Thieves Of Mercy sb-2

by James L. Nelson

  Taylor nodded. “Beats me,” he said. Insubordination, infinitely subtle. That was Hieronymus Taylor’s forte.

  Bowater pressed his lips together, preventing himself from speaking. Taylor was going to play this one for all it was worth. The river and its people were a community, a waterborne society, about which Bowater knew nothing. He was as lost here as Taylor would have been at the grand Charleston balls or theater performances that were part of Samuel’s former life.

  And so Bowater resisted saying the first thing that came to mind, which was a rebuke involving several animal similes, because, infuriating as it was, he needed Taylor ’s help.

  “You are more familiar with Vicksburg than I am. How do you think we should proceed?”

  “Well…” Taylor rocked back on his heels, looked up at the high bluffs. “Normally there’d be a power of traffic runnin up and down the river. But hell, this don’t hardly look like the Vicksburg I know. People rushin all over, ain’t but half the number of boats you normally see dockside.”

  Bowater had been to Vicksburg only a few times, but he too recognized the difference. The city was preparing for an attack, aware as the Union was of the strategic importance it held. There was a different feel to the place, a desperate and determined feel.

  “I guess we had best just walk on down along the docks, ask around,” Taylor said.

  “Very well,” Bowater said. He had been hoping Taylor would have a line on a ship, perhaps know someone who could help, but in the end he had suggested the one thing that Bowater had already considered.

  Well, that was a damned lot of crow I ate for nothing.

  They continued on along the waterfront, considering the various side-wheelers and stern-wheelers and screw tugs, searching for a vessel that looked to be getting under way soon. Bowater walked with purpose. Taylor ambled along with hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth.

  The voice, when it called out, was so loud it seemed to boom at them from several directions. “Hieronymus Taylor! You damned, dirty dog!”

  Bowater looked around. It was like trying to determine what direction a bullet came from. Taylor’s face lost its amused expression and he said, “Ah, hell…” as Mike Sullivan appeared on the hurricane deck of a side-wheeler, wearing dark braces and a checked shirt stretched over his big chest, a battered sack coat. He was waving a sweat-stained slouch hat, grinning through a massive and untamed beard.

  “Taylor, you wait right there, you dog!” he called and hurried down the ladder to the main deck, stepping easily onto the wharf, moving with a grace Bowater found surprising.

  Sullivan hurried up, grinning wide. He was even bigger than Bowater had thought at first, over six feet and approaching three hundred pounds, but there was nothing flabby about him. He reached out his hand, took Taylor ’s, which Taylor offered with a halfhearted gesture, shook it hard.

  “Hieronymus Taylor, you son of a bitch! Ain’t seen you in… hell, must be a year at least. Not since we whipped your ass in that run to Natchez.”

  “We beat you by thirty-four minutes,” Taylor said through clenched teeth as his arm was worked like a pump handle.

  “Like hell… well, maybe.”

  Taylor turned to Bowater. “Captain, this here’s-”

  The big man turned to Bowater, held out his hand. “Mike Sullivan. They call me Mississippi Mike Sullivan.”

  “No one calls you Mississippi Mike Sullivan but you,” Taylor said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Bowater said, shaking hands. Mississippi Mike had about him the faint odor of whiskey and cigars and coal dust and turpentine.

  “ ’Course you’re pleased to meet me! Heard tell of me, no doubt. Hardest drivin, hardest drinkin, most dangerous son of a whore riverboat man on the Western Waters.”

  “Impressive curriculum vitae, skipper, but no, I’m afraid I have not heard of you.”

  “He ain’t from around here, Sullivan,” Taylor said.

  “Oh, that’s it. Should have guessed from that fancy-lady way you talk. Must be from the goddamn moon, ain’t heard of Mississippi Mike Sullivan.”

  Sullivan let go of Bowater’s hand, turned back to Taylor, squinted at the shoulder straps on his uniform frock coat. “ Taylor, what the hell is this? What are you, on the Sanitary Commission or some damned thing?”

  Taylor stiffened and said, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could manage, “As it happens, Sullivan, I am a first assistant engineer in the Confederate States Navy.”

  Sullivan paused as if he was too stunned to speak and then he burst out laughing. He laughed from his ample gut, the way a grizzly bear would laugh if it could. He laughed for a long time, until he was red in the face, gasping for breath, as Bowater and Taylor stood silent and annoyed.

