Charley led the way on his motorcycle; Roxy followed in her bright lime-green Volkswagen Beetle. Charley thought the car seemed to fit her. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he had yet to make a decision. They retraced their route through the center of Florence before gliding down the hill on Maple Street toward the river. They had gone only a couple of blocks when Charley turned into a parking lot adjacent to a large, white clapboard building with a red roof and large gray letters proclaiming it to be the Siuslaw Pioneer Museum. Charley parked the bike, and Roxy pulled in beside him and cut the motor.
“What are we doing here?” she asked as she climbed out of her car and watched Charley hang his helmet on the handlebars of the bike. “It’s unlikely they’ll have anything about Double Eagles or that Golden Circle group.”
Charley began walking toward the entrance. “I doubt they have anything regarding either one, and I really don’t know where to go for any more information on those, but I hope they might have some more information on the wreck of the Nettie Sundberg.”
“So you’re sure it’s the wreck that your dad was interested in?”
Charley shook his head. “I’m not sure of anything. This is just the only thing I can think to do since I’m not quite ready to just relegate the whole thing to coincidence.”
They entered the front door and immediately encountered an elderly gentleman with wispy white hair, wearing a gray cardigan over a plaid shirt. The entry fee, they were told, would be three dollars each. Charley quickly fished the required sum out of his wallet for both of them then entered the interior, looking for maritime displays.
Most of the displays depicted the early settlement of Florence, early logging projects in the surrounding hills, and salmon being processed on the docks down by the river. Finally they found a corner in which were hung a few photographs depicting shipwrecks along the coast.
“Hello. My name is George Adamson. May I help you find something?” a soft voice asked from behind them. They turned to find the same gentleman who had accepted their entry fee standing with a helpful smile on his face.
“I’m looking for information regarding the shipwreck of the Nettie Sundberg,” Charley explained. “I believe it occurred . . .”
“In December of 1902,” Adamson finished for him.
Charley and Roxy exchanged surprised glances.
“That’s right. Do you have information on it?” Charley asked.
Adamson frowned in thought. “I’m not sure. If we do, it would be in the research library.”
“Could you direct us there?” Charley asked.
The man was obviously starved for opportunities to act as museum guide. “Follow me.” Adamson led them through a door in the back of the museum and across a large covered patio strewn with antique machinery. Charley even noticed a display with the original control panels used to open the Siuslaw Bridge. On the far side of the patio, Adamson opened the door to yet another building, stood aside, and motioned for them to enter. A long room ran the length of the building. The part they had entered was fitted as an office with desks and chairs and even a receptionist, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, at a desk with a computer and phone. The wall of the room to the left was lined with file cabinets and bookshelves.
Adamson entered after Charley and Roxy, allowing the screen door to slam behind him. “‘Hullo, Gladys.” He nodded at the receptionist then led them across the room. Eventually he skirted a small round table and stopped, leaning back to study the lettering on the rows of filing cabinets. “Let me see what we can find,” he mumbled.
Making his decision, he stepped forward and pulled out the second drawer of one of the cabinets. Quickly he rummaged through the contents, humming to himself, before finally extracting a manila file folder. He turned, opened the folder, and flipped through the pages. Charley and Roxy couldn’t see what it contained, but it wasn’t much.
“Hmmm,” Adamson mused then placed his finger on the page. “Here’s something. It seems the Nettie Sundberg was registered in San Francisco and had been commissioned to carry a load of supplies to Seattle, which was then destined to be sold for use in the Klondike.”
“Klondike?” Charley repeated, surprised.
Adamson nodded, looking up briefly. “Yes. That would not have been uncommon at the time. Remember, it was 1902 and the Alaskan gold rush would have still been in full swing.” Adamson looked back down at the contents of the folder. “The ship carried a crew of three. No crewmembers were found on board the wreck, but the bodies of the captain and one crewmember washed ashore a few days after the wreck was discovered. It was assumed they were washed overboard during the storm.”
“Storm?”
