His hand still clutched the brake.

The sailor at the wheel had been shot through the throat, and had fallen limply through the open doorway of the chart-room; he lay there, coughing up blood and froth, and gasping his life out.

The two men wounded by the second shell were creeping down the forward companion in the effort to avoid the hail of lead that was beating on the ship.
Hozier was raising himself on hands and knees, his attitude that of a man who is dazed, almost insensible.

Watts had gone from the bridge--he might have been whirled to death over the side like the unfortunate foremast hand she had seen tossed from off the forecastle; but Coke, whose charmed life apparently entitled him to act like a lunatic, was actually balancing himself on top of the starboard rails of the bridge by clinging to a stay, having climbed to that exposed position in order to hurl oaths at the soldiers on shore.

He had gone berserk with rage.