Crossing the Deadline (16 page)

None of us are able to contain our feelings. Peacock falls to his knees and weeps. “I've done it,” he says. “It's finally over.”

Sergeant Survant says, “If death gets me here, at least it will be within sight of that flag.”

I sit for a good long while, powerless to move, unable to comprehend that I've survived Sulphur Branch Trestle, Castle Morgan, flooding, and have finally reached the spot where a ship will take me home.

* * *

Negro soldiers stand guard at the gates. Their dark faces nod and smile as we enter. They seem as glad to see us as we are
to see them. One older man with a white beard pats me on the back. “Thank you, soldier,” he whispers.

Another guard, seeing how exhausted Peacock looks, rushes to his side. “It's a miracle I'm here,” Peacock tells him.

“It'll take four or five days to get rosters ready before you can leave on a steamer for home,” a major informs us at a tent inside the gate. “When the rolls are complete, you'll be transported by rail to the Vicksburg dock. We'll put five hundred to one thousand men on each ship headed north. Until your group is called, rest up and get food. We have new uniforms waiting for you, along with plenty of hardtack, pork, good coffee, and cabbage.”

They issue us new clothes, but mine are too big. “I'm swimming in these,” I tell the quartermaster.

“You want them to be loose because you're gonna fatten up some,” he says. When he's satisfied that I'm dressed properly, he tells me, “Go toss those mud-stained rags into a fire.” I feel like a real soldier again for the first time in a long while. There are huge barrels of pickled cabbage at the commissary. And the vegetables are a welcome addition to our diet. We eat large portions with our fingers and lick every drop of juice as it runs down our forearms.

The boys from Andersonville have it the worst. For some
of them, their minds are like wild horses that refuse to be tamed. As hard as anyone tries, nobody can stop them from overeating. They don't listen when they're told their stomachs can't handle the amount of food they're trying to take in. One fellow stuffs his mouth so full, he chokes to death without putting up much of a struggle. Three others die from overeating. How odd it is that the thing these prisoners want most—food—is as lethal as a bullet if they're not careful.

Because of the massive number of people at Camp Fisk, everyone competes for wood to heat coffee and wrangles for spaces inside a limited number of shelters. But in a few days I notice a change in my body, as I'm able to walk through the camp and gather firewood without being out of breath or having to stop and rest. The immense number of people also overwhelms the roll-making process, and it takes longer than expected for the rosters to be created for groups leaving.

We're told to assemble on the parade ground to learn who will be heading home first.

“The first batch to head to the docks in Vicksburg,” Captain Speed announces, “are Ohio boys.” It's easy to see where these fellows are standing when the announcement is made. However, their hopes are tempered when he adds,
“Only certain regiments are on the list—not everyone from the state.”

When the first regiment's name is called, one man wraps me in a bear hug and weeps openly. “I'll see my wife and daughters in a few days,” he says in disbelief. “Home,” he says over and over. “Home.” A couple of his friends pat him on the back. “I can't believe it,” he weeps. “Simply can't believe it.”

Each man's name is called to make sure he's in attendance. “Desmond Adams?” the captain calls.

The man who gave me a bear hug jumps up and waves his arms in the air. “Here, here, here,” he yells at the top of his lungs, “and ready to travel, sir!”

Two hours later, 650 Ohio soldiers have responded. Three boxcars and several flatcars are stuffed with grateful souls. Camp officers decide to add 150 more names to the list, men from Indiana.

My hopes soar in anticipation that the Indiana 9th will be chosen. A man complains loudly to Captain Speed, the officer in charge of assigning transportation, that the trains are already crowded. Captain Speed disregards the complaint with a wave of his hand and boards 150 more.

The Indiana 9th is not chosen.

The soldiers left at Camp Fisk begin a tradition of
sending each group off as it leaves. We stay on the parade ground and cheer that day's departing comrades with chants of “HOME . . . HOME . . . HOME,” and punch our fists into the air with each word as the train lurches west toward the docks.

A few days later, on April 6, word reaches Camp Fisk that Richmond, Virginia, has fallen to Union troops. Seven days later, on Palm Sunday, we learn of Lee's surrender. The dogwoods are in bloom, the creeks are full from spring rains, the war's over, and we are days from home. Can anything be more perfect?

