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Chapter 3

Sunday, October 20

I

Hans was up before the call at 10:00 p.m. on Saturday evening. He had been dreaming about the plight of the William R. Jammison. The dream was not a pleasant one. He was still at a loss to explain what had happened to the steering system between Friday, when it was operating by the book, and this morning when it was not. Could it have anything to do with the new unknown crewmen? A deckhand would not have access to any critical areas, but an engineer definitely would. He promised himself to keep a watchful eye on Norm Bitterman, the new assistant in that department. A talk with George would also be a wise move to make him aware of what might turn out to be a problem. There was no solid reason for Hans’s suspicions, but he preferred to take the cautious route.

When he got back to the wheelhouse, he sent Fred down to get some rest. He had been on duty for most of the day. He would need some time off if he was going to be at his best over the next few days.

Hans watched the nearly flat surface of Lake Erie, all the while contemplating the history of that particular Great Lake. It was the shallowest of the five, and because of that, it could generate some of the tallest seas. Over the years, the number of ships and boats that met their fate on Erie was astounding. Even right near their homeport, there were several victims that could be visited by skilled divers. They could investigate the hulk of the Algeria, a 289-foot schooner that went down in 1906 under sixty feet of water. There were several seagoing tugs, including the Admiral and the John B. Griffen, both of which had foundered while attempting to rescue larger ships. In the case of the Admiral, the other end of their towline at the time was attached to the Cleveco, a 260-foot steel tanker, which escaped disaster at that time. But the Cleveco sunk at a later date at Euclid, Ohio, also on Lake Erie. Because the Great Lakes contain some of the freshest and coldest water anywhere, most of the derelicts sit in a fine state of preservation.

Nearing Toledo, Hans was feeling very humble. To think that he was in total charge of this 730-foot, 13,000-ton vessel made him feel very small considering the monumental responsibility he bore on his shoulders. His crew looked up to him as a sort of father figure despite the fact that he is younger than several of them. They knew that he knew. They were certain that he did know. Everyone was counting on his decisions.

They steamed into Maumee Bay and a short distance down the Maumee River to the Chesapeake and Ohio coal dock at Oregon, a suburb of Toledo. By 12:15 on Sunday morning, they were secured at the wharf ready to be loaded. Nothing more had gone awry during the first leg, so, just maybe, they could count on smooth sailing the rest of the way.

All eighteen hatches were opened, so now all they had to do was to observe while the holds were being filled to capacity. The watches and the hands would be kept busy, but their hardest work would be the clean up after the covers were back in place. It was always amazing to see the Sputnik spew out coal at an unbelievable rate. What was even more entertaining was to watch the system that fed the huge rotating ball. They could see the tower with its long, wide conveyer belt sending coal to the Sputnik. Beyond that was a row of railroad hopper cars full to the brim with coal, which were being pushed, one by one, up the ramp to the top of the tower. There they would be hoisted off the rails, turned completely upside down over the catching pit, shaken to insure that they were empty, and then dropped on the opposite side for the steep downhill run back to ground level. Since they were moving too fast to stop at the bottom, they were shunted onto another shorter uphill ramp where they lost their momentum. They rode back down at low speed and were switched onto a siding to make room for the next in line. The whole apparatus worked well except for an occasional foul up. Unfortunately, as one of the cars was waiting its turn for its trip up to the dumper, the mule operator made contact a few seconds too soon, hit the car a trifle too fast, and derailed it. A nearby crane righted the situation, but by the time they could proceed, another thirty minutes was lost.

When the Jammison was finally loaded and buckled up, it was 6:30 on a still calm Sunday morning. As they left the harbor, Hans noticed that the temperature had risen a bit more than it normally should while they were in Toledo. With the cold water under a warm, humid sky, and virtually no wind, it could only mean one probable thing—fog! So far it was still clear, but he knew from long experience that it would be changing. He did not need any more hassles. All he could say to himself was, “Why me?”

