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  The Whirlwind's second volley drowned out Corbin's reply, the bright flashes lighting up both ships. When the smoke cleared, both Havelock and Corbin peered through the darkness to gauge the results of the attack. The side of the French vessel was pitted with holes and powder burns, large chunks of the hull planking beginning to splinter and peel away from their mountings.

  "A fine shot!" Corbin said.

  Havelock was a little less jubilant and instead wore a puzzled frown. "Have you seen their sails?" he asked, disquieted.

  "Sir?" Corbin peered into the dark once more and, gradually, began to realise what his Captain had seen. The sails of the French ship were billowing out as if capturing all the wind for miles around and yet they were ragged, with huge holes and tears stretching across their entire span. The mainsail was split in two, straight down the middle and yet, impossibly, both sides were bent forward as if taking the wind. They should have been fluttering like flags, threatening to tear their neighbours apart.

  "Damnedest thing I ever saw," said Corbin. "How is that thing sailing?"

  "It shouldn't," said Havelock flatly. "That is impossible. Just what the Hell is going on here?" He thought furiously for a few moments. "It doesn't matter right now. Let us throw another volley at them, then extend and come round their prow - we'll send a shot down their length from the other direction, see if they like that!"

  Below in the gun deck, they could hear Hague ordering the running out of the cannon as they prepared to fire once more. The Whirlwind raced alongside the larger ship, the frigate's speed beginning to tell as its prow started to push past that of its enemy. Havelock watched as, one by one, gun ports started to open on the side of the French vessel and smiled grimly. There was no way they were going to get every port open for a broadside before he fired again and, hopefully, the Whirlwind would have moved past many of the enemy guns before they were given the order to shoot.

  It was therefore with some surprise that they watched a single cannon on the warship fire, its loud crack and puff of smoke instantly dispersing into the night. Feeling a slight tremor through the quarterdeck, Havelock realised the shot had impacted the Whirlwind on its hull, somewhere amidships. About to make a comment regarding poor French discipline, Havelock was amazed to see another cannon fire independently, then another. Soon, the whole side of the warship was clothed in individual smoke clouds as other guns fired, on their own or, at best, in pairs. A continuous staccato blast filled the air, like the low rumbling of thunder. The effect on the crew of the Whirlwind was quite unnerving as they endured not a single massive blast but a continuous salvo that lasted for nearly half a minute, until their frigate was able to make headway past the ship of the line. The incoming attack seemed almost light enough to be ignored and then, without warning, a nearby shipmate would lose an arm, leg or even head as a random cannon ball came crashing past.

  Pulling ahead, the Whirlwind's crew did their best to ignore the losses and continue the business of sailing or reloading their cannon, enjoying a brief respite from the battle as the frigate prepared itself for a new line of attack. On the quarterdeck, Corbin and Havelock exchanged worried looks.

  "Who fights like that?" Corbin asked. "It goes against everything we have been taught."

  Havelock shook his head, clearly confused. "I don't know who we are fighting here. Pirates, maybe, who have managed to capture a ship of the line and did not bother to remove the French flag? Somehow it does not seem likely."

  "Are we to break off the attack?" Corbin said.

  "No. We have hurt them more than they have hurt us. We are still in good fighting form and if they are as ill-disciplined as they appear, we have the advantage." He tried hard not to think about the unnatural way the sails of that ship were moving.

  "Is it your intention to swing round the prow and attack them from the other side?"

  "No, Mr Corbin. To do so would force us to launch an attack on their undamaged side, starting us afresh, as it were. No, we'll cap the T across their prow, fire, and then turn hard about larboard to come down this side again. We'll present our undamaged guns to their damaged hull."

  "Very good, Sir. With your permission?" Corbin asked, indicating that he should leave to relay the orders. Havelock nodded him away and looked back at the French ship again, trying to understand what it was he was fighting.

  Once the Whirlwind had cleared the enemy vessel's prow by sixty yards, Havelock raised his hand to Corbin, who bellowed orders to turn to starboard, bringing the frigate's guns to bear on the warship's prow. Havelock suddenly coughed, nearly retching, as he struggled to find a handkerchief to shield his mouth and nose. Now they had moved downwind of the French ship, he noticed the vile stench that seemed to pour off its deck. It was like nothing he had experienced before, the odour almost overpowering, a mixture of rotting meat, decay, and the pungent aroma of seawater kept in a bucket for too long. He noticed that the other crew on deck were also suffering from its effects, some running to the far railings to heave the contents of their stomachs into the ocean.

