CHAPTER NINE

 

 

QUIETLY CURSING TO himself, Murphy picked his way through the jungle, unhappy to be in an environment so similar to his last landfall. The images of crewmen torn apart by some unknown beast constantly ran through his head and he twitched at the sound of every rustle in the undergrowth and snapping of branches. He and Brooks trailed behind Bryant, who moved slowly, trying to keep the men to his right in view at all times so they did not get lost.

The British sailors formed a thin line of three guns crews, with Bryant’s team on the right flank next to another crew who were led by Lieutenant Wynton. They moved with care through the vegetation, anxious to stay silent, yet conscious of the main body of sailors who would not be far behind them. So far, there had been no sign of any French pickets but they were expected to be placed far closer to the Elita’s natural harbour.

Tripping over a vine Murphy reached out to a branch to steady himself, only to snatch his hand back as a sharp pain shot up his arm. He muffled a cry as he looked to the offending plant which, he now saw, was covered in thorns. It seemed to him that every living thing in jungles, plant or animal, were out to ensure human life did not venture too far in. As Bryant raised an arm for them to stop, Murphy found himself eyeing the Lieutenant, who had briefly halted to check his pistol.

“So ’ow comes we never gets the guns then?” he hissed.

“Officers only, mate,” said Brooks, equally quietly, though their conversation had already caused Bryant to look back with a frown.

“And I just gets me knives,” Murphy complained, reaching down to his belt to check that both blades were where they should be.

“Yeah, but you’re pretty handy with them.”

“I ’aves me moments.”

“Will you two be silent?” said Bryant, so quietly they barely heard him. In any case, Murphy considered the absence of French sentries to mean Bryant’s statement was a guideline more than an order.

“Just be glad to fight somethin’ that will die when you stab it,” he said.

“Well, the Captain didn’t seem to think there would be any walking dead on this island – or he would have told us, right?”

“Yeah, that’s probably right,” said Murphy. “As I always say, you can trust the Cap’n.”

Even Bryant turned round to give Murphy an incredulous look.

“Anyways, them zombies won’t matter any more,” Murphy said, completely unabashed. “As the Cap’n said, we deal with the Frogs, grab their ship, and then it’s back to Blighty! No more hangin’ around these God-forsaken parts. And that means no more dead Frenchmen to fight.”

“Yeah, that would be good,” said Brooks, a look of concern crossing his face as he remembered the night they fought the dead.

“Still, I wouldn’t mind ’aving Jessop round ’ere right now.”

“God lord, why?” said Brooks.

“Well, you can say what you like about Jessop. An’ I can say a bit, mind. But ’e ain’t ’alf good in a fight. You should’ve seen ’im fight those zombies. Took three on without blinkin’ an eye. I swear, saw it me self. A Frog or ten wouldn’t stand a chance against ’im.”

Bryant turned back round to confront Murphy. “The Lieutenant made sure Jessop was far behind us which, incidentally, is where I wish you were right now. Jessop has a big mouth that would alert any Frenchies for miles around – just like you are doing now. For the love of God, man, shut up!”

Cowering a little under his friend’s words, Murphy shrugged slightly. “No need to be nasty about it,” he muttered.

Wynton’s group had started to move forwards and Bryant waved for them to match the pace. The jungle was noticeably thinner than that they had experienced on the African coast, so the going was a little easier. Conversely, they could see a lot further, sometimes as much as twenty or thirty yards. Acutely aware that they were on French ground, trying to locate sentries who would be watching for invaders, every sailor crouched low as he moved, taking care to avoid brushing through too much undergrowth. Where necessary, Bryant, along with others who wielded cutlasses or heavy knives, cut through vines and other denser patches of vegetation but only if there was no obvious way around it without losing eye contact with the other groups of sailors. This caused their path to meander somewhat but cutting through even a thin branch created a great deal of noise in a jungle that had grown quiet with the onset of twilight. There was enough light remaining for them to pick out details but all had been warned that night would descend extremely rapidly when on the island.

