Crossing the Deadline

by Michael Shoulders

  “In for an ounce . . . in for a pound!” somebody shouts.

  The major asks for quiet. “President Lincoln’s death doesn’t change the end of the war or the fruits of your labors. It doesn’t change the fact that our Illinois brothers go home today,” he explains. “I’ve asked Captain Speed to return tomorrow to cut orders to release Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa on Saturday.”

  The men from those three states are too shocked to respond to their good fortune with any signs of joy. Instead, some men start singing “John Brown’s Body.”

  They will hang Jeff Davis to a Sour Apple Tree.

  They will hang Jeff Davis to a Sour Apple Tree.

  They will hang Jeff Davis to a Sour Apple Tree.

  As they march along.

  By the end of the first verse, almost every person in Camp Fisk joins in:

  Now three rousing cheers for the Union.

  Now three rousing cheers for the Union.

  Now three rousing cheers for the Union.

  As we go marching along.

  The day’s planned departure goes on as scheduled, and things are more quiet than I expect for the rest of the week. The only Confederate soldiers we see are Captain Speed and his secretary. The two of them come regularly, surrounded by Negro armed guards. With their work complete, they leave without pleasantries.

  * * *

  On Saturday, as planned, we get word that the Ames has docked in Vicksburg and she takes the Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa men home. More and more camp space opens with each departing group.

  Early Monday morning, with the ground still damp with dew, Captain Speed arrives and asks every man in the camp to join him at the stage for an important announcement. “It will take a lot of doing, but we’re working on the final rosters. At ten o’clock, trains will arrive to take all two thousand four hundred of you home, beginning with Indiana.”

  If Speed says another word, it doesn’t land in my ears. All I hear is the sound of Mother’s voice welcoming me home. I’m already seated at the kitchen table, her at my side. To say the last group of men hug and cheer is an understatement. It’s over—really, really over. We’re headed home.

  It takes two hours to call the Indiana list. Every five to seven seconds, a name is called. The person acknowledges it and heads to a boxcar or a flatcar on the edge of the parade ground. Soldiers too sick to leave with their companies in prior weeks, like those from Andersonville, depart with us.

  At noon, the first train of the day lurches west for Vicksburg, with the Indiana 9th Cavalry and three hundred men on stretchers. Ten minutes later, the train pulls parallel to the river, and we see what we have dreamed of for weeks: the five ships that will carry us home.

  Today’s the first time I’ve laid eyes on such a massive body of water. Heavy rains across the last month, including the ones that had flooded Castle Morgan, have swollen the Mississippi beyond its banks. We’re told war damage to levees have allowed waters to flood the plains to the west, spilling miles into Louisiana. The river appears more like an ocean, save for a row of treetops defining where the other riverbank would normally contain the river.

  We’ve hardly had time to climb down from the boxcar when we watch the largest of the five ships pull away from the dock. “That ship’s empty. Why is it leaving?” I ask Sergeant Survant.

  “How would I know?” he says. “There’re plenty of soldiers left to fill all five ships.”

  The boat clears the dock and turns upriver. Painted on her side, in letters taller than Big Tennessee, are the words “Lady Gay.” Why would the largest ship at the dock leave without any soldiers on it?

  We’re funneled along the bank toward the Sultana. It is the same ship that had brought word of Lincoln’s death last week. The closer I get, the more massive it appears. One small building sits on the top deck, smokestacks as tall as any tree on either side. A couple shipmates stand on wooden crates by the gangplank. One of them points to each head and counts to himself as we pass.

  Another yells instructions. “The top level is called the Texas deck. That’s where the pilothouse is located,” he says. The huffing and “You may sleep on the floor there, but the pilothouse is off-limits to everybody except the captain and crew. The Chicago Opera Troupe’s on board till Memphis, and they have been assigned the rooms on the main deck. Then we have the boiler and, finally, hurricane decks. We want the nonambulatory soldiers to be near the cabin rooms just above the boilers. They will be warm there. Indiana men, claim a stake anywhere that’s free other than the pilothouse or near the cabins.”

