Death Hulk

by Matthew Sprange

  Seeing the sailor raise his cutlass for a vicious swing, Brooks held up his club to block the blow but icy cold terror began to pump through his veins as the sword sliced cleanly through his weapon. Now defenceless, Brooks stumbled backwards as the sailor leered at him, keen to snatch a quick victory before returning to more competent foes.

  Fighting to keep his eyes open while he met his fate, Brooks was as equally surprised as the sailor when a whistle of metal flew through the air between them and a knife planted itself squarely in the man's chest. Before any more thoughts registered in Brooks' mind, he saw Murphy step inside the sailor's guard, pinning his sword arm with an elbow while grabbing his hair and forcing his head backwards. A blade was in Murphy's other hand and he repeatedly stabbed the man in the stomach, blood soon flowing freely as the strength ebbed from the Frenchman. Murphy let him sink to the deck before putting a foot on his chest to pull out his knife. Grabbing the dying sailor's cutlass, he tossed it to Brooks with a wink.

  "There you go, lad," he said. "You'll do better with a proper weapon, I fancy!"

  Casting a doubtful look at the long metal blade he now held, Brooks tried to remember if Bryant had taught him anything about swordplay. Eying the mayhem around him, he shrugged, figuring he could use it as a sharp club, and let finesse be damned.

  The English now had their full weight of numbers on the quarterdeck and commanded about half its area. The Lieutenant still led the attack, though even Brooks could see that he favoured his left leg and was beginning to slow down under the exertion. Ever mindful of the young lad in their keeping, Bryant and Murphy stood either side of Brooks and the three friends fought together, forming a tight wedge that the French found impossible to break. Pushing forward, they began to take ground.

  Swinging the unfamiliar cutlass, Brooks soon found it much better suited for blocking attacks and though his parries were clumsy, the presence of two competent fighters to his flanks served to keep him free from harm. He also appreciated the weapon's reach and more than once he found himself able to thrust forwards to skewer an enemy who was concentrating his attention on one of his friends. Even if he did not score a fatal wound, the distraction usually proved enough for Murphy or Bryant to finish off the attack. One step at a time, they moved forward across the quarterdeck, aware that the other English sailors were making similarly good progress.

  Making their way past the Elita's double wheel, they fought, leaving a trail of dead or dying sailors on the deck behind them, until they faced just three Frenchmen who had been driven back against the railing of the quarterdeck. A cry went up behind them as the English sailors realised they had all but taken this part of the ship. One of the French spat at them and redoubled his efforts, forcibly pulling his comrade forward to meet blades with Bryant and Murphy. The third, doubting his chances, put one hand on the railings and threw himself over to drop onto the main deck below.

  Brooks tried thrusting forward at the man fighting Murphy, hoping to give his friend a little advantage but the sailor twisted away and knocked his blade sideways, the clash numbing Brooks' arm. Murphy stabbed forward but quickly withdrew his hand as the Frenchman's sword cut downwards, missing his arm by a fraction of an inch. The sailor twirled his cutlass with some expertise, creating a singing web of metal as his blade sliced through the air, forcing Murphy to give ground until the Irishman, refusing to back away further, tossed a knife in the air, caught it by its blade and then threw it directly at the man's head. The cutlass whipped round, knocking the knife aside but the man was too slow for Murphy's second throw, which caught him in the stomach. Grunting, the sailor looked down at the blade, giving Brooks all the opportunity he needed to drive his cutlass into the man's side.

  Bobbing his head in thanks, Murphy clapped Brooks on the shoulder, who smiled nervously in return.

  "I declare, lad, you are getting the 'ang of this," Murphy said.

  Having heard many tales from his fellow crew throughout the Whirlwind's voyage, Brooks had heard of the fire that instilled itself in the hearts of men during battle. This was the first time he had truly felt it. He had faced too many close scrapes to be anything other than aware of his own mortality but Brooks could feel something changing inside of him. It dawned on him that, if he could survive this battle, he would no longer be a boy amongst men, but an equal to the rest of the crew. That, he felt, was something worth fighting for.

