JAMES NELSON: Thieves Of Mercy

From the deck of the tug, as the pilot jockeyed her into the dock, Bowater could see brown patches of turned earth scattered over the high bluffs. Artillery positions set up to command the river below. Confederate gunners could set up a plunging fire that even ironclads would have a hard time surviving. If there was any city that could hold out against the Union’s two-pronged attack, it would be Vicksburg.

And that was good, because soon Vicksburg and Port Hudson would be the only points on the Mississippi that were not in Union hands. They would be the citadels that would deny the Yankees control of the entire river, from the headwaters to the delta.

“Goddamned Yankees can’t have control of the Mississippi. They can’t,” the pilot said to Bowater, speaking around a large wad of tobacco and ringing all stop down to the engine room.

“No,” Bowater replied, though he did not know if the man meant that the Confederate Army would prevent it or that a just God would not allow it to happen.

Bowater led his men onto the dock. He did not know what to do next, so he sent them to find some dinner and forbade them to drink, while he went to see about their transportation. He gave the orders in a tone that implied he had the whole thing figured.

“Chief Taylor, come with me, please. Tanner, you’re in charge until my return.”

Bowater led Taylor down along the waterfront, and when he had put some distance between them and the men, he stopped and Taylor stopped as well. Bowater had been saddled with Taylor as engineer since his first command in the Confederate Navy. Taylor had a genius for irritating him, but he also had a genius for engineering, could keep machinery running with a near magical efficiency; the two nearly canceled one another out.

“I’m not certain how we should go about securing passage to Memphis,” Bowater said. “I know you are quite familiar with the shipping around here. I would appreciate your thoughts on the matter.”

Taylor nodded. “Beats me,” he said. Insubordination, infinitely subtle. That was Hieronymus Taylor’s forte.

Bowater pressed his lips together, preventing himself from speaking. Taylor was going to play this one for all it was worth. The river and its people were a community, a waterborne society, about which Bowater knew nothing. He was as lost here as Taylor would have been at the grand Charleston balls or theater performances that were part of Samuel’s former life.

And so Bowater resisted saying the first thing that came to mind, which was a rebuke involving several animal similes, because, infuriating as it was, he needed Taylor ’s help.

“You are more familiar with Vicksburg than I am. How do you think we should proceed?”

“Well…” Taylor rocked back on his heels, looked up at the high bluffs. “Normally there’d be a power of traffic runnin up and down the river. But hell, this don’t hardly look like the Vicksburg I know. People rushin all over, ain’t but half the number of boats you normally see dockside.”

Bowater had been to Vicksburg only a few times, but he too recognized the difference. The city was preparing for an attack, aware as the Union was of the strategic importance it held. There was a different feel to the place, a desperate and determined feel.

“I guess we had best just walk on down along the docks, ask around,” Taylor said.

“Very well,” Bowater said. He had been hoping Taylor would have a line on a ship, perhaps know someone who could help, but in the end he had suggested the one thing that Bowater had already considered.

Well, that was a damned lot of crow I ate for nothing.

They continued on along the waterfront, considering the various side-wheelers and stern-wheelers and screw tugs, searching for a vessel that looked to be getting under way soon. Bowater walked with purpose. Taylor ambled along with hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth.

The voice, when it called out, was so loud it seemed to boom at them from several directions. “Hieronymus Taylor! You damned, dirty dog!”

Bowater looked around. It was like trying to determine what direction a bullet came from. Taylor’s face lost its amused expression and he said, “Ah, hell…” as Mike Sullivan appeared on the hurricane deck of a side-wheeler, wearing dark braces and a checked shirt stretched over his big chest, a battered sack coat. He was waving a sweat-stained slouch hat, grinning through a massive and untamed beard.

“Taylor, you wait right there, you dog!” he called and hurried down the ladder to the main deck, stepping easily onto the wharf, moving with a grace Bowater found surprising.

Sullivan hurried up, grinning wide. He was even bigger than Bowater had thought at first, over six feet and approaching three hundred pounds, but there was nothing flabby about him. He reached out his hand, took Taylor ’s, which Taylor offered with a halfhearted gesture, shook it hard.

“Hieronymus Taylor, you son of a bitch! Ain’t seen you in… hell, must be a year at least. Not since we whipped your ass in that run to Natchez.”

“We beat you by thirty-four minutes,” Taylor said through clenched teeth as his arm was worked like a pump handle.

“Like hell… well, maybe.”

Taylor turned to Bowater. “Captain, this here’s-”

The big man turned to Bowater, held out his hand. “Mike Sullivan. They call me Mississippi Mike Sullivan.”

“No one calls you Mississippi Mike Sullivan but you,” Taylor said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Bowater said, shaking hands. Mississippi Mike had about him the faint odor of whiskey and cigars and coal dust and turpentine.

“ ’Course you’re pleased to meet me! Heard tell of me, no doubt. Hardest drivin, hardest drinkin, most dangerous son of a whore riverboat man on the Western Waters.”

“Impressive curriculum vitae, skipper, but no, I’m afraid I have not heard of you.”

“He ain’t from around here, Sullivan,” Taylor said.

“Oh, that’s it. Should have guessed from that fancy-lady way you talk. Must be from the goddamn moon, ain’t heard of Mississippi Mike Sullivan.”

Sullivan let go of Bowater’s hand, turned back to Taylor, squinted at the shoulder straps on his uniform frock coat. “ Taylor, what the hell is this? What are you, on the Sanitary Commission or some damned thing?”

Taylor stiffened and said, in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could manage, “As it happens, Sullivan, I am a first assistant engineer in the Confederate States Navy.”

Sullivan paused as if he was too stunned to speak and then he burst out laughing. He laughed from his ample gut, the way a grizzly bear would laugh if it could. He laughed for a long time, until he was red in the face, gasping for breath, as Bowater and Taylor stood silent and annoyed.

“First assistant engineer?” Sullivan said, trying to breathe. “What the hell is that? They let you run the ash hoist, or you gotta be promoted to full junior engineer to do that?”

Taylor nodded, worked the cigar around in his mouth.

“Chief Taylor is lead engineer on board my command,” Bowater explained. “First assistant is just a navy designation.”

“That a fact?” Sullivan wiped a tear from his eye. “What command is that, Captain?”

“The ironclad Tennessee, building in Memphis.”

Sullivan’s eyes went wide. “The ironclad Tenn -” At that he howled again, bent over double, laughing so hard he looked like he would pass out.

“You don’t need to help my case no more, Captain, thanks anyway,” Taylor said.

Sullivan straightened. “How long you been the captain of the Tennessee ?”

“I have just received orders now.”

“You’re a long damned way from Memphis, Captain, if you don’t mind my makin that observation.”