Crossing the Deadline

by Michael Shoulders

  The Sultana lists in the river so much, it feels like water is going to spill into the boat’s hold and sink us all. It doesn’t. We hear Major Fidler yell from up above, “Get back to where your gear is stored. Do you want to drown us all?”

  After calm is restored, we pull away from the bank and head upstream. A group of twelve women calling themselves the Sisters of Charity pass through the sea of soldiers, handing out crackers they purchased in West Helena. “Nobody goes hungry today,” one says proudly.

  An “Amen, sister” follows close behind. Everyone’s glad to have real crackers instead of hardtack.

  One of the sisters leans over a particularly sick-looking fellow lying near me. “I’ve got a little salt pork, too, if it will make you feel better,” she says quietly.

  “Bless you, sister,” he whispers. “Bless you.”

  “No,” she says. “Bless you. Where are you from?”

  “Southern Illinois,” he says.

  “Well, you’ll see home in two days,” she promises. “Two days.”

  The sun is heading to bed when bluffs along the east bank of the Mississippi River come into view. The cliffs rise like castle walls from a wide river moat. Just past the bluffs, the buildings of Memphis make an appearance. The flooded river spreads west into Arkansas for miles.

  The ship’s quartermaster climbs onto the pilothouse and yells for quiet. “Captain Mason is offering twenty-five cents an hour to eighteen volunteers willing to unload sugar in Memphis.”

  “Good workers only,” the captain calls.

  “Look at these men, sir. They’re all good workers,” he yells back. His boss flashes a thumbs-up and a smile to his man on the roof.

  “It will take several hours to get it off,” he says. “After pulling into Memphis, we’ll unload the opera singers. Men going into town will be let off next. When the soldiers are out of our way, we’ll unload.” William and I are the first to volunteer.

  “I’ll help,” Big Tennessee calls. Soon eighteen workers are chosen.

  * * *

  A spot on the top deck provides a view of the Chicago Opera Troupe heading across the gangplank and up the hillside into Memphis. The captain makes his way to the center of the gangplank and blocks the path of excited soldiers. He yells, “Men, it’s seven o’clock! We’ll unload every bit of that sugar in the hold, a few heads of livestock, all the cases of wine, and then be on our way to Cairo.”

  “We’re gettin’ off for a while? Right, sir?” It’s Sergeant Survant bellowing from the hurricane level. “We’ve been stuck on this floating prison for two days now.”

  “Hold your horses. That’s what I’m trying to say,” the captain says. “If we shove off by eleven o’clock, the Sultana will stay on schedule. We’ll ring the bell at ten thirty. You’ll have thirty minutes to get yourself on board after the bell sounds. If you’re not here in thirty minutes, we leave you in Memphis.”

  The captain points toward a bell perched on the bow. “This is what you’ll be listening for, men.” The first mate pulls a leather strap back and forth for five seconds. The bell, half the size of the one hanging in the church in Centerville, packs a whale of a clang. I have to duck my head and cover my ears.

  Captain steps aside and with a wave of his hand invites soldiers to enjoy Memphis. Walking down the gangplank and off the ship, the men resemble a small river cascading over a waterfall. Some, unable to walk on their own, hobble with the help of comrades. Others, totally disinterested in leaving the boat, lay where they are, happy to have space around them for a couple hours.

  William, Big Tennessee, and I join fifteen men near the door leading to the ship’s hold. We peer into the darkness, barely able to make out the shapes of barrels sitting in shadows. They’re twice the size of the ones Uncle Clem had in his livery back home.

  Captain Mason points to a stout man standing next to him. “This is William Rowberry, my first mate. He’ll explain the process.”