  Bryant still battled his opponent, who had learned enough tricks with the sword to keep the large man off balance enough to halt any finishing blow, and they turned to aid their friend. A cry to his left caused Brooks to glance away for a split second and he saw his Lieutenant near the stairs leading down to the main deck, crouched as he faced a French soldier who wielded a long chain that he swung above his head. Corbin's left arm hung limply at his side and he was in obvious pain. He watched as the chain swung quickly in a tight circle, before it snaked out to connect with Corbin's arm once more. The force of the blow sent him flying to the deck, where he landed heavily. Looking up at his attacker, Corbin vainly raised his sword to ward off the next blow.

  Without knowing quite what he was doing, Brooks leapt forward, skipping past Murphy who had already engaged Bryant's opponent, trying to keep the man occupied until his friend could land a telling blow.

  Running the few yards between himself and the prone Lieutenant, Brooks found himself standing over Corbin, the French sailor looked at his new foe in some surprise. That did not halt his attack, however, and the chain whistled through the air at head height. Instinctively, Brooks raised his cutlass to block the attack but was perturbed to see the chain wrap itself round the blade and only his adrenaline-fuelled reflexes saved him as the metal links whipped across his face, drawing a line of blood across the bridge of his nose.

  Blinking back tears, Brooks tried to wrench his sword free but his strength proved no match for the larger sailor's, who pulled hard, nearly throwing Brooks off his feet. Deciding not to fight on equal terms, Brooks gave up trying to free his weapon, satisfied that the Frenchman could not use his chain either. Lowering a shoulder, he threw himself forward, catching the sailor completely off guard. He ran into the man, who tripped as he back pedalled, trying to keep his ground. They both experienced a brief second of weightlessness as they fell over the stairs behind them, before landing with a heavy crash on the wood of the main deck.

  The French sailor was obviously winded by the fall and Brooks felt giddy from the impact but he recovered quickly. Straddling the man to pin him in place, Brooks rained down punch after punch into his face, smashing his nose and lips until blood began to flow freely. Gathering his wits, the man snarled and grasped one of Brooks' wrists but his own blood made the grip slippery. Wresting his arm away, Brooks spied the man's chain to one side and reached for it, taking a hammer-like punch to the chest for his effort.

  Fighting back the pain, Brooks grabbed the man by the hair and wrapped the chain round his throat, quickly tightening the loop before the man could force his fingers under the metal links. Pulling with all his strength, Brooks forced the chain to dig into the man's neck, cutting off his windpipe. Turning red, then purple, the man lashed out at Brooks, who ignored the steadily weakening blows. The last strike was more of a slap across his bloody cheeks as the man finally gave his last.

  Panting, Brooks stared into the dead man's face, barely aware of the battle that raged across the entire length of the main deck. He started as he felt someone grab his shoulder, and he fumbled for his cutlass, trying to free it from the chain.

  "Whoa there, lad!"

  It took Brooks a second to recognise the voice as that of his Lieutenant, and he looked up into the man's face which beamed with delight.

  "I owe you my thanks. You are a credit to his Majesty's Navy!"

  His heart still racing from the fight, Brooks could do no better than mumble his thanks, but Corbin seemed to understand as he ruffled his hair.

  "Now, lad, you think you have it in you to kick the rest of the
se Frenchies off this ship?"

  Brooks finally found his voice. "I'll be right behind you, Sir!"

  "Come then!"

  His arm still hanging wounded at his side, Corbin rushed into the melee of the main deck with a challenging cry, his sword rising and falling with a new found energy. Brooks stood to follow him and caught sight of Murphy and Bryant rushing to descend the stairs from the quarterdeck. Murphy had an odd twinkle in his eye.

  "Saw that, we did!" he said. "You done well there, Brooks. Saved Corbin 'imself from certain death! Only thing better than that would be savin' the Cap'n!"

  Bryant smiled widely. "That's right - I'm thinking there will be some favours coming your way when we set sail later, lad!"

  Standing, Brooks shook his cutlass free, letting the chain drop to the deck. He tried to shrug off the complements but a smile forced itself onto his face. He knew he had done well.

