Isle Royale Part 3

"Yes," she repeated.

A pause. "Okay, then."

Sally quickly moved to the table and kissed the top of her father's towel-draped head. He moaned and waved good-bye with one upraised hand. Sally grinned and then hurried out the back door.

Ian's heart raced as he eased himself backwards over the cliff, one hand gripped tightly to the rope above him, the other hand skillfully adjusting the loop wrapped around his waist. Every time Ian went rappelling, there was that first leap of faith, that brief moment of terror when he leaned back over the edge, certain he was about to fall to his death. But the moment always pa.s.sed, as it did this day, and Ian soon went about the business of bouncing down the cliff face of Wolf Point.

His parents had never understood Ian's pa.s.sion for rock climbing. He'd picked up the basics from the older brother of a friend back home in Two Harbors. A totally useless hobby, his father had told him. His mother couldn't bear the thought of her son dangling off some granite cliff, and begged him to take up a nicer sport, like football, or b.u.t.terfly collecting. But the lure of the rock always kept Ian coming back for more. He couldn't help himself.

When he was scaling a cliff, nature was the only compet.i.tion. There were no schoolbooks to study, no nagging parents, no ch.o.r.es to complete. In fact, there were no rules or regulations save one: don't fall. Ian had to rely on his own skills, his own cunning, to conquer the rock. He enjoyed feeling his heart pound, his breath quicken, as he tested his courage, strength, and stamina. Rock climbing was his escape from a summer of mind-numbing boredom. At the lighthouse, he felt dead inside.

Except for Sally. This year, something had changed between them. They'd known each other for three seasons, and their friendship had grown deep. But now, Ian felt something else for her, something he knew was more than simple friendship. He wondered if she felt the same way toward him. The signals were there, and yet... Ian could never quite muster the courage to outright ask her. Now that the season was drawing to a close, it would soon be too late. But how to ask her? And what to say?

Ian frowned as imaginary conversations raced through his mind. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. Not now, he thought. I came out here to escape all that.

With a few quick movements, Ian launched himself into s.p.a.ce, like a spider on a gossamer web. Skillfully using the rope wrapped around his waist to regulate friction, and therefore his rate of descent, he swiftly scrambled halfway down the two-hundred-foot precipice.

Near the wooden dock at the base of the cliffs, Sally checked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn't being watched. The narrow path behind her cut through the pine forest, rising up sharply and leading toward the rear of the lighthouse compound high above. Twice on the way down, Sally had stopped and listened, convinced she'd heard something other than the b.u.mblebees buzzing among the wild daisies growing at the side of the path. But the rustling she'd heard in the brush had proved to be nothing more than a fox hoping for a handout, not someone following her as she'd feared, although why someone would be following escaped her. Still, best to be cautious.

Now safely on the sh.o.r.eline, and satisfied finally that she was alone, Sally quickly moved across the pebbly beach and ducked behind a thicket near a hidden inlet. She bent down to remove a clever camouflaged array of branches and leaves. Underneath was a dinghy, bobbing gently in the water, its line securely fastened to a tree stump. Sally stepped back to admire the tiny, single-masted boat.

She and Ian had discovered the dinghy earlier that spring, shortly after the families had arrived on the island for the season. After a few weeks of elbow grease and loving care, they'd made it ship-shape and Bristol fashion, ready for the open lake. It was Sally's pride and joy. She'd taught herself to sail that June, and by July had actually become quite skillful. Ian always went along for the ride, but showed little interest in piloting the dinghy himself, content to sit at the bow and watch intently as they zoomed past the great cliffs. Sally suspected he was looking for new rock-climbing challenges, but kept her mouth shut, preferring to think he was just enjoying his time out on the lake with her.

Sally loved piloting her little boat. It wasn't something women were supposed to do, but this was the Twenties; women were breaking new ground all the time, and Sally was determined to be a part of the movement. In 1920, just four years earlier, women had won the right to vote, and now Nellie Tayloe Ross of Wyoming was poised to become the first woman governor. If she could become governor, if Annie Oakley could outshoot any man, if Amelia Earhart could fly a plane, then by golly Sally Young would pilot a dinghy on Lake Superior!

