For many days after the loss of her child, Hilda remained in a state of such utter prostration, that Bertha, who would allow no one but herself to watch her, often dreaded that her mind would go altogether.
“Perhaps she would be happier thus unconscious of past griefs, or of the dreary future in store for her,” Bertha frequently repeated to herself; but Hilda was not thus to be spared the trials and sorrows sent to purify and correct her nature. Not only did she become fully aware of all that had taken place, but she was made fully alive to events daily occurring, and was able to contemplate what the future might bring forth. On what account her son was carried off, she could form no conjecture, but she always cherished the hope of seeing him again. This hope occupied her thoughts by day and her dreams by night, and appeared to be the chief means of her restoration to comparative health. At first she could not bear the sight of her child’s playmate, Ronald Morton; but one day she suddenly desired Bertha to bring him to her, and after gazing at him for some moments, she covered him with kisses, and from that moment could scarcely bear him out of her sight. At first the child cried, and evidently regarded her with dread; but Bertha soothed him, and persuaded him to go back to her; and Hilda, by gentle caresses, which seemed totally foreign to her nature, soon won him over completely, so that he quickly learned to look on her as really his mother. His father had sailed, at the commencement of the year, for Greenland, and there was no probability of his returning till the autumn.
In spite of the exciting incidents which had occurred, matters at Lunnasting returned very much to their usual condition. Even poor Lawrence Brindister, who had behaved with courage and a considerable amount of judgment when the castle was attacked, very speedily again became the half-witted creature he generally appeared, and once more resumed his eccentric habits and behaviour.
Sir Marcus had before this again put off the time for his return home; but at length a large cutter—a Leith smack—was seen standing towards the castle. She dropped her anchor at the entrance of Lunnasting Voe, and a boat containing a lady and gentleman immediately put off from her, and pulled for the landing-place. Hilda soon recognised her father and sister. As she saw them, she felt every nerve in her system trembling with agitation. Bertha entreated her to be calm, and at last, by a violent effort, she gained sufficient command over herself to hurry down to the landing-place to meet them. Her father met her with his usual polite, but cold and indifferent manner; but Edda herself, blooming with life and health, looked deeply concerned when she saw her altered appearance, for physical suffering and mental anxiety had made sad havoc with those features. Sir Marcus had now to learn, for the first time, of the piratical attack which had been made on his castle, and of the severe loss he had suffered. Every one was anxious to screen Hilda; and probably, had it not been necessary to account to him for the disappearance of so many articles of property, even that event would not have been told him. Of all others, he was allowed to remain perfectly ignorant.
Thus, strange as it may appear, he heard nothing of the circumstances of the visit of the “Saint Cecilia,” of Hilda’s marriage with Don Hernan, or of the birth of her child. All he heard was, that a foreign ship-of-war had anchored in the Sound, and that, shortly after, she had been wrecked on the west coast of the mainland; so sure are those who attempt to rule their dependents with severity or injustice, to be deceived or misled by them.
Humbled, softened, and weighed down with grief, Hilda could not long keep her secret from her sister; and Edda heard, with amazement and sorrow, all the strange events which had occurred at Lunnasting during her absence. Once having broken through the ice of reserve which had so long existed, the two sisters were on far more affectionate terms than they had ever before been.
Edda did not utter a word of blame. She well knew how little trained Hilda had ever been to bear it, but she gave her sympathy, and treated her with all the tenderness and affection of a loving sister.
Meantime, Sir Marcus Wardhill, who was not a man to suffer an injury without attempting to obtain redress, was sending memorial after memorial to the government in England, to complain of the attack made on his castle, and was also instituting every inquiry to ascertain to what nation the people belonged who had been guilty of the act. All he could learn with regard to the latter point was, that on the day following that on which it occurred, a pilot boat and several fishing vessels had fallen in with a large schooner of a very rakish appearance, under French colours, steering a course apparently with the intention of running between Shetland and Orkney, into the Atlantic.