  “How big is the side wheel?” somebody asks the shipmate giving instructions.

  “Thirty-four feet across. There’s one on each side of the Sultana, and it takes four very large boilers to power them.”

  As we board the Sultana, loud poundings are heard coming from deep inside the interior of the vessel. Sergeant Survant grabs the arm of a boat hand as he walks across the gangplank.

  “What’s that pounding?” he asks.

  “One of the boilers is being fixed,” the shipmate says. “It started leaking after we left New Orleans. We limped in here to pick you guys up. Barely made it, too.”

  * * *

  The huffing and yelling of a captain from a nearby ship catches our ears. Everybody turns to see him storm down the riverbank and board his boat. He flails his arms in the air and shouts cuss words back up the riverbank toward the command tents. Minutes later, after we’ve made our way to the second deck, I watch his ship back away from shore. Like the Lady Gay, not a single soldier boards the boat before it leaves.

  William Peacock, Sergeant Survant, and I navigate a dimly lit hallway, its walls covered in wood stained dark as molasses. Doors line both sides of the passageway. Jiggling five handles to cabin rooms fails to open any of them.

  “Hey, fellas!” a boat hand yells. “Those rooms are for paying customers like the opera singers—or for the sick. Find a spot on a higher deck.”

  We maneuver around men gawking at the richness of Sultana’s walls decorated with fancy pieces of art and carved moldings, and go up a set of stairs. Along this deck, cots are folded up and tied against the walls. “The cots will be lowered at night. During the day they stay tied to the walls to give more space for walking around,” we are told.

  By two o’clock the three of us find a spot on the hurricane deck to put our provisions and two days’ worth of rations.

  Cheers ring out as the next trainload arrives. “Hurry, more guys are coming. Let’s spread your things out a little to save a place for Big Tennessee just in case he gets assigned to this boat,” I suggest.

  We stake our claim and hurry to stand at the rail to watch lines of men pour from the train’s compartments. We expect them to board one of the two ships on either side of the Sultana. They don’t. Instead, the men are channeled down the bank and onto the boat with us. One of the first on board tells us that there were six hundred on this second train.

  The boat hand I had met earlier comes by with bed linens draped over his arms. “How’s this thing going to float with so many people on it?” William asks.

  He laughs. “Don’t worry, pard. This beauty floats in thirty-four inches of water. She’ll hold lots more weight than you’d think.”

  As hundreds of additional men file onto the Sultana, the pounding on the boiler deep in the belly of the ship continues and can be heard from where we stand.

  “You fellas want to see an alligator?” a man calls to us. He’s standing near the stairs flanked by two small girls, both holding a hand.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “An alligator. You want to see one?” he asks again.

  “Are you serious?” William asks.

  “Sure. I’m taking young Elizabeth Spikes and her sister, Susan, here to see him now,” he says, shaking a hand as he says their names. “You lads can join us if you like.”

  “Is he in the river near the boat?” I ask.

  “No, he’s on board with us.”r />
  “Is he alive?” the smaller of the two girls, Susan, wants to know.

  “He’s breathing the same air as you and your sister,” the man answers.

  “You two, go ahead,” Sergeant Survant says. William and I look at each other and shrug. “Sure,” we say at the same time.

  The man is quite young, has sandy-colored hair, and wears a cap with a shiny black leather brim. As I get closer, I notice the word “Captain” printed in gold thread across the front of his cap. “You’re the captain?” I ask, surprised by his young appearance.

  “The one and only. Captain James Cass Mason,” he says.

  Susan Spikes pulls the captain’s fingers so hard, his shoulders dip to one side. “Can it bite us?”

  “You bet he can,” he says. “He has lots of teeth and a jaw that can open this wide.” The captain demonstrates with his hands to show how massive the alligator’s mouth can stretch.

  The older girl flashes a large grin as if this is going to be the best treat in the world, but her younger sister pulls back. “I don’t want to see it anymore.”

  “Oh, he can’t get to you,” the captain reassures her. “He’s in a big wooden cage.”

