William Johnstone: A Rocky Mountain Christmas

The ship was the American Eagle , a four-masted clipper in the Pacific trade. As much canvas as could be spread gleamed a brilliant white in the sunshine, and the ship was lifting, falling, and gently moving from side to side as it plowed over the long, rolling swells of the Pacific. The propelling wind, spilling from the sails, emitted a soft, whispering sigh as the boat heeled.

The helmsman stood at the wheel, his legs spread slightly as he held the ship on its course. Working sailors moved about the deck, tightening a line here, loosening one there, providing the exact tension on the rigging and angle on the sheets to maintain maximum speed. Some sailors were holystoning the deck, while others were manning the bilge pumps.

Twenty-four-year-old Luke Shardeen stood on the leeward side on the quarterdeck, his big hands resting lightly on the railing. From the age of seventeen he had been at sea, rising from an able-bodied seaman to first officer. His dark hair blew in the wind as his brown eyes examined the barometer for the third time in the last thirty minutes. There was no doubt it was falling, and that could only presage bad weather. Shrugging his broad shoulders, he left the quarterdeck and tapped on the door of the captain’s cabin.

“Yes?” the captain called.

“Captain, permission to enter?”

“Come in, Mr. Shardeen.”

Luke stepped into the cabin, which was as large as all the other officers’ quarters combined. Captain Cutter was bent over the chart table with a compass and a protractor.

“Captain, the barometer has fallen rather significantly in the last half hour. I’ve no doubt but that a storm is coming.”

“Do you have any idea how fast we are going, Mr. Shardeen?”

“It would only be a guess.”

“We are doing nineteen knots, Mr. Shardeen. Nineteen knots,” Captain Cutter said. “It’s my belief that if we can maintain this pace, we’ll outrun the storm.”

“We won’t be able to maintain this pace, Captain, if we rig the storm sails.”

“I have no intention of rigging the storm sails. Certainly not until it is an absolute necessity.”

“Very good, Captain.” Luke withdrew from the captain’s cabin and returned to the quarterdeck.

“Mr. Shardeen,” the bosun called. “Will we be taking in the sail, sir?”

Luke shook his head. “Not yet.”

He looked out over the water. The sea was no longer blue, but dirty gray and swirling with whitecaps. It was the kind of sea referred to by sailors as “green water” and so rough the ship dropped into a trough and took green water over the entire deck as it started back up.

Shortly, the storm was on them, with wind and rain so heavy it was impossible to distinguish the rain from the spindrift.

“Captain, we have to strike sail!” Luke shouted above the noise of the gale.

“Aye, do so,” Captain Cutter agreed.

Luke sent men aloft to strike sail, praying that no one would be tossed off by the bucking ship.

The masts were stripped of all canvas without losing anyone, but the storm continued to build. By mid-morning, it was a full-blown typhoon. Fifteen-foot waves crashed against the side of the 210-foot-long ship. The American Eagle was in imminent danger of foundering.

“Captain, we have to head her into the wind!” Luke Shardeen shouted.

“No. Even without sail we’re still making headway,” Captain Cutter shouted back.

“If we don’t do it, we’ll likely lose the ship!”

“I’m the captain of this vessel, Mr. Shardeen. And as long as I am captain, we’ll sail the course I’ve set for her.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The huge waves continued to crash against the side of the ship and the rolling steepened, going over as far as forty-five degrees to starboard. It hung for so long the sailors had sure and certain fear it would continue to roll until it capsized.

Below deck in the mess, cabinet doors swung open and plates, cups, and bowls fell to the floor, crashing against the starboard.

“Everyone to port side!” Luke shouted through a megaphone and, though the sailors found it difficult to climb up the slanted deck, their combined weight helped bring the ship back from the brink of disaster.

When the ship rolled back, the dishes tumbled to port, breaking into smaller and smaller shards until there was nothing left but a jumbled collection of bits and pieces of what had once been the ship’s crockery.

Above deck the yardarms were free of sail except for the spanker sail, which had been left rigged, and was now no more than tattered strips of canvas, flapping ineffectively in the ninety-mile-per-hour winds.

Captain Cutter was standing on the quarterdeck when a huge wave burst over the side of the ship. He and three sailors were swept off the deck, into the sea.

“Cap’n overboard!” someone shouted, and Luke ordered the helmsman to turn into the wind. That kept the ship in place and stopped the terrible rolling, but it began to pitch up, then down, by forty-five degrees. Luke put the men to the rails to search for those who had been washed overboard. They found and recovered two of the sailors, but there was no sign of the third sailor or the captain.

By late afternoon the storm had abated, and Luke ordered the ship to remain in place to continue the search. For the next two days, in calm winds and a placid sea, they searched for the captain and the missing sailor, but found no sign of either of them. Finally, Luke ordered the ship to continue on its original course.

They raised San Francisco twenty-three days later.

A tugboat met them in the Bay, a seaman shot a line up to them, and, with all sail gone, they were towed to the docks, where they dropped anchor. As soon as the ship was made fast by large hawsers, a ladder was lowered for the officers and a gangplank was used by the men to offload their cargo of tea.

Luke sat in the outer office of the headquarters for the Pacific Shipping Company. The walls were decorated with lithographs of the company’s ships, including one of the American Eagle . Beside each ship was a photograph of its captain. Emile Cutter’s face, stern and dignified in his white beard, was alongside the picture of the ship Luke had just left.

“Captain Shardeen, Mr. Buckner will see you now,” a clerk said.

Luke wasn’t a captain, but he figured the clerk didn’t know that or had called him “Captain” because he had assumed command of the ship to bring it home.

Although Richard Buckner’s shipping empire had made him a millionaire, he had never been to sea. Nevertheless, his office was a nautical showplace, replete with model ships, polished bells engraved with the names of the ships from which they came, and the complete reconstruction of a helm, with wheel and compass.

Buckner was a man of average height, but in comparison to Luke’s six-foot-four-inch frame, he seemed short. He greeted Luke with an extended hand. “Mr. Shardeen, you are to be congratulated, sir, for an excellent job of bringing the ship back safely. Please, tell me what happened.”

Luke told about the storm, and how a huge wave hit them broadside, washing the captain and three other sailors overboard. Luke made no mention of the argument he’d had with Captain Cutter about bringing the ship into the wind.

“We rescued two of the sailors right away and stayed on station for two days, but we never found Captain Cutter or Seaman Bostic.”

“Thank you. I’m sure that Mrs. Cutter will be comforted to know exactly what happened and will be grateful for the effort the entire ship showed in trying to rescue her husband.”

“I wish we had been successful.”

“Yes, well, such things are in the hands of God. Now, Mr. Shardeen, if you would, there are some reports you need to fill out. After you are finished, please come back into the office. I have something I want to discuss with you.”