Thieves Of Mercy sb-2

by James L. Nelson

  The goddamned Yankees’ll be here… Bowater looked up, right up through the unplanked frames of his ship, right up at the blue sky above. They were working like mad to save the one ship that could be saved, and that was not the Tennessee. They might have beaten the Yankees at Plum Point Bend, but they could not hold them back forever. Here he was getting all moony about a ship he might never command, like falling in love with a woman in the last stages of consumption.

  A quiet seemed to settle over the yard, which Bowater took to presage some new turn of events. He took his eyes off his own ship, stepped around her stern, stood in the shade of her partially planked-up fantail. The Arkansas was ready to go.

  Men were standing on the foredeck and fantail, preparing for the ride down. More men were clustered around the launch cradle, sledgehammers in hand. A small man with a long black beard and a stovepipe hat that added six inches to his otherwise unimpressive height was flying from one place to another, seeing that all was in readiness, like a little girl setting up her dolls for a tea party.

  John Shirley, Bowater thought, the ironclads’ builder. He seemed to know it intuitively, though he had never seen the man.

  When all hands were at their stations, the man in the stovepipe climbed aboard as well. From the foredeck he shouted, “All right, let her go!”

  The sledgehammers fell on the wedges, the air was filled with their pounding. And then the ironclad gave a little jerk and the hammers stopped and the men stood clear, and silent as a winter morning, the one-hundred-and-sixty-five-foot ship slid down the ways. She moved slowly at first, no faster than a man might walk on a casual stroll, but her speed built, faster and faster, an exponential climb with each foot she slid, until she was moving at a frightening speed when she parted the river with her rudder and sternpost, and floated free.

  The Arkansas entered her native element with never a sound, from the last ringing hammer blow to the first swoosh of water closing around her hull.

  No one cheered. No band broke into patriotic airs. For several moments no one even spoke. A ship launching, like a wedding or a birth, was supposed to be a time of optimism, a moment when the vessel’s full potential lay before her, when she was all newness and perfection and had yet to be tried in combat or at sea, before there was an opportunity for her to be found wanting.

  But this launching was not like that, because Arkansas was launched in desperation, launched before her time.

  Despair thy charm, Bowater thought, and let the angel whom thou still hast served tell thee, Arkansas was from her mother’s womb untimely ripped. Her builders had slid her into the water not because she was nearly ready to go forth and fulfill her destiny, but because they had to get her the hell away in the face of an encroaching enemy. She would not steam proudly from the dock to fight the Yankees, she would be towed away to a place where she would be safe from them, followed by barges loaded with the rest of her, the parts they had not had time to assemble.

  The solemn launch put Bowater in mind of another he had seen, less than four months earlier, in Portsmouth. Then it had been the Confederate ironclad Virginia , built on the burned-out hull of the old Merrimack . She had not slid into the water, rather the water had been let into the dry dock while the silent watching navy men waited to see if she would flip over from the weight of her casemate. That had been a launch like this; not celebratory, but quiet, introspective, the kind of event staged by men who understood the terrible odds against which they fought.

  Thoughts of Norfolk inevitably brought Bowater’s mind around to thoughts of Wendy Atkins and her little carriage house behind her aunt’s home, and he felt a rush of longing, a sting of guilt that he had not thought of her more, had not written in two weeks. Wendy. She seemed part of a different life, a life he longed to get back to, and especially to her.

  For more than a month they had been hearing of the Yankees’ big push on the Peninsula, more than one hundred thousand strong, or so it was reported, though Bowater was certain that was something of an exaggeration. But no matter what the size of the army, it was bigger than that of the Confederates defending the place. Richmond was supposed to be in a panic.

  If the York Peninsula falls, Norfolk cannot be far behind, Bowater thought. What will Wendy do? Bowater knew enough Yankees from the old navy to know they were unlikely to rape and pillage, that Wendy and her aunt would be safe enough, even in an occupied city.

  Still, he wondered if she would try to get out. Where would she go? Culpepper would be the likely answer. For a moment he toyed with the idea of asking her to come west, to join him, but that was absurd. He had no idea where he would be next week, let alone where he would be by the time she managed to get out to Memphis on the crowded and unreliable railway.

