Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  "All hands to witness punishment," called out Lieutenant Corbin, standing on the quarterdeck in full dress uniform, as were the other officers. His hand rested easily on the hilt of the sword at his belt.

  Jessop steadfastly refused to look into the eyes of any of the crew as he was marched aft to face the Captain. When he stopped in front of the quarterdeck, he stood proud, staring at Havelock, who returned the look impassively.

  "Jessop, you have been charged with insubordination to one of my officers and theft of property from one of your shipmates. What do you have to say?"

  "Guilty as charged for insubordination, Cap'n,' Jessop said. "And I would apologise to Mr Rawlinson for me manners. But I ain't no thief. That weren't me, Sir."

  Havelock cast a look at the rest of the crew. "Does any man here have anything to say on Jessop's behalf?" He was answered by a deathly silence.

  "If this man is found guilty of these crimes, the Articles of War allow for a maximum penalty of hanging..." said Havelock grimly. Still no one made a move to speak for Jessop which, given what he knew of the man's reputation, did not surprise Havelock in the least. Kennedy caught his eye and Havelock gave a nod to acknowledge him as the Bosun stood forward.

  "Cap'n, I submit that Jessop isn't known as a thief by nature and that 'e has offered a full and frank apology to Mr Rawlinson. I would also like to bring to your attention that, when on duty, Jessop is a good sailor and a hard worker."

  "Very well," said Havelock. He realised that Kennedy might be guilty himself of slightly overstating Jessop's case but it was the Bosun's task to defend the crew in any way he could. It was, in part, how he kept their respect and, thus, enabled him to keep discipline. After all, with so many witnesses, there was no way Jessop could have denied the charge of insubordination and an apology was a relatively painless way to avoid harsh punishment. Still, Havelock decided to take his Bosun's cue.

  "Jessop, you have been found guilty of both charges. Seize him up," he said.

  Those among the crew who were wearing hats took them off as the marines stood behind Jessop. The condemned man reached behind his back and took off his shirt before being led to the main hatch which had been opened for this purpose. The marines tied Jessop's outstretched arms to the hatch, forcing him to adopt a spread-eagled position as Kennedy removed his own hat and jacket and picked up his favoured flogging rope. Havelock nodded his thanks as Buxton handed him a thin red leather bound book. He took the Articles of War, which he opened and began reading from.

  "Article Twenty One - If any officer, mariner, soldier or other person in the fleet, shall presume to quarrel with any of his superior officers, being in the execution of his office, or shall disobey any lawful command of any of his superior officers; every such person being convicted of any such offence, by the sentence of a court martial, shall suffer death, or such other punishment, as shall, according to the nature and degree of his offence, be inflicted upon him by the sentence of a court martial. Two dozen lashes."

  He looked up briefly at Jessop, before continuing. "Article Twenty Nine - All robbery committed by any person in the fleet, shall be punished with death, or otherwise, as a court martial, upon consideration of the circumstances, shall find meet. Another dozen, Mr Kennedy."

  The Bosun nodded as a marine on the quarterdeck began a quick drum roll, the sound carrying across the entire ship as it echoed off the unfurled sails. When the drum stopped, Kennedy reached back and then struck with his rope, the muffled crack causing most among the crew to wince in sympathy.

  At first, Jessop just exhaled noisily with each stroke but after the fourth lash of the rope, blood started to streak his back and he began to grunt through gritted teeth with every blow. As the rope sailed down on his naked back time and again, the lines of blood began to cross one another and then flow freely, creating a crimson curtain that ran down the sides of his body. Finally, and to Jessop's gratefulness, the blows stopped.

  "Three dozen, Sir," said Corbin.

  "Very well," Havelock said. "Mr Kennedy, cut him down." As soon as the ropes were cut, Jessop sank to the floor, a slight strangled groan escaping his lips as he slumped heavily on the deck.

  "Thank you, Mr Corbin," said Havelock. "Dismiss all hands."