A flash of movement ahead caught Bryant’s eyes and he crouched down, raising his arm in warning. Murphy was about to complain about another false alarm when he too saw something move behind the trunk of a tree, a light blue shade that seemed out of place in the jungle. All three of them stayed low as they peered into the gloom and were rewarded by the sight of a man in French army uniform leaning his musket against the tree as he fiddled with the top button of his jacket – no doubt taking advantage of the absence of officers to loosen it.

Bryant looked at his two comrades, putting his finger to his lips, but they were both alert and prepared for action. He motioned to Murphy to suggest that the small man sneak in an arc to their left, while he and Brooks took a more direct route. Their plans dissipated when sounds of rapid movement through undergrowth were followed by a cry echoed through the trees to their left. Clearly, some of their allies had also located a sentry.

Their man had also heard the sounds of the fight and he grabbed his musket, setting the bayonet as he stared hard into the jungle, trying to decide whether he should run or stay. Bryant decided to make the decision for him.

“Come on, now!” he said to Murphy and Brooks, before jumping up and running at full tilt towards the Frenchman.

The soldier spun around in alarm as Bryant thundered through the undergrowth towards him, leaping over fallen branches and raising his cutlass. A loud shot rang out as the sentry panicked and discharged his rifle, its shot flying well wide of Bryant.

Recovering his wits, the sentry raised his musket to block Bryant’s downward swing, then lunged forward, forcing the big man to sidestep as the wickedly sharp point of the bayonet lanced past his ribs. He aimed a side swing at the sentry’s head in return, but the man ducked under the blow, thrusting forward with his weapon once more. Bryant was forced to give ground or be skewered and he backed away, crouching on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge another attack.

Waving his cutlass dangerously in a false attack, Bryant caused the sentry to flinch and he took advantage of the opening as the man raised his musket, moving forward with a series of wide, confident sweeps of his blade. Several loud cracks rang out as the sentry desperately parried each blow with his musket, retreating several footsteps as he did so. Then he stopped. Arms dropping to his side, his musket fell to the floor as his eyes glazed over. Bryant was puzzled as the man keeled over, until he saw Murphy behind the body of the sentry, smiling triumphantly as he reached down to wipe his knife clean on the man’s jacket.

“Nice work.”

“I ’aves me moments.”

Brooks trotted up to Bryant’s side. “Think anyone heard that?” he asked.

“No doubt of it. This place will be crawling with the French,” said Bryant. “Come on, let’s find the Lieutenant and see what he wants us to do now.”

They trotted in the direction of the first fight they had heard, though the jungle was silent now. Brushing through the branches of a tree whose limbs hung low to the ground, they were confronted by several clubs, blades and a single pistol pointed unerringly at Bryant’s head. Lieutenant Wynton sighed as he recognised the men under his command and lowered his gun.

“You found one too?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir,” said Bryant, curling a finger to his forehead. “He won’t be troubling us.”

“Good show. Craggs’ crew found two more just a ways from us.”

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but what are we to do now? Surely the French heard the shots.”

“I agree,” said Wynton. “We hold here, wait for the Captain to bring the rest of the men up to us. By my reckoning, night is about to fall and we don’t want to be stumbling around the jungle while the French are looking for us. We have dealt with the picket line in this area. With luck, the Captain will be with us before the French start a serious sweep of the jungle.”

Movement ahead of them brought their conversation to a sudden halt and they all ducked low. Peering through the trees, they spied another two French soldiers. They held their muskets across their chests, scanning the surrounding area as they walked slowly towards the British sailors.

“Unless, of course, they force our hand,” said Wynton as he stood up straight. Taking quick aim with his pistol, he fired, the weapon discharging smoke that carried the thick stench of black powder. One of the soldiers fell to the ground but his companion was already raising his musket.

