Thieves Of Mercy

Not so seriously, however, that they could resist a few appreciative glances as Molly, and Wendy behind her, came to a halt in front of them.

The lieutenant stepped forward, gave a little bow, doffed his hat. “Ladies, how may I assist?”

“I would like to see Captain John Tucker, of the navy,” Molly said, very businesslike. “Is he within?”

The lieutenant smiled. “I believe he is within, ma’am, but he’s a bit busy right now.”

“He will see me. Please inform him that Molly Atkins is at the gate.”

Molly stopped, as if no more need be said. The lieutenant began to smile again, amused and patronizing, and then the smile died as the possibility dawned on him that Molly was something more than a camp follower. He hesitated; his eyes shifted left and right. He made a decision. “Johnson, go and find Captain Tucker. Tell him there is a Molly Atkins here.”

Johnson saluted and ran off into the dark shipyard. “So, Lieutenant,” Molly said, and her voice was all sweetness now, “whatever is your name?”

There were questions that Wendy wanted to ask, questions piled on questions, going right back to Molly’s brandishing that first pistol, but she could not ask them, standing there in front of the navy yard. In any event, Molly gave her no chance as she carried on her flirtation with the lieutenant.

By the time Johnson returned with a naval officer following behind, the lieutenant would have torn off his right arm if Molly had asked him to.

“Mo-Miss Atkins, a pleasant surprise.” Captain Tucker was tall, with dark hair and long side whiskers that ran up into his moustache and along the side of his mouth, so that only the hair on the chin was missing to make it a full beard. He bowed, took Molly’s proffered hand.

“Captain, the lieutenant here has been most gracious, but is there a place we might speak?”

Tucker threw a glace back over his shoulder. Lights were moving like fireflies in the shipyard, and a world of noise was coming out of the dark, men shouting orders, large things moving, the sounds of a shipyard being dismantled.

“Ah, yes, I suppose…” Tucker said. “Won’t you follow me?”

“Certainly. Wendy, may I present Captain John Tucker? Captain, this is my niece, Wendy Atkins.”

Tucker nodded, too distracted to take any great notice. The lieutenant barked, “Johnson, Quigley, get the ladies’ bags!”

The soldiers snatched up the carpetbags as Tucker led the way into the shipyard. Molly turned to Wendy and said, sotto voce, “You can see they don’t call Captain Tucker “Handsome Jack” for nothing.”

Wendy smiled, nodded, followed behind Molly, unsure of how a rash decision just a few hours before had led her to that place.

They crossed the cobblestone-paved ground, and the farther they got into the yard, the more pronounced the sound of chaotic flight. It was the same within the walls of the yard as it was in the town outside, except that the chaos in the navy yard had more of a feel of organization. Methodical chaos.

“They reckon the Yankees’ll be here any day,” Tucker explained as they walked. “We could defend this yard if we wanted to, but Richmond doesn’t believe it, so we’re taking everything that can be moved and we’ll leave the rest.” He shook his head. “Absolutely shameful.”

They came at last to a brick building, an office building, and Tucker led them inside, down a hallway lit with a series of lamps, into what Wendy assumed was his own office, a cluttered desk, papers piled on chairs, on top of file drawers. A young midshipman was pulling armfuls of documents from the drawers and stuffing them into crates on the floor.

“Fletcher, leave us for a minute,” Tucker said and the young man disappeared.

Tucker cleared off two chairs, gestured, sat behind his desk.

“All right, Molly,” he said.

“John…” Molly paused after the familiar address, gave the name a teasing quality. “Wendy and I are trying to get out of Norfolk. Before the Yankees arrive. There’s no getting on the trains, and the roads are impossible.”

For a moment they were silent, the implied request hanging in the air. Then Tucker said, “Do you want me to get you on board a naval vessel? Molly, you can’t possibly think-”

“Not a naval vessel, silly. Surely there are tugs and transports and things. What are you using to carry all your loot to Richmond?”

“Well, there are transports, but-”

“John…” Again Molly paused, and Wendy could only shake her head in admiration. Molly could do with words what Wendy strove to do with painting, applying the subtlest shading, pulling nuance out of the mundane, infusing every bit of it with meaning that was clear to anyone alert and intelligent enough to grasp it.

“John, you know it would not be good for the Yankees to find me here.”

Tucker was silent for a moment. “No,” he admitted at last, and Wendy understood enough of the conversation to realize she was not really following it. Why wouldn’t it be good? Are the Yankees going to rape and pillage? Surely they would not, and even if they did, why should Molly think she warranted special treatment? And why might Tucker agree?

“But Molly, I don’t think the Yankees will be looking… for you… in particular.”

Molly sighed. “I would not have thought so a month ago. Now…?”

No, Wendy thought, they are having a conversation on an entirely different level, like they’re talking in code. She looked at her aunt, with her lovely full lips, her little nose in profile, and wondered who the hell she was.

Tucker shook his head. “Molly, I understand your situation, but you must understand mine. There is just no possibility-”

Footsteps clattered down the hall outside and the fragile tension of their negotiation collapsed as Tucker turned his head to the closed door. A fist rapped on the frame.

“Come,” Tucker called. Wendy saw a cloud of irritation sweep across Molly’s face, and then she resettled herself, adjusted her skirts, and with that resettling, her face fell back into its usual expression, one nearly devoid of emotion, save for a slightly pleasant, not too inquisitive look. It was the expression Wendy had fixed in her mind when she thought of Molly. Now she wondered if perhaps even that expression carried more nuance than she had ever guessed at.

The door opened, and a man in the frock coat and cap of a Confederate Navy lieutenant entered, saluted. A handsome man, early thirties, perhaps, with a bold dark moustache the same color as his dark brown eyes. “Sir, I’m back from Sewell’s Point.”

“Tell me what’s happening,” Tucker said. The lieutenant’s eyes darted at the two women. “Molly Atkins, Wendy Atkins,” Tucker added, “may I present Lieutenant Asa Batchelor? Go ahead, Lieutenant, it’s all right.”

“Ah, yes, sir…” Batchelor began, unsure. “The Federals opened up a little after noon and the forts replied as best they could but of course they’re all but deserted. The Federals continued until the Virginia came up, around two-thirty.”

CSS Virginia . Wendy knew her well. Everyone around Norfolk did. Since March of that year, so did everyone in the Western world. She was an ironclad man-of-war, a battery of ten heavy guns housed in a nearly impregnable casemate, built on the hull of the former United States steam frigate Merrimack .

A month before, she had mauled the Federal blockading fleet in a day-long, bloody rampage, had been absolute master of Hampton Roads until the Union ironclad Monitor arrived. Since that day, it had been an uneasy stalemate between the two novel ships.

“Was the Monitor there?”

“Yes, sir. Monitor and four of their smaller steamers. They did considerable damage to the fort. Set the barracks on fire. Reckon they’re still burning. As soon as Virginia steamed up, well, they all up-anchored and skedaddled back across the Roads.”

Tucker nodded. “No fight?”

“No, sir. Monitor doesn’t care to tangle with the Virginia anymore, it seems.”

Tucker nodded again. “No troops? Did they seem as if they were interested in putting troops ashore?”

“No, sir, not that I could see. No boats from any of the ships. Guess maybe they were just testing the strength