  "All hands, dismissed," called out Corbin. The crew began to disperse to carry on with their regular duties, though few spoke after witnessing Jessop's punishment. Havelock started walking the stairs to the main deck, musing that, for all his faults, the man had been brave enough not to cry out during the flogging. From experience, Havelock knew that such men could easily be a handful to discipline properly but were often a holy terror when facing a French boarding party. They certainly had their uses. Intending to retreat into his cabin for the rest of the morning to plot the next day's course, Havelock's eyes met with Jessop's as the man was being helped back onto his feet by the marines.

  "I'm no thief, Sir," said Jessop, in obvious pain.

  This simple statement caught Havelock by surprise and he found himself stopping to regard the man for a second before walking on.

  "Sail to larboard!"

  Havelock spun about from his inspection of the sail team on the forecastle and hurried across the main deck before vaulting up the stairs to the quarterdeck. Seeing Corbin already at the rails with an extended telescope, he hurried past Hague who called up to the lookout.

  "Do you see a flag?"

  "No, Sir," came the shouted reply. "Too far away!"

  Sensing his Captain's approach, Corbin turned from the sea and passed his telescope. "A merchant, Sir. Can you make out its nationality?"

  Havelock squinted through the telescope, taking a moment to bring the ship into focus. It was heading towards them at an oblique angle, though he could not see a flag flying - not that he expected to in these waters. Almost everywhere, the sea was nominally considered to be British but with war in the air, this was a disputed area. He tried to make out the arrangement of sails and pick out details from the hull in an effort to ascertain the ship's origin but while he guessed it might originally have had a French architect, the practice of taking prizes in battle meant that a ship could change hands a great many times in its life.

  "Run up the colours, Mr Corbin," said Havelock. "We have nothing to fear from that vessel and we should be polite enough to announce our intentions."

  "Aye, Captain. Run up the colours!" Corbin called to the crew and watched as the Ensign and Jack were hoisted into the air, fluttering in the stiff breeze flowing over the deck.

  Keeping his eye trained on the approaching ship, Havelock finally smiled. "Ah, there you see. She answers - a Portuguese ship. Signal her, Mr Corbin. Have her run along side us a while. I wish to talk to her Master."

  "Let's just hope they can understand British signals," Corbin said.

  "Avoid code and she should get our meaning."

  Gaining the attention of Midshipman Buxton, Corbin gave the order of signals required to bring the merchant alongside while Havelock remained glued to his telescope. The flags were run up on the Whirlwind and though Havelock knew they were in full sight of the incoming vessel, he guessed the Portuguese Master was cursing him at that moment. Merchants had schedules to keep and profits to earn, and were better off not dallying in the middle of the ocean.

  It took nearly twenty minutes for the two ships to meet, the Portuguese ship lumbering in a long turn to match the Whirlwind's course. The crew of both ships lined the railings, trading greetings and well-wishes while Havelock stood on the quarterdeck, looking down at his civilian counterpart. Doffing his hat in a show of respect, Havelock shouted over the noise of the two crews.

  "Hoy there! Greetings from His Majesty's Navy!"

  "Hallo, English!" The reply came in a thick accent. He sounded faintly resigned. "Stella Maris, at your service."

  The Portuguese crew continued to wave their greetings, some struggling to ask questions in pidgin English, interested in the Whirlwind's voyage and what weather lay ahead. The British cre
w on the main deck nearest Havelock fell silent, knowing they would learn far more from their Captain's exchange with the merchant's Master.

  "What news from the south?" Havelock shouted across to the Portuguese ship. "Have you sighted French shipping?"

  "Three weeks past, chased by frigate!"

  Havelock frowned impatiently at the ambiguous answer, irritated that he had to rephrase the question. "Was she French?"

  There was a short pause before the Portuguese Master answered. "I believe so, yes. French, yes. We run and escape."

  "Have you seen any other warships?" Havelock said and again had to wait while the Master translated the reply into English.

  "Warships, no. No French, no English, no Espana."