Bryant ran forward, galvanising several other sailors to follow him. The sight of a half dozen maddened British sailors caused the soldier to falter as he tried to decide which target to point his musket at. Before they reached him, he fired and a man staggered but the rest swept onward to batter and slice the soldier as he desperately tried to fix his bayonet to the end of his weapon. He fell quickly and silently to a heavy blow from a club.

Slower to react than most of the others, Brooks went to the wounded sailor who had received shot from the discharged musket. The man was leaning heavily against a tree, clutching his shoulder. He was obviously in a great deal of pain and Brooks helped him sink to the ground before tearing a strip from his own shirt to help bind the wound. Blood covered the man’s body to the extent that Brooks could not see whether the bullet had exited through his back or remained lodged among the bones of the shoulder.

Bryant leaned forward to gauge the man’s wound. “You should help him back to the ship, Brooks.”

“Belay that,” said Wynton, who had also moved forward to join them. “There will be plenty more wounded soon and, besides, the lad’ll likely get lost at night. Make the man comfortable, then we move on. The Captain and his men will find him and make arrangements. Besides, we need every hand for the fight ahead.”

“Aye, Sir,” Bryant said, trying hard to keep the reluctance out of his voice. As well as compassion to the wounded man, he had been hoping to find a reason to keep Brooks out of the coming battle. The boy was not only young, he was inexperienced when it came to life and death fights with the French. He resolved to keep Brooks close by at all times during the next few hours. It might well be the making or breaking of the lad.

Cries and shouts in a foreign, yet familiar, tongue echoed in the jungle ahead of them, growing steadily closer. Loading his pistol, Wynton gave orders for them to spread out and take cover. They would meet any French patrols here until they were joined by the Captain.

 

 

THE FALL OF night in the jungle caught Havelock momentarily off guard. He had been aware of the sinking sun, though it was hidden by the tall trees, and the slowly dimming light that forced him to stare hard through the undergrowth to find his footing. Night itself came almost instantly. One moment he was peering through the gloomy wild, then he was calling for men to bring forward torches. The sputtering fire provided enough illumination to proceed with the venture but it cast eerie shadows that moved and jumped at the corner of men’s eyes, causing more than one false alarm.

At his side, Corbin monitored the disposition of sailors around them, allowing Havelock to concentrate on the task of reaching Wynton’s forward party and then engage the French. Moving as a ragged column, they hoped to ensure none would become lost during the trek, though there was no accounting for a sailor’s curiosity at times.

Orders had been given for absolute silence during the march but with nearly a couple of hundred men behind him, Havelock began to fear that the sounds of their approach would alert the French long before they emerged from the jungle, and that was assuming Wynton had been successful in silencing any sentries. If any escaped to get word back to the main French camp, this fight would grow harder still. His only hope then would be that the French crew would be split between those on shore and those still on board the Elita. He felt confident that the French captain would maintain a heavy watch on his ship, however, as they had plainly spotted the Whirlwind approaching their island and would thus take steps to secure a strong position against attack, either from land or sea. It was Havelock’s hopes that in trying to cover all possibilities, the French captain would leave himself weaker overall, permitting the British sailors to fight them piecemeal.

A loud crack resounded through the jungle and Havelock stopped in his tracks, the sailors closest to him following suit. It was quickly followed by several more shots and, straining his ears, Havelock made out the unmistakable cries of men in battle.

“Lieutenant! It seems as though Mr Wynton has found the measure of the enemy,” he said to Corbin. “I’ll take a dozen men and relieve him. Bring the men up in good order. We’ll wait for you to begin the main attack!”

“Aye, Captain,” said Corbin, turning round to pick a group of sailors to follow the Captain as he ran forward into the darkness. They had to sprint to catch up with him.

The uneven ground forced Havelock to quickly moderate his pace and he chafed at his own slowness as the sounds of battle grew ever closer. Somewhere ahead, he knew, Wynton was fighting, wondering just when his Captain would bring reinforcements. Two of the men who had joined him bore torches and their light was noticeably less illuminating than the score of torches the rest of his force had carried. He drew his sword, using it to hack down any plant life that threatened to impede his progress, while he carried his pistol in his left.

