0,49 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 1,99 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 1,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy," William Henry Giles Kingston crafts a vivid maritime adventure that immerses readers in the life of young Paul Gerrard. Set against the backdrop of the mid-19th century British naval expansion, the narrative features a rich tapestry of seafaring experiences interwoven with themes of bravery, camaraderie, and self-discovery. Kingston's prose is characterized by its vivid descriptions and meticulous attention to nautical detail, reflecting the literary tradition of Victorian adventure literature, where the ocean serves as both a setting and a metaphor for life's challenges. Kingston, himself an avid sailor and travel enthusiast, draws upon his experiences for authenticity, blending adventure with moral lessons, often inspired by his own upbringing and love for the sea. His works frequently focus on young male protagonists, illustrating their growth through trials and interactions with diverse cultures, ultimately aiming to develop virtues such as courage and resilience. These life lessons resonate with readers, particularly in an era marked by exploration and imperialism. "Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy" is a compelling read for those who relish tales of adventure and youthful exploration. Kingston's rich narrative not only entertains but also educates, making it an ideal choice for young readers and anyone interested in the maritime exploits of yesteryears. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Ähnliche
Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy
Table of Contents
Introduction
A boy’s trial by sea becomes a crucible for character, courage, and duty. William Henry Giles Kingston’s Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy is a nineteenth-century seafaring adventure written for young readers during the Victorian era. Set amid the working world of sailing ships, it belongs to the tradition of maritime fiction that pairs action with moral instruction. Kingston, a prolific British author of juvenile adventures, situates his tale on deck and below, where discipline, camaraderie, and danger shape a formative journey. Readers encounter a narrative attentive to practical realities of shipboard life while keeping its focus on a youth’s ethical and emotional growth.
The premise is straightforward and compelling: Paul Gerrard leaves shore life to serve as a cabin boy, the lowest berth in a ship’s hierarchy, and learns what that role entails. From the first steps aboard, he must navigate orders, routines, and expectations that test endurance and humility. The story follows his early experiences—standing watch, observing seasoned sailors, and finding a place within a tight-knit crew—without rushing to grand exploits. The interest lies not only in storms and unfamiliar ports but in the daily discipline of seamanship. Kingston uses the ship as a miniature society where a beginner’s mistakes become lessons toward responsibility.
Kingston’s style is clear, brisk, and direct, suited to readers who enjoy action tempered by reflection. The narrative voice favors plainspoken description over ornament, with enough nautical detail to convey authenticity while keeping explanations accessible. Dialogue and incident are employed to move the plot forward efficiently, and moments of danger are balanced by quiet scenes of instruction and fellowship. The mood alternates between tense and hopeful, underscoring the rhythms of ocean life. Readers can expect a linear, event-driven progression in which each challenge builds practical knowledge and moral insight, characteristic of Victorian juvenile adventure storytelling.
Key themes include perseverance under pressure, the shaping power of mentorship, and the tension between strict discipline and humane leadership. The novel traces how respect is earned on merit, how trust is built through reliability, and how courage often manifests as steady, unglamorous work. It considers belonging—how a newcomer is absorbed into a crew—and the responsibilities that come with that acceptance. The moral framework emphasizes honesty, self-control, and duty to others, inviting readers to weigh personal ambition against collective welfare. Without preaching, the narrative shows consequences, making ethical growth as central as nautical skill.
Situated within the Victorian period, the book reflects a culture that valorized the sea as a training ground for youth and a stage for national enterprise. Kingston wrote at a time when maritime travel, trade, and exploration shaped public imagination, and his fiction channels that fascination into accessible, instructive drama. As with many works of its century, some attitudes and terms may mirror their era, offering historical insight while inviting contemporary readers to engage critically. Yet the core portrait of shipboard routines, hierarchies, and hazards remains a valuable window onto the age of sail and its demands on body and mind.
For today’s readers, Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy offers both adventure and reflection. It raises enduring questions: How do we learn to lead while still learning ourselves? What does integrity look like when no one is watching? How is courage cultivated in small, repeated acts rather than singular heroics? The book rewards those interested in maritime heritage, as well as educators and families seeking narratives that link excitement to responsibility. It models resilience, teamwork, and careful attention to craft, encouraging readers to see competence as a moral achievement and moral clarity as a compass in uncertain waters.
Approached as a voyage of apprenticeship, the novel promises an immersive, spoiler-safe experience: salt air, tight quarters, honest labor, and the steady expansion of a young person’s world. Its satisfactions lie in observing a novice become dependable, in feeling the pull of the horizon tempered by the pull of duty, and in witnessing small choices accumulate into character. Kingston invites readers to measure progress not only in miles sailed but in judgment earned. The result is a classic of juvenile sea fiction whose clarity of purpose and humane tone make the journey as meaningful as the destination.