  "Have you sailed from the Cape?" Havelock guessed what the answer would be but wanted to be certain.

  "The Cape, yes."

  Making a few quick mental calculations, Havelock made some predictions of the Portuguese ship's recent course and back-tracked it three weeks. There was no way the Portuguese Master would have been able to identify the Elita. Indeed, if he had been that close, he would have been captured. It was within Havelock's authority to order the merchant to heave to in order for him to talk to the Master face-to-face so he could get accurate navigational information but, being three weeks old, it would have been of marginal benefit. It was enough to know, at this time, that a French frigate was still prowling southern waters.

  "Thank you, Stella Maris. I wish you fair winds!"

  Havelock watched the Portuguese master shrug and then bark orders to his crew to turn his ship away from the Whirlwind and back on to its original course. He was probably thanking his lucky stars that the English warship had not detained him longer.

  Standing by his Captain to watch the Portuguese ship depart, Corbin asked "Useful information, Sir?"

  "As much as it is," said Havelock. "Elita or not, we know there was a French presence in our hunting grounds three weeks ago - which means our voyage will likely not be wasted. The closer we get, the better our chances of intercepting her if she makes a break for French waters. However, I now believe the Elita is on an extended mission, which means she has her own harbour somewhere on the African coast. With a safe place to refit and re-supply, she could stay on station for months more, until her hold is full of stolen goods."

  "Might the Elita be periodically unloading her cargo onto French merchants?" Corbin said.

  "I considered that. Very risky. There is an excellent chance that such merchants would run into a British ship like us and then the cargo would simply come back into our hands. Still, if the aim was to disrupt supplies from the rest of the Empire rather than simply steal what she can, it might be a valid tactic. Especially if the Elita is trading stolen goods with natives for supplies on the coast. Yes, this bears some thought, Mr Corbin."

  "Do you have new orders for us, Sir?"

  "No, we continue south at our present speed. Depending on how large an area the Elita is patrolling we will be in her territory within two or three weeks."

  Having completed his early morning watch, consumed mostly by the daily chore of cleaning the main deck with the large holystone, Bryant descended the stairs to the upper deck, looking forward to wrapping himself in his hammock for a few hours before being called onto duty again. The crew had long since become accustomed to the idea that they were back at sea once more, their days filled with the regular routines of maintaining the Whirlwind and keeping her on course. Now four weeks into their voyage, anticipation had been slowly growing again as the ship neared its destination. Gradually, talk among the sailors had turned away from promises of games of chance, or reminiscing of their home towns, to focus on war with France and her allies. They calculated the prize money the Elita and her cargo would bring them and divided it between the crew, taking into account losses borne during the fight (a subject which provoked some heated discussion in itself, as a few of the crew were happy to count off specific individuals as doomed). They then spent time surmising what could be bought with their own share.

  The flogging of Jessop had long since passed from the minds of most crew but the man himself had seemed somewhat subdued afterwards, which came as something of a blessed relief to most. Bryant felt the whole atmosphere of the gun deck had changed since Jessop had kept to his own company more often, sparing weaker shipmates his own particular brand of cruelty and bullying. It was therefore of some surprise when Bryant climbed down in the upper deck and found Jessop in a recess beside a closed gun port, holding Murphy up among the rafters, the feet of the smaller man dangling freely as he gasped for air through Jessop's stranglehold.

  "You li'l Irish rat," said Jessop. "I take a dozen for your stealin' and you're goin' to just stand there an' deny it?"

  Murphy was clearly not standing at all and Jessop's grip had made him incapable of properly denying anything, though he made his best effort to shake his head. Sighing inwardly and preparing for the worst, Bryant marched over to the pair and laid a hand gently on Jessop's shoulder.

  "Enough, Jessop! He doesn't know anything."

  Jessop jerked his shoulder to remove Bryant's hand, though he did not relax his hold of Murphy. "Back away, this ain't none of your business! You ain't stickin' up for the rat this time!" he said, snarling.

