Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  Standing at the prow of the boat, feeling it surge forward with each stroke of the oars, Havelock fixed his eyes intently on the approaching shore. Wynton and his men had already landed and, after pulling their boat onto the shore, began to fan out and disperse into the trees as they sought out French sentries. Havelock felt a wave of confidence wash over him. This battle would be his finest moment yet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Quietly cursing to himself, Murphy picked his way through the jungle, unhappy to be in an environment so similar to his last landfall. The images of crewmen torn apart by some unknown beast constantly ran through his head and he twitched at the sound of every rustle in the undergrowth and snapping of branches. He and Brooks trailed behind Bryant, who moved slowly, trying to keep the men to his right in view at all times so they did not get lost.

  The British sailors formed a thin line of three guns crews, with Bryant's team on the right flank next to another crew who were led by Lieutenant Wynton. They moved with care through the vegetation, anxious to stay silent, yet conscious of the main body of sailors who would not be far behind them. So far, there had been no sign of any French pickets but they were expected to be placed far closer to the Elita's natural harbour.

  Tripping over a vine Murphy reached out to a branch to steady himself, only to snatch his hand back as a sharp pain shot up his arm. He muffled a cry as he looked to the offending plant which, he now saw, was covered in thorns. It seemed to him that every living thing in jungles, plant or animal, were out to ensure human life did not venture too far in. As Bryant raised an arm for them to stop, Murphy found himself eying the Lieutenant, who had briefly halted to check his pistol.

  "So 'ow comes we never gets the guns then?" he hissed.

  "Officers only, mate," said Brooks, equally quietly, though their conversation had already caused Bryant to look back with a frown.

  "And I just gets me knives," Murphy complained, reaching down to his belt to check that both blades were where they should be.

  "Yeah, but you're pretty handy with them."

  "I 'ave's me moments."

  "Will you two be silent?" said Bryant, so quietly they barely heard him. In any case, Murphy considered the absence of French sentries to mean Bryant's statement was a guideline more than an order.

  "Just be glad to fight somethin' that will die when you stab it," he said.

  "Well, the Captain didn't seem to think there would be any walking dead on this island - or he would have told us, right?"

  "Yeah, that's probably right," said Murphy. "As I always say, you can trust the Cap'n."

  Even Bryant turned round to give Murphy an incredulous look.

  "Anyways, them zombies won't matter any more," Murphy said, completely unabashed. "As the Cap'n said, we deal with the Frogs, grab their ship, and then it's back to Blighty! No more hangin' around these God-forsaken parts. And that means no more dead Frenchmen to fight."

  "Yeah, that would be good," said Brooks, a look of concern crossing his face as he remembered the night they fought the dead.

  "Still, I wouldn't mind 'aving Jessop round 'ere right now."

  "God lord, why?" said Brooks.

  "Well, you can say what you like about Jessop. An' I can say a bit, mind. But 'e ain't 'alf good in a fight. You should've seen 'im fight those zombies. Took three on without blinkin' an eye. I swear, saw it me self. A Frog or ten wouldn't stand a chance against 'im."

  Bryant turned back round to confront Murphy. "The Lieutenant made sure Jessop was far behind us which, incidentally, is where I wish you were right now. Jessop has a big mouth that would alert any Frenchies for miles around - just like you are doing now. For the love of God, man, shut up!"

  Cowering a little under his friend's words, Murphy shrugged slightly. "No need to be nasty about it," he muttered.

  Wynton's group had started to move forwards and Bryant waved for them to match the pace. The jungle was noticeably thinner than that they had experienced on the African coast, so the going was a little easier. Conversely, they could see a lot further, sometimes as much as twenty or thirty yards. Acutely aware that they were on French ground, trying to locate sentries who would be watching for invaders, every sailor crouched low as he moved, taking care to avoid brushing through too much undergrowth. Where necessary, Bryant, along with others who wielded cutlasses or heavy knives, cut through vines and other denser patches of vegetation but only if there was no obvious way around it without losing eye contact with the other groups of sailors. This caused their path to meander somewhat but cutting through even a thin branch created a great deal of noise in a jungle that had grown quiet with the onset of twilight. There was enough light remaining for them to pick out details but all had been warned that night would descend extremely rapidly when on the island.

