Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Epilogue: The Healing and the Hunger
conclusion

Her interruptive response came softly and laden with resignation. “You’re going back to sea.”

She said it as though she had known all along that it was going to happen; and now it had.

“I... well, I know how you feel, Catherine — about me going to sea, and that sort of thing — but it wouldn’t be like it was in the past; not like my trip to Australia. This would be more local... sort of. Trips up to Vancouver in Canada, up to Seattle and Bellingham in Washington, maybe down to San Diego — cargo stuff. It would sort of be like me being in the Navy again.” He paused and then added: “The pay would be better.”

He forked in another mouthful of pork and cabbage as he waited for her response. It was quiet for a while before she replied. “I guess I’ll never understand you, Bernard; never really, really understand how you feel about the sea. To me it’s a frightening place — a terribly frightening place where I would never want to be. And when you’re out there, I worry a lot. Because... well, because I love you a lot. But I know — that is, I think I know — that you need to do what you need to do. So I’m reconciled to that. I want you to be happy. But at the same time I want you to be with me as much as you can. So let’s see if we can achieve a balance.”

Some balance was achieved, and the passing years saw the family grow, both in number and in stature. Those years also saw him progress from being an ordinary seaman to being Captain of the steam ferry, Flyer, making trips between Seattle and Tacoma. It was a position that kept him away from home for extended periods, and in retrospect it may have been the beginning of the end; because that opportunity proved to be a stepping stone to a full captaincy aboard a sea-going ship.

“This came for you the other day,” Catherine said.

It was a day early in 1897, a day when he was at home, enjoying one of his all-too-rare times with the family. She handed him an expensive-looking envelope that bore the return address of Barneson-Hibberd, a San Francisco firm. He opened it and read.

“Well,” he said. “I didn’t expect this. But this is quite an offer!”

She looked at him expectantly, but said nothing.

“Seems this company has chartered a ship from a New York firm.” As he said it, he sat down in a favorite chair and crossed his legs. “They have this ship; she’s a steamer named the Progresso. And they want me to take command of her. Appears they’re still ferrying people up to the Yukon — the gold rush, you know — and after all these years.”

“I see.” She nodded her head understandingly and smiled. “And you want to accept the offer. Is that right?” The smile was kind and knowing.

He returned the smile, and she could see the light of hope in his eyes.

“Yes, that’s right. Of course I’ll need to look into the possibility of a leave of absence from the ferry, but if that may be arranged I’d really like to take advantage of this opportunity.”

“Well, as I’ve said before, I want you to be happy. So you go ahead, Dear, and I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

Not everything proved to be as fine as Catherine had prophesied, however, although Barneson-Hibberd had laid their plans carefully enough. It was a very straightforward arrangement: the Progresso would carry passengers north as far as Saint Michaels, and there she would be met by riverboats that would transport the gold seekers on to Fairbanks and to Dawson. It all seemed simple enough. But the riverboats failed to make their appearance upon Progresso’s arrival, and the prospective prospectors were more than a little upset.

“Just you look here, Captain,” said one of them — part of a delegation chosen to represent the group — “We’ve done paid good money for this here trip; a lot of money for most of us. Some of us got our whole future wrapped up in this. And if’n we don’t get up to them gold fields, there’s gonna be the Devil to pay!”

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!” Gilboy pleaded. “Please. I understand exactly how you feel. But give me a little time, and I’m sure I can work things out.”

It took a few days, but Gilboy did work things out. He was finally able to find a party willing to take a mortgage on the ship. Then, with the funds obtained, he purchased three suitable boats. Leaving only a working crew aboard the Progresso, he began shuttling passengers and supplies to their destinations, an activity that was to occupy everyone’s time, until the onset of winter forced the operation to shut down. Thereupon he sold the riverboats, ransomed the ship, and sailed her back to San Francisco.

He then returned to his work with the Seattle-Tacoma ferry, and the family enjoyed his presence, off and on, for the next four and a half years.