When she was out on the lake, with the sun on her face and wind whipping through her hair, Sally was the captain, a salty sea dog with grease on her gold braid. Trouble was, she wasn't supposed to sail on Superior alone. If her dad knew she had a sailboat of her own, he'd chop it to kindling just to keep her off the lake. Ian's dad was even more strict. How silly, she thought, that a pair of lightkeepers should so hate the water.

Sally shrugged and untied the line. With one fluid motion, she pushed the boat out and stepped aboard. She rowed out of the inlet, then hoisted the sail. Sally smiled as the canvas filled with air, the fabric crinkling and snapping in the breeze. With a lurch she was off, sailing across the water.

Ian rappelled once more down the cliff face, then cinched the rope tight around his waist. He dangled there a few moments to catch his breath and take in the scenery. Above him, past the lip of the cliff, gulls sounded out their shrill cry. One hundred feet below, waves licked the granite wall. A collection of boulders were strewn at the base of the cliffs, their jagged edges pointed skywards. If Ian fell, he'd hit rock, not water, a thought not at all comforting to the boy. Ian's rope stopped about twenty feet above the boulders. When he reached the end, he'd start the long, but exhilarating, climb back up the cliff.

Ian craned his neck to look behind him at the open lake. He reached into a back pocket and extracted a small telescoping spygla.s.s. It was the kind pirates used, or at least that's what the storeowner in Two Harbors had told him. Ian expanded the spygla.s.s, then put it to his eye. He scanned the horizon, looking for something of interest.

"What do you see?" came a faraway voice.

Ian looked down and saw Sally directly below him in the dinghy, the sail lowered, holding her position with the oars.

"The fishing village got wiped out by the storm last night." Ian put the gla.s.s back to his eye and looked again at the point about a mile up the coast from the lighthouse. The collection of boats and tents were gone without a trace.

Sally shouted up at him. "It's almost the end of the season anyway. They'll rebuild next year."

Ian snapped the spygla.s.s shut, then slipped it back in his pocket. He looked down at Sally in the dinghy. She rowed out a little ways, avoiding the boulders against the base of the cliff. Ian smiled, then braced his legs against the rock. He bent his knees and pushed off hard. He sailed down another thirty feet, then landed back against the cliff face.

Sally watched Ian's stunt and cringed. "Your dad's gonna have your hide."

"He's in the house sleeping," Ian called down. "Besides, I'm grown up. I can take care of myself."

Showing off now, Ian pushed off again, harder this time-too hard. With a sickening crack, the rope above him snapped. For a split second, Ian hovered in s.p.a.ce, and then, with his arms and legs flailing uselessly, felt himself hurtling toward the lake.

Chapter Six.

Collene MacDougal tended to her small garden at the side of the house. Her harvest of corn, peas, carrots, and potatoes had long since come out of the ground. This morning, she busied herself packing the rose bushes, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g them down and covering them for the long winter to come. Gardening was Collene's pa.s.sion. She had a knack for coaxing things to grow, even in the rocky soil of Isle Royale.

She glanced up as Clarence stepped off the front porch and strode toward her.

"Can't sleep?"

Clarence stopped at the edge of the garden and watched as his wife carefully trimmed the rose bushes. "I need to go down to the dock, take care of some business," he said finally.

"Oh."

Collene pulled a weed from the ground. She seemed preoccupied.

Clarence cleared his throat, then said softly, "Jean was here last night."

"I know."

Clarence pursed his lips, unsure what to say next. "He might show up again today. But he won't be long."

"That's good."

Clarence stood there, uncomfortable with the moment. "Collene, honey..."

She stopped tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and looked up at him.

Clarence stammered, then blurted out the words. "Are you happy? I mean, here, with me, at the light?"

