Seating Chart For General Jackson Showboat Now

At breakfast, a deckhand found Silk Thornton slumped over Seat 17, a playing card—the ace of spades—pressed to his forehead. No wound, no blood, just a faint blue pallor and the smell of bitter almonds. Cyanide in his julep.

Captain Bo feigned shock. He gathered the passengers in the saloon and pointed to the chart. “This is a tragedy,” he said. “But we are law-abiding folk. No one leaves until we find the killer.” He smiled thinly. “And to help us, I’ve rearranged the seating. New assignments at sundown.” seating chart for general jackson showboat

The air along the Natchez Trace was thick with honeysuckle and the promise of trouble. In the summer of 1887, the General Jackson showboat was a floating palace of gaslight and gin, its calliope music luring planters, gamblers, and fugitives from three states. But tonight wasn’t about the burlesque or the blackjack tables. Tonight was about the seating chart. At breakfast, a deckhand found Silk Thornton slumped

The room went silent as a grave. Bo LaGrange had sold the seats as “premium assignments” to wealthy guests, but he’d also sold their names to a network of assassins. The Accountant was merely the final bidder—a man who paid in gold and collected in souls. But there was one seat left on the chart: Seat 1. It had been empty all along, drawn as a tiny skull. Captain Bo feigned shock

It began when Captain Beauregard “Bo” LaGrange, the showboat’s dandy impresario, unveiled the new saloon seating for the grand reopening. He’d painted a massive, gilded chart on a mahogany board: ninety-two seats arranged in a horseshoe around the stage. Each seat was assigned to a specific passenger for the voyage from Natchez to New Orleans.

And Seat 2—the captain’s own table, dead center—was for a man known only as “the Accountant.” No one knew his real name, but his specialty was settling scores with a thin wire and a smile.