Thieves Of Mercy

She looked back at Newcomb, met his eye, held his gaze unwaveringly. “How long have I known who was there?”

“Who? Who? I’ll give you… get up in the bow. Both of you, get the hell up in the bow!” Newcomb gestured with the gun. Wendy stood, made her way forward, a hand on the gunnel, Molly in front of her. They came to the forwardmost thwart and sat, facing aft. Neither woman cared to have her back to the lunatic with the gun.

Newcomb sat with a grunt in the stern. He pushed the tiller over with the hand still holding the gun, sheeted in the sail with the other, and made it fast. The boat fell off the wind and gathered way and Newcomb brought the tiller amidships. He was a very good boat handler, Wendy could see that, and it made her even more angry. She wondered if Jones’s boat was the faster of the two. Or whether it would matter.

Newcomb’s eyes were everywhere, looking at the set of the sail, looking aft at the approaching boat, looking past the bow and out to weather. The boat was moving fast, heeling in the westerly breeze. They were not sailing hard on the wind, as they had been before, the point of sail that Wendy had chosen to get them out of the river and into the Roads.

She turned and looked forward. Newcomb was making for an open place on the eastern shore, a wide marshy place called Tanner’s Creek.

“Turn around,” Newcomb shouted and Wendy turned back. She settled her hands on her lap. She waited.

They moved fast on the beam reach, and the boat astern did not seem to be gaining anymore. Soon Wendy was aware of the shoreline close at hand. She looked to starboard. They were not more than a hundred yards off the reedy, wild riverbank. She looked to port, expecting Newcomb to shout at her, but he did not. She could see Tanner’s Point fine on the port bow. Newcomb was going to duck out of sight behind the point.

Ten minutes later the land was all around them, the mosquitoes beginning their torment as the boat moved slowly through the shallow, muddy water. Newcomb brought the bow around to close with the shore, and Wendy thought for certain the boat would take the ground, but it did not, gliding along silently and nearly upright in the wind shadow of the land.

Finally the bow nudged into the sandy shore on the east side of Tanner’s Point. Newcomb ordered the women to sit on the center thwart, then he climbed over the bow and pulled the boat as far up as he could. He tied the painter to a sapling at the edge of the tall grass.

“Get out.” Newcomb gestured with the gun, and Wendy, then Molly climbed awkwardly out of the boat. He made them turn their backs to him, and for a horrible moment Wendy thought he was going to put a bullet through their heads.

Instead he bound their hands behind their backs, tied them tight with thin, rough cordage. “Wouldn’t have to do this…” he muttered, a lunatic’s monologue, “if I thought I could trust you… give your word… would if you were civilized women and not damned Southern trash… secesh garbage…” He tied their wrists swiftly and securely, with the marlinspike seamanship skills he had learned in the United States Navy. He pulled a pocket knife and cut a long strip from Wendy’s skirt and gagged them.

“This way.” He shoved Wendy toward the shore and Molly after, prodded them along as they stumbled and made their way through the tall dune grass. The stiff vegetation whipped their faces and scratched their skin and with their bound hands they were not able to fend it off.

Tanner’s Point was only one hundred yards wide, and soon they came to where it met up with the water of Hampton Roads. To the southwest, two miles away across the mouth of the Elizabeth River, was Craney Island. The horizon to the north and south was bordered by low shoreline, and straight across from them, open water marked the mouth of the James River.

“Wait here.” Newcomb pointed to the ground where they stood, ten feet from where the grass gave way to the riverbank. He went ahead by himself, peering through the grass, looking south.

They remained like that for some time. How long, Wendy did not know. The minutes crawled along. Finally, through the screen of grass, they could see the boat. It was Jones’s boat, heading toward Hampton Roads. Wendy could see the gray-clad Jones in the stern sheets. He was making no effort to look for them, none that she could see. He was just sailing on.

The despair took Wendy by surprise, caught her unawares. She had invested all her hope in Lieutenant Jones and the Confederate Navy and she had not even realized it. But the sailors had passed by, had not even glanced in her and Molly’s direction. Through the tall grass, she watched her last hope disappear from sight, heading north toward Sewell’s Point.

Now they were alone, bound and gagged. There was nothing more they could do but await the pleasure of Roger Newcomb.

TWENTY-FIVE

Had the ship not been lifted, so as to render her unfit for action, a desperate contest must have ensued with a force against us too great to justify much hope of success; and as battle is not their occupation, they [the pilots] adopted this deceitful course to avoid it.

FLAG OFFICER JOSIAH TATTNALL TO STEPHEN R. MALLORY

Midshipman Hardin Littlepage brought the news: Lieutenant Jones’s boat was back.

Flag Officer Tattnall’s health had not improved in the hours that Jones had been gone. The thought of the army summarily abandoning Norfolk did not help. The idea of the soldiers handing over to the Yankees the Gosport Naval Shipyard and everything it meant to the Confederate Navy, without so much as a shot fired, ground him down like a boot heel on his neck. He lay in his bunk. He felt sick to his stomach, and feverish.

If Norfolk was gone, then the Virginia was floating around untethered, like one of those damned hot air balloons the Yankees were using to spy on Confederate lines, a balloon that had broken loose. And she couldn’t operate that way for long. We’ll take her up the James River, he thought, but that did little to mollify him. There was hardly room enough in Hampton Roads for the beastly ship to turn. What would she be able to do in the James River?

With a sigh, then a groan, Tattnall stood. His cabin, such as it was, was on the berthing deck and all the way forward. He made his way up the ladder to the gun deck, and then to the hurricane deck. He stepped into the open air just as Jones’s boat was sliding alongside. A minute later the lieutenant was reporting.

“Sir, I went ashore at the naval yard, which was in flames. Everything was going up, sir, beyond saving. No one was there. No officers, anyway. One yard worker told me the officers had left by train for Richmond. From there I went to Norfolk, to confer with General Huger, as you instructed. I was told Huger and the army had also left by train. The enemy was within half a mile of the city; the mayor was treating for surrender.”

Tattnall nodded, felt more and more unwell. He wanted to sit but he made himself stand. He could see the concern in Jones’s face. The lieutenant paused in his narrative, unsure if he should continue.

“Go on,” Tattnall said. He did not need the sympathy of a junior officer.

“On the way back upriver, I discovered that all the batteries on the river have been abandoned, including Craney Island. I encountered a boat with two women aboard, fleeing the city, and later saw another boat, which might have been the same, I couldn’t tell. It put into Tanner’s Creek and I didn’t think it important enough to follow. Other than that, there was no traffic on the river.”

Tattnall nodded again and leaned on the rail. It was what he had feared, but also what he had expected. Damn those army sons of bitches! The thought of them piling on the trains and rumbling out of town for Richmond made Old Tat furious. They’ve done for me, the bastards…

“Very well, Mr. Jones. Good work. Please pass the word for Lieutenant Jones.”

Two minutes later the executive officer, Lieutenant Catesby ap

R. Jones, climbed up through a casemate hatch, saluted, nodded to Pembroke Jones. Tattnall had Lieutenant John Jones repeat his report to Lieutenant Catesby Jones.

“Gentlemen,” Tattnall said when Jones had finished, “as you know, the pilots say we can get the ship up the James River, get her within forty miles of Richmond, if we lighten her by four feet. That will be a hell of a job, but it will be worth it, I think. We might be able to do some good in the James, take on the boats the Yankees have sent up there. Anyway, it is the course I would choose, but I would like your opinions as well.”