Christopher Cartwright
The Ironclad Covenant
Prologue
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!”
William 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.