Crossing the Deadline (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

April 30, 1865

“The army requested the rolls of the
Sultana
be brought from Vicksburg,” a survivor says to his friend two beds away from me. “The lists arrived today but are not worth the paper they're recorded on.”

“How so?” his friend asks.

“Remember how the rebs wanted every Yankee on ships and out of Vicksburg that last day, whether the rolls were completed or not?”

“Yeah,” the fellow says. “They told us, ‘Get on board; we need to get the
Sultana
on its way'”

“The list has one thousand eight hundred names. We were on the last train leaving Camp Fisk, and they didn't record a single name from our group.”

“That number can't be right, then.”

“The crew bragged there were two thousand four hundred on board the
Sultana
.”

Union officers, with scribes in tow, appear at the door. They visit every hospital bed and ask a barrage of questions. “Who was on the boat from your unit? Besides your company, who did you meet on the ship? Did you learn the names of any crew members?”

* * *

Some survivors are refusing to board steamers home. They leave on trains or any other way they can besides by water. By the end of the first week, the official passenger list swells from 1,800 to 2,187 names. That list is light, too. Ten days after the explosion, over 1,287 soldiers, women, men, and children are reported killed or unaccounted for, and the list grows daily. Only two hundred lucky souls scraped by with nary a need for any medical attention beyond a swig of whisky.

Caleb gets much better very quickly. He seems itchin' and ready to be released. “I owe my life to you, Stephen,” he says.

“You'd do the same for me,” I say. “Besides, the doctors
say I'll be discharged in another week,” I tell him. “They're still keeping an eye on the wound.”

“The river was colder than the water in Castle Morgan,” he says. “No comparison.”

“I haven't told you, but we floated down the river on a dead horse.”

“I wasn't on a shutter the whole time?”

“Not the entire time. I plucked you out of the water and set you on the horse's side. We came to a tree, and somehow we got you up there. I passed out from exhaustion. The last thing I remember, before the cold put me under for good, is latching on to a tree branch with you on one side of me and . . .”

“What?”

“Oh my God!” I yell. “I forgot about Talkington.”

A Sister of Mercy doing needlework in a chair by the door hears me and looks my way. “Sister, can you check on a name for me? Actually, a couple of names.” I'm embarrassed to not have thought of the names before.

“We'll find them for you,” she says as she walks over to my bed, taking out a pencil and paper from beneath her garments.

“Sergeants Survant and Talkington,” I tell her. “Both are
in the Ninth Indiana Cavalry. If you can find out about them, I'd be most appreciative.”

“What's Survant's first name?”

“Joseph. And Talkington's first name is Robert.”

“Any other names?”

“Two more. One is a tall fellow; everybody calls him Big Tennessee. He's almost seven feet tall. The other is William Peacock, and he's in the Ninth too.”

* * *

Later, Sister Mary pays a call and looks at my arms. “Rotate them back and forth for me,” she says, demonstrating by twisting her own arms. “Good. No signs of bugbites at all. Many of the fellows used spring growth of willow limbs to swat the buffalo gnats. They say it didn't help much, that there were too many of 'em.”

We sit in silence for a while before she says, “Oh, I almost forgot, Stephen: a letter arrived for you.” She slips her hand into a pocket inside her black garment and produces an envelope.

“Who's it from?” I ask.

“I don't know,” she answers. “There's one thing on it I've
never seen before, kind of odd. There's a kind of X near the postmark of Nashville.”

The envelope reads:

       
Stephen Gaston (
Sultana
—injured)

       
Memphis, Tennessee

Beside the postmark is a long check mark and a shorter straight line forming an X.

“It's easy to tell who sent this,” I say.

“How?” Caleb asks.

I point to the X on the envelope. “I'd know that mark anywhere. I wrote a letter for him when we were in Cahaba Prison, and that's how he signed it. He didn't write this letter, though.”

Hello, Pard,

With the help of God, Big Tennessee and I are back home. We left Memphis on the
St. Patrick
headed for Nashville. We came by Overton Hospital to say good-bye. They told us you had a fever and shouldn't have visitors.

The crew of the
St. Patrick
treated us like heroes. They said we suffered through a war, a prison, and the
Sultana.
Anybody
who did that was a hero in their eyes. They offered us real nice rooms to sleep in. I couldn't bring myself to sleep anywhere on the boat except one place. I spent the entire trip to Nashville hanging over the stern in the yawl. I wasn't taking any chances. Big Tennessee took them up on their offer and slept like a king on a real bed with fancy cloth draped over it. He said his feet stuck out past the end of it.

Your buddy Caleb never came to while we were sitting in the tree. I kept one hand on a tree branch and the other hand on his shirt collar. We looked like three crows sitting on a fence row. You two were in bad shape when a skiff got around to taking you over to the
Bostonia.
I don't know where Rule is now. Hope he's fine.

Big Tennessee's headed for the mountains of Tennessee and I'm going north. I expect to see you back in Indiana when you're released.

Get well soon, Pard

Robert Talkington signed his name at the bottom of the page, and, right beside his name, as big as a silver dollar, is a large check mark with another line crossing the longer end:

The letter lifts my spirits and Caleb's, too. He gets a kick out his name being written in a letter coming all the way from Nashville.

