Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  They paused there, mulling over this new idea but were interrupted by heavy footsteps and a curse as somebody walked into a gun carriage. Jessop headed their way but his feet were unsteady. They quickly realised that, somehow, the man had managed to get his hands on a rather large quantity of rum. Given the circumstances, they could not blame him but still grew alarmed when they realised he was heading in their direction. No doubt his own gun crew had retired or else become tired of his banter and he was searching for more company.

  Tripping over his own feet, he staggered across to their table, bracing himself on Bryant's shoulder before collapsing on the deck. He grinned as he looked into their upturned faces.

  "We showed them Frogs, eh? Dead or alive, British is best when it comes to the sea!" He raised his mug in salute, showering Bryant with the strong smelling drink. Jessop reached forward to ruffle Murphy's hair, though the action nearly unbalanced him. "I even saw you start to fight towards the end, ya li'l Irish maggot!"

  "Ah, yeah," said Murphy. He turned back to his friends. "Jessop 'ere, 'elped me out in the fight."

  "Just 'elped you out?" Jessop roared with laughter, the volume seeming entirely inappropriate for the subdued deck. Many of those in the hammocks turned to complain but held their tongues when they saw who was talking. He leaned over, placing his face right next to Bryant's. "I'm tellin' ya! Your little friend 'ere was in a bad way. Three of them dead men - three, I tell ya - had 'im pinned. 'E was all curled up, ready to die."

  Murphy grinned nervously. "Can't say anythin' against that. Jessop, 'e just comes out of nowhere, swingin' 'is axe. Took care of all three!"

  "An' ya got balls after that," Jessop said to him. "Out the corner of me eye, I saw ya save Brooks! Worthy of a drink, methinks!" Jessop swigged from his mug then handed it to Murphy.

  Brooks smiled his thanks but Murphy was consumed with Jessop's rum until the mug was snatched away. He smacked his lips but Bryant was less impressed.

  "You seem in a good mood, Jessop," he said.

  "Well, why not?" The burly man asked. "We won!"

  "And, presumably, you do not think it strange, the enemy we fought?"

  Jessop seemed ready to answer with more bravado but, instead, he seemed to consider Bryant's words. Pushing in between Brooks and Bryant, he sat heavily at the table.

  "The other men don't like to talk about it," he said.

  "I imagine, like us, they are just grateful to be alive."

  "You all think it is some Froggie plot?" Jessop asked.

  Murphy nodded but Bryant answered for them all. "I don't think so. Not unless the French have found a way to drag a ship up from the seabed, crew and all."

  "It might help if we knew which ship it was," said Brooks.

  "No, I thought about that," said Bryant. "The French have dozens of ships of the line, probably hundreds throughout the years - and we don't know how old that ship was. We might have seen her nameplate if we had approached her differently, but it would have been smashed by our first salvo."

  "I saw it," said Jessop, with a sly wink. The other sailors around the table looked at him dubiously, prompting him to continue. "True as I'm sittin' 'ere, I saw it. We was the first gun crew to fire - it was untouched before we let rip. I saw the nameplate. Even in the dark, it was as bold as brass."

  He seemed to saviour the attention until Bryant nudged him. "Well?"

  "It was the Deja. Never 'eard of it though."

  The sailors all tried to recollect the names of French ships of the line they had run across or head heard tales of but all shook their heads as they drew blanks. Still, as Murphy pointed out, the British and French captured and re-captured each other's ships so often, it was almost impossible to keep an accurate track of names. Jessop, though, had been doing his own thinking.

  "Now, 'ang on, Bryant," he said. "You said the Frogs can't raise a ship from the bottom of the sea. An' that makes sense. So 'ow come it was there at all?"

  Bryant's look was a little incredulous. "Well, I think that is why they call it a mystery, Jessop. Some kind of ghost ship, you hear stories like this."

  "Yeah, but I've been thinkin'," said Jessop. "An' I've never 'eard of a ghost ship firin' at someone. An' I sure as 'ell 'ave not 'eard of a ship bein' boarded by the livin' dead."

  Knowing that he would be better off not hearing any more, Bryant nevertheless sighed and asked "So?"

