Thieves Of Mercy

TWO

I will here state that the river defense fleet proved a failure… Unable to govern themselves, and unwilling to be governed by others, their total want of system, vigilance, and discipline rendered them useless and helpless when the enemy finally dashed upon them suddenly in a dark night.

MAJOR GENERAL M. LOVELL TO GENERAL S. COOPER, ADJUT ANT AND INSPECTOR GENERAL, RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

Even before the shooting started, Bowater guessed that his blue-water sailors and the riverboat men would be an uneasy mix. Taylor put that concern in his head. It was just after Bowater ushered his men into what had been the General Page’s first-class passengers’ salon back when the River Defense boat General Page had been the civilian riverboat Lisa Marie. The navy men took seats at the tables along the port side. Taylor sat down beside Bowater, his frock coat unbuttoned, his cap tilted back, three days’ growth of beard on his face. Taylor seemed more relaxed in some ways, being back on his native Mississippi. And in some ways he seemed less. There seemed to be some turmoil of the spirit raging in the engineer’s soul, which, like most things about Hieronymus Taylor, was of no interest to Bowater. “Captain,” Taylor drawled, “I reckon a warnin is in order. I know there are certain… aspects of my personality that you find objectionable. Fair enough. I’m a river rat, and you’re… well… not. But the boys they got working this bucket, they’re somethin else.”

“In what way?”

“Well… they ain’t real refined. Not like me. And they don’t like the navy, and they don’t like deep-water sailors, and they don’t like much of anything else. We just got to see our boys don’t get baited into doin somethin stupid.”

Bowater was digesting this when the door burst open and the crew of the General Page spilled into the salon. They were big men, with wool pants and checked shirts or patched dungarees held up with braces, bearded or with thick moustaches, sweat-stained caps and hats pushed down on their heads. They were a loud and aromatic bunch, cheeks bulging with tobacco. They were a well-armed bunch too, with pistols and bowie knives hanging from belts.

Bowater felt his men tense as the riverboat men, twenty-five or so in number, took over the salon. They carried pails full of food and they sat at the once fine tables on the starboard side and laid into their meal. They ate without talking, the only sound the loud chewing and smacking of lips. They took no notice of the navy men.

Suddenly one of the riverboat men leaped to his feet. “Son of a bitch, look at that one!” he shouted, jerking his pistol from his belt. Bowater stood quickly, unsure what was happening. His hand reached for his own gun, a.36-caliber Navy Colt, finely engraved, a gift from his father.

Before he could even pull the gun the river man started firing, blasting away at the salon’s forward bulkhead as half a dozen of his compatriots leaped to their feet, guns clearing holsters. Up against the bulkhead, the largest rat that Bowater had ever seen raced side to side, panicked by the bullets shattering the wood around him.

“Hold still, you little puke!” another of the riverboat men shouted, fanning the hammer of his gun. Bowater’s eyes moved from the rat to the firing squad and back. The animal froze, stood on hind legs, and then seemed to explode as a bullet hit him square, but that did not slow the gunfire. In seconds the place where the rat had been was reduced to a ragged, stained hole in the bulkhead, and it was only when hammers fell on empty chambers that the guns were holstered and the men returned to their meal.

In the quiet that followed the fusillade, Bowater waited for someone to comment, but no one did. He turned to his own men, who were all on their feet, eyes wide, pistols held limp in the hands of those who had them. All looked stunned, save for Hieronymus Taylor, who did not appear to have moved.

“They ain’t real refined, like I said, Captain,” Taylor explained.

Then the door burst open again, and Mississippi Mike Sullivan stood framed against the blue evening light outside. “What the hell is all this shootin?” he yelled into the salon, then charged in, very like a bull. The men at the tables did not even look up.

“Rat,” said the one who had fired the first shot. His mouth was full of beefsteak and the words were muffled. He swallowed. “Son of a bitch rat.”

“Rat!?” Sullivan shouted. “You’re shootin at a goddamn rat?” He crossed the room in five steps, planted a brogan on the shooter’s chair, and sent him flying. The man landed in a heap, scrambled to his feet, pulling a bowie knife as he did, a foot-long blade with a hand guard that made it look more like a short sword than a long knife.

