Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The remarks of the surgeon were soon cut short by the loud roar of the guns overhead, as the frigate opened her fire on the enemy. Then speedily came the crashing sound of the return shot, as they tore through the stout planks, and split asunder even the oaken timbers. It was evident that the two ships were very close together by the loud sound of the enemy’s guns and the effects of his shot. Not many minutes had passed since the firing commenced, when steps were heard descending the ladder, and first one wounded man, and then another, and another, was brought below and placed before the surgeon. He had scarcely begun to examine their wounds, when more poor fellows were brought below badly wounded.

“Ah! sir,” said one of the seamen who bore them, as he was hurrying again on deck, in answer to a question from the surgeon, “there are many more than these down for whom you could do nothing.”

“What, is the day going against us?” asked the surgeon.

“No, sir; I hope not. But the enemy is a big one, and will require a mighty deal of hammering before she gives in.”

Paul looked out; but he soon closed his eyes, and he would gladly have closed his ears to the shrieks and groans of anguish which assailed them, while the poor fellows were under the hands of the surgeons, or waiting their turn to have their wounds dressed, or their limbs amputated. Paul was more particularly anxious about his old friends; and whenever anybody was brought near him, he inquired after them. The report was, from those who had seen them, that they were at their posts as yet unhurt. Again he waited. Now there was a cessation of firing. Once more it was renewed, and the wounded were brought down in even still greater numbers than at first. Paul’s spirits fell very low. He had never felt so miserable, and so full of dread. What, if after all the Proserpine should be overmatched, and he and his companions again fall into the hands of the French, or should perhaps Devereux, or O’Grady, or his firm friend Reuben Cole, be killed! Suddenly he remembered what his mother often had told him, that in all troubles and difficulties he should pray; and so he hid his face in the pillow, and prayed that his countrymen might come off victorious, and that the lives of his friends might be preserved. By the time he had ceased his fears had vanished; his spirits rose. He had done all he could do, and the result he knew was in the hands of Him who rules the world. Still the battle raged. He heard remarks made by the wounded, by which he guessed that the enemy was indeed vastly superior, and that many a man, if not possessed of an indomitable spirit, would have yielded long ago; but that their captain would fight on till the ship sunk beneath his feet, or till not a man remained to work the guns. Several officers were among the badly wounded, and many were reported to be killed. At length there was a cry of grief, and their brave captain himself was brought below. Still the first-lieutenant remained to fight the ship, and his captain’s last order to him was never to yield while the remotest hope of victory remained.

“Am I likely to survive?” asked the captain of the surgeon, after his wound had been examined.

“It is possible, sir; but I will not disguise from you that your wound is dangerous,” was the answer.

“I should be resigned,” said the captain, “could I know that the victory would be ours.”

At that instant the sound of cheering came down into the cockpit. The captain heard it, and lifted up his head with a look of intense eagerness. Directly afterwards an officer appeared. His head was bound up, and his coat at the shoulder was torn and bloody. It was Devereux.

“The enemy has sheered off, sir, and is making all sail to the southward,” he exclaimed, in a hurried tone. “We are unable to follow, for our fore-top-mast and main-mast are gone, and the fore-mast and mizen-mast, until they are fished, cannot carry sail.”