  * * *

  The massive man pushes long wavy brown hair off his forehead. A thin, tight-fitting black shirt emphasizes muscles I’ve never seen on a human before. He must be the strongest man on the boat by far—with Big Tennessee coming in a distant second. Rowberry takes a length of rope hanging from a hook on the wall. “Each one of these barrels holds hundreds of pounds. Eight men lifting together can manage one hogshead of sugar. We’re not going to use ropes tonight. Instead, we’ll work smart. Three or four of you will push a barrel up a ramp, out of the hold, and onto the deck. Others will take over from there. They’ll roll it to the gangplank and off into the street. The company that purchased it takes control of it once it’s off the Sultana. Their men are waiting there. Don’t strain yourselves,” he warns. “If you feel yourself slipping, say something. You don’t want to end up beneath one of these rascals. It’ll crush you.

  “Line up by size starting with the big fellow on the other end,” he orders. Rowberry strolls along the line, pointing to each man. “Deck!” he shouts to the first, second, third, and fourth man.

  “Hold, hold, hold, hold,” he says to the next four.

  He points to me. “Hold,” he says. “You too,” he says to William.

  He divides the last eight, with Big Tennessee ending up in the hold. “It’s an easy job to push a hogshead across the deck, so, men in the hold, rotate when you get tired below. Any questions?” he asks.

  Silence.

  Rowberry claps his hands. “Let’s get started, men.”

  With each step I make toward the kegs, they seem to grow larger and larger. Two lanterns are handed down to light the hold just enough to see what we’re doing. “Can we get more flame?” I ask.

  “No,” Rowberry answers. “We can’t risk a fire down there. This ship is a tinderbox, and if it catches fire, she’ll burn to the waterline,” he warns. “Let’s go, you fellows in the hold. Get to pushing. These teams up here are waiting.”

  Because of the hold’s steep incline, it takes six pairs of hands to roll the first few barrels up, out, and onto the deck. When they reach the top, workers roll them to the edge of the boat and ease them straight over a gangplank to the street. When eight barrels are up and out, we’re able to lengthen the ramp by using longer boards. The incline’s easier to manage, but not by much.

  After working an hour, half the hold is empty. William spots a broken keg in the corner, away from the two lanterns. He taps me on the arm and points to a small pile of white crystals reflecting tiny specks of light. While four men are busy pushing one up, William and I scurry over and pinch some sugar between our thumbs and fingers. We tilt our heads back and sample the product.

  It seems like years since I’ve had this flavor in my mouth. Thoughts of Miss Gates’s pies flash through my mind, as I remember how she’d sprinkle just the right amount of sugar on top of the dough before slipping it into the oven. The heat would brown up the sugar into a crust of caramel that tasted like heaven. “Oh my,” William utters. “This is so good.” We take turns dipping into our find and blocking the view of our coworkers.

  “Let’s get back,” I warn while removing my hat to cover the white pile. Over the next thirty minutes, William and I return often to our stash and secretly sample nature’s sweetness.

  When we get to the last row, including the one with the busted hogshead, it’s time to let Rowberry know about the find. “Hey, pard!” I yell. “There’s a problem here you need to see.”

  “You shouldn’t blame the crew for this,” I say, pointing to our treasure. “It’s not been moved a single inch.” Several cups of the white crystals lay spilled on the floor, seemingly untouched.

  He agrees. “The barrel hasn’t been moved, so the crew didn’t do it.” He studies the surrounding containers, then looks at me. “Bring one of the lanterns over here,” he orders. He bends over, studies the nearby barrels, then looks at me again. “You know,” he says, “some of the Louisiana sugar is known to have special properties that sugar from the islands don’t have.”

&nb
sp; “Is that right?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says, rubbing his chin and looking around the floor. “This just might be that special type of flying sugar I’ve heard so much about.”

  “Flying sugar?” I ask. “You’re pulling my leg. I never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s rare, but I’ve seen it once or twice before.” Rowberry looks at my shirt. “Don’t move,” he says in a hushed voice. “Be very still.” He raises his hand and swipes his hand fast and hard across my chest several times. White crystals fly through the air and look like tiny shooting stars. “Seems some of this stuff flew plum out of the keg and onto the front of your shirt,” he says. He gives me a quick wink to let me know there’s no worries, and those gathered around have a good laugh at my expense.