  "Gods, what is causing that?" Havelock muttered. He knew the French navy did not value hygiene in the same way as British crews but for them to serve on a ship like that stretched the realms of his imagination. The thought of taking the ship of the line as a great prize seemed somehow less appealing and he knew lots would have to be drawn in order to send a skeleton crew over to man it.

  Rocking as it fired, the Whirlwind launched another salvo at the French ship as they sailed across its path. Several balls bounced off the curved prow, the thick wood serving as effective armour as it deflected the attacks. Others managed to punch through and the elegant figurehead, a painted sea nymph, was shattered in an instant by a single blast.

  "Hard to larboard, Mr Corbin," said Havelock. "Bring us about and ready the starboard guns!"

  He heard the gun crews pound across their deck as they ran from one side of the ship to the other, urgently loading the starboard guns before opening the gun-ports to run them out. As the Whirlwind continued its long, sweeping turn that would send it sailing past the enemy vessel from the opposite direction, Havelock crossed the quarterdeck to see if the opposing captain, pirate or not, would accept another exchange of fire or whether he would try to follow the Whirlwind in its turn. Instead, he was alarmed to see the sails of the French ship billow out as if filled with the wind from a hurricane.

  The giant ship of the line surged forward with unbelievable speed, its prow splitting the sea in two as it travelled, creating a huge wake behind it. For vital seconds, Havelock was speechless as his mind turned - surely no ship had any right to move that fast?

  Dimly, he began to realise what the enemy captain intended and he shouted for Corbin urgently.

  "Prepare to be boarded! All hands on deck! Now, Mr Corbin!" He had to fight to keep his voice even lest he risk frightening the crew.

  Below the main deck, the gun crews had been spared much of the strangeness that had perturbed their Captain and, indeed, morale had remained high as they realised they were getting far more shots into the enemy than she was throwing back. Casualties had been light and they had yet to lose a single cannon.

  "All hands on deck," shouted Lieutenant Hague, his voice carrying above the sound of men in battle. "Prepare to receive boarders!"

  "Here we go," said Murphy, clearly unhappy about the prospect of hand-to-hand fighting.

  Brooks looked up worriedly at Bryant who smiled back reassuringly. "Don't worry," he said to both of them, as he drew a cutlass he had stashed next to their gun carriage. "You two stick by me, I'll watch over you."

  They raced onto the main deck where they were directed by Corbin to form up behind a line of marines who were already loading their muskets. Beyond the red uniformed soldiers, they could see the French warship closing rapidly, like a leviathan of legend surging from the darkness. Bryant cast an eye about the railings behind him and pulled a heavy wooden peg from its hole, about two feet long.

  "Here," he
said, handing it to Brooks.

  "Belaying pins?" asked Brooks, confused.

  "Feel the weight of it," Bryant said. "Almost as good as a sword, trust me."

  Murphy chipped in as he drew a small knife from his belt. "If a Frog comes up to you, bash 'im over the 'ead with that. 'E won't get up again, I promise you."

  Brooks looked from the belaying pin, to Murphy and then back to Bryant. "I'm not sure I can do this," he said, fear beginning to creep into his voice.

  "Course you can lad. If you can fire a cannon while we take fire, you can do this. Both of you, stay behind me at all times. I'll look after you."

  All around them, sailors held a variety of weapons, either belaying pins taken from the ship or an assortment of knives, cutlasses and axes they had filched or bought for themselves. The marines, their uniforms and weapons a strong contrast to the sailors behind them, obeyed the orders of their sergeant step-by-step, and now stood ready, muskets braced and ready to open fire on the first Frenchman that dared to climb over the railings of the Whirlwind.

  "Stand ready, men," called Captain Havelock from the quarterdeck. "Remember, you are fighting Frenchmen and every one of you are worth at least ten of them!"

