The Ironclad Covenant (Sam Reilly Book 10) Read online

  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.

  He still didn’t know where William Chestnut’s loyalties lay or anything about the important cargo he’d informed them they were to deliver farther North along the river. But none of that mattered. For now, he was alive after he was supposed to be hung at Vicksburg. So, for the time being, he would obey Chestnut. He was a born leader, unaccustomed to following, but he could grit his teeth and obey while it served his need.

  And right now, William Chestnut’s orders served his needs.

  It had taken the men just fifteen minutes to connect the emergency steering tiller, organize the boilermen to build up steam and get the ironclad moving once more. There were a total of eight people left alive on board. Five of the prisoners and three of the original boilermen. Two were badly injured and would most likely die within the next day or two, but the rest were still fit to run the ship. All of them had happily agreed to follow William Chestnut.

  Once the ship was underway, Chestnut had disappeared, to inspect the ship.

  Up ahead, the river turned to the left, forming a giant curve that snaked past Fort Hill and the city of Vicksburg, making a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn around De Soto Point. Murphy calculated the steering angle, aiming to come as close as possible to De Soto Point in order to avoid any stray shots from Confederate cannons – especially Vicksburg’s notorious Widow Blakely 7.5 inch, rifled cannon, mounted high up on Fort Hill.

  Murphy spoke into the copper voice-pipe, which ran from the pilothouse down to the boiler room and the new steering room, where one of the men was guiding the emergency tiller, “Give me five degrees to port, gentlemen.”

  “Copy that,” came the reply. “Five degrees to port.”

  He watched as they edged ever closer to De Soto Point. Once they had gone past the peninsula, Murphy said, “Full tiller lock to port, please.”

  “Copy, full tiller lock to port.”

  The ironclad turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees around the point and headed due south. A single cannon from Vicksburg fired, but fell more than a hundred feet short of their bow.

  “Okay, tiller straight ahead.”

  “Copy that. Tiller straight ahead.”

  Murphy breathed a sigh of relief as they rounded the point and entered Union waters and made a silent prayer that the lamp that Chestnut had set up on top of the pilothouse still lit up their Union Jack.

  He ensured the ironclad was steered within the middle of the river, where the deepest water lay and farthest from the shore, where enemy guns traced their movements.

  Chestnut climbed the ladder from below and entered the pilothouse. His intelligent blue eyes were wide and he beamed with pride. “Well done, Mr. Murphy. Well done, indeed.”

  Murphy smiled back. “Now that we’re out of danger and you’ve somehow convinced the Confederates at Vicksburg to let us slip by, while now displaying a Union Jack to keep the Union’s gunners at bay, would you like to tell me what’s so important you comm
andeered an ironclad to deliver?”

  Chestnut shook his head. “No.”

  “No?” Murphy wasn’t accustomed to being defied, but he bit his tongue. Before his temper got the better of him, Chestnut’s lips curled into a broad smile.

  “I’d like to show you, instead.”

  One of the boilermen took over in the role of lookout in the pilothouse.

  “Be sure to keep her in the middle of the river,” Murphy warned.

  “Will do,” the boilerman replied.

  Murphy followed Chestnut down below, along the main gangway, until he entered the third alcove on the starboard side.

  There, Chestnut stepped up to the wall near the breech of a cannon, and pulled back a heavy canvas tarpaulin, dropping it on the floor. Murphy had assumed it had been covering shot crates, but underneath was an iron and brass safe, two feet high, two feet deep, and three feet long.

  It was freshly painted in a decorative blue, and had the Confederate seal stamped into a raised badge on top. A hinged clasp hung on the front with a finely crafted thick brass padlock through its eye. Thick ornate handle rails ran along each end.

  Murphy met Chestnut’s penetrating gaze. “Is that what we stopped for?"

  "Yes, a secret change of plans from the very top.” Chestnut kept his voice low, but the words were resolute. “Inside this chest is a Covenant that has the means to end the war.”

  I don’t want the war to end now.

  War makes men desperate. And I can make a fortune off such people.

  “A lot of lives would be saved if we could end the war now,” Murphy agreed. “What’s inside that’s so important?”

  “You want to see it?” Chestnut asked.

  Murphy nodded. “Of course.”

  Chestnut removed a key from his pocket. “I took this off my friend, who was supposed to be the keeper of this chest until it reached its destination, but…”

  “Your friend met his untimely death earlier today.” Murphy dipped his head in prayer. “I remember.”

  “Exactly.”

  Chestnut inserted the brass key and turned it three times until a sharp click emanated from a mechanism inside. He then lifted the sealed lid.

  Murphy swore. There were more gold coins than he’d ever seen or even imagined. At the center of the treasure, a single unsealed note was fixed to a bed of blue velvet. His eyes darted toward Chestnut. “May I read it?”

  “Yes, go ahead. Please do.”

  Murphy picked up the note and read it. When he was finished he turned to Chestnut and asked, “Is this for real?”

  “Yes.”

  Murphy swallowed hard. “My God, it will end the war.”

  Chestnut nodded. “That’s why it’s so important that we deliver it to the North.”

  “Where’s its final destination?”

  “There’s a wagon and horses waiting along the Ohio River, where it meets the Allegheny River at Pittsburg, waiting to take it to Washington, D.C.”

  Murphy replaced the document and closed the lid to the chest. “Now what?”

  Chestnut quickly locked the chest and held his breath. “Now, we do our best to deliver the Covenant.”

  “There’s just one problem.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Murphy crossed his arms. “The river passes through any number of heavily populated cities on our way North. Someone there is going to take notice of a large Ironclad traveling north. Once they do, fake Union flag or not, we’re in real trouble.”

