The Ironclad Covenant
By
Christopher Cartwright
Copyright 2018 by Christopher Cartwright
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Prologue
Natchez, Mississippi – May 18, 1863
William Chestnut’s ankles were bound by heavy leg irons. His wrists were locked in hand irons, which were then shackled to five other prisoners. All were then restrained using the same method. The shackles were the Darby type with barrel locks made by the Hiatt Company. The handcuffs had a square bow with notches on the outside that engaged a lock mechanism shaped like a teardrop. They were the same type he’d once used on the very slaves whose trade the Union had recently announced it was trying to abolish.
He looked up. The morning’s sky was already a bruised mixture of purple, red, and ochre. A violent storm was approaching. He grinned sardonically. There was a very good chance he’d be dead by the time it struck.
He turned his gaze from the horizon to the river and watched as the iron monstrosity approached the wooden jetty. Thick smoke billowed from her two large smokestacks. At 150 feet in length, 36 feet of beam, and drawing only 10 feet of water, the CSS Mississippi had been built to run the river system at speed. Her paddlewheel had been replaced with twin eight-foot bronze screws, powered by two large horizontal fire-tube boilers that lay below the waterline and allowed her to reach a top speed of fourteen and a half knots in calm water – a speed that allowed her to outpace any other armored ship on the river.
The ten-foot-high sloping sides of her casemate created a vaulted chamber toward the aft of the floating fortress, which angled inward at thirty degrees and extended below the waterline to form a protective bulge. She was clad in four and a quarter inch wrought iron, backed by fourteen-inch teak, which rested on a thick framework of pine and oak. The combination of iron and wood prevented spalling – the process where cannon shot would cause the brittle metal to splinter and break into lethal fragments capable of destroying the rest of the ship – and made her one of the most formidable ironclads on the river.
Built for speed, she carried just five guns.
Amidships, a single 200-pounder Blakely 11-inch rifled cannon was housed on a rotating cylindrical gun turret. The turret's rounded shape helped to deflect cannon shot. Two 120-pound Blakely 7.5-inch rifles were mounted fore and aft on pivots that allowed them to be fired in broadside, while two 68-pounder smoothbore muzzle-loading guns covered the starboard and port.
Her builders had failed to paint her and, like many of the other ironclads, she was covered in the deep rusty red of the Yazoo River, where her armor had been mounted. The outcome gave her low lying hull an almost camouflaged appearance against the ruddy color of the Mississippi’s banks. At her bow, she flew the Confederate Navy’s Jack.
Chestnut beamed with pleasure and disbelief as he recognized the vessel.
She was magnificent and hideous at the same time. He was forced to stand rigid with the other five prisoners as he watched the CSS Mississippi settle alongside the wooden jetty. At five feet eight inches, he was an average height. Just slightly taller than the men standing beside him with the exception of the Irish prisoner at the end, who was noticeably shorter. Chestnut had light brown, well-groomed hair, intelligent soft blue eyes, and undamaged fair skin. His hard-pressed starched military officer’s uniform distinguished him from the other prisoners with jarring manifest.
His chains clanked as he stood and the iron dug into his wrists. Despite the grating pain, he smiled as he studied the ship. She was marvelous and at the same time hideous to her core. She was one of the Confederates final hopes to maintain control over the Mississippi River. She bore the same name as her twin sister who was intentionally burned before completion rather than being captured when New Orleans fell to the Union Fleet on April 25, 1862. Like her sister, she was to be an engineering marvel – the strongest, fastest and most formidable ship on the river.
William wore the wry smile of a man whose recent experiences had given him a very new outlook on the world. It was like he’d only just recognized just how wonderful his life had been now that it was about to be taken away from him. The cool air was fresh and tasted sweet on his lips, despite the thick scent of burning coal. The dawn sunlight swayed the grays of the horizon toward a deep blue of another picturesque day in hell. He breathed deeply, enjoying the cold air through each of his nostrils, with the contented resignation of a man who knew that it would very likely be his last.
His body shuddered as the whip bit painfully at his lower back. The pain shot up through his back, sending intense spasms along his spine. He clenched his teeth together and focused on the pleasure of withholding any audible response to the provost’s attempt to single him out.
The provost guard cracked the bull-whip again. “Stand at attention, men – or I’ll make you wish you were already hanging!”
