III
The Gunner came up the ladder.
A sack was cast about his naked shoulders; his cocked hat was on the back of his head; and a tooth-pick between his lips.
He strolled to the side.
Beneath him the Cocotte, smoking like a damped furnace, the blood trickling from between her seams, was settling fast.
"Got her bellyful all snug," said the Gunner complacently, picking his teeth.
He strolled off to old Ding-dong, propped on his corpse beside the wheel.
"Well, sir, you play a pretty stick with a handspike still!—how's yerself?"
"Tidy," grunted the veteran. "How fur's yon frigate yet? I can't see over the side, settin on my little sofia."
"Within random shot, sir. She's got a slant of wind, and is crowding all sail to get alongside."
"Then we'd best be sturrin. How are we ridin?"
The Gunner looked over the side.
"Why, middlin deep, sir."
"Then cut the boats away, and the anchors. Stave in the water-casks. Heave all spare shot and tackle overboard—we need nowt but the boards we stand on and the guns we fight; and make what sail you can on her…. I shall bear away for the shore. Don't mean bein took at my time o life."