  "That Jefferies, thievin' scum that 'e was, talked a lot of nonsense. But I remember 'im talkin' about 'Avelock's Curse. An' it seems to me there is some sense in that."

  "It fits with what Jefferies said," Murphy interjected before Bryant could speak. "The men die in droves but nothin' bad 'appens to old 'Avelock. 'E survived just fine. Barely a scratch and, remember, the sergeant of the marines died just a few feet from 'im. Must 'ave taken a blow meant for the Cap'n!"

  "Don't you start that," Bryant warned Murphy, before he was interrupted by Jessop.

  "Think about it," Jessop said insistently. "We're 'ere, in the middle of the ocean. An' we just 'appen to come across a hulk of a Frog ship, crewed by nothin' but the dead. It leads us on, lurin' the Cap'n far from land and then turns on us." He sat up straight, draining his mug before turning back to look at them all, deadly serious. "You know what one cursed man can do to a ship..."

  "And you can stop that talk too, Jessop," Bryant said, his voice quiet but stern. Again, he was ignored as one of the other sailors chipped in.

  "What're sayin', Jessop?" he said. "You talkin' about the Cap'n 'ere, not some green pressed man or midshipman you can just 'eave overboard when no one is lookin."

  For the first time, Jessop seemed a little uncomfortable, as if the weight of what he was saying was only just becoming apparent to him. He shifted uneasily in his seat and swilled his mug, hoping to find more rum within. "There are ways," was all he said.

  "Blow that for a game of soldiers," said the sailor. "I ain't bein' any part of this." He stood up from the table, retreating into the darkness of the gun deck to find his hammock.

  "And that's good advice for all of us," said Bryant, standing up himself. He was arrested by Jessop's hand grabbing his arm.

  "Think about it," Jessop hissed. "If it comes down to him or us... I say we make a move if that damned ship turns up again."

  "What's going on here?" The soft voice of Midshipman Rawlinson surprised them all, his small form stepping into the light of their lantern.

  Jessop started but quickly recovered, standing up straight, if a little shakily, and hooking a finger to his forehead. "Nothin' goin' on 'ere, Sir," he said. "We was just talkin'."

  Regarding them all, Rawlinson seemed to be considering what to do and Bryant wondered how much the Midshipman had heard. He had no idea how long the young man had been on the gun deck, nor whether he had been paying attention to their conversation.

  Finally, Rawlinson seemed to make his mind up. "You should be sleeping. You all have your regular watches ahead of you." He regarded Jessop. "I am not going to ask you about illicit rum or smell your breath, Jessop, given what we have all been through. But I suggest you return to your hammock now."

  Relieved, Jessop bowed his head and crooked his finger to his forehead again. "Right you are, Sir."

  The Midshipman watched them all rise from the table to find their sleeping places, then turned to leave, mounting the stairs to the gun deck. Next to their gun carriage, Bryant helped Brooks tie up one end of his hammock as the new seaman dealt with the other. Murphy, with typical speed, had already climbed into his own but he rolled over to regard his two friends.

  "So, if it ain't a ghost ship, what was it?" he asked.

  "I really don't know what you call a hulk like that," said Bryant, beginning to feel weary now that he saw his hammock in front of him.

  "A ship of death," Murphy mused.

  "A death hulk," said Brooks softly, causing the other two to look at him curiously. The name was to stick.

  "Very good, Mr Rawlinson. Inform Mr Kennedy and tell hi
m to keep an eye out," Corbin instructed the Midshipman. The news of talk among the crew verging on the mutinous was not welcome but he could not find it in his heart to blame the men. The pitched battle of the night before, that had seen dead men boarding the Whirlwind, had rocked him to his core, and it had taken a great deal of effort to portray the image of a calm, disciplined and unruffled officer of His Majesty's navy. Inside, Corbin wanted nothing more than to return to England with all speed.

  Captain Havelock had spent the night personally overseeing repairs and passing an encouraging word where he could which at least some of the crew had seemed to appreciate. He had then spent several hours in his cabin, plotting their next course of action, but Corbin now spied him on the quarterdeck, enjoying the morning air as it swept over the frigate. Vaulting the stairs Corbin joined his Captain, needing to inform him about the state of the crew's morale but also eager to hear of their next destination.