Wil
liam straightened his spine, fixed his eyes straight ahead and locked his thumbs against his thighs. Even the sting on his back felt invigorating, like a firm reminder that he was still alive. Despite the pain, he found himself smiling as amusement and disappointment shrouded the satire of his wretched life. That he would find such wonderment in the world, the very day he was to leave it. He wore the Confederate uniform, but he’d never been a soldier – not in the normal sense of the word. His expertise made him uniquely more valuable to the Confederacy than most men, who were no better than the cannon fodder that went to their slaughter day in, day out.
He watched as a number of men caught the heavy rope lines thrown from the deck of the CSS Mississippi. They quickly tied her heavy hemp ropes to the iron cleats and the vessel finally slowed to a stop. Confident she had been secured correctly, the commander of the vessel stepped off her low-lying bow and onto the wooden jetty. He approached the provost – a surly and bad-tempered man named Reynolds.
Commander Baker shook hands with the provost and at the same time exchanged orders. William watched as the Commander read the prisoner’s consignments. His jaw was set hard, as the commander’s eyes swept the six prisoners.
The Commander’s eyebrows narrowed. “They’re all to hang at Vicksburg as a deterrent to any other deserters?”
Reynolds nodded. “Lieutenant General Pemberton’s army has taken shelter within the defensive lines surrounding the fortress city. It’s believed that Major General Ulysses Grant is planning on a siege any day now. The last thing Pemberton wants now are his men thinking they’re better off deserting.”
Commander Baker nodded in understanding and then asked, in a steady voice, loud enough for all the prisoners to hear. “Deserters, the lot of them?”
Reynolds coughed and pointed at William. “All, except the one at the end.”
The Commander’s eyes lowered to meet Chestnut, with a cold and steely defiant gaze. “What did he do?”
“I’ll let you read his arrest warrant.” Reynolds pulled out a piece of rolled paper. “He’s the only man among them who truly deserves to hang. The deserters, they have to – every man’s afraid when the cannons start to fire and we can’t have others thinking it easier just to slip away in the night – but the man at the end, William Chestnut, he deserves to hang for what he’s done, and may God forgive his soul, because I sure as hell can’t.”
William noticed there was a certain coldness in the provost’s voice, something about the way he said the words, which chilled the Commander to his core. William’s eyes darted to the Commander, who was already reading his conviction notice.
The Commander’s entire demeanor appeared somehow more serious in an instant. His stance was rigid, the muscles of his face taut, and a look of disgust embedded itself in his hard face, as he read Chestnut’s crime. The man’s ashen gray eyes darted toward him, and William met the Commander’s vehement gaze. There was a look of hatred in those eyes. Like he was staring into the face of a monster.
Chestnut wondered if he really was a monster. There was no doubt in his mind he deserved to hang for his actions.
He expelled his deep breath slowly.
But what other choice did I have under the circumstances?
The Commander broke his eye contact, as though he’d been startled by what he saw. He turned to face Reynolds. “Get them aboard and place them down below where they can’t get into any damned mischief on my ship!”
And William Chestnut grinned…
Because through a unique act of serendipity, he’d been presented with one more chance. The chariot they had chosen to transport him to his death, was about to be involved in the transfer of a dangerous Covenant of unimaginable ramifications. And like the Deux Ex Machina of ancient Greek Tragedies – the ironclad would release him from his enemies.
*
Robert Murphy was the first prisoner in the line of shackled men to follow the provost toward the ironclad. He was short – about five feet four inches – but that had never caused him trouble. An Irish migrant, he’d come to America in 1855 to seek his fortune and was well on his way to achieving his goal when the Civil War broke out.
He’d always been quick and agile, with a right-hand hook like a sledge hammer. He had a natural cunning and mean streak that had served him well up until this point in life. The mean streak had made it so that people either respected him or feared him – either of which suited him fine and made him a dangerous and powerful man.
It wasn’t fear that motivated him to desertion. Instead, greed was the driving factor. He’d discovered a means of making money helping those terrified of war to escape. It was a perfect business model, with one flaw – he got caught and charged with desertion.
He’d always been an intelligent and dangerous man, with a certain amount of moral flexibility, he was unbound by the constraints of modern society. He expelled a deep breath of air. He now had a little under twenty-four hours to use those wiles to change the course of his execution.