Synopsis
Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy opens with a modest country upbringing and a boy’s determined wish to go to sea. Paul, respectful of his family’s guidance and mindful of duty, secures a berth as a cabin boy aboard a merchant vessel bound for distant ports. The early chapters introduce shipboard hierarchy, the responsibilities expected of the youngest hand, and the strict discipline that governs life afloat. Paul’s first days are filled with unfamiliar routines, careful instruction, and small mistakes corrected by patient or stern mentors. The tone emphasizes practical learning, moral steadiness, and a steady widening of the boy’s horizons.
As Paul settles into his role, the narrative details daily tasks, from keeping the cabin in order to standing watches and carrying messages under pressure. He observes the captain’s measured authority, the mate’s vigilance, and the seasoned sailors’ mutual reliance. A freshening gale offers the first real test, turning instruction into experience as rigging strains and orders come briskly. Paul’s calm obedience under stress earns quiet approval. Though still inexperienced, he begins to understand seamanship as a blend of skill, trust, and prompt action. The ship resumes its passage, the crew alert to weather shifts and the far coasts toward which they steer.
The voyage lengthens, carrying the crew across deep ocean routes where currents, fog, and sudden squalls complicate navigation. Paul learns to read the sky, mind the compass, and respect the hazards of a sailor’s life. A distant, shadowing sail raises concern, hinting at piratical or predatory intentions common in those seas. The captain adjusts course and enforces stricter watches, sharpening tensions onboard. Amid drills and preparations, Paul gradually sheds novice habits, combining caution with growing dexterity. By the time landfalls loom and unfamiliar shorelines appear, he has acquired enough knowledge to sense when routine changes into danger and when calm must become resolve.
A turning point arrives with converging threats: severe weather and hostile pursuit compound the ship’s vulnerability. In mounting seas and under pressure from an aggressive vessel, accidents and damage escalate. Orders ring out, boats are provisioned, and discipline holds even as the hull strains. Paul is assigned to a boat party with a mix of officers and older hands, forced to abandon the ship for uncertain safety. Their provisions are scant, their navigation rudimentary, and their hopes balanced between seamanship and luck. The separation from the main crew underscores the risks at sea and the need for initiative among the smallest, least experienced member.
Adrift and watchful, the boat’s company manages course by sun and stars, rationing water and scanning horizons for land or sails. Eventually they sight a lonely coast or small island, choosing refuge over continued exposure. The castaways organize shelter, secure fresh water, and inventory supplies with care. Paul assists in foraging, fire-making, and signalling in hopes of attracting help. Simple routines—repairing gear, setting watches, charting tides—replace the ship’s grand machinery with practical survival. Even here, hierarchy endures, yet the work draws on each person’s resourcefulness. The calm of temporary safety conceals uncertainties about who else may claim the shore and what intentions they bring.
Contact with outsiders soon remakes their fortunes. Signs reveal that the place is not truly remote: strange boats appear, and wary encounters follow. The group faces capture, forced guidance, or uneasy negotiation, depending on shifting strengths and aims. Paul and his companions adapt to new rules under unfamiliar leaders, learning local practices and gauging risks. Hardship is steady but not despairing; chances for prudent action persist. Paul’s conduct—alert, courteous, and quick to learn—helps preserve the party’s cohesion. Movements inland and along the coast broaden the setting, contrasting seafaring order with complex shoreside realities, where language, custom, and power require caution as much as courage.
A period of constraint tests the castaways further. Work is demanded, routes are controlled, and close surveillance limits open defiance. Yet small opportunities—trusted errands, moments of reduced guard, sympathetic intermediaries—accumulate into a feasible plan. Paul’s patience and memory for coastal features, currents, and stars become practical assets. In guarded conversations and quiet preparations, they consider escape, a boat repair, or a rendezvous with friendlier mariners. The narrative emphasizes careful timing over reckless gestures. Narrow-miss episodes heighten tension without final resolution, while cooperation among diverse companions underscores the story’s insistence on discipline, mutual reliance, and steady purpose even when overt authority is absent or hostile.
Momentum shifts toward the sea again as circumstances align for movement. Whether by furtive departure or formal transfer, Paul returns to a deck and a mast, the familiar framework of lines, sails, and signals. A larger maritime network reappears: convoy chatter, a patrol’s challenge, or the distant profile of a man-of-war. Identity and intent must be proved anew, and dangers persist in weather changes and uncertain allegiances. News filters in—partial, sometimes unreliable—about the fate of their original vessel and scattered shipmates. The narrative pushes forward without settling every question, keeping focus on skilled action, measured risk, and the hope of rejoining lawful command.
