The Ironclad Covenant

by Christopher Cartwright

  He welcomed the pain in his body again as his mind drifted back to the present. He looked at the other prisoners and his soul was barren of empathy or compassion – he hoped for savagery and horror. He hoped it came soon. He sucked in a deep breath of the fetid, hot air and savored it.

  Somehow, with that he drifted into blissful sleep and the CSS Mississippi steamed North all day, and into the night.

  At some stage, many hours later, he woke to the sound of cannon fire erupting. The ship rocked under the recoil as she returned a broadside. He counted off the seconds in his head and wondered idly if the gunnies would be able to meet the minimum reload times he knew so well. The ship gave several volleys of fire and then seemed to come about.

  Above decks the squeal of a quartermaster's whistle was accompanied by a shift fore and starboard, which shoved the shackled prisoners into one another. The prisoner next to Chestnut cursed a mumbled apology as he tried to separate himself from William as the momentum settled. William figured they had come up alongside a jetty.

  Was it possible they had already reached Vicksburg?

  Chestnut’s heart raced. How long had he been asleep? Had he waited too long? He stretched out, trying to reach the secret compartment built into the floorboards at the very back of the prisoner’s alcove. He pushed on the floorboard, but it didn’t move. He was in the wrong position. He was still short by a few inches. He yanked on the chain, pulling the rest of the prisoners to the side.

  One of the prisoner’s wrists became jammed in the iron eyelet, and he cried out in pain.

  It was the Irishman who first realized who was responsible. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

  Chestnut ignored the question and yanked harder. The man at the end of the chain screamed out in pain, but Chestnut continued. He felt for the loose-fitting pine board. It had three small grooves cut into the wood. He ran his fingers delicately along the marker. Now certain that he’d found the right board, he used the palm of his hand to put downward and forward pressure on it.

  The board slid forward, revealing a hidden storage compartment. He reached in quickly, and gripped the handle of a fully loaded Walch Navy 12 Shot Revolver.

  An instant later, the other prisoners pulled the chain in the opposite direction, and he returned to the original position of discomfort. He sat back and relaxed. Only now, he had 12 shots to take control of the CSS Mississippi.

  “What the hell was that all about?” the Irishman asked.

  Chestnut shrugged. “I was scratching an itch.”

  He thanked almighty providence and dammed good luck that he had the foresight to build a hidden compartment within the flooring where any prisoners might be held. He’d designed it with the rest of his men in mind, in case any of them were caught, but had no idea that he would ever have a need to use it.

  He carefully gripped the handle of the Walch Navy 12 Shot Revolver. The unique .36 caliber revolver used superimposed chambers – meaning that each of the six chambers could hold two shots, for a total of 12 rounds before reloading. The revolver had two hammers and two side by side triggers, with the trigger for the front loading being positioned slightly ahead of the rear load’s trigger, to help ensure that they are fired in the correct order.

  Each cylinder chamber was loaded with two loads – a ball and powder over another ball and powder. The ignition system was farther forward in the chamber for shot number one so that would fire first. After that, the second charge was ready to shoot. Its shot was notoriously weak, but Chestnut had used the weapon since its release in 1859 and he’d developed an affinity for it. Despite its peculiarities he was confident the revolver would be lethal in his hand.

  On the deck, the muffled sound of shouted orders being given was audible above the roar of the hissing boilers. The padded knock of boots and shouts of men above was accompanied by the slide and creak of the turret-house floorboards as the Covenant was carried on board.

  Chestnut felt the tension disappear. They made it!

  He listened to the voice of the ship’s commander as he talked to the leader of the new arrivals.

  “Here are your signed orders. You are to head North.”

  “North?” the commander was puzzled.

  “Yes. We have men waiting with a wagon and horses at the junction along the Yazoo River, who will move that chest to safety. Its survival is the only priority.”

  “What about the prisoners?” the commander asked.

  “What prisoners?”

  “We took on board six prisoners. They were meant to hang at Vicksburg as a deterrent to would be deserters.”

