Isle Royale Part 19

Suddenly, the night sky lit up, the clouds pierced by the brilliant beam of the lighthouse. Clarence snapped his face up toward the cliff, his eyes dancing. He could see the figure of Ian waving down from the lamp room. "That's my boy!"

High up in the tower, Ian stood on the iron catwalk, waving to the group on the beach. He glanced behind him to check the rotating lamp. The blinding light flashed out into the night, sending its warning beacon to any other ships caught in the storm. Several facets of the prism were shattered, but enough remained to cast a straight beam. More serious were the bullet holes in the kerosene reservoir under the lamp. Ian had worked quickly to plug them up with rags, then refilled the reservoir with a canister of fuel hauled up from the lower level. The repair job was crude, but it would get them through the night.

Ian turned back and waved again. All was well.

The group moved up the path toward the shelter of the lighthouse compound, the old men shuffling along, stumbling on the unlit dirt path, rain and wind pelting them. The lightkeepers and their families brought up the rear, anxious to be back in the warmth of their houses, yet somehow reluctant to move on, to abandon the site of Captain Ben's heroic sacrifice. Sally was last in line, hot tears washed by the rain. She turned her head back as they moved up the path, hoping somehow to catch one last glimpse of the old sailor who had stood there so valiantly on the burning deck. But she saw nothing except darkness in the harbor, empty black water.

Then, a noise, a faint splashing. Sally froze, her heart skipping a beat. Was it just a fish jumping in the water? "Wait," she commanded the others, then dashed back toward the lake.

Captain Ben floated face down in the oily water, clinging weakly to a charred wooden plank. He raised his head out of the water briefly. He gasped for air, blood streaming off his forehead. The initial explosion had blown Ben clear of the ship and into the water, with nothing more serious than a ruptured eardrum and a gashed leg, but when the Chippewa's boiler blew Ben was showered with flaming debris. Now he clung precariously to the small piece of driftwood, barely conscious from the trauma of a ma.s.sive head wound. He could feel the freezing water sapping what little life was left in his sh.e.l.l of a body. Still, he clung to the plank, fingers clawing at the wood, struggling to keep his head above water. Finally, Ben's eyes fluttered, and he felt his muscles begin to relax.

High above him on the cliff, the lighthouse shone its bright beacon onto the lake. The beam swept across the harbor, snapping Ben back to consciousness. His eyes twinkled for a brief moment.

"Can you forgive me now, Lenore?" he whispered, ready to surrender himself to the lake.

Then, he saw her.

She appeared first as a pinpoint of light far out on the lake, then swept in close, walking over the water toward Ben. She was an angelic beauty, radiant skin glowing bright yellow, dressed in shimmering white and gold samite that flowed behind her in an ethereal breeze. She smiled at Ben, bright eyes twinkling, then knelt down and with long, delicate hands cupped his face, caressing him, washing away the pain. She leaned over and kissed him lightly. She whispered his name in his ear.

And then, she was gone.

Ben gave a faint smile and exhaled once, then his eyelids fluttered and he slowly, peacefully, slipped under the lake.

Strong hands shot down into the water, gripping Ben by the coat lapels and hauling him back to the surface. Ben sputtered water. His eyes snapped open, and he saw Sally above him, leaning over the side of a rowboat. She struggled to keep Ben's head above water.

"You're not getting out of here that easy, Ben."

The old captain managed a feeble grin, then kicked his feet to tread water, feeling new life flowing through him. Sally struggled to haul him into the boat.

Suddenly, the pair was illuminated by the bright beam of a searchlight. Sally turned her head and looked toward the mouth of the harbor and saw a ship, a large Coast Guard cutter, white with red trim, steaming toward the dock. She raised an arm to hail them.

"About time they showed up," Ben said as he flopped into the rowboat.

"Better late than never, Ben. Better late than never."