II

When he looked out his hotel window on Sunday morning at 7:00, Phil saw that his day might not go entirely as planned. What he could see was almost nothing. Dense fog had crept in while he slept. There was a good chance that it would lift in an hour or two if the slight breeze began to freshen even a little, but that was not certain. Driving could prove to be arduous under such obscured conditions.

He called the desk for a weather update and was told that this was not uncommon for Port Huron in October when the temps were higher than normal and there was no wind to help. The forecast was for a ten- to fifteen-mile-per-hour offshore breeze that would begin to bring sunny skies by nine or ten o’clock. If this came to pass, Phil would be able to leave on schedule after breakfast. He would take a pass on the architectural tour until some later date. With his knowledge of meteorological phenomena, something all good pilots must have, he assumed he would be able to see the shoreline but not much of the waterscape. Warm, damp air has a tendency to hang over cold water. The day would just have to play itself out. At least he should get to Tobormory without much delay.

By the time he crossed the majestic Blue Bay Bridge into Sarnia, on the Ontario side and cleared customs, the sun had, indeed, made its appearance. As he traversed the span of that marvel of engineering, he could envision the ship traffic far below him even though he could not see them. What must it be like to feel their way through the shrouded silence in that narrow waterway? He thought that they must have radar and sonar to assist them, but even those systems could not offer a one-hundred-percent guarantee of safety. Phil likened it to flying on instruments and making gut-wrenching ILS (instrument landing system) landings with other aircraft waiting their turn in a tight holding pattern. No matter how many times he had been forced to do them, he never could relax until he was safely on the ground. He silently applauded the cunning and courage of those seamen below him.

In Canada, he chose Provincial Highway 21 for the lakeside, or mostly lakeside ride to Kincardine, where he would have lunch before the final few miles to his destination for the day. Along the way, he would make a brief detour into the largest city on the western shore, Goderich. Somewhere, he could not recall where, he had read about their unique octagonal Main Street that trapped uninformed tourists, not knowing where or how to get off while maintaining a real sense of direction. Phil wanted to give it a try himself.

The fog had moved entirely offshore by the time he reached Goderich. He found that the critics were correct about the old Roman-style Main Street. He did manage to solve the enigma, however, and was once again on his way without taking time to explore yet another intriguing town.

Back on the road once more, his intent was to reach Kincardine by noon—which he did. Their Scottish heritage was in evidence everywhere he looked. At the Bruce Inn on Queen Street, a place highly recommended for its good food and service, he asked a lot of questions. He wanted to know what he might be missing on his brief stay in yet another appealing old town. His waitress told him about the Kincardine Scottish Pipe Band that paraded every Saturday evening until Labor Day and about the sundown performance of the Phantom Piper every other day of the week by their historic lighthouse. Phil also learned about a pair of old shipwrecks that were, to this day, still right there on the beach. The first was the Erie Belle, a wrecking tug whose boiler blew up while trying to reach another vessel in distress, the Carter. Only the boiler remains, but after many years, the lake level had dropped enough to leave it on dry land for all to see. The other was the Ave Maria. Her captain had been caught in a serious storm while trying to reach safe harbor. The old schooner opened up below the water line. With only a foot of freeboard, he made for the beach, where the coal-laden ship disintegrated, losing four of the six crewmen in the process. Here again, because of the receding waters, she lays half in and half out of Lake Huron. There were several other unfortunate skeletons nearby, but those were two examples that could be viewed without even getting your feet wet.

The waitress was a fountain of information. It was easy to see that she had pride in her community, and Phil would have liked to listen more, but he knew he must move on. He paid the bill along with a larger than usual tip to show his appreciation and was on his way. This was another place he promised himself to see more of at a future date.

At Southampton, at the base of the Bruce Peninsula, Highway 21 turned inland. He switched to County Road 13, followed it to County 9, and finished up with a combination of small lanes, Stokes Bay Road to Clarke’s Corners, Ira Road to the junction with Provincial 6, then straight up to land’s end at Tobormory. The automobile portion of his journey was over. It was 5:30 on a day that turned out to be very pleasant. He could still see some patchy fog over Georgian Bay to the east and Lake Huron to the west, so he was sure that it was not quite as pleasant for everyone.