* * *

A celebration of unequaled magnitude is set for the next day. Rebel soldiers, stationed nearby, are told not to be alarmed when we fire off a two-hundred-gun salute to commemorate the end of the war. They canvass the troops and put together a band. I volunteer, and I'm handed a battered old horn to play. To hold that dented piece of metal brings the most joy I've experienced in months.

At first, my mouth hurts as I press my lips hard together and force air through the horn. I'm out of practice, but
slowly, it all comes back and feels right. I play better than I have at any time in my life. We decide to play “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

       
When Johnny comes marching home again

       
Hurrah. Hurrah.

       
We'll give him a hearty welcome then

       
Hurrah. Hurrah.

       
The men will cheer and the boys will shout

       
The ladies they will all turn out

       
And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home.

There's not a dry eye anywhere in Camp Fisk.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

April 17, 1865

Illinois prisoners are told to assemble for departure, and the rest of us sit nearby ready to give them a fond farewell. It's apparent when the Illinois boys are in formation that something's different. The sky may be clear, but the atmosphere seems cloudy and unbalanced.

My group has been at Camp Fisk for two weeks, waiting to leave. During this time, Confederate soldiers have worked every day in camp. They help prepare rosters for departures, bring in supplies, and assist in carrying wounded soldiers from Jackson in ambulances. They move freely about Camp Fisk, and nobody gives them a second thought. Confederate officer Captain Speed meets every morning with a squad of six Confederate soldiers to discuss departures. After their meetings, Captain Speed announces who is to leave that day.

Today, however, Captain Speed calls his Confederate soldiers off to the side. He speaks to them privately for less than a minute. The captain's hands, usually animated, are reserved today, his gestures slow. He dismisses his squad; they hurry out the gate and head east toward Black River without looking back. Several minutes pass, and after making sure his Confederate men have cleared camp, he speaks with the Union officers. We can't hear what's being said, but one Union officer grabs his head as if the news brings a stifling blow to his skull. Another officer reaches for the wheel of a nearby wagon and sinks to the ground.

Soon after, Captain Speed rushes from camp. He follows the same path his fellow soldiers took a few minutes ago.

We sit, waiting for perhaps fifteen minutes. We know something's amiss. “False rumors of the war ending?” Big Tennessee wonders out loud.

“I don't think so,” Sergeant Survant says. “Their reactions were too strong for that.”

“Worse than the war not being over?” I ask. “I can't think of anything worse than that.”

Sergeant Survant nods. “Yeah, probably so, Stephen.”

Major Fidler steps onto the wooden platform and raises a hand for quiet. He glances back to the east to where the
Confederate soldiers left camp minutes earlier. They are completely out of sight.

“Men. . .,” he begins, “this is an important day for our brave men heading home to Illinois.” He looks at his boots to gather his thoughts. “But before you leave, there's some news I have to share with you. Word arrived in Vicksburg today. A ship called the
Sultana
stopped on her way to New Orleans. With telegraph lines slashed, this is the quickest we could learn of . . . of . . . this news. The news is not good.”

“We're going home, right?” a man shouts. “You got our hopes up, Major, that today's our last day here.”

The major looks up. “Yes, you're going home today,” he says too quietly.

“Then what's the news?” someone yells. “Spit it out.”

“Three nights ago President Lincoln was shot in a theater in Washington.” The major pauses. “Our president is dead.”

The news crashes through camp like a boom of thunder announcing a storm. After the shock sinks in, someone yells, “Hang them rebels from trees!”

“Hang 'em thick as pinecones,” another offers.

The major waits for the hatred to evaporate.

“We fought for nothing,” somebody suggests.

“Is that why the Southern traitors ran from camp?” one asks.

The major raises his hand. “I asked Captain Speed to leave.”

“Ran like scared rabbits!” a man yells.

“We should raise a black flag and kill 'em all.”

“It's not clear who shot our president,” the major says. “One thing is for sure: Captain Speed is a good man and the Confederate soldiers at Camp Fisk had nothing to do with it.”

“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.”

“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.