  “First assistant engineer?” Sullivan said, trying to breathe. “What the hell is that? They let you run the ash hoist, or you gotta be promoted to full junior engineer to do that?”

  Taylor nodded, worked the cigar around in his mouth.

  “Chief Taylor is lead engineer on board my command,” Bowater explained. “First assistant is just a navy designation.”

  “That a fact?” Sullivan wiped a tear from his eye. “What command is that, Captain?”

  “The ironclad Tennessee , building in Memphis.”

  Sullivan’s eyes went wide. “The ironclad Tenn -” At that he howled again, bent over double, laughing so hard he looked like he would pass out.

  “You don’t need to help my case no more, Captain, thanks anyway,” Taylor said.

  Sullivan straightened. “How long you been the captain of the Tennessee?”

  “I have just received orders now.”

  “You’re a long damned way from Memphis, Captain, if you don’t mind my makin that observation.”

  “We are attempting to secure passage, Sullivan, and we have no more time to waste conversing. Good day.”

  Bowater stepped away, but Sullivan said, “Now wait, Captain,” and his tone was more conciliatory. “This here’s your lucky day, because the fact is I’m takin my steamer up to Memphis. Leavin tonight.”

  “Well, ain’t that a coincidence,” Taylor said. “Don’t reckon we need any part of what you’re up to.”

  “Now hold on, Chief,” Bowater said. He did not want Taylor to toss away an easy solution to their dilemma just because he didn’t care for this “Mississippi Mike.” Bowater didn’t care for him either, but he could tolerate him for the length of time it would take to steam to Memphis.

  There was also some satisfaction in overriding Taylor.

  “You’re heading up to Memphis tonight?” Bowater asked. “Are you hauling freight?”

  “Deserting to the Yankees, most like,” Taylor offered.

  “Now lookee here, Mr. First Assistant Engineer Hieronymus Taylor, Confederate States Navy, you ain’t the only one fightin this here war,” Sullivan said. “Fact is, I am captain of the side-wheel ram General Page, the pride of the River Defense Fleet, true Sons of the South and the foremost defenders of this here river.”

  “That a fact?” Taylor said, and now it was he who was smiling, grinning around his cigar, but Sullivan did not seem to notice.

  “That’s right, boy,” Sullivan said, tapping Taylor on the chest with a finger like a sausage. “We are an independent branch, we answer to the general of the army in the Mississippi Department, and we don’t take orders from no navy peckerwoods.”

  Indeed, Bowater thought. The River Defense Fleet certainly did not take orders from naval officers, peckerwood or otherwise. Or from anyone else, for that matter.

  Part of the fleet had been at the Battle of New Orleans. They had refused to cooperate in the organized action against the Yankees and had contributed absolutely nothing to the defense of the forts. The only thing they did that Bowater was aware of was to accidentally set their fire rafts alongside Fort Jackson ’s wharf, blinding the Confederate gunners but neatly illuminating the fort for the Yankees. That was what the War Department got for the on
e million five hundred thousand dollars they spent establishing the River Defense Fleet.

  “River Defense Fleet, huh? Oh, brother, now I am impressed, ‘Mississippi Mike,’ ” Taylor said. “Captain Bowater, I think we best look for more suitable transport upriver.”

  “Hmmm,” Bowater said, stalling. It was only a ride upriver, for God’s sake, a little over two hundred miles, two days’ steaming at the worst. They could endure Sullivan and the River Defense Fleet for that long. What harm could come of it? “Actually, Chief, I believe we’ll accept Captain Sullivan’s offer.”

  “Whatever you say, Captain,” Taylor said. He looked amused.

  “Sure you will,” Sullivan said, giving Bowater a good-natured slap on the back, just the kind of bonhomie that Bowater despised. “The Page’s the fastest damn boat on the river, and I’m the best damn pilot. We’ll be pickin up a barge tonight, and then it’s off to Memphis.”

  “Very good, Captain,” Bowater said. “If my men can be of any assistance in your navigation, let me know.”

  “Oh, I reckon y’all can be of assistance, suh, absolutely.” The jolly tone had left Sullivan’s voice, as if he was forcing himself to be sincere. “I imagine you are some eager to get to Memphis and take command of your… ironclad.”

