Читать книгу Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy - William Henry Giles Kingston - Страница 6

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The Cerberus, stout frigate that she was, plunged onward across the foam-covered ocean. On one side was the burning ship, at which not a shot had been fired since her condition was discovered; on the other was a still active enemy. With the latter, broadside after broadside was rapidly exchanged, but without much damage being sustained. From the burning ship a few shots continued for a short time to be fired, but as the fire increased, the crew must have deserted their guns, and as the flames gained the mastery, they burned through the ropes and attacked the sails, and the ship fell off and rolled helplessly in the trough of the sea, where the two combatants soon left her far astern.

“I wish as how we could heave-to and send a boat to help them poor fellows,” cried Reuben Cole, looking at the burning ship.

“To my mind, the mounseer out there would be doing better if he was to cry, Peccavi, and then go and look after his countrymen, instead of getting himself knocked to pieces, as he will be if he keeps on long at this game.”

The sentiment was highly applauded by his hearers. There was not a man indeed on board the frigate who was not eager to save the lives of the hapless crew of the burning ship, which they had till now striven so hard to destroy.

The firing had ceased; the grey dawn broke over the waste of waters; astern was seen the smoke from the burning ship, with bright flashes below it, and away to leeward their other antagonist making all sail to escape. The battle was over, though the victor could boast but of a barren conquest. The guns were run in and secured, and the weary crew instantly set to work to repair damages. As the wind had fallen and the sea had considerably gone down, the work was performed without much difficulty. Captain Walford had narrowly watched his flying foe, in the hopes that she might go to the assistance of her late consort. Her royals had not long sunk below the horizon when once more the Cerberus was in a condition to make sail.

Captain Walford considered whether he should go in pursuit of the enemy, or attempt to save the lives of the unfortunate people from the burning ship. In the first case he might possibly capture an enemy’s ship, but ought he for the chance of so doing to leave his fellow-creatures to perish miserably?

“No, I will risk all consequences,” he said to his first-lieutenant after a turn on deck. And the Cerberus stood towards the wreck.

The wind had fallen so much that her progress was very slow. The English now wished for more wind, for every moment might be of vital consequence to their late enemies. Not a man on board felt the least enmity towards them; even the wounded and dying when told of their condition looked on them as brothers in misfortune.

War is sad work, sad for those at home, sad for those engaged in it, and the only way to mitigate its horrors is to treat the fallen or the defeated foe as we should ourselves wish to be treated.

While the frigate sailed on, the crew were repairing as far as possible the damages she had received; for at that season of the year it was probable that another gale might spring up, which she was as yet ill-prepared to encounter. The men were nearly dropping with fatigue, but they worked on bravely, as true-hearted seamen always do work when necessity demands their exertions.

Meantime Paul was summoned below. The midshipmen who were not required on deck were again assembled in the berth; but the places of several were vacant. They were eating a hurried meal which Paul had placed on the table, and discussing the events of the fight. One or two of the youngsters were rather graver than usual, but Paul thought that the rest took matters with wonderful indifference. He was anxious to know what had happened to Devereux, whom he had seen carried below badly wounded. Nobody mentioned him; perhaps he was dead; and he did not feel sorry at the thought. After a time, though, he had some compunctions of conscience. He was thinking that he would find his way towards the sick bay, where the wounded midshipmen and other junior officers were placed, when one of the assistant-surgeons came towards the berth.

“Here, boy Gerrard, I can trust you, I think,” he exclaimed. “I want you to stay by Mr. Devereux, and to keep continually moistening his lips, fomenting his wound as I shall direct. He is very feverish, and his life may depend on your attention.”

Paul felt as he had never felt before, proud and happy at being thus spoken to, and selected by the surgeon to perform a responsible office, even though it was for one whom he had taught himself to look upon in the light of an enemy. He was soon by the side of the sufferer. The sight which met his eyes was sufficient to disarm all hostility. The young midshipman, lately so joyous, with the flush of health on his cheeks, lay pale as death, groaning piteously; his side had been torn open, and a splinter had taken part of the scalp from his head. The assistant-surgeon showed him what to do, and then hurried away, for he had many wounded to attend to, as the chief surgeon had been killed by a shot which came through one of the lower ports.

