Thieves Of Mercy sb-2

by James L. Nelson

  “You-” Newcomb began and stopped. Whatever he had been expecting from his prisoners, this was not it, and it seemed to unnerve him, which Wendy imagined was to their advantage. She crossed over to a big wing chair and curled up as best as she could and closed her eyes. She waited for Newcomb to do something, say something, but there was only silence.

  She was more exhausted than she could recall ever having been. If he was going to kill them or rape them, then their sleeping now would not change that. A bullet through the head, she imagined, was better taken while asleep anyway. She sat with eyes closed and prayed, preparing her soul in case she woke up on the other side of mortality. And as she made her peace, she fell asleep.

  She woke sometime later, how much later she did not know. Still motionless, she opened her eyes and surveyed the room. Through the drawn curtains it appeared to be full daylight, so she imagined it was seven o’clock in the morning, at least.

  Batchelor’s body had been dragged aside and lay near the piano, a quilt that her grandmother-Molly’s mother-had made years before draped over him. Newcomb was on the move, pacing, rifling drawers, reading correspondence, crushing it in his hand. He did not see her watching him. The watch went in and out. Whatever madness had been urging him on the night before now seemed to have complete control.

  He spun around and Wendy shut her eyes quickly, then opened them again, just a crack, to peer out through her lashes. Newcomb was leaning into the window, curtains pulled back, looking out, first left, then right, craning around to increase the arc of his vision. The sunlight fell on his lined face, made his wild hair look even more out of control. He straightened, tugged at his clothes. He spun around again, stamped over to the love seat where Molly slept with her back to the room. He shook her, hard.

  Molly rolled over slowly, sat up, as if awakened from the untroubled sleep of the innocent and safe. It had to be an act, Wendy imagined, even cool-as-a-cucumber Molly could not be entirely unruffled.

  She stretched, arched her back, yawned, which made Newcomb jerk in agitation. With some difficulty he pulled his watch, his hand full of crushed papers, old correspondence by the look of it.

  “What is this?” Newcomb demanded, holding the paper in Molly’s face as if it was evidence of some betrayal.

  Molly glanced quickly at the papers, then met Newcomb’s eyes and held them. “Letters, it looks like,” she said.

  “Letters! Letters, yes, letters addressed to Molly Atkins.” He threw a letter on the floor. “Molly Atkins, Molly Atkins, Molly Atkins!” With each accusatory repetition of the name he flung a letter to the floor.

  “Molly Atkins,” Molly said. “That is my name. I told you that last night. Whomever you think you fell in love with, she does not exist.”

  Newcomb stood straight, spun around, flung out his arms. He muttered something; Wendy could not make it out.

  “Wendy, dear,” Molly said, as if Newcomb were not there, “I am sure they will send troops to look for poor Lieutenant Batchelor. Have you heard any yet?”

  Newcomb stopped his agitated fidgeting, glared down at Molly. She has gone too far, Wendy thought.

  “Shut your mouth, you bitch!” Newcomb said, his volume building with each word. His arm drew back across his chest and before Molly could raise an arm to ward off the blow, he whipped the gun across her face. Molly spun round, sprawled out on the love seat. Wendy could see the bright red line of blood across her white cheek, her expression of fury and fear.

  “You cowardly little puke!” Molly hissed. “I’ll kill you for that!”

  “Kill me…” Newcomb advanced on her and for the first time Wendy saw the shadow of fear on Molly’s face, and then New-comb hit her, right in the face, hit her with his balled fist and sent her flying to the floor.

  “You bastard!” Wendy shouted and flew at him, lashing out with her fists, but her punches were nothing to him. He hit her with the back of his hand, made her stagger back. Behind her, Molly was pulling herself to her feet.

  “Keep away from me, you bitch,” Newcomb growled.

  “You dirty little coward!” Wendy shouted, backing away.

  Newcomb turned on her, advanced on her, the gun held at waist height, pointing at Wendy’s heart.

  “Coward!”

  “Shut up!” he shrieked. “Shut your mouth!”

  “I will not shut up, you bastard!” Wendy screamed back. The control was gone now, the pistol pointed at her chest meant nothing. “You little chicken-hearted-”

  “Shut your mouth, damn you!”