The closing movement consolidates the book’s central message: character, competence, and constancy carry a young sailor from raw apprenticeship to earned responsibility. Paul’s growth is practical—handling lines, reading sky and sea—and moral, guided by duty, consideration for others, and resilience under trial. The story avoids spectacle in favor of steady progression through challenges that reward foresight and cooperation. Prospects of return and reunion arise without full disclosure of outcomes, sustaining narrative restraint. By the end, the cabin boy stands ready for broader service, the lessons of adversity translated into dependable judgment, with the sea portrayed as both testing ground and teacher.
Historical Context
Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy unfolds within the wide maritime world of the early to mid-nineteenth century, when British sea power connected Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific routes under the expanding umbrella of empire. Wooden sailing ships, governed by strict hierarchy and routine, stitched together ports such as Portsmouth, Liverpool, Freetown, Cape Town, Calcutta, Singapore, and Sydney. Winds, monsoons, and capes shaped the tempo of voyage and risk. The cabin boy’s station—at once vulnerable and aspirational—mirrors the shipboard microcosm of class, discipline, and skill. Though Kingston wrote later, his narrative world evokes the high age of sail before steam and Suez decisively reordered global passages.
The Napoleonic Wars (1793–1815) cemented British naval supremacy through blockade, convoy escort, and decisive battle, epitomized by Trafalgar (1805) under Admiral Horatio Nelson. The Royal Navy’s victory dismantled French plans for maritime dominance and secured commerce, while prize law and impressment shaped seafaring labor and morale. Gunnery drills, signals, and quarterdeck authority standardized professional seamanship. Kingston’s sea tales, including Paul Gerrard, mirror this culture of post-Trafalgar confidence: the ethos of duty, nautical discipline, and merit under fire informs the way a boy might rise by courage and competence, and the story’s dangers and drills echo habits forged in wartime fleets.
Britain abolished the transatlantic slave trade in 1807 and slavery in its colonies in 1833, enforcing its policy through the West Africa Squadron (1808–1870). Operating from bases like Freetown, Sierra Leone, British cruisers intercepted roughly 1,600 slave ships and liberated an estimated 150,000 captives, with Mixed Commission Courts in Freetown and Havana adjudicating seizures. Ships such as HMS Black Joke became emblematic of these chases. Kingston’s moral tenor aligns with this abolitionist policing: encounters with slavers, the legal-moral language of capture and condemnation, and the geography of the Bights of Benin and Biafra supply narrative stakes for a cabin boy witnessing Britain’s self-appointed maritime humanitarianism.
International anti-piracy campaigns shaped the nineteenth-century sea. The Bombardment of Algiers (1816), led by Admiral Lord Exmouth, coerced the Dey to end Christian enslavement and release over 1,200 captives, curbing Barbary depredations. In Southeast Asia, James Brooke, installed as Rajah of Sarawak (1841), cooperated with Royal Navy officers like Henry Keppel in expeditions against Bornean and Sulu pirates (notably in 1843 and 1845), while the Straits Settlements anchored British policing of the Malacca and Singapore corridors. Paul Gerrard draws on this milieu: the menace of corsairs, the rhetoric of protection of trade, and the chase through archipelagic waters frame a boy’s apprenticeship to imperial maritime order.
The expansion of British commerce across Asia reshaped sea lanes. The East India Company’s monopoly ended in 1813 (India trade) and 1833 (China trade), opening routes to private merchants. The First Opium War (1839–1842) produced the Treaty of Nanking (1842), ceding Hong Kong and opening five treaty ports (Canton, Amoy, Fuzhou, Ningbo, Shanghai); the Second Opium War (1856–1860) yielded the Treaties of Tianjin and Beijing, further prying open markets. Singapore’s founding in 1819 under Thomas Stamford Raffles became pivotal to regional trade. Paul Gerrard reflects this commercial geography: cargoes, customs houses, and cross-cultural port calls generate hazards—smuggling, storms, and conflict—that test a young seafarer within Britain’s trading regime.
Child labor and maritime apprenticeship framed the cabin boy’s world. Boys as young as 12 entered service on merchantmen or as “boy” ratings in the Royal Navy, learning seamanship, gunnery, and navigation under harsh discipline. The Merchant Shipping Act 1854 consolidated Board of Trade oversight, mandating crew agreements, better record-keeping, and masters’ certification; mid-century training ships and nautical schools began professionalizing youth entry. Certificates of competency for mates and masters (introduced in the 1850s) signaled meritocratic advancement. Paul Gerrard dramatizes this pathway from menial errands to responsible duty, while exposing the risks—bullying, accidents aloft, and scant legal recourse—that reforms sought gradually to mitigate.