  Rowberry instructs us to save the damaged hogshead for last. He singlehandedly spins the barrel around so the hole doesn’t show, trying to remove any temptation. We work another fifteen minutes until the hold’s empty except for the last container. “Big Tennessee,” he calls. “Tell the men working on the deck to come down.” When we’re all gathered, he tells us, “It’s time for me to notify Captain Mason that the hold’s almost empty and that you fellas need to be paid. It’ll take me exactly twenty minutes to find him. While I’m gone, I’m sure river rats might dive into this pile and eat a lot of what’s spilled.”

  “River rats?” one guy asks. “Never seen any river rats down here.”

  Big Tennessee nudges him with his elbow. “Shut up, Sunday Soldier.”

  “Ohhh,” the man says quickly after catching on. “River rats are fierce this time of year.”

  “Whatever sugar is gone in twenty minutes’ time won’t be the fault of anybody standing in the hold right now.” Rowberry pauses in silence. “Right, men?” he asks.

  “No, sir!” everyone yells.

  Rowberry takes a bar from the wall and pries a larger hole near the bottom of the barrel. Several pounds spill onto the floor. “Bon appetit, men,” he says. “See ya in exactly twenty minutes.”

  I gorge myself until my stomach hurts. After eating all we can manage, the rest is stuffed by the fistfuls into our trouser pockets. My hat holds two double handfuls. “I’ll hide this in my bedroll as soon as we get back up on the hurricane deck,” I tell William.

  The first mate returns twenty minutes later with Captain Mason. “Fellows, line up,” the captain calls to us. He hands out a dollar coin to each man. “Three hours’ work at twenty-five cents per hour is seventy-five cents if my math is correct. Keep the extra quarter dollar for a job well done. There are still forty-five minutes left before shoving off in case some of you want to see Memphis. Listen for the bell.”

  Big Tennessee sprints for the gangplank and disappears into the shadows of Memphis. I tell William I’m too exhausted to walk into town, so we return to the hurricane deck. The cots are lowered and filled with the sick. When we near where our provisions are stashed, William heads toward the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Before unloading the sugar I found two great spots smack in front of the pilothouse. I moved our things to save places for us there. Survant and Big Tennessee will have to stay here.”

  “We had good spots already, closer to the boiler,” I insist. “It’s warmer here.”

  “It’s too hard to breathe here,” he says. “Too stuffy.”

  “I don’t like the idea of sleeping outside in the open.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be near all these sick people,” he says. “Hurry before everyone gets back and moves our things.”

  * * *

  Our arrival on the Texas deck is greeted by a light rain. “Are you serious, William?” I plead. “We’re going to get soaked.”

  “Use a rubber blanket.”

  “It’s cold and wet up here.”

  “Stop being a crybaby, Stephen,” William tells me. “There’s an eave on the pilothouse. We’ll be under it and in fresh air. Unless there’s a thunderstorm with high winds, we’ll be dry as well.”

  We reach the spot William saved for us and open our haversacks. We dump the sugar deep into the bottom of each bag. “Sweetened coffee will never have tasted so good,” I say with a smile. I wrap David Copperfield with a pair of pants and move it to a safe, dry corner of the sack.

  I place the bag against the pilothouse wall to use for a pillow, lie down, and toss the blanket over my legs. “What’ll you do with your dollar?” I ask.

  “Don’t know,” William says at first. But then as quickly adds, “I think I’ll buy Mother a jewelry box in Cairo.”

  “She’ll like that,” I say. “She’ll really like that.”

  I’m so beat, I nod off until the bell rings to call the troops back. A tired-looking fellow asks if he can join us under the eave of the pilothouse. He says he’s tried to find a place beside the two smokestacks but with no luck.

  “Most of the free spots are saved for others,” he says. “Each time I ask about sleeping somewhere, I’m told, ‘Sorry, pard, my friend’s here.’”

  I squeeze over closer to William and create just enough room for the man to lie down. “Make yourself at home.”

  A ruckus erupts just prior to shoving off. “Get up on the Texas deck and go to sleep,” a voice commands.