III

Breaking out the high-pressure hoses, the deckhands washed down the weather deck to rid it of every trace of massive amounts of coal dust left behind by the loading process. It was a dirty job, but it had to be done. Hans watched from above while the last of the grimy residue was forced out through the scuppers.

It was not long before his trepidation about fog became a reality. It fell on them like a heavy woolen blanket shortly before they were to enter the Detroit River. The timing could not have been worse. The Detroit area and the St. Clair River were the most congested shipping lanes they would encounter during the entire voyage. Charlie Kendrick would be kept on constant alert in the radio room watching the radar and sonar readings while listening for other traffic. It was not just other vessels he had to be cognizant of. It was even more urgent to monitor the water below. The area was a veritable graveyard of sunken ships, some of which could cause navigational nightmares for large vessels like the Jammison. To help him with his ominous chore, Charlie had enlisted Pete Fletcher, the second wheelsman who was also electronically trained. All of the information they received in the radio room could be read in the pilothouse as well, not far removed from their position. At least three, at times more, pairs of eyes had access to urgent data at any given moment.

With all of their lights blazing and the irritating foghorn blaring at regular intervals, they had every reason to believe that the situation was well in hand. Running at a much-reduced speed, they felt reasonably comfortable despite the miserable conditions.

Navigating the Detroit River, Lake St. Clair, and the St. Clair River channel presented other obstacles in the form of a myriad of islands in all sorts of odd locations. Hans and his third wheelsman, Jim Tracy, were kept on their toes playing dodge-em with these mostly small islets. Hans thought about how his position of command required little physical labor, but without his mental agility, nobody on board would be safe.

All things considered, bad weather, tight quarters, and the ever-present anxiety, they made fair time through the eighty-mile maze. They passed under the Blue Bay Bridge, connecting Port Huron and Sarnia at 4:15 on Sunday afternoon and sailed into the vast clear waters of Lake Huron. The fog had thinned some but had not yet gone completely away. Still, it would be much easier to cope with on open water. They had to travel at twelve knots, slightly below their normal cruise of fifteen, but it could have been much worse. The Straits of Mackinac were approximately eighteen hours away if they could maintain their twelve-knot pace. They should arrive there around eleven on Monday morning.

IV

The George Inn on Bay Street was a delightful place. Situated as it was facing Little Tub Harbor, the view was nothing short of spectacular. Phil had had no choice when he made his reservation because most of the lodging facilities in Tobormory were shut down this late in the year. Still, he believed he could not have done any better. Of the ten cozy rooms, only two would be occupied that night. The grill would be available for both dinner and an early breakfast. What more could he ask?

The first priority was to get in touch with Dave Ham at his home in Matitowaning to confirm the arrangements for the flight to Fitzwilliam Island on Monday morning. During their earlier conversations, they had determined that Dave would bring along some equipment Phil would need during his island stay. A good radio and a small generator with the fuel to run it were what he wanted. There would be no electricity in the small cabin without a generator. He would also need some way to communicate with the outside world.

“Dave Ham,” said the welcome voice at the other end of the line. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, Dave, it’s Phil Wells. I wanted to let you know I’m now in Tobormory. We still on for tomorrow?”

“Phil! I was expecting your call. We sure are, but it might be a good idea to make it a little earlier than we planned, say seven, if that’s okay with you. I’ve been monitoring the weather reports. It looks like we may be in for a blow around noon. I want to avoid it if I can.”

“You’re the boss, Dave. As warm as it’s been all day, I presumed something was headed our way. Do whatever you think is best. I know what storms can do to a light plane. I’ve had more than my share of that sort of thing.”

“Right, I almost forgot how you earn your living. We’ve still got a bit of fog here, but it should be gone by morning, so we shouldn’t have to worry about that. By the time we reach Fitzwilliam, it should be all clear.”

