Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  "Form the men up as best you can, Mr Corbin," said Havelock. "They have the taste of a fight in them now but do the best you can. I want to march on within the minute."

  "Right you are, Sir," said Corbin, immediately turning to bark orders that gathered sailors together. Havelock reached into a pouch at his belt and began to reload his pistol. Though the weapon could only realistically be used once during a battle, the last French soldier had reminded Havelock that, sometimes, that was enough.

  "You have another fight in you, Mr Wynton?"

  "Ready and able, Captain."

  "Good. That was the easy part. Now we march against an enemy who, by now, certainly know we are coming."

  "Did you hope to come this far unnoticed, Captain?"

  "Not really. Our sailors are not trained for this sort of battle. However, we can hope that the French are still unaware of our true numbers or even, perhaps, of our true intentions. Still, it will be a hard fight."

  "Not to worry, Sir," said Wynton cheerfully. "You said it yourself. Each of our men is worth ten of theirs!"

  Havelock returned the smile. "Indeed I did, Mr Wynton. Now come, let us prove it!"

  Men crowded close, filling the surrounding jungle in the flickering light of their torches. Checking that officer and sailor alike were ready, Havelock raised his sword so all could see, then marched determinedly onwards towards the beach and the waiting Frenchmen.

  It took nearly twenty minutes before the trees and vegetation started to noticeably thin out and, straining his ears, Havelock could hear the sound of the sea, the waves lapping against the shoreline subdued by their passage through the narrow inlet of the cove. He held up a hand to halt the progress of the march and called Corbin and Wynton to his side as he crept forward, instinctively keeping low. The three men, using the trees as cover, padded forward until they reached the end of the treeline.

  Before them, a sandy shore extended some thirty yards to the water, its waves glittering with the combined light of a quarter moon and dozens of French torches and lanterns. On the beach itself, they were somewhat surprised to see several hastily erected wooden shacks, no doubt placed by the French as part of their temporary base. They did not seem sturdy enough to resist a brisk wind but, Havelock reflected, in this climate they served their purpose merely by keeping the sun away from sleeping men. Men ran too and fro within the little village but, before the buildings, a clump of men had arranged themselves in a ragged unit. An officer marched up and down their uneven line, shouting out orders to individuals, making them move forward or back in an attempt to make the unit a little neater.

  "Must be a couple hundred of them," said Corbin. "And more among the huts."

  "Not many more I would guess," said Wynton.

  Havelock rubbed his chin as he thought. "Still a formidable force," he said. "They match our numbers, and they are ready for us. We will have to cross forty yards from this position to reach them."

  "I don't see any uniforms," said Corbin as he squinted at the French unit. "If they deployed all their soldiers on picket duty, they may not have many guns. What are your orders, Captain?"

  Slowly exhaling before he answered, Havelock considered his options before reaching a decision. "Mr Wynton, take a couple of men and scout out our left flank. I don't want to rush these men and then suddenly find the rest of their crew waiting for us in the trees a little further along. That won't do at all."

  "Right you are, Captain," said Wynton, as he scuttled off back into the darkness.

  "Mr Corbin, how many marines do we have with us?"

  "Seven. Not enough to make a difference."

  "It will be enough. They will move up first and position themselves on our right. Order them to hold position. They will act as sharpshooters throughout the fight. No sense in risking our only guns in open battle."

  "And the rest of us?"

  "We charge," said Havelock flatly. "Tell the marines to open fire as we leave the trees. It will force the French to keep their heads down and buy us a few more seconds of surprise. Then we'll be in amongst them and it will be up to God who wins."

  As Corbin ran off to gather their men, Havelock was left alone for a few minutes to study his enemy further. In the pale moonlight, he could see the Elita, moored in the middle of the cove, the target of this whole enterprise. She was a fine ship and he was surprised to find himself eager to see how she handled at sea. A skilled captain could do a lot with a frigate like that. He noted the three masts were tall and straight, showing no signs of damage or hasty repair. The Captain guessed this natural harbour had been discovered long ago by the French captain, who had prepared in advance for disaster.

