Thieves Of Mercy

and her sister ironclad Arkansas , they’ll need coal, soon enough. Navy fellow there heard I was comin down to Vicksburg, why, he asked would I pick up this barge for him. ‘Pleased to help,’ I said.”

“That’s good to hear, Captain. We’re all fighting the same war, after all. We’re often too quick to forget it.”

“Amen to that, Brother Bowater. Come left, you blind, poxed son of a whore!” That last was shouted at Baxter, who was coming left even as Sullivan said it. Baxter emitted a little puff of smoke from his cheroot, like a miniature steam engine, kept his eyes forward.

Sullivan rang all stop, then a jingle and a bell for slow astern. He stepped out into the dark, looked aft, and this time Bowater followed him out onto the deck. In the light of a few feeble lamps on shore he could make out a barge tied alongside a wall, a train sitting on a siding, and sundry tugs lying against a wooden dock.

Sullivan raced back into the wheelhouse, rang all stop. The General Page shuddered slightly as the stern came against the barge.

“Come on down, Cap’n Bowater. Let me show you how we make these barges up, Mississippi style.”

Bowater followed Sullivan down the ladder to the boiler deck, then down to the main deck and aft. The General Page’s stern was hard against the barge and the riverboat men were swarming over it, running lines to the big bollards on the Page’s fantail.

“Hey, what the hell you doin?” The voice came from the dark, from the shore. Bowater looked past the barge. A man was standing there, on the far side, on the edge of the wall. He was just visible in the light of the lantern he held in his hand.

“Pickin up the barge, here!” Sullivan shouted back.

“Like hell! Who are you?”

“Got Captain Bowater here, of the Confederate States Navy!” Sullivan shouted across the heaps of coal.

“Who?”

“Hold your horses there, brother!” Sullivan shouted, then turned to Bowater. “Cap’n, go over there and explain to that chucklehead, will you?”

“Explain what?”

“You know, about the coal for the navy, and the Tennessee and all. How we’re all fightin the same war.”

“But-”

A heavy line sailed over the taffrail and Sullivan grabbed it up, pulled it over to the starboard bollard. “Go on, Cap’n, tell him how this here coal’s for the navy. Best hurry or sure as hell we’ll miss the tide!” he shouted while straining against the rope.

Bowater stepped over the rail, onto the barge, made his way around the edge with one foot on the caprail and the other on the heaps of coal. He crossed around to the seawall, stepped up to face the man with the lantern.

“Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?” The man with the lantern had the look of a watchman, too old and sodden for any other work. He appeared to be leaning on a cane, but up close Bowater saw it was a shotgun.

The watchman glared at Bowater. His eyes moved over the gold-embroidered ornament on Bowater’s cap, with its single star, fouled anchor, and wreath of oak leaves. He squinted at the shoulder straps on his gray frock coat.

“My name is Bowater, Lieutenant Bowater of the Confederate States Navy.”

“That a fact? What’re you doin?”

“Ahh…” Bowater was not sure. “This barge, apparently, is bound for Memphis. For the naval force there.”

The watchman frowned. “Supposed to be picked up tomorrow. Bound for Natchez.”

Bowater felt the irritation mount. Why was he talking to this man, and not Sullivan? “I know simply that I was told the barge is intended for the navy at Memphis.”

“All right then, let’s see your papers.” The watchman sighed.

Papers? Bowater thought. My commission? What papers?

“Ya got papers, ain’t ya? Receipt, contract for the barge? Didn’t Mr. Williamson give you no papers?”

This was idiotic and Bowater was about to say as much when he heard the churning water sound of the General Page’s paddle wheels beginning to turn hard, and the side-wheeler’s steam whistle howled. Bowater looked over, startled. The barge was pulling away from the wall, he could see the black space opening up, the chasm between barge and wall and the dark water at the bottom. The whistle stopped and Sullivan’s voice boomed over the sound of the paddle wheels, shouting, “Come on, Cap’n! Jump for it, you’ll miss the damned boat!”

Bowater looked from the barge to the watchman to the barge. “Hold her there, you thievin son of a bitch!” the watchman shouted. The shotgun thudded on the packed dirt as he let go of the barrel, grabbed hold of Bowater’s collar. Bowater knocked his hand aside, sprinted for the wall. He launched himself off, was flying through the air, when it occurred to him the barge might be too far away already.

It wasn’t. He landed hard, fell forward, hands down on the lumps of coal. He scrambled to his feet, scrambled up the hill of coal. The night was filled with a flash like lightning, the boom of the shotgun going off. A swarm of buckshot hit the coal just at Bowater’s left hand, spit fragments of the black rock into his face. He scrambled on, up over the coal pile and down the other side.

The barge was still up against the General Page’s transom, and Bowater grabbed hold of the rail and pulled himself over. Ruffin Tanner was there, helping him over, and Francis Pinette. Further forward, standing in a clump and out of the way, were six of the riverboat men. They were smiling, enjoying the show.

“Oooweee!”

Bowater and his men looked up. Mississippi Mike Sullivan was leaning on the hurricane deck rail, grinning down at them. “That was a hell of a jump, Cap’n! I surely did not think you would make that!”

Bowater felt his eyes go wide, his mouth fall open. He was incapable of speech.

Sullivan leaned farther over the rail. “Damn, Cap’n, you are completely covered in coal dust! You could do a minstrel show, right here!”

Bowater’s hands were trembling. He felt the words rise up from his throat. “You… son… of… a… bitch!” He charged forward, raced for the ladder to the hurricane deck.

Samuel Bowater knew about killing. As a young ensign he had killed Mexicans. He had killed hostile islanders in the Pacific, slavers in Africa. In a year of warfare, Bowater had killed Yankees. But each time, every time, he had killed because he had to, because it was his duty. He had never actually wanted to kill anyone. Until now.

THREE

SIR: We have some information today that the enemy is about moving, and his forces are said to be large and his transports very numerous at Old Point [Virginia]. I trust you will be able to penetrate and defeat his designs. Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

STEPHEN R. MALLORY TO FLAG OFFICER JOSIAH TATTNALL, COMMANDING NA V AL FORCES, JAMES RIVER

Wendy Atkins looked at the letter in her hand. Crumpled and stained, smudged, wrinkled as if it had been wet, subject to the hard use of the Confederate Postal Service. Postmarked Yazoo City. Written by Samuel Bowater.

In front of her, on the bed where she and Samuel had made love her first and only time, a carpetbag sat open. Its gaping mouth begged to be filled, but Wendy hesitated. What to put in it? Can I really do this thing?

She had met Bowater one year before. A mutual love of painting had led them both to the little waterside park in Norfolk, a lovely view of the river that begged to be rendered on canvas. He had been put off by her, which was