Several cries from ahead warned Havelock that not only was he close to the fight, but the light from his torches had warned the participants of his arrival. Sparing a thought only for those of his men who had, until now, been fighting a terrifying battle in darkness, Havelock began to run. A bright flash ahead followed by a heavy crack betrayed the position of a musket and he shouted his men forward as he pointed his sword ahead. He was briefly aware of Wynton and a few sailors crouched down behind a fallen tree on his right as he tore past. Leaping over a dense fern, he confronted a surprised French soldier who had his back half-turned as he reloaded his musket. Not giving the man time to recover, Havelock swung down with his sword, embedding it deep in the man’s back. Screaming in agony, the soldier fell trying in vain to reach behind with an arm to staunch the flow of blood.

Suddenly aware of several other uniformed soldiers and raggedly clothed sailors around him, Havelock realised he had charged straight into the middle of the French line. His men rapidly fanned out and found enemies to engage and suddenly the jungle erupted with the sounds of an intense, desperate melee. Trees and ferns shook as men rolled or crashed through them, the air was filled with the sounds of wood and metal connecting with one another and, through it all, the cries of mortally wounded men. A sailor, his face stained with grime, leapt out of the darkness with a cleaver, clearly fancying his chances of killing an English officer. Havelock calmly sidestepped the rush, batting the cleaver away with his sword, before reversing his stroke and running the man through the stomach.

As he wrenched his weapon clear in a spray of blood, he stalked towards two French soldiers who were pressing their advantage home against one of his sailors. The Englishman desperately swung with a cutlass, trying to keep the bayoneted muskets at bay but he was giving ground with every stroke. Calling out a challenge, Havelock marched forward, slashing at the nearest and sinking his sword deep into the man’s arm. His companion, suddenly finding himself the outnumbered one, backed away. The Englishman’s strength renewed at the sight of his Captain entering battle, the sailor yelled as he sprang forward with two clumsy but powerful chops. The soldier parried the first with the barrel of his musket but the second found its target in his skull. Panting, the sailor put a crooked finger to his forehead in salute to his Captain. Havelock smiled and clapped the man’s shoulder before moving off to look for Wynton. By the sounds filling the jungle, Havelock could tell the fight was reaching its conclusion and by the number of dead Frenchmen lying on the ground, he was confident of its outcome.

“Captain!”

Havelock saw his Second Lieutenant trotting out from behind the trees, sword as red as his own.

“Mr Wynton, report.”

Breathless, Wynton did his best. “Met their first line of sentries, Sir. Dealt with them, but the French got a shot off. Alerted the others. We dug in and met them...”

“Down!” A quick movement caught Havelock’s eye and he roughly pushed Wynton to one side, even as he crouched himself. Raising his pistol, he fired near blindly. A French soldier dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach.

Picking himself off the ground, Wynton dusted himself off. “Damn close,” he muttered. Then, a little clearer, he gave a half bow. “My thanks, Captain.”

“Need to keep your eyes open in this damnable jungle,” said Havelock. The familiar sounds of English sailors on the march reached his ears and he smiled. “Ah, here comes Mr Corbin with the rest of our men. Now perhaps we can push on out of this jungle and into more civilised terrain.”

“No arguments from me, Sir.”

The darkness of the jungle began to yield more British sailors. Havelock was just glad to see them and he waved to get Corbin’s attention. The Lieutenant marched briskly towards the two of them.

“Had some excitement already, I see,” he said.

“Mr Wynton accredited himself most admirably, I would say,” said Havelock. “Just left us a few to mop up.”

Wynton smiled as he greeted Corbin. “Let’s just say that the Captain’s arrival was most timely.”

“Form the men up as best you can, Mr Corbin,” said Havelock. “They have the taste of a fight in them now but do the best you can. I want to march on within the minute.”

