Thieves Of Mercy sb-2

by James L. Nelson

  Not so seriously, however, that they could resist a few appreciative glances as Molly, and Wendy behind her, came to a halt in front of them.

  The lieutenant stepped forward, gave a little bow, doffed his hat. “Ladies, how may I assist?”

  “I would like to see Captain John Tucker, of the navy,” Molly said, very businesslike. “Is he within?”

  The lieutenant smiled. “I believe he is within, ma’am, but he’s a bit busy right now.”

  “He will see me. Please inform him that Molly Atkins is at the gate.”

  Molly stopped, as if no more need be said. The lieutenant began to smile again, amused and patronizing, and then the smile died as the possibility dawned on him that Molly was something more than a camp follower. He hesitated; his eyes shifted left and right. He made a decision. “Johnson, go and find Captain Tucker. Tell him there is a Molly Atkins here.”

  Johnson saluted and ran off into the dark shipyard. “So, Lieutenant,” Molly said, and her voice was all sweetness now, “whatever is your name?”

  There were questions that Wendy wanted to ask, questions piled on questions, going right back to Molly’s brandishing that first pistol, but she could not ask them, standing there in front of the navy yard. In any event, Molly gave her no chance as she carried on her flirtation with the lieutenant.

  By the time Johnson returned with a naval officer following behind, the lieutenant would have torn off his right arm if Molly had asked him to.

  “Mo-Miss Atkins, a pleasant surprise.” Captain Tucker was tall, with dark hair and long side whiskers that ran up into his moustache and along the side of his mouth, so that only the hair on the chin was missing to make it a full beard. He bowed, took Molly’s proffered hand.

  “Captain, the lieutenant here has been most gracious, but is there a place we might speak?”

  Tucker threw a glace back over his shoulder. Lights were moving like fireflies in the shipyard, and a world of noise was coming out of the dark, men shouting orders, large things moving, the sounds of a shipyard being dismantled.

  “Ah, yes, I suppose…” Tucker said. “Won’t you follow me?”

  “Certainly. Wendy, may I present Captain John Tucker? Captain, this is my niece, Wendy Atkins.”

  Tucker nodded, too distracted to take any great notice. The lieutenant barked, “Johnson, Quigley, get the ladies’ bags!”

  The soldiers snatched up the carpetbags as Tucker led the way into the shipyard. Molly turned to Wendy and said, sotto voce, “You can see they don’t call Captain Tucker “Handsome Jack” for nothing.”

  Wendy smiled, nodded, followed behind Molly, unsure of how a rash decision just a few hours before had led her to that place.

  They crossed the cobblestone-paved ground, and the farther they got into the yard, the more pronounced the sound of chaotic flight. It was the same within the walls of the yard as it was in the town outside, except that the chaos in the navy yard had more of a feel of organization. Methodical chaos.

  “They reckon the Yankees’ll be here any day,” Tucker explained as they walked. “We could defend this yard if we wanted to, but Richmond doesn’t believe it, so we’re taking everything that can be moved and we’ll leave the rest.” He shook his head. “Absolutely shameful.”

  They came at last to a brick building, an office building, and Tucker led them inside, down a hallway lit with a series of lamps, into what Wendy assumed was his own office, a cluttered desk, papers piled on chairs, on top of file drawers. A young midshipman was pulling armfuls of documents from the drawers and stuffing them into crates on the floor.

  “Fletcher, leave us for a minute,” Tucker said and the young man disappeared.

  Tucker cleared off two chairs, gestured, sat behind his desk.

  “All right, Molly,” he said.

  “John…” Molly paused after the familiar address, gave the name a teasing quality. “Wendy and I are trying to get out of Norfolk. Before the Yankees arrive. There’s no getting on the trains, and the roads are impossible.”

  For a moment they were silent, the implied request hanging in the air. Then Tucker said, “Do you want me to get you on board a naval vessel? Molly, you can’t possibly think-”

  “Not a naval vessel, silly. Surely there are tugs and transports and things. What are you using to carry all your loot to Richmond?”