In the course, however, of his inquiries, information which he little expected came out, and which could not fail to raise his suspicions as to his daughter’s discretion. He was, as has been seen, a man wise in the ways of the world, and not at all liable to give way to sudden bursts of temper, great as might be the provocation. Instead, therefore, of rushing into his daughter’s room, and accusing her of her misconduct, he kept his counsel, and said nothing whatever on the subject. It might have occurred to him that he should have been wiser had he remained at home, and looked more narrowly after his establishment. He found that he had been deceived—of that there could be no doubt. Information which he naturally expected would have been given to him had been withheld. He knew that this being the case, he was not likely to force it out of his dependents. He went on, therefore, quietly making inquiries, now of one, now of the other, and though he did not gain the whole truth, he ascertained enough to assure him that it would be wiser not to push his inquiries much further. Had he become aware of the exact state of the case, he would have undoubtedly been far more satisfied than he was; but cunning men are often caught in their own snares, and miss the mark at which they are aiming.
It was remarked that, after a time, he took far more interest in little Ronald Morton than he had at first done, and seemed not at all surprised at finding the child so constantly with his daughter. He even made some attempts to play with it, but they were not very successful, and the little fellow invariably made his escape from him as soon as he could.
The time fixed for Edda’s marriage had now arrived, and Colonel Armytage was daily expected. Sir Marcus mentioning this to Hilda, remarked, “You will let that child remain with Bertha Eswick while Armytage is here. I do not object to your petting him, but it is fit that you should pay all the attention in your power to your intended brother-in-law.”
There might have been far more order and regularity in the castle after the master’s return, but everybody felt an uncomfortable sensation of oppression whenever he was present. The only sun which shed any light through the surrounding atmosphere was his daughter Edda. Full of life and animation, nothing could quell her spirits, and in most cases she had only to appear to dispel the gloom.
Poor Lawrence, even more than any one else, felt the weight of his guardian’s presence whenever he was compelled to remain at home; but he had the resource—of which he never failed to avail himself when the weather allowed him—of going out in his boat, of wandering about the island on Neogle, with Surly Grind, or of visiting his cavern. Sir Marcus had gained that influence over him which a man of strong mind usually obtains over one of weak intellect, and he was thus often able to make him say the very things which he purposely intended to keep secret. Still Lawrence did not tell him the whole truth, and often thus misled him more than if he had not said a word on the subject. Often, too, he would startle him as he walked away by breaking out, as if unconsciously, with “The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!”
“What do you mean by that, Lawrence?” exclaimed the baronet, one day, with greater agitation than he usually exhibited.
“The meaning, coz?” said Lawrence, turning round and looking at him hard. “The true meaning is this: that the king of the land will some day come back, and put his own crown of gold on his head, in spite of the rebels and all the cunning men who try to keep him from it.”
A very uncomfortable sensation crept round the baronet’s heart.
Poor Lawrence went his way, rejoicing under the belief that he had frightened the stern, dignified baronet out of his wits. He little understood the tough materials of which his cousin’s mind was composed, or dreamed of the injury the hints he had thrown out would induce him to work against those he might suppose stood in his way. At present it was Sir Marcus’s wish to keep everything as smooth and pleasant at Lunnasting, that he might be able to give an agreeable welcome to his intended son-in-law.
Colonel Armytage had written word that he had engaged the same cutter which had carried Sir Marcus and his daughter to Shetland. It was very natural, therefore, that Edda should very frequently have her eye at a large telescope Sir Marcus had brought with him, and which he had placed in Hilda’s room at the top of the tower. One day, as she was looking through the glass, she exclaimed suddenly to her sister, “Oh Hilda, Hilda, there is the cutter at last!”