  A flash of movement ahead caught Bryant's eyes and he crouched down, raising his arm in warning. Murphy was about to complain about another false alarm when he too saw something move behind the trunk of a tree, a light blue shade that seemed out of place in the jungle. All three of them stayed low as they peered into the gloom and were rewarded by the sight of a man in French army uniform leaning his musket against the tree as he fiddled with the top button of his jacket - no doubt taking advantage of the absence of officers to loosen it.

  Bryant looked at his two comrades, putting his finger to his lips, but they were both alert and prepared for action. He motioned to Murphy to suggest that the small man sneak in an arc to their left, while he and Brooks took a more direct route. Their plans dissipated when sounds of rapid movement through undergrowth were followed by a cry echoed through the trees to their left. Clearly, some of their allies had also located a sentry.

  Their man had also heard the sounds of the fight and he grabbed his musket, setting the bayonet as he stared hard into the jungle, trying to decide whether he should run or stay. Bryant decided to make the decision for him.

  "Come on, now!" he said to Murphy and Brooks, before jumping up and running at full tilt towards the Frenchman.

  The soldier spun around in alarm as Bryant thundered through the undergrowth towards him, leaping over fallen branches and raising his cutlass. A loud shot rang out as the sentry panicked and discharged his rifle, its shot flying well wide of Bryant.

  Recovering his wits, the sentry raised his musket to block Bryant's downward swing, then lunged forward, forcing the big man to sidestep as the wickedly sharp point of the bayonet lanced past his ribs. He aimed a side swing at the sentry's head in return, but the man ducked under the blow, thrusting forward with his weapon once more. Bryant was forced to give ground or be skewered and he backed away, crouching on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge another attack.

  Waving his cutlass dangerously in a false attack, Bryant caused the sentry to flinch and he took advantage of the opening as the man raised his musket, moving forward with a series of wide, confident sweeps of his blade. Several loud cracks rang out as the sentry desperately parried each blow with his musket, retreating several footsteps as he did so. Then he stopped. Arms dropping to his side, his musket fell to the floor as his eyes glazed over. Bryant was puzzled as the man keeled over, until he saw Murphy behind the body of the sentry, smiling triumphantly as he reached down to wipe his knife clean on the man's jacket.

  "Nice work."

  "I 'aves me moments."

  Brooks trotted up to Bryant's side. "Think anyone heard that?" he asked.

  "No doubt of it. This place will be crawling with the French," said Bryant. "Come on, let's find the Lieutenant and see what he wants us to do now."

  They trotted in the direction of the first fight they had heard, though the jungle was silent now. Brushing through the branches of a tree whose limbs hung low to the ground, they were confronted by several clubs, blades and a single pistol pointed unerringly at Bryant's head. Lieutenant Wynton sighed as he recognised the men under his command and lowered his gun.

  "You found one too?" he asked.

  "Yes, Sir," said Br
yant, curling a finger to his forehead. "He won't be troubling us."

  "Good show. Craggs' crew found two more just aways from us."

  "Begging your pardon, Sir, but what are we to do now? Surely the French heard the shots."

  "I agree," said Wynton. "We hold here, wait for the Captain to bring the rest of the men up to us. By my reckoning, night is about to fall and we don't want to be stumbling around the jungle while the French are looking for us. We have dealt with the picket line in this area. With luck, the Captain will be with us before the French start a serious sweep of the jungle."

  Movement ahead of them brought their conversation to a sudden halt and they all ducked low. Peering through the trees, they spied another two French soldiers. They held their muskets across their chests, scanning the surrounding area as they walked slowly towards the British sailors.