Victorian evangelical and reform currents pervaded maritime life. Organizations such as the British and Foreign Sailors’ Society (founded 1818), the Mission to Seamen (1856), and Seamen’s Bethels and Sailors’ Homes (e.g., London, 1835) promoted temperance, Sabbath observance, literacy, and welfare for crews in perilous trades. The temperance movement of the 1830s–1850s targeted grog culture and dockside exploitation. Missionary societies (London Missionary Society, 1795; Church Missionary Society, 1799) intersected with naval patrols and trade routes. Kingston’s narrative voice harmonizes with these reforms: piety, sobriety, and philanthropy shape the moral testing of a cabin boy, contrasting humane command with drunkenness, brutality, and predation at sea.
As social and political critique, the book indicts practices that endanger the weak—slaving, piracy, and the casual cruelty sometimes tolerated aboard ship—while arguing for reformist, principled authority. It highlights class stratification on the lower deck, yet affirms merit-based ascent through skill, honesty, and courage, challenging fatalistic hierarchies that trapped boys in abuse. By dramatizing anti-slavery patrols and maritime policing, it justifies imperial power only when wedded to law and conscience, implicitly censuring profiteering and corruption in trade. The narrative thus presses Victorian anxieties—about labor, discipline, and moral responsibility—into a call for humane regulation and ethical command within the global maritime order.
Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy
W.H.G. Kingston
"Paul Gerrard"
Chapter One.
Darkness had set in. The wind was blowing strong from the southwest, with a fine, wetting, penetrating rain, which even tarpaulins, or the thickest of Flushing coats[1], would scarcely resist. A heavy sea also was running, such as is often to be met with in the chops of the British Channel during the month of November, at which time of the year, in the latter part of the last century, a fine frigate was struggling with the elements, in a brave attempt to beat out into the open ocean. She was under close-reefed topsails; but even with this snug canvas she often heeled over to the blast, till her lee-ports were buried in the foaming waters. Now she rose to the summit of a white-crested sea; now she sunk into the yawning trough below; and ever and anon as she dashed onward in spite of all opposition, a mass of water would strike her bows with a clap like that of thunder, and rising over her bulwarks, would deluge her deck fore and aft, and appear as if about to overwhelm her altogether. A portion of the officers and crew stood at their posts on deck, now and then shaking the water from their hats and coats, after they had been covered with a thicker shower than usual of rain or spray, or looking up aloft at the straining canvas, or out over the dark expanse of ocean; but all of them taking matters very composedly, and wishing only that their watch were over, that they might enjoy such comforts as were to be found below, and take part in the conviviality which, in spite of the gale, was going forward.
It was Saturday night, and fore and aft the time-honoured toast of “sweethearts and wives” was being enthusiastically drunk,—nowhere more enthusiastically than in the midshipmen[2]’s berth; and not the less so probably, that few of its light-hearted inmates had in reality either one or the other. What cared they for the tumult which raged above their heads? They had a stout ship and trusted officers, and their heads and insides were well accustomed to every possible variety of lurching and pitching, in which their gallant frigate the Cerberus was at that moment indulging. The Cerberus, a fine 42-gun frigate, commanded by Captain Walford, had lately been put in commission, and many of her officers and midshipmen had only joined just before the ship sailed, and were thus comparatively strangers to each other. The frigate was now bound out to a distant station, where foes well worthy of her, it was hoped, would be encountered, and prize-money[5] without stint be made.
The midshipmen’s berth of the Cerberus was a compartment of somewhat limited dimensions,—now filled to overflowing with mates, midshipmen, masters’-assistants, assistant-surgeons, and captain’s and purser’s clerks,—some men with grey heads, and others boys scarcely in their teens, of all characters and dispositions, the sons of nobles of the proudest names, and the offspring of plebeians, who had little to boast of on that score, or on any other; but the boys might hope, notwithstanding, as many did, to gain fame and a name for themselves. The din of tongues and shouts of laughter which proceeded out of that narrow berth, rose even above the creaking of bulkheads, the howling of the wind, and the roar of the waves.
The atmosphere was somewhat dense and redolent of rum, and could scarcely be penetrated by the light of the three purser’s dips which burned in some battered tin candlesticks, secured by lanyards to the table. At one end of the table over which he presided as caterer, sat Tony Noakes, an old mate, whose grog[4]-blossomed nose and bloodshot eyes told of many a past debauch.
