Thieves Of Mercy

powder in the magazine finish her off. March the men overland.”

The lieutenants were nodding. “I concur, sir,” said Catesby Jones.

“I do as well,” said John Jones.

Tattnall nodded. He had not asked their opinion. “Very well, let us get steam up as fast as we can. Not a minute to lose. Damn Yankees are so close I can smell them.”

He left the officers, climbed up into the small, conical wheelhouse, looked out at the moonlit water through the narrow eye slits in the iron casement. A view he knew and loved. He would not look through those slits at an enemy man-of-war again. The world’s mightiest ship, brought down by cowards and slaves. He thought he might actually cry, and he was glad he was alone.

he deepwater channel down the Elizabeth River was less than a mile from where Roger

Newcomb stood. In the moonlight, the mas

sive shell-backed ironclad was perfectly visible, steaming upriver.

Merrimack… He stared in awe at the great beast, pouring

smoke from her single stack, black against the blue-black sky. The

secesh called her something else now, but to Newcomb and every

sailor in the United States Navy she would always be Merrimack.

Newcomb once again felt exposed, vulnerable. His instinct was

to flee back into the tall grass, crouch down, and peer out from

that cover. But he restrained himself. Even if anyone on board the

Confederate flagship was looking, they would not see him there

on that dark point of land. And even if they did, they would not be

interested in him.

He held his ground, fished around in his haversack for his tele

scope. He had seen Merrimack in the distance on several occasions,

but never this close. He pulled the glass out, focused on the pass

ing ship.

There was something odd about her, something different, he

was sure of it, even though he could barely make her out against

the dark water and the land. She was right abreast of him, steam

ing past, and he followed her with the glass.

What is it? What is it?

He could see the full length of her hull. That was it. He could see bow and stern sections, usually submerged, and not just the casemate. The top of the two-bladed prop broke the water with every revolution and made it flash white. They had lightened her, raised her draft.

The only reason for raising her draft was to get her somewhere she could not go before. Why? Where do they want to take her?

He tried to divine motives. Were they hiding her from the Yankees? Springing some trap? If so, he had to find out.

The significance dawned on him slowly. This was important, damned important, perhaps the most important bit of information in the whole theater of operations. The Union forces, army, navy, everyone in Washington, all of them were more worried about Merrimack than they were about all the other Confederate military forces in southern Virginia combined. McClellan had almost canceled his Peninsular campaign for fear of that one ship.

And here he was, Roger Newcomb, the only man in all the Union who knew for certain where the Merrimack was. If they were going to make him a captain for bringing in the two bitch assassins, what would they do when he also brought them word of the trap Merrimack was waiting to spring?

She was south of him now, and soon she would be lost from sight on the dark river, and he could not let that happen. He had to tail her, dog her, know where she went. The Union Navy would be there soon, and he would report from his secret mission with two dangerous assassins as prisoners, and the most crucial military information imaginable, all in his possession.

He put the telescope back in the haversack and raced up the beaten path. He felt as if he had been born again.

TWENTY-SIX

The Virginia no longer exists, but 300 brave and skillful officers and seamen are saved to the Confederacy.

FLAG OFFICER JOSIAH TATTNALL TO STEPHEN R. MALLORY

Wendy saw Newcomb running up the trail toward them. It was the first time she had seen him run. She did not know what it meant, but she was not optimistic.

The sight of the ironclad seemed to have done something to him. She braced herself to see what it might be. Any change, she imagined, would be for the worse. He stopped, breathing hard, despite the short distance. “Get up,” he said. There was a new look on his face. Not the cold fury she had seen before. Something different. He looked all on fire. Evangelical.

Awkwardly the women stood. Wendy’s fear had been dulled after hours of waiting, but she felt it come fresh again. Is this here he executes us? Does he think the Confederates are back?

But once again, Newcomb failed to put bullets through their heads. Rather, he pulled his pocket knife out and cut the ropes binding their wrists. It was an extraordinary sensation, the constricting cordage falling away. Numb as they were, Wendy could feel pinpricks in her hands, sharp stabs of pain and a dull burn.

Slowly she brought her hands around to look at them in the dim light. She had thought they would be swollen to twice their size, but to her surprise they looked pretty much as they always had, save for the torn flesh on her wrists and the blood and the awful work of the insects.

Molly was gently rubbing her own mangled wrists.

Newcomb waved his gun down the trail. “Go on, back to the boat.” Molly went first, and Wendy behind. They stumbled and searched for the trampled path, but this time they could keep the dune grass off their faces, and it