Thieves Of Mercy sb-2

by James L. Nelson

  Bowater stood at the salon door and looked out at the few lights still burning in the city. What the hell is the wait? he wondered. They had had steam up for hours; he could not understand why they remained tied to the dock. Unless Mississippi Mike Sullivan didn’t think his men were drunk enough yet.

  He heard steps from forward and Sullivan’s hulking frame materialized out of the dark. “Captain Bowater!” The big hand swung around and smacked Bowater on the shoulder. “You ready to get under way?”

  “And have been for several hours.”

  “I know, I know, damned irritatin. You ain’t a river rat? Ain’t spent much time on the Old Miss?”

  “No, my experience with the river is limited.”

  “Well… it’s all tides and currents, that’s what’s holdin us up. Tides, currents… whole different world on the river.” He pushed past Bowater, into the thick fog of tobacco smoke in the salon. “All right, you sons of bitches, let’s get this bucket under way! Come on, go!”

  The riverboat men, who looked as if they would never obey any authority, obeyed Mississippi Mike. They leaped to it, pushed their way out of the salon, ran to stations. Within half a minute, only Bowater’s sailors were left in the big space, the smoke hanging like the ghost of the men who had been there.

  “Captain, you come up to the wheelhouse with me. Man such as yourself got to be where the action is!”

  A part of Bowater did not care to be in the wheelhouse with Sullivan, but the other part was flattered to be asked. And he reasoned that he should take any opportunity to learn more about the operation of shallow-draft, side-wheeled vessels on a river-so unlike anything his previous experience or training had prepared him for.

  “Very well, Captain Sullivan, I thank you.” He followed Sullivan up the ladder to the wheelhouse, a boxy structure with windows on three sides sitting on top of the hurricane deck. Leaning on the wheel, which was five feet tall, was one of the river men. He was smoking a cheroot and digging at his nails with a bowie knife. He acknowledged Sullivan with a nod of his head.

  Sullivan seemed to build momentum, like a beer wagon careening downhill. “Stop prettifying yourself and grab that wheel, Baxter, we got us a barge to pick up.” He stepped out of the wheelhouse door, bellowed, “Let ’em go! Let all them damned fasts go!” He rushed back into the wheelhouse, shouted, “Let’s get them buckets turning!” He grabbed the bell rope, gave a jingle and rang two bells, and a moment later the paddle wheels began their slow turn in reverse. He was shouting orders at Baxter, two feet away, when the answering ring came from the engine room below.

  The General Page backed out into the river as Sullivan raced from side to side of the wheelhouse, stepping out on the deck, now to starboard, now to port, shouting into the dark, keeping up a running commentary. He was a tornado, exhausting just to watch, grinning wide with the sheer joy of having the riverboat moving under him.

  Baxter, by contrast, said nothing, stared straight ahead through the glass, puffed the cheroot. He seemed not even to notice Sullivan, and the constant stream of instructions that Sullivan poured on him seemed to have no effect on his steering whatsoever.

  In that way the side-wheeler swung away from the dock and turned her bow downstream.

  “Ooowee, we goin now, Cap’n Bowater, we surely are!” Sullivan pulled a cigar from the pocket of his sack coat, stuck it in his mouth in a gesture that reminded Bowater very much of Hieronymus Taylor. Sullivan was grinning. Bowater could not remember the last adult he’d met who greeted life with such pure exuberance as Mississippi Mike Sullivan. There was something enviable about it.

  “What brought you down to Vicksburg, Captain?” Bowater asked.

  “Cracked bearin on the starboard paddle shaft,” Sullivan said, still moving from side to side across the front of the wheelhouse, his eyes everywhere. “Been up around Fort Pillow since… hell…”

  “March,” Baxter supplied.

  “March. Waitin for our chance to get at them damned Yankee gunboats, them turtles. I’m gonna be mighty angry if they whipped them Yankees while we was down here. All right, Baxter, here we go.”

  Sullivan rang one bell, slow ahead. Bowater peered out the window, trying to see what Sullivan saw, but it was all black waterfront to him.