Gerrard felt greatly touched at Devereux’s sufferings. “Poor fellow! he cannot possibly live with those dreadful wounds, and yet I am sure when the fight began that he had not an idea that he was to be killed, or even hurt,” he said to himself more than once. Paul was unwearied in following the surgeon’s directions. Devereux, however, was totally unconscious, and unaware who was attending on him. He spoke now and then, but incoherently, generally about the home he had lately left. Once Paul heard him utter the name of Gerrard.

“We beat them, though they kept us long out of our fortune, and now they are beggars as they deserve. Hard for the young ones, though, I think; but it cannot be helped—must not think about them.”

Such expressions dropped at intervals from the lips of Devereux. How he came to utter them at that time Paul could not guess. Did he know him, or in any way associate his name with the family of whom he was speaking?

“He has some sympathy, at all events, poor fellow, with our misfortunes,” thought Paul. “I wish that I had not thought so ill of him. I hope he won’t die. I will pray that God will spare his life; even if he were my enemy I should do that.”

The surgeon, when he came his rounds, expressed his approval of the way Paul had managed his patient.

“Will he live, sir?” asked Paul, in a trembling voice.

“That is more than the wisest of us can say,” was the answer.

Paul was at length relieved from his charge by a marine who acted as Devereux’s servant. He was, however, very unwilling to quit his post. He was feeling more interest in the wounded midshipman than he could have supposed possible.

Paul, as soon as he could, made his way on deck. He wanted to know what had become of the burning ship. He looked around; she was nowhere to be seen. He inquired what had happened to her. She had blown up; and probably nearly all on board had sunk beneath the waves. There were men aloft, however, looking out, and now they were pointing in the direction of where the burning ship had gone down. A speck on the ocean was observed; it was probably part of the wreck, and perhaps some of the crew might be clinging to it. The captain ordered a boat to be lowered, for the wind was so light that the frigate would take a much longer time than it would to reach the spot. The boat pulled away; the men in the rigging and all on deck eagerly watched her progress. It seemed, however, doubtful whether any one of their late foes had escaped destruction. The crew in the boat made no sign that they saw any one. At length, however, they reached the spot towards which they were rowing.

“Anyhow, they’ve got something,” cried a topman.

The boat made a wide circuit round the fatal spot. After some time she was seen returning to the ship.

“They have got a man, I do believe,” exclaimed one of the men.

“No; to my mind it is only a mounseer midshipmite,” observed Reuben Cole, looking down from his work into the boat.

“They’ve picked up a few other things, though, but it’s a poor haul, I fear.”

When the boat came alongside, a fine young boy in a French uniform was handed up and placed on the deck. He looked around with a bewildered air, as if not knowing where he was. Captain Walford then took him kindly by the hand, and told him that he should be well cared for, and that he would find friends instead of those he had lost. The boy sighed.

“What! are all, all gone?” he asked in French.

“I fear so,” answered the captain. “But you are cold and wet, and you must go below to the surgeon, who will attend to you.”

The poor young stranger was, however, very unwilling to leave the deck, and kept looking up into the countenances of the bystanders as if in search of some of his missing friends. Paul watched him with interest.

“Poor boy!” he said to himself; “I thought that I was very forlorn and miserable; but I have Reuben Cole and others who are kind to me, and he has no one here who can care for him. How fortunate that I learned French, because now I can talk to him and be useful to him.”

When the humane Captain Walford found that all the rest of the hapless crew of his late antagonist were lost, he ordered all the sail to be made which the frigate in her present crippled state could carry, in chase of his other opponent, having noted carefully the direction in which she was steering when last seen.

“I thought that we had done with fighting for the present,” said Paul to Reuben Cole, who told him that they were looking out for the other frigate.

“No, boy, that we haven’t, and what’s more, I expect we shan’t, as long as the flag of an enemy of old England flies over the salt sea. You’ll live, I hope, Paul, to help thrash many of them. I liked the way in which you behaved in the action just now. You was cool and active, which is just what you should be. It won’t be my fault if you don’t make a first-rate seaman some day.”

