Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  A loud and raucous cheer immediately met his words, persisting until he raised a hand. The crew fell silent almost immediately, as much out of curiosity for the mission as respect for their Captain.

  "That is good! We have been ordered to the South Atlantic where we are to intercept the French frigate Elita. We have the permission of the Admiralty to sink her but it is my intention to take her as prize!"

  Again, cheers erupted across the deck, this time fuelled by avarice and self-interest. Though most members of the crew would receive a tiny fraction of the prize money for a captured ship compared to any of the officers, it would still likely be far more wealth than they might earn in a year of hard toil anywhere else. This was the reason that even press ganged crew tended to stay on board, once they had become accustomed to a life at sea.

  Holding a hand up once more, Havelock regained his crew's attention, wanting to focus them on duty as much as the promise of riches.

  "It seems the crew of this French ship believe they are the terror of the waves!" A few boos and jeers greeted this news as Havelock continued. "Thus far, the Elita has been responsible for the loss of more than a dozen English merchant vessels, all plundered or sunk. Right now, the crew of that French frigate are laughing at us, if you please!"

  Havelock stood up straight, placing his hands behind his back as he mustered all the dignity he could.

  "Shipmates, I say to you, that French crew has yet to meet a real English ship of war!" The massed cheer began once again at these words and Havelock smiled at his crew. "They think they prove their mettle by attacking merchant ships with but a couple of small guns! In a few short weeks, we will be in their hunting grounds and then we'll give them something to think about! We'll show them how His Majesty's Whirlwind fights, aye, and her crew too!"

  The growing cries from the crew threatened to drown out Havelock's words; his eyes flickered across the deck, enjoying the moment, not willing to disrupt their enthusiasm as sailors congratulated one another and punched the air with excitement. Having one more thing to say, Havelock raised his hand and, again, received the rapt attention of his crew.

  "Men of the Whirlwind, I ask for nothing less than your very best. We will soon be facing the enemy and I do not intend for us to be found wanting. Remember, you serve the greatest Navy the world has ever seen, on board one of its finest ships. Whatever hazards we meet, a Frenchman is but a Frenchman and we have always beaten him! Do your duty! God save King George!"

  Havelock grinned openly as the crew responded to his speech with a roar that was almost terrifying in its volume. He turned to Corbin.

  "Mr Corbin, would you be so good as to set us on our way?"

  The Lieutenant's grin matched Havelock's, the man clearly as eager as his Captain at the prospect of action.

  "Aye, Sir, with pleasure."

  Havelock watched Lieutenants Hague and Wynton descend to the main deck with the midshipmen as they relayed Corbin's orders and the crew of the Whirlwind sprang from their perches to set the frigate in motion.

  "Prepare to weigh anchor!"

  "Stand by to loose the topsail!"

  "Weigh anchor, jump to it!"

  "Loose the staysail!"

  "Loose the topsail! Put your backs into it!"

  As wind began to fill the lowering sails of the Whirlwind and the frigate began to slowly pick up speed across the low waves, Havelock paced slowly to the stern of the ship, looking at the coast as it began, gradually, to recede from view. The cry of gulls milling above the masts mixed with the sound of the sea being split in two by the sharp prow of his ship and he breathed deeply, enjoying the familiar saltiness of the water anew as he looked forward to another voyage. He listened to the crew, feeling the natural rhythms of the ship as they went about their work in concert with shipmate, officer, sea and wind. Together, the entire vessel and its complement were like a single organism, one unit that, through him, would do the bidding of King and country. He paced back to the railings above the main deck but his eyes were focussed past the crew and sails, to the sea that lay beyond.

  "On our way Captain, no problems reported," said Corbin as he returned to the Captain's side, satisfied that everything on board the Whirlwind was proceeding as it should.

  "Very good, Mr Corbin," said Havelock but he did not turn to the Lieutenant, simply keeping his gaze on the horizon. Corbin was about to ask a question but noticed the faraway look in other man's eyes. Picking up the lead, he stood quietly next to Havelock, both with hands behind their backs as they took in the wide panorama of the sea, conscious that the distance between them and land grew by the minute.

  Presently, without changing the direction of his gaze, Havelock spoke, his voice almost soft. "You know, Mr Corbin, it is a funny thing."

  "Sir?"