  Not wanting to provoke the already angry man but also keen to remove his friend from the ceiling, Bryant stood closer to Jessop, staring straight into his eyes. He spoke calmly and with conviction, wanting to diffuse the situation rather than get into another brawl that could easily be answered by the Bosun's rope.

  "By my word, Murphy had nothing to do with the theft. He would not have been able to keep from telling me about it."

  Face turning a murderous shade of red, Jessop swore and turned his attention to Bryant. "I'm tellin' you, I was fitted up!"

  "I believe you," said Bryant quietly. That admission stopped Jessop in his tracks and he relaxed his grip on Murphy a little. Bryant took the opportunity to continue. "I really don't like you or what you do, Jessop. Take that as a gift. But I know you're no thief. You are too... direct for that."

  Thoroughly confused, Jessop looked at Bryant, then at the suspended Murphy, then back at Bryant. Seeing no recourse beyond throwing a punch, a course of action that even Jessop realised would not portray him in a good light with the Bosun, he dropped Murphy heavily on the floor and spat. "Ain't worth my trouble anyway."

  Murphy remained on the floor until he watched Jessop stomp away into the gloom. "Ah, me thanks, friend Bryant!" he said, with some forced cheer. "I swear, 'e just came out of nowhere and 'oisted me up!"

  "You certain he had no good cause?" Bryant asked.

  "Hey, I'm tellin' you!" Murphy said in protest. "I ain't dumb enough to go rummagin' through Jessop's things!"

  "Hmm." Bryant considered his friend and then decided that the matter was not worth pursuing at this time. "Come on, I'm tired enough to drop off right now."

  Crossing the deck, they found a circle of men, the rest of their gun crew mixing with another, leaning on the cannon as they talked. As Bryant began unfurling his hammock and attaching it to hooks scattered among the rafters, Brooks piped up.

  "Hey, Murphy, we were talking about what made us sign up with the Whirlwind. How about you?"

  To his credit, Murphy actually began to look a little embarrassed. "Ah, well," he began. "You see, it was like this... umm..."

  "He was pressed," said Bryant, smiling as he kicked off his thin leather shoes. "Too much to drink one night and then ran right into a gang. Woke up on board the next morning, with more water between him and land than he could ever hope to swim!"

  "Aye, 'tis true," Murphy said. "Still, found it wasn't such a bad life. Some good people 'ere. An' the pay ain't bad - well, once you get signed up as a proper seaman an' get off the pittance they give the pressed men."

  "What about you, Bryant?" Brooks asked.

  "Oh, not much to tell," said Bryant, now beginning to become desperate fo
r the peace of sleep. "Worked as a clerk for my father in his tannery until he made some very bad decisions and went bust. Tried gambling - wasn't so good at that either. Then played against a sailor one night and he told me that, up to a limit, a man joining the King's Navy was absolved of his debts. I was under the limit and, so, here I am. And here I go," he said as he climbed into his hammock. "I bid you keep it quiet, friends, I need sleep... "

  "Yeah, me too," said Murphy, reaching for his own rolled hammock as he made a big show of yawning theatrically.

  "So, what was goin' on 'cross the way, Murphy?" one of the men from the other gun crew asked. "Run into Jessop again? Thought 'e had calmed all that down."

  "Tellin' me!" Murphy said. "I told 'im I 'ad nothin' to do with 'is theft but would 'e listen? Would 'e 'ell!"

  "It wasn't you then?"

  "I swear to God!" Murphy said "No! Bryant, tell 'im!"

  "I'm sleeping," came the muffled reply.

  "Well, I knew it weren't Murphy," said Brooks happily, keen to support his friend.

  Bryant rolled over in his hammock and hooked open an eye, fixing it on Brooks. "And how, exactly, do you know that?"

  Brooks suddenly felt very conscious as all eyes turned to him. "Well, it's obvious, yeah? Couldn't be Murphy."

  Propping his head up, Bryant looked straight into Brooks' eyes. "I think you meant something more than that. What is it, Brooks?"