Thieves Of Mercy sb-2

by James L. Nelson

  She turned to Molly. Looked for something there, anything, a suggestion, some encouragement. But Molly was sitting on one of the low capstans alongside the dry dock and staring out over the water toward Norfolk to the east. No emotion registered on her face or in her eyes. It was a blank, dead stare, the look of someone waiting her turn at the gallows. She said nothing.

  Wendy felt the tears welling up, overflowing, running down her cheeks. After all this, all the hell they had endured, and now they were left behind by the man who had promised to save them, a man of supposed honor, who had abandoned them.

  They could not go back through the flames, and the river in front of them was impassable. There was nothing now but to wait for the Yankees, wait to be taken up as spies and hanged. The Yankees would find Newcomb’s body, and if she and Molly were not hanged for spies then they certainly would be hanged as murderers. All their efforts had done nothing but make their situation worse.

  Wendy swore, clenched her fists, let the tears come. And that was when she saw the boat.

  It was not a boat like a tugboat or a gunboat, but a boat like the kind carried on board a ship, the kind of boat that plied between ship and shore, ubiquitous and unremarkable. About twenty feet long, wide and deep, painted a smudged and dirty white with dark blue trim along the gunnel, it floated against the seawall, tied fore and aft to bollards on the shore.

  Wendy could see only a part of it, but, intrigued, she left her aunt and walked to the edge of the seawall and looked down. There were several inches of water in the bottom, but that did not seem very unusual-Wendy had seen supposedly seaworthy boats with more. The oars were there, and the thole pins to hold them in place, and lying across the thwarts, long canvas-wrapped poles. There did not seem to be anything particularly wrong with the boat. Inadvertently left behind, Wendy guessed, in the frantic rush to abandon the place.

  “Aunt, Aunt, see here!” she called excitedly, waving Molly over. Molly turned her head and looked, but she did not stand.

  “Look, Molly, a boat! We can go after Tucker and the others with the boat.” Molly’s eyes flickered down to the seawall, then back up at Wendy. She made no response.

  Wendy was not deterred, because here was a tiny flash of hope in the darkness. They could do this, the two of them, they could get in the boat and row it away to where the Confederate fleet had disappeared. Hell, they could row all the way to Richmond if need be.

  Wendy grabbed up their bags and dropped them down into the boat where they landed with a small splash in the bottom. She was making the decisions now for the both of them, but she told herself that was all right, she was doing the right thing.

  “Come on, Aunt Molly,” Wendy said. She stepped over to the capstan and held out her hand. Molly looked at her for a second, the dull, dead look, then reached out and took the offered hand, let Wendy pull her to her feet. Together, hand in hand, they walked over to the seawall. The boat was a few feet below the edge of the stone wall.

  “Here, Molly, just sit on the edge of the wall and you should be able to slide down into the boat. Here, let me help.” Wendy eased her aunt down until Molly was sitting on the edge of the wall, legs dangling down. Slowly she slid forward, her feet searching for the thwarts, until they found something solid and she slid the rest of the way. She stood on the thwart, then, wordless, turned and sat.

  Wendy followed, sliding into the boat in the same manner. She cast off the lines holding the boat against the seawall and gave a strong push. The boat bobbed and moved slowly out into the stream until at last there were twenty feet of water between them and the shore.

  She looked back at the shipyard, the buildings in flames, the great column of smoke. On the edge of the seawall was something bright and red and Wendy realized it was Molly’s reticule. They had left it behind.

  Damn. She was sorry to lose the pepperbox, but there was nothing for it now. There was no going back.

  Motionless, exhausted, Wendy watched the seawall slip by as the river slowly swept the boat along. She stared at the wall for a full minute before it occurred to her that the boat was moving upstream, heading away from, rather than toward, Hampton Roads and the Confederate fleet.

  She frowned, looked around as if she might see what was causing this phenomenon. How could they drift upstream? And then she thought, The tide! The tide, she concluded, must be flooding, rushing in with enough force to make the Elizabeth River run backward.

