The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket Comprising the details of a mutiny and atrocious butchery on board the American brig Grampus, on her way to the South Seas, in the month of June, 1827.

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 34

for a moment it seemed possible that the brig might be retaken. The
mutineers, however, succeeded at last in closing the forecastle
effectually before more than six of their opponents could get up. These
six, finding themselves so greatly outnumbered and without arms,
submitted after a brief struggle. The mate gave them fair words--no
doubt with a view of inducing those below to yield, for they had no
difficulty in hearing all that was said on deck. The result proved his
sagacity, no less than his diabolical villany. All in the forecastle
presently signified their intention of submitting, and, ascending one
by one, were pinioned and thrown on their backs together with the first
six--there being in all, of the crew who were not concerned in the
mutiny, twenty-seven.

A scene of the most horrible butchery ensued. The bound seamen were
dragged to the gangway. Here the cook stood with an axe, striking each
victim on the head as he was forced over the side of the vessel by the
other mutineers. In this manner twenty-two perished, and Augustus had
given himself up for lost, expecting every moment his own turn to come
next. But it seemed that the villains were now either weary, or in some
measure disgusted with their bloody labour; for the four remaining
prisoners, together with my friend, who had been thrown on the deck
with the rest, were respited while the mate sent below for rum, and the
whole murderous party held a drunken carouse, which lasted until
sunset. They now fell to disputing in regard to the fate of the
survivers, who lay not more than four paces off, and could distinguish
every word said. Upon some of the mutineers the liquor appeared to have
a softening effect, for several voices were heard in favour of
releasing the captives altogether, on condition of joining the mutiny
and sharing the profits. The black cook, however (who in all respects
was a perfect demon, and who seemed to exert as much influence, if not
more, than the mate himself), would listen to no proposition of the
kind, and rose repeatedly for the purpose of resuming his work at the
gangway. Fortunately, he was so far overcome by intoxication as to be
easily restrained by the less bloodthirsty of the party, among whom was
a line-manager, who went by the name of Dirk Peters. This man was the
son of an Indian squaw of the tribe of Upsarokas, who live among the
fastnesses of the Black Hills near the source of the Missouri. His
father was a fur-trader, I believe, or at least

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