“Right you are, Sir,” said Corbin, immediately turning to bark orders that gathered sailors together. Havelock reached into a pouch at his belt and began to reload his pistol. Though the weapon could only realistically be used once during a battle, the last French soldier had reminded Havelock that, sometimes, that was enough.

“You have another fight in you, Mr Wynton?”

“Ready and able, Captain.”

“Good. That was the easy part. Now we march against an enemy who, by now, certainly know we are coming.”

“Did you hope to come this far unnoticed, Captain?”

“Not really. Our sailors are not trained for this sort of battle. However, we can hope that the French are still unaware of our true numbers or even, perhaps, of our true intentions. Still, it will be a hard fight.”

“Not to worry, Sir,” said Wynton cheerfully. “You said it yourself. Each of our men is worth ten of theirs!”

Havelock returned the smile. “Indeed I did, Mr Wynton. Now come, let us prove it!”

Men crowded close, filling the surrounding jungle in the flickering light of their torches. Checking that officer and sailor alike were ready, Havelock raised his sword so all could see, then marched determinedly onwards towards the beach and the waiting Frenchmen.

It took nearly twenty minutes before the trees and vegetation started to noticeably thin out and, straining his ears, Havelock could hear the sound of the sea, the waves lapping against the shoreline subdued by their passage through the narrow inlet of the cove. He held up a hand to halt the progress of the march and called Corbin and Wynton to his side as he crept forward, instinctively keeping low. The three men, using the trees as cover, padded forward until they reached the end of the treeline.

Before them, a sandy shore extended some thirty yards to the water, its waves glittering with the combined light of a quarter moon and dozens of French torches and lanterns. On the beach itself, they were somewhat surprised to see several hastily erected wooden shacks, no doubt placed by the French as part of their temporary base. They did not seem sturdy enough to resist a brisk wind but, Havelock reflected, in this climate they served their purpose merely by keeping the sun away from sleeping men. Men ran to and fro within the little village but, before the buildings, a clump of men had arranged themselves in a ragged unit. An officer marched up and down their uneven line, shouting out orders to individuals, making them move forward or back in an attempt to make the unit a little neater.

“Must be a couple hundred of them,” said Corbin. “And more among the huts.”

“Not many more I would guess,” said Wynton.

Havelock rubbed his chin as he thought. “Still a formidable force,” he said. “They match our numbers, and they are ready for us. We will have to cross forty yards from this position to reach them.”

“I don’t see any uniforms,” said Corbin as he squinted at the French unit. “If they deployed all their soldiers on picket duty, they may not have many guns. What are your orders, Captain?”

Slowly exhaling before he answered, Havelock considered his options before reaching a decision. “Mr Wynton, take a couple of men and scout out our left flank. I don’t want to rush these men and then suddenly find the rest of their crew waiting for us in the trees a little further along. That won’t do at all.”

“Right you are, Captain,” said Wynton, as he scuttled off back into the darkness.

“Mr Corbin, how many marines do we have with us?”

“Seven. Not enough to make a difference.”

“It will be enough. They will move up first and position themselves on our right. Order them to hold position. They will act as sharpshooters throughout the fight. No sense in risking our only guns in open battle.”

“And the rest of us?”

“We charge,” said Havelock flatly. “Tell the marines to open fire as we leave the trees. It will force the French to keep their heads down and buy us a few more seconds of surprise. Then we’ll be in amongst them and it will be up to God who wins.”

As Corbin ran off to gather their men, Havelock was left alone for a few minutes to study his enemy further. In the pale moonlight, he could see the Elita, moored in the middle of the cove, the target of this whole enterprise. She was a fine ship and he was surprised to find himself eager to see how she handled at sea. A skilled captain could do a lot with a frigate like that. He noted the three masts were tall and straight, showing no signs of damage or hasty repair. The Captain guessed this natural harbour had been discovered long ago by the French captain, who had prepared in advance for disaster.