“Here’s to my own true love, Sally Pounce,” he shouted in a husky voice, lifting to his lips a stiff glass of grog, which was eyed wistfully by Tilly Blake, a young midshipman, from whose share of rum he had abstracted its contents.
“Mrs Noakes that is to be,” cried out Tilly in a sharp tone. “But I say, she’ll not stand having her grog drunk up.”
“That remark smells of mutiny, youngster,” exclaimed Noakes, with a fierce glance towards the audacious midshipman.
“By the piper, but it’s true, though,” put in Paddy O’Grady, who had also been deprived of the larger portion of his grog.
Most of the youngsters, on finding others inclined to stand up for their rights, made common cause with Blake and O’Grady. Enraged at this, Noakes threatened the malcontents with condign punishment.
“Yes, down with all mutiny and the rights of man or midshipmen,” exclaimed in a somewhat sarcastic tone a good-looking youth, who himself wore the uniform of a midshipman.
“Well said, Devereux. We must support the rights and dignity of the oldsters, or the service will soon go to ruin,” cried the old mate, whose voice grew thicker as he emptied glass after glass of his favourite liquor. “You show your sense, Devereux, and deserve your supper, but—there’s no beef on the table. Here boy—boy Gerrard—bring the beef; be smart now—bring the beef. Don’t stand staring there as if you saw a ghost.”
The boy thus summoned was a fine lad of about fourteen, his shirt collar thrown back showing his neck, which supported a well-formed head, with a countenance intelligent and pleasant, but at that moment very pale, with an expression denoting unhappiness, and a feeling of dislike to, or dread of, those on whom he was waiting. A midshipmen’s boy has seldom a pleasant time of it under any circumstances. Boy Gerrard, as he was called, did his best, though often unsuccessfully, to please his numerous masters.
“Why do you stand there, staring like a stuffed pig?” exclaimed Devereux, who was near the door. “It is the beef, not your calf’s head we want. Away now, be smart about it.”
The sally produced a hoarse laugh from all those sufficiently sober to understand a joke.
“The beef, sir; what beef?” asked boy Gerrard in a tone of alarm.
“Our beef,” shouted old Noakes, heaving a biscuit at the boy’s head. It was fortunate that no heavy missile was in his hand. “Take that to sharpen your wits.”
Devereux laughed with others at the old mate’s roughness. The boy gave an angry glance at him as he hurried off to the midshipmen’s larder to execute the order.
Before long, boy Gerrard was seen staggering along the deck towards the berth with a huge piece of salt beef in his hands, and endeavouring to keep his legs as the frigate gave a heavy lurch or pitched forward, as she forced her way over the tumultuous seas. Boy Gerrard gazed at the berth of his many masters. He thought that he could reach it in another run. He made the attempt, but it was down hill, and before he could save himself he had shot the beef, though not the dish, into the very centre of the table, whence it bounded off and hit O’Grady, the Irish midshipman, a blow on the eye, which knocked him backward. Poor Gerrard stood gazing into the berth, and prepared for the speedy punishment which his past experience had taught him would follow.
“By the piper, but I’ll teach you to keep a taughter gripe of the beef for the future, you spalpeen,” exclaimed O’Grady, recovering himself, and about to hurl back the joint at the head of the unfortunate boy, when his arm was grasped by Devereux, who cried out, laughing,—“Preserve the beef and your temper, Paddy, and if boy Gerrard, after proper trial, shall be found to have purposely hurled the meat at your wise caput, he shall be forthwith delivered over to condign punishment.”
“Oh, hang your sea-lawyer arguments; I’ll break the chap’s head, and listen to them afterwards,” cried O’Grady, attempting to spring up to put his threat into execution.
Devereux again held him back, observing, “Break the boy’s head if you like; I have no interest in preserving it, except that we may not find another boy to take his place; but you must listen to my arguments before you commence operations.”
“Hear, hear! lawyer Devereux is about to open his mouth,” cried several voices.
“Come, pass me the beef, and let me put some of it into my mouth, which is open already,” exclaimed Peter Bruff, another of the older mates, who having just descended from the deck, and thrown off his dripping outer coat, had taken his seat at the table. His hair and whiskers were still wet with spray, his hands showed signs of service, and his fine open countenance—full of good-nature, and yet expressive of courage and determination, had a somewhat weather-worn appearance, though his crisp, curling, light hair showed that he was still in the early prime of manhood.
