ridlington from which
Master Robert Fowler had sailed years before. Was he at home again
now, I wonder, working in his shipyard and remembering the wonderful
experiences of the good ship _Woodhouse_? Surely he must have been
away on a voyage at this time or he would if possible have visited
Richard Sellar in his confinement on the ketch. Happily at Bridlington
there also lived two kind women, who, hearing that the ketch had a
'pressed Quaker' on board, sent Richard Sellar a present of
food--green stuff and eatables that would keep well on a voyage: these
provisions saved his life later on. After this stay in port the ketch
sailed on again to the Nore, a big sand-bank lying near the mouth of
the Thames.

'And there,' Richard goes on to say, 'they haled me in at a gunport,
on board of the ship called the _Royal Prince_. The first day of the
third month, they commanded me to go to work at the capstan. I
refused; then they commanded me to call of the steward for my
victuals; which I refused, and told them that as I was not free to do
the king's work, I would not live at his charge for victuals. Then the
boatswain's mate beat me sore, and thrust me about with the capstan
until he was weary; then the Captain sent for me on the quarter-deck,
and asked me why I refused to fight for the king, and why I refused to
eat of his victuals? I told him I was afraid to offend God, for my
warfare was spiritual, and therefore I durst not fight with carnal
weapons. Then the Captain fell upon me, and beat me first with his
small cane, then called for his great cane, and beat me sore, and
felled me down to the deck three or four times, and beat me as long as
his strength continued. Then came one, Thomas Horner (which was
brought up at Easington), and said, "I pray you, noble Captain, be
merciful, for I know him to be an honest and a good man." Then said
the captain, "He is a Quaker; I will beat his brains out." Then
falling on me again, he beat me until he was weary, and then called
some to help him; "for" said he, "I am not able to beat him enough to
make him willing to do the king's service."'

There Richard lay, bruised and beaten, on the deck. Neither the
sailors nor the Captain knew what to do with him. Presently up came
the Commander's jester or clown, a man whose business it was to make
the officers laugh. 'What,' said he, 'can't you make that Quaker work?
Do you want him to draw ropes for you and he won't? Why you are going
the wro