Turning his attention back to the shore, he saw four boats pulled up onto the beach and could even make out the oars piled on the sand next to them. Looking towards the huts, Havelock could not help but smile as the French officer continued to cajole his men into a regular unit. Sailors never made for the best land troops but he fancied the men of the Whirlwind would have made a far better representation of themselves. Truly, discipline was the foundation of an effective fighting unit, be it on land or sea, and it was something these French sailors sorely lacked. There was a kernel of truth in the idea that a British sailor was worth ten Frenchmen. The odds were not that great, certainly, but given equal numbers, Havelock would put his money on his men in any fight. Still, the French were not to be underestimated, and their leaders had a habit of rising above the failings of their military to perform some truly remarkable actions. He resolved to not let over-confidence blind him to any surprises the French might have in store. On their home ground, they could be a truly dreadful enemy.

The sounds of breaking branches and hissed curses announced the arrival of his men and Corbin duly appeared.

“Complements of Mr Wynton,” he said. “The flank is clear. No surprises there.”

“The marines?”

“In position and ready to open fire as soon as we move. We await only your order.”

Steeling himself, Havelock took a deep breath. “The best of luck to you, Mr Corbin. Let us be off.”

Giving his pistol just one last check, Havelock drew its lock back with a solid click and then, raising his sword, sprang forward at a dead run towards the French. He was aware of the sound of two hundred men behind him surging forward and then the multiple cracks of the marines’ muskets sang out to his right. Ahead, he saw a couple of French sailors fall to the fire as others instinctively flinched or ducked. He was gratified to see two more in the rear of the line turn and run, scuttling away to hide in one of the wooden huts.

The indecision of the French line was momentary and as their officer screamed at the sailors for a response, they started to shamble forward, gradually picking up speed. The distance between the two forces closed rapidly and Havelock found himself being overtaken by some of his faster men. Cries and challenges sprang from the lips of men on both sides while weapons were held aloft, ready to deal a killing blow. The twin masses of French and British hit one another with a dull thud that was audible to everyone. Almost immediately, the cries and screams started as men were gutted, brained and battered senseless.

A few metres in front of him, a French sailor leered at Havelock before reaching to his belt to pull out a knife. With a practised flick, the knife flew through the air, forcing Havelock to check his charge and duck as the blade sailed past his head, whistling as it split the air. The sailor was upon him immediately, brandishing a club at Havelock’s skull. On one knee and at a disadvantage, Havelock rolled to his left before sweeping out with his sword. The blade bit deep into the sailor’s ankle, causing him to howl in pain. Standing up straight, Havelock dispatched the man with one slice to the neck but immediately found himself giving ground and parrying wildly as another sailor, a large man with broad shoulders, swung a cutlass at him with broad, powerful strokes. Recovering from the assault, Havelock quickly found the measure of the man. Though the Frenchman was not unskilled in the blade, he was no match for a British officer instructed in the art of duelling. Turning side on to the man, Havelock raised himself on the balls of his feet and matched every stroke, gradually gaining the initiative as he launched his own attacks. A quick feint to the man’s face caused him to stumble, leaving an opening for Havelock to give a savage downwards hack that sliced the man open across his chest.

The momentum of the British assault had already pushed the French unit backwards and Havelock found himself having to run forward a few steps to keep with the front line of battle. Dead littered the beach and, in his quick estimation, most seemed to belong to the enemy. Havelock realised that this might indeed be an easy victory and he suddenly grew uneasy. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle and he wondered if something was not very wrong. Had the French Captain prepared a surprise that would suddenly swing the battle against Havelock? Was he even now watching, biding his time for the perfect counterattack? Havelock could not shake the feeling that someone was watching his movements very carefully. He cast an anxious glance across the battle rolling all around him.

He saw Corbin a few yards away, fighting a thin man wearing the uniform of a French lieutenant. His own officer had half a smile as he fought, seeming to relish the chance to match himself against his counterpart. The two duelled with no little skill, the sailors around them not intruding, seeming to sense this was a fight of honour that none should interrupt.

