Mackinac Drift - A Novel

By Robert Reynolds

Michigan’s historic Mackinac Island is considered a gem of the Great Lakes. Access is gained by way of passenger ferries. The island is graced with Victorian-style homes, old military forts, and natural limestone landmarks. It retains its turn-of-the-century appeal by banning all motorized vehicles. A state highway encircles the island although its only traffic is horse drawn carriages and bicycles. It's a prime vacation destination for visitors throughout the Midwest. Story: Mackinac Drift: A treasure is lost as American colonial forces recapture the Island from British occupiers two hundred years earlier. A trio of ne’er-do-wells share a rundown house on the nearby mainland. Tourist season arrives and with it crowds of vacationers. Devious Josie invites Wayland and Diggs to come over to view 4th of July fireworks. While awaiting her arrival, the two men explore the island and happen upon a life altering discovery. Double crosses abound in this thrilling page turning island mystery… Mackinac Drift.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359666508

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

Mackinac Drift - A Novel

MACKINAC DRIFT

Robert F. Reynolds

Copyright: May 2019

ISBN: 978-0-359-66650-8

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

"They’re attacking through the timbers!" A frazzled militiaman shouted as he tamped a lead ball and poured powder into the muzzle of his musket. British regulars had snuck ashore unseen by the fort’s defenders and were rushing through the wood hell-bent on taking the island. There was a crack of gunshot and the militiaman laid dead before he could aim and fire.

***

On a mid July day in 1812, a force of British soldiers, Canadian volunteers and scantily clad Natives, laid siege to and captured Fort Mackinac before its American defenders realized war had been declared. The invading forces attacked the fort with vengeance and overwhelmed its defenders.  Most of the fighting was done along high ground toward the northwest side of the island. 

The bright red coats of British soldiers could be seen emerging from within the mixed stands of beech, white pine, red oak and maple, appearing like coveys of low flying cardinals swooping through the mass of trees. The Canadians and Indians were less colorful, but equally fierce.

The thunder of gunshots and smell of powder cast an acrid fog over that part of the island like morning mist. 

A steady cracking of muskets echoed across the island as the invaders fought their way across the battlefield toward the fort that sat on a limestone bluff overlooking the harbor. 

Aim carefully, men, and put them down before they get to the wall! an officer shouted.  He’d hardly got the words out before taking a musket ball through his shoulder. 

Fight on, warriors! he rasped gallantly, as he fell backwards and passed out.

When all was over and the fighting ended, thirteen defenders lay dead and 55 more harbored wounds of some sort.  A single invader had given up his life. 

With word of the British triumph, many neutral Native tribes joined forces with the Europeans, helping them to several victories across the territory during the next year.   

At the time, the British held the fort and settlement known as Detroit. There was little chance the Colonists could retake the island if they couldn’t get through the Detroit River, past Lake St. Clair and into Lake Huron.  But on September 10, 1813, the two forces engaged in battle on Lake Erie with the Americans coming out victorious, and thus taking Detroit.  Having achieved victory, planning to sail the 200 miles north up Huron to Mackinac Island began in earnest.  

Autumn had come on and would soon bring bitterly frozen nights.  It was too late in the season to assemble an assault on the Island; the fight would have to wait. Nevertheless, supply lines to the British occupied post had been severed putting the Brit defenders in a precarious position of having to survive the severe winter on a shortage of rations.  Soon, the frigid waters of the strait began to ice over.  The soldiers of summer became the hunters and gatherers of winter.

***

The following year, as the icy waters of the strait melted away and sailing lanes reopened, plans were laid out at Fort Gratiot at Lake Huron’s southern end. 

Prepare five brigs and gunboats with a landing force of 700 soldiers, came the word.  We’re to sail to Mackinac and retake the island.  Be prepared to fight, men!

Unfamiliar with the upper reaches of the vast lake, the squadron lost a week exploring small coves and uncharted inlets as it worked its way toward its objective. Their errant navigation took them far to the northeast to St. Joseph Island at the mouth of the St. Mary’s River where they came upon an abandoned British military post.

Set it ablaze, men.  The enemy won’t be coming back to this one.