  "I have faced stormy seas with waves crashing down onto the deck, I have met the French in battle and won, and I have dined with Admirals as they thanked me for a job well done. And yet... it is this moment, just as we set sail, that I have enjoyed every bit as much as the rest. It is funny, that so simple a thing could bring so much satisfaction."

  Corbin smiled. "It is the sea, Sir. You have it in your blood. I think we all feel this way when first setting out on a new voyage."

  "I pity those who are land bound, all those lords and army officers, no matter how privileged, who will never truly understand what it means to be on a ship like this, now, just as we set sail. It is more than a love for the sea, Mr Corbin. It is the discovery of what lies beyond the horizon, the parting of the veil, the knowledge that where we travel, few men have gone before us. Who knows what awaits us south? Victory? Disappointment? A sound thrashing?"

  "Well, victory, I would wager, Sir."

  "Aye, I think you may be right, Mr Corbin," said Havelock with a grin. "Gods, I would not be anywhere else!"

  They stood together for a few minutes longer, watching the crew master the waves by sail and helm. Feeling he had luxuriated enough, Havelock turned to the Lieutenant. "As soon as we reach the Channel, let us have an hour's practice with the guns, Mr Corbin. We'll start as we mean to go on. By the time we meet the Elita, I want us to have the best practiced gun crews in the Navy."

  "You'll have it, Sir," said Corbin before he faced the main deck to issue the orders. "Hands to quarters! Mr Hague, run out the guns!"

  Once again, the crew of the Whirlwind sprang into action, this time to a very different rhythm.

  Clinging to the wooden beams running across the ceiling for support, Bryant steadied himself against the swaying of the ship, taking care not to let the wet stairs send him crashing to the floor of the upper deck. Drenched through, he staggered past his cannon to join a group of men who were already feasting on a meal of beef stew and rum. Reaching behind his collar, he stripped his shirt off and wrung it in his hands, cold water pouring onto the wooden floor. The trickle ran under the feet of the sitting men as it made its way to drainage seams along the side of the deck.

  "Rainin', is it?" asked Murphy, causing some of the other men to chuckle at Bryant's misfortune.

  Bryant playfully shoved him, causing the smaller man to scramble in order to keep his food on its square tray. "Hey!" cried Murphy. "Just jokin'! An' anyway, look what I saved for you 'ere. Complements of 'is Majesty."

  Bryant's eyes lit up as Murphy threw aside a cloth, revealing a plate of stew he had kept by for the larger man. Sitting down, Bryant grabbed the plate with obvious relish.

  "Ah, you're a good shipmate, Murphy."

  A young man with a mop of ginger hair leaned forward into the circle of the gathered men. Brooks had been assigned to Bryant's and Murphy's gun crew soon after the Whirlwind had set sail and, upon revealing that this was his first time at sea, had been taken under their collective wing.

  "So, Bryant, is it true that we're already in sight of the African coast?" he asked.

  Bryant looked up from his meal with a puzzled look "We've barely been at sea for a week. What makes you think we have already m
ade Africa?"

  "I was listenin' to Jefferies and his mates talkin' back there," he said, indicating the stern of the ship.

  "Heavens," said Bryant as he rolled his eyes. "What is it with you and Murphy? I keep telling the two of you, pay no attention to what Jefferies says. He may sound as though he knows what he is talking about but he knows as much about navigation as any of the ship's rats. He's barely been on more voyages than you, young Brooks."

  Brooks actually looked a little crestfallen at this news. "So where are we then?"

  "Somewhere off Southern Spain. I heard the Lieutenant mention something about the Cape of Trafalgar earlier this evening. Perhaps someone here has got a map we can look at?"

  He was greeted by blank stares and a few heads shaking.

  "Perhaps not," he said, sighing as he went back to his food. Across the deck, casting eerie shadows from the few swaying lanterns placed at strategic positions in the rafters, another couple of gun crews had joined each other for food and some of them had begun singing, clearly enjoying their rum before starting their meals.

  "So, Brooks, this really your first time at sea?" A weathered looking man seated to Bryant's left asked.

  "Ah, yes, yes it is," said Brooks, vaguely wondering if he was being led down a path. As a new face, and one unfamiliar with the ways of a ship of war at that, he had already faced his fair share of ribbing, though most of it had been good-natured.

