"I will do no such thing! One life will not balance the debt, Captain! The souls of my own crew must be satiated and that thirst can only be satisfied by the lives of your men. Justice demands like for like! I only pity that you have so few men with you."
"I cannot permit you to do this," said Havelock, holding his head high. "I have offered satisfaction. If that is not sufficient, you leave me with no choice."
"Satisfaction!" Dubois spat, the spray causing Havelock to flinch in disgust. "You English believe you have the moral right to do as you wish throughout the world. But you are nothing more than dogs who have no understanding of the true meaning of honour. You know of your grandfather's crime and yet fail to comprehend what it was he did. Your grandfather is now dead, after having enjoyed a life of privilege, luxury and high rank bought, in part, with our deaths. Now you are here, within our power. Your life and the lives of your crew will not balance the deaths of my crew or the murder of those we swore to protect. But it is a start, and I'll take that!"
"Then I will stop you. If you mean to claim my life, I challenge you to do it here, and now!" Havelock calmly stated as he raised his sword.
"You miss my meaning, Captain Havelock," said Dubois. "You will die, and soon, be sure of that. But not before I take your ship, your crew and even your humanity. You will suffer, Captain. No less is required of you."
"I will not permit this."
"It is inevitable, Captain." Again, the features of Dubois twisted in a hideous smile. "Here, in this place, it is I who have the power. You cannot kill me. You cannot stop me. Your fate was written when your grandfather killed us all!"
There was something in the creature's arrogance and certainty that angered Havelock. "I will see you in Hell first, Dubois!"
He struck forward with his sword, a powerful thrust aimed at the creature's heart. Dubois did not move as the blade sank into his chest, his dead flesh giving little resistance as the weapon burst out between his shoulder blades.
"Do you see?" he mocked.
Havelock cried out as he withdrew his sword and aimed a vicious swing at the zombie's neck. Dubois moved now, with a supple litheness that seemed at odds with his decaying physique or the lumbering movements Havelock had seen in the walking dead on the Deja. In a fluid motion, Dubois raised his sword up in the path of Havelock's, halting the blow immediately with a metallic clang that knocked rust and dirt from the creature's weapon. Havelock's arm ached at the sudden stop and he withdrew his sword, pacing to the left as he sought another opening.
Standing motionless again, Dubois merely held his sword outwards, its point towards his opponent. Havelock took a step forward and he chopped and swung in a rapid series of attacks, but each was met with Dubois' own blade, who blocked and parried the assault without moving from his place on the sand.
Sweating now, Havelock tried again, feinting at the creature's neck before diverting his swing downwards, intending to cut Dubois down at the knee. Again, his enemy's sword unerringly met the stroke but Havelock was prepared for this and slid his sword upwards to Dubois' face, hoping to skewer its dead features. This time, Dubois did move, a single step backwards that gave him room enough to raise his sword and once again hold Havelock's blade still.
Havelock strained against the parry, trying to force his sword forward just a few inches so it would at least mark Dubois' face but it was like trying to push against a mountain. He realised his enemy's strength was formidable, and likely sprang from a source deeper and more mysterious than mere flesh, bone and muscle. His stare of hatred was returned by Dubois as the two stood, straining against each other's weapon. Their faces just a few inches apart, Havelock glared into the colourless eyes of the zombie, the long ovals that marked Dubois' missing nose exhaled no breath. Havelock panted hard with effort but though he was still aware of the rotting stink of the creature, he forced it from his mind.
They stood like this, Havelock trying to force his weapon forward, for several long seconds before Dubois seemed to tire of the game and made his own move. A knee shot up into Havelock's stomach, winding him instantly and forcing him to take a few steps back. Dubois was immediately upon him, hacking downwards in an overhead swing that Havelock barely knocked to one side, before thrusting forward. The sword grazed past Havelock's ribs and he felt a sharp sting of pain before twisting out of the way.
