The Wreck of the Grosvenor, Volume 3 of 3: An account of the mutiny of the crew and the loss of the ship when trying to make the Bermudas — John Shaqi
The Wreck of the Grosvenor, Volume 3 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 3 of 3: An account of the mutiny of the crew and the loss of the ship when trying to make the Bermudas
She only answered that it would comfort her to pray for him and herself
at the moment he was leaving her, and put her hand into mine, and
gently and with tearless eyes, though with a world of sorrow in her
beautiful pale face, asked me to take her on deck.
Such grief was not to be argued with--indeed, I felt it would be cruel
to oppose any fancy, however strange it seemed to me, which might
really solace her.
She started and stopped when she saw the stretcher and the white sheet
and the outline beneath it, and her hand clasped mine tightly; but she
recovered herself and we advanced, and then resolving that she should
not see the body leave the stretcher, I procured a flag and placed it
near the after skylight and said she could kneel there; which she did
with her back turned upon us.
I then whispered Cornish to watch me and take note of the sign I should
give him to tilt the stretcher and to do it quickly; after which I
placed myself near the body and began to read the service.
It was altogether a strange, impressive scene, one that in a picture
would, I am sure, hold the eye for a long time; but in the reality
create an ineffaceable memory.
The insecurity--the peril, I should prefer to say--of our situation,
heightened my own feelings, and made me behold in the corpse we were
about to commit to the deep a sad type and melancholy forerunner of
our own end. The ship, with her broken masts, her streaming decks,
her jib-boom gone, her one sail swollen by the hoarse gale, plunging
and rolling amid the tumultuous seas that foamed around and over her;
the strong man at the wheel, bareheaded, his hair blown about by the
wind, looking downwards with a face full of blunt and honest sorrow,
and his lips moving as they repeated the words I read; the motionless,
kneeling girl; the three of us standing near the corpse; the still,
dead burden on the stretcher, waiting to be launched; the blue sky,
and sun kindling into glory as it soared above the eastern horizon: all
these were details which formed a picture the wildness and strangeness
of which no pen could describe. They are all, as a vision, before me as
I write; but they make me know how poor are words, and eloquence how
weak, when great realities and things which have befallen many men are
to be described.
When I came to that part of the office wherein it is directed that the
body shall be let fall into the sea, my heart beat anxiously, for I
feared that the girl would look around and see what was done.
I gave the sign, and instantly Cornish obeyed, and I thank God that
the sullen splash of the corpse was lost in the roar of a sea bursting
under the ship's counter.
Now that it was gone, the worst was over; and in a short time I brought
the service to an end, omitting many portions which assuredly I had
not skipped had not time been precious to us.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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