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Crossing the Deadline

Page 19

by Michael Shoulders


  “What’s that?”

  “That’s the side wheel,” Talkington says. “It’s about to go.”

  The mighty wheel lurches sideways again but catches itself momentarily. The jerk knocks seven or eight men into the water. A few do manage to hang on to the wheel. Then there’s another crack of thunder, and the entire mass of wood breaks free from the flames and crashes into the river.

  “There goes the wheel,” Talkington says, “and anybody near it.”

  I lift my head up farther. “Is that . . . the . . . Sultana?.”

  Talkington laughs. “You were out longer than I thought,” he says. “Yeah, that’s the Sultana. Or what’s left of her. She’s burning down quickly.”

  “It exploded . . . the Sultana . . . There was an explosion,” I say.

  “Correction, two explosions,” Talkington says.

  My thoughts weave backward in slow motion through a thick fog of smoke and steam. I piece together the series of events in my mind. Robert Talkington had tossed a leather strap to me to save my life. With my help, somebody reached a barrel of flour. I fought under the water to reach the surface. It was the second explosion that tossed me into the river, I say to myself.

  “I saw awful things, Talkington,” I say.

  “Everyone did,” he replies. “I saw a man put life belts on a woman and girl. I told him it was too low on the little one’s waist. Others tried to tell him, too. But he would have none of it. He stared with this blank expression on his face, as if he were in another world.”

  “Do you think the girl’s okay?”

  “I don’t see how she can be with all the fighting in the water and the belt being too loose on her.”

  The sounds of soft prayers mingled with singing drift into my ears. The mixture of voices and men splashing in the river float above the sounds of water lapping against debris.

  “Talkington.”

  “What?”

  “I came within an ace of being right above that second explosion. Why am I here now and not dead?”

  “Stop talking like that,” he says. “That’s nonsense.”

  “No, I should have died.”

  Talkington laughs it off. “Well, there must be some reason you lived,” he says. “You got every right to be floating down this river alive, hanging on to a headless horse. Now you’ll have a great story to tell your grandkids.”

  “I can barely move,” I say. “All feeling is leaving my feet. The water is freezing.”

  “Too long in confinement,” he says. “Your muscles are not all the way back yet.”

  “My left leg hurts. A plank stabbed my thigh.”

  “We’ll get you out soon and tend to the wound. Hang in there, pard.”

  A light rain begins pelting the river. A crate, buoyed enough to show the name Gastone on the side, floats by. Two pairs of fingers clutch a slat at the top, and a man is draped on the other side. I can’t see who it is.

  “Is the beast in the river?” Talkington calls out to him.

  “Naw. He’s burnt to a crisp by now.” It’s William Lugenbeal.

  “How long have we been in the water?” I ask.

  “Not sure, an hour, maybe ninety minutes.”

  That’s hard to believe. I must have been passed out longer than I thought. It feels like time is standing still.

  A pinging sound, like a hammer striking a train rail, drifts above the moans of men in the water. “Shhh . . . listen,” Talkington says, “Hear that?”

  “Barely. What is it?”

  “Don’t know. It’s coming from downriver.”

  * * *

  We drift another five minutes in silence. “It’s the church bells from Memphis,” Talkington finally says. “They know what’s happened.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Why else would bells be sounding now, Stephen? In the middle of the night? It’s an alarm to send help.” He sounds confident.

  “Talkington, I should have done something to save others.”

  “Come on, pard. Stop talking like that. How could you do more? That was the biggest mess I’ve ever seen in my life. If the fire didn’t get you, the steam did. If the steam didn’t get you, the smoke did. If the smoke didn’t get you, the fire did. I couldn’t see where I was walking half the time. People running in every direction. Flames shooting from every cabin window.”

  “I tried to help. I managed to get one fellow who couldn’t swim on a flour barrel.”

  “So there you go. You put a guy on a barrel, and yours truly put you on a headless horse. And here we are. Stop thinking about all that. We have more pressing issues to deal with now. We’re not out of the water yet, and I’m not letting anybody pull me off this beast.”