Following up on the ground Havelock had given, Dubois chopped and hacked, each blow numbing Havelock's arm as he caught the blade on his own weapon, sometimes just inches from his face or chest. The sandy rise dropped behind him and, concentrating on Dubois' attacks, Havelock missed his footing. With a cry of alarm, he tumbled backwards, landing heavily on the ground.
Shaking his head to clear his vision, Havelock looked up to see Dubois standing over him. He swung wildly with his sword but the blow was met by the French captain's weapon. With a twist of his wrist, Dubois ripped Havelock's sword from his hand, causing it to fly through the air before landing in the sand a couple of yards from them. Stepping forward, Dubois placed the point of his sword on Havelock's chest, the blade pushing down painfully. Havelock looked up defiantly, determined not to show a trace of fear.
"You have your revenge, Sir," he said, his voice steady but laden with anger.
"I have already told you," said Dubois. "You will die last. First your ship, then your crew. Then, at the last, I will come for you."
Fury filled Havelock. He was well aware of the sins in his family's history but he refused to be mocked or played with. With a strangled cry, he rolled to one side, ignoring the pain of Dubois' blade as it pressed into his chest. He stretched for his own sword, spying its hilt in the sand just a short distance away. Grasping it clumsily, he kicked out while swinging the sword in a wicked blow aimed at Dubois' ankle. Both foot and blade met empty air.
Confused, Havelock cast about desperately, fearing a trick or surprise attack of some kind. He jumped to his feet and began to realise that he was alone on the sandy rise. Believing his enemy to have retreated into the jungle, he sprinted for the trees, their branches whipping his face as he tried to hack past them with his sword. After getting his foot snagged in a creeping vine and angrily cutting downwards, Havelock vented his frustration into the darkness.
"Why are you waiting?" he shouted. "I am here! Come and take me if you will! Coward! Villain! When we meet again, I'll send you back to the bottom of the ocean!"
The trees had no answer for him.
CHAPTER TEN
The beach was strewn with the dead and dying, the cries of the latter a piteous lament in the night. Wounded British sailors were guaranteed of at least a little comfort from their comrades but their French counterparts could only hope to raise enough pity for a little water if they spoke English. Stumbling back to the shore, Havelock observed all this in a daze. He saw that his men had gained a good victory but he took no pleasure in it, his previous encounter weighed heavily on his mind.
Already, Corbin had organised parties to ready the French landing boats to make an assault on the Elita who, even now, remained motionless, moored in the bay. Havelock observed a few of his sailors lounging among the makeshift huts, already retelling their part in the fight with suitable embellishments. More than a few swigged from bottles as they spoke and Havelock marvelled at the capacity of British sailors to locate drink wherever they may be. This tiny reminder of a normal sea life served to raise his spirits a little, though his mind still whirled with the memory of Dubois' face, the duel they had fought, and the rotting Frenchman's deadly promise.
As he approached the water, Corbin noticed his Captain and trotted over, his face full of concern.
"Sir?"
"Report, Mr Corbin," said Havelock.
The Lieutenant paused, clearly wanting to ask Havelock where he had disappeared to, but duty and discipline overcame his desire. "We have the beach, Captain. We have perhaps a dozen dead, twice that wounded and Mr Rawlinson is badly hurt, but the French came off worse. Some of them fled into the
trees when it became clear their cause was lost, and the men say they saw a few run into the water. I have already started preparing the boats for the attack on the frigate. We await only your word."
"Very good, Mr Corbin, the word is given. Pass my compliments to the men."
"Very good, Sir. Err, Sir, if I may be so bold?"
Havelock cleared this throat. "My mistake, Mr Corbin. I thought Mr Wynton had missed a French party in the trees. Probably just a few animals."
"Sir!" Corbin appeared amazed. "If there had been a French party there, you going alone would have been tantamount to suicide!"
"The men were otherwise engaged. As it happens, there were no French, so don't fuss, Lieutenant. Now, these boats - they are ready, you say?"