Murphy followed the provost onto the CSS Mississippi and down a series of steep wooden steps into the dark, cramped, uncomfortable bowels of the ironclad. The radiant heat from its twin boilers struck him in the face like the provost’s whip. The further he descended, the more unpleasant the environment became. The air was stiflingly hot and pervasive with the odor of men working tirelessly to feed the insatiable boilers.
Through a series of narrow passages, past twin horizontal-firing tubes, where men were feeding the firebox with coal, they headed toward the aft section of the lowest deck. Only limited light reached the final compartment, where they were to be stowed like worthless pieces of equipment. The purpose-built prison cell had only three iron eyelets and would have been cramped, even if there had only been three prisoners, instead of six.
The provost pointed toward the dingy cell. “In you go, gentlemen.”
Murphy stopped, his eyes greeting the two Confederate soldiers who were aiming their Enfield rifled muskets at his head, making him rethink any earlier thoughts of trying to kill the provost with the chain between his wrists. Instead, as he moved forward, the narrow space forced him to duck into a crawl. He was immediately followed by the five other prisoners on his chain.
“You will be happy to know I’ve arranged for you to all sit during this trip.” The provost smiled. It was oily and cruel. “In fact, I insist that you sit down.”
The lock at the end of the linked chain that tethered the six prisoners together was undone and the chain was fed through the last of the three iron eyelets – the one closest to the door.
Murphy ran his eyes along the other five prisoners who shared his fate on the chain. Somehow, the knowledge they would all die together gave them an odd unity. Each of the prisoners had their heads tilted downward, as though they were making final prayers with their God or, like him, trying to remember those he’d loved. His mother and sister. He tried to forgive his father for his mistakes.
His eyes at last met the final prisoner. Unlike the rest of the prisoners, this one’s head was tilted upward, so he could examine his surroundings with interest, like the curator of a museum of fine art. Robert met the prisoner’s gaze; he had pale blue eyes and was grinning like a psychopath. The man looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. He could have been at a picnic, or a carnival waiting for a photograph.
The stranger nodded to him, his dry lips tilting curiously upward in a wry smile.
It was an unexpectedly human gesture coming out of the monster’s placid face, as though even the most wretched still seek human contact.
Robert recalled what the provost guard had said about the prisoner – That one truly deserves to hang, and may God have mercy on his soul for what he’s done, because I sure as hell never could – Robert broke eye contact, driven by the tangible fear and repulsion of a child being hunted in the woods.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” the prisoner said. “I think I’d like to hang slowly… savor the moment, you know… what do you
think?”
Robert turned to avoid the man’s penetrating gaze.
What the hell did you do?
The provost shut the small door, and the prisoners were now sealed in total darkness.
*
Concealed by the inky darkness, Chestnut beamed with pleasure.
The oppressive stench of toiling men and the heat from the boilers did nothing to smother his senses as he settled in against the wall of the ship. The chains on his wrists bit harshly into his skin, which had started to welt against the rough iron. His feet and ankles ached in his officer’s boots, and his semi-standing position kept him from sleep.
There he waited until the time was right. There was no rush. They wouldn’t reach Vicksburg until tomorrow. Timing was everything. If he made his move too early, someone could notice and his execution might be brought forward. No, he would wait and when the time was right, he would do what had to be done.
But would the rest of the men still go through with it?
He soon put the question out of his mind. There was nothing he could do if his arrest had made the men cancel or change the plan. They might have felt that he would betray the secret, although he doubted it – the Covenant was too important to ever betray.
And he, of all people, had reason to see the Covenant delivered.
Chestnut turned his mind inward, finding focus on the pain as the hours dragged by. No natural light penetrated the interior of the battle steamer, so the passing of time was all but lost to him. He thought about his life and all that he’d seen. Everything had been leading to this moment. He thought about his own family, hidden in shame before their murder.
He remembered how powerless he had felt when he’d found them and then revisited his bloodlust and contempt for the entire reason they had suffered.
No, his men knew about why he was betraying the Confederacy and they would know that he would keep the Covenant’s secret all the way to his vengeful grave. He had always known the price of retribution would be his life, a cost that he would gladly give.
Chestnut closed his eyes and expelled a deep breath. His men would go through with the plan, he was certain of it. He smiled in wonder at the depth of his icy rage. With nothing to lose, he felt empowered by his bitterness. He felt no fear or shame, only contempt. Nothing could hurt him now.
The Ironclad Covenant (Sam Reilly Book 10) Page 1