  “Well, there are transports, but-”

  “John…” Again Molly paused, and Wendy could only shake her head in admiration. Molly could do with words what Wendy strove to do with painting, applying the subtlest shading, pulling nuance out of the mundane, infusing every bit of it with meaning that was clear to anyone alert and intelligent enough to grasp it.

  “John, you know it would not be good for the Yankees to find me here.”

  Tucker was silent for a moment. “No,” he admitted at last, and Wendy understood enough of the conversation to realize she was not really following it. Why wouldn’t it be good? Are the Yankees going to rape and pillage? Surely they would not, and even if they did, why should Molly think she warranted special treatment? And why might Tucker agree?

  “But Molly, I don’t think the Yankees will be looking… for you… in particular.”

  Molly sighed. “I would not have thought so a month ago. Now…?”

  No, Wendy thought, they are having a conversation on an entirely different level, like they’re talking in code. She looked at her aunt, with her lovely full lips, her little nose in profile, and wondered who the hell she was.

  Tucker shook his head. “Molly, I understand your situation, but you must understand mine. There is just no possibility-”

  Footsteps clattered down the hall outside and the fragile tension of their negotiation collapsed as Tucker turned his head to the closed door. A fist rapped on the frame.

  “Come,” Tucker called. Wendy saw a cloud of irritation sweep across Molly’s face, and then she resettled herself, adjusted her skirts, and with that resettling, her face fell back into its usual expression, one nearly devoid of emotion, save for a slightly pleasant, not too inquisitive look. It was the expression Wendy had fixed in her mind when she thought of Molly. Now she wondered if perhaps even that expression carried more nuance than she had ever guessed at.

  The door opened, and a man in the frock coat and cap of a Confederate Navy lieutenant entered, saluted. A handsome man, early thirties, perhaps, with a bold dark moustache the same color as his dark brown eyes. “Sir, I’m back from Sewell’s Point.”

  “Tell me what’s happening,” Tucker said. The lieutenant’s eyes darted at the two women. “Molly Atkins, Wendy Atkins,” Tucker added, “may I present Lieutenant Asa Batchelor? Go ahead, Lieutenant, it’s all right.”

  “Ah, yes, sir…” Batchelor began, unsure. “The Federals opened up a little after noon and the forts replied as best they could but of course they’re all but deserted. The Federals continued until the Virginia came up, around two-thirty.”

  CSS Virginia . Wendy knew her well. Everyone around Norfolk did. Since March of that year, so did everyone in the Western world. She was an ironclad man-of-war, a battery of ten heavy guns housed in a nearly impregnable casemate, built on the hull of the former United States steam frigate Merrimack .

  A month before, she had mauled the Federal blockading fleet in a day-long, bloody rampage, had been absolute master of Hampton Roads until the Union ironclad Monitor arrived. Since that day, it had been an uneasy stalemate between the two novel ships.

  “Was the Monitor there?”

  “Yes, sir. Monitor and four of their smaller steamers. They did considerable damage to the fort. Set the barracks on fire. Reckon they’re still burning. As soon as Virginia steamed up, well, they all up-anchored and skedaddled back across the Roads.”

  Tucker nodded. “No fight?”

  “No, sir. Monitor doesn’t care to tangle with the Virginia anymore, it seems.”

  Tucker nodded again. “No troops? Did they seem as if they were interested in putting troops a
shore?”

  “No, sir, not that I could see. No boats from any of the ships. Guess maybe they were just testing the strength of the forts on the point.”

  Tucker frowned. Molly spoke. “Whatever is the matter, Captain Tucker?” It sounded silly, a woman and a civilian asking after military affairs, and so it seemed odder still when Tucker answered her with no hint of condescension.

  “The Federals are going to put men ashore somewhere, and soon, I imagine. We need to keep Virginia safe, she’s the most powerful weapon we have. We can’t afford to let her get trapped between the Yankees ashore and the Yankee fleet in the Roads.”

  “So send her away,” Molly said. “Send her up the James to Richmond. Defense of the river will be as important as the defensive lines on shore.”

  “We can’t.” Tucker smiled. “We need her here. She’s the most powerful weapon we have. Besides, Virginia might be able to stop the Yankees from taking Norfolk. McClellan nearly canceled his whole campaign for fear of Virginia.”