  Then like steam through a cracked pipe, the laughter burst out of Sullivan’s mouth and he doubled over again.

  TWO

  I will here state that the river defense fleet proved a failure… Unable to govern themselves, and unwilling to be governed by others, their total want of system, vigilance, and discipline rendered them useless and helpless when the enemy finally dashed upon them suddenly in a dark night.

  MAJOR GENERAL M. LOVELL TO GENERAL S. COOPER, ADJUT ANT AND INSPECTOR GENERAL, RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  Even before the shooting started, Bowater guessed that his blue-water sailors and the riverboat men would be an uneasy mix. Taylor put that concern in his head. It was just after Bowater ushered his men into what had been the General Page’s first-class passengers’ salon back when the River Defense boat General Page had been the civilian riverboat Lisa Marie. The navy men took seats at the tables along the port side. Taylor sat down beside Bowater, his frock coat unbuttoned, his cap tilted back, three days’ growth of beard on his face. Taylor seemed more relaxed in some ways, being back on his native Mississippi. And in some ways he seemed less. There seemed to be some turmoil of the spirit raging in the engineer’s soul, which, like most things about Hieronymus Taylor, was of no interest to Bowater. “Captain,” Taylor drawled, “I reckon a warnin is in order. I know there are certain… aspects of my personality that you find objectionable. Fair enough. I’m a river rat, and you’re… well… not. But the boys they got working this bucket, they’re somethin else.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well… they ain’t real refined. Not like me. And they don’t like the navy, and they don’t like deep-water sailors, and they don’t like much of anything else. We just got to see our boys don’t get baited into doin somethin stupid.”

  Bowater was digesting this when the door burst open and the crew of the General Page spilled into the salon. They were big men, with wool pants and checked shirts or patched dungarees held up with braces, bearded or with thick moustaches, sweat-stained caps and hats pushed down on their heads. They were a loud and aromatic bunch, cheeks bulging with tobacco. They were a well-armed bunch too, with pistols and bowie knives hanging from belts.

  Bowater felt his men tense as the riverboat men, twenty-five or so in number, took over the salon. They carried pails full of food and they sat at the once fine tables on the starboard side and laid into their meal. They ate without talking, the only sound the loud chewing and smacking of lips. They took no notice of the navy men.

  Suddenly one of the riverboat men leaped to his feet. “Son of a bitch, look at that one!” he shouted, jerking his pistol from his belt. Bowater stood quickly, unsure what was happening. His hand reached for his own gun, a.36-caliber Navy Colt, finely engraved, a gift from his father.

  Before he could even pull the gun the river man started firing, blasting away at the salon’s forward bulkhead as half a dozen of his compatriots leaped to their feet, guns clearing holsters. Up against the bulkhead, the largest rat that Bowater had ever seen raced side to side, panicked by the bullets shattering the wood around him.

  “Hold still, you little puke!” another of the riverboat men shouted, fanning the hammer of his gun. Bowater’s eyes moved from the rat to the firing squad and back. The animal froze, stood on hind legs, and then seemed to explode as a bullet hit him square, but that did not slow the gunfire. In seconds the place where the rat had been was reduced to a ragged, stained hole in the bulkhead, and it was only when hammers fell on empty chambers that the guns were holstered and the men returned to their meal.

  In the quiet that followed the fusillade, Bowater waited for someone to comment, but no one did. He turned to his own men, who were all on their feet, eyes wide, pistols held limp in the hands of those who had them. All looked stunned, save for Hieronymus Taylor, who did not appear to have moved.

  “They ain’t real refined, like I said, Captain,” Taylor explained.

  Then the door burst open again, and Mississippi Mike Sullivan stood framed against the blue evening light outside. “What the hell is all this shootin?” he yelled into the salon, then charged in, very like a bull. The men at the tables did not even look up.

  “Rat,” said the one who had fired the first shot. His mouth was full of beefsteak and the words were muffled. He swallowed. “Son of a bitch rat.”

  “Rat!?” Sullivan shouted. “You’re shootin at a goddamn rat?” He crossed the room in five steps, planted a brogan on the shooter’s chair, and sent him flying. The man landed in a heap, scrambled to his feet, pulling a bowie knife as he did, a foot-long blade with a hand guard that made it look more like a short sword than a long knife.