  “Hard a’port,” Sullivan said. He rang slow astern. “Hell, Cap’n Bowater, we’re doin all kinda good for the navy tonight,” he continued, eyes fixed on the shore. “Bringin the crew of the Tennessee upriver. Gettin this here coal barge for what’s left of the Confederate Navy fleet, up there at Memphis.”

  “Navy fleet?” Bowater asked. “Not the River Defense Fleet?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well…” Bowater paused while Sullivan raced out onto the hurricane deck, then raced back into the wheelhouse. “I didn’t realize there were any naval forces left up there.”

  “Oh, hell, yes, Cap’n. A few. And of course the Tennessee , and her sister ironclad Arkansas , they’ll need coal, soon enough. Navy fellow there heard I was comin down to Vicksburg, why, he asked would I pick up this barge for him. ‘Pleased to help,’ I said.”

  “That’s good to hear, Captain. We’re all fighting the same war, after all. We’re often too quick to forget it.”

  “Amen to that, Brother Bowater. Come left, you blind, poxed son of a whore!” That last was shouted at Baxter, who was coming left even as Sullivan said it. Baxter emitted a little puff of smoke from his cheroot, like a miniature steam engine, kept his eyes forward.

  Sullivan rang all stop, then a jingle and a bell for slow astern. He stepped out into the dark, looked aft, and this time Bowater followed him out onto the deck. In the light of a few feeble lamps on shore he could make out a barge tied alongside a wall, a train sitting on a siding, and sundry tugs lying against a wooden dock.

  Sullivan raced back into the wheelhouse, rang all stop. The General Page shuddered slightly as the stern came against the barge.

  “Come on down, Cap’n Bowater. Let me show you how we make these barges up, Mississippi style.”

  Bowater followed Sullivan down the ladder to the boiler deck, then down to the main deck and aft. The General Page’s stern was hard against the barge and the riverboat men were swarming over it, running lines to the big bollards on the Page’s fantail.

  “Hey, what the hell you doin?” The voice came from the dark, from the shore. Bowater looked past the barge. A man was standing there, on the far side, on the edge of the wall. He was just visible in the light of the lantern he held in his hand.

  “Pickin up the barge, here!” Sullivan shouted back.

  “Like hell! Who are you?”

  “Got Captain Bowater here, of the Confederate States Navy!” Sullivan shouted across the heaps of coal.

  “Who?”

  “Hold your horses there, brother!” Sullivan shouted, then turned to Bowater. “Cap’n, go over there and explain to that chucklehead, will you?”

  “Explain what?”

  “You know, about the coal for the navy, and the Tennessee and all. How we’re all fightin the same war.”

  “But-”

  A heavy line sailed over the taffrail and Sullivan grabbed it up, pulled it over to the starboard bollard. “Go on, Cap’n, tell him how this here coal’s for the navy. Best hurry or sure as hell we’ll miss the tide!” he shouted while straining against the rope.

  Bowater stepped over the rail, onto the barge, made his way around the edge with one foot on the caprail and the other on the heaps of coal. He crossed around to the seawall, stepped up to face the man with the lantern.

  “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?” The man with the lantern had the look of a watchman, too old and sodden for any other work. He appeared to be leaning on a cane, but up close Bowater saw it was a shotgun.

  The watchman glared at Bowater. His eyes moved over the gold-embroidered ornament on Bowater’s cap, with its single star, fouled anchor, and wreath of oak leaves. He squinted at the shoulder straps on his gray
frock coat.

  “My name is Bowater, Lieutenant Bowater of the Confederate States Navy.”

  “That a fact? What’re you doin?”

  “Ahh…” Bowater was not sure. “This barge, apparently, is bound for Memphis. For the naval force there.”

  The watchman frowned. “Supposed to be picked up tomorrow. Bound for Natchez.”

  Bowater felt the irritation mount. Why was he talking to this man, and not Sullivan? “I know simply that I was told the barge is intended for the navy at Memphis.”

  “All right then, let’s see your papers.” The watchman sighed.

  Papers? Bowater thought. My commission? What papers?

  “Ya got papers, ain’t ya? Receipt, contract for the barge? Didn’t Mr. Williamson give you no papers?”