  "Still," said Bryant. "That will be enough heroics for one day. Don't tempt fate. Stick with me and Murphy from now on, and we'll get through this fight alive." He looked into the press of sailors battling one another mere yards away. "Come, let's make an end of this. We can't let the Lieutenant have all the fun to himself."

  "Aye, t'would be a shame 'im dyin' now," said Murphy. "Before 'e 'as a chance to properly thank Brooks!"

  Unlike the smaller Whirlwind, the forecastle of the Elita was raised above the main deck, in the same manner as the quarterdeck at the stern. This worked in Havelock's favour, as it allowed him to lead his men in a bloody fight that eventually saw them victorious on the forecastle, having swept it clear of all resistance. A half dozen of the crew that had rowed with him lay on the deck but this part of the French frigate now belonged to them.

  Standing at the top of the stairs that led down to the main deck, Havelock quickly judged the state of the battle. Across from him, he saw that Corbin was already leading his men down from the quarterdeck, having successfully taken that ground too. However, in the centre of the main deck, the English were taking a dreadful beating. The French had massed in number there and, with one boat missing from the frontal assault, they had obviously found it easy to attack his sailors as they tried to clamber up their boarding ropes. A few had made it and managed to create a small perimeter that permitted their remaining shipmates to climb on board as well. Once on the deck, they immediately found themselves surrounded by more than a hundred angry Frenchmen eager to exact justice for the slaughter on the beach.

  A loud voice called out in French, ordering the enemy sailors balance the defence, from what Havelock could make out. He quickly found the source of the shout, a tall Frenchmen dressed in the fine braided uniform of a Captain. The man had not yet entered battle directly but was directing men with his sword to meet Corbin's flank attack. Seeing another of his sailors fall to a French cleaver, Havelock spied his only chance to gain victory and take the Elita.

  "Come on!" he cried to the men still on the forecastle as he jumped down the stairs, sword high in the air. They quickly fanned out to engage the French from a new direction, but Havelock made a bee line for the opposing Captain. Just a few yards from the man, Havelock stopped and, saluting with his sword, called out.

  "Monsieur."

  The French officer turned round to face Havelock, who was struck by how young he appeared. No scars graced his face and his skin appeared to have survived the rigours of sea life without blemish. Havelock might have presumed he was a junior officer, were it not for the uniform and something in his eyes that spoke of both experience and wisdom.

  "Captain," the Frenchman said, acknowledging Havelock with a slight nod of the head. He placed his off-hand on his hip in the traditional French duelling pose and raised his sword point forward. Around them the battle seethed, with the British gaining a new vigour now that more of them had entered the fray.

  "I have the pleasure of addressing Captain Guillot?" said Havelock.

  "Indeed, Sir. You have me at a disadvantage."

  "Captain Havelock, of his Majesty's Navy."

  "I will accept your surrender now, Captain Havelock. Your men are outnumbered."

  Havelock smiled. "You will find it takes more than a good thrashing to beat an English crew, Monsieur."

  "So be it."

  With a grace Havelock found admirable, the Frenchman lunged forward with his blade, its shining edge glittering in the light of the Elita's lanterns. With a flick of his wrist, Havelock brushed the point of the sword past him, then reversed the stroke to slash across his opponent's chest. Seeing the strike, Guillot stepped backwards and once again gave Havelock a slight nod.

  "You have some skill in the sword, Captain Havelock."

  "You will find English officers to be quite well trained," said Havelock, closing the distance between them to lunge himself. Guillot accepted the attack and their blades met with a loud metallic ring again and again, as they made stroke and counterstroke, each sensing in the other an enemy to be respected.

  Guillot feinted to the right and, drawing Havelock's guard as he intended, struck suddenly with an upward swing. Havelock jerked his body from the sudden blow but, off balance, he failed to parry Guillot's next attack, which sliced his left thigh. Grunting, he felt the blood start to flow, staining his leggings. Though painful, he did not feel he had been crippled by the blow and he matched the Frenchman's strike with several hard swings that forced Guillot backwards. Each was checked by a skilful block or dodge, but Havelock allowed his rage to guide him for a brief moment, using his anger to give him strength.

