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, 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'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 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-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, 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."
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.' 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!"
"We'll give 'em more than we'll take!"
These, and similar expressions, were heard from the seamen, while now
and then a broad joke or a loud laugh burst from the lips of the more
excited among them. But there was no Dutch courage exhibited. One and
all showed the most determined and coolest bravery. The officers whose
duty it was to be on the main-deck kept going their rounds, to see that
the men were at their stations, and that all were supplied with powder
and shot and all things necessary. Then the first-lieutenant, Mr
Order, came down.
"My lads," he exclaimed, "the captain sends to you to say that we have,
perhaps, tough work before us; but that he is sure you all will do your
duty like men, and will help him to thrash the enemy, as he hopes to do
by daylight, when he can see them better."
A loud cheer rang out from the throats of the seamen, fore and aft. Mr
Order felt satisfied that they were in the right temper for work. He
returned again on deck. It was still very dark, and nothing could be
seen through the open ports. Every now and then, however, the crest of
a sea washed in and deluged the decks, washing from side to side till it
could escape through the scuppers. Any moment the order to fire might
be heard, or the shot of the enemy might come crashing through the
sides. It was a trying time for old salts, who had fought in many a
previous battle; much more so for young hands. Paul sat composedly on
his tub. Not far off from him stood Gilbert Devereux, in command of a
division of guns.
"If a shot were to take his head off, there would be one of our enemies
out of the way," thought Paul; but directly afterwards his conscience
rebuked him. "No, no; that is a wicked feeling," it said; "I would
rather be killed myself, if it were not for my poor mother and all at
home--they would be so sorry."
Still, Paul could not help eyeing the aristocratic-looking young
midshipman, who, with a firm, proud step, trod the deck, eager for the
fight, and little aware that he was watched with so much interest by the
humble ship's boy. Peter Bruff, who had the next division of guns under
his charge, came up to Gilbert.
"Well, Devereux, how do you like this fun?" he asked. "Have you ever
before been engaged?"
"Never; but I like the idea of the sport well enough to wish to begin,"
answered Devereux. "Where are our enemies?"
"Not far off, and they will not disappoint us," answered Bruff. "We
shall have pretty tough work of it, depend on that."
"The tougher the better," answered Devereux, in a somewhat affected
tone. "I've never been in a battle, and I really want to see what it is
like."
"He's wonderfully cool," thought Paul. "He hasn't seen the dead men
there, forward. It would be some satisfaction if he would show himself
to be a coward, after all. I could throw it in his teeth when he
attempts to tyrannise over me."
Paul's feelings were very far from right; but they were natural,
unfortunately. Gilbert's firm step and light laugh showed that there
was little chance of Paul's wishes being realised. Now a rumour spread
from gun to gun that the enemy were again drawing near. The men took a
firmer hold of the gun-tackles, hitched up their trousers, drew their
belts tighter round their waists, or gave some similar sign of
preparation for the coming struggle.
"Silence, fore and aft!" cried the officer in command of the deck.
He was repeating the order which the captain had just given above. The
frigate plunged on heavily through the seas. The awful moment was
approaching. There was neither jest nor laughter now. The men were
eagerly looking through the ports. The lights from two ships were seen
on the weather beam. In smooth water the enemy having the weather-gauge
would have been to the disadvantage of the _Cerberus_; but with the
heavy sea which then ran it mattered, fortunately, less.
"Starboard guns! Fire! fire!" was shouted by the officers.
"Hurrah, lads! We have the first of it this time, and it's my belief we
hit the mounseer," cried Reuben Cole, as he discharged his gun.
Scarcely had the smoke cleared off from the deck when the roar of the
enemy's guns was heard, and several shot came crashing against the side.
One, coming through a port, passed close above Paul's head, and though
it sent the splinters flying about in every direction, no one was hurt.
"I've an idea there'll be work for the carpenters, to plug the
shot-holes," cried Reuben, as the guns, being rapidly run in, loaded,
and run out again, he stood ready for the command to fire.