Hilda looked, but her more practised eye told her that it was no cutter, but a square-rigged vessel, which, with a fair breeze, under all sail, was approaching the island. She was sorry to disappoint Edda, and for sometime she did not tell her of her mistake. She herself went several times to the glass, and was convinced, from the squareness of the vessel’s yards and the whiteness of her canvas, that she was a man-of-war. Painful feelings crowded to her heart, for the vessel approaching reminded her strongly of the “Saint Cecilia:” she stood on boldly, as if those on board were well acquainted with the coast, and in a short time Hilda ascertained, without doubt, that she was a brig-of-war. Poor Edda, with a sigh, discovered that she had been mistaken.
The brig-of-war stood on towards Lunnasting till she neared the south end of Eastling Island, when, as she hauled her wind to stand up the Sound, Hilda saw with a thrill that the flag of Spain was flying from her peak. She brought to, at the very spot at which the “Saint Cecilia” had anchored. Before her sails were furled a boat was lowered, and pulled towards the castle. Hilda watched it through the telescope, and, as it passed under the walls, she recognised, in the officer who sat in the stern-sheets, the first-lieutenant of the “Saint Cecilia,” Pedro Alvarez. Though eager to learn what cause had brought him to Lunnasting, she was afraid of going down to meet him, lest it should excite suspicion in her father’s mind. Trembling with agitation, she sat still, waiting for his appearance, with the hope, though it was full of doubt, that he might bring her tidings of her son.
Meantime, Lawrence Brindister had espied him, and hurrying to the landing-place, welcomed him cordially. “But I say, old friend,” he continued, holding his finger to his nose, “the cat has come back, and the mice mustn’t play any more; you understand—mum’s the word; don’t talk of anything that has occurred: let old Grimalkin find out what he can; I delight in teasing him.”
Although the worthy Pedro did not comprehend all Lawrence said, he understood that he was not to allude to past events in the presence of the lord of the castle. Lawrence hurried him on, talking in his usual rambling way, so that before he had time to make any inquiries, he found himself in the presence of Sir Marcus Wardhill. The baronet received him with all due courtesy, and he was invited to stop and dine at the castle—an invitation he at once accepted. Hilda had no opportunity of seeing him till they met before dinner. It was not even then, without great exertion, that she obtained sufficient self-command to speak to him with ordinary calmness.
During the meal little Ronald Morton toddled into the room, having escaped from the arms of his nurse. Captain Alvarez gave an inquiring glance at the child, and at first looked puzzled, and then well satisfied. Hilda was able to converse with him in Spanish, and with his broken English and French he managed to make himself very agreeable to Sir Marcus and Edda; Sir Marcus, indeed, begged that when he could live on shore that he would make his castle his home; he declined, on the plea that he must sail, probably the next day, for the southward.
The attack on the castle had been spoken of, but not a word had been said of the child having been carried off.
Hitherto Hilda had been unable to talk to the Spanish captain alone; fortunately, at length, Sir Marcus left the room; Ronald was sitting playing on the ground near them.
“He is truly a noble child, though his complexion shows more of his northern than his southern blood,” observed the captain.
“That child!—oh, you are mistaken!” exclaimed Hilda, “Have you not heard that my own Hernan was carried off?” And she told him all that had occurred.
“The atrocious scoundrel!” exclaimed Pedro Alvarez; “I feared it would be so, and for your sake, lady, and for that of my late brave captain, I will pursue them round the world, and recover the boy.”
Hilda looked at him with an expression of the deepest gratitude:—
“I was certain that you had come either to bring me notice of my lost one, or that you would aid me in discovering him,” she exclaimed, taking his hand. “I trust to you, Captain Alvarez, and I am sure that you will not deceive me.”
The captain assured her that he would be faithful to his promise, and explained all he knew of the plot which had been formed to carry off her son, to prevent him from inheriting his title and property.
“But cannot we punish the treacherous marquis and kinsman?” she exclaimed. “Cannot we compel him to tell us where my child has been carried to? Has the law no power in your country?”
