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THE WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR."




                                  THE
                       WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR:"

                             AN ACCOUNT OF
                    _THE MUTINY OF THE CREW AND THE
                           LOSS OF THE SHIP_
                   WHEN TRYING TO MAKE THE BERMUDAS.

                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._
                                VOL. I.

                                LONDON:
               SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON,
                  CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
                                 1877.

                        (_All rights reserved._)




                                LONDON:
                  PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS,
                   STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.




THE WRECK OF THE "GROSVENOR."




CHAPTER I.


There was every appearance of a south-westerly wind. The coast of
France, which had been standing high and shining upon the horizon on
the port bow, and so magnified by the clear northerly air that you
could discern, even at that distance, the dim emerald sheen of the
upper <DW72>s and the streaky shadows thrown by projecting points and
elbows on the white ground, was fast fading, though the sun still stood
within an hour of its setting beyond the bleak Foreland. The north
wind, which had rattled us with an acre of foam at our bows right
away down the river, and had now brought us well abreast of the Gull
lightship, was dropping fast. There was barely enough air to keep the
royals full, and the ship's number, which I had just hoisted at the
peak--a string of gaudy flags which made a brilliant figure against the
white canvas of the spanker--shook their folds sluggishly.

The whole stretch of scene, from the North Foreland down to the
vanishing French headlands miles away yonder, was lovely at that
moment--full of the great peace of an ocean falling asleep, of gently
moving vessels, of the solemn gathering of shadows. The town of Deal
was upon the starboard bow, a warm cluster of houses, with a windmill
on the green hills turning drowsily, here and there a window glittering
with a sudden beam of light, an inclined beach in the foreground with
groups of boats high and dry upon it, and a line of foam at its base
which sang upon the shingle so that you could hear it plainly amid
intervals of silence on board the ship. The evening sun shining over
the giant brow of the South Foreland struck the grey outline of the
cliff deep in the still water, but the clear red blaze fell far and
wide over the dry white downs of Sandwich and the outlying plains, and
threw the distant country into such bold relief against the blue sky
that, from the sea, it looked close at hand, and but a short walk from
the shore.

There were three or four dozen vessels at anchor in the Downs waiting
for a change of wind or anticipating a dead calm for some hours. A few
others, like ourselves, were swimming stealthily over the slack tide,
with every foot of their canvas piled upon them with the effort to
reach safe anchorage before the wind wholly failed and the tide turned.
A large ship, with her sails stowed and her masts and rigging showing
with the fineness of ivory-tracing against the sky, was being towed up
Channel, and the slapping of the water by the paddles of the tug, in
fast capricious revolutions, was quite audible, though both ship and
steamer were a long league distant. Here and there small boats were
rowing away from the anchored ships for the shore. Now and again you
could hear the faint distant choruses of seamen furling a big sail or
paying out more cable, the _clank, clank_ of which was as pretty as
music. Down in the east the heavens were a deep blue, flecked along the
water line with white sails, which glowed in the sunshine like beacons.

I was in a proper mood to appreciate this beautiful tranquil scene.
I was leaving England for a long spell, and the sight of that quiet
little town of Deal and the grand old Foreland cliffs shutting out the