As though a red rag had been raised to an angry bull, the ship 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.