  “The Yankee soldiers are only vulnerable to Virginia when they are landing,” Molly said. “She can do nothing to them once they are ashore. What you need to know is when and where the Yankees will land, so you can stop them, or at least hold your beastly iron ship here until the last moment.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well,” Molly said, as if the answer was obvious, “why don’t you ask me to find out for you?”

  Tucker leaned back in his chair, regarded Molly for a moment. “I thought you wanted to get out of Norfolk,” he said at length. “Now you’re offering to stay?”

  “I’ll stay long enough to tell you when and where the Yankees will arrive. I’ll find that out in exchange for your promise that Wendy and I are on the boat that takes you out of here.”

  Tucker looked at Batchelor. Batchelor looked baffled, and Wendy was glad to have company in her confusion.

  “I don’t know…” Tucker said. “If you were going to New York, perhaps. But you’re too well known around here, particularly among the navy men. You said yourself you wouldn’t be safe-”

  Molly dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be safe, don’t you worry. I have Wendy here, and Wendy”-Molly’s voice dropped to a whisper-“has a gun!”

  Tucker laughed and then Batchelor laughed and finally Wendy thought she saw the humor in it and she laughed too. And then Tucker said, “Very well, Miss Atkins, if you reckon you can fulfill your part of the bargain, you have a deal. What do you need?”

  “Well”-Molly ran an appreciative eye over Lieutenant Batchelor-“why don’t you give me this handsome young officer and let him attend to my needs?”

  “Very well,” Tucker said. “Lieutenant, please attend to Miss Atkins. Get her whatever she wants, within reason.”

  “Ah… yes, sir,” Batchelor said.

  “Good.” Molly stood with the satisfied air of someone who has won an auction. “Let’s get moving. Wendy, come with me, darling.”

  Wendy stood more slowly. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m not entirely certain, dear,” Molly said, “but I suppose we’ll go and ask those vile Yankees what their intentions are.”

  SIX

  I trust that the results to be derived from this [River Defense] fleet will compensate for the outlay, but unless some good head is put in charge of it I fear such will not be the case. The expenses for outfit, payment for ships, and month’s wages will consume one and a half millions.

  MAJOR GENERAL M. LOVELL TO GENERAL G.W. RANDOLPH

  The morning after the brawl, Bowater woke with an unaccustomed stiffness in his arms and legs. He could feel the tender places on his body, like patches of punky wood on an old boat. He sat up with a groan and a difficulty that belonged to a much older man. He braced himself on the edge of his bunk with his right hand, then jerked the hand back as the pain shot right up through his arm. He closed his eyes, let the pain settle. He did not want to look at the hand but knew he had to. Finally, he opened his eyes, examined his outstretched fingers, his palm, and the back of his hand. It was swollen nearly double what it should be, and stained an unnatural yellow and purple. He flexed his fingers. He could move them all, but not much, and it hurt like hell when he tried. At least he could move them, which meant they were not broken.

  He thought.

  Goddamn it… He stood and shuffled to the small mirror mounted on the bulkhead, found that he could not walk without limping. Sullivan had given him one of the first-class passenger cabins, which was not what Bowater would generally call first class-it hardly compared to his second officer’s cabin aboard the USS Pensacola-but it was better than the bedroll on the deck that the men had for quarters.

  Samuel stared in the mirror, saw shades of his father staring back. It was in the eyes, the set of the mouth, the slightly weary, slightly haughty expression. His father wore a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, pure white, while Samuel wore a moustache and goatee, which were still dark brown, shot through with only a few strands of white.

  He shook his head, washed his face as best he could with his left hand, dismissed the idea of shaving. He pulled on his pants and his shirt. It took him fifteen minutes to button them, fifteen painful, frustrating minutes, but there was no chance that he was going to ask for help.

  At last he pulled on his frock coat and set his cap on his head. His muscles were warmed by the activity, the stiffness worked out of them, and he could walk with no discernible limp.

