Thieves Of Mercy

SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET, ACT V, SCENE 2

By June 30, 1863, the Battle of Memphis was a year gone. Time, that great if arbitrary healer, had come to the aid of Hieronymus Taylor. A broken leg had been the death of plenty of men, but not Taylor. It took him four months to recover from the third break to his leg, brought about by the falling shaft, and he was left with a permanent limp, but nothing worse.

Time was not so kind to Colonel Charles Ellet, Jr. The wound to the knee was not nearly so bad as the injuries suffered by others who survived, but he nonetheless suffered infection and died two weeks after his great victory.

And by June 30, 1863, all of it-Fort Pillow, Memphis, the River Defense Fleet-it was all history. Samuel Bowater’s short tenure with the army was over, and he was a navy man once again, once again a part of the Confederate States Navy that would fight on until the war was truly and finally over. Likewise Hieronymus Taylor. Ruffin Tanner. By the summer of 1863, those events at Plum Point Bend and Memphis were largely forgotten by everyone who had not been immediately touched by them.

In Pennsylvania they were worried about more than history. In particular, attention was focused on the gathering of armies in a place called Gettysburg for what had the makings of a major fight. The coming battle would throw the Southern invaders out of the North, or allow them to push on toward Washington, D.C.

And Lieutenant Tom Chamberlain of the 20th Maine, bone weary from the day’s march, was hoping for a moment’s reprieve. He longed for a moment during which he did not have to think about army things.

They had been marching hard, had covered eighteen miles the day before and twenty-three that day. They were marching north, pursuing Lee through Pennsylvania. The locals had been glad to see the Union Army, and had even obliged them by setting up roadside stands to sell food and drink at usurious prices. But Tom had noticed that the closer the civilians were to the Rebel army, the more obliging they became to the Army of the United States, and the more reasonable their prices.

He sat on his camp stool and leaned back against a small oak. He pulled his boots off and allowed himself the luxury of a groan. Around him, hundreds more men were doing the same, sitting around their little fires. It was hot, and no promise of rain, so the men eschewed their tents and slept on the ground. They would not be there long. Ten hours if they were lucky.

Tom Chamberlain had driven a nail into the trunk of the oak and hung a lantern from it, which gave him light enough to read. He pulled the dog-eared book out of his haversack. It, like the 20th Maine, had seen hard use, being passed from man to man with a smile and a “Hell, you got to read this.”

Chamberlain opened the book to where he had stuck a maple leaf as a bookmark the night before. Chapter Fifteen-Mississippi Mike Turns the Tables on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, His Hebrew Pards.

He smiled in anticipation and began to read. Soon he was chuckling, he could not help it, and then laughing outright. It was perfect, magnificently crafted.

He read for the next hour, until he was done, then put the book down with a satisfied smile on his face. Lord, that’s funny. I cannot wait until Joshua has a go at it.

Tom’s brother, Joshua, colonel of the 20th Maine, would genuinely appreciate the genius of this subtle parody. Joshua was an educated man, a professor at Bowdoin College before joining the army. He knew his Shakespeare and would appreciate this skewed take on the bard.

He held the book up and read the title in the light of the lantern. Mississippi Mike, Melancholy Prince of the River, or, The Rebels’ Hamlet, written by a Union Officer Serving on Western Waters.

Tom wondered who the officer was. There was good reason for him to avoid putting his name on it. The people back in Washington would not look kindly on an officer with so much time on his hands that he could write such a bit of doggerel.

And there was no doubt that Washington was aware of the book-it was immensely popular throughout the North, and particularly among army officers. Whoever that officer was, he had been in the South long enough to have a genuine feel for the colloquialisms of that illiterate, ignorant race of people.

He had to be a Yankee. Who but a New England man could be so thoroughly versed in Shakespeare, and able to craft so perfect a parody? No doubt he was making a small fortune off his royalties, with all the copies that had been sold. It was just too bad that the anonymous author would never get the credit he deserved.