Crossing the Deadline (17 page)

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.

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.”

“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.”