“That works for me. I’m getting anxious to see some real wilderness. By the way, were you able to get the stuff I asked for? I don’t want to be completely isolated.”

“Everything is already loaded in the 185, Phil. We work with radios almost as much as telephones around here. I’ve got some great units that will fill the bill. Nothing too big either.”

“Perfect, Dave, I’ll see you in the morn. I look forward to meeting you and swapping stories. Your kind of flying is much different than mine.”

“See you then,” said Dave as he broke the connection.

A long chat with Jana finished Phil’s day on a high note. Monday would be full of new experiences. He had dinner then packed it in for the night. It had been a good day.

V

Chugging its way north, the William R. Jammison was making way at an acceptable thirteen knots. The steering gear had been performing admirably. The fog was gradually lifting, although there was still enough to engender caution. It was now 10:00 p.m., and all the signs were good. The only thing that was disturbing was the new weather forecast that was calling for a strong possibility of high winds that could impede their progress by midday on Monday. By then, they should be in more sheltered waters. All things considered, they would be fine if nothing else goes wrong.

It was not long before everything changed. At 10:30, the Sulzer diesel began to labor while trying to maintain power. Hans immediately got the engine room on the intercom, hoping to talk with George Oliver. The man who picked up the line was Norm Bitterman, the last voice Hans wanted to hear. George was on a much-needed break, leaving second engineer, Ken Brown, to keep watch. Norm put Ken on the horn.

“I know, Cap, we’re losing power. I have no idea why. I’m not sure we can keep up this speed if it gets any worse.”

“As much as I hate to do it, I guess you’ll have to wake George,” said Hans, trying to hide his irritation. “We have to find out what’s going on. If we get below ten knots, we may not be able to stay on course. There has to be an answer, or we’ll all be in for a long night. By the way, what’s Norm doing right now?”

“Not much of anything. Just doing his best to look busy. Why?”

“We don’t know anything about him, Ken. Since he came onboard, inexplicable things have been happening. I told George to keep an eye on him just in case. I’m not accusing anyone of anything, not yet, but all of our problems seem to point in his direction. He has access to some pretty sensitive equipment. What do you think?”

“I don’t know him either, sir. That puts a new wrinkle on everything. I’ll watch him like a hawk. Oh, here comes George. I’ll let you talk to him.”

A sleepy-sounding chief engineer was none too happy.

“Why can’t my life ever be easy? From what I was told, we can’t develop full power for some unknown reason. Give me a few minutes to look over the situation, and I’ll get back to you with some ideas.”

Hans started to pace up and down at his station while waiting for some sort of explanation from George. Once again, their schedule could take a beating.

Fifteen minutes later, he got the bad news.

“Captain,” said the obviously disturbed George Oliver, “There’s nothing I can determine without tearing some things apart. We might have some kind of obstruction in the fuel lines or the trouble could go much deeper. In order to find out we’re going to have to shut down. Good thing there’s no wind at the moment. Maybe you should come down here.”

Hans called Charlie in the radio room and told him to come up and take over for a while. Passing through the port tunnel, his bile was once again rising. This looked like it was going to be another episode in a badly written soap opera.

Beneath the afterhouse, George and Ken were working feverishly over the eerily silent diesel. They did not as yet have much to report. They had found some unidentifiable foreign matter in a fuel line, which was not good, but they had no idea how it got there, or what it was, or worse, how far it might have traveled before the slow down had begun. Before they could fire up and get underway, it would be imperative to dig further into the engine.

While all of this was taking place, two of the wipers, Spencer Kinsman and Alex Flynn (no relation to the second mate), were maintaining tight surveillance on Norm Bitterman, trying not to be too obvious, but never letting him out of their sight. Norm asked to be allowed to help with the repairs. Hans would have no part of that. Norm could be innocent of any wrong doing, but this was not a time to take any risks.

Another day was slipping away. Again Hans’s hands were tied. All he could do was to wait and fret over where they would be when the weather turned sour and further barred their progress. His thought process brought him back to Miep, wondering when and if he would hold her again safely in his arms.