Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Now more than ever was rain prayed for. Without rain, should no succour come, in a few days the sufferings of all the party would be over. Faster and faster the raft drove on. It was well constructed, or it would not have held together. Still they dared not lessen their sail. Land might be reached at last if they would persevere. Now they rose to the summit of a foaming sea, now they sank into the deep trough. It seemed every instant that the next must see the destruction of the raft, yet, like hope in a young bosom, it still floated buoyantly over the raging billows. Now dark clouds were gathering. Eagerly they were watched by the seamen with upturned eyes. A few drops fell. They were welcomed with a cry of joy. More came, and then the rain fell in torrents. Their parched throats were moistened, but unless they could spread their sail to collect the precious fluid, they could save but little for the future. Still, life is sweet, and they might obtain enough to preserve their lives for another day. As they dared not lower their sail, they stretched out their jackets and shirts, and wrung them as they were saturated with fresh water into the only cask they had saved. Before it was a quarter full the rain ceased. They watched with jealous eyes the clouds driving away below the horizon, while the sun shone forth as brightly as before on their unguarded heads. Still the raft tumbled furiously about, and with the utmost difficulty the seamen retained their hold of it. Night returned; it was a night of horror. Their provisions were exhausted. When the morning at length broke, two who had been among the strongest were missing. They must have let go their hold while sleeping and been washed away.

“It may be our lot soon,” observed Paul, whose strength was failing.

“The same hand which has hitherto preserved us few still alive on this raft is strong to preserve us to the end,” said James Croxton, an old seaman, who, even on ordinary occasions said but little, and had only spoken since the ship went down to utter a few words of encouragement to his companions. He was known on board the frigate as Jim the Methodist, but was respected by the greater number of his shipmates. “Never fear, mates, help will come if we pray for it, though we don’t see the Hand which sends it. Let us pray.”

Jim’s words and example had a great effect. It was followed by all, and the united prayers of the seamen, acknowledging their own utter helplessness, ascended together on high. One and all seemed to gain a strength they had not before felt. The raft continued to be tossed about as before, and the hot wind blew, and the sun shone on their unsheltered heads. The sun rose higher and higher and then descended, watched anxiously by the seamen till it dipped below the horizon. Could any of them expect to see another sun arise? They seldom spoke to each other during the night. The voice of Jim Croxton was now most frequently heard, exhorting his companions to repentance, and to put their faith in the loving and merciful One. When the morning broke they were all alive, and the voice of Reuben, who had dragged himself upright by the mast, was heard crying, “A sail! a sail! standing towards us!”

The information was received in various ways by the people on the raft; some laughed, others wept, a few prayed, and others groaned, declaring that they should not be seen, and that the ship would pass them by. Old Croxton, however, who had simply poured forth his heart in a few words of thanksgiving, kept his eyes steadily on the approaching ship.

“She is nearing us! she is nearing us!” he uttered slowly every now and then.

Paul gasped his breath, and felt as if he should faint away altogether, as he saw that the ship was a British man-of-war, and that the raft was evidently perceived by those on board. She drew nearer and nearer, and, heaving to, lowered two boats, which rapidly approached the raft. In that tumbling sea there was no small difficulty in getting close enough to the raft to take off the people. Paul, as the youngest, was the first to be transferred by his companions to the nearest boat. Even at that moment he was struck by the expression of the countenances of most of the crew. No one smiled; no one seemed pleased at the work of mercy they were performing.

“You think, youngster, that you’ll be changing for the better, getting off your raft aboard that frigate there?” growled out one of the men, as Paul was passed along forward. “You’ve got out of the frying-pan into the fire, let me tell you. It’s a perfect hell afloat, and to my mind the captain’s the—”

“Silence there, forward!” shouted the officer in command of the boat. “Back in again.”

One by one the people were taken off the raft. Devereux insisted on remaining to the last, and he was taken off in the second boat. No sooner had he been placed in her than several of her crew leaped on to the raft.