  “Aunt, we have to row now,” Wendy said. She struggled with one of the long oars lying across the thwarts. It was terribly heavy and awkward, and she was just able to wrestle it over the side of the boat and between the two thole pins, the way she had seen sailors do it. Balanced there, it was not too bad.

  She turned to Molly. Her aunt had not moved. She just stared aft, and Wendy felt the tears of frustration coming. “Oh, Molly, please, please, you have to row with me!” she pleaded.

  Molly turned her head slowly and looked at Wendy, and Wendy said, “Please, Molly, I know it is horrible what you have suffered, but if you don’t row now, then we’ll both die. Please, Molly…”

  A tear rolled down Molly’s cheek, a single tear, glinting in the sun. Then Molly leaned forward and picked up an oar and she too wrestled it over the side of the boat and between the thwarts.

  The tears were still running down Wendy’s cheeks, but she smiled. “Good, Molly, that’s good. Now, together, let’s pull.”

  They leaned forward, pushing the looms of the oars forward and down, then they brought the blades down until they felt them bite water, then leaned back, fighting the resistance. The boat slewed around a bit, its drifting slowed. Forward, oars down and then back, they pulled again, and this time the boat made headway against the flooding tide. Then once more, together, they pulled.

  Roger Newcomb thought he was dead. He lay there, motionless, eyes closed, but aware, conscious, alert. His head pounded as if it were being physically hammered, his body ached all over, his mind was a turmoil, a nightmare chaos of rage and fear and half-remembered violence. The only clear, rational thought that managed to work itself through that jumble was that he was dead, and suffering the torments of hell. It was the only thing that made sense.

  He did not move and did not try to move. He just lay there, eyes closed, but the longer he lay, the more his thoughts began to organize themselves and the more he began to suspect that he was actually still alive. Nonetheless, it was some time before he dared open his eyes, mostly for fear of what doing so might reveal. At last he did it. Slowly, both eyes together. The pain in his head redoubled. He blinked but kept his eyes open, trying to puzzle out what he was looking at.

  Not hell, he did not think. Whiteness. A white field. He looked at it for a full minute. Ceiling … I’m looking at a ceiling… He allowed his head to loll over to one side and he saw crown molding and the top of a wall. Farther, and he looked directly at a window with the sunlight streaming in, and he groaned and shut his eyes and let the pounding settle.

  I am not dead… He lay there with that new understanding, and slowly it came back. Hunting down the bitch spy, holding her until the Union troops could arrive, confronting her with her mendacity. He remembered the rage. He remembered what he had done and he was glad of it. But he did not remember anything else. He did not know how he had come to be lying on the floor.

  He wondered if the women were still there. For all he knew they were sitting right behind him, ready to kill him. He wondered if the Union forces had arrived yet. His pants were around his knees. God, they can’t find me like this. It was just how that bitch had threatened to leave him. He was beginning to panic.

  With a deep moan he opened his eyes and sat up, pushing himself up slowly, inch by agonizing inch. When he was sitting up he stopped and waited for the pain to settle some, then slowly, torturously, he stood.

  He was alone in the room. He did not know where the women were, but they were not here. There were blood splatters all over the carpet, and his.36 Colt lay at his feet. Slo
wly, carefully, trying not to fall or pass out, he pulled up his pants and buttoned them. He turned around. The body of the secesh officer he had shot lay by the piano. His eyes moved to the mantel over the fireplace. The clock said 11:10. He had been out for hours. His face felt sticky and encrusted.

  He took a faltering step toward the door and the shattered remnants of the mirror that was mounted there. He peered into a jagged shard of glass still hanging in the frame, but he did not recognize at first the terrible image that looked back. Smeared with dried and crusted blood, hair standing up and sticking out at odd angles, eyes bloodshot red.

  He reached a tentative hand up and probed at his scalp. He could feel a ridge of torn skin, hard with dried blood. An image swam in his head of that other woman aiming his gun at him. Had she shot him? The bullet must have grazed his scalp, knocked him senseless. Blood had poured from the head wound. They must have left him for dead.

