Martin Conisby

Dazed, deafened, half-stunned, I crouched in the shelter of the mizzen mast, aware of shrieks and cries and the crash of falling spars, nor moved I for a space; lifting my head at last, I beheld on the littered decks below huddled figures that lay strangely twisted, that writhed or crawled. Then came the hoarse roar of a speaking trumpet and I saw Resolution, his face a smother of blood, where he leaned hard by across the quarter-rail.

"Stand to't, my bullies!" he roared, and his voice had never sounded so jovial. "Clear the guns, baw-cocky boys; 'tis our turn next--but stand by till she comes about--"

From the companion below came one running, eyes wild, mouth agape, and I recognised the man Ford who had been my chief persecutor in the forecastle.

"What now, lad--what now?" demanded Resolution, mopping at his bloody face.

"Death!" gasped Ford. "There be dead men a-lay-ing forward--dead, look'ee--"

"Likely enough, John Ford, and there'll be dead men a-laying aft if ye're not back to your gun and lively, d'ye see?" But the fellow, gasping again, fell to his knees, whereupon Resolution smote him over the head with his speaking trumpet and tumbled him down the ladder.

"Look'ee here," quoth he, scowling on me, "this all cometh along o' your ill-praying us, for prayer is potent, as I know, which was not brotherly in you, Martin O, not brotherly nor yet friendly!" So saying, he squatted on the gun beside me and sought to staunch the splinter-gash in his brow; but seeing how ill he set about it, I proffered to do it for him (and despite my shackles), whereupon he gave me the scarf and knelt that I might come at his hurt the better; and being thus on his knees, he began to pray in a loud, strong voice: "Lord God o' battles, close up Thine ear, hearken to and regard not the unseemly praying of this mail Martin that hath not the just point o' view, seeing through a glass darkly. Yonder lieth the enemy, Lord, Thine and mine, wherefore let 'em be rooted out and utterly destroyed; for if these be Portingales and Papishers--if--ha--if--?" Resolution ceased his prayer and glancing up, pointed with stabbing finger: "Yon ship's no more Portingale than I am--look, friend, look!"

Now glancing whither he would have me, I saw two things: first, that the Happy Despatch had turned tail and second that our pursuers bore at her main the English flag; beholding which, a great joy welled up within me so that I had much ado to keep from shouting outright.

"English!" quoth Resolution. "And a fighting ship--so fight we must, unless we win clear!"