Collene smiled sweetly, brushing a strand of flaxen hair from her eyes. She paused, then simply said, "I have everything I need."

Clarence pursed his lips again, then turned to go.

"I love you, Clarence MacDougal."

Without looking back, Clarence smiled to himself. His step lightened as he headed for the path leading down to the wharf.

Sally screamed as she watched Ian plummet through the air. The boy fell without making a sound, his arms cartwheeling uselessly. Sally was sure he would be dashed upon the rocks at the base of the cliffs, but after a heart-wrenching moment realized that his last push before the rope snapped would propel him clear of the boulders.

Right before he hit the water, Sally locked eyes with Ian. His face was ashen, his eyes wide open with fear and surprise. When he hit, not far off the bow of the dinghy, he made a thunderous splash.

Sally frantically rowed closer and then shifted from side to side in the dinghy, searching in the crystal water for her friend. There was no sign. The lake dropped off steeply on this side of the island. Even this close to sh.o.r.e, the water could be one hundred feet deep or more.

Sally hurriedly took off her shoes, ready to dive in after him, when Ian suddenly surfaced. He grabbed the side of the dinghy and grinned sheepishly.

"Hi, Sal," he said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

Sally reached down and cuffed him on the side of the head, then sat back down in a huff. She put her shoes back on and laced them up tightly. Ian treaded water next to the dinghy, enjoying the cold swim.

Sally looked over at him, annoyed. "Not funny, Ian MacDougal."

"The rope broke. It wasn't my fault."

"If you kill yourself and leave me alone on this island, I'll never forgive you."

"Help me in."

Ian beckoned to her with one hand reaching in the boat. After a moment, Sally sighed and reached down. With a sly grin, Ian jerked back, pulling Sally into the icy water. When her head popped back above the surface, she shrieked with laughter. She splashed Ian playfully, and he splashed right back. High above, the gulls cried out as they circled the two frolicking teenagers.

Collene MacDougal watched as Clarence finally disappeared down the path leading toward the boat dock. She waited a few minutes, then set aside her gardening tools and walked to the front of the house. When she opened the porch door, she turned around to make sure no one was watching. She felt like a schoolgirl, about to commit some petty crime. She laughed at herself, then entered the house.

As she took the uneven wooden stairs up to the second floor, she thought about the previous night, and seeing Jean LeBeck standing there in the shadows, staring at her. Old feelings came flooding back. Her heart ached as she tried in vain to push the emotions aside. Why have you returned, Jean?

When Collene reached the top of the steep flight of stairs, she paused a moment, holding the wooden handrail for support. She was breathing heavier than usual, more than the exertion of the stairs should have caused. She forced herself to calm down, then set off down the length of the hallway toward the master bedroom. As she pa.s.sed Ian's room, she noticed with some annoyance the unmade bed and clothes strewn about the floor. She sighed quietly. That boy, she thought. Probably off getting into trouble again, even now.

Collene reached the master bedroom. She stepped inside, then swung the heavy oak door shut behind her. She turned and with a flick of the wrist secured the lock. Just to be sure, she tried the handle. It was locked tight. Collene smiled, then made her way across the room to the bed.

The room itself was utilitarian, almost spa.r.s.e. The wooden floor creaked under Collene's feet. The walls were painted a sort of pale blue pastel that in the right light, like a dim cloudy evening, turned a sickly green. Each year she vowed to repaint, but other ch.o.r.es and tasks, the endless busywork required of living at a lighthouse, always seemed to take up all her time.

Collene moved closer to the bed. It was small, with a rusting iron frame that groaned at night whenever Collene or Clarence turned over. Sterile white linen was laid carefully over the sagging mattress. The only other furniture in the room included an oak dresser, with five drawers mostly reserved for Clarence's uniforms and work clothes, and a rocking chair set under the single window. In the near corner, a rack was set up upon which was hung Clarence' dress uniform and cap. Bright morning sunlight, filtered from a white gauzy curtain fluttering over the window, glinted on the uniform's gold b.u.t.tons.