  "You've been bearin' up well," the sailor remarked.

  "Ah, Brooks is a natural born seaman!" Bryant declared. "Got his sea legs within hours!"

  "That's good," said the sailor. "But it takes more than holdin' your guts steady to make a good seaman."

  "Well give 'im a chance!" Murphy chipped in. "The lad's only been 'ere for a few days!"

  "That's fair," conceded the sailor. "You pressed into this, boy?"

  "Umm, no." Brooks said. "Volunteered. Always wanted to sail. And do my part, fightin' the French. Besides, if you live in Portsmouth, you're better off volunteerin' rather than waitin' for the gangs to come round."

  Bryant reached forward and rustled Brooks' unkempt hair. "A real patriot, this one!" He turned to Murphy, who had started to lean backwards, an ear clearly cocked to a conversation among the group of men behind them. Bryant realised that the sporadic singing earlier had now stopped as the other gun crews talked in quieter tones, with some urgency, he thought.

  "Murphy, wind your neck back in!" he said.

  "Hush!" Murphy waved him back. "They're talkin' 'bout the Cap'n!"

  Bryant inwardly groaned but could not help but bend an ear himself. He quickly identified the hard voice of Jessop.

  "Jefferies, yer a lyin' sod, an' we all know it!"

  "Hey, listen to what I tell ya, or don't - all the same to me." Bryant had to strain to catch everything that Jefferies said. The man was quickly prompted by the others in his group to continue, despite Jessop's scepticism.

  "Like I was sayin', there's a black cloud hangin' over 'Avelock. When I was servin' on the Dorchester an' 'Avelock was nothin' more than a lieutenant, we used to call it 'Avelock's Curse." Jefferies looked about his listeners with a certain satisfaction as he realised he had them hooked.

  "What sort of curse is that, then?" asked one.

  "Little things at first," said Jefferies. "A man slips an' falls to his death from the mainmast. Someone falls overboard an' no one notices for an hour. Sealed barrels o' pork go bad."

  Jefferies took a swig from his metal cup as the others digested this information. "Then the weather turns against us, see, sails start shreddin', French ships start turnin' up when the sea should be clear."

  "You survived though," pointed out Jessop.

  "Well, yeah. 'Ad a good Cap'n back then."

  One of the other men leaned forward, rubbing his chin. "There may be somethin' in this, you know," he said. "We've all 'eard about the Cap'n's grandfather, the great Adm'ral 'Avelock. Well, when I was last in Portsmouth, I over 'eard a bunch of old soldiers who had once served on ship with 'im."

  "The Cap'n?" Jefferies asked.

  "Nah, you fool, the Adm'ral. Anyway, they said 'is great victory in the Caribbean was nothin' of the sort. 'E didn't go into battle against a full French fleet and 'e didn't win in less than hour, as they say now."

  "So, what happened?" Jessop prompted.

  "Well, an' this is just the soldiers talkin', mind. I 'eard that 'e sailed into a French port that was just launchin' a bunch of colony ships - you know, full of decent folk lookin' to make a life for themselves on one of the other islands. Caught the French nappin' and began sinkin' the colony ships until the French port surrendered. But that didn't 'appen until a lot of innocent women and children were sent to the bottom."

  The men around him started shaking their heads. "Dirty business that."

  "Dirtier that 'e got made Adm'ral for it."

  "An' that the Cap'n can trade on the name - no guessin' that granddaddy's position 'elped 'im get a Cap'n's post," said Jessop. He glanced around the deck and noticed the interest his group had gained among Bryant's men. "Family ties like that matter more to the Lords runnin' the navy than bein' a good officer. You agree, don't you, Bryant?" he called.

  Murphy scrambled back to his food, hunching over his plate. Bryant refused to meet Jessop's eye but said "That talk ain't wise, Jessop."

  "Oh, really?" Jessop grinned as he stood and took two steps towards Bryant, bracing himself against the low ceiling to steady himself against the ship's motion. "Perhaps you would be likin' to do somethin' about it?"

  Bryant turned to face Jessop, giving him a baleful look. "I'm eating. Besides, it won't be me that hangs you for mutinous talk."