  Turning his attention back to the shore, he saw four boats pulled up onto the beach and could even make out the oars piled on the sand next to them. Looking towards the huts, Havelock could not help but smile as the French officer continued to cajole his men into a regular unit. Sailors never made for the best land troops but he fancied the men of the Whirlwind would have made a far better representation of themselves. Truly, discipline was the foundation of an effective fighting unit, be it on land or sea, and it was something these French sailors sorely lacked. There was a kernel of truth in the idea that a British sailor was worth ten Frenchmen. The odds were not that great, certainly, but given equal numbers, Havelock would put his money on his men in any fight. Still, the French were not to be underestimated, and their leaders had a habit of rising above the failings of their military to perform some truly remarkable actions. He resolved to not let over-confidence blind him to any surprises the French might have in store. On their home ground, they could be a truly dreadful enemy.

  The sounds of breaking branches and hissed curses announced the arrival of his men and Corbin duly appeared.

  "Complements of Mr Wynton," he said. "The flank is clear. No surprises there."

  "The marines?"

  "In position and ready to open fire as soon as we move. We await only your order."

  Steeling himself, Havelock took a deep breath. "The best of luck to you, Mr Corbin. Let us be off."

  Giving his pistol just one last check, Havelock drew its lock back with a solid click and then, raising his sword, sprang forward at a dead run towards the French. He was aware of the sound of two hundred men behind him surging forward and then the multiple cracks of the marines' muskets sang out to his right. Ahead, he saw a couple of French sailors fall to the fire as others instinctively flinched or ducked. He was gratified to see two more in the rear of the line turn and run, scuttling away to hide in one of the wooden huts.

  The indecision of the French line was momentary and, as their officer screamed at the sailors for a response, they started to shamble forward, gradually picking up speed. The distance between the two forces closed rapidly and Havelock found himself being overtaken by some of his faster men. Cries and challenges sprang from the lips of men on both sides while weapons were held aloft, ready to deal a killing blow. The twin masses of French and British hit one another with a dull thud that was audible to everyone. Almost immediately, the cries and screams started as men were gutted, brained and battered senseless.

  A few metres in front of him, a French sailor leered at Havelock before reaching to his belt to pull out a knife. With a practised flick, the knife flew through the air, forcing Havelock to check his charge and duck as the blade sailed past his head, whistling as it split the air. The sailor was upon him immediately, brandishing a club that he swung at Havelock's skull. On one knee and at a disadvantage, Havelock rolled to his left before sweeping out with his sword. The blade bit deep into the sailor's ankle, causing him to howl in pain. Standing up straight, Havelock dispatched then man with one slice to the neck but immediately found himself giving ground and parrying wildly as another sailor, a large man with broad shoulders, swung a cutlass at him with broad, powerful strokes. Recovering from the assault, Havelock quickly found the measure of the man. Though the Frenchman was not unskilled in the blade, he was no match
for a British officer instructed in the art of duelling. Turning side on to the man, Havelock raised himself on the balls of his feet and matched every stroke, gradually gaining the initiative as he launched his own attacks. A quick feint to the man's face caused him to stumble, leaving an opening for Havelock to give a savage downwards hack that sliced the man open across his chest.

  The momentum of the British assault had already pushed the French unit backwards and Havelock found himself having to run forward a few steps to keep with the front line of battle. Dead littered the beach and, in his quick estimation, most seemed to belong to the enemy. Havelock realised that this might indeed be an easy victory and he suddenly grew uneasy. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle and he wondered if something was not very wrong. Had the French captain prepared a surprise that would suddenly swing the battle against Havelock? Was he even now watching, biding his time for the perfect counterattack? Havelock could not shake the feeling that someone was watching his movements very carefully. He cast an anxious glance across the battle rolling all around him.

  He saw Corbin a few yards away, fighting a thin man wearing the uniform of a French lieutenant. His own officer had half a smile as he fought, seeming to relish the chance to match himself against his counterpart. The two duelled with no little skill, the sailors around them not intruding, seeming to sense this was a fight of honour that none should interrupt.