"Yes, Sir. We have four of them. Orders?"
"You, Mr Wynton and myself will take a boat each, Mr Kennedy can take the last. You go for the bow, I'll take the stern, and the other two boats will support us in the centre. If we time our attacks more or less simultaneously, we have a chance at outmatching the French crew."
"And if the Elita weighs anchor and sets sail while we row towards her?"
Havelock shook his head. "She would have left already, the moment it became clear the beach was lost. No, I believe her Captain still fancies his chances. Remember, he likely still outnumbers us and we are about to launch an attack on his home ground. Tell the men to keep their heads down as they row. We will come under fire."
Though the drink had already started to flow, it took mere minutes to assemble the Whirlwind's crew to heave the landing boats into the water and start the short voyage to the French frigate. Havelock stood proud at the prow of his craft, one foot on its hull, as he checked his pistol. He could hear some of the crew muttering behind him, wondering whether their Captain was brave or foolhardy in presenting a French rifleman with such a good target. For his part, Havelock did not know whether he would live or die that night but after his encounter with Dubois, he doubted he would fall to a shot from a French sailor. Not one whose heart still beat in his chest, at any rate.
"Row!" Havelock said to his men. "Put your backs into it!"
As the pace of the small boat quickened under sweating curses, it veered off larboard, heading towards the prow of the Elita. Staring into the darkness, Havelock could make out French crewmen on its deck under the light of lanterns hung on the masts and other fixtures. At this range, he could not see evidence of massed ranks of riflemen, and Havelock found himself hoping that the main body of French soldiers had indeed been deployed on the beach. Even so, his heart fell when several gun ports opened on the side of the ship, their cannon pointing ominously towards his tiny fleet.
He heard a faint cry from the frigate, the order to fire, before a series of massive explosions rent the quiet night, bright flashes quickly subdued by thick, cloying smoke. Huge plumes of water straddled the boats of Kennedy and Wynton who, by approaching abeam to the Elita, had placed themselves directly in its line of fire. A quick glance showed that they had survived the initial salvo.
Looking back to see how quickly the crew of the Elita could reload, Havelock began to smile. The smoke from the attack hung in front of the frigate, effectively obscuring it from view. He heard some of the crew from the other boats give a short cheer as they too realised that if they could not see the Elita, then it could certainly not see them. The soft night breeze did little to disperse the smoke and Havelock began to dare hope they could reach the ship before the French had another chance to fire. He counted off the seconds as his boat made its painfully slow progress forward.
Another roar, accompanied by a yellow-orange flash behind the smoke signalled the French Captain's intention to fire blind if need be. Havelock winced at the deafening noise as the guns discharged just a few dozen yards away. Instinctively he glanced to his right but was this time dismayed to see water, bodies and shards of wood flying upwards. Which of the boats had been lost, he could not tell but he cursed. This attack had been a gamble but he had hoped not to lose a quarter of his strength before the fight had even begun.
"Lord have mercy on them," said one of his rowers, and Havelock could not help but agree. He fervently hoped there would be survivors that could swim to the Elita once it was in their hands but, given how the men had packed themselves into the boats, he did not rate their chances.
Seconds after the blast, Havelock's boat entered the rolling smoke, thick enough to force him to raise a sleeve to his nose and mouth to filter out the worst of its choking effects. For a moment, he could feel the presence of the Elita rather than see it, the ship's great mass seeming to press down on his small craft. Then, it materialised out of the smoke, its great hull rising high above the water. His eyes following the natural sweep of the hull, Havelock shuddered as he saw the gun ports, mounted one above the other on two decks, imagining the raw weight of fire they would be capable of under a crew as well trained as his.
A sailor poked his head over the side of the hull above, and Havelock swung his pistol upwards and fired as the man cried out a warning. The head disappeared, though Havelock could not tell whether this was because of his marksmanship or if the sailor had simply ducked in time. Two sailors stood up behind Havelock as the boat bumped against the side of the frigate with a dull thud. Swinging ropes, they quickly sent two grapples skywards, expertly hooking them over the railings.
