Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  Corbin returned Kennedy's smile. "I am sure we'll be setting sail soon."

  Climbing the stairs back to the main deck and sunlight, Corbin took a deep breath. He had long since become acclimatised to the darkness and the strange, often powerful, odours below the deck of a ship, but it always came as some small relief when he returned to a place where the wind could freely blow. Only the night before, he had heard Captain Havelock describe the conditions of a Spanish frigate he had once boarded. Such ships might only be properly cleaned when they put into port for refitting and even then it might sometimes be missed. Havelock had spoken of refuse slopping about the lower decks and of air in the hold that was actually lethal if a man were to spend more than a minute within. The ships of the French and American navies were apparently treated in much the same way, with their Captains looking at the fastidious cleanliness of the King's Navy as some strange English affectation. His Captain believed that attendance to hygiene was just as important to the running of a good ship as regular gun drills and, given Havelock's record, Corbin was not about to disagree.

  Running his hand along the rail as he walked across the main deck, Corbin marched up to the quarterdeck, where he saw his Captain engaged in observation exercises with the Whirlwind's two midshipmen, Buxton and Rawlinson. Both were about fifteen years old and still some way from their Lieutenant's exam, but Corbin knew that Havelock had been impressed by their attention to detail and acceptance of shipboard life. He guessed that by having just two midshipmen on board, rather than the usual gaggle of four or five, a healthy rivalry had sprung up between them which drove their studies on. Taking position at the centre of the quarterdeck, Corbin watched the crew go about their duties as he waited for his Captain to finish the lesson.

  After several minutes, Havelock noticed Corbin's regular glances in his direction and set the midshipmen a theoretical navigation exercise that would keep them occupied for some time, before joining his Lieutenant.

  "Mr Corbin."

  "Sir. I spoke with Kennedy and I am satisfied that he is conducting the discipline of the ship as he should. Only the most serious charges are being brought to us."

  "And what is Kennedy's criteria for that?" asked Havelock.

  "Disputes between crewmen are resolved by himself. Talk aimed at either yourself or the officers is, umm... "

  Havelock smiled. "Try not to take such things personally, Mr Corbin. It is a sailor's God-given right to find fault in those above him." Noticing Corbin had given him a strange look, he continued. "But there is always a line and certain things should never be said out loud, no matter what a man is thinking. The Captain has to be the ultimate authority on a ship and nothing can be permitted to undermine that. I will not pass comment on what a man thinks but if he should make remarks that can be construed as mutinous, that is a fire that must be quenched immediately."

  "I think we can rely on Kennedy's discretion, Sir."

  "Good. However, I still have concerns about the frequency of these floggings. You do not have to go below deck to sense the tension on this ship."

  "The men are all looking for action, and soon. Sometimes I think it would be better if the French just started their invasion now."

  "Be careful what you wish for, Mr Corbin!" Havelock said, laughing. "God and his mistress the sea have a habit of subverting your desires!"

  "That may be true, Sir, but I think the French might take one look at the fleet here and sail back home sharp."

  Glancing at the assembled warships once again, Havelock had to agree. "However, that is all it is - a display. There is plenty of action to go round, especially for frigates such as the Whirlwind. If the French start moving or raiding our ships, likely as not it will be the frigate captains who receive orders first. Spare pity for the officers onboard the ships of the line. They were the first to be moored here and will be the last to leave, setting sail only when definite action against the French is expected."

  "That is one reason I never found any shame in serving onboard a frigate," said Corbin.

  "Oh, don't let any of your peers in the Admiralty snub you. For my money, you can keep the glory and prestige of a ship of the line. Frigates, Mr Corbin. They are the true masters of the sea and, without them, the Empire would crumble into oblivion and barbarity. Take a good look at the Whirlwind," he gestured towards the bow. "A fine ship with speed of sail and a turn that would humble a vessel half her size. With regular gun drills, she can easily out-shoot a French ship of the line and she is nimble enough to keep an enemy on the back foot. What she lacks in heavier and longer-ranged guns, she more than makes up for in speed and agility."

