Thieves Of Mercy

starting to turn.

“Yeeeehaaaa! Here we come, you rutting bastards!” Mississippi Mike Sullivan shouted, then gasped for breath. He stood straighter, pulled his pistol, and fired, the shot loud in Bowater’s ear. There was blood on the deck at his feet.

And then, even through the blast of Sullivan’s.44, they heard the walking beam make an unearthly sound, a screech like something being horribly killed, but much, much louder than any living thing could produce. Their heads jerked around and looked up just as the shaft on which the walking beam pivoted snapped clean in two and the entire eight tons of wood and iron dropped and twisted and lodged itself in the A-frame, snapping bearings and connecting rods as it fell.

For a second the two men just stood there, dumbfounded, looking at the destruction. The General Page would not be twisting out of anyone’s way.

Sullivan was the first to speak. “Son of a bitch Guthrie, he’s killed us all! Right from the damned grave he’s killed us all!”

They turned back. The Yankee was twenty yards away. Sullivan began blasting away with his pistol. Bowater ran into the wheelhouse. He was three feet from the speaking tube, just beginning to shout a warning, when the Yankee struck.

The Federal ram hit them square in the wheel box. The entire half-round housing, thirty feet high, folded over the Yankee’s bow, crushing under the impact, showering the Yankee with debris as the General Page was pushed sideways through the water. Sullivan was doubled over the rail, and only Bowater’s staggering out of the wheelhouse, grabbing his collar, and pulling him back kept him from going over.

“Tanner! Abandon ship! We were towing the long boat! If it’s still floating, get the men in it!” Bowater shouted. There was no need to assess the damage.

Tanner raced from the wheelhouse, forward and down, calling the order as he went.

“How are you, Sullivan?” Bowater asked.

“Been better. You go an get the boys in the boat, I’ll see if they’s any stragglers,” he said.

“You’d better come,” Bowater said. “Come with me.” The vessel shifted under them. They looked up. The Yankee had reversed her paddle wheels and was backing out of the General Page, and Bowater imagined that her ram had been the only thing holding them up.

The Yankee’s wheelhouse was only about fifty feet away. They could see the captain in his blue coat looking at them as they looked back.

“Go on now, Cap’n,” Sullivan said. His voice was not strong and Bowater knew he could not argue. Whatever Sullivan had in mind-attack the Yankees single-handed, go down with the ship- he had to let him do it.

“Very well,” Bowater said. “Don’t miss the last boat.”

“I won’t. An thanks, Cap’n, for puttin up with me all that time.”

Bowater paused. The Page heeled a bit. “You’re welcome.” He held out his hand. They shook. Then Bowater headed for the hurricane deck.

Taylor stood by the throttle, tapped his fingers on his leg. When I ring four bells, let her go! What did that peckerwood have in mind? It was the waiting Taylor could not tolerate.

He could feel a vibration in the deck plates, even through the water that was sloshing back and forth. There was another ship out there, coming close, and the vibration was made by her paddle wheels. That would be the Yankee, comin to ram us, Taylor thought. Put that together with Bowater’s order and he could form a fairly good picture of what was about to happen.

“Hey, Burgoyne, what we got for steam, there?”

Burgoyne leaned toward the gauge. “Twenty-three pounds.”

Taylor nodded. That was about as good as they would get. Not extraordinary, but it would do. Damned good thing we got a walking beam engine, he thought. A direct acting engine would have been knocked galley-west by now, but walking beams were more forgiving when the hull was wrenched around. It’s got limits, though, Taylor thought. He had not been very happy with the shaft bearings from the start. He was less happy now.

He wiped his sweating hand on his pants leg, double-checked the reversing lever, then wrapped his fingers around the throttle valve.

Son of a bitch is gettin close. Taylor could hear the other boat’s paddle wheels, transmitted through the water and the fabric of the General Page.

Then the bell rang, four quick bells, so sharp and quick it made Taylor jump. He twisted the throttle open, spinning it around, letting the full brunt of the steam shoot down the pipes and into the cylinder. With a satisfying huff the steam drove the piston that pushed the crank that moved the walking beam connected to the crank on the paddle-wheel shaft. Taylor looked up, exalted, as the whole thing, towering over his head, began to move, to drive the General Page forward.

The crank went up and down and the water began to run over the deck plates as the ship gained headway, and Taylor smiled, because it was all holding together and turning the wheels.

And then from the top of the A-frame came a sound as terrible as any he had ever heard, a sound so wrenching it seemed it could only come from the mouth of some living thing-something that could feel pain, and express it.

Taylor looked up sharp, right through the hurricane deck overhead to the top of the A-frame. For an instant he thought some dumb-ass had got himself caught in the works, but he realized it was not that. It was the screech of metal fatigue.

“Uh-oh,” Taylor said out loud. Then he heard a snap, and the whole walking beam shifted and dropped. The crank bent in a big bow and then snapped. A section of the wooden arm was hurled forward as if shot from a cannon.

“Blow off that steam! Shut the boiler down! Let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted, limping forward. No sense in remaining in the engine room. All that machinery was so much ballast now. Burgoyne slammed the damper shut and twisted the blow-off valves and with a whoosh the steam exhausted up what was left of the chimney. Half the black gang was already up the ladder and out the fidley door.

Burgoyne turned and looked around. “That all, Chief?”

“Yes, yes, git the hell out of here!” Taylor waved his arms toward the ladder and Burgoyne splashed across the deck plates, Taylor limping right behind.

Burgoyne took the ladder two rungs at a time. He flung open the door. The daylight flooded into the fidley, sunshine filling the place. In an instant the second engineer disappeared down the main deck. Taylor grabbed the ladder, swung his splinted leg around, and then the Yankee struck.

Taylor knew what it was-even as he was tumbling back, he knew it was the Yankee ram. He hit the deck with a splash and slid. The General Page heeled over under the impact, and in the bright light from the open door and the shadow of the engine room he could see the side of the General Page cave in as her own paddle wheel was literally pushed through the deckhouse.

The Yankee’s iron-reinforced bow tore right into the engine room, right at the waterline. The deck plates parted as if a knife were cleaving them in two. The condenser toppled over and the main steam pipe shattered, and that alone would have been the death of him if they had not blown off the steam.

“Oh, hell!” Taylor shouted. He began to crawl up the sloping deck toward the ladder, splashing like a seal through the rising water. He heard the high-pitched whine of metal under enormous stress, then a crack, then something fell across his legs, pinning him down.

“Oh, hell! Damn it!” he shouted again, with more enthusiasm. He clawed at the deck plates, tried to get hold of something to pull himself free, but there was only iron plate and water. He tried to move his good leg to kick off whatever was on top of him, but both legs were pinned tight.

Son of a bitch! He twisted around. The starboard crank had broken off the paddle wheel shaft and fallen across his legs. Had it not also fallen on top of other debris scattered on the deck, it would have crushed his legs under its weight.

Now, ain’t that a stroke of luck… I mighta been hurt… “Hey! Topside! Anyone up there? Halloa, you sons of bitches, come get this goddamned crank off my legs!”

No damned use… Those beats were too busy saving their own damned hides. Black smoke was filling the engine room and swirling up the fidley and Taylor started to cough.