The SS Emperor lay against the Port Arthur ore dock, her iron hull pressing the fenders with a faint creak. From the chutes above, the ore poured in a constant roar, a brown torrent vanishing into her holds. The sound reverberated through the steelwork of the dock and the bones of the ship alike. A fine dust hung in the air, settling into the lines of men’s faces and the seams of their clothes.

First Mate William Morrey stood on the port bridge wing, hands in his pockets, cap pulled low. Beyond the harbor, the moon was rising, pale and distant over the shadowed bluffs. He had been awake since before dawn—fueling, checking cargo trim, chasing dock paperwork, and now overseeing loading. Departure days were always long, but this one was longer still.

Captain Walkinshaw was ashore. Everyone aboard knew where. Two hands had gone missing before dusk. Morrey had been sent to fetch them, slogging along the lamplit street, past the tavern doors with their wash of stale beer and tobacco smoke. Inside he had found the men—slumped, glassy-eyed—and Walkinshaw himself at the bar, nursing rye. The captain’s look had been one of faint annoyance, as if a working officer ought not to intrude on a man’s evening ashore.

Two crew were lost for the voyage, too far gone to walk to the dock. Walkinshaw had not cared to delay. At 10:55 p.m., the Emperor gave two short blasts on her whistle, answered from shore. The lines went, the propeller bit, and she edged away into the night.

The harbor lights dwindled astern. The lake lay flat, the air still, the moon riding high among the stars. In such weather, a captain might keep the bridge until the ship was well into open water, especially with Isle Royale ahead.

But shortly after midnight Walkinshaw turned from the wheel. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard bristling with grey. “She’s yours, Morrey. Keep her steady for Blake Point.”

Morrey hesitated, then said only, “Aye, sir.”

He had never conned this stretch by night. The chart was clear enough, but paper was not the lake. He knew that; Walkinshaw knew it. But the captain was already reaching for his cap, authority unquestioned, and left the bridge without another word.

Prokup, the Second Officer, came in a few minutes later, coat open, chart roll under his arm. His face was pale from the cold air. “Sir, I’ve been running deck duties all evening. Most of the hands are still dead asleep.”

“Half the crew might as well be in the dockside bar,” Morrey said. He kept his eyes forward. “We’ll need Passage Island Light before long. Lay it out.”

Prokup set the chart on the table, dividers clicking softly. The bridge smelled of damp wool and coal smoke.

Then came the sound—low at first, a deepening roar beneath the bow.

Morrey’s head snapped up.

White water broke ahead in the moonlight.

“Hard—”

The rest was drowned in the crash. The Emperor’s bow struck rock with a shock that ran the length of her hull, throwing both men to the deck. Somewhere forward, steel screamed. The vibration came up through the soles of their boots like the shudder of a stricken animal.

Walkinshaw burst in, coat half-buttoned, voice cutting the air. “Report!”

“Grounded, sir—forward section,” Morrey said, getting to his feet.

“Sound the tanks. Pumps on.” Walkinshaw was at the telegraph, ringing for full astern. The deck quivered; the ship barely moved.

Through the starboard windows Isle Royale was a black wall, the moonlight showing foam along its base. The smell of pine and wet rock carried across the water.

Prokup came in from the wing. “Port side’s awash, sir—she’s settling fast.”

Walkinshaw glanced from one officer to the other. “Get the boats uncovered.”

Below decks, voices were rising. Men stumbled into the night, some still fastening coats, others clutching seabags that would do them no good. The davits creaked, blocks groaned.

The first boat cleared the falls, hit the water, and pulled away. A second followed, loaded to the gunnels, faces pale in the moonlight.

The list was increasing now, each step aft uphill. Water lapped over the port bulwark, swirling along the deck before spilling into the hatchways. Somewhere deep in the hull, ore shifted with a grinding sigh.

“Load her!” Walkinshaw roared. His voice carried command still, but there was something in it—a faint burr of doubt.

On the afterdeck, the lake was winning. Water poured over the hatch combings, filled the alleyways waist-deep, rushed around bollards, and swept loose gear into the scuppers. The Emperor groaned again, long and low.

“Third boat—swing her out!” Walkinshaw was at the crank now, cap gone, hair plastered flat. Morrey took the other side, muscles burning. The davit arms crept outboard.

From the hatch came a rush of steam and men. One, bareheaded and oil-streaked, gasped a single word—“Boilers”—before a surge knocked him against the rail.

They all knew.

The explosion was muffled but terrible, a deep concussion underfoot. Deck grating lifted; a gout of steam and black water tore upward. Heat slapped their faces even in the night air. The afterdeck sagged, vanishing beneath the rush of incoming water.

Morrey reeled against the davit post. Prokup went to one knee. The boat swung wildly, its hull striking the plating with hollow thuds.

Then the Emperor began to pivot, the stern sheering slowly from shore. The davit lines jammed taut. The deck underfoot had taken a forward tilt.

“She’s going!” Prokup’s voice was high, certain.

The lake claimed her by sections. The stern went first, dragged down by the weight of the ore. The rail slipped under with a hiss, then the winches, then the bitts. The bow rose briefly, water pouring from her hawse-holes in glittering streams, before she began the final plunge.

Men were in the water now, some striking out for the lifeboats, others thrashing in shock. Their cries carried across the still night, fainter with each breath.

Morrey clung to a stay. His hands were numb already. Walkinshaw was beside him, one huge fist locked on the davit arm, his jaw set in what might have been rage, or might have been resignation.

Then the lake took them.

The cold was total—instant, savage. It drove the air from his lungs, stabbed at his skin, froze thought itself. Morrey kicked upward, broke surface into a world of oil-slick water and moonlight. Wreckage bobbed—timber, rope, a floating cap.

Prokup surfaced close by, eyes already clouded. The Emperor was gone. Only a widening circle of ripples and a sheen of oil marked where she had stood moments before.

Far off, a light moved fast across the horizon—the Coast Guard cutter Kimball, racing toward their final call. But for those in the grip of Superior’s water, rescue was already too late.