“Yes. The record states there was a severe storm the previous evening. Hmm.” Adamson perused the document through a pair of wire-rim glasses that seemed to perch on the end of his nose. “The wreck was discovered and reported by a Mr. Robert Haversham, at that time an assistant lighthouse keeper up at the Heceta Head Lighthouse.” Adamson paused then continued to read, “Mr. Haversham reported that he had taken the day off to visit the city”—he looked up with a smile—“Florence wasn’t much of a city then, but I suppose when you’re isolated on a windswept rock fifteen miles from civilization, any town begins to look big.”
“Isolated?” Roxy asked.
“Yes. In those days there was no road leading up the coast. All commerce went inland, up the river. The only travel along the coast was either by boat; by narrow, winding footpaths; or by an occasional stagecoach along the beach at low tide.”
“Stagecoach, along the beach?” Roxy queried.
“Things were pretty wild in those days,” Charley confirmed.
“Anyway, he would have had the choice of following an inland or beach route from the lighthouse. Either one would have taken pretty much all day to reach Florence. The inland road, which wound above where the present highway currently runs, was close to impassable in wet weather. Mr. Haversham reported that, partly because of the storm the previous evening and also because he preferred the beach, he chose to follow the beach route. There were disadvantages to this as well, however.”
Adamson took his eyes from the folder, obviously reciting from his own knowledge rather than anything that was written there. “Sutton Creek had to be forded, and beach travelers needed to pay close heed to the tides, but,” Adamson referred back to the manuscript, “apparently there was a minus tide that morning, which promised for a relatively easy journey if he left early. According to his report, Mr. Haversham left the lighthouse at dawn. Hmm.” He frowned as he studied the manuscript.
“What is it?” Charley asked.
“Nothing much. Not really,” Adamson replied thoughtfully. “Just one of those oddities that I had never noticed before. It seems that Mr. Haversham made mention of noticing a couple of people as he made his way up the trail. He believed them to most probably be Siuslaw women but couldn’t be sure in the poor lighting of morning. He said they appeared to be walking along the beach below the lighthouse. Apparently they were collecting clams or crabs or some such thing.”
“Is that something of interest, or is it peculiar or something?”
“Oh, no, only if you’re interested in the day-to-day lives of the local natives. It’s certainly nothing of consequence in relation to the Nettie Sundberg. Anyway, where was I?”
“Mr. Haversham was leaving the lighthouse at dawn,” Charley reminded him.
“Oh, yes. Well.” Adamson pressed his finger to the manuscript, and Charley and Roxy followed it as it made its way along the written lines as though it were a replication of Haversham’s journey down the coast. “Haversham made his way along the trail until he passed the Bear Cliffs.” Adamson glanced up at Charley. “That would be the cliffs where Sea Lion Caves are now,” he clarified. “He followed Berry Creek down to Heceta Beach, which he planned to follow south to the Siuslaw, where a ramp led to the road, and from there it was a straight shot to town. It was shortly after he had arrived on Heceta Beach that he discovered the wreck. He pressed on to town, where he reported it to the authorities.
“The next day he returned to the lighthouse, where he reported his find to those present, whom, he says, received the news with some interest, as their lives were often plagued with the boredom associated with isolation. A few days later he returned to the wreck with his wife and daughter and some other staff, where they had a picnic.” The man turned the page. “Hmm, this is interesting.” Adamson placed a finger on the page he had been reading. “Only a few months following the discovery, Mr. Haversham himself met with a catastrophe of his own.”
Charley’s interest piqued. “What kind of catastrophe?”
Roxy looked at Charley with curiosity but didn’t speak then looked back at Adamson as he reported what he had found in the article.
“The investigation determined that Mr. Haversham had gone hiking along the bluffs to the north of the lighthouse. He failed to return, and, uh, subsequent searches failed to find any sign of him. It was finally determined that he must have slipped and fallen from one of the bluffs. His body was never recovered.” Mr. Adamson looked up from the folder, peering at them over the glasses. “If you’ve been to that area, you can see how that could easily happen.”
Charley pondered the information for a moment while Mr. Adamson and Roxy both seemed to wait on him. “Do you have anything else on this Mr. Haversham?”
Adamson shook his head. “No. In fact, I’m surprised we even have this article. Usually any information such as this would be stored down at Winchester Bay in their museum about the life-saving service.”
Roxy sucked on her bottom lip and looked at Charley. “So I guess that’s it?”
Charley nodded slowly in obvious reluctant agreement. “It would seem so.”