  He shook his head, as if trying to jar loose his own pointless musings. Wendy was safe, out of harm’s way, and that was the best place for her. No doubt she was busy at the naval hospital. He could not speculate on when he would see her again; such thoughts would make him crazy.

  “Sir?”

  Bowater, his eyes on the Arkansas, watching her without really looking at her, had not noticed the approach of the short man with the stovepipe. “Sir?” the man said again, and this time Bowater looked over. The man extended a hand. “Lieutenant, I am John Shirley, constructor here. May I be of some assistance?”

  “Mr. Shirley, an honor.” Bowater took the hand and shook. Shirley’s palms were rough and calloused, like a seaman’s, or a shipbuilder’s. “You have done a fine job on the Arkansas.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I am proud of her, I don’t mind saying it. Worth three regiments of soldiers when she’s done. If I could have got the men and the material, why, we could have had two boats launched today, but it weren’t to be. Had to choose one, get her along, at the expense of another. But Lordy, let me tell you, it’s akin to having to choose one child to live over t’other.”

  Bowater nodded and the two men fell silent, contemplating the injustice of it all. Then Shirley said, “Forgive me, Lieutenant, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Abraham.”

  “Abraham?”

  “Abraham, father of the child sacrifice.”

  Shirley wrinkled his brow. Not a man of great imagination, Bowater decided.

  “I am Lieutenant Samuel Bowater,” he said. “I have been assigned to take command of the ironclad Tennessee.”

  “Ahhh…” Shirley said as his confusion turned to embarrassment. “Well, it weren’t quite right, what I said, about one over t’other. The old Tennessee ain’t burned yet, we might still get her in the water.”

  Bowater nodded. “I am glad to hear it.”

  “We’ve had a power of trouble getting men. General Polk, this whole thing was nearly his idea, but will he send me any men from his army to help in constructing? No, not a blessed one. And him a bishop-a bishop! Did you know that? Goddamned Episcopalian bishop. Now how’s that for Christian charity? And I gave him the names of a hundred men under his command who are qualified shipwrights.”

  Shirley was an energetic man, Bowater could see that. He spoke in the same frenetic way that he moved, racing around, getting the Arkansas ready to launch, his thoughts all over the place.

  “I’ve brought about thirty men with me,” Bowater said, “not shipwrights, regrettably, but good, hardworking men. I see you have timber for completing the Tennessee.” Bowater nodded toward the stacks of wood positioned around the ship. “What of her iron plating?”

  “Most of her iron’s here… well, not here, exactly. Across the river, Arkansas side, but it’s there. Just needs paid for and we pick her up.”

  Bowater nodded. “You have the funds to pay for her?”

  “Not exactly. But Secretary Mallory, he’s been a real gentleman about advancing money, as needed. Wouldn’t have got half done on the Arkansas if it weren’t for that.”

  Bowater nodded. “And her machinery? Engines?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, we got all the machinery in order. Right ove
r there, on the second barge, there’s Tennessee ’s engines.” Shirley pointed enthusiastically.

  “I see,” said Bowater. “And why, pray, are her engines on a barge?”

  “Oh”-Shirley hemmed a bit, threw in a few ha’s-“Well, we reckoned it would be best to get them away, you understand. Engine’s a damned hard thing to get these days, worth its weight in gold. More than that. You can’t make an engine out of gold, can you? So the provost, he said, get the engines out of town with the Arkansas. It’s a minor thing, no cause for worry. Come time to drop them engines in, why, we’ll just tow her back upriver.”

  Bowater shook his head. Lost causes were becoming something of a specialty of his, and, romantic though they might be, he was not sure that he cared for them so very much.

  He spent another hour with Shirley, during which time the contractor tried to bolster his spirits with regard to the possibility of getting Tennessee in the water. The more he talked, the more Bowater felt the blue devils torturing him. By the time he bid farewell to John T. Shirley, Samuel Bowater was thoroughly depressed.