  This served to begin steadying the nerves of sailors who had yet to face a boarding action and the veterans among them smiled viciously at the words. Looking at their faces, Brooks realised that there were many on the ship who actually relished the chance to get to grips with the enemy face-to-face. Oddly, he found that strangely comforting.

  "What, in the name of God, is that?" A voice said from somewhere within the gaggle of sailors. A second later, they were all gasping as a powerful stench of rotting decay and seaweed rolled over the deck of the Whirlwind. Even the normally well-disciplined marines visibly staggered, their muskets dipping for a brief instant before they responded to the sergeant who bawled at them for dropping their guard.

  Bryant looked over his shoulder to see how his shipmates were reacting. Murphy was making caustic comments about not wanting to be the one who was tasked with cleaning the French ship when they captured it. Brooks just looked green as he clasped his hand over his face.

  "Brace yourselves!" Corbin cried as the French ship sailed the last few yards. Veering hard to their left, the warship's prow thundered into the side of the Whirlwind, forcing everyone on board to take a step back to steady themselves. With a grinding of wood upon wood it slid down the hull of the Whirlwind, snapping rails and buckling planking as it went. The side of the French ship rose at least four yards higher than that of the frigate's and everyone on deck looked upwards, steeling themselves for the Captain's order.

  As they watched, a dozen lines with heavy metal hooks were thrown over, falling to ensnare themselves among the rigging, masts and hatches, effectively binding the two ships together. Then, a score of faces appeared at the side of the warship and men began to either clamber down the lines or simply drop to the deck of the Whirlwind.

  The marines opened fire immediately, dropping several boarders to the deck of the frigate. Their sergeant bellowed an order for them to fix bayonets as a huge planked board suddenly became visible high up on the deck of the French ship. Standing vertical for a few seconds, it was then allowed to drop, smashing into the main deck of the Whirlwind with a dull thud that was felt by every man on board. More boarders appeared at the top of the plank and they poured down it unsteadily, using it as a ramp to gain access to the frigate.

  "At them, men!" shouted Havelock who, they saw, was already advancing, sword in hand, towards two French sailors who had dropped onto the quarterdeck. "Throw them off our ship!"

  With a cheer, the sailors on the main deck advanced, eager to smash in the brains of the nearest boarder. Bryant waved Murphy and Brooks forward, brandishing his cutlass.

  Together, they pushed past the marines, who were only just completing their orders to fix bayonets. Bryant deliberately steered them away from the ramp, where he knew the fighting would be fiercest. Instead, he positioned his team to defend the ship against any boarders who still chose the risky route of using the lines or jumping onto the deck. One of the early jumpers stirred before them, obviously just winded from his fall. Bryant smiled confidentially at Brooks and Murphy.

  "I'll show you how it's done!"

  Stepping forward as the man rose Bryant swung downwards with all his strength, burying his cutlass deep into the man's shoulder. His nose wrinkled as he realised the foul stench that covered the deck of the Whirlwind seemed to be emanating from the French crew themselves and he was surprised to feel as if the blade had not passed through flesh and bone at all but something a little less substantial. Any puzzlement was soon forgotten as the wounded man rose to his feet, cutlass still lodged in his shoulder. Swinging an arm in a wide arc, the man caught Bryant in the chest with a terrible strength, sending the sailor sprawling into Brooks.

  Bryant looked up in horror and disgust at the Frenchman's face. Crooked teeth leered at him from a lipless mouth, and the man's skin was stretched and sallow, greying as it rotted. Just a few wisps of mangy hair graced the top of his skull but their attention was drawn to his eye sockets. One was empty, a dark pit of blackness that nevertheless seemed very aware of their presence. The remaining eye dangled by a single cord, bouncing on his sunken cheek as he moved.

  "Gods!" Struggling to his feet, Bryant eyed his cutlass, still stuck in the man's shoulder. Steeling himself he leapt forward a step and grasped the hilt of the weapon. He was rewarded by a sudden spear of pain as the man swept an arm at him, this time using nails that had grown into steel-hard claws. Four lines of blood began to stain the shirt around Bryant's stomach but he ignored the injury and heaved at the sword. Begrudgingly, it gave way and he pulled the cutlass free, slowly becoming aware that no spray of blood followed it.

