Thieves Of Mercy

THIRTY

The people in tens of thousands crowded the high bluffs overlooking the river, some of them apparently as gay and cheerful as a bright May morning, and others watching with silent awe the impending struggle.

COMMANDER HENRY WALKE, USS CARONDELET

There was going to be a battle. A fight on the river. It was what everyone in Memphis was saying. It loomed like the Second Coming in people’s minds, and it made Wendy Atkins so anxious she could scream.

Getting upriver from Yazoo City to Memphis had been no easy task. Even with money to pay her passage-and it was running low-it had been a job just finding a boat making the run. Wendy heard various takes on the same theme-Boat to Memphis? Hell, there ain’t no boats no more. Should a seen it before, hell, you could walk to Memphis on the damned boats. Now? With the damn Yankees, an Jeff Davis? You’d have better luck swimmin-until she was ready to tear her hair out.

But she made it. Through perseverance, monetary disbursement, and shameless flirting she had managed to get upriver to

Memphis, stepping ashore on the afternoon of June fifth with absolutely no notion of what she would do next, where she would go, how she would find Samuel.

She secured lodging first-it seemed practical-and then began to ask around. There were two things that she kept hearing. There was no naval presence in Memphis, no naval officers or men. And there was going to be a battle on the river.

Those two facts seemed to contradict one another. How could there be a battle on the river with no navy? she wondered. Finally she found a haughty assistant provost named van Reid, who explained to her that the Confederate squadron, a thing called the River Defense Fleet, was not under the command of the navy, but under army control, to the extent that it was under any control at all.

“I see…” Wendy said.

“And now, it is hardly safe for you to be abroad, ma’am. Might I escort you to your lodging?” the suddenly solicitous van Reid asked.

“I think I am safer escorting myself, thank you,” she said curtly and walked off. It was dark. She was very tired. She walked uphill to her hotel.

She was just stepping through the door of her room when another line of questioning came to her. The Tennessee, she thought. No one in Memphis knew where a naval officer might be found, but surely someone would know where this Tennessee was being built. With a refreshed sense of optimism, she went to bed and slept, deep and dreamlessly.

She was awake before dawn, dressed, and was out the door. She woke the clerk at the desk, who was asleep on a tall stool and seemed in danger of toppling off.

“Tennessee? Certainly, ma’am. Tennessee’s building down to Shirley’s yard. Along with the Arkansas, which they towed off. I can get you a carriage, if you want.” He glanced dubiously at the front windows, which looked like black marble with the night sky behind them. “Don’t know if anyone will be there. Besides, there’s supposed to be a battle with the Yankees today.”

Wendy asked for the carriage. She could not wait another moment. She would rather pace back and forth in a dark, empty shipyard then sit in the hotel lobby, doing nothing.

The sky was lightening when they left the hotel, though the sun had not risen and the town was still lost in the gloom. Wendy sat in the carriage, swaying back and forth, stomach knotted. The old man driving the coach did not seem in much of a hurry, and Wendy wanted to lean out the window and tell him to get a damned move on, but she held her tongue.

Finally the carriage came to a stop, nearly tumbling Wendy headfirst. She felt it rock as the driver climbed down, opened the door. “Shirley’s yard, ma’am. Don’t know as anyone’s here.”

Wendy stepped out into the cool air under the now light blue sky. The air was thick with the odor of charred wood, an acrid smell that reminded her of the Gosport Naval Shipyard, which she had twice seen burned.

“This is fine, thank you.”

The carriage rattled away and Wendy stepped over the bare ground into what she guessed was a shipyard. There were makeshift buildings and piles of wood in sawn boards and uncut logs. And in the middle of the yard, a great pile of charred wood, a heap at least one hundred and fifty feet long and ten feet high of black charcoal and white ash. As she approached it, she could feel it was still warm, still smoldering. It could not have been burned very long ago. What was it? she wondered. Could this have been the Tennessee?

She heard footsteps and her hand reached down for the hem of her skirt, ready to pull it aside, yank the gun from the holster, a move she had practiced in the privacy of her room. She could see a man hurrying toward her, head down, moving fast. A small man, he did not seem to notice her.