Collene moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. She gazed out over the gra.s.sy courtyard, but saw no one coming up the path. In fact, the entire lighthouse compound appeared deserted. Collene smiled, then turned to a wooden sea chest set at the foot of the bed.

After tugging open the chest and raising the heavy lid, Collene sat back and gazed for a moment at the contents. Her past stared back at her. Her wedding dress, neatly pressed and folded, occupied one corner. Next to it were various other articles of clothing, things she either no longer fit into or just plain didn't wear anymore. Frilly underwear sat atop party frocks, a cloche hat, and a coat with fur collar and cuffs.

Collene dipped her hands into the clothing, peeling back a layer in the chest. Underneath were papers and forms, and letters by the score. She picked one up and gingerly opened the faded yellow envelope. It was a love letter from Clarence, written long ago during their courtship. She scanned the text, smiling in remembrance. How was it possible, she mused, that they had ever been so young and naive? She skipped to the end of the letter, where Clarence had copied a pa.s.sage from "My Luve Is Like A Red, Red Rose," by the great Scottish poet Robert Burns. Clarence had a weakness for poetry. For a working man with such a gruff exterior, it was an unexpected trait she found both charming and romantic. Years ago, he read to her up in the lighthouse, on starlit nights when the lake shimmered beneath them.

Collene's eyes skimmed the verse: "As fair art thou, my bonnie la.s.s, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a the sea gang dry. Till a the sea gang dry, And the rocks melt wi the sun! And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o life shall run."

Collene hurriedly folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, then tossed it back in the pile. Pretty words, written long, long ago.

She dipped her hands in the papers, digging deeper into the chest. She felt around for a moment, then grasped something buried at the very bottom. She tugged, and her hand popped out again, this time holding a small stack of envelopes tied together with a thick blue ribbon.

Collene moved to the bed and sat, the bundle of letters held in her lap with slightly quivering hands. She bit her lower lip nervously, then carefully untied the ribbon. She picked up the first letter on the stack and held it in front of her, studying the faded envelope. The return address was from Calais, France, with a cancellation dated 1918.

Collene opened the envelope, then gingerly unfolded the brittle parchment inside. Long, flowing handwriting greeted her eyes. She smiled bitterly, brushed back a tear, then began reading.

Chapter Seven.

February 14, 1918, Calais, France- Dearest Collene, My love. How is it possible I find myself half a world away from you? Just yesterday it seems we were laughing together, you, Clarence, and I, three friends without a care in the world. And now, in the blink of an eye, here I am, a simple fisherman, fighting Britain's war against the Germans.

How my heart aches when we are apart. Only the thought of coming home to you keeps me alive. The scent of your hair, your smile, the gentle touch of your lips-these things help me forget the foreboding and doom that are a part of everything here.

Praise G.o.d Clarence was pa.s.sed over by the draft. To lose us both would have been unbearable. But at least, if he should be called up next time, he will fight in an American division. Things are not as bad for the Yanks as for us "Colonials." When there is a merde job to be done, it is we who shoulder the burden. (But at least we are not with the ANZACs. The Australians have it worst of all. Remember Gallipoli?) We Quebecois think this is a British war, and want no part of it. But I knew the draft riots in Montreal would do no good. How could I ever think Canada would stand on its own? When Mother England needs more men for the meat grinder, the colonies comply. There is no choice. My country called, and now I must do my duty. Canada is a slave to Britain, as I am now a slave to the army.

I have been a.s.signed to a unit, the 22nd Battalion/5th Brigade of the 2nd Canadian Division. We are all French-Canadians, so at least there is some camaraderie to lift our spirits. Write to me if possible. I cannot say if your letters will ever reach me. In truth, I'm not even sure my notes will find their way to you. The supply lines and logistics are chaos here in France, and the censors are very strict. But many times letters get through unchecked. Please write. Your words will be a lifeboat in this sea of misery. How do you pa.s.s the time? What are you wearing at this moment? Has Superior frozen hard this winter? What of Port Arthur, our old stomping ground?