His attention was distracted by the sight of a young red-headed British sailor yelling in alarm as two men rushed him, each thrashing with a large cudgel. There was a loud crack as the boy swung wildly with the belaying pin he carried, knocking aside the weapons of the two French sailors, more by luck than expertise. Giving ground wildly, the boy looked as if he would stumble and be killed at any moment.

Havelock rushed forward but was beaten to it by a burly man he felt he had spoken to before. The man chopped with his cutlass, snapping one of the cudgels with the blow, before thrusting with his weapon to sink it deep into the sailor’s stomach. Shouting a warning to the other sailor before he struck, Havelock landed a solid blow to the man’s shoulder, forcing him to drop his club. Another blow dispatched him just as quickly, leaving Havelock to confront the two British sailors. The larger man was clapping the boy on the back, trying to inspire confidence in the obviously shaken lad.

“Good work, Seaman...” Havelock prompted.

“Seaman Bryant, Captain,” said the large man, crooking a finger in a hasty salute. “This here is Brooks.”

“Watch over him,” said Havelock. “We have the advantage over the French and it would not do to lose someone now.”

“Right you are, Captain.”

Turning back to the battle, Havelock tried to make his way to Corbin, who was still fighting the French Lieutenant. Another sailor tried to claim Havelock’s life with a cutlass, forcing him to raise his sword high in a parry. A second Frenchman rushed forward from his right, a wicked looking pike aimed right at his heart. Still straining with his sword to stay the path of the cutlass, Havelock reached across his chest with his left hand and fired his pistol. The shot seemed to catch the pikeman completely off guard and his expression was one of utter surprise as he fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the sand. Striking out with his boot, Havelock connected with the knee of the other sailor, forcing him to back off. He immediately followed up with a well-aimed thrust to the chest that the sailor had no time to parry.

Glancing up, Havelock saw Corbin advance on his enemy with a series of quick cuts that forced the French officer to give ground. A quick flick of the Frenchman’s sword missed Corbin’s forehead by mere inches as he reeled backwards to avoid the blow but, recovering quickly, he slashed across the Lieutenant’s forearm. Blood welled up immediately and the Frenchman was forced to swap his sword to his off hand. His movements became noticeably slower and it took Corbin scant seconds to finish the duel. Bowing slightly as the French Lieutenant hit the sand, Corbin turned to find another enemy but his eyes locked onto Havelock’s and he smiled.

“A fine fight, Mr Corbin!”

“Thank you, Captain,” said Corbin graciously in return. “It seems we have them beaten. Shall we now finish it?”

“Indeed,” said Havelock. As Corbin turned to face battle once more, he caught the Lieutenant’s arm. “Have a care, Mr Corbin. We have not won yet. I have a feeling things are not all they seem.”

“You think there is a hidden force?” he said. “Mr Wynton reported the trees were clear and those huts cannot hide many men.”

“I don’t know,” said Havelock, suddenly unsure of himself. “It is just... a feeling.”

Corbin looked as if he did not know how to properly respond. “Well, we can keep our eyes open, Captain...”

“You are right, of course. Come, our men need us.”

Leading the way, Havelock pushed through the body of British sailors that surrounded them. The French had suffered during the course of the battle to the extent that men were having to search for an enemy to fight. The fight had spilled from the open beach to the rickety huts and pockets of French sailors were now on the defensive as they were surrounded by an enemy who could sense victory. A large number of them had formed a loose clump in front of one hut and a number of dead or dying British sailors at their feet proved testament to their ferocity.

Pointing out the French defenders to Corbin, Havelock made his way to the fight, finding himself jostled by his own crewmen as he tried to force his way past them, until they saw just who it was they were trying to push back. Once at the front of the British sailors, he fought alongside Corbin, their blades flicking in and out as much as the tight press of men would allow, catching weapons brought down in overhead blows and darting outwards to catch a man’s arm, head or heart.

