Carried Forward By Hope (22 page)

Matthew still refused to look. “I don’t reckon so, but we are,” he said firmly. Even as he spoke the words, he knew he was getting weaker, and as far as he could tell they were still nowhere near shore. The cold was sapping his energy, but he knew Joseph wasn’t strong enough to help. He wasn’t sure how long he could continue to propel both of them through the racing current. He began to look around for something in the water that could help them.

A looming shape in the darkness shot hope into him. He reached out just in time to grab the log floating toward him. He rejoiced when he realized how big it was. “Grab hold of the limb,” he commanded.

A spark of determination shot into Joseph’s eyes. Still holding on to the timber that had carried them so far, he managed to snag one of the branches as it brushed up against him.

Matthew angled his body against another large limb, hoping the weight of his body would slow it down just long enough for both of them to crawl on it. “Climb up!”

Joseph tried but fell back against the timber and could only shake his head in defeat.

Matthew groaned, knowing Joseph was too weak to do more than he was doing. “Hold on,” he gasped as he swung himself onto one of the largest limbs and reached down to grab Joseph’s shirt. Gritting his teeth, he used all his remaining strength to pull Joseph out of the water onto the log, praying with all his might that the log wouldn’t spin and throw them back into the raging current. He positioned Joseph across the log and held him there with one arm while he fought to catch his breath.

“Thank you,” Joseph murmured weakly.

Matthew nodded, knowing the boy’s efforts had weakened him even more. “Just lay there,” he said encouragingly, gripping Joseph’s arm securely. He realized the instant Joseph went unconscious. Perhaps it was best. Matthew accepted he did not have the strength to pull them both to shore, but at least they were out of the water.

He finally took a moment to look back, feeling a desperate surge of hope when he saw the bright lights of another steamboat approaching the
Sultana
. He realized quickly that the current had already taken them out of reach of help from that quarter, but perhaps it would be in time to save some of the other passengers.

All he could do was pray as he stared over the black waters, the flaming hull of the
Sultana
growing farther away behind them as the current swept them south.

Peter was still pacing when he heard a cry from the river. “What was that?” he yelled as he leaped to the edge of the wharf, knowing it was too dark to see anything.”

Crandall was beside him instantly. “Someone is calling for help,” he said urgently, whipping around to summon the sailor. “There is someone out there!” he called.

The sailor nodded and ran for one of the cutters tied up to the wharf. “I heard it too!”

“Help!”

“Help me!”

A chorus of cries sounded from the river.

“God help them!” Peter groaned, as he turned to the sailor. “May we come with you?” He already knew Crandall was a strong swimmer and familiar with boats. “We can help!” he said urgently.

The sailor hesitated but finally nodded. “Get in,” he said tersely as he untied the boat. “Man the oars,” he snapped as three more men jumped to join them.

More calls sounded from the water. One plea came through clearly. “The
Sultana
caught fire! Save us! Please save us!”

Peter groaned, knowing his nightmare had come true. He tried to push thoughts of Matthew from his mind as he put his entire strength into the oars. They had to try to save who they could.

In just minutes they saw a large piece of wreckage with men clinging to it.

Crandall did a quick count. “There are twelve of them!” he called in triumph.

One of the other men who had jumped on board suddenly quit rowing. “We can’t help them!” he cried, his eyes wide with fright. “If we go alongside that raft they will swamp us!”

“Row!” the sailor ordered as he steered the boat toward the survivors. “Row, or prepare to swim for your life yourself.”

Peter watched in admiration as the sailor steered the boat around the wreckage and stopped its forward progress. Within minutes, the boat was full of shaking men. As the last man was crawling over the side of the boat he lost his balance and slipped back into the water with a panicked scream. Peter lunged and caught him by the hair just as he was disappearing under the water.

Crandall leaped to his side and reached down to grab the hapless man’s shirt. Together they hauled him into the boat where he lay gasping for breath, his thin body shaking violently.

“Get these men to shore!” the sailor ordered.

When they turned back to land, Peter saw a crowd had already gathered on the wharf. The word of the disaster was evidently spreading. When they reached the wharf, hands reached down to pull the soldiers out of the boat and wrap them in blankets. Wagons were waiting to load them.

“We’re taking them to the hospital,” one man announced. “There are more wagons coming!”

The steamboats still at the wharf began to ring their bells to announce the disaster.