  "She certainly is a fine ship, Sir."

  "Wait until you have had a full voyage on board her, and you'll say that with some affection," said Havelock, smiling. "The Whirlwind is a fine ship and aptly named. She also has a strong crew and a good selection of officers." He gestured to the two midshipmen who had turned back to back so neither could see the calculations of the other. "Look, we even have two of the best midshipmen in the fleet, both eager and attentive. Not always the most obvious traits in lads so young. I am glad I accepted their fathers' recommendations."

  "Sir, on that note, I wanted to thank you personally for accepting my commission on board the Whirlwind. I do not believe it could have been an easy choice, especially with Wynton and Hague already on ship," Corbin said, referring to the Second and Third Lieutenants of the Whirlwind.

  Havelock frowned. "Do not try to second guess me, Mr Corbin. I do not judge men out of hand and every one of us can find mistakes in his past. I go by what a man says and what he does. You will have every opportunity to prove yourself onboard this ship. As for anything else, well, you know and I know, and that is all that needs to be said about it."

  Hanging his head for a second, Corbin tugged the lip of his hat in a salute of respect to his Captain. "Right you are, Sir."

  "Good," Havelock said. "Well, that has been said. Now, let us see if our young midshipmen have successfully navigated the Cape, or whether they are on their way to Antarctica. Mr Buxton, Mr Rawlinson, I hope you have completed your task by now!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Following the regular routine of shipboard life, the men of the Whirlwind found themselves engaged in their unrelenting chores early in the morning. Some were in their hammocks below decks, having just completed the previous watch, fighting for sleep amidst the continuous noise of their shipmates at work. A dozen men worked on their hands and knees on the main deck, pushing rough stones across a wet deck in an effort to rub it as smooth and clean as their Captain desired, while in the masts more toiled with heavy sails and ropes as the furled sails were checked and rechecked. Most had already partaken of breakfast but the smell of fresh cooked meat with eggs, the one luxury of being moored so close to port, still floated up from the galley.

  Below the main deck, more men worked to wash the hold, deploy windsails that would circulate air within the nether regions of the ship, and inventory stores. Warships such as the HMS Whirlwind were the most sophisticated and advanced machines of their time, requiring an almost unimaginable amount of man-hours to keep them afloat and seaworthy every day, even while in port.

  "Boat approaching larboard!"

  The cry from the lookout high above at the top of the mainmast caused Lieutenant Corbin to glance up in some surprise and he walked to the railings of the quarterdeck, extending his telescope. Through the glass, he saw a small rowboat closing with the Whirlwind, a team of eight marines straining at the oars while another, a sergeant he presumed, stood at the prow trying to gain the attention of the frigate. A flicker of hope caused Corbin to smile briefly. Of late, the Admiralty had been employing marines to ferry orders to and from the ships moored at Spithead and maybe, just maybe...

  "Mr Wynton," he said, getting the attention of the ship's Second Lieutenant, who had been inspecting the results of the crew cleaning the main deck. "Would you be so good as to greet our visitor?"

  Thoug
h they kept on working at their assigned tasks, Corbin could see every man above deck had at least half an eye on Wynton as he stood to the railings and ordered a rope ladder down the side of the ship. It was not long before men started rising from below decks, suddenly having found an important job to do within ear shot of the marine sergeant as he clambered up the hull of the Whirlwind.

  The sergeant, his bright red uniform seeming almost out of place among the dark blues of the Whirlwind's officers and the rather more varied clothes of the crew, saluted Wynton sharply and then produced a sealed pouch which he gave to the Lieutenant. He then turned around sharply and disappeared down the side of the ship as quickly as he had arrived, leaving Wynton to approach Corbin, who met him down the stairs from the quarterdeck. The younger Lieutenant had a gleam in his eyes, clearly sharing the same hopes as Corbin.