  But he was not dead. He was alive and he could feel his strength returning, and with it a renewed sense of purpose, and a newfound fear.

  It had set in only a few moments after he let them board the Norwegian ship. What have I done? What sort of a coward am I?

  He fended off the tentative inquiries of Master’s Mate Pembrook. Sir, are you quite certain everything is all right? Sir, are you sure that was the President’s orders? But he was not certain that Pembrook was mollified. There was no telling what that little bastard would do, to whom he would talk, and what he would say.

  Cathy! Oh, God! They had met at an officers’ ball at Fortress Monroe soon after the fall of Fort Sumter. She was so beautiful, the center of attention, and she had picked him to escort her! She had lived in Portsmouth, but since the horrible Rebels had taken the place, she was afraid to remain. Or so she told him. Even told him which street she lived on, and he had never forgotten it.

  Beautiful, intelligent, vivacious. Insatiably curious about the United States Navy. She had a thousand questions and he, fool that he was, had answered them all, had shown her lists of the fleet dispositions, extolled the virtues of this secret plan, the shortcomings of that.

  Oh, he had impressed her, all right, with his encyclopedic knowledge. Knowledge that he had labored so intently to acquire, that he might impress his superiors, only to give it away to a damned secesh spy!

  Cathy Luce! They had seen one another for five months, on and off, and Newcomb had been ready with a marriage proposal when suddenly, one day, she was not there anymore. He had been frantic, heartsick, confused, but he had his duty, and that took precedence over everything, even love. He was never able to find out what had become of her.

  And now he knew. Now he knew it was all a lie, even her name, and he knew he had to stop her. He had packed his haversack, dressed in civilian clothes, told Pembrook he had secret orders from Admiral Goldsborough himself. Tell no one of my absence, do you understand? He had the boat land him at night north of Portsmouth.

  He wondered how many other Union officers there were who had willingly told her every military secret they held, in order to get a kiss on a front porch. Or more. She had allowed him a few liberties. He wondered what she might have done for a captain, or an admiral.

  The thought made the pressure rise again, like a boiler pushed well beyond its limits. He knew what she was now. Passion, honor, and duty all demanded the same action. Take her. Bring her in. Expose her. See her hung.

  The Union troops were slated to land at Willoughby ’s Point at ten o’clock and now it was 11:15 and they would be there soon. Before, he had looked forward to their arrival, eagerly anticipated handing over the assassin to General Wool and accepting the thanks and accolades of both the army and navy, not to mention that of the President of the United States. There would be no talk of desertion.

  But now? He had nothing. He was out of uniform, behind enemy lines, gone from his post without permission.

  God, what if they find me like this? He pulled his eyes from the horrible sight in the mirror, looked around the room. On the floor, lying amid a scattering of its own broken parts, lay his pocket watch. He walked over slowly, stooped, and picked up the remains. The hands had stopped at 9:34, which must have been when the bitch had crushed it.

  “Goddamn her…” Newcomb spoke aloud for the first time since coming to. The sound of his voice seemed to make everything more real and more urgent. He had to get out of that house.

  He had to do something. When the Union troops found him, he had to have some reason for being where he was, doing what he was doing.

  He slipped the remains of his watch into his vest pocket. On the fainting couch, where he had left it, he found his haversack. He pulled it open, peered inside. Telescope, loaf of bread, coil of half-inch rope, cartridges and percussion caps, some gold coins, his small Bible, it was all there, all the things he had packed for his mission.

  He slung the haversack over his shoulder, picked up his pistol, and headed for the door. The bright sunlight was agony on his head and made his eyes water but he did not slow as he walked down the path to the picket fence and the road. He stepped out into the street. There was nothing going on, nothing moving, as if the town were holding its breath, waiting for the invaders to do what they would.