  "Unless, of course, they force our hand," said Wynton as he stood up straight. Taking quick aim with his pistol, he fired, the weapon discharging smoke that carried the thick stench of black powder. One of the soldiers fell to the ground but his companion was already raising his musket.

  Bryant ran forward, galvanising several other sailors to follow him. The sight of a half dozen maddened British sailors caused the soldier to falter as he tried to decide which target to point his musket at. Before they reached him, he fired and a man staggered but the rest swept onward to batter and slice the soldier as he desperately tried to fix his bayonet to the end of his weapon. He fell quickly and silently to a heavy blow from a club.

  Slower to react than most of the others, Brooks went to the wounded sailor who had received shot from the discharged musket. The man was leaning heavily against a tree, clutching his shoulder. He was obviously in a great deal of pain and Brooks helped him sink to the ground before tearing a strip from his own shirt to help bind the wound. Blood covered the man's body to the extent that Brooks could not see whether the bullet had exited through his back or remained lodged among the bones of the shoulder.

  Bryant leaned forward to gauge the man's wound. "You should help him back to the ship, Brooks."

  "Belay that," said Wynton, who had also moved forward to join them. "There will be plenty more wounded soon and, besides, the lad'll likely get lost at night. Make the man comfortable, then we move on. The Captain and his men will find him and make arrangements. Besides, we need every hand for the fight ahead."

  "Aye, Sir," Bryant said, trying hard to keep the reluctance out of his voice. As well as compassion to the wounded man, he had been hoping to find a reason to keep Brooks out of the coming battle. The boy was not only young, he was also inexperienced when it came to life and death fights with the French. He resolved to keep Brooks close by at all times during the next few hours. It might well be the making or breaking of the lad.

  Cries and shouts in a foreign, yet familiar, tongue echoed in the jungle ahead of them, growing steadily closer. Loading his pistol, Wynton gave orders for them to spread out and take cover. They would meet any French patrols here until they were joined by the Captain.

  The fall of night in the jungle caught Havelock momentarily off guard. He had been aware of the sinking sun, though it was hidden by the tall trees, and the slowly dimming light that forced him to stare hard through the undergrowth to find his footing. Night itself came almost instantly. One moment he was peering through the gloomy wild, then he was calling for men to bring forward torches. The sputtering fire provided enough illumination to proceed with the venture but it cast eerie shadows that moved and jumped at the corner of men's eyes, causing more than one false alarm.

  At his side, Corbin monitored the disposition of sailors around them, allowing Havelock to concentrate on the task of reaching Wynton's forward party and then engage the French. Moving as a ragged column, they hoped to ensure none would become lost during the trek, though there was no accounting for a sailor's curiosity at times.

  Orders had been given for absolute silence during the march but with nearly a couple of hundred men behind him, Havelock began to fear that the sounds of their approach would alert the French long before they emerged from the jungle, and that was assuming Wynton had been successful in silencing any sentries. If any escaped to get word back to the main French camp, this fight would grow harder still. His only hope then would be that the French crew would be split between those on shore and those still on board the Elita. He felt confident that the French captain would maintain a heavy watch on his ship, however, as they had plainly spotted the Whirlwind approaching their island and would thus take steps to secure a strong position against attack, either from land or sea. It was Havelock's hopes that in trying to cover all possibilities, the French captain would leave himself weaker overall, permitting the British sailors to fight them piecemeal.

  A loud crack resounded through the jungle and Havelock stopped in his tracks, the sailors closest to him following suit. It was quickly followed by several more shots and, straining his ears, Havelock made out the unmistakable cries of men in battle.

  "Lieutenant! It seems as though Mr Wynton has found the measure of the enemy," he said to Corbin. "I'll take a dozen men and relieve him. Bring the men up in good order. We'll wait for you to begin the main attack!"

  "Aye, Captain," said Corbin, turning round to pick a group of sailors to follow the Captain as he ran forward into the darkness. They had to sprint to catch up with him.