I leave in the morning for base camp in etaples, a gra.s.sless field of sand holding 100,000 men. After ten weeks of training in England, I fear more mindless drills and routine. We are like cattle waiting in line to the slaughterhouse. If we're to do battle with the Boche, let it be soon.

G.o.d knows how long the war will last, how long we must be apart. I swear I will return to you someday, Collene. Our wedding will be the toast of the North Sh.o.r.e. Clarence has already agreed to be my best man. Rely on him, Collene. Clarence will take care of you while I am away. He promised me this. (What I would give to be on one of our famous camping trips through the lake country, or even a simple walk on the beach. Have three people ever been such good friends?) Take care, my love.

Jean March 6, 1918, etaples, France My Dearest, I used to believe that, in war, the strength to win was measured in courage and fighting spirit. Now, after suffering through training at this h.e.l.lish holding encampment, I know the truth. We offer our bodies and souls for our country, yet our homeland gives us back only indifference, even hostility. There is no courage here. We are all pa.s.sive sheep, doing as we are told. The driving force behind the army is brutality. Raw, naked power. Our drill instructors are not evil men, but they cultivate brutality in order for us to do their bidding, to form a "proper" army. They are both firm and loud, intimidating and menacing. We are driven by fright, our pride shattered, suffering constant humiliation and fatigue. There is no "individual." Once broken, we are molded into their image.

This is how men become weapons of war.

Yesterday we shot a deserter. He had been caught in town in a brothel, hiding out. They marched him through camp, in chains and half naked, head bowed in shame. To my horror, I was chosen as part of the firing squad. I remember loading my rifle automatically, my mind not registering the task ahead. When I aimed my Enfield at the poor wretch standing there against the wall, I blinked with amazement as my gaze traveled down the length of the rifle's blue-steel barrel to the face of the condemned man. I knew him! It was Jacques Billaud, from Port Arthur. Perhaps you remember him. He was a crewman aboard my fishing boat for a season before leaving for Montreal. And now, here he was in France, standing before a firing squad of his own people. He must have recognized me too, for a faint smile crept onto his lips. As he stood there trembling, his eyes bored into mine like shafts of bright sunlight. My hand shook, then I slipped my finger out of the trigger guard. I could not shoot my own countryman, and I d.a.m.ned well would not kill a friend. I would not.

When the order came to fire, I felt shock and amazement as the b.u.t.t of my rifle jerked against my shoulder. I saw fire and a puff of grayish smoke pour from my muzzle, watched as Jacques collapsed, then slowly settled to his knees. His dead eyes stared straight ahead, looking directly into mine, it seemed. Then he fell backwards and bent at the waist, his legs doubled up beneath him, his face turned to the overcast sky.

Army training works well. I had accomplished my duty without even thinking. I had killed my first man, and it was one of our own.

I am only a little man. What can I do?

JL.

April 14, 1918, St. Quentin, France Dear Collene, There is no word from you. Not one letter or telegram. Are you still there, Collene? I know much mail gets lost in the confusion. I do not even know if you receive these letters. Are you still waiting for me? Perhaps there's no point, anyway, for I'm beginning to believe the world has truly gone mad.

This last week I've slept perhaps eight hours. I stay sane and awake by drinking a bottle of whiskey each day. I despise drunkards, but it is certainly helping me get through the horror of trench life. I have the whiskey smuggled to me here by the caseload to share with my comrades in the trenches. I've gotten quite good at smuggling. It is far simpler earning money this way than all those fruitless hours spent on the fishing boat back home, though I would give anything to be on that boat at this moment.