“Excuse me,” she said when she saw he was going to walk right past her.

“Oh!” The man jumped in surprise. He stopped in his tracks, looked over at her. “Yes? May I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Wendy Atkins.” She stepped toward the man.

“Pleased to meet you. I am John Shirley. I am the owner of the yard here.”

“Honored, sir. Perhaps you can help me. Do you, perchance, know a Lieutenant Samuel Bowater.”

“Bowater? Certainly I know Lieutenant Bowater. Right behind you, that pile of ash, that was his command. Burned it last night. Before the Yankees got it.” There was more than a little bitterness in his voice.

“Oh, dear. Will Lieutenant Bowater be here today?”

“Today? No, I shouldn’t think so. No reason for him to come here now. Besides, there’s going to be a battle, or so they say.”

So they say, Wendy thought. If there was going to be a battle on the river, she suspected that Samuel would be part of it, army command or no.

“Bowater was friendly with one of the captains of the River Defense Fleet,” Shirley continued. “Don’t recall his name. Big fella. Had the boat General Joseph Page. I imagine Bowater is probably with him today.”

“Yes…” Wendy said. Oh, God, this was terrible! She had finally found him, or near enough, and now he would be off to battle, perhaps without even knowing she was there.

“Do you know where this General Joseph Page is anchored? Or tied up?”

“The fleet was tied to the levee last night. Not very far from here. I could take you, if you like.”

“I would like that very much,” Wendy said.

From somewhere north of them, up the river, hidden by the cluster of waterfront buildings, a gun went off, the loud report of heavy ordnance. Shirley looked up quickly. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Reckon we better hurry.”

Samuel Bowater made his way down the side deck, bearing half of Mississippi Mike Sullivan’s weight on his shoulders. By the time they reached the ladder to the hurricane deck, the firing had escalated from a single gun here and there to an all-out barrage, a solid noise of gunfire, a murderous cannonade.

Sullivan seemed to gain strength with each step, putting less and less weight on Bowater’s shoulders, for which Bowater was grateful.

They came to the forward end of the boiler deck and stopped. The Federal ironclads were opening up all along their line. The ships themselves were beginning to look blurry and indistinct as they were lost from sight behind the wall of their own gun smoke. The gunfire was like the rumble of thunder, and cutting through that low sound came the terrifying whine of shells screaming past.

“Damn me! This is more like it!” Sullivan said, and though his voice lacked its characteristically excessive vigor, still there was life in it. As love’s first kiss brought Snow White back to life, so the sound of flying metal seemed to revive Mississippi Mike.

“Can I help you to the hurricane deck?” Bowater asked. “Thank you, Cap’n, I do believe I can get there under my own

steam. You go on, now.” Bowater nodded, bounded up the ladder and aft to the wheelhouse. Tarbox was working the cheroot in his mouth. “Signal from the flag boat, Cap’n. Montgomery’s sendin Jeff Thompson, Sumter, Beauregard, and Lovell forward, try and draw these bastards off’n the bar. Rest of us is back here. Reserve, like.”

Bowater nodded. He could see the four bigger steamers advancing on the line of gunboats, firing their bow guns, then steaming into their own clouds of gun smoke. The General Page was half a mile from the ironclads, the four Rebel boats in the advance were half that distance.

A shell flew by, close, with its terrible banshee scream, and Bowater and Tarbox both turned their heads and watched it hit the water astern. “Reckon we’d be dead meat if them Yankees didn’t have all that smoke in their eyes,” Tarbox observed.

“Let’s head toward the Arkansas shore,” Bowater called through the open wheelhouse door to Baxter, who was resting on the big wheel, “see if we can get a clean shot at the gunboats.”

Baxter nodded, turned the wheel. Bowater stepped in and rang two bells. Mississippi Mike appeared over the edge of the hurricane deck. He was pulling himself up the ladder, it seemed hand over hand, red-faced and sweating, and Bowater wondered if this was such a good idea. But he knew Sullivan could not remain in bed, not with his ship going into battle. No captain could, who deserved that title.

