The Wreck of the Grosvenor, Volume 2 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 2 of 3: An account of the mutiny of the crew and the loss of the ship when trying to make the Bermudas
I took one glance at Miss Robertson: her figure was visible by the side
of the wheel. She was steering as steadily as any sailor, and, with an
emotion of gratitude to God for giving us such help, and her so much
courage at this supreme moment, I addressed all my energies to the
bloody work before me.
The boat dashed alongside, and the men threw in their oars. The fellow
in the bow grabbed hold of one of the chain-plates, passed the boat's
painter around it, hauled it short and made it fast with incredible
activity and speed. Then pulling their knives out of the sheaths they
all came clambering into the main-chains.
So close as they now were, I could make out the faces of the men. One
was big Johnson, another Cornish, the third Fish, the fourth, Schmidten.
I alone was visible. The boatswain and the steward stood with uplifted
arms ready to strike at the first head that showed itself.
The carpenter sprang on to the bulwark just where I stood. He poised
his knife to stab me under the throat.
"Now, you murderous treacherous ruffian!" I cried at the top of my
voice, "say your prayers!"
I levelled the pistol at his head, the muzzle not being a yard away
from his face, and pulled the trigger. The bright flash illuminated him
like a ray of lightning. He uttered a scream shrill as a child's, but
terrific in intensity, clapped his hands to his face, and fell like a
stone into the main-chains.
"It is your turn now!" I roared to Johnson, and let fly at him. He was
holding on to one of the main shrouds in the act of springing on to
the deck. I missed his head, but struck him in the arm, I think; for
he let go the shroud with a deep groan, reeled backwards, and toppled
overboard, and I heard the heavy splash of his body as he fell.
But we were not even now three to three, but three to one; for the
boatswain had let drive with his frightful belaying-pin at Fish's head,
just as that enormous protuberance had shown itself over the bulwark,
and the wretch lay dead or stunned in the boat alongside; whilst the
steward, who had secreted a huge carving-knife in his bosom, had
stabbed the Dutchman right in the stomach, leaving the knife in him;
and the miserable creature hung over the bulwark, head and arms hanging
down towards the water, and suddenly writhing as he thus hung, dropped
overboard.
Cornish, of all five men alone lived. I had watched him aim a blow at
the boatswain's back, and fired, but missed him. But he too had missed
his aim, and the boatswain, slueing round, struck his wrist with the
belaying-pin--whack! it sounded like the blow of a hammer on wood--and
the knife fell from his hand.
"Mercy! spare my life!" he roared, seeing that I had again covered him,
having two more shots left.
The steward, capable, now that things had gone well with us, of
performing prodigies of valour, rushed upon him, laid hold of his legs,
and pulled him off the bulwark on to the deck.
I thought the fall had broken his back, for he lay groaning and
motionless.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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