Our first day was tinged with excitement. At last, the war! After so many weeks of training, we were finally here. But first we came across a bad omen: a pair of French peasants alongside the road were busy crafting white crosses from wood sc.r.a.ps. Our NCO tried to make them stop, to hide the crosses from the men, but the peasants only shrugged and pointed in back of the small hut from which they worked. As we pa.s.sed by, we saw a huge pile of crosses, ten feet high, waiting for the next a.s.sault upon the German lines. Some of the men were unnerved. I kept my gaze on the road, staring straight ahead, trying to concentrate on our destination.

Our arrival at the trenches was greeted by the thunder of some far-away artillery. The noise was loud and continuous. The men we relieved shuffled past like ghosts-gaunt, filthy, saying not a word. Puttees and surplus ammunition were discarded. Their uniforms were disheveled, their general manner unkempt, even slovenly. (I did notice, though, that their rifles were carefully covered to protect against the moisture. These were battle-hardened men who knew the priorities of war.) There was an air of resignation about them, as if they no longer cared about themselves, their country, their world. It was like their souls had departed, leaving only sh.e.l.ls that walked blindly over the earth.

The landscape looked deserted to me. Men in trenches sitting around, eating, drinking, smoking. Sometimes a man would take a peek over the top of the trench with a periscope, but n.o.body was fighting. Overhead I could see observation balloons hanging in the sky. Occasionally, an aeroplane would buzz through the morning mist.

I set about doing odd jobs. Suddenly, there was a terrific boom as a sh.e.l.l exploded overhead. I was flung backwards for many yards. I picked myself up and laughed nervously. Nearby was a man with half his head gone. Next to him another man, an officer, walked down the trench line, his femur sticking out of his trousers, blood spurting in every direction. He seemed not to notice. Both men were quickly replaced, and I soon came to realize that this was a war of attrition, not glory and valor.

The filth and the mud and the squalor are indescribable here. Worse still is the cold, a bone-chilling iciness that creeps through the trenches in the dead of night. I wear long johns, thick socks, and even layers of newspaper under my sodden uniform, but still the cold seeps in. Boots freeze in seconds if taken off, and our beef stew rations turn to red ice. Some nights, I think I shall never be warm again.

We are all Canadians, and we take it as best we can. Our unit is the same that captured Courcelette during the b.l.o.o.d.y Somme Offensive, that took Vimy Ridge in the Battle of Arras. We've lost thousands, but still we serve G.o.d and country, all for the sake of a few miles of French countryside.

Yesterday, we went over the top. It is mostly a blur to me now. I remember waiting for the "rain of steel," a rolling artillery barrage that softens up the Germans and hopefully blasts through the barbed wire in no-man's land. I felt sorry for the Germans then. I know what it is like to live under the constant fall of sh.e.l.ls. It destroys both body and mind. And there are so many different kinds of sh.e.l.ls! After a few days in the trenches we became accustomed to each. Some go off with a crack, like a man hitting a golf ball. Others sound like a newspaper being torn in half. The big sh.e.l.ls start with a head-pounding bang, then slowly arc across the sky like a whistling man on a bicycle. Then they accelerate and smash into the earth with a deafening roar.

After four hours of this, the order was given. I gripped my Lee Enfield and hoisted myself over the lip of the trench. After so many sh.e.l.ls falling on the Germans, it was hard to imagine anything left living on the other side. I began my run with confidence. But then the man next to me was immediately shot back into the mud, a hole planted neatly between his eyes from some unseen sniper.

The dash across no-man's land seemed endless; my feet were like lead, slipping and sliding in the muck. All around me, men screamed and fell to the ground. Explosions ripped through the air, and the staccato tat-tat-tat of enemy machine guns filled my ears.

When it was over, we'd taken our objective, the trench at Hill 56. I never fired a shot, though I do remember stabbing a German with my bayonet. It went in like b.u.t.ter, but the muscles and tissue gripped my steel blade and it refused to budge. The man stared up at me as I struggled to free my weapon. But my training came back to me. I made a half twist with the bayonet in proper army fashion, then jerked back and felt the blade come free. I do not know what became of that man. All I remember is the shocked look on his face as he sat there, his guts running into his cupped hands.