  The newcomer’s voice was undeterred. “Forget about them.”

  “They were meant to be executed here, today.”

  “Then shoot them!”

  “I can’t shoot them!” The commander protested.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not right. It has to be official.”

  “Oh for God’s sake. Where have you got the prisoners stowed?”

  “Down below, aft locker. They’re handcuffed and chained to the floor.”

  “Good, that will make it easy. I’ll shoot them myself.”

  Chestnut waited for the commander to protest, but instead there was only silence. About twenty seconds later, he heard heavy footsteps approaching. The door opened and a barrel-chested man with a trimmed fiery red beard stepped inside.

  The stranger lowered a Colt Army Revolver and said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I suggest you make peace with your maker.”

  Chestnut grinned. “Not today. I still have a duty to my maker here on Earth.”

  “Good God, William Chestnut!” The new arrival audibly gasped. “What are you doing here? I thought you had been caught?”

  “I was,” Chestnut said. “They were taking me to Vicksburg to hang.”

  The stranger laughed. “What were the chances, hey?”

  “Exactly, what were the chances, indeed?” Chestnut rattled his shackled wrists on the chain. “Come on, there’s a key over on a hook behind the door. Get me out of here!”

  The stranger grabbed the key, shaped like a small teardrop. “This it?”

  “Yes! That’s it, now come and unlock me.”

  “And the rest of us!” the other prisoners whispered.

  “All right, all right!”

  The stranger kneeled down to enter the prisoner’s cell. It was the last thing the man would do. A stray shard of cannon shot ripped through the ventilation slit above, tearing a gaping hole through the stranger’s chest, killing him instantly.

  Chestnut watched in horror as the man fell backward. His dead, mangled body lying just four feet out of their reach and his hand still gripping the teardrop shaped key.

  The little Irishman looked at him. “Well that’s some seriously bad luck.”

  *

  The ship’s boilers built up steam, and power was transferred to the screws starting a multitude of mechanized sounds and vibrations throughout the length of the metal clad hull.

  Chestnut adjusted his weight and settled against the wall and briefly regarded the adjacent man he was chained to, who was whimpering and seemed to have soiled himself in fear. William turned his face away in disgust.

  Is this to be my ending? Surrounded by the pathetic misery of cowards?

  It was at that moment that the vessel shuddered, and a massive blast erupted above as a cannon shot struck the casement a direct hit.

  136 pounds of steel in the form of a solid shot from an 11-inch smoothbore Dahlgren gun on a Union ship had flown 3600 yards and smashed into the weakest point of the topside, a joint between the armor plates. The effect was catastrophic on the superstructure. A shockwave slammed through the exterior plating rending it from the teak and pine subframe, smashing it wide open, and killing instantly nearly a dozen men working within. The ship's progress slowed and she faltered as the pilot crew attempted to assess the damage to the controls.

  As though a red rag had been raised to an angry bull, the sh
ip began being pummeled by shot from near and far as enemy ships positioned themselves to destroy the stricken vessel without fear of return fire.

  “What the hell is that?” the man next to Chestnut choked out.

  “Good news. We might still get to drown before we hang.” Chestnut replied. He was unmoved by their predicament.

  The provost Marshal Reynolds appeared down the gangway and moved towards William's position at the end of the chain of prisoners.

  “What happened, Reynolds?” Chestnut asked.

  With all the portholes covered with iron plates for battle, the darkness below decks was almost complete. It was impossible to see his face, but the breathing was unmistakable. He was breathing hard, with the resignation of a man about to die.

  Chestnut persisted. “Reynolds! What happened?”

  “The casement took a direct hit behind the pilot house. There's no way to steer the ship. We're sitting ducks here."

  “Let us out, we'll fight!" Chestnut said, ensuring his voice was loud enough for all the prisoners to hear him clearly above the din.

  “Can't do that,” he replied shaking his head and holding up his hands as though powerless.

  The other men on the chain started to huddle around and badgered the provost similarly, presenting their upturned chained wrists and giving assurances, pleading with the marshal.

