“Take cover!” commanded Briggs. “Down, everybody, along the rail! Mr. Wansley, down with you and your men. Get down!”
Indifferent to all peril for himself, Briggs turned toward the companion.
“Captain,” the doctor began again. “Your boot’s full of blood. Let me bandage—”
Briggs flung a snarl at him and strode to the companion.
“Below, there!” he shouted.
“Aye, aye, sir!” rose the voice of one of the foremast hands.
“Get that wench up here! The yellow girl! Bring her up—an’ look alive!”
“Captain,” the doctor insisted, “I’ve got to do something for that gash in your leg. Not that I love you, but you’re the only man that can save us. Sit down here, sir. You’ll bleed to death where you stand!”
Something in Filhiol’s tone, something in a certain giddiness that was already reaching for the captain’s heart and brain, made him obey. He sat down shakily on deck beside the after-companion. In the midst of all that turmoil, all underlaid by the slow, grinding scrape of the keel on the sand-bar, the physician performed his duty.
With scissors, he shore away the cloth. A wicked slash, five or six inches long, stood redly revealed.