  "Keep the men calm, Mr Wynton," said Corbin in a low voice. "No need to get them excited until we know what is in here."

  "Right you are, Mr Corbin," Wynton said before turning to the crew, many of whom had halted their work altogether as curiosity overcame them. "Okay, men, no one told you to stop! Back to it!"

  Descending into the darkness below deck, Corbin could not keep a slight spring from his stride as he hurried to the stern of the ship and the Captain's quarters. He found himself just as eager to discover if they had been given new orders as any of the crew but resolved not to show any outward indications of excitement. There were some things an officer could not be seen to indulge in.

  Noticing no one waiting in the small anteroom known as the coach, Corbin passed straight through to the doors of the great cabin and knocked. He was greeted a few seconds later by Havelock's voice bidding him enter.

  Inside, the Captain sat at a large oak table before the large seven-paned window through which streamed the bright sun-lit day, causing Corbin to blink after having just got used to the darkness of the rest of the upper deck. Havelock was scribbling another entry in the ship's log, a leatherbound tome sacred to all the ship's officers while the remains of his breakfast lay adrift on the great table. He spoke without looking up at his Lieutenant.

  "Yes, Mr Corbin? What can I do for you?"

  Corbin could not help but smile as he spoke. "Captain, the marines just arrived bearing a message. Orders?"

  Havelock looked up at this news. "Perhaps, Mr Corbin, perhaps. But let us not get ahead of ourselves." Despite the Captain's calmness, Corbin could sense a change in his demeanour as Havelock stood up and walked round the table. He took the offered pouch and broke the seal after a momentary inspection. Corbin had to fight from fidgeting as silence descended on the great cabin while the Captain read the letter, with only the sounds of gulls and the sea lapping against the hull breaking the monotony. Presently, Havelock looked up from the letter and smiled.

  "Mr Corbin, our hopes and prayers have been answered!"

  "We are to set sail?"

  "With the tide on the morrow. And we have a good chance of action - there is a French frigate that the Admiralty needs sinking. Here... " He offered the letter to Corbin who anxiously scanned its contents.

  You are hereby required and directed to proceed without loss of time in His Majesty's Ship under your command to the Cape of Good Hope for the purpose of intercepting the French frigate Elita, destroying or taking her as prize.

  The Elita has this past three months sunk or captured sixteen merchant vessels sailing around the Cape and has become a liability to the Empire's continued shipping. She is believed to be under the command of a Captain Guillot, formerly of the Boudeuse. Expect no reinforcements in Southern waters.

  List of merchant shipping sunk or captured by the Elita proceeds...

  "Captain..." he began to ask but Havelock held up a hand.

  "There is much to discuss, Mr Corbin, but I believe we would be better off doing that when others are present. If you would be so good as to request the presence of the other officers and midshipmen to my table tonight, all questions can be answered then. In the meantime, make preparations to sail and inform the purser that if he requires anything for the stores, he has precious little time. Ah, and please ask my steward to attend immediately - this will be our last chance to avail ourselves of food from shore and I believe that officer and jack alike will be grateful of a real meal before we start on what we have in the galley."

  "Yes, Captain. I'll attend to it."

  "Excellent. For my part, I must consult the charts of the Southern oceans and our hunting grounds."

  Though Lieutenant Corbin had been careful not to mention any specifics of the Whirlwind's new mission, his subsequent orders to the crew and officers left no one in any doubt that the ship was to set sail very soon. Consequently, rumours started to run rampant.

  The sceptical were quick to point out that the Whirlwind, a single frigate, had been assigned to nothing more than convoy duty, protecting some fat merchants on a lonely piece of the sea that would never see any French flag sailing. The doomsayers scoffed at this, opining that the French had already won the war in Spain and were even now loading up ships ready for an invasion of England. The King's Navy would be outnumbered at least three to one and the entire fleet would be at the bottom of the channel within a week. Some of the more optimistic actually liked this idea, cheered at the thought of mere three-to-one odds, and confident that a single British ship could withstand the battering of a half dozen French vessels and still remain victorious. The excitable predicted that the Whirlwind was the lead element in a reconnaissance squadron that would hunt down and locate the French fleet, tying it up with a series of dashing and heroic actions until the main bulk of the King's Navy could be brought to bear.

