Filhiol leaned over Crevay. But he made no move to open his kit-bag. One look had told him the truth.
The man, already unconscious, had grown waxen. His breathing had become a stertorous hiccough. The deck beneath him was terrible to look upon.
“No use, sir,” said the doctor briefly. “He’s gone.”
“Do something!” blazed the captain. “Something!”
“For a dead man?” retorted Filhiol. As he spoke, even the hiccough ceased.
Briggs stared with eyes of rage. He got to his feet, hulking, savage, with swaying red fists.
“They’ve killed my best man,” he snarled. “If we didn’t need the dogs, we’d feed ’em all to the sharks, so help me!”
“You’re wounded, sir!” the doctor cried, pointing at the blood-wet slash in the captain’s trouser-leg.
“Oh, to hell with that!” Briggs retorted. “You, and you,” he added, jabbing a finger at two sailors, “carry Mr. Crevay down to the cabin—then back to your rifles at the rail!”
They obeyed, their burden sagging limply. Already the dead and wounded Malays had been bundled over the rail. The fusillade from the war-canoes was strengthening, and the shouts had risen to a barbaric chorus. The patter of bullets and slugs into the sea or against the planking of the Silver Fleece formed a ragged accompaniment to the whine of missiles through the air. A few holes opened in the clipper’s canvas. One of the men who had thrown the Malays overboard cursed suddenly and grabbed his left elbow, shattered.