With black smoke rising behind, the flotilla sailed due south and back into Lake Huron.

Navigate carefully and watch for submerged hazards that might rip us asunder, warned the captain of the small armada, as they maneuvered slowly through dense lake fog. Drummond Island’s hazy silhouette loomed ominously off their port, like a turtle coming up out of a swamp pond. Keep your distance from the shallows.

Finally, by mid-July the raiding party arrived off Mackinac’s shore. 

The delay in the armada’s arrival allowed the British garrison ample time to reinforce its defenses with nearby militia forces.  British Commander McDouall had ordered troops to construct a stockade atop the highest point on the island, located above the main fort. 

We won’t be caught blind upon their arrival, he said. 

Artillery was hauled to the ridge where the new fort was built and where it could overlook the harbor on the south side of the island.  It seemed the perfect spot to guard against an assault. 

Soon after its arrival, the small American fleet took up their attack positions in the island’s blue-green waters.  With the waters of the straits lapping at the hulls of the wooden vessels the military crews readied their big guns.  Battle-ready sailors scurried about the decks positioning the weapons and calculating elevation and distance to the big fort on the high ridge overlooking the settlement. 

Fire your cannons, men! Commodore Sinclair of the American forces commanded and naval bombardment began.

The first of the projectiles fell short of the fort frightening those living in the harbor settlement.  When the first rounds hit, everyone scattered for cover.  A barrage of cannonballs rained onto the ridge and grassy surroundings below the fort as fleeing voices cried out in panic.  A small wooden hovel, occupied by a small band of fur traders, succumbed to the salvo, its roof coming down followed by the outer walls.  The only one in the cabin let out a cry of pain as he pulled himself from the rubble, bloodied, bruised and broken.  

Bombardment continued for two days with little damage being done to the main fort and no damage to the new stockade built at the island’s summit, as the ship’s cannons could not reach the high point. 

With the sea assault proving ineffectual, Commodore Sinclair and Lt. Colonel Croghan, commander of the 700 strong landing force, conferred. 

We’ll need to go ashore if we expect to take back the fortification, Sinclair said as he pored over island charts. It’s our only viable option.

The men will never make it up the bluff.  It was folly to imagine taking the fort from this position.

We shan’t risk a landing here, Sinclair said, scanning his eyepiece along the pebbly shoreline, the stones worn round from eons of endless lapping of the lake.  Their forces will shred us to pieces.

As cannon rounds fell harmlessly short, impacting in the neat little turnip gardens that were scattered about the fort, a decision was made.

We’ll take to the north end of the island where the Brits overtook it two years past, Croghan decided. He stabbed the chart with his forefinger to emphasize.  Stop firing, men."

The roar of cannons ceased as the men set about preparing to sail a short distance to a more accommodating spot to launch the land offensive.

Bring up the anchor and hoist the sails, came the command and some of the ships eased away from their positions.  The day was warm and the strait calm as they sailed away. 

From their posts atop the island, British soldiers were at first ecstatic to see a pair of vessels pull anchor and depart, but sailing close to the island’s wooded shoreline and out of reach of the island defender’s heavy guns.  The guardians’ joy soon turned to bewilderment when they realized some of the ships remained behind.

Take this message to the fort! Be quick! The courier sprinted from the upper fortress and down the narrow footpaths that led through the forest. 

Shortly, the invading ships dropped anchor off what had become known as British Landing and the troops made their way ashore. 

A short distance inland a band of Natives attacked from ambush putting up a fierce fight and inflicting heavy casualties on the American forces, causing them to retreat.  A thunder of musket fire answered the soft hiss of arrows that came rushing out of the thickets.  

Fall back!  Fall Back!

Heavy boot steps crashed through the brush as the men made for cover and the Indians, light on their feet, fiercely pursued them through the woods inflicting more punishment.

Muskets cracked and steel balls ripped through the foliage and tore through flesh. 

Don’t let ‘em outflank us! someone shouted amidst the chaos.

At last the men regrouped and set up a perimeter to keep the Indians at bay.  A soldier acting as a medic tended to the wounded. Blood and flesh speckled the earth like flecks on tiger lilies in the flowery gardens of the island’s village.