It soon came, and the whole broadside of the _Cerberus_ was poured, with
good aim, into the bows of the leading Frenchman, which had attempted to
pay her the same compliment. For a few moments at a time Paul could
catch sight of the lights of the enemy's ships through the ports; but
the smoke from their own guns quickly again shut out all objects, except
the men standing close to him. Paul had plenty to do; jumping up to
deliver the powder, and running down to the magazine for more when his
tub was empty. He discovered that, small as he was, he was taking a
very active part in the battle, and doing considerably more than the
midshipmen, who had to stand still, or only occasionally to run about
with orders. This gave him infinite satisfaction.
"After all, I am doing as much as he is," he thought, looking towards
Devereux.
The firing became very rapid, and the enemy were close to the frigate;
for not only round-shot flew on board, but the rattle of musketry was
heard, and bullets came pattering through the ports. Such a game could
not be played without loss. Fore and aft the men were struck down,--
some never to rise again; cut in two, or with their heads knocked off.
Others were carried below; and others, binding up their wounds, returned
eagerly to their guns. Now there was a cessation of firing. The smoke
cleared off. There stood Devereux, unharmed, and as cool as at the
commencement of the action, though smoke-begrimed as the rest of the
crew; but as Paul glanced round and saw the gleam of the lanterns on the
blood-stained decks, and the pale faces of the dead, and the bandaged
heads and limbs of the wounded, he again turned sick, and wished, as
many a person has wished before, that there was no such thing as
fighting and slaughtering one's fellow-creatures.
It was supposed that the enemy had hauled off to repair damages. The
crew of the _Cerberus_ were accordingly called away from their guns to
repair those she had received, as far as could be done in the darkness.
Not much time was allowed them. Again their enemies returned to the
attack. Each ship was pronounced to be equal in size to the _Cerberus_,
if not larger than it. She had already suffered severely; the men were
again ordered to their quarters. The suspense before the firing should
recommence was trying,--the very silence itself was awful. This time it
was broken by the enemy, but their fire was speedily returned by a
broadside from the _Cerberus_. Now, as rapidly as the guns on both
sides could be loaded, they were run out and fired, for the British had
an enemy on either beam, and each man knew that he must exert himself to
the utmost to gain the victory. When did English sailors ever fail to
do that? There could be no doubt, however, that the _Cerberus_ was hard
pressed.
Dreadful was the scene of havoc and carnage; the thunder of the guns;
the rattle of the musketry; the crashing of the enemy's shot as they
tore the stout planks asunder; the roar of the seas as they dashed
against the sides, and the cries of the wounded, while the shouts of the
men, who, as the fight grew more bloody, were more and more excited,
became louder and louder; bright flashes, and wreaths of dark smoke, and
splinters flying about, and men falling, and blood starting from their
wounds, made up that horrid picture. Paul had seen old Noakes carried
below; O'Grady followed, badly hurt; others of his masters were killed
or wounded. Devereux seemed to bear a charmed life. No! no man's life
is charmed. One moment he was standing full of life, encouraging his
men; the next he lay wounded and bleeding on the wet and slippery deck.
As he saw the handsome youth carried writhing in agony below, Paul's
feelings of animosity instantly vanished. He would have sprung forward
to help him, but he had his own duty to attend to, and he knew that he
must not neglect it, even though it was only to sit on a tub.
From the exclamations of the men, Paul thought that the battle was going
against them; still the crew fought on as bravely as at first. "Fire!
fire!" What dreadful cry is that? "The ship is on fire!"
"All is lost!" No; the firemen leave their guns and run forward to
where some hay is blazing. The enemy have discovered what has occurred
and redouble their efforts. The fire must be got under in spite of shot
and bullets. The men rush up to the flames fearlessly. Buckets upon
buckets of water are thrown on them; the burning fragments of timber are
hove overboard. The fire is reported to be got under. The British
seamen cheer, and good reason have they to do so now, for flames are
seen bursting from the ports and hatchways of their most determined
opponent. Still all three ships tear on over the foaming ocean. Thus
closes that fearful night, and so must we our first chapter.