  “I’m scared,” she pleads.

  He kneels in front of her, removes his cap, and places it on her head. Then he grabs her shoulders lightly and looks at her from eye level. “Miss Susan Spikes, do you think the captain of the Sultana would let anything bad happen to two of the prettiest passengers ever to step foot on his ship?” he asks. “The beast is in a crate and can’t do you any harm.”

  She puts on her bravest face, and the five of us climb stairs until we step onto the Texas deck. We round the side of the pilothouse and find a large wooden crate nestled against the side wall. Nailed to the front is a sign written in bold white letters: GASTONE.

  “Hey, Stephen, I think you’re related,” William jokes.

  “What do you mean?” the captain asks.

  “That’s his surname,” William says, and laughs.

  “Louisiana gator Gastone, meet Union soldier Gastone,” Captain Mason says with a flourish of his hand.

  “My name doesn’t have an ‘e’ at the end, Captain.”

  “Close enough,” William says. “Close enough.”

  The captain points to the front of the crate. “Move by his nose so I can show you his teeth,” he suggests.

  When the four of us are standing directly in front of Gastone, Captain Mason taps the front of the cage with his knuckles.

  The alligator opens his mouth and reveals a set of pointed teeth ready to bite anything that’s unfortunate enough to get close. He bellows a long, slow, deep sound, and everyone except the captain jumps. Flaps of skin near the back of the reptile’s throat vibrate, creating a deep roar. Susan and Elizabeth break free and sprint, screaming down the stairs to find their mother.

  The captain laughs. “I shouldn’t have done that without warning them,” he says, and bends over beside the crate. “Gastone’s nearly nine feet long. Come closer. He can’t get out. The crate’s built of sturdy wood.”

  “What was that sound he made?” William asks.

  “He thinks it’s time to eat,” the captain explains.

  A crewman rushes up to us. “Captain Mason, you have to see what’s going on,” he says. He motions toward the other side of the deck and to a man stomping down the riverbank.

  A cigar hangs out of his mouth, and he’s puffing like a locomotive engine. Smoke encircles his head of snow-white hair and trails behind him like a tail in the air. It’s hard to see where his hair ends and the smoke begins.

  We watch the man shake his finger in another man’s face. “I’m already behind schedule!” he shouts. “I have to pull out soon and haven’t time to sit around and wait.” He turns and sees us watching along Sultana’s highest rail. He points directly at the very spot where we stand. “The government is paying five to ten dollars a head to take all these boys home. That’s a godawful amount of money to pay to one boat when the rest of us are leaving empty!” he yells directly at Captain Mason. “You’re no better than a river rat with what you’re doing, Mason.”

  The man standing with the irate boatman shrugs his arms. “Captain White, my hands are tied,” he explains. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  Captain White tosses his cigar into a nearby puddle and stomps toward the boat docked next to us, the Pauline Carroll. Halfway across the gangplank, he turns back and yells, “I pulled in here to fill my ship, and I’m leaving with seventeen people? You haven’t heard the end of this,” he says, shaking his clenched fist.

  “Hey, Captain White,” Captain Mason says, and chuckles, “you best be pushing off so you can stay on schedule.”

  Captain White’s feet seem nailed to the gangplank. He stares at Captain Mason, then says in a matter-of-fact tone, “You think I don’t know why they’re putting all these soldiers on your boat, Mason? I know. We all know, and you’ll get what’s coming to you. Mark my words, Mason, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” With that, Captain White retreats inside the Pauline Carroll.

  Slowly, as a long line of soldiers continue to file onto the Sultana, the Pauline Carroll backs away from Vicksburg’s docks and heads north with seventeen passengers and one irate captain.

  It’s nightfall when the last train arrives from Camp Fisk, and Big Tennessee still hasn’t made an appearance. The men make their way down a dark bank and head toward the only other ship still at dock. Somebody runs down the hill from the command tent and calls out to the front of the line, “There’s smallpox on that ship! It’s quarantined.”

  I know that’s not true. Several families, some with children and large travel trunks bound with wide leather straps, boarded earlier. He points to the Sultana and tells them to get on with us.

