Thieves Of Mercy

Bowater could make out the big letter M hanging between the Yankee’s chimneys. He searched his memory, pictured the rams anchored at Plum Point Bend. Monarch-she was called Monarch.

“Meet her, meet her,” Bowater called to Baxter at the wheel. They were four hundred yards downriver of the Yankee Monarch and the Bragg. If the Yankee ran the Bragg down, then the General Page would be there to do the same to the Yankee.

“Look here, Sammy, look here!” Sullivan said, with a renewed strength in his voice. “There goes the Beauregard and the Price! Lord, they’re gonna spit-roast that Yankee!”

The Beauregard and the General Price were racing for the Monarch, the Beauregard charging at her starboard side, the Price her larboard. They were like two hands clapping together to smash a mosquito between them, while the Yankee, seemingly oblivious, charged forward, bow still aiming for the General Bragg.

“Come on, come on,” Bowater caught himself muttering. The Yankee was going to be torn apart in this collision, smashed in on both sides. In a wild confusion of chimneys and black smoke, thrashing paddles and bow guns blazing away, the ships came together.

And suddenly there was empty space, just water and smoke, a gap between the Confederate rams as the Monarch slipped right between the two.

“No! No! No!” Sullivan screamed and the two River Defense ships hit, nearly head-on, bow to bow. The Price’s chimneys leaned forward, hesitated, then toppled over, as the two vessels, each still under a full head of steam, pounded against each other. The Beau-regard smashed into the Price’s wheel box and ripped it away-box, wheel, shaft, everything-tore it clean off the side of the ship and dragged it along, hung up on the bow, a mass of iron and wood debris, nothing more.

“All right, here we go,” Bowater said. He was sickened by the scene. Nine Confederate rams against the two Yankees and the Yankees were decimating them. He rang four bells. Vengeance had no place in the heart of the professional naval officer, he knew, but this was different. “Right for him,” he told Baxter. “Just forward of the wheelhouse.”

The General Page surged ahead. Bowater could hear the note of the paddle wheels go up as, somewhere down below, Hieronymus Taylor cracked open the steam valve and let her go.

The General Bragg was just ahead of them, two hundred yards, twisting wildly to get out of the way of the Monarch racing down on her. Forward, the Page’s bow gun fired and a hole appeared in the Yankee’s deckhouse, but the Yankee did not slow. Instead it turned with the Bragg, keeping its bow directed at the Bragg as the Bragg tried to circle away.

When they hit, it was a glancing blow, the Monarch striking the Bragg aft and sheering off, tearing up some wood, but little else. And now Bowater was looking right at the Yankee’s broadside.

He rang four bells again, let Taylor know they needed it all. A hundred yards between them and the Yankee seemed to sense the danger. Bowater saw the paddle wheels stop, saw them reverse, the Federal ram trying to back out of the danger.

Oh, no, you won’t, you bastard… Fifty yards. The fire from the Union ironclads was terrific, the shells shrieking past. Bowater felt a jar in the deck as a shell struck somewhere aft, a clanging sound as another struck something metal. He turned around. The larboard chimney had folded like a wilting flower, half the guy wires snapped.

Thirty yards. He could see men on the Monarch’s hurricane deck. Sharpshooters were peppering the Page with minie balls, he could hear the familiar thud as they struck wood. The far right window of the wheelhouse was shot out, the sound of breaking glass delicate against the backdrop of heavy guns.

Twenty yards and the Yankee put his helm hard over, paddle wheels full ahead, and the nimble ram spun around on her center, and the broadside disappeared as she came bow-on to the Page.

“You whoremonger bastard!” Sullivan roared at the Yankee ram. He had one of his pistols in his hand, a big army.44, and he was blasting away. Bowater thought he had better take it easy or he would kill himself before the Yankees did, but he had no time to dole out medical advice. He stepped into the wheelhouse and leaned over the speaking tube. “Engine room, stand by!”

He grabbed a spoke of the wheel, twisted it around, with Baxter adding his weight. The Page heeled as she leaned into the turn, spinning toward the Yankee ram, bow to bow.

They hit with an impact that threw Bowater against the wheelhouse bulkhead. His arms came up to protect himself and he put his elbow right through the glass. He heard Baxter give a grunt as his chest hit the wheel, heard the horrible sound of the General Page’s bow crushing against the Yankee’s.

The forward momentum stopped, the Page surged back, and Bowater was flung to the deck. He landed on his back in a pile of books and charts, and a half-eaten dinner that someone had left in the wheelhouse.

Baxter was clutching the wheel to keep to his feet. He twisted around, looked at Bowater, opened his mouth to speak, and a bullet blew the top of his head off. Bowater could only watch as the blood and bone flew out in a spray across the wheelhouse and the helmsman tumbled forward, a surprised look on his face, and collapsed right beside him.

Bowater climbed to his feet and looked out the glassless window. The two ships were grinding together, but the Yankee had called for turns astern and was extracting himself from the Page’s bow. Bowater grabbed the bell, gave a jingle, two bells. All right, Taylor, get us out of here.

Bowater stepped out of the wheelhouse. The minie balls were hitting like hailstones, but they made no impression on him. Mississippi Mike was lying in a heap, just forward of the wheelhouse, his arm moving feebly.

Bowater took a step toward him, heard a terrible screeching sound behind. He turned. The walking beam was making its rocking motion, up and down, pushing the paddle wheels astern, but it did not sound happy about it. That can’t be a good thing, he thought, but there was nothing for it. He knelt by Sullivan, half rolled him over.

“Cap’n Bowater… give a fella a warning…”

“You shot, Sullivan?”

“Don’t reckon…”

Bowater looked up. Ruffin Tanner was there, kneeling beside him. “Bow took a good hit, sir. Sprung some planks betwixt wind and water. We’re shipping it now, but I don’t think it’s coming in so fast the pumps can’t keep up. The bow gun went right over the side.”

Bowater nodded. “Can you take the helm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Help me get Sullivan up first.” They each grabbed an arm and lifted, twisting Sullivan around until he was sitting up, and then leaned him back on a stanchion. The fall had opened his wound. There was a dark wet spot the size of a dinner plate on his shirt.

“Oh, hell, just when I was gettin better,” Sullivan gasped.

Tanner raced into the wheelhouse, pulled Baxter’s body out of the way, grabbed the wheel. Bowater stepped in after him. The Page and the Yankee ram were still backing away from one another, the distance opening up between them. Ramming distance.

“We’re going to circle around and give it to this son of a bitch broadside,” Bowater said. He grabbed the bell rope, rang up four bells. “Put your helm hard to larboard.”

“Hard to larboard, aye!” Tanner said and spun the wheel. Bowater was happy to have a navy man, a deepwater