  Sensing an opportunity, Chestnut pressed the man. “What choice do you have? We’re all going to die, and the ship’s going to be taken over by the Union. Do you want the Mississippi to become a Union ship?”

  That broke Reynolds out of his apathy. “Of course. We need to scuttle the ship.”

  “It’s not possible. It will take too long. The entire hull is reinforced. You must free us to defend her. It's our only chance.”

  Another heavy thudding against the hull seemed to seal the bargain in the provost's mind and he started running along the chain, unlocking the soldier's hands in turn. He left them in leg irons, but freed them from one another. William Chestnut was the last prisoner.

  He held out his hands to have the chain broken.

  Reynolds shook his head. “Not you. I’d rather sink than release you.” He ensured the chain was fastened at the wall and made off after the other men towards the topside.

  *

  The sounds of battle continued overhead and the ship seemed to be moving well. An hour passed and Chestnut simply endured. A few men remained below and toiled at the ever-hungry boilers. The ship occasionally fired the Blakely 200 pounder, but that was the only gun William heard firing.

  The Blakely's bark continued to report through the ship until another crash ripped through the superstructure above William's head.

  Commander Baker appeared below shortly afterward, searching for sailors. The remaining hands in the boiler room were ordered to the topside by Baker who was looking disheveled and frustrated.

  “Commander Baker!” Chestnut called to him down the companionway. “What’s going on up there?”

  The commander approached him. His uniform was splotched with blood and smelled of smoke and salt-peter. His face was ashen gray, and his hands shook with a heavy tremor. Despite the 110-degree heat of the boiler room, he seemed relieved for some respite from the battle.

  “They hit the bridge again, this time with a case-shot. It's like a killing floor up there. There's hardly anyone left at all. The steering controls are ruined. There's no way to maneuver the ship. I've sent the leftover fire-men from the boilers topside to try and man the last functioning rifle we have. It's over Chestnut. We'll be over-run soon I suspect."

  “There's another way Commander Baker. You must free me! Between the two of us we can work the steering gear from below the bridge."

  “How do you know that, Chestnut?”

  “Because I engineered her that way.”

  “You designed the Mississippi?” the commander’s voice was incredulous.

  Chestnut nodded. “Yes. From the ground up. She’s my baby. And I swear to you that if you let me out, I will do all within my power to keep her from entering the Union’s hands or sinking.”

  “Why did you do it, Chestnut?” The commander’s voice was suddenly hardened.

  Chestnut closed his eyes, swallowed, and then opened them again. “Because they killed my family.”

  Chestnut watched Baker as he thought it over. He knew the man was running low on options or he wouldn't be down here at all.

  "I'm willing to take you at your word Chestnut. If you cross me I will not hesitate to kill you. Do you understand me?"

  "I do, Sir. I do." A seedling of hope bloomed in the barren desert of Chestnut's soul as he watched Baker unlock the chains about his wrists and ankles. He guessed Baker figured he would win in a close combat match, or wouldn't be freeing him. How little he knew William thought.

  The commander finished unlocking his chains.

  Chestnut said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now save my bloody ship.”

  “I will. Of that, at least I can promise you.”

  Chestnut picked up the Walch Navy 12 Shot Revolver from where he’d hidden it behind his boots. He cocked the twin hammers and raised the barrel, squeezing the first of the two triggers. It took a delicate hand not to fire both rounds at the same time. The right hammer struck the round, and a single .38 caliber shot raced out of the barrel. The shot hit the commander on the side of his head, killing him instantly.

  Chestnut stepped back into the prisoner’s alcove, opened the hidden compartment and removed a Union Flag.

  *

  Chestnut raced along the gangway, past the boilers and to the topside.

  A Confederate officer stopped him. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  Chestnut didn’t answer him. Instead, he leveled his revolver and squeezed the second trigger. The shot struck the officer on his right shoulder. The man wailed in pain. With his uninjured hand, the officer reached for his pistol.

