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his
own eyes the carnage he’d unthinkingly unleashed upon the world.
* * *
    Capt. J. Cass Mason thought longingly of the well-stocked bar in the
main cabin. After everything he’d done to secure this load of released
prisoners, he felt uncommonly tense. But the bar would have to wait,
for Capt. Frederic Speed had just asked for a private word with him
inside the Sultana ’s office.
    He waved the assistant adjutant general into the small room and
invited him to sit. Captain Speed, a trim, dark-haired man perhaps ten
years younger than Mason’s thirty-four years, glanced at the chair
he’d indicated. Apparently changing his mind, he remained standing,
looking ill at ease.
    He’ll want something for his trouble, Mason decided. Too many of
these young officers thought the steamboat lines had bottomless
pockets. Never mind that the U.S. government routinely commandeered the boats and played havoc with the schedules. Never mind
the fact that they’d seized the Rowena from Mason, all for the crime of
carrying some medicine and trousers to the South. Now, two years
later, every hope—and every dime—he had were riding on the success
of the Sultana. And still, every mother’s son of them came calling with
his hand out.
    “I’m very much concerned about the crowding,” Captain Speed
began. “I was just informed there are very nearly two thousand
prisoners aboard.”
    “I thought we’d already cleared up this question in our last discussion,”
Mason said irritably. It wasn’t his fault the military had underestimated
the numbers. He’d simply reminded the officers of his line’s contract
and pushed for the best load possible. Now that he finally had the
men on board, he’d be damned if he was going to split them. The
delay would be a nightmare for both the crew of the Sultana and the
prisoners waiting to go home.
    “In some places, there’s not even room enough for the men to lie
down,” Captain Speed added.
“The men will go through comfortably and safely,” Mason assured
him. “I’ve taken large loads for the government before.”
But not this large, Mason knew. It worried him, but still, he couldn’t
help thinking of the number Captain Speed had mentioned. At the five
dollars per enlisted man and ten per officer that the government
would pay, this trip would be profitable enough to offset his earlier
light loads. He was also carrying perhaps a hundred civilian passengers
and a great deal of cargo.
He thought again about the loss of the Rowena, of how he’d been
forced to sell off a large percentage of his share in the Sultana. He
couldn’t afford to allow Speed to stand in the way of a trip like this
one, even if he had to pay a bribe.
But apparently Speed had only wanted reassurance, for he nodded
despite his worried frown.
“Godspeed, then, Captain Mason,” he said in leaving.
Speed left quickly, without pausing to shake Captain Mason’s hand.
Looking after him, Mason wondered how long it would be until
other impediments to either time or profit would arise.
When finally, just after nine o’clock that evening, the Sultana backed
out into the current and began the journey north, the prisoners’ rousing
cheer vibrated through the decks. And J. Cass Mason felt as glad as
any man among them.

Three
Tuesday, April 25, 1865
    If the Confederacy fails, there should be written on its tombstone, “Died
of a theory.”
—Jefferson Davis
My dearest Marie,
    Perhaps it is my own guilt that makes me feel as if God turns His back
upon my prayers. So instead I beg you to intercede on my behalf, that I
might find courage enough to expose the man who took your life.
    I fear he has followed me and even now lurks among the ornate, carved
decorations of the main cabin. Each time my eyes close, I imagine I can
hear him sniffing at my scent, questing ever closer to the room where I
stay hidden, waiting.
    You must believe me, Marie, when I say I only meant to warn you that he
was unworthy of your affections. When