Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“And water?” asked Devereux.

“Not for eight,” was the answer.

“Heaven preserve us!” ejaculated Devereux. “It will take us double that time to reach the land!”

The provisions were served out with the greatest care and in equal portions. The people on the raft suffered more from heat than from any other cause. The sea remained perfectly calm, the sun sank down, and darkness reigned over the ocean. It was their first night on the raft. Who could say how many more they might have to spend on it? Devereux did his best to keep up the courage of his men, but in spite of all he could say, the spirits of many sank low. He encouraged them to tell stories, to narrate their adventures, to sing songs, and he himself took every opportunity of talking of the future, and spoke confidently of what he would do when they should reach the shore. Paul felt very unhappy. He was hungry and thirsty, and that alone lowers the spirits. The men were grouped round their officers in the centre of the raft. Paul was sitting near Reuben.

“I don’t think that I shall ever live through this,” he said, taking his friend’s hand. “You are strong, Reuben, and you may weather it out. If you do, you’ll go and tell my poor mother and sisters how it all happened and what became of me. Tell them that if I had lived I might, perhaps, have been placed on the quarter-deck and become a captain or an admiral; but that dream is all over now.”

“As to that being a dream, a dream it is, Paul,” said Reuben; “but as to your living and turning out a good seaman, I’ve no fear about that, my boy,” he added cheerfully. “You see, there’s One above cares for us, and if we pray to Him He’ll send us help.”

The night passed on, the stars shone brightly down from the pure sky, the waters flashed with phosphorescence, the inhabitants of the deep came up to the surface to breathe, while not a breath of air ruffled the face of the ocean. Except two appointed to keep watch, all on the raft soon sank into a deep sleep. They were awoke by the hot sun beating down on their heads; then they again wished for night. As the rays of the sun came down with fiercer force their thirst increased, but no one asked for more than his small share of water. Those only who have endured thirst know the intensity of the suffering it causes. Devereux had no more able supporter than Alphonse, who had saved his well-beloved violin. The moment the young Frenchman saw that the spirits of the people were sinking, he pulled it from its case, and putting it to his chin, began scraping away with right good will; now a merry, now a pathetic air. The excitable state of the nerves of the seamen was shown by the effect he produced. On hearing the merry tunes they burst into shouts of laughter; with the pathetic, even the roughest melted into tears. Alphonse played on till his arm ached, and scarcely was he rested before they begged him to go on again. Before the day closed, however, several of the party appeared to be sinking into a state of apathy, scarcely knowing where they were, or what they were saying. Some clamoured loudly for food, but Devereux mildly but firmly refused to allow any one to have more than his allotted share. Paul looked at him with a respect he had never before felt. He seemed so cool and collected, so different from the careless, thoughtless midshipman he had appeared on board the frigate. He had evidently risen to the difficulties of his position. He well knew, indeed, that the lives of all the party would depend in a great measure on his firmness and decision; at the same time, he knew that all he could do might avail them nothing. He also felt compassion for Paul, who was the youngest person on the raft. He had brought him away from the frigate, and it was very probable that he would be one of the first to sink under the hardships to which they were exposed. Paul was not aware that Devereux, when serving out the food, gave him a portion of his own scanty share, in the hopes that his strength might be thus better supported and his life prolonged. Another night passed by, and when the sun rose, it shone as before on a glassy sea. There was no sign of a breeze, and without a breeze no ship could approach the raft, nor could the raft make progress towards the land. Still Devereux persevered as before in endeavouring to keep up the spirits of his men. Alphonse and his fiddle were in constant requisition, and in spite of his own suffering, as long as he could keep his bow moving, he played on with right good will. When Alphonse grew weary, Devereux called for a tale; now for a song; now he told one of his own adventures, or some adventure he had heard.

“Come, O’Grady, you used to be one of the best singers in the berth till the Frenchman’s shot knocked you over; try what you can do now!” he exclaimed, so that all might hear. “Never mind the tune, only let it be something comic, for a change,” he added in a whisper; “you and I must not let the rest know what we feel.”

“I’ll do my best, though, faith, it’s heavy work to sing with an empty stomach,” answered O’Grady. “However, here goes:—

“’Twas on November, the second day,
The Admiral he bore away,
Intending for his native shore;
The wind at south-south-west did roar,
There likewise was a terrible sky,
Which made the sea to run mountains high.
“The tide of ebb not being done,
But quickly to the west did run,
Which put us all in dreadful fear,
Because there was not room to wear;
The wind and weather increased sore.
Which drove ten sail of us ashore.
“Ashore went the Northumberland,
The Harwich and the Cumberland,
The Cloister and the Lion, too;
But the Elizabeth, she had most to rue,
She ran stem on and her Lion broke,
And sunk the Cambridge at one stroke.
“But the worst is what I have to tell,
The greatest ships had the greatest fall;
The brave ‘Crounation’ and all her men,
Was lost and drownded every one,
Except a little midshipman and eighteen more
Who in the long-boat comed ashore.
“And thus they lost their precious lives,
But the greatest loss was unto their wives,
Who, with their children, left ashore,
Their husbands’ watery death deplore;
And weep their fate with many of tears,
But grief endureth not for years.
“Now you who’ve a mind to go to sea,
Pray take a useful hint from me;
Oh! stay at home and be content
With what kind Providence has sent;
For these were punish’d unto their deeds,
For grumbling when they had no needs.
“Now may Heaven bless our worthy King,
Likewise his ministers we sing,
And may they ever steer a course,
To make things better ’stead of worse;
And England’s flag triumphant fly,
The dread of every enemy.”