Thieves Of Mercy

blow. The poker hit the gun, knocked it free from his hand with a dull clanging sound. The pistol dropped to the carpet and the poker bounced off Newcomb’s shoulder. Newcomb slammed his fist into Molly’s stomach, doubled her over. Wendy saw her eyes go wide as she fell to her knees and Newcomb hit her in the face, backhand, and she was flung to the floor once again.

Wendy screamed, screamed from her gut. She had never imagined such violence, not by a man against a woman. She flailed out at Newcomb, as ineffectually as before. Wendy saw his fist draw back, saw it come around at her face. It seemed to come slowly, as if he were moving underwater, but yet she could not avoid it, there was nothing she could do.

And then he hit her, right on the side of the head, and she saw her whole world burst into a flash of light, a roaring noise, and she was twisting and going down. She put her hands out and felt the carpet and then her whole body thudded against the floor and then it was all blackness.

When she came to, she did not know where she was, how she got there, how long she had been down. She opened her eyes, saw the wainscoting, the leg of a chair. Her head ached horribly. She heard screaming, shuffling, fighting, and she remembered. She turned her head, saw Newcomb lifting Molly to her feet, a handful of hair in his fist, saw him hit her again and Molly go down with a grunt.

Seconds… a few seconds… Wendy realized she had not passed out for more than that.

Get up… get up… but she seemed to have no control over her legs, her arms. She could not move, she could only watch.

Watch, as Newcomb kicked Molly hard. Watch as he dropped to his knees and flung her skirts aside, ripped her pantaloons off her legs. Watch as he fumbled with his belt, shouting, “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!” like some kind of mantra.

Molly was screaming, but groggy, slurred, shouting, “No, no!”

Get up… get up… and Wendy thought she felt some life in her arms, as if they were coming to now, as if she were coming awake from the head down. She reached out an arm, reached it toward Molly, as if she could help, saw the tips of her fingers extending uselessly out.

Get up… She put her hand flat on the carpet, put pressure on it, found she could lift herself, an inch, two inches. She felt a tingling in her legs, as if they were coming to life now, life returning to all her body. She pushed herself higher, got the other arm under her.

Molly was groaning in pain and despair, punching feebly at Newcomb who was on top of her now. Wendy pushed herself to her knees, her head pounding, the room whirling in front of her, and she fell forward onto her hands and knew she would fall if she stood up. Instead she crawled, crawled toward Molly and New-comb, crawled to where she could impose herself into his violence. Her hand came down on something hard and cold. She looked down. The pistol.

Wendy picked the gun up, surprised by how heavy it was. She pushed herself up onto her knees and this time it was better, this time the room remained fairly motionless. With two hands she held the gun straight out, saw Newcomb’s head over the barrel and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing. Hammer… She remembered, from deep down, Molly’s brief lesson. Her right thumb caught the knurled top of the hammer and pulled it back, and even over the sound of the violence the click, click, click-click was loud and ominous.

Newcomb came upright on his knees, twisted to look behind him. Over the barrel Wendy saw the look of shock on his face and then she pulled the trigger. The gun flew back, knocked her to the floor, wrenching her arm. The room was lost in the flash and smoke and noise. Wendy lifted herself with both arms, got a knee on the floor, pushed herself to her feet. She stood for a second, the gun limp at her side.

Aim the gun, aim the gun… She knew she had to be ready in case she had missed but she could not make the room stand still long enough for her to concentrate on anything but her own balance.

At last the room ceased its spinning and she half lifted the gun. She took a step forward. There was no need to aim. Newcomb lay sprawled out on the carpet, half on his side, half on his back, his face covered with blood. Blood dripped from his nose and made black, wet pools on the carpet. He did not move.

“Aunt…” Wendy dropped the gun, knelt beside Molly, who had lifted herself up on her arms, brushed her skirts down around her legs. “Aunt…”

Wendy looked into Molly’s eyes and saw a coldness and a deadness that she had never seen before. Her aunt’s lip was swollen and blood ran down her chin and there was a long bloody gash from the pistol-whipping. Her eye was puffy and red, the top of her dress around her neck ripped.

“Here, Aunt, let me help you up,” Wendy said. She stood, offered a hand, helped pull Molly to her feet. She could not think of anything else to do, did not know what to do next.

Molly looked down at Newcomb’s body, stretched out on the floor. “Bastard,” she said, softly, then louder. “Bastard! Bastard!” She kicked Newcomb and he rolled over on his back and she kicked him again and again and Wendy did not know what to do, did not know if it was better to let her go or to stop her. So she did nothing, and finally Molly staggered back, hurt and exhausted, staggered back and fell into the wing chair and closed her eyes.

Wendy looked around the room, saw the quilt-draped body of Lieutenant Batchelor, and she remembered. She remembered the promise of transportation out of that horrible place, of passage to Richmond and safety and civilization. They had to get to the shipyard and soon, because the Yankees were coming, and the yard would be abandoned and they would be left behind.

“Molly, we have to go,” Wendy announced, but Molly just looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. Norwegian.

“We have to get to the shipyard before Tucker sails and leaves us behind. Come on.” Molly did not respond, so Wendy grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “We have to go, Molly, come on!”

Wendy picked up Molly’s bag and thrust it into her hand and Molly held it, automatically, her hand acting on its own. Wendy picked up her derringer from where Newcomb had tossed it and replaced it in the holster on her leg. She grabbed her bag and Molly’s reticule and headed for the door. She stopped when she realized that Molly was not following. She turned. Molly was staring at Newcomb’s body. She was not moving.

“Come along, Aunt!” Wendy ordered. She took Molly’s hand and pulled her across the room and out the door.

Together they stepped out into the yard. The sun was well up, it had to be late morning. There was no one in sight, no movement on the streets. In the distance Wendy could hear the occasional shout, the odd bang and clash, sounds of desperation and flight, but nothing that gave any indication of how things sat in Portsmouth or Norfolk.

They hurried down the path, Wendy still half towing Molly, and out the gate, not bothering to close it. They walked down the narrow cobbled street to where it met with Water Street, running along the edge of the Elizabeth River to the Gosport Naval Shipyard. They stopped. Great plumes of black smoke rolled up from the very place where the shipyard stood.

“This is not a good thing,” Wendy said, but Molly did not reply. “Come along.” They stepped out, quickened their pace, hurrying on the verge of a run. Wendy’s breath was coming faster through the twin exertions of running and pulling Molly behind. Her bag was banging painfully against her thigh, but her sense of urgency did not allow her to slow. She could smell the smoke now, it grew more overwhelming with each step they took toward the navy yard. She could see flames reaching up, even in the brilliant sunlight. She could hear the crackle of fire consuming wood.

When they reached the wall of the shipyard they slowed their pace to a quick walk, tried to regain their breath as they hurried for the gate. Wendy wanted to ask Molly if they were too late, but she did not, because Molly did not seem to be with her anymore.

At last they came to the big iron gate, and there they stopped and dropped their bags and panted for breath, coughing with the smoke swirling around them.

The gate was hanging open, there was no guard there. The big ship houses were in flames, as were the timber sheds, storehouses, mast houses, and ropewalks. A great mass of black smoke roiled up from the buildings, the red and yellow flames reached up out of the windows and grabbed at the roofs. It was a scene of complete destruction. There was not one other human being in sight.