  Molly was getting on her feet. In her hand she clutched the poker from the parlor stove. Keep looking at me, Wendy thought.

  Newcomb’s jaw was working hard. With his left hand he jerked the watch from his pocket, opened it, stared at it.

  “Stop that, you damned lunatic!” Wendy shouted and her hand lashed out and snatched the watch from Newcomb’s hand, tore the fob clean out of his vest. She threw the watch down on the floor as hard as she could, but it only bounced on the carpet, so she brought her heel down on it with all the force she could bring to bear. She felt it crush underfoot, heard the satisfying sound of glass and metal fracturing.

  “You… bitch…” Newcomb said, looking at the remains of the watch at his feet. The words came out in a whisper, and they carried far more menace than did his shrieks. He looked up, raised the gun. Over his shoulder Wendy could see Molly flying across the room, a fury of petticoats and blond hair, arms drawn back as if she were chopping wood with an ax.

  Newcomb sensed her there, swung around just as Molly swung the poker. He raised his hand to deflect the blow. The poker hit the gun, knocked it free from his hand with a dull clanging sound. The pistol dropped to the carpet and the poker bounced off Newcomb’s shoulder. Newcomb slammed his fist into Molly’s stomach, doubled her over. Wendy saw her eyes go wide as she fell to her knees and Newcomb hit her in the face, backhand, and she was flung to the floor once again.

  Wendy screamed, screamed from her gut. She had never imagined such violence, not by a man against a woman. She flailed out at Newcomb, as ineffectually as before. Wendy saw his fist draw back, saw it come around at her face. It seemed to come slowly, as if he were moving underwater, but yet she could not avoid it, there was nothing she could do.

  And then he hit her, right on the side of the head, and she saw her whole world burst into a flash of light, a roaring noise, and she was twisting and going down. She put her hands out and felt the carpet and then her whole body thudded against the floor and then it was all blackness.

  When she came to, she did not know where she was, how she got there, how long she had been down. She opened her eyes, saw the wainscoting, the leg of a chair. Her head ached horribly. She heard screaming, shuffling, fighting, and she remembered. She turned her head, saw Newcomb lifting Molly to her feet, a handful of hair in his fist, saw him hit her again and Molly go down with a grunt.

  Seconds… a few seconds… Wendy realized she had not passed out for more than that.

  Get up… get up… but she seemed to have no control over her legs, her arms. She could not move, she could only watch.

  Watch, as Newcomb kicked Molly hard. Watch as he dropped to his knees and flung her skirts aside, ripped her pantaloons off her legs. Watch as he fumbled with his belt, shouting, “You bitch, you bitch, you bitch!” like some kind of mantra.

  Molly was screaming, but groggy, slurred, shouting, “No, no!”

  Get up… get up… and Wendy thought she felt some life in her arms, as if they were coming to now, as if she were coming awake from the head down. She reached out an arm, reached it toward Molly, as if she could help, saw the tips of her fingers extending uselessly out.

  Get up… She put her hand flat on the carpet, put pressure on it, found she could lift herself, an inch, two inches. She felt a tingling in her legs, as if they were coming to life now, life returning to all her body. She pushed herself higher, got the other arm under her.

  Molly was groaning in pain and
despair, punching feebly at Newcomb who was on top of her now. Wendy pushed herself to her knees, her head pounding, the room whirling in front of her, and she fell forward onto her hands and knew she would fall if she stood up. Instead she crawled, crawled toward Molly and New-comb, crawled to where she could impose herself into his violence. Her hand came down on something hard and cold. She looked down. The pistol.

  Wendy picked the gun up, surprised by how heavy it was. She pushed herself up onto her knees and this time it was better, this time the room remained fairly motionless. With two hands she held the gun straight out, saw Newcomb’s head over the barrel and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing. Hammer… She remembered, from deep down, Molly’s brief lesson. Her right thumb caught the knurled top of the hammer and pulled it back, and even over the sound of the violence the click, click, click-click was loud and ominous.