  His attention was distracted by the sight of a young red-headed British sailor yelling in alarm as two men rushed him, each thrashing with a large cudgel. There was a loud crack as the boy swung wildly with the belaying pin he carried, knocking aside the weapons of the two French sailors, more by luck than expertise. Giving ground wildly, the boy looked as if he would stumble and be killed at any moment.

  Havelock rushed forward but was beaten to it by a burly man he felt he had spoken to before. The man chopped with his cutlass, snapping one of the cudgels with the blow, before thrusting with his weapon to sink it deep into the sailor's stomach. Shouting a warning to the other sailor before he struck, Havelock landed a solid blow to the man's shoulder, forcing him to drop his club. Another blow dispatched him just as quickly, leaving Havelock to confront the two British sailors. The larger man was clapping the boy on the back, trying to inspire confidence in the obviously shaken lad.

  "Good work, seaman..." Havelock prompted.

  "Seaman Bryant, Captain," said the large man, crooking a finger in a hasty salute. "This here is Brooks."

  "Watch over him," said Havelock. "We have the advantage over the French and it would not do to lose someone now."

  "Right you are, Captain."

  Turning back to the battle, Havelock tried to make his way to Corbin, who was still fighting the French Lieutenant. Another sailor tried to claim Havelock's life with a cutlass, forcing him to raise his sword high in a parry. A second Frenchman rushed forward from his right, a wicked looking pike aimed right at his heart. Still straining with his sword to stay the path of the cutlass, Havelock reached across his chest with his left hand and fired his pistol. The shot seemed to catch the pikeman completely off guard and his expression was one of utter surprise as he fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the sand. Striking out with his boot, Havelock connected with the knee of the other sailor, forcing him to back off. He immediately followed up with a well-aimed thrust to the chest that the sailor had no time to parry.

  Glancing up, Havelock saw Corbin advance on his enemy with a series of quick cuts that forced the French officer to give ground. A quick flick of the Frenchman's sword missed Corbin's forehead by mere inches as he reeled backwards to avoid the blow but, recovering quickly, he slashed across the Lieutenant's forearm. Blood welled up immediately and the Frenchman was forced to swap his sword to his off hand. His movements became noticeably slower and it took Corbin scant seconds to finish the duel. Bowing slightly as the French Lieutenant hit the sand, Corbin turned to find another enemy but his eyes locked onto Havelock's and he smiled.

  "A fine fight, Mr Corbin!"

  "Thank you, Captain," said Corbin graciously in return. "It seems we have them beaten. Shall we now finish it?"

  "Indeed," said Havelock. As Corbin turned to face battle once more, he caught the Lieutenant's arm. "Have a care, Mr Corbin. We have not won yet. I have a feeling things are not all they seem."

  "You think there is a hidden force?" he said. "Mr Wynton reported the trees were clear and those huts cannot hide many men."

  "I don't know," said Havelock, suddenly unsure of himself. "It is just... a feeling."

  Corbin looked as if he did not know how to properly respond. "Well, we can keep our eyes open, Captain..."

  "You are right, of course. Come, our men need us."

  Leading the way, Havelock pushed through the body of British sailors that surrounded them. The French had suffered during the course of the battle to the extent that men were having to search for an enemy to fight. The fight had spilled from the open beach to the rickety huts and pockets of French sailors were now on the defensive as they were surrounded by an enemy who could sense victory. A large number of them had formed a loose clump in front of one hut and a number of dead or dying British sailors at their feet proved testament to their ferocity.

  Pointing out the French defenders to Corbin, Havelock made his way to the fight, finding himself jostled by his own crewmen as he tried to force his way past them, until they saw just who it was they were trying to push back. Once at the front of the British sailors, he fought alongside Corbin, their blades flicking in and out as much as the tight press of men would allow, catching weapons brought down in overhead blows and darting outwards to catch a man's arm, head or heart.

