By Alan Huffman
“One of the main riveting conflict tales i've got ever read….Huffman’s delicate, intimate prose ushers you thru this nightmare as though you have been residing it yourself.”
—Sebastian Junger, writer of The ideal Storm
The dramatic real tale of the worst maritime catastrophe in U.S. heritage, Alan Huffman’s Sultana brings to breathtaking lifestyles a sad, lengthy forgotten occasion in America’s Civil War—the sinking of the steamship Sultana and the lack of 1,700 lives, usually Union squaddies returning domestic from accomplice criminal camps. A gripping account that reads like a nonfiction Cold Mountain, Sultana is robust, relocating, wealthy in irony and engaging ancient detail—a tale no historical past aficionado or Civil warfare buff probably want to miss.
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Additional resources for Sultana: Surviving the Civil War, Prison, and the Worst Maritime Disaster in American History
Someplace between them was once Romulus Tolbert, a personal, additionally from southern Indiana, who grasped a board or a section of driftwood (the element will be misplaced within the telling). Tolbert had overpassed his boyhood good friend John Maddox, a fellow inner most, who till then have been with him approximately each step of ways. Tolbert and Maddox had served jointly within the neighborhood defense force again in Indiana, had persisted enemy hearth and wearying marches via Georgia, and had survived the squalid accomplice legal in Alabama ahead of boarding the Sultana on their method domestic. inner most Perry Summerville, who grew up no longer faraway from Elliott, Tolbert, and Maddox in rural Indiana, and had additionally been within the Alabama pen, used to be now miles downstream, carried helplessly at the unyielding currents, floating towards Memphis among wood forums, one clutched among his gotten smaller, aching arms, the opposite hooked below his ft. one other refugee from the Alabama pen, George Robinson, a personal from Michigan, used to be already past town, floating senselessly on a lifeless mule amid bobbing barrels, discarded outfits, deathly quiet our bodies, and smoldering splinters of the boat. From his perch at the log, Elliott watched males putting over the perimeters of the far-off boats, dragging survivors and our bodies aboard. He heard voices echoing around the river, and right here and there a person crying out deliriously or moaning so pitifully and interminably that it was once a aid whilst the voices eventually quieted and pale away. males mimicked the calls of birds and the croaking of frogs, or sang favourite songs from formative years or the battle: Come on, come on, come on, previous guy, and don’t be made a idiot, by way of all people you meet in camp, with “Mister, here’s your mule! ” past the fellow striking at the tree Elliott observed a pirogue piloted by way of a lost insurgent soldier, nosing out and in one of the timber. It used to be a curious sight. Elliott known as out to him and pointed to the younger guy clinging to the tree, and the insurgent took his cue and kept him. within the distance, in a flooded box, he observed a bunch of guys crouched jointly at the roof of a barn, hugging themselves opposed to the nippiness, sometimes swatting stiffly at mosquitoes. it may have appeared unusual, mosquitoes within the chilly, elevating welts amid the goose bumps, yet there has been no common sense to something now. the area and the brain performed methods. He attempted to devote each element to reminiscence. Years from now he might fight to make experience of all of it, to place it into phrases, to impose order, to provoke somebody who was once prepared to pay attention. not anything will be too preposterous to think: The hapless guy rolling over on a twirling barrel, like a few macabre sideshow; the fellow who had tied a tourniquet round the ruptured, pulsing veins of his damaged legs to maintain from bleeding to dying, who requested to be thrown overboard to drown instead of face being burned alive; the six or seven males clinging to the again of a terrified horse because it swam down the fire-lit channel; the sister who stood at the bow of the Sultana, trying to calm the drowning lots until eventually the instant the flames ate up her; the girl who drifted serenely throughout the mayhem, buoyant as a water lily in her hoopskirt, as though in a dream—which she might were.