The doctors visit Caleb and declare him well enough to make the journey home. “I'm not getting on another boat, unless Saint Peter is taking me to the other side of the Jordan River,” he says as he shakes my hand to leave. “Besides, we both know that if I'm on a boat and it goes down . . .”

“You can't swim,” we say together. Then we say good-bye.

That night the ward seems especially empty when the Sister of Mercy returns with the information I requested. “Your friends Robert Talkington and Big Tennessee survived and have left for home . . .,” she begins.

“I know. They wrote the letter you gave me,” I say, smiling.

“William Peacock is in the Soldiers' Home, a hospital. He has scalds on his right side and a cut shoulder, but he'll be fine.”

“There was another name,” I remind her. “What about Joseph Survant?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes. “He has not been heard from nor his body found,” she says quietly. “It doesn't look promising.”

I lie more quietly than normal, Sister Mary at my side. “What's wrong, Stephen?”

I start to speak but can't and shake my head instead. The words won't come out.

“It's all right,” she says. “You don't have to say anything.”

“No, I need to. It's just hard.” Looking at her reminds me of an angel, like Mrs. Amanda Gardner. She has such a perfect smile. “I have to admit something to you.”

“What's that?” she asks.

“I'm so ashamed.”

“Of what? You've done nothing to be ashamed of, Stephen.”

“I'm ashamed I'm alive.”

She starts to speak, but I interrupt her. “There's one thing I'll always remember, sister . . . .” my voice trails off.

“What's that, Stephen?” she asks.

“I can't get the screaming out of my mind, Sister Mary. Those men were burned alive . . . some scalded to death. I never heard men scream that loud . . . and . . . and the smell of burning flesh,” I say. “I can't stop smelling that smell.”

“You did nothing wrong by living.”

“I'm being punished now for not doing enough,” I say. “Sergeant Survant had five children. They need him, and he's probably not going home.”

Sister Mary grabs me and buries my head into her chest.
She rocks us both back and forth. “It's going to get better. I don't know when, but it will get better.” She turns her head and looks back over her shoulder toward the door several times.

After a period of silence I say again, “I'm ashamed.”

“Of what? That you lived and others didn't?”

“I should have done more. Some of 'em in the river were so close to me that our bodies could have touched as their heads went under.”

She pats my arm and continues rocking. “And how would you have saved them?” she asks. “How could you have helped another man? Where would you have put him?” she asks. “On the horse you floated down the river on?”

“No. There was no more room with the three of us.”

“Well, there you go,” she says. “The men who died near you did so with the same honor as if they lost their lives on a battlefield.” Her voice changes to a measured cadence. “Listen to me, Stephen. Survivors have told me they were caught in death grips by drowning men. They were pulled under and would have died too had they not fought off the people pulling them under.”

“I know. We watched some of 'em being pulled to their deaths. They were yelling, ‘Let go.'”

“Good swimmers were also pulled under and are gone now,” she says. “It wouldn't have helped to have you listed among the dead or missing.”

Sister Mary turns toward the door. I glance just in time to see the tall silhouette of the chief surgeon appear. When she nods to him, he walks away. “I promise you, it's going to get better,” she says softly to me.

“I hope so, but I don't know when,” I say, trying to be agreeable.

“Well, how about right now?” she asks.

Seconds later, the tall shadow of the chief surgeon reappears in the doorway. This time, a much shorter figure, in a dress, stands beside him. Their arms are interlocked. Even in silhouette, I see the lady dab her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. She's wearing a black mourning crape over her head.
She's probably here to claim the body of a loved one,
I think. The only thing I can see clearly is a piece of jewelry fastened at her collar. It reflects the light ever so faintly. It's a neck brooch.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The shadows walk toward me.

“Stephen?” the woman asks. It's a familiar voice, one I haven't heard in two years.

“Yes,” I answer, and sit up in bed on my elbows. Sister Mary tucks a pillow behind my back as I strain to see through the darkness.

“Stephen?” the shadow asks again, as if not believing my first answer.

Sisters Mary stands, gathers her dress in her fists, and hurries out of the room.

“Yes,” I say again, louder this time.

The two visitors stop at the foot of my bed. The only thing illuminated well is the golden brooch fastened near the woman's neck. It's the size of a dollar piece with the shape
of a quarter moon on it. My throat closes, and pressure rushes to my cheeks. Unable to speak, I nod and reach for her.

Mother.

We hug, sob, and stare into each other's eyes for the longest time. Mother bends over and kisses me on the forehead. She touches my chin and lifts my face toward hers. “Stephen, are you okay?” she asks.

“I'm fine, Mother,” I say. “I'm fine.”

“You look so good,” she says. “And what a fine-looking soldier you've grown to be.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and reach to touch the brooch. “That's the pin Robert gave you when he left.”

“Yes. Was it four years ago? Once he—” Mother pauses abruptly. “Once Robert didn't come back home, I couldn't bear to look at it again. It reminded me of his death and not his life,” she says. “That was wrong. When your letter arrived explaining the real reason you left, I took it out and wore it every day.”

