In 500... (or less)

A Prisoner No More

My swollen joints protested when Capt. Speed called out my name.

"Yessir!" I said, trying to right myself.

"Looks like we found you boys a ride," the captain said. "Now gather yourselves up and form ranks so you can go down to the docks."

"War's over." I looked around to see who was heckling the captain. Of course it was Mabry. "Had enough of these orders. Spent a stretch in Andersonville and don't rightly figure I owe the Army anything else."

Capt. Speed didn't bother reprimanding him. Mabry was right, the war ended a few weeks ago. And I was just as frustrated at our government taking their good old time getting us home. Castle Morgan was a paradise compared to Andersonville, but still a prison camp. Now all of us prisoners were rounded up in a camp outside Vicksburg, waiting for a ride home.

"Goin' home, Sargeant Kelly!" Mabry cuffed me on the shoulder with a big smile on his face.

"I suppose so, Mabry. Don't call me 'Sergeant' anymore, ok?"

"Sure thing, boss."

Andersonville had broken many of the prisoners here, but Mabry wasn't one of them. He often talked about the son who was born after he left for war, one he'd never met. I suppose that's what kept him going.

The boat set to take us home was a sorry-looking wreck. The boards of the deck creaked under the strain of the men, and yet they kept on loading more of us on.

The river looked forbidding from the spring floods. Mighty oaks which once guarded its banks were nothing but swaying branches holding on for dear life to the submerged trunk of the tree. I was glad when we put in at Memphis.

"How's a fella supposed to get any sleep around here, sloshing from side to side, let alone leavin' town in the middle of the night?" Mabry was anxious to get home, but his body was still a little too frail for such a harried trip.

"At least we'll get home faster. Won't be long till we hit St. Louis."

"St. Louis?! That's only halfway --" he never did finish his sentence.

The boiler left out a deafening explosion, followed by a second one. The blast threw me clear of the boat, into the icy cold Mississippi.

"Mabry! Mabry!" The river was lit up brightly by the flames of the burning boat, but my friend was nowhere to be found. The water was freezing, and in that moment I could only think of getting out. I found a tree branch sticking out of the water and clung to it, hoping for salvation.

The irony seemed too great, to hold out against a living hell, only to die on the way home. I was one of the lucky survivors.

Sometimes when I walk along the Chicago River back home, I say a little prayer for Mabry and the rest of the men who died on the Sultana.