  “Lieutenant!” Shirley called just as Bowater was stepping through the gate. He turned, and Shirley hurried up. “Almost forgot. This come for you yesterday. Didn’t know who the hell ‘Samuel Bowater, Esq.’ was, so it went plumb out of my mind.”

  Bowater put down his seabag and took the package, wrapped in brown paper. It was heavy, the box inside hard-a wooden box, not cardboard. Addressed to him at Yazoo City, but somehow, miraculously, it had been correctly rerouted.

  Bowater’s first thought was that it was from Wendy, but he looked at the return address and saw that it was from his father. So, it would not be anything of an uplifting or sentimental bent, but that was all right. He was wandering in the wilderness, and any contact with his former life was welcome.

  Thanking Shirley, he made his way to a nearby hotel, which the contractor had suggested. He secured a room and, key in hand, stumbled up the narrow stairs, fiddled with the lock on the door until he managed to open it.

  The room, with its sagging bed, faded curtains, patchy rug, and faint smell of mildew did not lift his spirits. He dropped his carpetbag, seabag, and the package from his father, shed his frock coat and vest, flung his cap away, and sprawled on the bed.

  He lay there for some time, drifting in a place between wakefulness and sleep, a place that offered no rest or peace. At last, with a sigh, he rolled over and sat up.

  The first thing to catch his eye was the packet from his father, but he was not in the mood to read William Bowater’s stoic reports of wartime Charleston. A little humanity would have suited him, and he knew he would not find it in his father’s correspondence.

  Instead he fished around in his carpetbag and pulled out a package that Mississippi Mike Sullivan had given him, saying only, “Here’s what I done. Have a gander, would you?” as Bowater left with Taylor for the hospital. The bundle was wrapped in brown paper and bound with tarred marlin, but there was no question as to what it was. The latest adventures of Mississippi Mike Sullivan, the Melancholy River Rat.

  Without thinking, Bowater ripped the paper off and read the note on top, written in Sullivan’s barely legible scrawl.

  Dear Captain Bowater,

  This here’s the latest chapter I writ and I wood be honored wood you read it and tell me what you thik and don’t go easy on me neither. Like always, I follered yer ideas and they was damned good ones to. I still reckon some of them names you come up with is a bit queer, but you know best on such things.

  Yer frend,

  Mississippi Mike Sullivan

  Bowater smiled as he read it, remembering the look on Sullivan’s face as he handed the pages over. What was it? Sheepishness? Yes, it was that, but something more.

  Vulnerability. That was what it was. Mike Sullivan, human mountain, was vulnerable and he knew it. Bowater found himself wondering at the courage it took for Sullivan to expose himself to the possibility of devastating ridicule. No wonder he was so very secretive about their literary endeavors.

  But Bowater had to be in the right mood to stomach Sullivan’s “lit-rit-ur,” and at the moment he most certainly was not. He set the manuscript aside, picked up the package from his father, and tore off the paper.

  Inside was a wooden box, which Bowater suspected contained a bottle of wine. He slid the cover off. Inside, an 1853 Chateau Petrus, a merlot from the Bordeaux region. And while Bowater the Younger generally eschewed merlot as inferior blackstrap, he was aware that a few of the French vintners were doing some astounding things. And if William Bowater had gone to the effort of sending this wine halfway across the country, there had to be a damned good reason.

  Samuel uncorked it, examined the cork, poured a bit in the glass he carried with him, wrapped in cotton and silk. He swirled it under his nose. Excellent. He sipped. A complex but subtle wine, fruity but not obnoxiously so. He could taste the French oak from the cask in which it was aged. It gave the wine a somewhat more manly palette. He held the wine in his mouth a moment, then swallowed. The merlot was fabulously deep and beautifully textured with a lasting finish. He smiled. Held the bottle up and examined the label. A touch of civilization, here in the wilderness. He sat on the bed and tore open his father’s letter, angling it toward the candle burning in the holder on the nightstand.

  My Dear Son, he read and he frowned and squinted at the page. His father always began a letter Dear Samuel:. Always a colon. The comma was a new degree of intimacy.

