JAMES NELSON - Thieves Of Mercy

“We are attempting to secure passage, Sullivan, and we have no more time to waste conversing. Good day.”

Bowater stepped away, but Sullivan said, “Now wait, Captain,” and his tone was more conciliatory. “This here’s your lucky day, because the fact is I’m takin my steamer up to Memphis. Leavin tonight.”

“Well, ain’t that a coincidence,” Taylor said. “Don’t reckon we need any part of what you’re up to.”

“Now hold on, Chief,” Bowater said. He did not want Taylor to toss away an easy solution to their dilemma just because he didn’t care for this “Mississippi Mike.” Bowater didn’t care for him either, but he could tolerate him for the length of time it would take to steam to Memphis.

There was also some satisfaction in overriding Taylor.

“You’re heading up to Memphis tonight?” Bowater asked. “Are you hauling freight?”

“Deserting to the Yankees, most like,” Taylor offered.

“Now lookee here, Mr. First Assistant Engineer Hieronymus Taylor, Confederate States Navy, you ain’t the only one fightin this here war,” Sullivan said. “Fact is, I am captain of the side-wheel ram General Page, the pride of the River Defense Fleet, true Sons of the South and the foremost defenders of this here river.”

“That a fact?” Taylor said, and now it was he who was smiling, grinning around his cigar, but Sullivan did not seem to notice.

“That’s right, boy,” Sullivan said, tapping Taylor on the chest with a finger like a sausage. “We are an independent branch, we answer to the general of the army in the Mississippi Department, and we don’t take orders from no navy peckerwoods.”

Indeed, Bowater thought. The River Defense Fleet certainly did not take orders from naval officers, peckerwood or otherwise. Or from anyone else, for that matter.

Part of the fleet had been at the Battle of New Orleans. They had refused to cooperate in the organized action against the Yankees and had contributed absolutely nothing to the defense of the forts. The only thing they did that Bowater was aware of was to accidentally set their fire rafts alongside Fort Jackson ’s wharf, blinding the Confederate gunners but neatly illuminating the fort for the Yankees. That was what the War Department got for the one million five hundred thousand dollars they spent establishing the River Defense Fleet.

“River Defense Fleet, huh? Oh, brother, now I am impressed, ‘Mississippi Mike,’ ” Taylor said. “Captain Bowater, I think we best look for more suitable transport upriver.”

“Hmmm,” Bowater said, stalling. It was only a ride upriver, for God’s sake, a little over two hundred miles, two days’ steaming at the worst. They could endure Sullivan and the River Defense Fleet for that long. What harm could come of it? “Actually, Chief, I believe we’ll accept Captain Sullivan’s offer.”

“Whatever you say, Captain,” Taylor said. He looked amused.

“Sure you will,” Sullivan said, giving Bowater a good-natured slap on the back, just the kind of bonhomie that Bowater despised. “The Page ’s the fastest damn boat on the river, and I’m the best damn pilot. We’ll be pickin up a barge tonight, and then it’s off to Memphis.”

“Very good, Captain,” Bowater said. “If my men can be of any assistance in your navigation, let me know.”

“Oh, I reckon y’all can be of assistance, suh, absolutely.” The jolly tone had left Sullivan’s voice, as if he was forcing himself to be sincere. “I imagine you are some eager to get to Memphis and take command of your… ironclad .”

Then like steam through a cracked pipe, the laughter burst out of Sullivan’s mouth and he doubled over again.

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.