George Herbert

They stepped out of the brush and started moving towards me slow, beating soft on a couple of drums and growling low and evil-like.

"Well, George Herbert, you're in for it now," I tells myself.

"Half a mile of underwater walking and you're still forgetting your blooming throat cut." I snapped the faceplate partway shut and cracked the air valve a bit.

The diving suit swelled up like a blasted frog, and I started walking toward them.

I'm high priest, witch doctor, call it whatever you want.

Well, I'm happy to know you.

Mine's George Herbert, officer of the English brig Pride of Banyan.

The late brig, might be.