  I trust this finds you well and safe. I pray that it does. You have seen hard fighting in the fourteen months since you took that difficult step of resigning your commission and joining the Confederate States Navy, and I have feared for your safety every minute. Those naval officers who remained with the Union sit fat and idle on board their big men-of-war, which every day I can see on close blockade off our harbor, taking no greater risk than chasing unarmed runners, while you and all the brave men of the Confederate Navy, like David of old, go into battle with little more than slingshots and ships in sinking condition. No one has ever praised Goliath for his courage in facing David, and why should they? There is no courage needed when your force is overwhelming.

  Bowater studied the handwriting to see if there was any sign that his father had been drinking. There was nothing in the letter so far that sounded like the William Bowater, Esquire, who had raised his son to be a man of honor and discipline, and not some libertine sentimentalist. He wondered what the old man would say if he knew that most of his son’s fighting of late had consisted of brawling with river men.

  By now you are thinking that the old man is getting soft in the head, and perhaps I am. Perhaps the war is wearing me down.

  Lord, it has been just over a year, not so much time, but how dreadfully sick I am of the death! Young men who march off so full of promise, and all that is ever heard again is a letter describing what minor skirmish or what camp disease has laid him in his grave. And despite the great setbacks our cause has suffered, I do not believe the conflict will soon end. I find myself both proud of our new nation’s determination, and frightened by the terrible toll it will exact.

  You will remember Donald Wood, I have no doubt. An affable young man, very capable and with much promise. I do believe he had hopes of courting your sister. In any event, he is the latest of our young men to die, shot down in some minor and already forgotten skirmish on the Peninsula around Yorktown. I fear for his mother’s health, with the grief she has suffered.

  Bowater looked away from the letter, let his eyes settle on the dancing flame of the candle.

  Donny Wood…?

  The name brought back a rush of images. Catching frogs in creeks, watching the big ships warp against the Charleston docks, fishing from leaky rowboats. All those things that boys will do. Playing at soldiers. Running wild with Donny Wood was how the young Samuel Bowater had coped with the rigidity of the Bowater home. He did not understand that then, of course, but he saw it now.

 
; And now Donny was dead and no doubt buried in a shallow and unmarked grave. Samuel had urged him to apply to the Navy School, but Donny wished to follow his father into business, just the thing Samuel wished to avoid, and so they had parted ways, and saw one another only infrequently over the intervening years. And now Donny was dead.

  Donny must have made a good soldier. Esprit de corps came naturally to him, which it did not to Samuel. Samuel had envied him that, his easy ways, but he could not emulate them, because that was not how he was raised. Donny had been, as his father said, affable, capable, tough when he had to be. He would not have been one of these malingerers, whiners, and grumblers. A great, great loss. A loss to the Confederate Army, to Charleston, to Samuel Bowater. He felt as if his own childhood had been cut down by a Yankee bullet.

  Bowater read through the rest of the letter, but quickly, because his head was still full of Donny Wood. He read about his sister’s grief and made some vague promise to himself to write to her.

  He set the first page aside. Between the first and second was a bank draft for the amount of five hundred dollars. Confederate money, but still it was a significant sum. This too was utterly unprecedented. His father had never done the like before.

  I have enclosed a bank draft for a certain sum, Bowater read, the last paragraph of the letter.

  Perhaps funds will buy you some small comfort, replace what you have lost in the destruction of your last ship. I don’t know. I wish there were more I could do. I wish I could come there and shield you from harm, as I did when you were a boy, but God help me I do not know what to do so I send money. It is a hollow thing, Samuel, and made more hollow still as money does us little good in Charleston these days. There is precious little to buy, with the blockade squeezing us tighter.

  I am proud of you, son, and love you dearly. Your affectionate father, Wm. Bowater, Esq.

  Affectionate father… He had never been that. Over the past year, Samuel Bowater’s well-ordered life had been twisted around and spun off in so many directions, he felt sometimes as if there was nothing left that was certain and solid. And here was another surprise. Donny dead, William now his “affectionate father.” Battered, exhausted, depressed, grieving, and confused, Samuel Bowater lay down, fully dressed, and slept.