Then, in 1902, he was offered the position of Master of the Argyll, a 320-foot steamer owned by the Union Steamship Company, and operating in the San Francisco-to-Hawaii trade. It turned out to be an amiable relationship — one during which he plied some of the same waters he had sailed in his own little boat, Pacific, and one lasting until 1905, when Barneson-Hibberd again sought his skills.

It was a rust-encrusted old steamer that lay to her wharf in San Francisco harbor on this September morning, the black iron sides of the aging old Centennial rising above the pair of them: Stanley Spangborn of the Barneson-Hibberd firm, and Bernard Gilboy.

“To Russia, you say?”

“That’s right, Captain Gilboy, to Russia. She’s got her cargo loaded, and we’d like you to take command of her. She’s due in Vladivostok as soon as you can get her there.”

Gilboy looked at Spangborn with some caution. “What’s the situation there now? You know, between them and the Japanese? I’d heard that a treaty had been signed a couple days ago — on the fifth I think it was — but I don’t want to find myself caught up in somebody else’s war.”

“We don’t expect any trouble there, Captain, and you’re right about the treaty. The newspapers said that Roosevelt had mediated the whole situation, and they got all the signatures back in Hew Hampshire. Portsmouth it was, I believe.”

Gilboy nodded his acknowledgment while he looked over the aging old ship with a jaundiced eye. Emitting a cynical chuckle he said, “Well, I’ve gotta say this: she certainly appears to live up to her name; looks every bit of a hundred years old, she does. So do you think she can make it all the way to Vladivostok?”

Spangborn responded to the tongue-in-cheek humor with a nod and a smile. “Gotta admit she’s not much for looks, but she’s sound; she’s been surveyed. We’ve no doubts about her seaworthiness.”

Gilboy held his chin in his hand as his eyes continued to sweep the old hull from masthead to waterline, from stem to stern. Then he turned to Spangborn.

“Well then, let’s take care of all of the paperwork, and we’ll sail as soon as you like.”

The news for Catherine was neither unexpected nor pleasant, but she accepted it with the quiet stoicism that had become so much a part of her nature. And early in the month, Centennial won her hawsers and steamed for Vladivostok.

It turned out to be a misfortune that news of the treaty had not reached all of the belligerents, and the result was that the old ship was taken as a prize of war by a Japanese force in the Bering Sea. They believed and they held that the ship was transporting contraband goods. They therefore gave notice of their intention to confiscate both the ship and her cargo. It took some time and some negotiations to resolve the matter, but eventually the ship was released, along with her personnel, and so she proceeded to her destination. Having arrived there, and after unloading her cargo, she served briefly as a hotel for the city of Vladivostok — riot-torn as it was due to the war.

It was now late in the year, and Gilboy was ordered home. He was directed, however, to route himself across the Sea of Japan, and to take the Centennial through the straits north of the island of Honshu. There he was to put in at the port city of Muroran, on the southeast coast of the island of Hokkaido, where he was to pick up a cargo of sulfur that was destined for the powder works at Pinole, California.

On February 24th, 1906, apparently the day he cast off his lines to steam for America, Bernard Gilboy sent a postcard to his family. The simple message stated, “Home in 30 days.” It would prove to be one of the last communications from anyone aboard that ill-fated vessel.

It was not until seven years later that a notice appeared in the San Francisco Call of October 24th, 1913. Under a not-too-surprising headline of “Centennial Crew is Believed Dead,” the account read as follows:

“The report published in yesterday’s Call of the finding of the hull of the Centennial by a party of Russian explorers in the ice off Sakhalin Island is the topic of general discussion today in the local shipping world. Further details that may reveal the fate of the crew are eagerly awaited as most of the 54 persons who disappeared with the ship were known at this port.”

There never were “further details” of any survivors.

Bernard Gilboy’s questing had ended; once again he had stepped over the line.