  Cursing loudly, Chestnut spun the cylinder chamber, cocked the twin hammers, aimed, and yanked on both triggers simultaneously.

  Two shots fired.

  Both striking the officer in the chest. Their combined report producing the sound of a thunderclap. Chestnut watched as the man’s eyes stared vacantly at him, before falling backward. Chestnut didn’t wait to see if he was still alive. Instead, he kept heading toward the pilothouse.

  It was night time and the oppressive darkness was made even more prominent by the heavy storm clouds above. The air was thick with the smell of burnt powder tainted with the rich iron taste of blood.

  The remaining prisoners stood on the exposed deck outside the pilot house, trying to regain control of the ironclad. Chestnut watched as the provost marshal Reynolds tried to organize the men into action, preparing to fire the Blakely 200 pounder.

  Reynolds spotted him. His eyes went wide and he reached for his weapon. “What the blazes are you doing up here?”

  Chestnut spoke with confident authority, “Commander Baker released me. I was the lead engineer for this ship, and I can repair the steering.”

  “You can?”

  “Yes. There’s a secondary steering lever beneath the pilot house decking.”

  Reynolds locked eyes. “All right. I’ll take you down below in the pilot house. Then get her under control. But if you cross me I’ll kill you myself.”

  Chestnut held his revolver behind his back. “Very good, sir.”

  Reynolds stepped up to the pilothouse and rotated the lock on the hatch behind them. They were in front of an iron ladder, which accessed the aft side of the pilothouse. The pilothouse was a small structure on the forward section of the casement that was a squat shape resembling a pyramid. It had been designed with angled sides to deflect cannon ball impacts. William was surprised how heavily dented it was from the heavy shot strike, despite the thickness of its iron-clad walls.

  William paused and took in the scene around them. It was near dark, and the air was thick with the f
oul-smelling smoke from the coal fired vessels in the blockade, and from the ordnance that whizzed around them. The ship lolled slightly in the water and was only just moving forward. The sounds of battle were all around and confused the senses. William had no idea whose ships were where and wondered how anyone else possibly could have either. It certainly didn't seem to be stopping them from firing their cannons.

  Chestnut watched as Reynolds climbed the first few rungs of the ladder. He aimed the revolver, preparing to kill Reynolds from behind – taking note how war can make someone stupid. In Reynold’s attempt to get inside the heavily protected pilothouse, he’d turned his back on the most dangerous prisoner aboard.

  Chestnut never squeezed the trigger.

  Instead, he heard the loud whiz of a large cannon shot on its downward trajectory. He ducked to the deck, covering his head with his arms. Afterward, his ears rung with the almost silent aftermath of the nearby collision.

  He looked up.

  A second impact followed immediately afterward, causing Reynold’s now lifeless body to erupt in a grotesque display of battle carnage. Seemingly in slow motion, the provost’s left arm and shoulder contorted and disappeared, their place being taken by his head which twisted down from above as a solid cannon shot struck him in the side of the chest from the port side.

  The deafening roar of the cannon's muzzle caught up with its projectile a moment after the impact, and for a millisecond smothered all of Chestnut's senses. From his position six feet behind the ladder, he watched Reynold’s torso as it exploded to the right. The top half of his body was removed, all but the right arm which hung from the rung its hand held on to, the head and right shoulder attached to it dangling hideously beneath. A bucket of blood fell from the neck and streamed down the ladder. The legs and pelvis – contained within their boots and trousers – flopped to the deck in a pool of crimson that seemed to instantly form, and slid kicking and jerking down the starboard side of the casement into the darkness and water below.

  Out of instinct, William dropped to the floor and covered his head. He closed his eyes and waited for what seemed like an eternity. When he looked up, he watched as Reynold’s right hand lost its grip, and then caught sight of the provost’s face as his head and arm fell to the deck in front of where he was laying. He crawled towards the ladder. The stink of fresh blood filled his senses, and he shoved the provost’s disconnected head and arm over the side of the casement without making eye contact. He mastered his fear and stood erect on the deck.