Thieves Of Mercy

that was afraid to fight Virginia . Each side hanging back and swearing the other did not dare combat. Hold me back, boys, or I’m a’gonna kill someone!

Wendy put the field glasses back to her eyes and watched Virginia as she appeared from around Sewell’s Point. She was too far off to make out any details, but with Lincoln ’s critique still in her head, Wendy had to admit that the ironclad did move in a plodding, ponderous way, like one of those dinosaurs that were all the rage among the scientists and bone collectors. Could this awkward thing, and the silly-looking hatbox on a raft, really be the end of the graceful and fleet sailing men-of-war?

“Sir?” The lieutenant commanding the tug stepped aft, saluted.

“Yes, son?” Lincoln said.

“ Merrimack is coming out, sir, just around the point.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant, we have seen her.”

“Yes, sir. Also, there is a man-of-war coming to anchor by Fortress Monroe. I believe her to be the Norvier, sir, the Norwegian corvette.”

“Indeed?” Lincoln said. He turned to Wendy. “Do you hear that?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Wendy said, trying very hard to sound relieved. She translated to Molly, and Molly looked very relieved indeed, looked every inch the woman who saw her suffering coming to an end. “Please thank the President for his hospitality, and ask if we might be transported to our ship,” she said, and Wendy translated.

“Of course,” Lincoln said, giving a shallow bow. There was a playful quality in his voice. A man in on the game. “Of course. We’ll get this all straightened out directly.”

From three miles away, from a height of eye of sixteen feet above the water, seen with aging eyes and the aid of field glasses, the Union fleet firing on Sewell’s Point looked frail and insubstantial, like toy boats made out of sticks.

Flag officer Josiah Tattnall lowered the field glasses, rubbed his eyes. He placed one foot on the sloping side of the CSS Virginia ’s squat, conical pilothouse to relieve the strain on his back. The ship underfoot was carving a straight wake through the upper reaches of the Elizabeth River. They had left Craney Island astern, their bow pointed straight north toward Sewell’s Point. And the enemy. Now, if only they will fight.

Tattnall’s eyes moved down to the ironclad’s bow. The actual bow of the ship was below the waterline, but a false bow, like a triangular seawall, was built up on the deck to form a dry place for the men to cast the lead and work the anchor. It looked like a triangular hole in the water, with the bow wave boiling around it. Very odd. Tattnall still was not used to it.

On the front of the casemate, the heavy iron shutters were closed over the forward gun ports. They were made in two pieces and closed like a pair of shears over the port, worked by chains from the inside. Virginia had steamed into her first fight with only the bow and stern shutters in place. Buchanan, captain then, had been too impatient to wait for the broadside shutters to be installed. One shot from Congress, fired even as the ship was dying on Virginia ’s ram, shot right through the open port and, ripping through the gun crew, had convinced them all that the shutters were worth having.

“Sir, I see Monitor now.” The speaker was Catesby app. R. Jones, first officer, standing beside Tattnall, still staring through his own field glasses.

Tattnall raised his field glasses again and looked at the fleet in the distance. He could hear the soft thud of the gunfire now, lagging far behind the puffs of gray smoke.

“Just to the east of the ship-rigged one, sir,” Jones added. Tattnall grunted. He wondered how long Jones had been watching the Monitor, waiting for his captain to see it before he had to bring it to his attention. But Tattnall’s eyes could not match those of Jones, who was many years his junior.

“Yes, yes, I see her now, Mr. Jones,” Tattnall said, realizing that he never would have seen her if Jones had not pointed her out. With virtually no freeboard and a single turret only twenty feet in diameter, she was not easy to spot from a distance.

For a moment he just stared at her. Monitor. He had never been any closer than this to her, because she steamed away every time the Virginia drew too close. But she was not steaming away now, and they certainly had seen Virginia coming. Perhaps this was the day. The day when he would finish the work so ably begun by Admiral James Buchanan.

“Mr. Jones, please see the guns loaded, but do not run out.”

“Aye, sir!” Jones said and disappeared down one of the hatches to the gun deck below.

Tattnall continued to stare, transfixed by the sight of the Union ironclad. God, how he wanted to come to grips with her! Buchanan had had his moment, ripping through the Union fleet on Virginia ’s very first day under way. What a sea trial! He had been shot down, severely wounded by the treacherous Yankees. The next day it was Lieutenant Jones’s moment, a historic, unprecedented battle, the first fight between ironclads. Anyone with any sense of naval history knew that that fight would be remembered for as long as men remembered ships and the sea.

He would not begrudge Jones his glory, and certainly not Buchanan, who had been a dear friend for decades. They were known in the service as “Old Tat” and “Old Buck.” And they were that. Old. Tattnall had joined the navy in 1812, Buchanan a few years later. Lord, they had been so young then, so full of the possibility of it all! What a way to end a lifetime of serving the United States Navy, firing on the flag they had defended, risking their lives to see the Union dissolved.

But Tattnall was ready to fight. Such an opportunity as this would not occur again in what was left of his life. He wanted to take the Virginia into battle. He wanted to fight Monitor. He wanted to beat her.

He lowered the field glasses and continued to regard the Union fleet as the Virginia steamed ahead. The other ships did not concern him. Their guns could do Virginia no harm, and their weak scantlings would be torn apart by the nine-inch Dahlgrens in Virginia ’s broadside. He doubted they would even stay around for a fight.

No, it was Monitor he wanted. But every time he came close, the cheese box steamed away. He imagined the Yankees did not dare risk their invention in another fight with Virginia. They had tried to lure Virginia into a trap, tried to get her to steam into narrow channels where they could use fast rams on her. But Tattnall would have none of that. He wanted a straight fight, like the one Jones had had, gun to gun, ironclad to ironclad.

Let us finish this thing, and see whose ship and men are the finer.

Jones came back, reported the guns ready. Tattnall felt the old excitement build, such as he had not felt in years. The sun was warm on his head and the breeze felt good ruffling his white hair and he was going into battle.

He enjoyed four minutes of that pleasure and then he heard Jones shuffle and make a little coughing sound.

“Lieutenant?”

“Looks as if the Yankee fleet is getting under way, sir.”

In his excitement, Tattnall misinterpreted Jones’s statement, thought the luff meant the Yankees were coming to meet Virginia , and he felt his excitement rise. And then he realized what Jones meant. The Yankees were steaming off. Heading for the protection of Fortress Monroe’s guns.

Tattnall held the field glasses to his eyes. Sure enough. The ships were stern-to the Virginia. Heading northeast. Running away.

“Goddamn their cowardly hides!” Tattnall said out loud, all but shouting. He wanted to stamp in frustration. For some time, he and Jones just watched them go.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jones said. “We’ll have another chance at them.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Tattnall said, trying to hide his disappointment. Damn them…

Jones did not sound as disappointed. That was because Jones was a young man. Jones would have a second chance, or a third, or a fourth.