Paul was again much pleased with Reuben’s commendations. He was sure that he would keep his promise, and he resolved to profit by his instructions, as far as his duties in the midshipmen’s berth would allow him. Before long, the young Frenchman made his appearance on deck, dressed in the uniform of an English midshipman who had been killed. He lifted his hat in the politest manner to the captain and officers, and thanked them for the courtesy they had shown him. He was in the middle of his speech, which was very pathetic, when his eye fell on some of the articles which had been picked up and had not been taken below. Among them was a long narrow case. He sprang towards it with a shout of joy.

“C’est à moi! c’est à moi!” he exclaimed, as he produced a key from a lanyard round his neck. He opened the case and drew forth a violin and bow. The case had been well made and water-tight; he applied the instrument to his chin. At first, only slow melancholy sounds were elicited; but by degrees, as the strings got dry, the performer’s arms moved more rapidly, and he at last struck up a right merry tune.

The effect was curious and powerful. The captain unconsciously began to move his feet, the officers to shuffle, and the men, catching the infection, commenced a rapid hornpipe, which Mr. Order, the first-lieutenant, in vain attempted to stop. The young Frenchman, delighted at finding that his music was appreciated, played faster and faster, till everybody on deck was moving about in a fashion seldom seen on the deck of a man-of-war.

“Stop, stop!” shouted the first-lieutenant; “knock off that nonsense, men; stop your fiddling, I say, youngster—stop your fiddling, I say.”

The discipline of the ship was very nearly upset; the men, however, heard and obeyed; but the young Frenchman, not comprehending a word, and delighted moreover to get back his beloved violin, continued playing away as eagerly as at first, till Mr. Order, losing patience, seized his arm, and by a significant gesture, ordered him to desist. His musical talent, and his apparent good-nature, gained for the French lad the goodwill of the crew, and of most of the officers also.

“What is your name, my young friend?” asked Captain Walford.

“Alphonse Montauban,” was the answer.

“Very well; you will be more at your ease in the midshipmen’s berth, I suspect. Take him below, Mr. Bruff, and say that I beg the young gentlemen will accommodate him and treat him with kindness. You’ll get a hammock slung for him.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Bruff, taking Alphonse by the hand. “Come along, youngster.”

Bruff was anxious to say something kind to the poor boy, but there was a bar to this, as neither understood each other’s language. Paul followed, guessing this, and hoping that his knowledge of French might be put into requisition. Alphonse, with his fiddle tucked under his arm, entered the berth.

“Here’s a young chap who is a first-rate hand with the catgut, and if any of you can tell him that he is welcome in his own lingo, I wish you would, mates,” said Bruff.

“Mounseer, you are mucho welcomo to our bertho,” exclaimed Blake. “Here’s to your healtho, Mounseer. I hope, Bruff, this is first-rate French.”

“It doesn’t sound like it, but maybe he understands you, for he’s bowing to you in return,” answered Bruff.

Similar attempts at speaking French were made; but, as may be supposed, the young foreigner was as unable as at first to understand what was said.

“How very ignorant they are,” thought Paul. “I wish that they would let me speak to him.”

The young Frenchman, who was of an excitable disposition, at last thinking that the English boys were laughing at him, began to lose temper, and so did they, at what they considered his unexampled stupidity.

Paul, who was standing near the door, mustering courage, at length interpreted what was said into very fair French. The young stranger, with a pleased smile, asked—

“What! can a poor boy like you speak my dear language?”

“Yes, I learned it of my sisters at home,” answered Paul.

“Then we must be friends, for you can sympathise with me more than can these,” said Alphonse.

“Do not say so to them,” observed Paul; “they may not like it. I am but a poor ship’s boy and their servant.”

“Misfortune makes all people equal, and your tone of voice and the way you speak French, convince me that you are of gentle birth,” said Alphonse.

It is possible that the midshipmen might have looked at Paul with more respect from hearing him speak a language of which they were ignorant, though some sneered at him for talking the Frenchman’s lingo.

Paul, as soon as he could leave the berth, hurried to the side of Devereux. He found the surgeon there.

