My great-uncle's level voice dominated the confusion as easily as it had the silence.
"Cut your cable, Saunders!"
Flint's bellow answered from the Walrus.
"Give it to 'em, ye cowardly swabs! Stand to your guns!"
The red tongues of the Walrus' guns licked out at us; the staggering roar of their discharging smote the night. The fabric of the Royal James quivered and shook as the iron hail lashed into her. A moaning and screeching rose from waist, fo'csle and gundeck:
"Oh, God!"
"My leg! My leg!"
"It hurts! Sweet Christ, how it——"
"They're out! My guts are a-runnin' out!"
"Where's my arm? Oh, God, where's my arm?"