  Newcomb came upright on his knees, twisted to look behind him. Over the barrel Wendy saw the look of shock on his face and then she pulled the trigger. The gun flew back, knocked her to the floor, wrenching her arm. The room was lost in the flash and smoke and noise. Wendy lifted herself with both arms, got a knee on the floor, pushed herself to her feet. She stood for a second, the gun limp at her side.

  Aim the gun, aim the gun… She knew she had to be ready in case she had missed but she could not make the room stand still long enough for her to concentrate on anything but her own balance.

  At last the room ceased its spinning and she half lifted the gun. She took a step forward. There was no need to aim. Newcomb lay sprawled out on the carpet, half on his side, half on his back, his face covered with blood. Blood dripped from his nose and made black, wet pools on the carpet. He did not move.

  “Aunt…” Wendy dropped the gun, knelt beside Molly, who had lifted herself up on her arms, brushed her skirts down around her legs. “Aunt…”

  Wendy looked into Molly’s eyes and saw a coldness and a deadness that she had never seen before. Her aunt’s lip was swollen and blood ran down her chin and there was a long bloody gash from the pistol-whipping. Her eye was puffy and red, the top of her dress around her neck ripped.

  “Here, Aunt, let me help you up,” Wendy said. She stood, offered a hand, helped pull Molly to her feet. She could not think of anything else to do, did not know what to do next.

  Molly looked down at Newcomb’s body, stretched out on the floor. “Bastard,” she said, softly, then louder. “Bastard! Bastard!” She kicked Newcomb and he rolled over on his back and she kicked him again and again and Wendy did not know what to do, did not know if it was better to let her go or to stop her. So she did nothing, and finally Molly staggered back, hurt and exhausted, staggered back and fell into the wing chair and closed her eyes.

  Wendy looked around the room, saw the quilt-draped body of Lieutenant Batchelor, and she remembered. She remembered the promise of transportation out of that horrible place, of passage to Richmond and safety and civilization. They had to get to the shipyard and soon, because the Yankees were coming, and the yard would be abandoned and they would be left behind.

  “Molly, we have to go,” Wendy announced, but Molly just looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. Norwegian.

  “We have to get to the shipyard before Tucker sails and leaves us behind. Come on.” Molly did not respond, so Wendy grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “We have to go, Molly, come on!”

  Wendy picked up Molly’s bag and thrust it into her hand and Molly held it, automatically, her hand acting on its own. Wendy picked up her derringer from where Newcomb had tossed it and replaced it in the holster on her leg. She grabbed her bag and Molly’s reticule and headed for the door. She stopped when she realized that Molly was not following. She turned. Molly was staring at Newcomb’s body. She was not moving.

  “Come along, Aunt!” Wendy ordered. She took Molly’s hand and pulled her across the room and out the door.

  Together they stepped out into the yard. The sun was well up, it had to be late morning. There was no one in sight, no movement on the streets. In the distance Wendy could hear the occasional shout, the odd bang and clash, sounds of desperation and flight, but nothing that gave any indication of how things sat in Portsmouth or Norfolk.

  They hurried down the path, Wendy still half towing Molly, and out the gate, not bothering to close it. They walked down the narrow cobbled street to where it met with Water Street, running along the edge of the Elizabeth River to the Gosport Naval Shipyard. They stopped. Great plumes of black smoke rolled up from the very place where the shipyard stood.

  “This is not a good thing,” Wendy said, but Molly did not reply. “Come along.” They stepped out, quickened their pace, hurrying on the verge of a run. Wendy’s breath was coming faster through the twin exertions of running and pulling Molly behind. Her bag was banging painfully against her thigh, but her sense of urgency did not allow her to slow. She could smell the smoke now, it grew more overwhelming with each step they took toward the navy yard. She could see flames reaching up, even in the brilliant sunlight. She could hear the crackle of fire consuming wood.

  When they reached the wall of the shipyard they slowed their pace to a quick walk, tried to regain their breath as they hurried for the gate. Wendy wanted to ask Molly if they were too late, but she did not, because Molly did not seem to be with her anymore.

  At last they came to the big iron gate, and there they stopped and dropped their bags and panted for breath, coughing with the smoke swirling around them.