“None, lady, in this matter,” answered Pedro. “I myself am an outlaw; I can never return as a free man to Spain. I have been guilty of a crime so heinous in the eyes of the law, that should the officers of my own ship discover it, they would be compelled to carry me there in chains. My dread, therefore, is lest we should fall in with any Spanish ship, from which they may learn what has occurred.” He then briefly told her how he had killed the officer of the Inquisition who had tried to apprehend him.
“But the priest, Father Mendez; surely he can aid us?” said Hilda.
“Unless you can show him that by his aiding you he can advance the object for which alone he lives, he will stir neither hand nor foot in the cause,” answered the Spanish captain. “Besides, I am certain that he believes the child still safe in the castle.”
“Then, Captain Alvarez, I must place all my hope on you,” exclaimed Hilda.
“Place it on the justice of heaven, lady,” he replied, solemnly.
Hilda made no reply, but her beautiful features wore an expression of the deepest, the most hopeless distress.
Pedro Alvarez having obtained from Lawrence, and others, every particular about the attack on the castle, as well as a description of the child, and even the appearance of the men who carried him off, returned on board his brig, and the next day sailed for the southward.
His coming had thrown Hilda into a painful state of agitation. She had not recovered from it when the smack with Colonel Armytage on board anchored before the castle. Edda’s joyous countenance formed a great contrast to her melancholy look. Sir Marcus met her, as she was preparing to receive her future brother-in-law, and harshly ordered her to appear more cheerful.
“Those lachrymose features of yours will raise suspicions in his mind which may induce him to make disagreeable inquiries,” he said, in an angry tone. “I know his disposition, and fully believe that, should he discover anything to displease him, he is capable of breaking off the match altogether. Should he do so, remember, Hilda, you will be answerable for the consequences.”
“Can you intrust my sister’s happiness with such a man?” asked Hilda.
“I am the best judge on that point,” was the answer.
Colonel Armytage soon came on shore, attended by two servants. He was decidedly handsome and gentlemanly, and though at times his manner was somewhat haughty and reserved, he was often so courteous and agreeable, that he quickly regained his place in the good graces of those with whom he associated. Hilda, indeed, soon forgot her father’s remarks, and felt perfectly satisfied as to the prospect of her sister’s happiness.
Colonel Armytage was accompanied by two friends, brother officers. Their presence made the castle far more lively than it had wont to be for many a long year; but all their sallies could not dispel the melancholy which Hilda could not hide even from them. Sir Marcus very narrowly watched Lawrence, who had become intimate with them; but whether or not he had told them of any of the occurrences which had lately taken place, he could not ascertain. It was a relief to him when, the day of the wedding having arrived, the castle was filled with the families of sufficient distinction to be invited to it. Hilda could not but feel that they generally regarded her with looks of curiosity, and, at the same time, of compassion, excessively annoying to her feelings. Often as she approached a group she found them whispering, and she observed that their manner was constrained, and that they either became silent, or had evidently abruptly commenced a fresh subject of conversation.
Nothing, however, occurred to interrupt the marriage ceremony. How different did it appear to the unhappy Hilda to that by which she had been united to Don Hernan!
It was not till Colonel Armytage was about to take his departure, with his bride, for the south, that on taking his leave of his father-in-law, he showed that he was aware of what had taken place. He drew himself up haughtily as he remarked—
“My love and esteem for your daughter, and a sense of honour, compelled me to fulfil my engagement with her; but I must ever regard with feelings of distrust and contempt the man who would conceal from me matters of which I ought to have been informed. We shall probably seldom, perhaps we shall never, meet again—our doing so can produce little mutual satisfaction.”
Sir Marcus looked confused, and could make no answer, and in silence he handed his daughter into the boat which was to convey them on board their vessel. His feelings were not soothed by hearing Lawrence give a loud laugh, and sing—as he hopped and skipped up the causeway—
“The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!”