One of the officers made his rounds barking out orders as they made their defensive stand.

Watch those natives don’t surround us!

Thwack! The solid willow shaft of an arrow imbedded chest high in a beech a few feet from the warning voice and then a handful of muskets cracked in the direction of the arrow. 

Spread out and watch for them sneaking in on us.  They’re sly scoundrels.

The soldiers managed to regroup, fended off the natives, and this time set about advancing meticulously through the heavy growth as they made their way toward the main fort, stepping gingerly through the thick underbrush of the upper island. 

Meanwhile, down at the settlement, others hastily made plans not realizing the Americans had already come ashore.

I need you up at the fort! Wilson Bertram ordered.  He was a British officer of low rank and even lower principles.  He had hastened down from the fort as soon as the bombardment let up. 

The two schemers were sworn comrades in the art of deceit and had swindled many a fool trapper out of furs—beaver, mink, and bearskin. Now, with the Americans attacking, they were threatened with losing their ill-gotten lucre.

I mustn’t be long away from my post, Bertram said hurriedly, but we must hasten the contraband to safe hiding before the invaders come ashore. He gave a sharp glance out the doorway toward open water and the remaining ships, as if that were still the threat. 

Acquire a pack animal and come up to the fort as quick as you can. There’s uncertainty we can hold the island!

"The bombardment has stopped, mon ami. Fin!"

The enemy is trying to come in behind us.  It’s only a temporary lull in the fighting, Monsieur LeGrange.  Now hurry it up!

***

For defensive and fur trading purposes, Fort Mackinac was a primary outpost for Great Britain’s northern war theater’s upper region. Some weeks earlier, a frigate had sailed up Lake Huron with provisions and a substantial amount of gold for trading and pay for the remote post’s soldiers.  The gold was secured in a vault underneath the north blockhouse and the vault reinforced with native stone.

As paymaster for the region and keeper of the vault, Officer Bertram had maneuvered funds in gold and mineral trades to accounts of men who no longer existed.  Similarly, an array of precious trinkets salvaged from the captain’s quarters of a small frigate that had gone down off the tip of Round Island were stored in the vault for safekeeping.  It would prove unwise to steal trinkets to which the ship’s captain laid claim.  Leaving the small accumulation in tact while removing the illicit gold, which no one but Bertram and a few others knew of, would serve as proof of his integrity, should anyone come looking. 

Neglect from inept superiors had allowed him to alter payroll ledgers with no suspicion of his breach of honesty and thus amass a substantial a cache of gold coins and varying ingots.  The gold was worth a small fortune if he could smuggle it from the fortress.  Minor Officer Wilson Bertram was a greedy man who would not have shared his bounty had he not had a family and was indeed conscripted to serve on the island for two more years.  But, the ill-gotten treasure would do him no good if he couldn’t get it off the island.  In that, he’d sworn a pact with the devil to evenly share the loot.  

***

"I can’t get to the mainland with enemy ships off shore, mon ami, the fur trader Claude LaSete argued fiercely.  They will sink my dugout before I paddle 100 meters, Monsieur Bertram.  I beg you, please don’t ask of me such a sacrifice."

Well, then, get a horse and be quick about it!

Bombardment had begun again and projectiles were falling against the bluff below the fort as the two scoundrels hurriedly made their way up the incline to the fortress blockhouse.  They were out of breath when they reached it.

Find a secure hiding place in the forest away from any fighting that might take place. 

Perhaps the caves?

You are a dunce, Monsieur LeGrange.  They’ll explore the caves first thing.  Do as I say.  Conceal it carefully in the forest and mark the hiding spot.  Return and await me here.  I warn you, Claude, don’t think of crossing me.  I’ll set every Native on your tail and your fate will be worse than having the Americans sink you if you attempt to deceive me.

Claude LeGrange cinched up his sway-backed old bay and strapped on cloth satchels he’d filled with gold ingots, coins, silver ornaments and a few copper charms.  The copper had come down from up near Marquette as compensation in fur trade arrangements; the gold and silver, of course, had arrived by ship.