  The uneven ground forced Havelock to quickly moderate his pace and he chafed at his own slowness as the sounds of battle grew ever closer. Somewhere ahead, he knew, Wynton was fighting, wondering just when his Captain would bring reinforcements. Two of the men who had joined him bore torches and their light was noticeably less illuminating than the score of torches the rest of his force had carried. He drew his sword, using it to hack down any plant life that threatened to impede his progress, while he carried his pistol in his left.

  Several cries from ahead warned Havelock that not only was he close to the fight, but the light from his torches had warned the participants of his arrival. Sparing a thought only for those of his men who had, until now, been fighting a terrifying battle in darkness, Havelock began to run. A bright flash ahead followed by a heavy crack betrayed the position of a musket and he shouted his men forward as he pointed his sword ahead. He was briefly aware of Wynton and a few sailors crouched down behind a fallen tree on his right as he tore past. Leaping over a dense fern, he confronted a surprised French soldier who had his back half-turned as he reloaded his musket. Not giving the man time to recover, Havelock swung down with his sword, embedding it deep in the man's back. Screaming in agony, the soldier fell trying in vain to reach behind with an arm to staunch the flow of blood.

  Suddenly aware of several other uniformed soldiers and raggedly clothed sailors around him, Havelock realised he had charged straight into the middle of the French line. His men rapidly fanned out and found enemies to engage and suddenly the jungle erupted with the sounds of an intense, desperate melee. Trees and ferns shook as men rolled or crashed through them, the air was filled with the sounds of wood and metal connecting with one another and, through it all, the cries of mortally wounded men. A sailor, his face stained with grime, leapt out of the darkness with a cleaver, clearly fancying his chances of killing an English officer. Havelock calmly sidestepped the rush, batting the cleaver away with his sword, before reversing his stroke and running the man through the stomach.

  As he wrenched his weapon clear in a spray of blood, he stalked towards two French soldiers who were pressing their advantage home against one of his sailors. The Englishman desperately swung with a cutlass, trying to keep the bayoneted muskets at bay but he was giving ground with every stroke. Calling out a challenge, Havelock marched forward, slashing at the nearest and sinking his sword deep into the man's arm. His companion, suddenly finding himself the outnumbered one, backed away. The Englishman's strength renewed at the sight of his Captain entering battle, the sailor yelled as he sprang forward with two clumsy but powe
rful chops. The soldier parried the first with the barrel of his musket but the second found its target in his skull. Panting, the sailor put a crooked finger to forehead in salute to his Captain. Havelock smiled and clapped the man's shoulder before moving off to look for Wynton. By the sounds filling the jungle, Havelock could tell the fight was reaching its conclusion and by the number of dead Frenchmen lying on the ground, he was confident of its outcome.

  "Captain!"

  Havelock saw his Second Lieutenant trotting out from behind the trees, sword as red as his own.

  "Mr Wynton, report."

  Breathless, Wynton did his best. "Met their first line of sentries, Sir. Dealt with them, but the French got a shot off. Alerted the others. We dug in and met them..."

  "Down!" A quick movement caught Havelock's eye and he roughly pushed Wynton to one side, even as he crouched himself. Raising his pistol, he fired near blindly. A French soldier dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach.

  Picking himself off the ground, Wynton dusted himself off. "Damn close," he muttered. Then, a little clearer, he gave a half bow. "My thanks, Captain."

  "Need to keep your eyes open in this damnable jungle," said Havelock. The familiar sounds of English sailors on the march reached his ears and he smiled. "Ah, here comes Mr Corbin with the rest of our men. Now perhaps we can push on out of this jungle and into more civilised terrain."

  "No arguments from me, Sir."

  The darkness of the jungle began to yield more British sailors. Havelock was just glad to see them and he waved to get Corbin's attention. The Lieutenant marched briskly towards the two of them.

  "Had some excitement already, I see," he said.

  "Mr Wynton accredited himself most admirably, I would say," said Havelock. "Just left us a few to mop up."

  Wynton smiled as he greeted Corbin. "Let's just say that the Captain's arrival was most timely."