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

A radiant sun shone down on Rock Harbor, low in the sky but still warm for a late November afternoon. Still, the closing of the seasons was unmistakable-the trees had long since lost their covering, bare branches now waved in the cool breeze, crisp leaves crunched underfoot. In less than a month, Lake Superior would ice up, the shipping lanes would close, and the lightstations would shut down for the season. But on this day, the waves lapped gently upon the rocky sh.o.r.es of Isle Royale. The Lady rested now, her fury spent, waiting for the icy shoulders of winter.

Rock Harbor, on the extreme northeast corner of Isle Royale, is a narrow, ten-mile-long stretch of water, with the island proper to the west and a series of outer islands to the east that form a barrier to Lake Superior. The water here is usually calm; even during the worst storms it is merely choppy, with countless coves and inlets in which to take cover.

On the far north end of the harbor, nestled in a well-protected cove, sat the Coast Guard station, which shared a series of docks with several other vessels from time to time, pa.s.senger liners and the occasional supply boat. Today, a crowd gathered on the docks near the Coast Guard cutter. There was a festive atmosphere among the people, an excitement barely contained.

Seagulls flew high above the placid water, their shrill cries echoing down on the crowd. One bird broke away from the flock and hurtled downward, sharp beak projected forward, its eye attracted by a glint of something shiny on the ground. The gull zoomed through the air, coming close to its prize, then realized its mistake and at the last second pulled up and away. As it circled away from the docks, it let loose a scolding cry that echoed in the autumn air.

Clarence looked up at the crazy gull and frowned. Glancing down again, he opened his shiny new gold watch, which gleamed like fire in the sunlight. He frowned, somewhat annoyed. "What's the delay?" he said to no one in particular. "I've got me a lighthouse to attend."

"Hush, now," said Collene, who stood at his side. She wore a brand-new dress and matching coat, bought the previous day, just for this occasion, from a supply ship out of Duluth. She turned toward Clarence and adjusted his crisp dress uniform, taking care not to b.u.mp the bandages and splints. "I'm sure Mr. Young is doing just fine attending the light on his own."

"Aye, you're right," Clarence said, trying to sound less gruff. "But I'd still like to get this show on the road." It wasn't that Clarence didn't trust his a.s.sistant to keep the lighthouse in working order. Far from it. Clarence was simply impatient to get back and continue working on their plans, their future.

With LeBeck dead, the authorities had declared the diamonds to be the MacDougals' property, minus a sum deducted to pay for damages to the lighthouse and reconstruction of the fuel shed. (The U.S. Lighthouse Service had conveniently sent Clarence a bill.) Clarence split the remainder with Keeper Young. Now they had to figure out what to do with their share. Whatever they decided, Clarence was determined to keep his job as head lightkeeper. It was in his blood. He could never be happy sitting in a chair in some fancy house sipping lemonade, watching the world go by. He had a job to do. But he vowed his family would never live in poverty again.

Collene smiled as she smoothed his lapel with the palm of her hand. "Always the impatient one. Don't you know we've got all the time in the world?"

Clarence's face broke into a crinkly smile, his eyes glinting with joy. He snapped the watch shut and pocketed it, then wrapped an arm around his wife and drew her close. And then, in broad daylight, in front of the crowd surrounding them, he kissed her, a long, lingering kiss that sent their hearts soaring.

"Hoo hoo!" Sally cried out. She and Ian stood a few paces away near the edge of the docks, with Ian wearing a new cap and Sally sporting a blue dress and coat.

"Sal!" Ian scolded, trying to avert his eyes. He glanced to his left and saw Captain Ben standing there at attention, looking prim and proper in spite of the head bandages and crutches. Ben turned his head slightly and locked eyes with Ian. A trace of a smile crept onto his lips. Then he stiffened, eyes straight ahead once again.

Ian heard the sound of someone dragging a heavy object over the docks. He turned and saw Old Ollhoff, the Norwegian fisherman, grumbling to himself as he hauled his aged sea chest toward the end of the pier and a waiting pa.s.senger steamer, which would take him on the first leg of his journey home. A smile lit on Ian's face. At least the old fisherman would be escaping his father's bagpipe playing.