  The captain had said the Sultana weighs far less than anybody can believe because many of the walls and floors are made of flimsy wood. That’s evidenced now, as the center of the floor we’re standing on begins sagging. We are asked to move starboard while crewmen place beams strategically to support the floors on portside. Then we move portside to ease the load so the floors can be reinforced on starboard side.

  “I feel like I’m back at Castle Morgan,” a familiar voice says. It’s Big Tennessee making his way to the Texas deck.

  “You’ll be home soon enough,” comes a reply from a tired and sweaty deckhand. “We’re doing exactly what we’re told to do.”

  Big Tennessee’s right. Just like at Castle Morgan, not everyone can lie down at the same time. “It’s great to see you, pard!” I yell, and reach to shake his hand, but he pulls me to his chest and gives me a hug. “We saved you a place below. If it rains, we’ll be dry.”

  We head below, where double-stacked cots take up most of the hallways and floor spaces. Men are untying the cots, and those without beds sit against the walls and along the rails. The last ones boarding take any remaining spots on steps, between decks, against rails, and in odd nooks and crannies. Every spot is filled with a body.

  Big Tennessee sets his bag on the floor as a boat clerk tells an Ohio man that when the Sultana reaches Cairo, Illinois, she will hold the record for number of passengers on any river run. “Over two thousand four hundred,” he says. “In addition to that, there are a quarter million pounds of Louisiana sugar and one hundred head of livestock in the hold.”

  The floor sags as we walk around the Sultana, even with the additional supports. It gives less above beams, but the farther away we step from support timbers, the more the floor feels like a soggy field after three or four days of heavy rain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  April 24, 1865

  After the excitement of our new surroundings wears off, time passes uneventfully. We pull out of Vicksburg, the sick on cots, warmed by the boilers below them, and everybody else packed in like crackers in a barrel. Everyone gets as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, and there are few complaints. We’re going home, after all.

/>   The next morning, the captain sends word via his staff that we’re making excellent progress. The river flows with no rhyme or reason. It meanders west a bit, then north, perhaps east for a while. The impression is that the river’s course was made on a whim. It seems extremely random.

  For the first full day on the Sultana our only entertainment is watching the flat lands of Arkansas drift pass. Many of the fields sit covered in brown water, flooded from winter’s melt. The landscape, although choked with water, looks calm and peaceful. Occasionally, Negroes appear on the higher banks to the east. When they see our Union blue uniforms, they cheer, clap, and break into song and dance.

  A little after daylight on the second morning, we come to the first town of any size: Helena, Arkansas. We slip into the dock, and the crew passes word around that we will stay for several hours. Workers busy themselves, loading coal to feed the boilers and rations to feed the passengers. Since refueling will take a while and Helena is the last town we’ll see before the Chicago Opera Troupe gets off in Memphis, the singers have enough time to cross the gangplank for an impromptu performance on the banks of the Mississippi. The show is mostly for our enjoyment, but word soon spreads through nearby streets, and a large population pours from the town to the dock.

  “Our first song is from The Merry Wives of Windsor by Otto Nicolai,” the director announces from atop a small wooden crate. He turns to face the choir, and with the motion of his hand, the song begins. I don’t understand a single word being sung because it’s all in German, but their voices blend together like silk. Men who are talking soon quiet down in order to hear the songs. The notes send a tingling up my spine. It’s absolutely the most beautiful singing I’ve ever heard and makes me glad to be alive.

  After five songs, the performers take bows through an extended ovation. When the ship’s loaded with provisions and the opera company’s back on board, word spreads that a fellow who makes pictures has set up his three-legged camera onshore. He wants to get an image of the Sultana to document the largest haul of people on the Mississippi. Big Tennessee, William, Sergeant Survant, and I are near the rail of the hurricane deck, so we know we’ll be seen in the picture for sure. Hundreds upon hundreds of men have the same idea and shift to be in the picture. The floors creak and groan from the added weight on the landward side but somehow manage to hold.