  We drift, listening to moans and cries from strangers. A weak voice, too close to ignore calls out. “Help.” It sounds like he’s speaking directly to us. “I can’t . . . hold . . . on . . . much . . . longer,” he pleads. “Please . . . help.”

  Although faint, I recognize the voice. “Caleb?” The glow from the burning ship is growing dimmer, but there’s enough light to see it is indeed Caleb Rule. He’s still holding on to the shutter, but barely.

  “I’m . . . numb,” he says. “My fingers . . . slipping. Can’t hold . . . on. . . .”

  The shutter teeters back and forth in the water, tipping to one side and then the other. I let go of the horse’s mane and swim toward Caleb.

  “Gaston!” Talkington yells. “Come back!”

  I ignore him. There’s no feeling left in my feet, but my thighs still pump. Pain shoots up my left leg with each kick, but I have two good arms and one good leg. “I’ve got to help him.”

  By the time I reach Caleb, he’s slipped off the shutter. I dive below the surface and reach toward where his head disappeared. Groping wildly in the muddy water, my hand finds another. I pull it up.

  Caleb sputters out a mouthful of water and coughs several times. I cup his chin in my hand and pull him back toward the horse. There’s no fight left in him; he’s no different than a log floating in the river. Talkington helps me to lift Caleb so his back rests on the horse’s side. The carcass sinks a bit, but Caleb’s face is totally out of water.

  At about that exact moment everything in the water turns black. I look back to where the Sultana has been in time to see the final flickering flames disappear. Red-hot irons send hissing sounds into the air. Steam explodes to an immense height as the Sultana descends into the Mississippi River.

  “She’s gone,” Talkington says. “She’s totally gone.”

  “Talkington?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a new moon. It’s going to be pitch-dark till dawn. It’ll be after sunrise before anybody comes.”

  “Don’t say that. We heard the bells, and I can see lights in Memphis now,” he says. Streetlamps from Memphis appear as faint stars sitting on the horizon.

  “That’s miles away, Talkington. I don’t know if I can hang on till dawn.”

  We float, saying nothing, for another hour, maybe more. At one point, we get caught in a whirlpool and spin in circles. From time to time we hear calls from weak voices. Some men use their last breaths to beg the Almighty for mercy.

  Something grazes the side of my head, and I flick at it to knock it away. It rustles, and I realize that it’s a tree branch. “Grab that limb, Talkington!” I yell, but it’s too late. We’ve drifted past it.

  By now dawn must be near. I can see the outline of branches passing overhead against a deep purple sky.

  “We are in a grove of trees on the Arkansas side of the river,” I say. “The river is wide from flooding.”

  The horse’s hind quarter lodges on something, causing it to roll over in the water. “It’s a tree. Grab a branch!” Talkington yells. I use every bit of strength I have to reach for a thick dark shadow while Talkington snatches Rule. We let the horse float away. We’ll be safer sitting in a flooded tree in Arkansas than drifting down the middle of the Mississippi River. Realizing
it might be the last thing I do, I summon all the energy left in my body to position myself in a fork and collapse against a sturdy tree trunk. The limb’s about as round as my wrist and juts out inches above the water. There’s ample room for the three of us to perch.

  Talkington positions Caleb’s rear onto the same branch between us. Exhausted, I lean against the tree’s thick trunk. The two of them recline against another branch. Except for our lower legs, we’re out of the freezing water and able to relax a little.

  I feel myself drifting to sleep, flies nipping at my neck and the bells of Memphis ringing in my ears.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  April 27, 1865, 10:20 a.m.

  I hear voices around me long before my eyes open. Commands are being issued by many people. The words make sense, but I can’t respond. My lips won’t move, and my eyes won’t open.

  “Keep rubbing him, he’s almost awake,” a female voice says. My body rolls one way on a hard surface and then the other, like a pin rolling pie dough. Hands and fingers rub my legs, arms, neck, and shoulders.

  “Be careful of his left thigh,” a woman says. “He has a nasty wound there.”

