla.s.s prisms, both reflecting and refracting, and a.s.sembled 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 bra.s.s fuel a.s.sembly tank bolted just under the lens a.s.sembly. 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 b.u.t.tons 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 b.u.t.tons. 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 a.s.signments. 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 a.s.sembly 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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?"