“Listen, gentlemen of the jury, and belay your jaw-tackles you who have no business in the matter, and Bruff being judge, I will plead boy Gerrard’s cause against Paddy O’Grady, Esquire, midshipman of his Majesty’s frigate Cerberus,” cried Devereux, striking the table with his fist, a proceeding which obtained a momentary silence. “To commence, I must go back to first causes. You understand, gentlemen of the jury, that there is a strong wind blowing, which has kicked up a heavy sea, which is tossing about our stout ship in a way to make it difficult for a seaman, and much more for a ship’s boy, to keep his legs, and therefore I suggest—”
“Belay all that, Master Long-tongue,” shouted Noakes; “if the boy is to be cobbed[6], why let’s cob him; if not, why let him fill the mustard-pot, for it’s empty.”
Others now joined in; some were for cobbing poor Gerrard forthwith; others, who had not had their supper, insisted on the mustard-pot being first replenished.
Devereux had gained his point in setting his messmates by the ears, and Peter Bruff seeing his object, sent off Gerrard for a supply of the required condiment. It was O’Grady’s next watch on deck; and thus before Gerrard returned, he had been compelled to leave the berth. Devereux, however, immediately afterwards turned on Gerrard and scolded him harshly for not keeping steady while waiting at the door of the berth. At length the master-at-arms came round, the midshipmen were sent to their hammocks, and Paul Gerrard was allowed to turn into his. He felt very sick and very miserable. It was the commencement of his sea life, a life for which he had long and enthusiastically yearned, and this was what it proved to be. How different the reality from what he had expected! He could have cried aloud for very bitterness of heart, but that he was ashamed to allow his sobs to be heard.
“He treat me thus! he by birth my equal! to speak to me as if I was a slave! he who might have been in my place, had there been justice done us, while I should have been in his. A hard fate is mine; but yet I chose it, and I’ll bear it[2q].”
With such thoughts passing through his mind, the young ship-boy fell asleep, and for a time forgot his cares and suffering. He dreamed of happier times, when he with his parents and brothers and sisters enjoyed all the luxuries which wealth could give, and he was a loved and petted child. Then came a lawsuit, the subject of which he could not comprehend. All he knew was, that it was with the Devereux family. It resulted in the loss to his father of his entire fortune, and Paul remembered hearing him say that they were beggars. “That is what I will not be,” he had exclaimed; “I can work—we can all work—I will work.”
Paul was to be tried severely. His father died broken-hearted. It seemed too probable that his mother would follow him ere long. Paul had always desired to go to sea. He could no longer hope to tread the quarter-deck as an officer, yet he still kept to his determination of following a life on the ocean.
“I will enter as a cabin-boy; I will work my way upwards. Many have done so, why should not I?” he exclaimed with enthusiasm; “I will win wealth to support you all, and honours for myself. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way[1q].’ I don’t see the way very clearly just now; but that is the opening through which I am determined to work my way onward.”
Paul’s mother, though a well-educated and very excellent person, knew nothing whatever of the world. She would, indeed, have hesitated, had she known the real state of the case, and what he would have to go through, ere she allowed her son to enter before the mast on board a man-of-war; but she had no one on whom she could rely, to consult in the matter. Mrs Gerrard had retired to the humble cottage of a former servant in a retired village, where she hoped that the few pounds a year she had left her would enable her to support herself and her children, with the aid of such needlework as she might obtain. Little did she think, poor woman, to what trying difficulties she would be exposed. Not only must she support herself, but educate her children. She had saved a few books for this purpose, and some humble furniture for her little cottage; everything else had been sold to raise the small sum on the interest of which she was to live.
“Mother! mother! do let me at once go to sea!” exclaimed Paul, who understood tolerably well the state of affairs. “I can do nothing at home to help you, and only eat up what should feed others; if I go to sea, I shall get food and clothing, and pay and prize-money, and be able to send quantities of gold guineas home to you. Reuben Cole has been telling me all about it; and he showed me a purse full of great gold pieces, just the remains of what he came ashore with a few weeks ago. He was going to give most of it to his sister, who has a number of children, and then go away to sea again, and, dear mother, he promised to take me with him if you would let me go. Mary and Fred will help all the better, when I am away, to teach Sarah and John and Ann, and Fred is so fond of books that he is certain to get on some day, somehow or other.”
