The Wreck of the Grosvenor, Volume 1 of 3: An account of the mutiny of the crew and the loss of the ship when trying to make the BermudasRussell, William Clark
General
The Wreck of the Grosvenor, Volume 1 of 3: An account of the mutiny of the crew and the loss of the ship when trying to make the Bermudas
"Mr. Duckling punched the cook's head----"
"I saw him, sir. Likewise he kicked him. Mr. Duckling knows his duty,
and I hope he has taught the cook his. Steward!"
"Yes, sir?" responded the steward, coming out of the pantry.
"See that a piece of the pork you are serving out to the men is put
upon my table to-day."
"Yes, sir."
The captain fell into another fit of silence, during which I ate my
breakfast as quickly as I could, in order to relieve Duckling.
"Mr. Royle," said he presently, "when we ran that smack down this
morning, what were you for doing?"
"I should have hove the ship to," I replied, meeting his eyes.
"Would you have hove her to had you been alone on deck, sir?"
"Yes, and depended on your humanity to excuse me."
"What do you mean by my humanity?" he cried, dissembling his temper
badly. "What kind of cant is this you have brought on board my ship?
Humanity! Damn it!" he exclaimed, his ungovernable temper blazing out:
"had you hove my ship to on your own hook, I'd have had you in irons
for the rest of the voyage."
"I don't see the use of that threat, sir," said I, quietly. "You have
to judge me by what I did do, not by what I might or would do."
"Oh, confound your distinctions!" he went on, pushing his hair over his
ears. "You told me that you would have hove the ship to had you been
alone, and that means you would have whipped the masts out of her. Do
you mean to tell me that you knew what sail we were carrying, to talk
like this?"
"Perfectly well."
My composure irritated him more than my words, and I don't know what
savage answer he was about to return; but his attention was on a sudden
arrested and diverted from me. I turned my eyes in the direction in
which he was staring, and beheld the whole ship's company advancing
along the main-deck, led by the big seaman whose name was Johnson, and
by the tortoise-backed, small-faced man who was called Fish--Ebenezer
Fish.
The moment the captain observed them, he rose precipitately, and ran up
the companion-ladder; and as I had finished breakfast, I followed him.
By the time I had reached the break of the poop the hands were all
gathered about the mainmast. A few of them held tin dishes in their
hands, in which were lumps of meat swimming in black vinegar. One
carried some dozen biscuits supported against his breast. Another held
a tin pannikin filled with treacle, and another grasped a salt-jar, or
some such utensil, containing tea.
The _coup d'oeil_ from the poop was at this moment striking. All around
was a heavy sea with great waves boiling along it; overhead a pale blue
sky, along which the wildest clouds were sweeping. The vessel running
before the wind under double-reefed topsails, rolled deeply both to
port and to starboard, ever and anon shipping a sheet of green water
over her bulwarks, which went rushing to and fro the decks, seething
and hissing among the feet of the men, and escaping, with loud
bubbling noises, through the scupper-holes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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