The Day We Took the Delta Queen by Storm

By Someone Who Should Probably Remain Anonymous

Somewhere deep in the cellar of my memory, where fact and fiction drink from the same glass, there lives a tale — half-true and wholly legendary, or totally fabricated — about the day we stormed the Delta Queen. The details are foggy. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe the beer. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Hell, it’s probably not even true. If any of my co-conspirators from that time remember it differently, I suggest they keep their versions to themselves until the statute of limitations runs out.

It was Pilgrimage season in Natchez — that peculiar time of year when the town trades its modern skin for hoop skirts, mint juleps, and a heavily romanticized version of the antebellum South. Everything smells like gardenias and mothballs. The tourists swarm in, and the youth of the town are pressed into service like Confederate conscripts at Vicksburg.

We were the Pilgrimage Court: young, overdressed, and chronically under-supervised. They wrapped us in wool-blend uniforms meant to resemble Civil War officer garb, though they looked more like something rescued from a high school production of Gone with the Wind. The boots didn’t fit. The buttons were decorative at best. And the swords — yes, they gave us swords — were far too real for a group of hormonal teenagers with more bravado than sense.

After one such afternoon performance — right after we bowed stiffly to tepid applause and before the matrons could herd us back into whatever parlor we were supposed to haunt — we made a break for it. One second we were posing for Polaroids, and the next we were marching, half-drunken cavalry, down Silver Street. Our boots rang out on the old brick, our plumed hats bobbed with faux dignity, and our swords clanked like we meant business.

Then we saw her.

The Delta Queen, docked just beyond the saloon like some faded empress in exile — paddlewheel gleaming, her brass fittings catching the last of the sunlight like gold teeth in a preacher’s smile. She sat there, regal and proud, practically begging for a little drama.

Naturally, we stopped at the Under-the-Hill Saloon first. Not for the beer, mind you — this was a reconnaissance mission. Or that’s what we told ourselves. Inside, it smelled like history and bad decisions. The tourists were delighted. Cameras flashed. A group of bikers raised their beers. A Japanese couple asked if we were filming a movie. One of us said yes. Another said we were the ghosts of the Confederacy. Either way, they bought us a round.

Then, as if summoned by the ghost of Robert E. Lee himself — or maybe just the last ounce of bourbon courage — one of us (whose name I’ll keep out of this because he now sits on a school board) announced:

“Let’s take the Queen.”

No plan. No permission. Just conviction. And alcohol.

We stormed the gangway like conquering heroes — epaulets flapping, sword tips scratching paint off the railings, one of us nearly tripping over his own sash. The captain — a leathery old man who looked like he’d seen everything and regretted none of it — sized us up with a long stare and said, “Well… I’ve seen worse.”

To his credit, he didn’t call the authorities. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow when we appointed a Commodore (determined by feather count, obviously) and began issuing proclamations to confused passengers. He even let us up to the wheelhouse for a quick photo op — on the strict condition that we not touch anything labeled critical or explosive. Fair enough.

One of us gave a speech — part Jefferson Davis, part Elvis, with a little Jerry Clower thrown in for good measure. Someone raised a plastic cup in salute. Another sang a few lines of “Dixie” off-key. For one glorious moment, we were sovereign lords of the Mississippi River.

And then came the sound that truly chills the blood.

Heels.

Not just any heels — chaperone heels. Practical, unforgiving pumps clicking with authority down the gangplank like the approach of divine retribution.

We turned just in time to see a small battalion of Southern ladies in pastel sashes advancing with the fury of the Old Testament. One was already dialing what we feared was either the police or the insurance company.

Turns out, the uniforms were “on loan.” The swords were “museum-grade.” And the boat? Technically federal property.

We surrendered without a fight.

The captain, ever the sport, tipped his cap and said, “Y’all come back next year. Just maybe don’t storm the wheelhouse.”

We trudged off, feathers drooping, boots scuffing, legends in retreat. That evening, as the sun sank into the muddy waters of the Mississippi, we knew we had done something foolish, possibly illegal, and completely unforgettable.

We were kings — for about an hour.

And that, friends, is the story of how we almost got arrested for staging an unsanctioned naval coup in full Confederate regalia during Pilgrimage.

Would I do it again?

In a heartbeat. If only I could remember….