Thieves Of Mercy

Without it was a strategic movement, it was useless to evacuate Fort Pillow. If we are allowed to place the mortars on rafts and permitted to use the transports and play strategy back on the enemy, I will contract to hold this river above Memphis for a month.

BRIGADIER GENERAL M. JEFF THOMPSON TO GENERAL DANIEL RUGGLES

Flag Officer Charles Davis, United States Navy, looked around his cabin and reflected on the lack of fiddles.

On the ships that he knew, the ones he had spent his career aboard, there were fiddles on everything, wooden lips around the edge of any flat surface to keep things from sliding off when the ship was rolling in a seaway. Fiddles on the bookshelves, around the tables, around the washbasin, little walls to keep nonsecured items from hitting the deck.

There were no fiddles aboard the ironclad gunboat Benton. The Benton did not roll. She rocked a little, every once in a while, but the motion could not be called “rolling.” This was a different kind of ship, in a very different kind of war.

He sighed and looked down at his diary, open on the desk in front of him. The cabin was lit with several lanterns, enough light to read and write, but Davis missed the big stern windows of the captain’s cabin of a proper man-of-war. This was more like a bunker than a cabin. He picked up his pen and he wrote:

June 5. Colonel Fitch discovered several days ago a weak and assailable point by which he proposed to attack the enemy’s works by land while I encountered the batteries in front. It was agreed between us that this should come off yesterday morning, but a foolish movement of Colonel Ellet prevented it in a way that could not have been foreseen. The movement was then to have been made this morning, as soon after daylight as possible. But the Rebels retreated yesterday and last night, after, as usual, destroying everything.

These works are very extensive and very strong.

I am now lying under the batteries of Fort Pillow, waiting for Colonel Fitch to return from some examinations he is making. As soon as he comes back we will make our preparations for going down the river. I do not believe that there is any force at Randolph. If not, there is probably no interruption between here and Memphis, except, perhaps, the enemy’s gunboats, and they would detain us but a short time.

He heard footsteps in the alleyway, the inevitable knock on the door. “Yes?” A midshipman’s voice. “Sir? Colonel Ellet wishes to speak with you.”

Davis sighed. Ellet had been giving him a pain in the neck for the past ten days. He represented the worst of all possibilities: a civilian just recently turned army officer who was now playing at naval commander, with some bizarre notion he had dreamed up-flimsy little rams with which he hoped to run the enemy down.

Ellet had been badgering him since he arrived with various half-baked ideas for this foray or that attack. They had danced around the question of who had authority over whom, until they decided that neither had authority over the other, and then Ellet had started doing as he pleased.

Terrific bloody situation-two complete, separate waterborne commands on the same stretch of river…

Davis blew on the diary to be sure the ink was dry, and to make Ellet wait for a moment more, then closed it up. “Come!” he shouted. The midshipman opened the door and Ellet stepped in.

“Colonel.” Davis nodded a greeting.

“Captain.” Ellet nodded back. “Might I be so bold as to ask if you are ready to move on Memphis?”

“Have a seat.” Ellet’s eagerness irritated the flag officer. The old man seemed to imply, with every word and action, that he, Davis, was not moving fast enough. Because Ellet the Upstart did not understand the need for planning and care. He did not appreciate the strategic importance of the gunboats, or how the advantage enjoyed by the Union would be wiped out if the ships were lost or, God forbid, captured, which they could be, if their commander did something rash and stupid.

When Ellet was seated, which Davis knew made him uncomfortable, which is why he had insisted, the captain began to speak. “We will begin our move on Memphis this afternoon. We will not, however, rush headlong at the enemy. There is still a fortification at Randolph and we must make certain-”

“I have already been down to Randolph,” Ellet interrupted. “I went down this morning with some of my rams to demand surrender. I sent a man ashore and he found the works deserted.”

Davis shifted in his seat. This was annoying in the extreme. “On your own authority, you decided to demand the surrender of the Confederate works at Randolph?”

“Yes, on my own authority. Which comes from Secretary of War Stanton.”

“I see…” Davis stared at his desk for a moment, let the irritation pass. There would be time to deal with this later, but with Memphis hanging there like a ripe plum he did not have time now to waste on Ellet. “Well, if that is the case, we shall get under way immediately. As I have related to you before, I see the rams in a role such as that of light skirmishers, whereas the gunboats would be more in the line of heavy artillery. For purposes of order of battle, I would like to see your rams on the wings of my squadron, and in the rear. Ready to dash forward, take the enemy in the flank if the opportunity presents itself, pick off stragglers, and the like. It would be folly to expose your… light craft to the brunt of the enemy’s fire.”

“I see, Captain. Though I more imagine my rams in the role of cavalry, charging forward, lightly armed but fast. However, in this I will yield to your authority.”

“Very good, Colonel.” Davis stood to make it clear he was done talking about this, and Ellet stood as well. “The fleet will get under way in a few hours or so.”

“Very good, Captain. In the meanwhile the ram fleet will proceed downriver and meet up with you when you get down by Randolph.” Ellet held out his hand. The men shook, and Ellet was gone.

Davis sat again with a sigh. In the meanwhile… Bloody man.

He looked down at his diary. He had hopes of publishing it one day, when the war was over and he had achieved enough noteworthy accomplishments. He noticed a stack of paper on the edge of his desk. He squinted at it, trying to recall what it was. And then he remembered-the manuscript the Rebel spy had delivered to him.

He reached for it, smiled as he recalled that singular meeting.

Send the book to a New York publisher, honest to God!

But in truth, he still did not know if the big secesh yahoo was serious or not. The Reb had given up a fair amount of intelligence regarding the situation in Memphis, revealed things that might or might not be helpful.

Not that Davis was starving for information about the enemy. Since the Rebels had instituted a conscription a few months back, deserters had been streaming north, and they all had a story. What the big Reb had said agreed with some accounts Davis had heard, contradicted others. It was hard to know.

He decided to let them go mostly out of appreciation for the outrageous nature of their story. It had given him hours of amusement, thinking on it and telling the other officers. Nor could the Rebels have gleaned any important information from their visit, even if they were spies. They didn’t learn anything that a person sneaking through the woods on shore with a telescope couldn’t have learned.

Taking them prisoner would have involved a big brouhaha over their flag of truce and their status at the time of their capture. Davis could envision the tedious correspondence that would result. In the end, it was less bother to just send them away.

He reached over and picked up the bundle of paper, smudged and dog-eared. He had tossed it on his desk and forgotten it, had not even looked at the title page.

Mississippi Mike, Melancholy Prince of the River. Davis frowned at the title. Was this a joke? Or were these idiots serious? He set the top page aside and began to read.

Chapter One-A Ghostly Tale. On the whole of the Mississippi, there is no man who would dare cross Mississippi Mike, best of the riverboat men. And of all of them, you’d reckon it was his kin would know best that the hardest drinkin, hardest fightin man on Western Waters was not a fellow to be done dirty.

By the end of the first page, Captain Davis was smiling. He read on. Ten minutes later he was laughing out loud.

During her wild run through Hampton Roads and the Elizabeth River, Wendy Atkins had all but forgotten why she was doing what she was doing. Before, she would not have thought that possible. Risking everything to race across the country into the arms of one’s lover-it was so romantic, she would never have dreamed anything could