The deadliest shipwreck in American history
happened the week we were all looking the other way.
April 1865. A nineteen-year-old who walked out of Andersonville alive talks his way onto a steamboat for the trip up the dark river home — not knowing a quartermaster's bribe has packed two thousand freed men onto a boat built for four hundred, and that the boiler under his feet has been closed with a scab of tin that will not hold. What the war could not do, the river nearly does. The country, busy burying its president, turns the page. This book does not.