  "Lieutenant," Havelock greeted Corbin as he approached. "Are we fighting fit?"

  "Aye, Sir. She's battered and scarred but as ready to join battle as she ever was."

  "The Whirlwind will see us through," said Havelock, gazing at his ship with not a little fondness. "And then she'll carry us back home."

  "Complements of Mr Rawlinson," Corbin said to change the subject. "Many of the crew are uneasy about last night. Some are taking matters a little too far."

  "Talk of mutiny?"

  "Not outright, I believe. But Mr Rawlinson was present during a conversation below decks that made him feel uneasy. I had him instruct Mr Kennedy to keep a reign on things, without letting it boil over."

  "Very good," Havelock said. "We must give the men a little latitude today - a flogging would work against us in the end."

  "What are your intentions today, Sir?"

  "Why, we have two enemies, Mr Corbin, both of whom we have hurt a great deal, I believe," said Havelock with a grin. "It is my intention to locate one or both, and finish them off!"

  "Yes, Sir. I believe I know which one I would rather face," Corbin said.

  Havelock winced briefly but quickly recovered. "Last night, the enemy had the advantage of us not knowing what we faced. Now we do and I am confident we can compensate for that."

  "Your pardon, Sir, but what do you have in mind? She had a distinct turn of speed about her. We saw that as she came into board us."

  "True. But I saw nothing to indicate she was particularly manoeuvrable. So, we use that. Keep to her stern, avoid her prow. It even seems that we have little to fear from her broadsides - their return fire was lacklustre at best. As for the Elita, I would be surprised to see her even halfway to fighting readiness. We really gave her a bloody nose."

  "That we did," Corbin said, heartened to see his Captain had a firm plan.

  "I'll address the crew once they have had some rest. Still I would like to know just who it was we faced last night," Havelock said.

  "Ah, yes. More news, courtesy of Mr Rawlinson. He overheard one of the gun crews talking about our first salvo. Apparently they saw the nameplate of the ship before we attacked."

  "And?"

  "He said it was called the Deja. Mean anything to you, Sir?"

  Corbin was taken aback when he saw his Captain blink dully at him, cast a look to the main deck, and then back, this time with a more urgent look in his eyes. He leaned forward, talking quietly.

  "The Deja? Are you sure, man?"

  "As reported by Mr Rawlinson, Sir. You have heard of it?"

  Havelock's expression was one of utter confusion. "That's impossible," he mumbled, as he pushed past Corbin, not seeming to notice the Lieutenant, walking down the stairs to the main deck before disappearing below and retreating into his cabin. Corbin heard the door shut with a dull thud, leaving him totally perplexed.

  Believing that his Captain simply required a little time to digest the news, whatever it might ultimately mean, Corbin patrolled the ship, talking to Kennedy, Rawlinson and Hague, ensuring their duties were being attended to and no other problems were arising. All three reported that the crew, as a whole, were beginning to become surly and while no one had transgressed the Articles of War directly, it could only be a matter of time. As he moved from deck to deck, Corbin became aware of a tension settling on the entire ship. It was nothing he could really put his finger on - just a slight delay in a salute, perhaps, or a sideways look of contempt as a sailor worked on the rigging. He could not help but contrast the attitude of the crew to Havelock's earlier buoyant mood when talking about defeating the two French ships. It was if everyone knew something he did not.

  The ship's bell rang twice before Corbin realised that Havelock had still not emerged from his cabin, signifying the Captain had secluded himself, without word, for over an hour. Concerned, he finally steeled himself to approach the great cabin and, once outside the oak door, rapped on the wood.

  No answer came and he knocked again with still no response. Hesitantly, beginning to fear for his Captain's health, Corbin pushed the door ajar and peered inside.

  Havelock did not acknowledge Corbin as the Lieutenant entered. He was sat at his table, back to the long lead-lined window, turning an old-fashioned sword over and over in his hands as he inspected its blade.

  "Sir?" Corbin asked, with some hesitation.

  It took a while for Havelock to respond and when he did so, his eyes did not take their intent gaze off the sword.

  "What is it, Mr Corbin?" he said quietly.

  "Sir, Mr Kennedy and I have some concerns over the crew. Morale, you understand."

