Hewett, Cook, Johnson, Cunningham, your men are of
the poop-guard. Thornbury, Walters, Hackett, Baddlesmere, you
are with Sir Oliver on the forecastle. Simon, you bide with your
lord's banner; but ten men must go forward."
Quietly and promptly the men took their places, lying flat upon
their faces on the deck, for such was Sir Nigel's order. Near
the prow was planted Sir Oliver's spear, with his arms--a boar's
head gules upon a field of gold. Close by the stern stood Black
Simon with the pennon of the house of Loring. In the waist
gathered the Southampton mariners, hairy and burly men, with
their jerkins thrown off, their waists braced tight, swords,
mallets, and pole-axes in their hands. Their leader, Goodwin
Hawtayne, stood upon the poop and talked with Sir Nigel, casting
his eye up sometimes at the swelling sail, and then glancing
back at the two seamen who held the tiller.
"Pass the word," said Sir Nigel, "that no man shall stand to arms
or draw his bow-string until my trumpeter shall sound. It would
be well that we should seem to be a merchant-ship from
Southampton and appear to flee from them.
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