  A grin crept across Jessop's face as he stared hard at Bryant, who just shook his head and went back to his food, not wanting to play Jessop's game. He glanced up as a newcomer walked towards them. Dwarfed by most of the sailors on the main deck, yet distinctive in his simple dark blue uniform, Midshipman Rawlinson picked his way out of the shadows and walked up to the two antagonists.

  "Jessop, good. Please come with me," he said.

  "Why?" Jessop shifted his mass as he spoke, so that by bracing an arm against one of the rafters running above his head, he leaned over the midshipman in an attempt to intimidate the young man. Rawlinson blinked, not fully prepared for Jessop's insolence.

  "Hobbs has reported some missing property, a matter of three shillings and a bone pipe. We are going to look into your belongings," he said formerly.

  "I ain't stolen' nothin'," said Jessop turning his back on Rawlinson. "'Sides, I'm busy right now. Come back when I've finished eatin', boy."

  "Sir!" The smirks of Jessop's friends were immediately cut short by the bark of Corbin's voice, as the Lieutenant stepped into the light from the stairs to the main deck. Though wet through with droplets of water streaming from his hat, his anger was unmistakable. He marched straight up to Jessop, completely unafraid of the larger man's muscles and demeanour.

  "You will address Midshipman Rawlinson as Sir!" Corbin said, voice suddenly hardened from his usual manner. "Bosun!" he called.

  It took just a few seconds for Kennedy to appear, no doubt already on his way once he had realised what was going on within this part of the gun deck. "Yes, Sir?" he reported, a little breathless.

  "Escort Jessop to the brig. In the morning, he will answer to a charge of insubordination. You will then attend Mr Rawlinson as he goes through Jessop's belongings and if the missing items are to be found there, a charge of theft will be added."

  Jessop kept quiet but his face showed nothing but pure murderous intent as he glared at Corbin. The Lieutenant refused to back down and instead took one step closer to the man before he spoke.

  "And if you carry on looking at me like that, man, I will see you swing from the yardarm!"

  Expecting trouble, Kennedy grabbed Jessop's arm firmly but was surprised to find no resistance as he led the man down into the lower deck to the brig. Corbin nodded at the mi
dshipman.

  "Okay, Mr Rawlinson, about your business. The rest of you, get on with your food or I may decide the topsail needs replacing - and believe me, that is not going to be an easy job in this weather!"

  The threat, however idle the crew may or may not have thought it, proved enough to force their attentions back to the food before them. Satisfied that order had been restored, Corbin walked the length of the upper deck to ensure no other trouble lurked and then returned to his post in the wind and rain above.

  Having directly challenged a midshipman, Havelock had little choice but to condemn Jessop and force him to answer the charge made by Lieutenant Corbin. He was mollified somewhat by Rawlinson's discovery of the stolen pipe among the man's belongings, though no trace of the missing money had been found - not that anyone seriously expected it to turn up.

  Once again, the entire crew of the Whirlwind lined the main deck but their mood was far more sombre than when they had last gathered in this way. They all knew they were to bear witness to the punishment of one of their own, and however unpopular Jessop may have proved with many of them, few liked to be reminded that it might only be the grace of God that spared them from a flogging. It was never a case of merely taking your licks, no matter how much a man thought he could face the pain - such men had never undergone the agony of a rope across the back. There was a humiliation to be borne too, the knowledge that the entire crew would be watching while the punishment was served.

  Flanked by his officers, Havelock watched grimly as Jessop was brought up from below deck, escorted by the Bosun and two red-coated marines. He knew that, when in command of a ship of nearly three hundred souls, it was inevitable that more than a few bad apples would creep into the crew. Indeed, the press gangs were reported to be working overtime on shore and there was more than a little resentment building up on every ship in His Majesty's navy. Havelock had long ago determined that the iron rod was not the right approach to maintaining order on a ship of war, especially when one had a good Bosun to rely upon who could maintain a tight level of discipline. However, when a man turned his back on an officer, or even a midshipman, action had to be taken immediately. To defy Rawlinson was, when the matter was brought right down to its core, no different than Jessop casting two fingers up at one of the Captain's own commands. That way lay anarchy and chaos. As for the charge of thievery, he was probably doing Jessop a favour by publicly punishing him for it. Theft without comeuppance on any ship was likely to be met by a knife in the dark below deck, or a good shove while working at the top of one of the masts. Havelock had enough on his hands without having to contend with murder as well.