  This was idiotic and Bowater was about to say as much when he heard the churning water sound of the General Page’s paddle wheels beginning to turn hard, and the side-wheeler’s steam whistle howled. Bowater looked over, startled. The barge was pulling away from the wall, he could see the black space opening up, the chasm between barge and wall and the dark water at the bottom. The whistle stopped and Sullivan’s voice boomed over the sound of the paddle wheels, shouting, “Come on, Cap’n! Jump for it, you’ll miss the damned boat!”

  Bowater looked from the barge to the watchman to the barge. “Hold her there, you thievin son of a bitch!” the watchman shouted. The shotgun thudded on the packed dirt as he let go of the barrel, grabbed hold of Bowater’s collar. Bowater knocked his hand aside, sprinted for the wall. He launched himself off, was flying through the air, when it occurred to him the barge might be too far away already.

  It wasn’t. He landed hard, fell forward, hands down on the lumps of coal. He scrambled to his feet, scrambled up the hill of coal. The night was filled with a flash like lightning, the boom of the shotgun going off. A swarm of buckshot hit the coal just at Bowater’s left hand, spit fragments of the black rock into his face. He scrambled on, up over the coal pile and down the other side.

  The barge was still up against the General Page’s transom, and Bowater grabbed hold of the rail and pulled himself over. Ruffin Tanner was there, helping him over, and Francis Pinette. Further forward, standing in a clump and out of the way, were six of the riverboat men. They were smiling, enjoying the show.

  “Oooweee!”

  Bowater and his men looked up. Mississippi Mike Sullivan was leaning on the hurricane deck rail, grinning down at them. “That was a hell of a jump, Cap’n! I surely did not think you would make that!”

  Bowater felt his eyes go wide, his mouth fall open. He was incapable of speech.

  Sullivan leaned farther over the rail. “Damn, Cap’n, you are completely covered in coal dust! You could do a minstrel show, right here!”

  Bowater’s hands were trembling. He felt the words rise up from his throat. “You… son… of… a… bitch!” He charged forward, raced for the ladder to the hurricane deck.

  Samuel Bowater knew about killing. As a young ensign he had killed Mexicans. He had killed hostile islanders in the Pacific, slavers in Africa. In a year of warfare, Bowater had killed Yankees. But each time, every time, he had killed because he had to, because it was his duty. He had never actually wanted to kill anyone. Until now.

  THREE

  SIR: We have some information today that the enemy is about moving, and his forces are said to be large and his transports very numerous at Old Point [Virginia]. I trust you will be able to penetrate and defeat his designs. Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

  STEPHEN R. MALLORY TO FLAG OFFICER JOSIAH TATTNALL, COMMANDING NA V AL FORCES, JAMES RIVER

  Wendy Atkins looked at the letter in her hand. Crumpled and stained, smudged, wrinkled as if it had been wet, subject to the hard use of the Confederate Postal Service. Postmarked Yazoo City. Written by Samuel Bowater.

  In front of her, on the bed where she and Samuel had made love her first and only time, a carpetbag sat open. Its gaping mouth begged to be filled, but Wendy hesitated. What to put in it? Can I really do this thing?

  She had met Bowater one year before. A mutual love of painting had led them both to the little waterside park in Norfolk, a lovely view of the river that begged to be rendered on canvas. He had been put off by her, which was no surprise. Her brashness was an organic part of her, like her long, dark brown hair, and it overpowered any natural charm she possessed. She had offered her criticism of his work, which he most certainly had not requested. She delighted in his discomfort.

  She had always been like that. She had always shocked people with her outspoken manner, her boldness. She did it to keep people away, like a rattlesnake shaking its tail. She did it because she was so terrified of being ordinary that she had to make herself extraordinary, even if it meant making herself obnoxious.

  But their lives, it seemed, were made to intersect. Wendy met an engineer named Hieronymus Taylor, who helped her to live out a dream she had long held, to sail aboard a man-of-war in combat. It was a thing she had wanted ever since, as a little girl, she had sat on the floor of her father’s library and read romantic stories of great naval heroes and their victories in glorious battle.