Peter watched the wagon start up the hill and then turned back to his oars. There were men to save.

******
 

Matthew stared up at the sky as the log moved downstream. One arm gripped a limb on the log, the other was wrapped around Joseph as he strained to keep his unconscious body out of the water. The boy’s shallow breathing told him he was alive, but Matthew knew he hovered close to death.

Matthew could feel the cold seeping into the very core of his being. He struggled to control the shivering, gritting his teeth as his hands and arms began to go numb. He shifted just enough to brace one of his feet against a protruding limb. By pushing with all his strength, he managed to relieve a little of the strain from his arms, but he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. His mind floated to Joseph’s grandfather. “I am the master of my destiny,” he said through chattering teeth. “Anything is possible.”

The wind picked up, the cold air slicing into his drenched, weakened body. He struggled to pull Joseph closer.
“I am the master of my destiny.”
Matthew knew his voice was growing weaker.
“Anything is possible.”

Unbidden, thoughts of Carrie swarmed into his mind. He groaned when her dancing green eyes and laughing mouth flooded his thoughts. He tried to push them away, knowing he shouldn’t be thinking of another man’s wife, but he was too weak to do anything but let thoughts of her offer what comfort they could.

He had loved her since the minute he laid eyes on her. He had been careful to be sure she had no idea, knowing her love for his friend Robert was the most important thing in her life. Still, he had held on to hope. A hope that died when Carrie married Robert. He had learned to be content with her friendship, but he knew he would never love another woman the way he loved Carrie. Love that should have brought hope and light had become nothing but a persistent reminder of a lost opportunity.

For tonight, he would let his imagination warm him. There was no one out on the river to know his thoughts — no one to see inside his heart. He felt a twinge of warmth as he imagined his lips claiming hers. He felt a spark of hope as he imagined her smiling into his eyes and telling him she loved him. He felt strength return to his numb arms as he imagined her warm body pressed against his.

Matthew felt fresh determination when he imagined her grief if she received word of his death. She may not be in love with him, but he was quite certain she loved him. He did not want to be the cause of yet more grief for her. She had borne too much, and she was now carrying the burden of Robert’s illness. “I am the master of my destiny,” he said, his voice stronger this time. “Anything is possible.”

The long night passed as corpses swept past him. The cries for help had long since ceased. Matthew knew that anyone still in the water could not have survived, especially men who were already diseased and malnourished. He could only hope that bodies could be recovered, giving some type of closure to families faced with fresh grief.

Matthew felt a spark of hope when daylight began to kiss the horizon, but he also knew his strength was reaching its end. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. Joseph had not moved even once during the long night, but Matthew refused to give up hope the young man would survive this latest ordeal.

He had passed the night imagining Carrie’s love for him. He thought it was just another dream when he heard a distant call.

“Hello….”

Matthew shook his head and stared down the river.

“Hello…”

Suddenly his heart leaped into his throat. “Help!” he called, groaning when his voice came out as little more than a hoarse croak. He coughed hard and tried again.

“Help!” His cry was weak, but it was stronger. “Please, God,” he whispered. “Please…”

He could do nothing but stare as a boat appeared through the early morning mist. He had no arms available to wave. “Help!” he called again, certain his voice could not possibly carry over the sound of the river, waves, and wind, but knowing he had to try. “Help!”

“There’s one!”

Matthew felt tears prick his eyes when he heard the shout. Had they seen him? “Help!” he called one more time.

Moments later the boat swung in his direction. “We’re coming!” a man hollered.

Matthew stared as the boat drew closer and wedged itself against the log. “Take him first,” he gasped as the men reached for Joseph.

“You have to let him go,” one of the men said.

Matthew just stared at him. His numb arm had cramped in the position that held Joseph against his body. “I can’t,” he whispered.

One of the men in the boat leaped forward to work his arm free. Matthew cried out as pain ripped through his body, but he sighed with relief when Joseph was hauled into the boat. Strong hands then reached for him, prying his hand free from the limb and pulling him into the boat.

“Good to see you!” one of the men said.

“Thank you,” Matthew whispered. “Thank you.” He stared down at Joseph as they wrapped a blanket around him. “Take care of him first.” He couldn’t miss the look the men exchanged, but his mind refused to accept it. “He needs help,” he insisted. “Him first.”

