Thieves Of Mercy

The solemn launch put Bowater in mind of another he had seen, less than four months earlier, in Portsmouth. Then it had been the Confederate ironclad Virginia , built on the burned-out hull of the old Merrimack . She had not slid into the water, rather the water had been let into the dry dock while the silent watching navy men waited to see if she would flip over from the weight of her casemate. That had been a launch like this; not celebratory, but quiet, introspective, the kind of event staged by men who understood the terrible odds against which they fought.

Thoughts of Norfolk inevitably brought Bowater’s mind around to thoughts of Wendy Atkins and her little carriage house behind her aunt’s home, and he felt a rush of longing, a sting of guilt that he had not thought of her more, had not written in two weeks. Wendy. She seemed part of a different life, a life he longed to get back to, and especially to her.

For more than a month they had been hearing of the Yankees’ big push on the Peninsula, more than one hundred thousand strong, or so it was reported, though Bowater was certain that was something of an exaggeration. But no matter what the size of the army, it was bigger than that of the Confederates defending the place. Richmond was supposed to be in a panic.

If the York Peninsula falls, Norfolk cannot be far behind, Bowater thought. What will Wendy do? Bowater knew enough Yankees from the old navy to know they were unlikely to rape and pillage, that Wendy and her aunt would be safe enough, even in an occupied city.

Still, he wondered if she would try to get out. Where would she go? Culpepper would be the likely answer. For a moment he toyed with the idea of asking her to come west, to join him, but that was absurd. He had no idea where he would be next week, let alone where he would be by the time she managed to get out to Memphis on the crowded and unreliable railway.

He shook his head, as if trying to jar loose his own pointless musings. Wendy was safe, out of harm’s way, and that was the best place for her. No doubt she was busy at the naval hospital. He could not speculate on when he would see her again; such thoughts would make him crazy.

“Sir?”

Bowater, his eyes on the Arkansas, watching her without really looking at her, had not noticed the approach of the short man with the stovepipe. “Sir?” the man said again, and this time Bowater looked over. The man extended a hand. “Lieutenant, I am John Shirley, constructor here. May I be of some assistance?”

“Mr. Shirley, an honor.” Bowater took the hand and shook. Shirley’s palms were rough and calloused, like a seaman’s, or a shipbuilder’s. “You have done a fine job on the Arkansas.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I am proud of her, I don’t mind saying it. Worth three regiments of soldiers when she’s done. If I could have got the men and the material, why, we could have had two boats launched today, but it weren’t to be. Had to choose one, get her along, at the expense of another. But Lordy, let me tell you, it’s akin to having to choose one child to live over t’other.”

Bowater nodded and the two men fell silent, contemplating the injustice of it all. Then Shirley said, “Forgive me, Lieutenant, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Abraham.”

“Abraham?”

“Abraham, father of the child sacrifice.”

Shirley wrinkled his brow. Not a man of great imagination, Bowater decided.

“I am Lieutenant Samuel Bowater,” he said. “I have been assigned to take command of the ironclad Tennessee.”

“Ahhh…” Shirley said as his confusion turned to embarrassment. “Well, it weren’t quite right, what I said, about one over t’other. The old Tennessee ain’t burned yet, we might still get her in the water.”

Bowater nodded. “I am glad to hear it.”

“We’ve had a power of trouble getting men. General Polk, this whole thing was nearly his idea, but will he send me any men from his army to help in constructing? No, not a blessed one. And him a bishop-a bishop! Did you know that? Goddamned Episcopalian bishop. Now how’s that for Christian charity? And I gave him the names of a hundred men under his command who are qualified shipwrights.”

Shirley was an energetic man, Bowater could see that. He spoke in the same frenetic way that he moved, racing around, getting the Arkansas ready to launch, his thoughts all over the place.

“I’ve brought about thirty men with me,” Bowater said, “not shipwrights, regrettably, but good, hardworking men. I see you have timber for completing the Tennessee.” Bowater nodded toward the stacks of wood positioned around the ship. “What of her iron plating?”

“Most of her iron’s here… well, not here, exactly. Across the river, Arkansas side, but it’s there. Just needs paid for and we pick her up.”

Bowater nodded. “You have the funds to pay for her?”

“Not exactly. But Secretary Mallory, he’s been a real gentleman about advancing money, as needed. Wouldn’t have got half done on the Arkansas if it weren’t for that.”

Bowater nodded. “And her machinery? Engines?”

“Oh, yes, sir, we got all the machinery in order. Right over there, on the second barge, there’s Tennessee ’s engines.” Shirley pointed enthusiastically.

“I see,” said Bowater. “And why, pray, are her engines on a barge?”

“Oh”-Shirley hemmed a bit, threw in a few ha’s-“Well, we reckoned it would be best to get them away, you understand. Engine’s a damned hard thing to get these days, worth its weight in gold. More than that. You can’t make an engine out of gold, can you? So the provost, he said, get the engines out of town with the Arkansas. It’s a minor thing, no cause for worry. Come time to drop them engines in, why, we’ll just tow her back upriver.”

Bowater shook his head. Lost causes were becoming something of a specialty of his, and, romantic though they might be, he was not sure that he cared for them so very much.

He spent another hour with Shirley, during which time the contractor tried to bolster his spirits with regard to the possibility of getting Tennessee in the water. The more he talked, the more Bowater felt the blue devils torturing him. By the time he bid farewell to John T. Shirley, Samuel Bowater was thoroughly depressed.

“Lieutenant!” Shirley called just as Bowater was stepping through the gate. He turned, and Shirley hurried up. “Almost forgot. This come for you yesterday. Didn’t know who the hell ‘Samuel Bowater, Esq.’ was, so it went plumb out of my mind.”

Bowater put down his seabag and took the package, wrapped in brown paper. It was heavy, the box inside hard-a wooden box, not cardboard. Addressed to him at Yazoo City, but somehow, miraculously, it had been correctly rerouted.

Bowater’s first thought was that it was from Wendy, but he looked at the return address and saw that it was from his father. So, it would not be anything of an uplifting or sentimental bent, but that was all right. He was wandering in the wilderness, and any contact with his former life was welcome.

Thanking Shirley, he made his way to a nearby hotel, which the contractor had suggested. He secured a room and, key in hand, stumbled up the narrow stairs, fiddled with the lock on the door until he managed to open it.

The room, with its sagging bed, faded curtains, patchy rug, and faint smell of mildew did not lift his spirits. He dropped his carpetbag, seabag, and the package from his father, shed his frock coat and vest, flung his cap away, and sprawled on the bed.

He lay there for some time, drifting in a place between wakefulness and sleep, a place that offered no rest or peace. At last, with a sigh, he rolled over and sat up.

The first thing to catch his eye was the packet from his father, but he was not in the mood to read William Bowater’s stoic reports of wartime Charleston. A little humanity would have suited him, and he knew he would not find it in his father’s correspondence.

Instead he fished around in his carpetbag and pulled out a package that Mississippi Mike Sullivan had given him, saying only, “Here’s what I done. Have a gander, would you?” as Bowater left with Taylor for the hospital. The bundle was wrapped in brown paper and bound with tarred marlin, but there was no question as to what it was. The latest adventures of Mississippi Mike Sullivan, the Melancholy River Rat.