  An answer comes in slurred words. “If you didn’t have that rifle and bay-net . . .”

  “Well, I do have a rifle and a bayonet, and I’m telling you to get up on the Texas deck and go to sleep.”

  “Up on the top wooost?” The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite make it out with the slurring of his words. Whoever it is has sampled some whisky tonight.

  “I’ll get you some help getting up the stairs,” the first man says sternly, losing his temper.

  “Shhhhhhh, people seeping,” the drunk says.

  As the man emerges from the stairs, everyone turns to see who’s causing the stir. Out of the darkness, a soldier propped under each arm, stumbles Big Tennessee. He trips over a man near the last step and bumps into the stair railing. He nearly tumbles back down the stairs but is caught when one of the two men helping him grabs his shirt collar. “Whoa,” the man says loudly.

  “Shhhhhh,” Big Tennessee whispers. “Seeeping.” He takes two steps, trips onto the floor, and passes out. Nobody bothers to move him.

  Big Tennessee was always such a mild-mannered soul for all those months in Cahaba. “It’s the whisky.” William laughs. “I guess a few drinks in Memphis did what the war couldn’t do, bring down Big Tennessee.”

  After pulling away from Memphis’s docks, the Sultana lists in the river. “Can you feel that?” I ask William.

  “What?” he says, waking from a fast sleep.

  “The boat,” I insist.

  “Yeah, I feel the boat, grayback,” he jokes. “We’re moving. Go back to sleep.”

  “No,” I say. “The boat listed in the river, William. It tilted an awful lot. Like in Helena when everybody raced to one side to get in the picture.”

  “It’s your imagination,” William says, yawning. “Please stop talking.”

  The fellow next to me props himself up on his elbows. “Without the weight of the sugar in the hold the boat’s top-heavy.”

  “Sweet dreams,” William says as he pats the stash beneath his head. “Sweet dreams.”

  The last thoughts on my mind, before I drift to sleep, is that we’re almost home.

  Almost home.

  The war’s over, and we’re hours from home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  April 27, 1865, 2:30 a.m.

  Something shakes the Sultana so violently, it awakens me. It’s pitch-dark, but my eyes open in time to see a shadowy object sweep across the sky behind my head and plow into the pilothouse. Whatever it is crashes with so much force, it destroys most of the pilothouse. My nose is instantly overwhelmed by the smell of burning coal coupled with a pain shooting through my left leg. An orange glow in the air is enough to illuminate a shard of wood, the len
gth of my hand, sticking straight up out from my thigh.

  Without thinking, I reach for the plank to yank it out but lose my courage.

  “Oh my God!” William yells, throwing off his blanket and standing. “What happened?” He sees me in pain and gasps at the sight of the piece of timber protruding from my leg. “Hold still.”

  He crouches and yanks the piece of wood out.

  I scream as blood pours from the wound. I grab a shirt from my haversack to use as a tourniquet. I wrap it around my leg and use the sleeves to tie a secure knot.

  “William, are you okay?”

  “Me? I’m fine, but what was that?” he asks in shock.

  “Don’t know. Looks like one of the smokestacks fell over on the pilothouse.” William kicks a few pieces of debris off my ankles.

  To my right, not even the length of a kitchen table away, the smokestack has knocked an immense hole in the Texas deck’s floor. Everyone sleeping there was crushed and pushed down to the next level of the boat, possibly beyond. The back half of the pilothouse has been blown to atoms.

  Right beside me, the man I had made room for earlier has a beam the thickness of a flagpole protruding through the center of his chest. It had to have killed him instantly.

  “She’s sinking!” someone yells from below. I stand, but putting weight on my left leg reminds me of my wound.

  A faint voice nearby says, “I can’t move.” A thick beam rests across the man’s legs. William and I lift the end and try to free him.

  We fail. The other end is lodged under a pile of debris.

  The more we strive, the more my thigh hurts. “Somebody help us!” I yell.

  As if from nowhere, Big Tennessee staggers over to the beam. “When I lift, the two of you pull him out,” he says in a calm voice.