“I pray it is, Mister Fowler. I pray it is.”
They had chased the French frigate for four days and had slightly gained on her. They had spent a day and a half becalmed, with the frigate frustratingly close. The sun had baked down on the men, turning the wooden deck white in its merciless glare. Water had been rationed savagely, but the men had worked, driven relentlessly by their officers. Boredom was dangerous in a ship, especially when many of the crew had come from prisons, or were running from debt or the hangman; it was always hard to fill a ship‘s compliment, but especially so in times of peace when the press could not be used to conscript the unwary or the drunk.
“Those damned French,” he cursed. “What has happened to honour?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Fowler replied, and the two men watched as the guns on the starboard side were thrown overboard one by one. Fowler ran through their armament in his head: twenty six twelve-pounders in all, along with four six-pounders on the quarterdeck, two nine-pounders, and two twenty-four-pound Carronades on the forecastle. All the guns were to be dumped, except for the Carronades and all the starboard-side twelve-pounders.
It was hoped that by dumping the guns at night, the French would not be alerted to their plan, allowing them to close on the frigate overnight. What they would do then was still locked away in the Captain’s head. Fowler trusted his Captain, having been with him during three former skirmishes and one full blown battle, but disposing of so many of their armament unnerved him.
He contented himself to stand and await his Captain’s needs.
Butler felt his first Lieutenant’s comforting presence beside him and tuned out of the bustle of activity as he let the last few days replay in his mind. It was 1791 and an uneasy peace reigned. Signatures still held back a conflict that both sides knew, (and many eagerly anticipated), would soon engulf them all. At the end of the last war and the loss of the colonies, neither side had been able to claim victory and both countries were left burning with impatience. Like most of the Navy, Captain Butler had been beached at half-pay for the last year, his weekly visits to the Admiralty availing him nothing.
Finally he had been given a commission to accompany a merchant fleet to the East Indies. This was a new trade route, and the Admiralty had been forced to provide protection in the present climate of pirates and even some unproven stories of French attacks. Butler had been delighted to get back to sea, even if he was merely tagging along on a trade mission.
The first signs of trouble had been a French frigate and a Sloop when they had been a day from their destination. Butler had signaled the merchant ships to continue on to port and had gone to investigate. There really hadn’t been anything suspicious about the two French ships, if he had been totally honest, but weeks of running at half his frigate’s speed had dulled his crew; he wanted to get their edge back.
The French ships had moored off a small island about a day from the Swift’s intended port. Butler had landed a party on the other side of the island to see what they were up to. He convinced himself that they were probably taking on water, but it was strange that they would do so when they were so close to port, even a port that only months ago would have given them a different kind of welcome. He was also curious about the strange contraptions they carried. Butler had been too far away to get a good look, but the French had certainly loaded something bulky into their launches before going ashore.
While his men were ashore, the sloop had come around the island and fired on them. The French frigate had come around the other side of the island in what should have been a devastating attack. Luckily for them, the Sloop advanced quicker than their sister frigate and had attacked thirty minutes too soon. Butler had engaged the Sloop, and though they had been damaged, he had managed to cripple the smaller ship and still turn in time to face the oncoming frigate.
The Captain of the frigate had obviously thought better of a sustained battle and veered off. The sloop had received a cannon ball below the water line and was now slowly sinking. Faced with being marooned on the island, they were quick to surrender. Butler had sent the wounded to sickbay and the healthy to work. Lieutenant Fowler had gone over in the jolly boat before the ship disappeared, and he had come back with despatches but little else.
The dispatches had been in French, of course, and Butler had put them aside to be delivered to the Admiralty. The Sloop’s officers had been killed, except for their first Lieutenant who professed to know no English.
Butler had ordered them back to their merchant charges. It had been on their way that the incident with the French prisoner had occurred. After the incident, he had interrogated the French Lieutenant quite rigorously and it was then that they started to piece together the abominable French plan.
Butler shuddered as he remembered the sneer on the Frenchman’s face as he had eventually broken and laid out the plan in surprisingly good English.
The French had discovered the Island recently, having laid anchor some months ago for water. They had been attacked by dead creatures almost immediately and sustained some injuries. They lost an entire ship to the dead on their return home, but their sister ship had returned home with a full account. This had been late in the war, and resources were too limited to take advantage of this knowledge at the time.
Someone had hatched a diabolical plan to go back to the island, capture some of these creatures and free them in England. Getting close to the land in peace time would be easy with most of the English ships in dock; the creatures would quickly spread their foul contagion across the entire country. Such a plague would spread through England’s poverty stricken landscape like wildfire, and the cities, already filled to bursting with redundant soldiers, sailors and cripples, would have no chance at all. By the time the authorities actually accepted what was happening, the country would already be overrun. The French would wait until chaos had totally gripped the country, and then their largest fleet ever would sail for England, their victory assured.
Butler still couldn’t believe the evil of the plan.
“That’s the last of them, sir,” Fowler reported, and Butler shook himself from his thoughts.