  Then there were those like Murphy, who happily adopted the latest rumour they heard, then embellished it. Fleets of French ships suddenly grew extended holds crammed full of dead men walking, ready to be unleashed on England's green soil. Stories of a coming invasion became tales of French soldiers (and their zombies, of course) already landing in Yorkshire and setting fire to entire towns. Rumours of French soldiers sweeping the British out of Spain became an account of how the whole of Europe was under the sway of Napoleon - who had recently been turned into an ever-living zombie.

  Each new rumour was as readily accepted as the last but even those predicting doom began to work doubly hard as the long stay at Spithead drew rapidly to a close. The extra ration of rum at the end of the day, granted by Havelock, went down especially well, and most of the crew gathered in a toast to their Captain, whom they wished good health and good luck in the coming voyage.

  In the great cabin, the mood was similarly buoyant, as officers and midshipmen ate pork with fresh vegetables in a feast prepared by the Captain's steward, and enjoyed the free-flowing wine. Havelock sat at the head of the table, listening to his officers talk among themselves but though he had intended to have the orders read aloud at the end of the meal, he could sense the growing anticipation of those around him and presently gave Corbin the nod to pass on the words of the Admiralty. The midshipmen and other two lieutenants hung onto every one of Corbin's words as he read the letter but it did not take long for the questions and comments to come pouring in after he had finished.

  "With luck, the French will not expect a warship in the area if their spies in Portsmouth are watching the fleet," said Third Lieutenant Hague.

  Havelock smiled. "Do not count on that, Mr Hague. It is always best to imagine that French spies are at least as good as those we have in Spain and France. They'll notice us leave alright."

  Hague snorted. "Filthy spies. That is no way to fight a war, buried in Portsmouth while counting masts."

  "And what about our British spies in Paris and Calais?" asked the Captain jovially. "Those brave and noble fellows who tell us what Napoleon is up to, as they constantly wait for a knife in the back?"

  "That's different," Hague sniffed, causing everyone at the table to laugh.

  "What do we know of the Elita?" asked Corbin. "Have you see
n her before, Captain?"

  "Once," Havelock said. "While she was in port at Brest. A two-decker, likely very fast. Fourth-rater by our standards. Fifty guns, at least."

  The table was silent for a few seconds as they digested this information. According to their Captain, the Elita was larger than the Whirlwind, with more than half as many cannon again and possibly three times the crew.

  "The Frogs are building more ships that way," said Hague. "Able to turn sharply with the wind behind them while carrying enough guns to worry a third-rater. When I was last in London I heard tales of the Admiralty commissioning the design of similar ships. Give it a few years and all frigates will be built that way."

  "Are they copying the Americans?" Midshipman Rawlinson asked, his round and youthful face fired by the prospect of action and not at all daunted by the news of their quarry's size.

  "In concept, yes," said Havelock. "They are what the Americans call super-frigates, only slightly larger than a ship like the Whirlwind and yet packed to the gills with cannon and men. The hull and mast design will be all French though, and so should be respected. Hull and masts are what will keep the Elita nimble, rather than having all that extra weight robbing her of agility. Such ships are actually quite impressive."

  "But are British ships not superior to those of the French?" Rawlinson asked. "Or those of any other nation?"

  Havelock sipped his wine before answering but all eyes were on him. "No. Our crews are better trained and better disciplined. Our ships are kept in better working order - and that makes all the difference. However, ship for ship, you have to assume the French and Americans, even the Spanish, are at least our equals. They have some very clever naval architects overseas." He noticed that not all around the table had been convinced by his words. "Look at it this way. If we capture the Elita, she will join the King's Navy - you might even get a chance to serve on her later in your careers!"