  The man swung at him again but Bryant jumped out of the way and brought the cutlass hard over his head, into the forearm that flailed at him. It was severed cleanly and fell to the deck. The man did not even grunt in pain as he lumbered forward to take another swipe with his other arm. Eyes growing wide with horror, Bryant yelled inarticulately, a mixture of anger and horror at what he was fighting. He thrust the cutlass forward, driving it into the decomposing chest of the man, holding his enemy back at arm's length as his opponent tried to claw at him with the remaining hand.

  Knowing that he was about to do something he would likely regret, Murphy edged forward, circling the man who remained pinned on Bryant's cutlass. Raising his knife, he charged the man from behind stabbing down with the blade again and again into his neck and base of the skull. The man seemed to lose strength under this assault and sagged, falling to his knees.

  Bryant put his foot on the chest of the man and withdrew his cutlass, then kicked out, sending him sprawling. He followed up and, like a madman, chopped away, cutting into the man's head and chest. After a dozen strokes, he realised Murphy's hand was on his arm, bidding him to stop. Bryant looked down at the cut and rotting carcass that lay before them.

  Rooted to the spot, Brooks was petrified. Murphy had some choice words to say: "I told you! Didn't I tell you?" he said, almost triumphantly. "Them French are startin' to use the dead in their armies and now they are 'ere on the sea!"

  Down by the ramp, their shipmates had begun to realise the nature of the enemy they faced and the line of Whirlwind's sailors began to buckle as men retreated. Their officers called out to hold steady but the sailors ignored them, some running across to the far side of the frigate at full stretch before realising they were trapped on a ship in the middle of the ocean. The fighting dead continued to pour down the ramp in ever increasing numbers, fanning out on the deck of the Whirlwind as they sought to engage their living enemy.

  "Back, back!" Bryant shouted, hustling Brooks and Murphy back among the crowd of other sailors.

  "What do we do?" Murphy kept asking. "What do we do?"

  "You fight, sailor!" Lieutenant Wynton roared, as he hacked at an approaching corpse. />
  "Them's zombies!" Murphy squealed, and his hysteria began to spread to the crew nearest him.

  "Fight them or join them!" Wynton cried as he deflected a blow from the plank with his sword and then twisted the blade, sweeping it in an arc to sever the head of the creature, causing it to stumble away and crash to the deck, unmoving.

  The wave of walking dead crashed into the living across the deck of the Whirlwind, gouging, biting and hacking with claws, teeth and an assortment of unclean weapons. Several British sailors fell under this onslaught, paralysed into inaction by their fear. Their screams served to galvanise the others who began to fight with the desperation of men who realise they have nothing left to lose. All along the line, men fell to the deck, disembowelled by wicked claws or gasping their last breath as a pair of pallid hands choked them to death. Elsewhere, animated corpses were pinned down while their skulls were crushed, thrown over board or simply torn apart by frenzied sailors driven far beyond fear.

  Taking his place in the centre of the line, Bryant fought like a demon as he swung and hacked at anything moving that did not have a beating heart. He had quickly learnt that a solid blow to the skull could at least slow a zombie down and a decapitation would stop it moving altogether. Failing that, severing limbs at least made them less effective.

  Brooks and Murphy cowered behind him, occasionally lashing out with a weapon when one of the infernal creatures came too close. Murphy guessed his small blade was going to be of limited benefit in this battle and turned to gather a belaying pin in his other hand. Taking care to keep Bryant between himself and any zombie, he batted away any claws or weapons that threatened to hurt his friend while another corpse took his attention. Brooks held his weapon close to his chest, standing rigid as his eyes constantly darted left and right, expecting to see a zombie come stumbling through the line to claim his life at any moment.

  Aiming a hard kick into a zombie's knee with his heel, Bryant forced it to the ground, feeling a bone break under his blow. The creature flailed at him with a rusty cleaver but he knocked it to one side and swung his cutlass down hard into the centre of its skull, splitting it apart in a shower of grey putrefying ooze. He glanced at the ship of the line, still locked in an embrace with the Whirlwind and saw that another score of zombies were shambling down the ramp. They kept together as a group and stumbled directly towards his part of the line.