“Cap’n Sullivan…?” Tarbox said. His tone was a mix of pleasure and uncertainty.

“Tarbox…” Sullivan nodded. “I’m jest a sightseer,” he added. “Cap’n Bowater’s still runnin the monkey show.”

Tarbox looked from Sullivan to Bowater and back, then nodded.

The General Page was working her way across the river, and Bowater was looking for a place where they would have an unobstructed shot at the enemy. “There!” he said to Baxter, stepping into the wheelhouse. “Let’s head up right there.”

Baxter grunted, gave the wheel a small turn. Bowater grabbed a tall stool that was pushed against the aft bulkhead and carried it out to the side deck.

“Captain Sullivan, a seat for you.”

Sullivan looked dubiously at the stool, as if it were too nancy for him to sit down, but as it was, he was leaning heavily on the rail for support, so he muttered a thanks and sat.

“Mr. Tarbox, let’s have the bow gun fire when ready. Tell them to keep it up, as long as they can find a target.”

Tarbox nodded and hurried forward.

“Aw, hell, Cap’n,” Sullivan said, settling on the stool, breathing hard. “Here you’re bringin all yer fancy navy ways to my boat. ‘Mister’ Tarbox! Shit, now he’s gonna expect me to call him that!”

“I’m not sure a little discipline-” Bowater’s retort was cut off by the roar of the Parrott rifle, which sent a shudder through the deck and a blast of smoke out over the water. As if in response, a Yankee shell whistled past, taking out the boats on the starboard side in a great starburst of white-painted splinters. Shattered bits of boat flew high over the deck, like a flock of birds in disorderly takeoff, then came clattering down again, leaving only four bent davits standing and the torn ends of the boat falls swaying back and forth.

“Damn,” Sullivan said.

Bowater looked forward. The smoke was thicker around the ironclads, the gunfire more furious. This is idiotic, he thought. We can’t do this. It was insane for the River Defense Fleet to remain where they were and swap gunfire with ironclads. They could never win on that ground. And the fleet had already proved that their rams could be effective against the Yankee gunboats. It was time for a cavalry charge.

He turned to Sullivan. “We can’t stay here. We’ll be murdered.”

“You sure got that right.”

“We should ram them, go right at them.”

“Ram them? Hell, I was gonna say we should skedaddle to Vicksburg.” Sullivan gulped a few deep breaths, winced in pain. “Naw, I’m jest joshin ya. You do whatever you want, Cap’n, an I’m with ya. Ain’t like I got much choice.”

Bowater studied the Union ships. They were all but lost in the smoke; it was hard to see which would make the best target. The General Page’s bow gun went off again, rattling the lightly built vessel as if it had struck a rock.

“How much water is up there, where the Yankees are?” Bowater asked.

Before Sullivan could answer, a ship burst from the bank of smoke, right between two of the Union ironclads, a side-wheeler charging downriver. It looked like a ghost come from the grave, as if it had appeared out of thin air.

“Damn!” Sullivan shouted.

“It’s one of the rams!” Bowater shouted, forgetting to temper his excitement. Then, in a more controlled voice, added, “One of the rams we saw upriver.”

“Well, now we got us a fight, ram to ram,” Sullivan said.

Colonel Lovell and Sumter were steaming up to the enemy, line abreast. They altered course with the appearance of this new threat, and made for the Yankee ram. The smoke rolled thick and black out of their chimneys, striking four dark lines against the sky, and Bowater wondered what the engineers were throwing on the fires. He frowned. He wanted to be at the enemy, or at least get a clear cannon shot, but the other ships were blocking his way.

He turned to Baxter. “Follow Sumter!” he ordered. Perhaps there would be something left over for them.

And then a second ram burst from the fog, a roil of white water around her bow as she poured on the steam. Most of the River Defense Fleet was concentrating on the first ram; there was only the

General Bragg between Bowater and the second Yankee. You’re my meat, Bowater thought. “He’s our meat!” Sullivan shouted. God help me, Bowater thought.