“Ah! come to look after your patient, boy?” said Mr. Lancet. “You have performed your duty so well, that I have begged Mr. Order to relieve you from your attendance on the young gentlemen, and to give you to me altogether.”

Paul thanked Mr. Lancet, but told him frankly, that though he was very glad to be of service to Mr. Devereux, or to any other wounded shipmate, he wished to learn to be a sailor, and therefore that he would rather be employed on deck; still he was gratified at what Mr. Lancet had said.

He devoted himself, however, to Devereux, by whose side he spent every moment not absolutely required for sleep or for his meals. Mr. Order sent another boy, Tom Buckle, to attend on the young gentlemen, who came to the conclusion that he was a perfect lout after Paul.

“There is something in that youngster after all,” observed Bruff, who resolved to try what he was really worth, and to befriend him accordingly.

Meantime, the Cerberus continued in chase of the French frigate, which Alphonse told Captain Walford was the Alerte, and perhaps to induce him to give up the chase, he remarked that she was very powerfully armed and strongly manned, and would prove a dangerous antagonist. Captain Walford laughed.

“It is not a reason for abandoning the chase which would weigh much with any one on board this ship, I hope, though it will make them the more eager to come up with her,” he answered.

Alphonse also let drop that the two frigates were bound out to the West Indies with important despatches. It was most probable, therefore, that the Alerte, in obedience to orders, would make the best of her way there. Captain Walford resolved to follow in that direction.

The Alerte had probably not received as much injury in her rigging as was supposed, and as Alphonse said that she was very fast, there was little expectation on board the Cerberus that they would come up with her before she got to her destination. Still, Captain Walford was not a man to abandon an object as long as there remained a possibility of success. He was a good specimen of a British naval officer. Brave, kind, and considerate, his men adored him; and there was no deed of daring which he would not venture to undertake, because he knew that his crew would follow wherever he would lead. He never swore at or abused those under him, or even had to speak roughly to them. Every officer who did his duty knew that he had in him a sincere friend; and his men looked upon him in the light of a kind and wise father, who would always do them justice, and overlook even their faults, if possible.

Mr. Lancet took an opportunity of speaking to the captain of the boy Gerrard, and remarked that he was far better educated than were lads generally of his class.

“I will keep my eye on the lad, and if he proves worthy, will serve him if I can,” was the answer.

Devereux continued in great danger; the surgeon would not assert that he would recover. It was some time before he remarked Paul’s attention to him.

“You are boy Gerrard, I see,” he observed faintly. “You are very good to me, and more than I deserve from you; but I never meant you ill, and I got you off a cobbing once. I have done very few good things in the world, and now I am going to die, I am afraid. You’ll forgive me, Gerrard, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, sir!” answered Paul, with tears in his eyes; “even if you had wronged me much more than you have done; but it wasn’t you, it was your father and those about him.”

“My father! What do you mean, boy; who are you?” exclaimed Devereux, in a tone of astonishment, starting up for a moment, though he immediately sank back exhausted; while he muttered to himself—“Gerrard! Gerrard! can it be possible?” He then asked quietly—

“Where do you come from, boy?”

“No matter, sir,” answered Paul, afraid of agitating Devereux. “I will tell you another time, for I hope that you will get well soon, and then you may be able to listen to what I have to say; but the doctor says that at present you must be kept perfectly quiet, and talk as little as possible.”

Devereux, who was still very weak, did not persist in questioning Paul, who had time to reflect how far it would be wise to say anything about himself. He was not compelled to be communicative; and he considered that Devereux ill, and expecting to die, and Devereux well, might possibly be two very different characters. “If I were to tell him, he might bestow on me a sort of hypocritical compassion, and I could not stand that,” he thought to himself. Whatever were Paul’s feelings, he did not relax in his care of Devereux.

Day after day came, and the first question asked of the morning watch was, “Is there anything like the Alerte yet ahead?” All day, too, a bright look-out was kept from the mast-heads for her; but in vain, and some began to think that she must have altered her course and returned to the coast of France.