The two rogues finished loading the animal with burlap bags slung over its flanks.  The fortune was plenty.  Officer Bertram had manipulated the pay records exceptionally well.  

Another volley of cannon rounds thumped into the hillside below the fort causing the earth to shudder.  A fresh new crack snaked up the blockhouse wall dousing the two men in white dust.

Be on your way and don’t dawdle! Bertram ordered, giving the burdened animal a slap on its hindquarter.  LeGrange and the mare lumbered up the granite path leading away from the main fortress.  Another round struck the bluff and the ground shook. 

The fact was Claude LeGrange had taken the illicit materials into the thick wood along the high ground past the new stockade, beyond the limestone outcrop called Sugarloaf, and into the dense growth on the island’s upper elevations.  He led the bay along a narrow animal path into the deep forest, occasionally spotting glimpses of the crystal blue waters surrounding the island. Then he disappeared into the dark forest where only the soft clip-clop of hooves sounded; hooves and cannons, although the latter at a far greater distance now.

Myriad limestone caves dotted the island, little nooks and crannies so welcoming of the bounty, but Bertram had warned him against such a risk. Thus his journey was slow in the virgin timber.

At last he came upon a suitable spot, oddly marked by a moss-covered rock mostly submerged into the forest floor. He tethered the animal, although in its frailty there was little reason to believe it might wander off. As he neared the unusual mineral formation, sunlight flashed upon tiny rust-colored flecks shimmering in the light.  The green of the moss it seems was not moss at all, instead being the tarnished, uneven surface of a small copper boulder that had been wedged into the ground since the time of the last glacier withdrawal, thousands of years before—the geologic event that had so spectacularly formed the Great Lakes and left the clump of land that became the island. 

The ancient ice shelf had withdrawn ever so slowly, dragging with it small boulders, rocks, and gravel.  It scarred the earth and scattered but a handful of tiny copper nuggets along the island’s craggy surface.  The mineral was indeed rare for the immediate area, but not entirely foreign to the island.  Small nuggets had been found in the past.

"Sa·cré bleu!" Claude LeGrange mumbled, running his fingers across the stone. He had seen copper in its native form, but never of such magnificence nor volume.

Musket shots down by the lakeshore shook him back to his senses and he set to work scooping out a shallow hollow, depositing the bags of wealth and covering them over with dirt, rock, twigs and at last marking the spot by manhandling the copper-flecked boulder atop.  Its weight settled into the freshly dug earth and he swept more dirt about it so that it appeared natural in its setting. 

Satisfied with its camouflage, LeGrange double-checked landmarks and scribbled out a crude map on crinkled parchment.   

Two ships of the small armada carrying members of the invading force had sailed around the island and set anchor at British Landing, a most convenient point of attack.  They had skirmished with Natives, but eventually gained a foothold in a grove a short distance in from the landing. By now, a company of British soldiers had scurried across the island to confront the American regulars militia forces as it regrouped.  Muskets from both sides were firing.

Unaware of the situation until the small arms began firing, LeGrange had narrowly missed encountering the British defenders as they hurried through the woods toward the landing.  But now that fighting had begun, he heard the gunshots and himself made haste back toward the settlement. 

LeGrange had not stumbled far through the brush when a Native spotted and mistook the Frenchman for an attacker.  From the cover of a cedar thicket, the redskin drew and fired an arrow.  The narrow wooden shaft whisked through the trees striking LeGrange between the ribs causing him to fall backward with a heavy thump onto the rocky ground.  Another arrow spit through the air as he lay gasping.  As his last breath labored to break free, a stone tomahawk came down with a bone-crunching thud.

Part Two

Chapter 2

Upon his uncle Ray’s recommendation, Wayland Claeys came north hoping to find work on the Keystone. If it worked out he could expect long-term employment chasing the petroleum industry’s rapidly expanding market.  However, government intervention and Native American activism had placed the pipeline’s progress in flux. Layoffs were being doled out right and left and it was only a matter of time before it would come to him. With his paltry funds slowly diminishing, young Claeys decided it was time to move on and head home. There was an abundance of auto factories scattered from Detroit southward and coalmines scattered throughout Kentucky and West Virginia to consider if something else didn’t work out. 