* * *
Up till now they had made slight gains, their keel being far newer than the French vessel and less encumbered by years of barnacles and other seaborne debris. Now that they had made the ship even lighter, Butler sensed a lightness to his ship, like a stallion suddenly freed of a training rein. He looked over at the master, Peter Moon. Even in the dull light from the half-moon above them, he could see the old man grin as he fought against the wheel.
“She be like a young buck, Cap’n,” the man laughed, “But we better take her down a point in this light.”
Butler nodded, and Fowler moved forward and shouted the necessary order. Butler was well pleased; at this speed, they should have made great gains by the morning, and their sudden appearance on their quarry’s tail by dawn should allow them plenty of time to catch them before they rounded the Cape.
He squinted through the dark and could barely make out the topmen as they scampered up the ratlines to pull in the top gallants and control their speed in the darkness. There was little risk of reefs in this stretch of water, but only a madman would continue at full speed without adequate light.
Based on the last few nights, he knew that the French would reduce their speed also, seemingly content to keep their pursuer at a safe distance until they rounded the Cape and had the whole ocean to lose themselves in.
“Wind’s pick’n up, Cap’n” the master noted, and Butler could hear the angry flapping of collapsed sails as the topmen struggled to control the material. The ship pitched more violently as the troughs undulated to the wind’s command.
“Batten the hatches, Mister Fowler, if you please.” Butler pulled his hat down tight as the wind picked up.
* * *
The storm hit in earnest around four in the morning and whipped and snatched at the Swift, lifting it high on troughs of agitated water before lettin
g it crash down with bone shattering violence. Men, tied by rope to the masts, still worked the deck, their hunched figures bent into the driving wind as they slipped across rain and vomit. Butler remained on deck despite the screaming wind and numbing rain, and within an hour the wind had seemed to have blown itself out.
Despite the violence of the storm, Butler could now see brightness on the horizon that heralded the coming dawn and a promise of better weather.
“Deck there, sail on the starboard side,” the call came from high above in the top gallants, and Butler rushed over with his telescope and scanned the horizon for the enemy. It was still dark, but the looming shape of the French frigate was easily visible against the lighter horizon.
We have caught them, by God, he thought, as he felt his heart thunder in his chest.
“Take her up a point, Mister Fowler,” Butler bellowed, feeling the immediate response of the ship as the sails were unfurled. The enemy was only two hundred yards ahead of them now, but judging by the activity on their deck, they had just discovered their pursuer’s position.
Fowler beamed. “We’ll have them within the hour, Captain.”
“Get the Carronade crews to announce us, if you will, Mister Fowler,” the Captain grinned. “Let’s see what they do. Mister Moon, make sure you keep them on our starboard side; we don’t want them to know we are shy some gunnery.”
“Aye, sir.”
* * *
The explosion from the first cannon split the dawn like a peal of thunder and made everyone jump. The ball landed some way from the enemy on the port side, and the enemy moved to starboard as she began to come about.
“He’s trying to show us his guns, sir,” Fowler reported.
“Stay with him, Mister Moon, we’ll only get one chance at this. Prepare the guns and run them out, Mister Fowler.”
“Aye, sir.” Fowler barked orders, and gun crews along the deck loaded the heavy shot in the sleek metal cannons and sprang back as the guns were pushed through the ports. Gun captains leaped forward, many of them sitting astride their charges as they aimed through the portholes.
The enemy ship got the first shots off, but their shots were hasty and most went wide or tore through the sails, mercifully missing any of the masts. As the ships drew closer, topmen replaced cut lines and rigging.
“Fire!”
Butler’s command was passed on by Fowler, but the crews had heard the original order and leapt to their tasks. The guns belched their charges as one, and the thunder left ears ringing and noses twitching at the sharp reek of powder.
“Reload!”
Butler saw the cannon balls drive home into the enemy frigate. Men were tossed into the air, shredded and screaming in a maelstrom of splinters.
The French returned fire. Some of their starboard guns had been destroyed, but their volley struck home regardless. Butler’s ship shuddered as the shot crashed through the ports and ploughed into the Swift, tearing gun crews to ribbons.
“They’re trying to come behind us, sir,” Fowler shouted over the screams of the wounded and the groans of tortured wood.
“Another volley.” Butler judged the distance between the vessels. “Hard to starboard, Mister Moon. Bring us alongside. Boarders at the ready.”
Fowler ran down to the main deck, gathering up uninjured crewmen. The marines stood on the forecastle and pumped shot after shot at the fast approaching French deck. Butler could see the Frenchmen run to repel the boarders.
The ships seemed to stand still as the seconds ticked away. Gun crews still loaded and fired, but their intermittent fire testified to how few of them remained in operation. Butler looked down over his own ruined deck, where bodies lay dead and dying, slick with blood. Their Mizzen mast suddenly cracked as a shot tore through the thick wood, and men rushed up the yards to cut the rigging lest the falling mast pull their sails with it.