  Finally, my right eye pops open a little. A woman stands near my head.

  Black fabric flows from the top of her head over her shoulders. Her entire body is covered in black except for white linen hiding her forehead, ears, and neck. A wide collar rests on her chest. I glimpse a chain of wooden beads hanging from her waist with a cross attached to the end.

  She sees my eye open and smiles. “Try to drink this,” she says softly. She cups the back of my head with one hand and lifts. In her other hand, she holds a tin cup.

  I choke on the substance and try to spit it out. “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s not springwater, I can assure you that,” she laughs in a quiet voice. “It’s whisky, young man. Now, to be perfectly honest, I normally wouldn’t provide whisky to anybody, especially somebody of your age. But, if the Saints allow, under these circumstances, I think it will do you best.”

  “Who are you?”

  “We,” she says acknowledging others around us, “are Sisters of Mercy.”

  A stinging on my leg makes me wince. “Sister Angelina is washing the wound on your thigh. You have a nasty gash there,” she says. Her voice is calm.

  “We rolled and rubbed you for ten minutes to get your blood circulating and get you awake.”

  My other eye finally opens on its own. “Where are we?”

  “Cabin room on the Bostonia,” she answers. “There are five hospitals in Memphis. We’ll have you in one of them in just a little while. Here, a drink will do you good.”

  A gruff voice barks from somewhere outside the cabin, “Bring that skiff in right here.”

  “More survivors coming in,” she whispers to me with a brief smile. She sounds as calm as if we’re playing cards around a campfire. “The Belle of Memphis passed us with over one hundred men earlier this morning,” she adds. “Every rescue is a blessing.”

  “Earlier?” I ask.

  “Yes, sometime around nine a.m., I’d say. They were headed to Memphis to unload.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Nearing ten thirty. Take another drink,” she insists.

  “My neck is stinging.”

  “They told us you were plucked from a tree like an apple. Your neck, face, and arms are covered in welts from buffalo gnats and mosquitoes. Insects are so thick this time of spring, you’re lucky they didn’t fly off with you.”

  I raise my right arm and see it’s covered in bumps. The welts on my neck and face tingle.

  The same gruff voice from outside yells, “We counted twenty-three on top of that stable across the river. It’ll take several trips to bring ’em all in. Except for bugbites, they look like they’re in good shape.”

  Another voice answers, “Most all the cabins are full. Bring the live ones portside. If you pick up any bodies along the way, store them in the hold.”

  The sister places the cup of whisky on my lips. “Take the last little bit,” she tells me.

  The strong smell reminds me of Big Tennessee staggering onto the Sultana last night. “Where’s Big Tennessee?” I ask the sister.

  “Yes, you’re in Tennessee,” she says. “Memphis, Tennessee.”

  “No, there’s a tall guy who goes by the name of Big Tennessee,” I explain. “Where is he?”

  “Haven’t got a clue, but he’s not here. Don’t worry about him for now. You need only to worry about yourself,” she says. “We’ll get you into town soon. They’ll have a better look at your leg there. If it’s infected, they’ll treat it, and you’ll be up and about in no time.”

  Most of the whisky is gone before I feel any of its effects.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  April 27, 1865, 10:35 a.m.

  The Bostonia jolts as it docks in Memphis. I shift to my elbows and try to stand. I can’t. I’m groggy and have no energy. “It’s okay,” a Sister of Mercy says, patting my shoulder. “Don’t move. Let us do all the work.”

  The cabin door opens, and a man sticks his head into the room. “Keep these men in here. It will be a while before we get to them. We have to get the severely injured off first.”

  Sister Angelina smiles and says the wound doesn’t look too bad to her. “I washed it out and put a bit of whisky on it. It’s wrapped up now, and the doctors will have a closer look later.”

  A half hour passes, and two Negro men in Union blues bring a stretcher into the room and place it on the floor next to me. One man stands at my head and the other at my feet.

  “Careful,” a sister says. “Grab the edges of the sheet he’s on, not his hands and feet,” she commands.