  Again, it took Havelock some moments to reply and when he did so, it seemed as if he were far away. "Ah, yes, morale. The key to a good ship, Mr Corbin. We must do something about that."

  Feeling unsure of himself, Corbin took the liberty of sitting himself down at the table, opposite Havelock. He had never seen the expression on the man's face before. He would have described it as... haunted. He was about to venture another question when Havelock spoke once more.

  "My grandfather's sword," he said by way of explanation. "Given to him by the First Sea Lord. Now I keep it in here, a memento to past glories of the old man."

  "He was a true hero, Sir," Corbin said carefully.

  "Oh, yes. The scourge of the French. Certainly helped my career along, I can tell you. There was no doubt about my finding a ship, even if peace should suddenly break out. Ever since I was a midshipman, having the name Havelock was always useful."

  "Sir? Is there something awry?"

  With care and a little reverence, Havelock set the sword down on the table. Finally, he met Corbin's gaze and his eyes seemed to clear slightly.

  "What do you know of my grandfather's great victory? The one that earned him his admiralty?"

  "Very little," Corbin admitted. "But I have heard plenty of stories. How he engaged a fleet of two ships of the line and two frigates off the coast of Africa, sinking one after the other, constantly keeping them off balance. I have also heard people say it actually took place at Guadeloupe and that the port there was sacked as a result."

  "People like to gossip. They rarely get it right," Havelock said.

  "That is true, Sir," Corbin said. After a brief hesitation, he then asked "Would you care to tell me what really happened?"

  Havelock took a deep breath. "This is not something I have ever done, Mr Corbin. As is the way of things, a glory in a family's past rarely holds up to close inspection. However, I believe you have been pulled into something terrible and, as such, you certainly deserve to know the truth. Though I would be much appreciative if this were kept between ourselves, assuming we make it back to port."

  "You can rely on my discretion, Captain."

  "Only a few in my family and certain members of the Admiralty and Imperial Administration know what I am about to tell you. They would not be pleased to learn that you also know the truth. I accept your word of silence as an officer of the King's Navy, Mr Corbin, but I want you to understand the repercussions possibl
e if you should break that word, for any reason. It would mean the end of your career."

  "I understand."

  Placing a hand on the hilt of his grandfather's sword, Havelock began to speak. "You were right about my grandfather's victory taking place off the coast of Africa - not far from our current position, if I am not mistaken. Nowhere near the Caribbean. I have no idea how that rumour started. Anyway, my grandfather had not been sent down to this wretched part of the world as we have, with orders to hunt down a commerce raider. No, he was the commerce raider. Specifically, he had been tasked with destroying a French convoy en route to the east."

  "So there was no great battle?"

  "Oh, a battle there was," said Havelock candidly. "You see, that convoy was filled to the brim with colonists. Just men and women searching for a new life overseas, no great silver train or other valuable cargo. However, not even the French are callous enough to risk sending so many people so far without some form of protection. Present with the convoy was a ship of the line, a real bruiser of a vessel, I have been told."

  "Just the one?"

  Havelock smirked. "Sorry, Mr Corbin, yes, there was just one ship of the line. No other warships were in that convoy. Still, it must be said, the defeat of any ship of the line by a single frigate is an action worthy of recognition and could well aid a promising captain on his way to becoming an admiral."

  "Indeed."

  "However, the actual details of the battle were kept secret, hence the rumours that grew."

  Corbin looked puzzled. "But why? If it was a great victory, why not publicise it?"

  "Because hunting down ships packed with colonists is something the British people like to think the French do, not His Majesty's Navy. And also because of the manner by which the ship of the line was sunk. You see, my grandfather's frigate could keep the single warship off balance alright, he had the wind and benefit of speed. So, he could pick off the colonists' ships as he pleased while the larger vessel lumbered after him. Towards the end of the engagement, the French ship deliberately placed itself between my grandfather and the rest of the convoy, leeward and at a terrible disadvantage. This move enabled the remaining colonists to escape but the warship paid for it heavily. Unable to defend itself properly, my grandfather was able to sink it with relative ease - though I understand it did take a bit of time." Havelock mused for a second and then added: "That French captain was the true hero that day but no-one ever got to hear about his selfless courage."