What could the poor widow say to these appeals often repeated? What could she hope to do for her boy? There was a romance attached in those times to a sea life felt by all classes, which scarcely exists at the present day. She sent for Reuben Cole, who, though a rough sailor, seemed to have a kind heart. He promised to act the part of a father towards the boy to the best of his power, undertaking to find a good ship for him without delay. The widow yielded, and with many an earnest prayer for his safety, committed Paul to the charge of Reuben Cole. The honest sailor was as good as his word. He could scarcely have selected a better ship than the Cerberus. He volunteered to join, provided Paul was received on board; his terms were accepted, and he thought that he was doing well for his young charge when he got him the appointment of midshipmen’s boy. The employment was very different from what Paul had expected, but he had determined to do his duty in whatever station he might be placed. The higher pay and perquisites would be of value to him, as he might thus send more money to his mother, and he hoped soon to become reconciled to his lot. One day, however, the name of a midshipman who had just joined struck his ear,—it was that of Devereux, the name of the family with whom his father had so long carried on the unsuccessful lawsuit.
From some remarks casually made by one of the other midshipmen while he was waiting in the berth, Paul was convinced that Gilbert Devereux was a son of the man who had, he conceived, been the cause of his father’s ruin and death. Paul, had he been asked, would have acknowledged how he ought to feel towards young Devereux, but he at times allowed himself to regard him with bitterness and dislike, if not with downright hatred. He well knew that this feeling was wrong, and he had more than once tried to overcome the feeling when, perhaps, some careless expression let drop by Gilbert Devereux, or some order given by him, would once more arouse it. “I could bear it from another, but not from him,” Paul over and over again had said to himself after each fresh cause of annoyance given by young Devereux, who all the time was himself utterly ignorant that he had offended the boy. Of course he did not suspect who Paul was; Paul had determined to keep his own secret, and had not divulged it even to Reuben. Reuben was somewhat disappointed with Paul. “I cannot make out what ails the lad,” he said to himself, “he was merry and spirited enough on shore; I hope he’s not going to be afraid of salt-water.”
Poor Paul was undergoing a severe trial. It might prove for his benefit in the end. While the frigate was in harbour, he bore up tolerably well, but he had now for the first time in his life to contend with sea-sickness; while he was also at the beck and call of a dozen or more somewhat unreasonable masters. It was not, however, till that Saturday night that Paul began really to repent that he had come to sea. Where was the romance? As the serpent, into which Aaron’s rod was changed, swallowed up the serpents of the Egyptian magicians, so the stern reality had devoured all the ideas of the romance of a sea life, which he had till now entertained.
Yet sleep, that blessed medicine for human woes, brought calm and comfort to his soul. He dreamed of happier days, when his father was alive, and as yet no cares had visited his home. He was surrounded by the comforts which wealth can give. He was preparing, as he had long hoped to do, for sea, with the expectation of being placed as a midshipman on the quarter-deck. His uniform with brass buttons, his dirk and gold-laced hat, lay on a table before him, with a bright quadrant and spy-glass; and there was his sea-chest ready to be filled with his new wardrobe, and all sorts of little comforts which a fond mother and sisters were likely to have prepared for him. He heard the congratulations of friends, and the prophecies that he would some day emulate the deeds of England’s greatest naval heroes. He dreamed on thus till the late events of his life again came into his thoughts, and he recollected that it was not his own, but the outfit of another lad about to go to sea which he had long ago inspected with such interest, and at length the poor ship-boy was awakened to the stern reality of his present condition by the hoarse voice of a boatswain’s mate summoning all hands on deck. Paul felt so sea-sick and so utterly miserable that he thought that he would rather die where he lay in his hammock than turn out and dress. The ship was tumbling about more violently than ever; the noise was terrific; the loud voices of the men giving utterance to coarse oaths as they awoke from their sleep; their shouts and cries; the roaring of the wind as it found its way through the open hatches down below; the rattling of the blocks; the creaking of timbers and bulkheads, and the crash of the sea against the sides of the ship, made Paul suppose that she was about to sink into the depths of the ocean. “I’ll die where I am,” he thought to himself. “Oh, my dear mother and sisters, I shall never see you more!” But at that instant a kick and a blow inflicted by Sam Coulson, one of the boatswain’s mates, made him spring up.
“What, skulking already, you young hedgehog,” exclaimed the man; “on deck with your or your shoulders shall feel a taste of my colt.”
Although Paul was as quick in his movements as his weak state would allow, a shower of blows descended on his back, which brought him on his knees, when, ordering him to pick himself up and follow, on pain of a further dose of the colt, Sam Coulson passed on. The sharp tattoo of a drum beaten rapidly sounded at the same time through the ship; but what it signified Paul in his ignorance could not tell, nor was there any one near him to ask. Bewildered and unable to see in the darkness, he tried in vain to gain the hatchway. He groped his way aft as fast as he could, for fear of encountering the boatswain’s mate. “If the ship sinks I must go down with her; but anything is better than meeting him,” he thought to himself. “Besides, I cannot be worse off than those on deck, I should think.”