  Newcomb looked around. To the south he could see a great column of smoke rising black above the roofs of the houses and he wondered if Union troops were burning property as they took it. It took him a moment to orient himself, a moment to realize that he was looking in the direction of the Gosport Naval Shipyard.

  “Oh, those bastards,” he said. The secesh must have torched the place before abandoning it. “Oh, those vandalous bastards.”

  He wondered if there was anything he might do to save the yard. Judging from the smoke, the fire was pretty well established and covered a lot of ground. But perhaps there was something he might do, something of importance he might save. If they found him there, when they came, heroically fighting the flames to save something vital for the Union, then perhaps there would not be so many awkward questions, even if he did not have the secesh spy in his custody.

  He started to walk and then he started to run. Soon he could see the low brick wall that surrounded the shipyard, a place he knew well from its time as a United States Navy facility. He was nearly to the gate when it occurred to him that perhaps it was not yet abandoned, that he might be running right into a trap.

  He slowed to a walk, approached the gate carefully. He stopped at the edge of the wall, peered around it. The gate was hanging open, no guards. He stepped around the corner of the wall. No one inside the yard that he could see. It looked entirely abandoned, the only movement the waving and leaping of the fires that were still consuming the buildings scattered around the yard.

  Newcomb stepped through the gate, moving cautiously, looking around for secesh, and for some opportunity, something he might do.

  He was too late, as far as he could see. Half the buildings had collapsed into charred rubble, and those that had not were too far gone to be saved. Not that he alone could have done anything in any event.

  He walked on. Through the smoke he could catch glimpses of the river, and that made him think of the dry dock. When the navy had abandoned the shipyard the year before they had mined the dock and tried to blow it to kingdom come. If they had succeeded, then the Rebs would never have been able to bring that Frankenstein’s monster Merrimack back to life. Newcomb wondered if perhaps the Rebs had also mined the dry dock, to deny it to the Union.

  He began to run, despite the agony in his head from each jarring footfall. If he could prevent the dry dock from being destroyed he would be a hero for certain. As he raced through the smoke he decided that even if the dock was not mined, he would try to round up barrels of powder and mine it himself, just so he could be discovered in the act of saving it.

  He broke through the curtain of black smoke, out into the open place where the cobbled dockyard ran down to the river, with the dry dock just ahead. He hurried on, hoping against hope that t
he secesh had filled the thing with gunpowder.

  He was near the edge of the dry dock when he saw a red bag of some sort lying on the ground. A reticule. He knelt beside it, reached out a hand and lifted it. It was heavy. He looked inside. Half covered by a handkerchief he could see the pepperbox pistol.

  Newcomb looked up, looked around. He was the only human being in the dockyard, that he could see. On a bollard nearby he could see dock fasts for a ship’s boat trailing over the edge of the seawall. He squinted upriver. He forgot entirely about the dry dock.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The enemy’s boats above Fort Pillow are now moored in narrow channels behind sand bars, where we can not attack them again, but we will wait and watch for another opportunity.

  BRIGADIER GENERAL M JEFF THOMPSON TO GENERAL G.T.BEAUREGARD

  Samuel Bowater walked stiffly uphill to the hospital. He was sore in several places from the beating he

  had taken at the Tilton Theater, the most violent theatergoing experience of his life.

  In performances past, when the final curtain fell on The Tragedy of Hamlet, it had been the stage that was littered with bodies, while the audience remained largely intact. But that wasn’t how it played out in Memphis.

  After the police managed to bring the brawling to a stop, and the only ones left in the theater were those who had not tried to run, or could not, Bowater had looked out over a scene much like the aftermath of battle. Men were sprawled on the floor or draped over seats or leaning against walls nursing wounds.

  Mississippi Mike Sullivan had a cut lip and a laceration over his eye that had smeared his face with blood and made his grin look even more maniacal. Bowater found Taylor propped up against the stage. He was sweating, barely conscious. His frock coat was torn and his hands were bloody, but the splint on his leg seemed to have held. His crutch was broken in two, and he still clutched the short end in his hand.