Thieves Of Mercy

“Sullivan, are you intending to just row up to them and have a look around?”

Sullivan nodded. “Pretty much how I see it. They ain’t too alert, this time of the mornin. Yankees ain’t used ta gittin up with the sun.”

Bowater frowned, scratched his goatee. He was skeptical. “They could well have a picket boat,” he suggested.

“Doubt it. They had a picket boat, we wouldn’ta caught ’em with their pants down around their ankles at Plum Point, would we?”

Which is exactly why they are more likely to have a picket boat now,

Bowater thought, but he kept his mouth shut because he did not want to appear overly cautious. There was his personal dignity at stake, as well as that of the Confederate States Navy.

They came around the bend, keeping close to the eastern shore where the trees cast deep shadows on the water. The sun was well up now, illuminating the western bank in brilliant orange, glinting off the brown water of the rolling Mississippi. And there was the enemy fleet.

The Yankee gunboats were tied to the banks, long and low and rusty brown, lit up bright in the morning sun. Awnings of light gray canvas were stretched over sections of their hurricane decks. Thin curls of black smoke lifted from their smokestacks, indicating banked fires that could be stoked up quickly in case of another Rebel attack.

One, two three, four, Bowater counted, vessels of what the Yankees called the “City Class,” named for northern river towns. The two that had been sunk during the Battle of Plum Point had not returned. There was a fifth ironclad as well, bigger than the City Class boats, which Bowater imagined was the flagship. They were ugly things, but deadly, built for river fighting.

“Look there, how they got logs around them boats.” Sullivan nodded toward the ironclads. Booms of cyprus logs floated like low bastions around each ship. “Reckon they don’t care to get poked by our rams no more.”

Along with the gunboats, there was a smattering of steamers swinging at their anchors in the stream. Most of them Bowater recognized from the Battle at Plum Point. He had taken care to observe the fleet even as they rammed their way through, had jotted down notes concerning the enemy’s strength.

But there were more steamers now, more than he had seen before. Not ironclads, but riverboats, stern- wheelers, with the low freeboard and square, bulky deckhouses of their ilk, capped with pilothouses on top of that and sporting tall twin smokestacks at the forward end of the deckhouse. And, curiously, suspended between the smokestacks, each boat had a big cut-out letter-M, Q, L, and others-one letter per boat.

“These here boats are new to the fleet,” Sullivan said in a low voice. One of the oars squeaked in the tholes and Bowater wondered if they should not have muffled them. “Whadda ya make of ’em?”

Bowater looked over the boat nearest them, riding at anchor two hundred feet away. The sides of the deckhouse had been planked over, and bales of cotton were stacked against the forward end to offer the boilers some protection against shot, and he could see where more work was still being done. On her tall wooden paddle- wheel box was painted the name Monarch. Between her stacks, the letter M.

Ahh, Bowater thought. When a cloud of gun smoke hung over the water during battle, and only the tall stacks were visible above it, the letters would allow each ship to identify the others of their fleet.

“Rams,” Bowater said. “They must be rams. They are clearly set up for a fight, but there are no guns at all, no heavy ordnance mounted fore or aft.”

Sullivan nodded. “Reckon you’re right.”

Bowater ran his eyes along the anchored fleet. They would be very effective, if handled right, a seaborne cavalry and just as unstoppable. Then, from the far end of the anchored line, he saw a boat. It came around the stern of a ship sporting the letter Q between her chimneys. It was pulled by a dozen men wearing the white frocks of the United States Navy.

“Boat,” Bowater whispered, forcing the calm in his voice.

“Where?” Sullivan asked.

“Coming around the north end of the line of rams. There.”

The boat had turned bow-on to them, the oars rising and falling with that curious illusion of a rowed vessel seen head-on, as if the oars were simply going up and down and not fore and aft at all, as if the oarsmen were just slapping the water.

“Ah, hell,” Sullivan said. One of the oarsmen spat tobacco over the side, dripping on the gunnel. They pulled on.

Bowater remained silent, waiting for Sullivan to make some move, to issue some order. The Yankee boat was three hundred feet away and closing quickly. Their direct and unwavering approach suggested that they had seen the Rebel intruder.

“Ah, Sullivan… I don’t wish to impinge on your unique style of command, but hadn’t you better do something?”

Mississippi Mike sighed. “Reckon so,” he said. He reached down into the bottom of the boat, pulled out a five- foot-long pole encased in a canvas sleeve. He pulled the sleeve off to reveal a white flag. He unrolled the flag and held it aloft, waving it slightly to make the cloth flutter in the still air.

Bowater’s jaw and stomach dropped together. “What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.

“Flag of truce,” Sullivan explained.

“Flag of… what are… are you out of your idiot mind?”

“Naw, naw, Cap’n, we got to go over, talk with these here Yankees.”

“Talk with the…”

“Sure. Jest a little par-lay, you know.”

Bowater looked wildly around, a trapped-animal gesture. The picket boat was closing fast. He could see rifles in the hands of the bowman and the officer in the stern sheets.

“What is this?” Bowater demanded, his voice full of accusation. Was Sullivan going over to the Yankees? Bringing a Confederate officer prisoner to sweeten the deal?

“It ain’t nothin, Cap’n, we jest need a little help from these fellas. Hell, after all the time you was in the U-nited States Navy, I reckon they figure you fer an honorary Yankee as it is.” Sullivan waved the flag back and forth. “No offense,” he said.

Bowater was still sputtering when the picket boat came within hail. “Toss your oars! Toss them! I want to see your goddamned hands!”

“Go ahead, boys,” Sullivan said to the oarsmen, who held their oars straight up. They looked not in the least bit concerned. The long-bearded Mississippian on stroke looked positively bored.

“Toss oars,” the Yankee officer called again and Bowater thought, They’re tossed, you dumb bastard, and then realized the officer was talking to his own men. The picket boat drifted up alongside. The bowman had exchanged his rifle for a boat hook. He grabbed the gig and pulled the two boats together.

Sullenly, Bowater looked over at the Yankee boat. The men holding their oars straight up wore white cotton shirts with blue bibs across their shoulders and straw hats on their heads, a uniform as familiar to Bowater as anything in his life. The officer in the stern sheets wore a blue frock coat with the shoulder boards and cuff insignia of a lieutenant, identical to the one that he, Bowater, once wore. The rifles pointed at them, five in all, were British.577 Enfields.

“What’s this about?” the Yankee officer demanded. He addressed the question to Bowater, naturally, since Bowater was the only uniformed man in the boat, with the insignia of an officer on his coat and hat.

“I have no idea, Lieutenant,” Bowater said. “Ask the peckerwood with the flag.”

The Yankee’s eyebrows came together. He opened his mouth, but Sullivan spoke first. “Cap’n…” Sullivan began.

“Lieutenant,” the Yankee officer replied.

“Pardon. Lieutenant, we’ve come under flag of truce. Like to have a word with your commandin officer, if it ain’t much bother.”

The Yankee officer seemed as stunned and speechless as Samuel Bowater, but he found his voice. “You were