  One of the men counts down, “Three . . . two. . . one . . .” They lift in unison and hoist me from the floor onto the stretcher.

  As we leave, I grab the doorframe. “Wait.” I look back toward the lady who helped me the most. “I almost forgot to say thank you, sister. If it’s not being too forward, what is your name?”

  “Mary,” she says quietly.

  “Mary? That’s my mother’s name. Thank you, sister.”

  “You’re very welcome, young man.”

  Ambulances take survivors two by two along a cobblestone road. The man with me is bloated to the point that his cheeks almost touch his eyebrows. He peers through thin slits. The ambulance driver says that the Gayoso House on Front Street, with its close proximity to the river, received injuries first. Minutes later, a metal sign tells me we’ve arrived at our destination. Six tall marble columns support a portico bustling with people rushing in and out of a four-story building.

  Doctors are deciding which hospital will care for each patient. The grounds in the front of the Gayoso are nearly concealed with stretchers.

  “It’s a grand hotel,” one of the men carrying me says. “Two hundred fifty rooms. Union generals been stayin’ here since the capture of Memphis back in ‘62. Forrest rode his horse plum through the lobby one day searching for General Hurlburt. Can you imagine a horse in a hotel lobby?” He laughs.

  “I met General Forrest in Alabama,” I say.

  “It wasn’t the general who rode the horse here. It was Captain William Forrest, the general’s brother.” He points to the middle of three arched doorways. “He rode his horse right through that middle door right there.”

  “Did he get General Hurlburt?”

  “Nah, Hurlburt left just hours before.”

  * * *

  Three doctors walk down the line of stretchers, assessing the hurt. One of them points to the bloated man beside me. “Put this one on the first floor, here in the Gayoso,” he orders. He then comes over to me, raises the sheet to look at my thigh. “This one has a thigh wound. He goes to the tents out back. He’s not that bad.”

  A young boy with long blond locks trailing his head like a flag in the wind runs up to the doctor. He pauses and plants a hand on each knee while he catches his breath. “Sir, Washin
gton Hospital is nearly full. They have a hundred thirty patients and can’t take any more.”

  “Well, we’re expecting more!” the doctor shouts at the messenger. “The ships are still bringing ’em in, and they have to go somewhere.”

  The boy takes two long breaths. “Washington sent me to tell you not to send any more patients their way. Adams and Overton have a few rooms left.”

  The doctor dismisses the boy with a wave of his hand as if to say, “I don’t have time for this nonsense, and I’ll send them where I see fit.”

  I’m taken behind the Gayoso and placed in a well-manicured courtyard with other survivors. A Union nurse arrives shortly and says the bandage looks better than what he could do himself. He reassigns me to Overton Hospital and places me on a ward with a long row of beds lining each wall. There are too many patients to count them all. Nurses, Sisters of Mercy, and orderlies race down the center of the room, carrying bandages, pails of steaming water, and scissors.

  A tall man standing straight as a ramrod introduces himself as the chief surgeon. “Let’s take a look at your wound,” he says, bending at the waist. He gingerly unwraps the bandages from around my leg.

  “You’re not going to amputate,” I plead.

  “Doubt it. There’s not much blood on the bandages, so that’s a good sign.” After the bandage is removed, he nods repeatedly. “This one’s fine,” he says to a nurse standing behind him. “We’ll rewrap his leg this evening.”

  All around, patients call for help to deal with their pain. Nurses rush to their sides to see how bad of a shape they’re in. If needed, they leave and return a short time later with aid. Some men are able to move, sit up, or talk. The man next to me doesn’t move at all.

  “He’s in a coma,” one nurse tells another. “I don’t know if it’s from exhaustion, being in the cold water too long, or a combination.”

  I’m glad to be left alone for most of the night. Occasionally a visitor stops to see if there’s anything they can do to aid my comfort. After a breakfast of boiled eggs, corn bread, and stew, soldiers come around and hand out clean new uniforms. Few of us are well enough to get dressed. “Can we leave them for you so you’ll have them when you’re feeling better?” the soldiers ask.

 

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