Boy, you’d better make up your mind.  Winter comes in fast up here and you don’t want to be stuck between jobs, his uncle said one evening as they were headed to their quarters after a long day’s work

Wayland stared blankly out of the windshield at the flat expanse of fields.  That stretch of highway was straight and flat with only a few rigid tree lines serving as windbreaks.  It was a monotonous drive and he did not care much for it.

Have you thought of going up to Canada and catch on with a crew up there?  They’ll be needing roughnecks.

I wouldn’t know how to get up there, uncle Ray.  Do I need work papers?  Passport? I don’t know where to start.  Besides, I don’t know as I’m cut out for more pipeline work.

Everyone must do something.  Pay’s good. 

Well, this don’t seem to be cuttin’ it for me, Uncle Ray.  You know as well as me I’ll be laid off pretty soon, anyhow.

I promised your mama I’d look out for you if you came up here, but it’s your decision to make, Ray said.  He and the boy’s mother were close and he’d always had a liking for her only boy.  He understood that oil field work wasn’t for everyone, but it had served him well.  Wayland was a good worker, but he had never seemed happy up there in the seemingly endless flatlands of the Dakotas. 

His uncle chuckled. Those Canucks will sure make a man out of a boy.  No offense.

I can’t see myself going up there, Uncle Ray. It ain’t the work that bothers me, Wayland said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the flat, narrow road since they’d started out.   He’d put on weight and filled out and now had the body of a roughneck, but he had never quite acquired the attitude. There were tough old boys who would fight at any minor reason—or for no reason at all.  But it just wasn’t in his psyche to quarrel and fight.  I just feel out of place. 

I know you can do the work, Wayland.  I’ve watched you out there and you can keep up with any ol’ roughneck, but it can be a challenge being with some of these men.  Some of those ol’ boys can be crude and crass. I’ve learned how to handle it.

Ray pulled in at their quarters, his grimy Dodge Ram shuddering to a halt. He reminded his nephew, Brush the dust off your clothes before you go inside, son.  I swear, some days we bring half the state home with us.

I won’t miss this if I leave, Wayland said. Little clouds puffed from his trousers as he patted at the worn old denim.  The steady hum of an air conditioner radiated through the mobile housing unit. 

You have an advantage of youth—no one to care for so you can up and leave at any old time. Me, well, I’ve got your Aunt Ida to care for and getting myself retired one of these days. I need that steady paycheck coming in, but if’n I was in your shoes, Wayland, I’d just up and follow my heart.

A few days later a dust storm blew in from off the plains lifting the farmland soil and pelting workers like they were being sandblasted.  Sand found its way inside Wayland’s safety goggles and stung his eyes. It dried his throat so it scratched when he tried to speak over the wind. Dust devils of soil and sand swirled from behind any vehicle that came into motion along the worksite.  The foreman’s shouted commands flew away on each fresh gust, like Dorothy in the twister in Kansas.  As the day went on the dry wind became even hotter and more intense.  Wayland spat, but it only added to the dryness in his throat.  Sand bit into him like tiny bee stings. 

Finally, head bowed against the wind’s relentless onslaught, Wayland made his way over and shouted into Uncle Ray’s ear. I’ve had it.  I’m giving notice, Uncle Ray. Next paycheck and I’m out of here.

If that’s the way you feel, son, Ray shouted back as the wind whipped at him. He turned his face away so that he did not have to take its full force.  Your folks will be glad to see you home.

Having given notice, the day after payday Wayland picked up US Highway 2 in Grand Forks driving east, dropped down to Duluth and then Ironwood, Iron River, Iron Mountain and Rapid River across the upper shores of Lake Michigan.  The white lines on the asphalt flew by as he put distance between himself and the pipeline. 

By then the upper Midwest forests were beautifully adorned in autumn splendor: scarlet, crimson, orange, yellow, gold and various greens that had yet to turn. Wayland indulged himself with stolen glimpses of foliage as the tires hummed along the highway. The bright