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W. Clark Russell
THE author of "The Wreck of the 'Grosvenor,'" was born in New York, February 24, 1844; he was the son of Henry Russell, author of the popular song, "Cheer, Boys, Cheer." He was educated at the famous Winchester in England, and at Boulogne in France. At thirteen he shipped on a British merchantman and served for eight years, which gave him first-hand information for the stories which have for so long been a delight to all who love a tale of the sea. His first book was "John Holdsworth, Chief Mate"; it was followed by a rapid and lengthy succession of tales of the sea in a clear and picturesque style with abundant dramatic skill. This first book won him a devoted audience, increased the next year by the story which readers will most readily associate his name, "The Wreck of the 'Grosvenor'"; in addition to being a good story, it pleads for better treatment of English sailors, especially in matters of food. The proper care of the sailorman has always been one of the things needing attention. In addition to being a prolific writer of books, he was also a newspaper man, writing "leaders" or editorial articles for "The London Daily Telegraph." These were of enough importance to be gathered together in "Round the Galley Fire" and other volumes. He died in 1911.
THE WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR" By W. CLARK RUSSELL Condensation by JAMES B. CONNOLLY WE were bound out of London with a general cargo. The wind dying out, we had to come to anchor in the Downs. The crew had been grumbling about the grub, and were now grumbling yet more. I was second officer, and to me came the cook, saying, "Mr. Royle, would you mind tasting this?" and handed me a bit of a ship's biscuit. "Sugar, molasses, tea, and pork--if they call 'em that--they're all the same rotten mess, sir."
The biscuit was bad, and though it was not my place to do so, I took it to Captain Coxon, but got nothing from him except curses and the cold advice to mind my own affairs. Mr. Duckling, the first officer, added a few obsequious remarks on his own account. The result was that the crew, getting no redress, refused to make sail on the ship and were put ashore. Next morning a crimp came down from London with a fresh crew.
A fair wind sprang up, the ship was got under way, but we were not clear of the Channel when the new crew were also complaining of the grub. Hot words were passed between them and the captain, so hot that the captain had to take notice. He finally promised to put into some handy port, in Spain or elsewhere along the route, and lay in a fresh supply of ship's stores. "What injustice in the meanness of owners and captains!" I thought. Here were good sailors and ordinarily harmless men who might be made into criminals, and all to the end that our banking balances might be kept large and our national power supreme. Without the British sailor there would be no British Empire, and what treatment is meted out to him! He submits to hardships and danger, and receives low wages, poor food, and mean living-quarters; even should he be granted a hearing for a grievance, nineteen out of twenty persons appointed to investigate the trouble are qualified neither by experience nor by sympathy to render a just verdict.
The Grosvenor, of which I was second officer, was a fast-sailing, full-rigged little ship of five hundred tons. The captain, under owner's orders to make what time he could to Valparaiso, was out to drive her. We were rushing along under a press of canvas when we ran over a small craft of some kind. I got a glimpse, in the dark, of a mast and a sail before they vanished under us. No word came to bring her to. I asked Captain Coxon, who was on deck, if he was not going to try to save the possible survivors. "Save be hanged! Why didn't they keep out of our way?" I knew what I wanted to say; but it is in the power of a ship's captain to injure, even to ruin, the future of an officer under him. I held my tongue. We ran into a three days' gale. We had a terrible time, but managed to live through it. As it was moderating we sighted a wreck, a most mournful and piteous sight. It was in my watch, and I ordered the ship luffed to have a better look at her. What I saw was an arm projecting through her deck-house window. I at once called the captain and asked for instructions. "Keep her away!" was his order.
I called him a murderer and appealed to the men. They cried to save the lives on the wreck. The captain then allowed me to take a boat's crew and see what I could do.
After a hard struggle our boat made the wreck. She was an English ship. At no little peril I ran along the deck to her house, where I found a young girl and her old father. Another man was also there alive, but insane. Seeing a pannikin of fresh water, this man grabbed it, drained it, and dropped dead. When we were back aboard the Grosvenor I, for my part in the rescue, was put in irons.
This wreck incident, added to further needless abuse of the men and the further failure of the captain to live up to his promise of putting in for better food, inflamed the crew beyond endurance. They watched their chance, rushed the poop in the night, and killed the captain. They then killed Mr. Duckling. They might have killed me, too, notwithstanding that I had shown sympathy to them, but somebody had to navigate the ship to within fifty miles of the Florida coast, which was where they intended to abandon her and row ashore.
Having the safety of the young girl and her old father as well as my own life to think of, I agreed to act as navigator.