  He paused in the assault for a brief instant to avoid a coil of rope snaking across the deck but Guillot was waiting for a respite. Again, he lunged with perfect skill, the point of his blade driving for the centre of Havelock's face. Havelock sensed the oncoming blade rather than saw it and tilted his head to one side. Though he avoided having his skull skewered, the point still dug painfully into his cheek, drawing a deep line of blood that quickly drenched the side of his face. This time, it was Havelock's turn to back off a couple of steps.

  Still keeping his off-hand at his hip, Guillot started to circle Havelock, looking for an opportunity to finish the Englishman off. For his part, Havelock started balefully at his opponent, not blinking as he waited for the next attack, determined to force Guillot's hand.

  Guillot obliged and stepped forward to launch a series of blows aimed at Havelock's head, shoulders and chest. Had Havelock been observing the Frenchman in a gentlemanly duel, perhaps in London, he might have described those swings as an almost beautiful display of swordsmanship. Here, on board an enemy ship in the South Atlantic, that skill could prove deadly. Purely on the defensive, Havelock parried each attack in turn, not seeking to riposte and turn the tables until Guillot relented.

  After a few seconds that stretched into eternity for Havelock, Guillot finally stopped and, once again, stepped back. No longer caring about the conduct of gentlemen in duels, Havelock did not allow him to retreat and instead took two steps up to the man, grabbing his sword arm with one hand. He struck forward with his other hand, smashing his sword's gold-laden hilt into Guillot's face.

  Crying out loud in both pain and surprise, Guillot staggered backwards, before tripping over the coiled rope, his sword clattering to the deck. He looked up with an expression that Havelock thought was somewhat disapproving, a line of blood trailing down from a smashed lip. Havelock stood over the man, the point of his sword on Guillot's chest.

  "I will accept your parole now," he said.

  Guillot sighed and then nodded, slowly reaching for his sword, then offering it to Havelock, hilt first. "D'accord."

  "Order your men to stand down."

  Rattling out a series of instructions in his own language Guillot commanded his men to drop their weapons and surrender. The British crew cheered mightily as soon as they realised their Captain had been victorious in his duel. Just a few seconds ago, many had been convinced they had been about to die and their elation was genuine and heartfelt.

&n
bsp; "Mr Corbin!" Havelock shouted, and the Lieutenant quickly ran to his Captain's side. Aware of blood trickling down his neck and into his tunic, Havelock withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and held it to the side of his face, trying to stem the flow.

  "The ship is ours, Sir," he said. "Congratulations!"

  "Save the celebration, Lieutenant, we still have work ahead of us. Make sure the French crew are disarmed and then have them escorted to the shore."

  "You are marooning my men?" said Guillot as he stood to face Havelock. "What kind of man are you?"

  "Monsieur, I fear your men were too successful in their defence of both shore and ship," said Havelock. "I do not have enough crew to guard them and I fear there would be some among them eager to turn the tables against us while at sea."

  Guillot seemed set to protest but Havelock raised his hand before continuing. "However, it is not my intention to doom anyone. You have many wounded on the beach that we could not take with us anyway - your men will be able to look after them. We will supply them with food and water from your own hold and I believe they will be able to forage for anything else on this island. You will return to England with us and, once there, I will ensure the French Navy hears of your crew's location. That is the best I can do for you."

  "In light of the wounded on the beach, I find this acceptable, Captain Havelock."

  "Good. Mr Corbin, get the French on the boats but make sure they are escorted. We have our own wounded to bring back from the beach, remember."

  "Right you are, Sir," said Corbin as he ran off to fulfil his Captain's wishes.

  "Mr Wynton!" Havelock called out but this time he was met with silence. Instead, Kennedy approached him.

  "Beggin' your pardon, Captain."

  "What is it, Mr Kennedy?" said Havelock, though given the Bosun's presence on the Elita, he had already guessed the news.

  "I saw Mr Wynton's boat sink under fire as we rowed. I've already told some men to keep an eye out for survivors as they take the Froggies back to the beach, but I didn't see any survivors."