  The gate was hanging open, there was no guard there. The big ship houses were in flames, as were the timber sheds, storehouses, mast houses, and ropewalks. A great mass of black smoke roiled up from the buildings, the red and yellow flames reached up out of the windows and grabbed at the roofs. It was a scene of complete destruction. There was not one other human being in sight.

  EIGHTEEN

  HAMLET:… I have heard, That guilty creatures sitting at a play

  Have by the very cunning of the scene

  Been struck so to the soul that presently

  They have proclaimed their malefactions.

  SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET, ACT II, SCENE 2

  Samuel Bowater felt like Noah’s less-enlightened neighbor. It came to him as he stood contemplating the ship ways on which the Arkansas had once stood. Arkansas … Ark… The Arkansas was long gone, towed away downriver, like Noah’s boat carried off on the flood. And here he was, with an ark of his own, half built. He was desperately trying to finish her up, but the water was rising fast. The River Defense Fleet’s victory at Plum Point Bend had electrified Memphis. The sailors of the fleet were lauded as heroes, eulogized to the heavens, lionized in the press, boozed up for free in the taverns. Some of the better-known brothels even offered attractive discounts to veterans of that fight. And there were a lot of veterans. It seemed to Bowater that suddenly every third man in town was a sailor in the River Defense Fleet. The ships themselves would have sunk under the weight of all the swaggering ersatz river men who claimed association with that special branch of the army. He just hoped that all these fellows with their newfound enthusiasm for the war would be there when it came time to confront the Yankees again-and that time would come-but he suspected they would not. He suspected that when the iron was flying again they would all go back to being blacksmiths and barbers and bottle washers.

  Samuel Bowater always found the praise of civilians tiresome, and he found the adulation in Memphis more tiresome than most. He blamed his poor attitude on the frustration of having his new command still in frame, her iron on the Arkansas side of the river, her engines towed away to God knows where, and the still-powerful Yankee fleet just a few miles upriver.

  The bluebellies were weaker by two ironclads, that was true, but it would not be true for long. The first ship that the River Defense Fleet had struck, which turned out to be the USS Cincinnati, was still in the mud. Reconnaissance north of Plum Point Bend revealed t
hat she had not moved from the place where she sank in water up to her casemate roof. But the Yankees were making prodigious efforts to raise her, and there was little doubt they would succeed, and then the Cincinnati would be towed away to Cairo, Illinois, for repair, and soon she would be fighting again.

  The second ship that the Confederates had rammed, which the papers were saying was the Mound City, had been raised already and was already off to Cairo. And so the sinking of two ships, which, had they been Confederate, might have been the ruin of the fleet, was to the Yankees with all their extraordinary resources just a big inconvenience, no permanent setback.

  The Yankees were weaker for the moment, but they were still there, and they still had powerful gunboats, and they would not be caught a second time with their pants around their ankles. And without surprise working for them, the River Defense Fleet would be murdered by those iron monsters. What was needed was a Confederate ironclad.

  And that was the very thing that Bowater was driving himself to distraction trying to build.

  He had allowed his men forty-eight hours to revel in the adulation of an adoring Memphis, and then back to work. On the morning the grace period was over, Bowater walked briskly the half mile from his hotel to the waterfront. The spring morning was warm, the walk invigorating, and he arrived at John Shirley’s yard at 7:50 with a glow of optimism, which was snuffed out as soon as he found that he was alone. He had ordered his men to report to the yard at eight o’clock, not a minute after. By 8:05 not one was there.

  The former Yazoo Citys were quartered in various places around town. Bowater considered sending a boy to fetch them, but realized that would be pointless. They were not likely to be at their assigned quarters. More likely they were scattered like chaff through the bars, whorehouses, fetid back alleys, and jails of the town.

  Bowater was just working up a good head of profanity when John Shirley stepped out of his office and over to the gate to greet him. “Captain, Captain, good to see you. Congratulations on your victory. You know I had not yet heard of it when we spoke the other day, and you didn’t say a thing about it, did you? Humility, it’s a damned important trait, I say, and I reckon you got it in spades. A man should take a power of pride in that kind of humility. Where are your men?”