The silence lasted another second, and then the boats bumped. Ripping his sword from his scabbard, Butler called on his men to follow him. He leaped onto the enemy deck and immediately began to hack at those around him. He was only vaguely aware that his men had followed him before the surge of bodies swallowed him up and he was lost in a blood-haze as he slashed again and again.
There was a sudden explosion above him, and he ducked instinctively. The shot from the small cannon on the forecastle buzzed over his head and tore a bloody swath through the men behind him. Englishmen and Frenchmen died as the pieces of shot tore through them with no regard for nationality.
The French began to push them back and Butler saw his men forced into a circle as the French began to turn the tide.
We are defeated, Butler thought desperately. Surely God will not allow this diabolical plan to succeed?
His men fought valiantly as their numbers began to dwindle. He looked up to see his own ship drift away as the lines were hacked, cutting off any hope of reinforcements.
He caught Fowler’s eye before the French redoubled their efforts, sensing victory. All they could hope was that they had damaged the French enough that they could not reach England and deposit their vile cargo.
Suddenly, there was a scream over beyond their attackers. The sheer terror of the scream cut through the sounds of combat and was enough to give everyone pause. The Englishmen took the respite gratefully as they caught their breath and transferred bloody cutlasses from aching arms.
There was some confusion behind their attackers, but they could not see anything through the throng of bodies. Suddenly, their attackers dispersed in a rush, leaving the exhausted crew a clear view of the upper deck. The small band of survivors paled as they saw the cause of their sudden deliverance.
The dead creatures that had been held below had somehow been freed, probably by a stray cannon ball, and now tottered like drunken sailors across the deck. Their bodies were ravaged by age and decay, but there was not much room on the deck to avoid them. Men fell screaming as the creatures slashed and bit. Officers tried to rally their men and coordinate a defense, but the men were too terrified.
Some of them ran to the rigging and launched themselves up the ropes to get away from the horror, only to be picked off by Butler’s marines on the deck of the Swift. Others launched themselves over the edge, crushed as Butler’s ship finally regained enough control to come back alongside.
Butler saw two creatures approach his band of survivors. He paled as the stench of the creatures reached him, and he felt fear grip him. The first creature was mainly skeletal, with white bone protruding from emaciated flesh. Fresh blood ran down from its yellowed, broken teeth, and the eyes that stared at him were like pools of darkness.
“Mister Fowler,” his voice croaked, and he had to cough to regain his composure. His first lieutenant appeared beside him, panting and bloodied.
“Take the men and get back aboard the Swift immediately. Leave me two men and prepare to burn this godless ship.”
“But, sir—”
“Do as I say, Mister Fowler. We can not risk this abomination spreading. Go!”
Fowler reluctantly gathered the men, and Butler saw him bend low and whisper something to two of the biggest surviving crewmen.
Telling them to get me back alive or not at all, no doubt, Butler thought wryly, and then he launched himself at the first creature.
The creature was slow, but no matter how many times Butler hit the creature, it just kept coming. He tried to slash at its head, but the pitching of the ship kept his aim from taking the creature’s head off. The two remaining crew joined him and together they hacked enough of the creature that it fell to the deck; it wasn’t dead, but at least it was out of action while they dealt with the other lumbering atrocity. Men still ran about the deck, but now the recently dead had begun to join the fray.
The dead will soon outnumber the living, he thought, and looked around to see if the others had made it safely across. Suddenly, he felt an arm grip his shoulder, and he whirled around with his sword held high. He froze for a second as he recognized
the uniform of a French Captain, its blank, dead face staring at him.
He stood frozen as the creature leaned towards him, and he felt drool drop on his throat as the creature sought his living flesh. His arm was caught on collapsed rigging above him, and he struggled against the dead creature’s vice-like grip. It was no good; he was held fast. He offered up a prayer and closed his eyes.
At least Fowler will burn this hell ship, he thought.
Suddenly, the grip relaxed, and he opened his eyes to see the creature slip to the deck, half its skull ripped away. He looked dazedly around and saw the Marine Captain wave briefly before he reloaded and continued his shooting.
“Okay, men. We’ve done enough. Let’s get back.”
The men didn’t need telling twice, and they vaulted over the rails and landed to a chorus of cheers from their own men.
“Mister Fowler, cut us loose.”
The remaining French crew began to run towards them, trying to surrender, anything to get away from the horror that had taken their ship. The vessels grew farther apart, and they screamed for the English ship to come back. Fowler ordered his crewmen to throw their pitch-soaked flaming rags over to the French vessel and soon flames licked hungrily at sails and decking. The cries and wails of the remaining French crew soon died away as either the flames or the creatures found them at last.
“Poor devils,” Fowler muttered, and then his face hardened as he remembered what they had planned for his own countrymen.
Butler looked at Fowler, and they shared a moment of understanding. No one would ever really know what had been achieved here; the story would be told in every ale house, to be sure, but no one would believe it. Butler smiled.
“Alright, Mister Fowler. Let’s put the prisoners to work. Call the carpenter to repair that mast and call the good doctor, if he’s sober.”
The Undead: Zombie Anthology Page 6