Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy. William Henry Giles Kingston

      “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