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.
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.