" Steamer Brother Jonathan struck rock off St. George Point 8 or 10 miles NW from Crescent City, about half past one o'clock P.M. today, and went down about 45 minutes afterwards, and all on board are supposed to be lost, except 18 adults and three children, who came ashore with me in the ship's lifeboat at this place about 5 o'clock P.M. All the boats at this place have gone to the rescue. No hope of saving anyone. Two boats swamped alongside of the ship, there were three boats left on the steamer. Passengers cared for by citizens here. The following is a list of those saved: James Patterson, 3rd Officer. David Farrel, Steerage Steward. Henry Miller, baker, Patrick Linn, fireman. William Lowery, fireman. William Shield, Steward. Steven Moran, waiter. Mr Adam Cartwright, Mrs. Mary Ann Tweedle, Mrs. Mina Bernhardt and child, Mrs. Martha E. Wilder, Mrs. Martha Scott and child and 4 seamen. 8 o'clock, boats returned, and nothing seen of wreck.

We have given up all hopes.

Signed: James Patterson, Third Officer."

Ben Cartwright stared at the telegram in disbelief. He forced himself to re-read the words for a second time, followed by a third. They still refused to make any sense. No hope? How could he believe that Joseph was gone, was dead, just by reading the words of a telegram forwarded on from San Francisco. It did not seem possible. Nothing made any sense. He doubted if anything would ever make any sense, ever again. How could Joe be dead when he was so young, so full of life?

"Pa?" Hoss knew that something was wrong and Ben realised with a start that he was not alone in his grief. He still had two sons, and they needed him. He folded the telegram up neatly and put it into his vest pocket, before clapping Hoss on the shoulder.

"Let's get going son. Your brother Adam needs us." There would be time to explain on the journey to Crescent City, supposing he could ever find the words. How did you tell a man his brother was dead?

"And Joe?" Hoss stood still, refusing to move, despite his father's prodding. "What about Joe, Pa? What's happened to Joe?" His voice was raised, so that several people stopped and gave them curious looks. Hoss ignored them. "What's happened to Joe, Pa?"

Ben's face took on a look of infinite compassion as he gathered his son into his arms and held him close. His face was pressed hard against the suede of Hoss' vest and his words were slightly muffled, but that did not begin to cushion the blow. "We've lost him, Hoss. Dear God, we've lost Joe."

Saying the words aloud, actually acknowledging that his son was dead was the most difficult thing Ben had ever done. It wrenched his soul asunder, twisting it, tearing it apart and crumbling it into dust. He could not continue and a great sob tore its way out of his throat as Hoss returned his embrace. Father and son held onto one another in a fierce grip, each trying valiantly to support the other and to make sense of the news. Pulling apart after a few moments, they turned and walked slowly back down the street, the afternoon sun casting long shadows behind them that wavered darkly in the dirt of the street.

It was peaceful inside the church: cool, dark and quiet. The only sound was the clicking of their boot-heels on the flagstones as Ben and Hoss walked up the aisle and knelt down, side by side, at the altar rails, clasped their hands and bowed their heads in silent prayer.

"We'd better get to Adam as soon as possible," Hoss said after a long while. "He'll be needing us."

"Yes, he will," Ben, replied. "And we need him. I think we all need to be together."

He choked back the thought that his family would never be complete again, that one member would always be missing, forever young, forever mourned and never forgotten. A vital part of his life had been ripped away, leaving a wound that was raw and weeping and would never heal. "A father should not outlive his sons," Ben thought and tried to be grateful that two of his boys were still with him. It was a small, cold comfort.


The window shades were pulled down in the corner bedroom where Adam lay, a large bandage wrapped around his head. The doctor had closed the wound to his scalp with seven stitches and pronounced him a very lucky man, but Adam did not feel lucky. Each time he closed his eyes, he relived the scene of the ship sinking slowly beneath the waves and submerging the only two other lifeboats to be launched. He could hear the cries of the passengers tossed into the ocean and even in his sleep, Adam found himself once again scanning the water, desperate for a glimpse of Joe, yearning to stretch out a hand and pull him to safety. Yet those smothering dreams were coloured by the chill realisation that it was too late, that he could not replay the tragedy and create a happy ending.

On the nightstand lay a telegram from home, a long message that was full of love and understanding. Pa and Hoss would be arriving soon and then they could all start their long journey in sorrow together. Adam thought of all the books he had read, all the poetry and philosophy and could find nothing to assuage his grief, nothing to comfort his soul. He needed his family; he needed them more than he had ever needed anything in his entire life.