The men gazed at him with deep sympathy. Tears welled in Matthew’s eyes. “No,” he whispered. “No.”

One of the men put a hand on his arm. “You tried,” he said kindly. “You gave him a chance.”

Matthew was not ashamed of the tears streaming down his face. Joseph’s family would not have their only surviving son return home. His grandfather would never hear that he had saved his life.

Suddenly the world began to swirl. He had held on all night to a soldier who had probably been dead for a long time. Matthew had a brief realization that holding on to Joseph had saved his life before he slipped into unconsciousness.

******

Peter stood on the wharf, gratefully sipping the hot coffee someone had handed him. As the day had dawned, it brought the realization that anyone still in the water was dead. He watched numbly as a boat pulled up with men plucked from trees along the riverbank. Somehow they had clung to the branches — most of them naked after their clothes burned off — while the long night passed.

Crandall stepped from a boat full of men they had pulled from along the bank. Most of them were dead. The rest were close.

Peter blanched, knowing that the line of dead soldiers on the wharf was about to get longer.

Crandall, his face pinched and drawn, stepped up to him. “Any word on Matthew?” he asked quietly, reaching out to claim the hot coffee a woman placed in his hands with a nod of gratitude.

“No,” Peter replied, clinching his teeth.

“They’re still finding people,” Crandall said. “He could be out there.”

Peter just stared at him, trying to hold on to the hope that sustained him through the night. Every boatload of soldiers and passengers they picked up could have held Matthew. None of them did.

“The
Bostonia II
?” Crandall asked.

“He wasn’t one of the ones they saved,” Peter said. “I checked everyone. Most of them are in the hospital getting treatment.” He closed his eyes as his mind swarmed with the images of charred flesh and emaciated bodies. He knew that many of the passengers plucked from the river would not live through the day. He could only hope their suffering would end quickly.

Crandall nodded and simply stood by his side. After a night of non-ending rescues, there was simply nothing left to say.

One of the women from the Sanitary Commission, a portly blond-haired woman with kind eyes, stepped up to them with a plate of hot beans and cornbread. “Would you care for something to eat?”

Crandall reached for the plate with a grateful smile, but Peter just shook his head. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

She eyed him for a moment and then shoved the plate into his hands. “You have to eat,” she said crisply, seeming to know sympathy was not what he needed at the moment. “This day is far from over. Letting yourself get weak and hungry isn’t going to help anyone.” She paused for a moment. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve been at it all morning, ever since the first boat went out. You need to eat.”

Peter stared at her while her words penetrated his numbness. Finally, he nodded and reached for the fork she held out to him. She was right. The day was not over. He would not stop until he had been every single place they had taken survivors. It was possible he had been out on the water when Matthew was brought in. He thought of Aunt Abby, Carrie, and the rest waiting for his return in Richmond. He had to try everything before he sent a telegram about the disaster. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“Thank
you
,” the lady responded with a wide smile. “This is a dark day in Memphis history, but it’s men like you who have given what little light there is.”

Peter gazed after her as he slowly ate the food, appreciating the warmth and strength that spread through his body. The truth of her words pierced his numbness. He had not found Matthew, but he and Crandall had helped pluck over one hundred men from the swollen river.

“Here comes another boat,” someone yelled.

As the skiff drew closer, they could hear a man holler, “We’ve got one survivor on here! Found him clinging to a log. The fella he was holding didn’t make it. He’s unconscious, but he’s alive.”

Peter, more from force of habit acquired during the long morning than by any act of hope, stepped forward to gaze into the boat as it pulled to the wharf. “Matthew!” he cried. Throwing aside his plate of food, he leaped forward and reached out his arms to help haul Matthew’s still form up onto the wharf.

Tears filled his eyes as he gazed down at his friend’s face, miraculously unburned. “He’s still alive?” he asked sharply.

“Yes,” one of the men assured him. “His breathing seems pretty good, and there are no burns on his body.” He nodded at Joseph’s still form. “We found him holding on to this soldier. I don’t know how long he’s been dead, but we had to pry him out of Matthew’s arm.”

Peter glanced down, his heart sick with sympathy as he recognized the boy Matthew had been interviewing when he last saw him. “Yes,” he murmured. “He would have held on.”

A wagon appeared behind him and he was gently pushed aside. “We have to get him to the hospital,” someone said.