“Every day?”

“Every single day.”

“Why?”

“It reminded me I still had a brave soldier in the army.”
Mother chokes back a sob. “A soldier who needed my thoughts and prayers.”

I start to speak, but Mother places a finger on my lips. “Some nights, if there was a full moon, I'd look up into the sky and wonder if you were looking at the moon at the very same time.”

“I did too! A lot. But how did you get to Memphis?”

“Oh, we have so much to catch up on,” she says, patting my wrist. “Governor Morton heard what happened and learned you were sending all your money to Clem. He hired me on when he found out.”

“Hired you on? To do what?” I ask.

“Well, I said ‘hired me on,' but all he really did was take me in. I did whatever needed to be done around the house and continued working for Dutch. Basically, the governor gave me a room and fed me so I wouldn't be indebted to your uncle. Your uncle Clem didn't do right by your brother, me, or you.”

So she knew how Uncle Clem treated me.

“You always talked about traveling,” she says. “Remember how you'd watch those wagons heading west through Centerville? You'd come home and tell me you dreamed of heading west with them.”

I smile at that wonderful memory. “I remember.”

“Want to join 'em?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to join them and head west?” she asks again. “Just like you always dreamed?”

“How? Where would we go?”

“I think we have the money to do it. We just need to pick a direction and go,” she says, a shy grin spreading across her face.

“What money?”

“I have it all,” she says.

“All what?” I ask.

“All the money you sent home,” she says, her smile deepening.

“I didn't send you very much money. Most of it went to Uncle Clem.”

“Well, you may have sent it to him, but that doesn't mean he got it,” she corrects me. “We caught on fast enough that you were sending money to Clem. So, Governor Morton directed the postmaster to intercept anything coming from you, including army pay, and forward it on to his house.”

“You have it? All the money?”

She taps the handbag resting in her lap. “Your uncle never
received one penny from you. Dutch and the governor took care of me while you were gone. Your brother, before he left, said, ‘Neighbors help neighbors in war,' and he was right.”

I stare down at her purse and then back into her eyes. “Mother, how much of it?”

“Stephen, did you stand too close to the cannons when they were fired? I think they took your hearing. All of it,” she says, laughing.

“But . . . but. . .,” I stammer. “That's way over one hundred dollars.”

Mother taps her black purse again and puts one finger against her lips. “Shhhhh,” she says. “It's all here. I saved every penny you sent. It's your money, Stephen, not mine. You earned it, and I figured you should have it when you came home. I also saved most of the ten dollars a month Dutch paid me.”

“You told Clem he was paying you five dollars.”

“I did.” She smiles. “Your uncle's not as smart as he thinks he is. When Clem asked him why he was paying me such a low amount, Dutch told him five dollars was all I was worth.”

“But Dutch didn't actually think that.”

“Heavens, no. He said I was the best worker he ever had.”

“But Uncle Clem didn't know that.”

Mother shakes her head. “Stephen, the governor wouldn't take a dime of my money to board me. My needs were simple while you were gone. Once word reached Centerville that you were sitting in an Alabama prison, nobody would take my money when I purchased anything: shoes, dresses, bonnets. The only thing I lacked was having you back home.” Mother smiles. “Nurse,” she calls. “Is it possible for us to go outside and sit for a while?”

“Are you feeling up to it, Stephen?” she asks. “It's a nice, warm, spring evening.”

I haven't been farther than the chair by my bed in a couple weeks. I decide to give walking a try. We find a bench in a small flower garden next to the hospital. We don't say a word for the longest time but never let go of each other's hands.

* * *

“Stephen?” Mother breaks the silence.

“Yes?”

“There is something else waiting for you back home, if you want it.”

“What?” I ask.

“Your bugle.”

“What? How?”

“Major Lilly said he found it on the ground in Alabama and carried it back to Indiana. He told the governor, ‘Stephen, may not want it, but if he changes his mind, here it is. The governor has it if you want it back.'”

“That would make me very happy,” I tell her.

“The newspaper says one thousand seven hundred people are dead or missing,” Mother says.

“It was chaos. But in the middle of it all, your voice floated all the way from Centerville, found my ears, and whispered, ‘Stay Calm, Stephen,' and I did.”

“Following orders like a perfect soldier,” she says.

Mother pats the middle of her chest several times and sniffles. She's crying. I don't want to look at her and embarrass her more.

“How about Texas?” I finally ask.

“Texas?” she asks.

“I've always wanted to see Texas. Lets start there, and see how we like it.”

“Sounds good to me,” she says. “Texas it is. We'll leave as soon as they discharge you.”

“Well, I have to get out of the army first,” I say. “It might be best to serve a couple more years back in Indiana.”

“After that, then,” she says.

“Mother,” I say quietly.

“Yes, dear.”

“Thanks for coming.”

Then Mother says, “I love you, and I'm so proud of my soldier.”

The nearly full moon shines brightly in the sky. “I love you more,” I tell her.

“Don't know how you could,” she says, “because I love you to the moon and back.”

* * *