Paul was not sorry when he heard this, for he had seen enough of the effects of fighting to believe that it was not a desirable occupation; and he, moreover, felt for young Alphonse, who naturally earnestly hoped that the Cerberus would not fall in with the Alerte.

No one rejoiced more than did Paul when one day Mr. Lancet pronounced Devereux to be out of danger, and that all he required was care and attention. Paul redoubled his efforts to be of use. Alphonse missed him very much from the berth, as he was the only person who could interpret for him, and whenever he wanted anything he had to find him out and to get him to explain what he required. Before long, therefore, the young Frenchman found his way to the sick bay, where Devereux and others lay. Devereux was the only midshipman who could speak French, though not so well as Paul.

The ship had now reached a southern latitude, and the balmy air coming through an open port contributed to restore health and strength to the sick and wounded. When Devereux heard Alphonse addressing Paul, and the latter replying in French, he lifted up his head.

“What, boy Gerrard, where did you learn French?” he asked.

“At home, sir,” answered Paul, quietly.

“Yes, he speaks very good French, and is a very good boy,” remarked Alphonse.

“And you, monsieur, you speak French also?”

Devereux replied that he did a little.

“That is very nice, indeed,” said the young Frenchman. “We will talk together, and I shall no longer fear dying of ennui.”

After this, Alphonse was constantly with Devereux, and when the latter was better, he brought his fiddle and played many a merry tune to him. Indeed, the young Frenchman, by his light-hearted gaiety, his gentleness, and desire to please, became a general favourite fore and aft.

“Ah, mounseer, if there was many like you aboard the frigate which went down, I for one am sorry that I had a hand in sending her there,” exclaimed Reuben Cole one day, in a fit of affectionate enthusiasm.

Alphonse, who understood him, sighed. “There were many, many; but it was the fortune of war.”

“But, suppose, Reuben, we come up with the other, and have to treat her in the same way, what will you say then?” asked Paul.

“Why, you see, Paul, the truth is this: if the captain says we must fight and sink her, it must be done, even if every one on us had a mother’s son aboard. I stick up for discipline, come what may of it.”

The ship was within one or two days’ sail of the West Indies, when, as Paul was on deck, he heard the man at the mast-head shout out, “A sail on the lee-bow standing for the westward.”

“It is the Alerte,” thought Paul, “and we shall have more fighting.” Others were of the same opinion. Instantly all sail was made in chase. The crew of the Cerberus had been somewhat dull of late, except when the little Mounseer, as they called Alphonse, scraped his fiddle. They were animated enough at present. Even the sick and wounded were eager to come on deck. Devereux especially insisted that he was able to return to his duty. Mr. Lancet said that he might not suffer much, but that he had better remain out of harm’s way, as even a slight wound might prove fatal. He would listen to no such reasoning, and getting Paul to help him on with his uniform, he crawled on deck.

“Gerrard,” he said as he was dressing, “if I am killed, you are to be my heir as regards my personal effects. I have written it down, and given the paper to Mr. Lancet, witnessed by Mr. Bruff, so it’s all right. I have an idea who you are, though you never told me.”

Captain Walford was surprised at seeing Devereux on deck, and though he applauded his zeal, he told him that he had better have remained below.

As soon as the stranger discovered the Cerberus, she made all sail to escape. It was questioned whether or not she was the Alerte, but one thing was certain, that the Cerberus was overhauling her, and had soon got near enough to see her hull from aloft. It was now seen, that though she was a large ship, she was certainly not a frigate; it was doubted, indeed, whether she was French. The opinion of Alphonse was asked.

“She is not the Alerte, she is a merchantman and French; she will become your prize. I am sorry for my poor countrymen, but it is the fortune of war,” he answered as he turned away with a sigh.

A calm, of frequent occurrence in those latitudes, came on, and there lay the two ships, rolling their sides into the water, and unable to approach each other.

“If the stranger gets a breeze before us she may yet escape,” observed the captain. “Out boats, we must attack her with them.”