  One French sailor confronted Havelock with nothing more than a knife, its short blade coming nowhere near the length needed to reach past his sword. Havelock almost pitied the man as he finished the sailor with one quick slice across the face. It was then Havelock felt the cold hand of fear grip his stomach. He glanced wildly around, trying to identify the source of his unease but nothing was apparent. Corbin continued to fight next to him and though the Frenchmen were fighting like trapped rats, he saw nothing immediately life-threatening in their attacks.

  Feeling something pulling his attention, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder. About a hundred yards further down the beach, he saw the sand begin to rise far more steeply than it did around the huts, creating a small rise before the trees of the jungle. Atop this ground, Havelock saw a single dark figure, standing motionless as it surveyed the battle on the beach. The cold hand of fear gripped his stomach harder as Havelock began to realise - how, he did not know - that the figure was looking directly at him.

  Returning his attention back to the fight, Havelock half-heartedly parried a few blows aimed in his direction, wondering if this was what it was like to go mad. He glanced over his shoulder again, expecting his vision to be clear but the figure was still there, faintly malevolent in its inaction.

  With no conscious decision on his part, Havelock simply turned and left the fight, his place immediately filled by sailors who had been impatiently waiting their turn to battle the French. It took Corbin several seconds to realise his Captain had gone and he glanced about wildly before catching sight of Havelock's retreating back.

  "Captain?" He tried to pull away but the defending French chose that moment to redouble their efforts in an attempt to break free of the battle and head to the boats. Havelock did not hear the call of his Lieutenant as he walked, slowly, from the battle. Moving away from the huts, he kept his eyes fixed solidly on the lone figure, still standing proud and unmoving on the small rise. Though not in a daze, Havelock felt as if his actions now were not completely his own. If he had to put a term to it, he would have said it was the hand of destiny that now moved him and he began to dread the coming encounter, though nothing could have prepared him for what he faced once he climbed the rise.

  Feet slipping in the sand as he scrambled up the shallow s
lope, Havelock kept his eyes locked on the motionless figure that waited impassively for him. He could already tell it was a tall man, with a long sword that gleamed dully. When he closed within a few yards of the figure, a familiar stench hit him with a shock, as if a door had just been opened to an ancient tomb. The rotting stink of the death hulk washed over Havelock, and though gagging, he refused to take his eyes off the dead man. Stumbling up the last few feet of the rise, Havelock stood, confronting the nightmare that had appeared on the eve of his mission's completion.

  "Captain Havelock," the thing rasped through a lipless mouth, its exposed and decaying teeth grinning manically. Shocked to hear one of the walking dead actually speak, he could see it wore a ragged and mouldering French officer's uniform of antique design, its braid fraying at the shoulders and chest. The skin of its face and hands was sunken and stretched across bone, though it still seemed to possess an unholy strength.

  "Captain James Havelock," the thing said slowly, seeming to relish his name. "I am Captain Dubois. I believe you know who I am..."

  "Yes," said Havelock, fighting back his revulsion and fear. "You were... are... the captain of the Deja. A warship sunk by my grandfather."

  "Ah, that is true," Dubois crooned. "'I was killed, you see, by Captain Edward Havelock as I defended men, women and children who sought nothing more than a better life. Innocents, Captain! But that mattered not to your grandfather. Against all the rules of conduct, morality and common decency, he sent many of them to their deaths and, had it not been for the sacrifice of my ship and crew, would have killed them all."

  "I know the story, Dubois."

  "Then you also know what I want."

  Havelock hesitated before answering. "Yes."

  The face of the creature wrinkled in what Havelock guessed might have been a grim smile. "Death has taken your grandfather far beyond my reach but now fate has delivered you, and your crew, into my hands."

  Though the stink of the French captain continued to assault Havelock's nostrils, his confidence grew as he confronted the talking zombie. He realised what might have to be done, even if he intended to make it as difficult for Dubois as possible. "What my grandfather did was wrong - and I am willing to answer for his crimes, here and now if you wish. But you will allow my crew to return home unharmed."