  He did not know what would greet him on deck, but he was not optimistic. There was civil war raging right on the decks of the General Page. The night before, the much-injured combatants had crawled off to their various places to heal: two sullen, angry gangs of men with a big score to settle. The war had not been decided.

  Perhaps they were going at it already, taking up where they had left off. But Samuel couldn’t hear the sounds of a fight, and he had to imagine that most of the others, like himself, weren’t feeling much like fighting at the moment.

  Maybe Sullivan was going to put the General Page against the bank and boot them all off, leave them stranded in some fetid swamp.

  He cursed himself, as he opened the door onto the side deck, for putting himself and his men at the mercy of a man such as Mississippi Mike Sullivan. Then he cursed Mike Sullivan and Hieronymus Taylor and the world at large.

  It was quiet on deck, just the creak of the big paddle wheels, the squeak and groan of the walking beam on the deck above, the rush of water along the sides. Bowater looked out over the great brown expanse of river water, the lush green shore far away.

  There was no fight that he could hear.

  He made his way down the side deck to the first-class passenger’s salon, last night’s battlefield. He reckoned breakfast was out of the question, for him and his men, anyway.

  At last he could hear voices and he paused to gauge their timbre. Loud, boisterous, but not angry. Not the sounds of conflict. He wondered if his own men were collected someplace else on the ship. Aft on the fantail, perhaps.

  Perhaps. But first he had to look in the salon, as much to demonstrate that he was not afraid to show his face in there as to look for his crew. He took a breath, pushed the door open.

  The sight that greeted him was not the one he would have expected. Indeed, it was the one scenario he had not even considered, his men and the riverboat men all eating their breakfast, clustered around the damaged tables and occupying the surviving chairs, or sitting on the deck, backs against the bulkheads. It was not blue-water men to port, riverboat men to starboard, but all of them mixed up, some talking, some eating, some sucking on cheroots. There was not a bit of animosity in the air. Quite the opposite. The atmosphere was, if anything, congenial.

  “Here, Captain, come on over here,” Hieronymus Taylor called from across the room. He was seated at a round table with Spence Guthrie, the Page’s chief engineer, and First Mate Buford Tarbox. Being as the Page was a man-of-war, Tarbox probably should have had the title first lieut
enant, or executive officer, but Bowater could not bring himself to think of the man in that way.

  Bowater pushed his way through the men, trying not to limp, trying not to look surprised. One of the riverboat men at a nearby table stood and pushed his chair up to Taylor ’s table so that Bowater could sit.

  “Thank you,” Bowater said, sitting carefully. Doc, still clad in his filthy apron, appeared out of nowhere and set a plate of fried eggs and bacon down in front of him. Bowater nodded his thanks. He picked up the fork and slipped it under the table, and with the tail of his frock coat he scrubbed it as hard as he could.

  “Captain, good day to you,” Tarbox said, scraping a lucifer on the table and sparking up a cheroot. “We had us a pretty good run overnight, considerin we was draggin that barge you commandeered. Be right up with Greenville by the middle of the forenoon watch.”

  “Indeed.” Bowater tried the eggs. Not bad. He was very hungry.

  “These gentlemen been telling me about the paucity of supplies to be found in Memphis,” Taylor said. “It don’t look too encouraging, I got to say.”

  Bowater nodded, his teeth working on a piece of bacon. Behind him, the salon door opened and Mike Sullivan’s voice roared through the cabin. “Whoa, you dirty dogs! Y’all get on deck, a clean sweep fore and aft! Y’ain’t on a goddamned yachting holiday!” There was good humor in his voice, and his men leaped up, and Bowater’s men leaped up too, and tumbled out on deck, and Bowater wondered when they had begun taking their orders from Sullivan.

  He had the sudden, disturbing thought that perhaps the fight had not really happened, that it had been a dream, or something worse.

  “Captain Bowater!” Bowater swiveled to see Sullivan stepping up to their table. “How’s the hand this morning?” He was grinning wide.

  “The hand is fine, thank you, Captain,” Bowater said, with coolness and just enough courtesy to avoid the taint of rudeness. He wished there were a way to discreetly slip his hand-which was decidedly not fine, and looked it-under the table, but it was too late for that.