The sort of work proposed has always been popular among seamen. There was no lack of volunteers. The boats were speedily manned; the second-lieutenant went in one boat; old Noakes, though badly wounded, was sufficiently recovered to take charge of another; Peter Bruff had a third. Paul was seized with a strong desire to go also. In the hurry of lowering the boats, he was able to slip into the bows of the last mentioned, and to hide himself under a sail thrown in by chance. Reuben Cole went in the same boat. Devereux watched them away, wishing that he could have gone also. The boats glided rapidly over the smooth, shining ocean. Their crews were eager to be up with their expected prize. The sun beat down on their heads, the water shone like polished silver, not a breath of air came to cool the heated atmosphere; but they cared not for the heat or fatigue, all they thought of was the prize before them. Paul lay snugly under his shelter, wondering when they would reach the enemy’s side. He soon began to repent of his freak; he could hear the remarks of the men as they pulled on. The ship was from her appearance a letter of marque or a privateer, and such was not likely to yield without a severe struggle, he heard. Paul could endure the suspense no longer, and creeping from under his covering, he looked out over the bows.

“Hillo, youngster, what brings you here?” sung out Mr. Bruff. “If you come off with a whole skin, as I hope you will, you must expect a taste of the cat to remind you that you are not to play such a trick again.”

The reprimand from the kind-hearted mate might have been longer, but it was cut short by a shot from the enemy, which almost took the ends off the blades of the oars of his boat. The men cheered and dashed forward. At the same moment eight ports on a side were exposed, and a hot fire opened on the boats from as many guns, and from swivels and muskets. Hot as was the fire, it did not for a moment stop the boats. Paul wished that he had remained on board. The deck of the enemy seemed crowded with men.

“Hurrah, lads!” cried Peter Bruff when he saw this, “they’ll only hamper each other and give us an easier victory.”

The boats dashed alongside. Langrage and grape and round-shot were discharged at them, and boarding-pikes, muskets, and pistols were seen protruding through the ports ready for their reception. The boats hooked on, and, in spite of all opposition, the British seamen began to climb up the side. Some were driven back and hurled into the boats, wounded, too often mortally; the rest persevered. Again and again the attempt was made, the deck was gained, a desperate hand-to-hand combat began. It could have but one termination, the defeat of the attackers or the attacked. Paul climbed up with the rest of his shipmates. It is surprising that human beings could have faced the bristling mass of weapons which the British seamen had to encounter. Paul followed close behind Reuben, who kept abreast of Mr. Noakes. Pistols were fired in their faces, cutlasses were clashing, as the seamen were slashing and cutting and lunging at their opponents. In spite of all opposition the deck was gained; the enemy, however, still fought bravely. Mr. Larcom, the second-lieutenant of the Cerberus, fell shot through the head. Several men near him were killed or badly wounded; it seemed likely that after all the boarders would be driven back. Old Noakes saw the danger; there was still plenty of British pluck in him in spite of the pains he took to wash away all feeling; the day must be retrieved. “On, lads, on!” he shouted, throwing himself furiously on the enemy; “follow me! death or victory!”

Again the Frenchmen gave way; at first inch by inch they retreated, then more rapidly, leaving many of their number wounded on the deck. Bruff had faced about and driven the enemy aft; Noakes and Reuben still pushed forward. Paul, following close at their heels with an officer’s sword which he had picked up, observed, fallen on the deck, a man, apparently a lieutenant, whose eye was fixed on Noakes, and whose hand held a pistol; he was taking a steady aim at Noakes’s head. Paul sprang forward, and giving a cut at the man’s arm, the muzzle of the pistol dropping, the contents entered the deck.

“Thanks, boy, you’ve saved my life, I’ll not forget you,” cried Noakes. “On, on, on!”

“Well done, Gerrard, well done!” exclaimed Reuben. “You’ve saved your hide, boy.”

The Frenchmen, finding that all was lost, leaped down the fore-hatchway, most of them singing out for quarter. A few madly and treacherously fired up from below, which so exasperated the seamen, that nearly half of them were killed before their flag was hauled down and the rest overpowered. The frigate was by this time bringing up a breeze to the prize.

“It’s a pity it didn’t come a little sooner; it might have saved the lives of many fine fellows,” observed Bruff, as he glanced round on the blood-stained deck.

