William paused and took in the scene around them. It was near dark, and the air was thick with the foul-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.
In open defiance, he straightened and brushed off his uniform as best he could, trod through the blood, and slowly climbed the ladder to the pilothouse — being careful not to lose his grip on the bloody rungs.
From the flagpole on top, he removed the Confederate Navy Jack.
A moment later he attached the Union Jack to the grommet and snap-hook and pulled on the halyard. The flag rose quickly until it reached the top. Chestnut secured the halyard to the cleat with two figure eight turns.
He looked up and smiled.
High above the pilothouse, the Union Jack opened in the breeze.
Chestnut opened the hatch at the top of the ladder and climbed into the pilothouse.
Standing inside was the wiry Irishman. He was peering through the slits of the navigation portal at the scene in front of the ship. He didn't look away from the scene outside as Chestnut approached him.
Turning inward, the man grabbed an oily rag from the side of a gauge stand and passed it to Chestnut.
“For your face. It's a real mess."
“Thank you,” Chestnut replied, clearing his throat and wiping his forehead, then methodically folding the cloth over and cleaning his hands. He offered his hand. “William Chestnut.”
“Robert Murphy,” the Irishman said, gripping his hand with a firm shake. He glanced at the Union Flag above. “And I see you now have command of this vessel.”
Chestnut met Murphy’s hardened stare. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“Not at all.” Murphy’s lips curled into an upward grin. “I was already on my way to hang for deserting. No reason I shouldn’t change my allegiance anyway. Where are we headed?”
“North. I have an important Covenant to deliver. Something that might actually end this damned war.”
Murphy shrugged, as though he was indifferent to the ending of the war. “You might want to know that a casing shot ripped through the pilothouse damaging more than just the casing. We’ve lost transmission to the steering. We’re sitting ducks here. Soon enough, the Confederate cannons at Vicksburg are going to start taking their shot at us.”
“So I heard. Don’t worry, there’s a redundancy steering tiller down below.” Chestnut ran his eyes across the pilothouse. “What about the rest of the controls?"
“The throttle seems to be still connected, but there's nobody manning the boilers or the pumps at this stage.”
“All may not be lost. I've built contingencies into her, we may be able to run her yet. We need to go below and assess the damage.” Chestnut expelled a heavy breath. “The problem will be running the river. I’m no navigator and to be honest I have little knowledge about where the river runs from here.”
Murphy said, “I used to be a pilot on a tugboat before the war.”
“On the river?” Chestnut asked, feeling hopeful.
“Yeah, but farther south. I used to take larger vessels into New Orleans. But I know this river and if you can get my steering working again, I’ll do my best to navigate her.”
“Good. Let’s get started.”
“What do you think, the internal hatchway might be the best idea.”
“Couldn't agree more," Chestnut answered and together they opened the floor hatch.
Chestnut moved quickly, descending to the lower deck, deep in the bowels of the ship. He explained how the tiller could still be driven from below decks, using a cranking point which he had included in the design for situations where the topside was compromised.
“We need five men. Two to feed the boilers, one to run the tiller, one to crank the bilge pumps, one to see where we are going and a runner. We can rotate roles to minimize fatigue. If we have five men, we can make a run for it."
“The other prisoners are basically all the able-bodied crew we have left. I don't personally know any of them, but they're soldiers, so hopefully they can obey orders. I'm sure they'll all be happy to escape the noose for a while, perhaps even for good if things work out. I'll go and gather them up and we can regroup in the pilothouse. We need to see who's capable of doing what."
“Good.”
Murphy said, “One more thing…”
“What?”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“North.”
“Where?”
“To a secret location where it’s imperative we deliver our cargo as soon as possible.”
Murphy sighed. “I’m going to need more information than that if you want me to navigate us there.”
“And you’ll get it,” Chestnut said. “But first, we need to get this ship underway.”
Robert Murphy stared out the narrow slits of the pilothouse. He watched as the dark outline of the shore passed by and distant hills were nothing more than a shadow that blended into the foreboding and tempestuous sky. But he knew, those hills were filled with enemy cannons, capable of sending the ironclad to the bottom of the Mississippi. Now, more than ever, they had enemies. Both the South and the North could possibly take a shot at him — despite flying a Union Jack.