Thieves Of Mercy

She was awake before dawn, dressed, and was out the door. She woke the clerk at the desk, who was asleep on a tall stool and seemed in danger of toppling off.

“Tennessee? Certainly, ma’am. Tennessee’s building down to Shirley’s yard. Along with the Arkansas, which they towed off. I can get you a carriage, if you want.” He glanced dubiously at the front windows, which looked like black marble with the night sky behind them. “Don’t know if anyone will be there. Besides, there’s supposed to be a battle with the Yankees today.”

Wendy asked for the carriage. She could not wait another moment. She would rather pace back and forth in a dark, empty shipyard then sit in the hotel lobby, doing nothing.

The sky was lightening when they left the hotel, though the sun had not risen and the town was still lost in the gloom. Wendy sat in the carriage, swaying back and forth, stomach knotted. The old man driving the coach did not seem in much of a hurry, and Wendy wanted to lean out the window and tell him to get a damned move on, but she held her tongue.

Finally the carriage came to a stop, nearly tumbling Wendy headfirst. She felt it rock as the driver climbed down, opened the door. “Shirley’s yard, ma’am. Don’t know as anyone’s here.”

Wendy stepped out into the cool air under the now light blue sky. The air was thick with the odor of charred wood, an acrid smell that reminded her of the Gosport Naval Shipyard, which she had twice seen burned.

“This is fine, thank you.”

The carriage rattled away and Wendy stepped over the bare ground into what she guessed was a shipyard. There were makeshift buildings and piles of wood in sawn boards and uncut logs. And in the middle of the yard, a great pile of charred wood, a heap at least one hundred and fifty feet long and ten feet high of black charcoal and white ash. As she approached it, she could feel it was still warm, still smoldering. It could not have been burned very long ago. What was it? she wondered. Could this have been the Tennessee?

She heard footsteps and her hand reached down for the hem of her skirt, ready to pull it aside, yank the gun from the holster, a move she had practiced in the privacy of her room. She could see a man hurrying toward her, head down, moving fast. A small man, he did not seem to notice her.

“Excuse me,” she said when she saw he was going to walk right past her.

“Oh!” The man jumped in surprise. He stopped in his tracks, looked over at her. “Yes? May I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Wendy Atkins.” She stepped toward the man.

“Pleased to meet you. I am John Shirley. I am the owner of the yard here.”

“Honored, sir. Perhaps you can help me. Do you, perchance, know a Lieutenant Samuel Bowater.”

“Bowater? Certainly I know Lieutenant Bowater. Right behind you, that pile of ash, that was his command. Burned it last night. Before the Yankees got it.” There was more than a little bitterness in his voice.

“Oh, dear. Will Lieutenant Bowater be here today?”

“Today? No, I shouldn’t think so. No reason for him to come here now. Besides, there’s going to be a battle, or so they say.”

So they say, Wendy thought. If there was going to be a battle on the river, she suspected that Samuel would be part of it, army command or no.

“Bowater was friendly with one of the captains of the River Defense Fleet,” Shirley continued. “Don’t recall his name. Big fella. Had the boat General Joseph Page. I imagine Bowater is probably with him today.”

“Yes…” Wendy said. Oh, God, this was terrible! She had finally found him, or near enough, and now he would be off to battle, perhaps without even knowing she was there.

“Do you know where this General Joseph Page is anchored? Or tied up?”

“The fleet was tied to the levee last night. Not very far from here. I could take you, if you like.”

“I would like that very much,” Wendy said.

From somewhere north of them, up the river, hidden by the cluster of waterfront buildings, a gun went off, the loud report of heavy ordnance. Shirley looked up quickly. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Reckon we better hurry.”

Samuel Bowater made his way down the side deck, bearing half of Mississippi Mike Sullivan’s weight on his shoulders. By the time they reached the ladder to the hurricane deck, the firing had escalated from a single gun here and there to an all-out barrage, a solid noise of gunfire, a murderous cannonade.

Sullivan seemed to gain strength with each step, putting less and less weight on Bowater’s shoulders, for which Bowater was grateful.

They came to the forward end of the boiler deck and stopped. The Federal ironclads were opening up all along their line. The ships themselves were beginning to look blurry and indistinct as they were lost from sight behind the wall of their own gun smoke. The gunfire was like the rumble of thunder, and cutting through that low sound came the terrifying whine of shells screaming past.

“Damn me! This is more like it!” Sullivan said, and though his voice lacked its characteristically excessive vigor, still there was life in it. As love’s first kiss brought Snow White back to life, so the sound of flying metal seemed to revive Mississippi Mike.

“Can I help you to the hurricane deck?” Bowater asked. “Thank you, Cap’n, I do believe I can get there under my own

steam. You go on, now.” Bowater nodded, bounded up the ladder and aft to the wheelhouse. Tarbox was working the cheroot in his mouth. “Signal from the flag boat, Cap’n. Montgomery’s sendin Jeff Thompson, Sumter, Beauregard, and Lovell forward, try and draw these bastards off’n the bar. Rest of us is back here. Reserve, like.”

Bowater nodded. He could see the four bigger steamers advancing on the line of gunboats, firing their bow guns, then steaming into their own clouds of gun smoke. The General Page was half a mile from the ironclads, the four Rebel boats in the advance were half that distance.

A shell flew by, close, with its terrible banshee scream, and Bowater and Tarbox both turned their heads and watched it hit the water astern. “Reckon we’d be dead meat if them Yankees didn’t have all that smoke in their eyes,” Tarbox observed.

“Let’s head toward the Arkansas shore,” Bowater called through the open wheelhouse door to Baxter, who was resting on the big wheel, “see if we can get a clean shot at the gunboats.”

Baxter nodded, turned the wheel. Bowater stepped in and rang two bells. Mississippi Mike appeared over the edge of the hurricane deck. He was pulling himself up the ladder, it seemed hand over hand, red-faced and sweating, and Bowater wondered if this was such a good idea. But he knew Sullivan could not remain in bed, not with his ship going into battle. No captain could, who deserved that title.

“Cap’n Sullivan…?” Tarbox said. His tone was a mix of pleasure and uncertainty.

“Tarbox…” Sullivan nodded. “I’m jest a sightseer,” he added. “Cap’n Bowater’s still runnin the monkey show.”

Tarbox looked from Sullivan to Bowater and back, then nodded.

The General Page was working her way across the river, and Bowater was looking for a place where they would have an unobstructed shot at the enemy. “There!” he said to Baxter, stepping into the wheelhouse. “Let’s head up right there.”

Baxter grunted, gave the wheel a small turn. Bowater grabbed a tall stool that was pushed against the aft bulkhead and carried it out to the side deck.

“Captain Sullivan, a seat for you.”

Sullivan looked dubiously at the stool, as if it were too nancy for him to sit down, but as it was, he was leaning heavily on the rail for support, so he muttered a thanks and sat.

“Mr. Tarbox, let’s have the bow gun fire when ready. Tell them to keep it up, as long as they can find a target.”

Tarbox nodded and hurried forward.

“Aw, hell, Cap’n,” Sullivan said, settling on the stool, breathing hard. “Here you’re bringin all yer fancy navy ways to my boat. ‘Mister’ Tarbox! Shit, now he’s gonna expect me to call him that!”

“I’m not sure a little discipline-” Bowater’s retort was cut off by the roar of the Parrott rifle, which sent a shudder through the deck and a blast of smoke out over the water. As if in response, a Yankee shell whistled past, taking out the boats on the starboard side in a great starburst of white-painted splinters. Shattered bits of boat flew high over the deck, like a flock of birds in disorderly takeoff, then came clattering down again, leaving only four bent