  The rest of the river men leaped to their feet, tumbling chairs to the deck, forming a rough semicircle.

  Sullivan charged across the room. “We got guests aboard here, you dumb bastard!” he bellowed. His right foot came up and kicked the man’s hand hard and the knife flew away and Bayard Quayle of Bowater’s crew had to flinch to avoid being hit. Sullivan hit the shooter hard in the stomach, doubling him over, shoved him to the floor, pulled his own pistol, aimed it at the man.

  “Get up, Tarbox,” Sullivan growled and the man on the deck stood up slowly. He stepped over and retrieved his knife and sheathed it and Sullivan put his pistol back in his holster because somehow they both knew the fight was over. The river men picked up their chairs, and resumed their meal.

  “Did you git the sum bitch?” Sullivan asked.

  “Yeah, I got him.”

  “Come here,” Sullivan said and he led Tarbox over to Samuel Bowater. “Captain Bowater,” Sullivan said in a formal tone, “I’d like you to meet my first officer. This here’s Buford Tarbox, and he’s a hell of a river man when he ain’t bein a dumb-ass, shootin up rats in front of guests.”

  “Honored to meet ya,” Tarbox said, sticking out his hand, and Bowater shook, too stunned by it all to do anything else. “Pleased to meet you,” he replied.

  “Captain Bowater and his men is takin passage up to Memphis with us. They are the crew of the ironclad Tennessee,” Sullivan explained.

  “The ironclad Tennessee, is that a fact?” Tarbox said with something like a half grin appearing through his thatch of beard.

  “That is a fact,” Sullivan said. “Now show these boys some goddamn courtesy and get em somthin to eat, you hear? And don’t shoot nothin else.” Sullivan touched his hat to Bowater and disappeared. When he was gone, Tarbox shouted, “Hey, Doc, get these here fancy navy gen’lmen some grub!”

  Tarbox picked up his chair and resumed his place at the table, while the one called Doc, wearing a stained apron, rose from his seat, conveying with every move, every nuance of expression, how much he resented the task.
>
  Ten minutes later, pails of food were set on the tables occupied by Bowater’s men, and Doc went back to eating, without ever saying a word to any of the navy men, or even making eye contact. Bowater’s men were too hungry to care. They tore into the food in a manner that made the riverboat men look civilized.

  The sky was coal-tar black when they finally got under way, approaching midnight, and the frenetic energy of soon-to-beembattled Vicksburg had slowed considerably. One by one the lamps that had lit the waterfront were extinguished, dark and quiet settled over the docks, the hiss of steam engines and the squeal of hoisting gear died away, the rumble of carts on cobblestone, and the shouting of motivated men tapered off and disappeared.

  By 11 P.M. the loudest place on the waterfront was the big saloon on the main deck level of the General Page, where the crew of the riverboat had finished supper and moved on to whiskey, which made the otherwise taciturn men quite vocal, shouting, bragging, lying. The General Pages drank, smoked, chewed, and played cards. They ignored the blue-water men, who resented it, especially as it meant that none of the copious amount of whiskey flowing to starboard was finding its way to port.

  The Page was a side-wheel steamer, one hundred and eighty feet on deck, around six hundred and fifty tons, not much different from hundreds of other riverboats that ran on the western rivers, hauling passengers, cotton, and mixed freight. Her twin paddle wheels were driven by a massive walking beam engine, a single cylinder driving a diamond-shaped rocking arm, the “walking beam,” that in turn rotated the paddle-wheel shaft. The engine was a huge affair, the walking beam mounted on top of a thirty-foot-high A-frame that went right through the hurricane deck, the uppermost deck, on which the wheelhouse sat.

  Her conversion to a man-of-war had not been extensive. A heavy iron ram was bolted to her stem, just under the water. A metal shield that looked more like a cowcatcher than anything else was mounted on her bow and backed up with compressed bales of cotton. That offered some protection to the men working the ten-pound Parrott rifle mounted forward. On her stern she carried a thirty-two-pound smoothbore cannon, used to discourage pursuit. Unlike the crowded men-of-war to which Bowater was accustomed, there was a lot of room left over for the crew.