Havelock tucked his pistol into his belt and then leapt forward onto one of the ropes, straining as he hoisted himself up, hand over hand. As he ascended the side of the ship, the French sailor reappeared above him. Instead of crying out for help again, he grinned at Havelock as he produced a knife and proceeded to make a great show of slowly cutting the rope. Swearing, Havelock redoubled his efforts, the muscles of his arms groaning in agony as they protested the exertion. As he shot up the rope, the expression of the French sailor slowly turned from glee to anxiety as he realised that the Englishman might actually reach him. Havelock felt the vibrations in his hands as each strand was cut. Realising he would not reach the railings of the Elita's forecastle in time, he waited until he felt the rope start to sag then, with one fluid motion, reached out to the second rope alongside and swung across to a safer perch.
The first rope fell away into the sea before the French sailor realised that there was no longer an English Captain hanging on to it and his expression fell. Havelock had cleared the last few feet of his ascent, and holding onto the rope with one hand, drew his sword and swung it in an elaborate slice that cut through the sailor's throat. Shaking the spray of blood from his eyes, Havelock heaved himself over the railings as the dull clunk of another grapple embedding itself close by signalled that his crew had already thrown a replacement rope upwards. Already, one of his sailors was clambering over the railings to join him and they both looked down the length of the ship as they realised that sounds of battle now filled the air.
Sharp notes of metal on metal, wood on skull and the occasional pistol shot announced the arrival of at least one of his other boats, in the centre of the ship, he guessed, from the press of French crew on the main deck. The forecastle was clear of defenders but it did not take long for someone to shout out a warning that drew a rush of sailors towards him. Moving to the centre of the forecastle to give his men enough room to climb on board, Havelock brandished his sword, daring the first man to attack. Despite his bravado, several French sailors deemed their chances good against an English officer and a gang rushed him, forcing Havelock on the back foot immediately as he twisted and parried their blows.
Feeling himself shaking, from fear or excitement he could no longer tell, Brooks hefted his belaying pin as he searched for an enemy, mindful to stay behind Bryant as instructed. He had followed Bryant up a rope at the stern of the Elita, with Murphy close below. The Irishman's quips about the size of Bryant's backside as they climbed had raised a smile but all mirth was forgotten as they heaved themselves onto the deck of the enemy ship. Though the French had concentrated their numbers at the ce
ntre of the ship, presumably because they expected an attack where the hull was lowest to the water, they quickly swarmed up to the quarterdeck to meet the assault.
Leading the English assault, Lieutenant Corbin had been the first to set foot on the Elita and, skilfully brandishing his sword, immediately set about carving a clear area around the grapples his crew were using to join him. Brooks saw that four corpses already lay at his feet.
Edging forward in Bryant's footsteps, Brooks glanced nervously from side-to-side, wary of a sudden attack from some filthy French sailor. He did not have long to wait, as a man with thick greasy black hair ducked under Bryant's cutlass, skipped to one side and then rushed forward. Brooks felt his heart quicken as he raised his club to meet the man's own and they crashed together with a wooden thud just inches from Brooks' head. Already fired with adrenaline from the fight on the beach, not to mention the nerve-wracking crossing of the cove, Brooks cried out as he tried to hold back the club with his own. Taking a step forward, he kneed the man in the groin, causing him to double up. His weapon now free, Brooks swung with all his strength at the man's skull, the soft crunch causing him to blanch with nausea.
The man sank to the deck and Brooks dashed forward to aid Bryant who, though making good account of himself, was swinging his blade as he tried to keep two more enemy sailors at bay. Brooks swung his club downwards, connecting with the arm of one of them. The man snarled in pain and turned to face the boy, thrusting forward with his cutlass. The sword punched through empty air as Brooks turned back and the man advanced to keep pace.
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