He worked his way aft till he found himself near the midshipmen’s chests; there was a snug place between two of them in which he had more than once before ensconced himself when waiting to be summoned by his masters. “Here I’ll wait till I find out what is happening,” he said to himself as he sank down into the corner. The din continued, the frigate tumbled about as much as before, but he was very weary, and before long he forgot where he was, and fell fast asleep.
He was at length awoke by a crashing sound, as if the timbers were being rent apart. What could it be? He started up, scarcely knowing where he was. Had the ship struck on a rock, or could she be going down? There was then a loud report; another and another followed. The reports became louder; they were directly over his head. The main-deck guns were being fired. The ship must be engaged with an enemy, there could be no doubt about that. The light from a ship’s lantern fell on the spot where he lay. The gunner and his crew were descending to the magazine. His duty he had been told would be in action to carry up powder to the crew; he ought to arouse himself. The surgeon and his assistants now came below to prepare the cockpit for the reception of the wounded. More lights appeared. The carpenter and his crew were going their rounds through the wings. Men were descending and ascending, carrying up shot from the lockers below. All were too busy to discover Paul. The sea had by this time gone down, and the ship was less tumbled about than before. Sleep, too, had somewhat restored his strength, and with it his spirits and courage.
“What am I about, skulking here? I ought to be ashamed of myself; have all my once brave thoughts and aspirations come to this? I will be up and do my duty, and not mind Sam Coulson, or the enemy’s shot, or anything else.” Such were the thoughts which rapidly passed through his mind; he sprang to his feet, and, as he hoped, unobserved reached the main-deck. He fortunately remembered that his friend Reuben Cole was captain of one of the main-deck guns, and that Reuben had told him that that was the gun he was to serve. The deck was well lighted up by the fighting-lanterns, and he had thus no difficulty in finding out his friend. The men, mostly stripped to their waists, stood grouped round their guns with the tackles in their hands, the captains holding the slow matches ready to fire. Paul ran up to Reuben, who was captain of his gun.
“What am I to do?” he asked; “you said you would tell me.”
“So I will, lad; and I am glad to see you, for I was afraid that you had come to harm,” answered Reuben, in a kind tone. “I said as how I was sure you wasn’t one to skulk. Where was you, boy?”
Paul felt conscience-stricken, and he dared not answer; for utter a falsehood to excuse himself he would not. “Tell me what I am to do, and I’ll try to do it,” he said, at length.
“Why, then, do you go down with Tom Buckle to the powder-magazine with that tub there, and get it filled and come back and sit on it till we wants it,” replied his friend, who possibly might have suspected the truth.
“Then I am about to take part in a real battle,” thought Paul, as, accompanying the boy Tom Buckle, he ran down to the magazine. In a moment, sickness, fatigue, and fear were banished. He was the true-hearted English Boy, and he felt as brave as he could wish, and regardless of danger. Paul knew he was doing his duty. His tub was quickly filled, and he was soon again at Reuben’s gun, behind which he was told to sit—one of a row of boys employed in the same manner. Many of his companions were laughing and joking, as if nothing unusual was occurring, or as if it was impossible that a shot could find them out.
Paul was now, for the first time, able to make inquiries as to the state of affairs. Reuben told him that, at about midnight, the lights of two ships had been seen. It was possible that they might be those of the look-out frigates of an enemy’s squadron, at the same time as they might be British, and as Captain Walford had resolved that nothing should drive him back, the Cerberus was kept on her course. Whatever they were, the strangers seemed determined to become better acquainted. As they drew nearer, signals were exchanged; but those of the stranger’s were not understood. The drum on this beat to quarters, and the ship was prepared for battle. The two ships approached, and soon gave the Cerberus a taste of their quality by pouring their broadsides into her; but, in consequence of the heavy sea which was then running, very few of their shot had taken effect. Two, however, which had struck her hull, had passed through the bulwarks and killed two of her men, whose bodies now lay stark and stiff on the main-deck, near where they had stood as their mates were now standing, full of life and manly strength. Paul’s eyes fell on them. It was the first time he had seen death in its most hideous form. He shuddered and turned sick. Reuben observed the direction in which his glance was turned.
“Paul, my lad, you mustn’t think of them now,” he cried out. “They’ve done their duty like men, and it’s our business to try to do ours. We’ve got some pretty sharp work before us; but it’s my belief that we’ll beat off our enemies, or take one or both of them, maybe. Hurrah! lads. That’s what we’ve got to do.”
The crews of the guns within hearing uttered a cheerful response. “All ready!”
“Let ’em come on!”
“The more the merrier!”
