Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy. William Henry Giles Kingston

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.”