"So," said Sally, interrupting his train of thought. "Now that your folks can afford to send you off to college, what are you going to do with your life?"

Ian shrugged. "That's so long from now. We've still got a few summers at the lighthouse."

"I know. But then what?"

Ian looked a little bewildered. He'd always imagined himself running a lighthouse someday, like his father. It was always a.s.sumed, like it or not. But now...

"Well," said Sally, not waiting for Ian's reply, "I'm going to Minneapolis, and then start a sailing school. Hang around the big city for a while. Then maybe run for governor."

Ian smiled. "You've got my vote, Sal."

"So, what about you?"

"Maybe go to the university, become a writer. Or learn to play jazz trumpet." Ian's eyes twinkled at the thought.

"Well," said Sally, leaning closer, "No matter where you go or what you do, you'll always be my lighthouse, Ian MacDougal." She quickly kissed him on the cheek, then stepped back and smiled. Ian, his eyes wide with surprise, looked over at her beaming face. His face felt flushed, and for a moment a dizzy spell came over him. Sally reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him. "Don't fall into the lake, Ian. It was only a kiss."

"Sal..." he stammered.

"Shush, you two!" whispered Ben out of the corner of his mouth. It was time.

Ben and his crew stood shoulder to shoulder, lining the edge of the dock, with Ben and the two teenagers at the end. The old sailors stood stiffly at attention, some on crutches, some with bandages wrapped around wounded limbs. They stood proudly, their snowy-white hair and beards standing in sharp contrast to their crisp navy-blue dress uniforms. Many in the crowd were relatives of the long-lost sailors, here to take them home at last. But first, one final ceremony.

A senior officer of the Coast Guard, brought up from the main station in Duluth for the occasion, disembarked from the cutter, then marched stiffly down the length of the pier toward Captain Ben.

"Here he comes," whispered Ian, giddy with excitement.

"Shhh!" Sally nudged Ian with her elbow.

The officer stopped and turned to face Ben. They squared off, staring into each other's eyes.

"Captain Ben Sellers," the man began. Ben's crew, and the crowd gathered near, held their collective breath.

"The Coast Guard salutes you." The officer pinned a medal on Ben's chest, stepped back and snapped a salute.

Ben, in unison with his old crew, raised his aged arm and responded back, as crisp and smart a salute as ever was thrown.

"All right!" cried Ian, tossing his cap high into the air. The crowd erupted in cheers.

Ian grinned and looked up into Ben's eyes. Windows to the soul, they twinkled and shone with a new fire from within.

That night, as darkness wrapped its arms around Isle Royale, the lighthouse once again came to life. To the sound of bagpipes drifting over the water, the bright beam pierced the dark, ever searching, ever protecting.

THE END.

About the author:.

John Hamilton lives in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota, with his wife, three lovely daughters, and a little black dog named Charlie. He has been writing fiction nearly all his life and has taught creative writing as an adjunct professor at Concordia University in St. Paul, Minnesota. Isle Royale is his first young-adult novel.

John is also a bestselling author of children's nonfiction. His work includes books on fantasy folklore, the national parks, and pirates. Lewis Clark: Adventures West (Sparrow Media Group) was named a finalist at the 17th Annual Minnesota Book Awards in 2005. In 2008, John won a Golden Duck Award for excellence in children's science fiction literature, for a 12-book series called The World of Science Fiction (Abdo Publishing). In 2010, John won a second Golden Duck Award for You Write It: Science Fiction (Abdo Publishing).

John's hobbies include researching the American West, and King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable. He is a martial artist, with black belts in both karate and kung fu. John can be found most summers hiking along Minnesota's North Sh.o.r.e. He is also an award-winning photojournalist and nature photographer.

Connect with John online:.

Web: www.johnchamilton.com.

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