The rest of the river men leaped to their feet, tumbling chairs to the deck, forming a rough semicircle.

Sullivan charged across the room. “We got guests aboard here, you dumb bastard!” he bellowed. His right foot came up and kicked the man’s hand hard and the knife flew away and Bayard Quayle of Bowater’s crew had to flinch to avoid being hit. Sullivan hit the shooter hard in the stomach, doubling him over, shoved him to the floor, pulled his own pistol, aimed it at the man.

“Get up, Tarbox,” Sullivan growled and the man on the deck stood up slowly. He stepped over and retrieved his knife and sheathed it and Sullivan put his pistol back in his holster because somehow they both knew the fight was over. The river men picked up their chairs, and resumed their meal.

“Did you git the sum bitch?” Sullivan asked.

“Yeah, I got him.”

“Come here,” Sullivan said and he led Tarbox over to Samuel Bowater. “Captain Bowater,” Sullivan said in a formal tone, “I’d like you to meet my first officer. This here’s Buford Tarbox, and he’s a hell of a river man when he ain’t bein a dumb-ass, shootin up rats in front of guests.”

“Honored to meet ya,” Tarbox said, sticking out his hand, and Bowater shook, too stunned by it all to do anything else. “Pleased to meet you,” he replied.

“Captain Bowater and his men is takin passage up to Memphis with us. They are the crew of the ironclad Tennessee,” Sullivan explained.

“The ironclad Tennessee, is that a fact?” Tarbox said with something like a half grin appearing through his thatch of beard.

“That is a fact,” Sullivan said. “Now show these boys some goddamn courtesy and get em somthin to eat, you hear? And don’t shoot nothin else.” Sullivan touched his hat to Bowater and disappeared. When he was gone, Tarbox shouted, “Hey, Doc, get these here fancy navy gen’lmen some grub!”

Tarbox picked up his chair and resumed his place at the table, while the one called Doc, wearing a stained apron, rose from his seat, conveying with every move, every nuance of expression, how much he resented the task.

Ten minutes later, pails of food were set on the tables occupied by Bowater’s men, and Doc went back to eating, without ever saying a word to any of the navy men, or even making eye contact. Bowater’s men were too hungry to care. They tore into the food in a manner that made the riverboat men look civilized.

The sky was coal-tar black when they finally got under way, approaching midnight, and the frenetic energy of soon-to-beembattled Vicksburg had slowed considerably. One by one the lamps that had lit the waterfront were extinguished, dark and quiet settled over the docks, the hiss of steam engines and the squeal of hoisting gear died away, the rumble of carts on cobblestone, and the shouting of motivated men tapered off and disappeared.

By 11 P.M. the loudest place on the waterfront was the big saloon on the main deck level of the General Page, where the crew of the riverboat had finished supper and moved on to whiskey, which made the otherwise taciturn men quite vocal, shouting, bragging, lying. The General Pages drank, smoked, chewed, and played cards. They ignored the blue-water men, who resented it, especially as it meant that none of the copious amount of whiskey flowing to starboard was finding its way to port.

The Page was a side-wheel steamer, one hundred and eighty feet on deck, around six hundred and fifty tons, not much different from hundreds of other riverboats that ran on the western rivers, hauling passengers, cotton, and mixed freight. Her twin paddle wheels were driven by a massive walking beam engine, a single cylinder driving a diamond-shaped rocking arm, the “walking beam,” that in turn rotated the paddle-wheel shaft. The engine was a huge affair, the walking beam mounted on top of a thirty-foot-high A-frame that went right through the hurricane deck, the uppermost deck, on which the wheelhouse sat.

Her conversion to a man-of-war had not been extensive. A heavy iron ram was bolted to her stem, just under the water. A metal shield that looked more like a cowcatcher than anything else was mounted on her bow and backed up with compressed bales of cotton. That offered some protection to the men working the ten-pound Parrott rifle mounted forward. On her stern she carried a thirty-two-pound smoothbore cannon, used to discourage pursuit. Unlike the crowded men-of-war to which Bowater was accustomed, there was a lot of room left over for the crew.

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.