“It’s an ill wind that blows no one good,” remarked Noakes, looking at Mr. Larcom’s body. “If he had been alive, I shouldn’t have gained my promotion, which I am now pretty sure of for this morning’s work, besides the command of the prize.”

“ ‘There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.’ I’ve found it so, and so have you, mate, I suspect,” said Bruff; “yet, old fellow, I hope you’ll get what you deserve.”

There was no jealousy in honest Bruff’s composition. He put his old messmate’s gallantry in so bright a light privately before Captain Walford, that the captain felt himself bound to recommend Noakes for promotion to the Admiralty, and to place him in charge of the prize to take home. She was the Aigle, privateer, mounting sixteen guns, evidently very fast, but very low, with taut masts, square yards, and seemingly very crank. Most of the prisoners were removed, and Mr. Noakes got leave to pick a crew. He chose, among others, Reuben Cole and Paul Gerrard. The surgeon advised that Devereux and O’Grady should go home, and Alphonse Montauban was allowed a passage, that he might be exchanged on the first opportunity.

“Be careful of your spars, Noakes,” observed Mr. Order, as he looked up at the Aigle’s lofty masts, “remember that you are short-handed.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the old mate as he went down the side, adding to himself, “I should think that I know how to sail a craft by this time; I’m no sucking baby to require a nurse.”

Paul was very glad to find himself with Devereux and Alphonse, as also with Reuben, on board the prize. Mr. Noakes did not forget the service he had rendered him, and was as kind as could well be. He called him aft one day.

“Gerrard, my boy, you want to be a seaman, and though I can’t give you silver and gold, I can make you that, if you will keep your wits about you, and I’ll teach you navigation myself. You are a gentleman by birth, and that’s more than some of us can boast of being; but I don’t advise you to aspire to the quarter-deck. Without money or friends, you may repent being placed on it, as I have often done; that’s no reason, however, that you shouldn’t become fit to take command of a ship; a privateer or a merchantman may fall in your way; at all events, learn all you can.”

Paul resolved to follow his new friend’s advice. A course was shaped for Plymouth, and the Aigle proceeded merrily on her way.

Noakes could give good advice to others, but he did not follow after wisdom himself. He had a great failing, from the effects of which he had often suffered. Drink was his bane, as it is that of thousands. Several casks of prime claret were found on board; it would not have done much harm by itself, but there were some casks of brandy also. By mixing the two with some sugar, Noakes concocted a beverage very much to his taste. He kept his word with Paul as long as he was able, and lost no opportunity in giving him instruction in seamanship and navigation; but in time the attractions of his claret-cup were so great, that he was seldom in a condition to understand anything clearly himself, much less to explain it to another. Devereux and O’Grady expostulated in vain. He grew angry and only drank harder. The prisoners observed matters with inward satisfaction. They might have entertained hopes of regaining their ship. Alphonse warned Devereux.

“They have not spoken to me, or I could not say this to you, but they may, so be prepared,” he observed one day as they were on deck together, no one else being near.

Noakes was compelled to keep watch. He always carried on more than either of his companions ventured to do. It was night, and very dark; the first watch was nearly over; the weather, hitherto fine, gave signs of changing. Devereux, who had charge of the deck, was about to shorten sail, when Noakes came up to relieve him.

“Hold all fast,” he sung out, adding, “Nonsense, Devereux, your wounds have made you weak and timid. We’ve a slashing breeze, and let’s take advantage of it to reach the shores of old England.”

“Too much haste the worst speed,” observed Reuben to Paul; “our sticks are bending terribly, they’ll be whipping over the sides presently, or will capsize the craft altogether. I don’t like the look of things, that I don’t, I tell you.” Scarcely had he spoken, when a blast, fiercer than its predecessor, struck the ship.

“Let fly of all,” shouted Noakes, sobered somewhat.

The crew ran to obey the orders, but it came too late. Over went the tall ship; down, down, the raging tempest pressed her.

“Axes, axes, cut, cut,” was heard from several mouths.

“Follow me, Paul, and then cling on for your life,” cried Reuben Cole, climbing through a weather port; “it’s too late to save the ship.”