One French sailor confronted Havelock with nothing more than a knife, its short blade coming nowhere near the length needed to reach past his sword. Havelock almost pitied the man as he finished the sailor with one quick slice across the face. It was then Havelock felt the cold hand of fear grip his stomach. He glanced wildly around, trying to identify the source of his unease but nothing was apparent. Corbin continued to fight next to him and though the Frenchmen were fighting like trapped rats, he saw nothing immediately life-threatening in their attacks.

Feeling something pulling his attention, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder. About a hundred yards further down the beach, he saw the sand begin to rise far more steeply than it did around the huts, creating a small rise before the trees of the jungle. Atop this ground, Havelock saw a single dark figure, standing motionless as it surveyed the battle on the beach. The cold hand of fear gripped his stomach harder as Havelock began to realise – how, he did not know – that the figure was looking directly at him.

Returning his attention back to the fight, Havelock half-heartedly parried a few blows aimed in his direction, wondering if this was what it was like to go mad. He glanced over his shoulder again, expecting his vision to be clear but the figure was still there, faintly malevolent in its inaction.

With no conscious decision on his part, Havelock simply turned and left the fight, his place immediately filled by sailors who had been impatiently waiting their turn to battle the French. It took Corbin several seconds to realise his Captain had gone and he glanced about wildly before catching sight of Havelock’s retreating back.

“Captain?” He tried to pull away but the defending French chose that moment to redouble their efforts in an attempt to break free of the battle and head to the boats. Havelock did not hear the call of his Lieutenant as he walked, slowly, from the battle. Moving away from the huts, he kept his eyes fixed solidly on the lone figure, still standing proud and unmoving on the small rise. Though not in a daze, Havelock felt as if his actions now were not completely his own. If he had to put a term to it, he would have said it was a hand of destiny that now moved him and he began to dread the coming encounter, though nothing could have prepared him for what he faced once he climbed the rise.

Feet slipping in the sand as he scrambled up the shallow slope, Havelock kept his eyes locked on the motionless figure that waited impassively for him. He could already tell it was a tall man, with a long sword that gleamed dully. When he closed within a few yards of the figure, a familiar stench hit him with a shock, as if a door had just been opened to an ancient tomb. The rotting stink of the death hulk washed over Havelock, and though gagging, he refused to take his eyes off the dead man. Stumbling up the last few feet of the rise, Havelock stood, confronting the nightmare that had appeared on the eve of his mission’s completion.

“Captain Havelock,” the thing rasped through a lipless mouth, its exposed and decaying teeth grinning manically. Shocked to hear one of the walking dead actually speak, he could see it wore a ragged and mouldering French officer’s uniform of antique design, its braid fraying at the shoulders and chest. The skin of its face and hands was sunken and stretched across bone, though it still seemed to possess an unholy strength.

“Captain James Havelock,” the thing said slowly, seeming to relish his name. “I am Captain Dubois. I believe you know who I am...”

“Yes,” said Havelock, fighting back his revulsion and fear. “You were... are... the captain of the Deja. A warship sunk by my grandfather.”

“Ah, that is true,” Dubois crooned. “‘I was killed, you see, by Captain Edward Havelock as I defended men, women and children who sought nothing more than a better life. Innocents, Captain! But that mattered not to your grandfather. Against all the rules of conduct, morality and common decency, he sent many of them to their deaths and, had it not been for the sacrifice of my ship and crew, would have killed them all.”

“I know the story, Dubois.”

“Then you also know what I want.”

Havelock hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

The face of the creature wrinkled in what Havelock guessed might have been a grim smile. “Death has taken your grandfather far beyond my reach but now fate has delivered you, and your crew, into my hands.”

Though the stink of the French Captain continued to assault Havelock’s nostrils, his confidence grew as he confronted the talking zombie. He realised what might have to be done, even if he intended to make it as difficult for Dubois as possible. “What my grandfather did was wrong – and I am willing to answer for his crimes, here and now if you wish. But you will allow my crew to return home unharmed.”

“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.