  Taylor snuck her aboard his ship dressed as a common sailor. One thing that Taylor had failed to mention-the captain of the ship was Samuel Bowater. She had seen him, calm as if he was painting a picture, in the middle of the bloody combat. She had been revolted, terrified, intrigued. The emotional wounds of all she saw that day took months to heal. She fled Norfolk for her family’s home in Culpepper.

  It was late fall when she returned to Norfolk, a very different person. Things did not seem as frivolous as they once had. Her experience in battle had focused her mind beautifully. She volunteered as a nurse at the naval hospital.

  In that capacity she met Samuel Bowater again, when he was brought it on a stretcher, fresh from Hatteras Inlet, his leg and arm so torn up that he nearly lost them both. Wendy nursed him back to health. She fell in love with him. And he with her.

  It was in February that Bowater came to her there, in the little carriage house in which she lived, behind the Portsmouth home of her aunt Molly Atkins. He came from the fight at Elizabeth City, a fleet battle between gunboats in which he had seen things that wrenched him down deep. He asked her for canvas and paint and for hours he poured his grief out with oils and brush. And when he was done, and that horror was exorcized, as much as it could be, they lay down on the bed on which her carpetbag now rested and consummated the tumultuous thing that had been brewing between them for eleven months.

  Soon after, he was reassigned to an ironclad in Mississippi. He fought in the losing effort to stop the Yankees from coming up the Mississippi River from the Gulf, Farragut and that bunch.

  For two weeks after the battle, Wendy had walked around numb, as if she were encased in glass, her mind dulled to the grief and anxiety of not knowing. And then, on the eighth of May, the letter arrived and she knew that Samuel Bowater was safe, as of eight days earlier. He was in Yazoo City.

  She had to go to him.

  She went to her wardrobe, pulled out a plain gray dress, folded it, stuck it in her carpetbag.

  This is insane.

  How could she travel to Yazoo City, a woman by herself? It would be madness at any time, but now, with the entire nation at war, it was beyond the pale.

  But yet… War brought with it a certain insanity, as if the old rules did not apply, as if she could do things she would not otherwise have dreamed of doing. Hadn’t she dressed as an apprentice sailor and snuck aboard a man-of-war, actually taken the wheel in the middle of a sea fight? How, in a sane world, could that have happened?

  She could go to Yazoo City. It was just a matter of courage. Did she have the courage.

  “No,” she said out loud, “I do not have the courage.” But I’ll go anyway.

  She packed the rest quickly: dresses, chemises, stockings, her painting smock and her paints, a tiny canvas she had primed the day before.
She looked at the window, more as a matter of habit than in hopes of seeing anything. It was around nine o’clock at night, full dark, and all she could see was her own reflection in the glass.

  Dear God, I look a misery. The days of anxiety had not been kind to her. She was twenty-seven, not a young girl anymore, and the years were starting to show.

  “I guess I had better get Samuel to marry me,” she said out loud, “or I’ll be an old maid soon enough.” She smiled as she thought of the two of them, she and Aunt Molly, living out their dotage together, old maids with white hair. People would whisper about them. Children would start rumors that they were witches.

  She could imagine the two of them growing old together. They had got on well in the two years that Wendy had been with her, staying in the carriage house. Molly was lively and fun, and they understood each other’s need for occasional solitude.

  Indeed, they did not grow tired of one another because they did not see much of one another. Molly was always on the move, and there would sometimes be weeks in which Wendy was certain Molly had not come home, but she was never sure. Molly never announced when she was leaving and did not announce her return. One day she was around the house, one day she was not. But Wendy lived happily in the little carriage house and enjoyed Molly’s company when it was there, and she did not ask questions.

  Wendy finished packing, then pulled a simple traveling dress over her chemise, no crinoline, which she avoided in any event. She took the money that she had hidden in her sock drawer and stuffed it down into the carpetbag. She sat at her familiar desk and wrote a short note to Aunt Molly, explaining things matter-offactly, and left it on her pillow. She took one look around the carriage house, a place she had come to love, then tied a simple bonnet on her head, turned down the lantern until the flame was extinguished, and stepped out into the night.