  “And you think the city’s defensive cannons will sink us?”

  “Or we’ll hang as spies.”

  Chestnut shrugged with indifference. “That’s a possibility, too.”

  “Maybe we thank our good fortune at escaping, sink the ironclad and travel on foot.”

  “No.” Chestnut dismissed it without further thought. “We keep the ironclad. It will take us all the way we need to go.”

  “You think so?” Murphy’s thick eyebrows narrowed. “You have a plan on how we’re going to sneak past the watch towers of the various cities?”

  Chestnut took a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, as a matter of fact, I have a perfect solution that’s going to allow us to take this ship as far North as we want.”

  Chapter One

  Lake Superior, Minnesota

  The log house appeared to be a jarring study in contrast. Proudly standing just twenty feet from the lake’s shore, the architecture was a strange mixture, consisting of the olden-day charm of original explorers and fur traders with the extravagant examples of the owner’s significant wealth. The outer shell was a layer of mixed hard-wood conifers – pine, fir, and spruce, felled locally and milled on site. But that’s where any resemblance to the early explorers ceased.

  The grand, three-story building boasted ten bedrooms and fifteen bathrooms. On its roof, covered by glass was a full length indoor lap pool. At the very top of which, a Bell 407 helicopter, painted red and white, rested on its helipad that jutted out from the roof by a thirty-foot airbridge, where it then joined an elevator – presumably to the internal three levels. The building was surrounded by a thick forest of conifers, mountain ash, maple, aspen, oak, and paper birch.

  The commercial pilot banked, taking them around the front of the house, before bringing the Jet Ranger into a hover and gently placing the skids onto the smooth rocky shore.

  “This is as close as I can go,” the pilot said, turning to face the two men. “Gotta keep the rotor spinning because of the unstable ground.”

  Two men climbed out. One, average height while the other looked like a veritable giant. Both had the solid build and decisive movements of once professional soldiers. They moved quickly, removing a large equipment container and then carrying a single large duffel bag each. Thirty feet away, the shorter one gave the thumbs up signal, and the pilot took off again, quickly disappearing behind the dense forest that lined the lake.

  Sam Reilly took a deep breath in and leveled his deep blue eyes toward the lake. Despite the cerulean blue sky, and unabated sun, the air had a crisp bite to it. There were only two places on Earth where he recalled experiencing such an anomaly of summer weather – the icy environments of Antarctica and Siberia’s Oymyakon.

  A fifty-something-foot pleasure cruiser, with its sleek design and array of radar dishes was anchored in the shallow waters directly in front of the log house. The yacht appeared out of place, more like a Billionaire’s toy out of Silicon Valley, than a fishing boat belonging to the remote and pristine wilderness of Lake Superior.

  His eyes ran across the shore, where a small building used to house a floatplane had its hangar door open, revealing the aircraft to be currently out.

  “Well, one thing’s for certain…” Sam said to Tom Bower, as he admired the range of expensive toys. “Senator Arthur Perry’s son knows how to have a good time in the great outdoors.”

  Tom turned to face the main entrance to the summer house. “That’s if the young man’s still alive.”

  Sam nodded, his mind instantly returning to their purpose for being there. “All right, let’s go meet the good Senator Perry.”

  A fifty-something year old man, who introduced himself as the estate manager, greeted them and took them inside.

  The man knocked at a closed door.

  A voice from inside immediately answered, “Send them in, please, Walter.”

  Walter nodded and turned to face Sam and Tom. “You’re free to see him now.”

  Sam nodded and entered the large den.

  His first impression of the Minnesota senator surprised him. The man was portly with a rotund belly that indicated his predilection toward food. His clothes were expensive, but he let his girth stretch them at their seams, instead of buying new ones. It wasn’t quite what Sam expected for a man known for his high intelligence, wealth and generosity, who’d managed to get re-elected for three consecutive six-year terms.

  The senator leaned across the huge mahogany desk and greeted them with a f
irm handshake, making a mock attempt to stand while gesturing for Tom and Sam to please sit in the two leather office chairs opposite.

  "Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with me at my summer house. I realize my request is somewhat unusual, but I think you'll appreciate the need for discretion.” The senator stopped, as though he’d just recalled their long trip to meet him. “Can I offer you anything?"

  “No thanks,” Sam and Tom replied.

  Without further preamble, the Senator handed Sam a six by four color photograph. “This is the last photo my son, David, sent me. It’s also the last communication I had with my boy before he went missing nearly three weeks ago.”

  Sam studied the image. It was taken using film, instead of a digital camera and depicted the iron bow of the submerged wreckage of an early nineteenth century, single boiler freighter. The ship listed heavily toward its starboard side, laying deep in azure blue water. Clearly visible in letter-plate below the gunwale was the name, J.F. Johnson. The lifelines and bollards were all intact with thick corrosion clinging to their lines, but the ship's detail could be clearly seen.

  “The J.F. Johnson…” Sam mulled the name over in his mind. “I’ve heard of that wreck. It’s in deep, cold water. Somewhere at the bottom of a hundred and eighty feet?”

  “Two hundred and five,” Senator Perry corrected him. “They call it the time machine.”

  Tom scoffed at the name. “Why?”

  “The J.F. Johnson is that deep and permanently so cold that it made the removal of any bodies next to impossible.” Perry paused and his thick, wiry eyebrows narrowed. “Local divers who have ventured to her depth say that the bodies of the four men who lost their lives are now floating, entombed within the main bridge – a mixture of the freshwater and extreme cold, having preserved them in a permanent tribute to the day they died.”