The summer passed away, and business compelled Sir Marcus to visit Scotland. During his absence Rolf Morton returned to Shetland. How different was his home to what it had been! Its chief ornament, its only attraction was gone. He frequently came up to the castle to see his child; but he was soon convinced that he could not, as usual, spend the winter at home, and he determined to go to Leith to seek for the command of some ship sailing to southern latitudes.
A few days before he took his departure Sir Marcus returned to Lunnasting. They met, and the baronet eyed him with so sinister an expression that an uncomfortable sensation crept over the heart of the bold seaman, and he felt that he was in the presence of one who would do him an injury if he had the power.
Bidding farewell, however, to Bertha Eswick and his boy, he sailed for Leith, believing that for this time, however, he had escaped the malice of his enemy. He was mistaken. He had not been at Leith many days before he had the offer made him of the command of a fine ship bound round Cape Horn. The preliminary arrangements were soon made, but the usual papers were not yet signed. As he walked through the streets of Leith he more than once observed a man, who, he felt certain, was dodging his steps, and whom he observed watching him as he entered his lodgings. The matter, however, did not make much impression on him. He was on his way to the owner’s office to conclude the arrangements for his taking command, when, as he was passing along the quays, he was accosted by the individual he had remarked following him, and who now asked him if his name was Rolf Morton.
“That is my name,” he answered.
“Then you are the very man I want to see,” was the reply. “Come along under this archway.”
Morton unsuspectingly followed his guide, but no sooner had he reached the arch, than a body of seamen rushed out of a door close at hand. He was wondering where they were going, when he found himself surrounded by them, and dragged off to a boat lying at a jetty not far off.
He was in the hands of a press-gang. He had no power of making any resistance. He was forced into the boat, which pulled away to a ship-of-war at anchor in the Forth. He explained that he was virtually master of a merchantman, and that the owners would suffer loss should he be detained. He was ordered to exhibit his protection. He had none. His remonstrances were unheeded. He found that with his will, or against his will, he must serve his Majesty. Many other men had been brought on board in the same way that he had been.
“It matters little, if a man does his duty, in what condition of life he is placed; he may be equally happy in one as the other,” he said to himself; “I shall have fewer cares and responsibilities as a man-of-war’s man, than as a master of a ship. Why should I sigh and moan thus over my lot? What can’t be cured must be endured. Yes, sir, I’ll serve his Majesty, and serve him well, I hope,” he exclaimed aloud, turning to the officer who was examining the pressed men.
Rolf Morton kept his word. He was soon known as one of the best men in the ship, and he had not been long on board before he was raised to the rank of a first-class petty officer. He saw much service in various parts of the world. Wherever work was to be done he was foremost in doing it. Had he been younger, he would probably have been placed on the quarterdeck: but he was unambitious, and contented with his lot, though he, at last, was made a warrant officer, and ultimately became boatswain of a dashing frigate, under as gallant a captain as ever took a ship into action.
One of the most beautiful sights on the ocean, to the eye of a sailor, is the spectacle presented by a large fleet, when the signal for weighing is seen flying from the flag-ship. The boatswain’s whistle sends its shrill sounds along each deck; the capstan bars are shipped, the merry pipe strikes up, with sturdy tramp round go the men—others of the crew swarm upon the yards, the broad folds of canvas are let fall, and, as if by magic, those vast machines, lately so immovable, now looking like tall pyramids of snow, begin noiselessly to glide over the blue surface of the water.
Such was the sight witnessed by numerous spectators, both on the Isle of Wight shore and that of Portsmouth, when early in the year 1794 one of England’s noble fleets sailed from Spithead. A fine breeze from the northward enabled the ships to be well out round Saint Helen’s, when hauling their tacks aboard they stood down channel under all sail. In the centre were the heavy line-of-battle ships, exhibiting a dense mass of shining canvas; while scattered around on either side were the lighter frigates, like skirmishers on the field of battle feeling the way for the main body of the army. Among the fastest, the finest, and most dashing of the latter craft, was the thirty-eight gun frigate “Thisbe.”
She had only lately been put in commission, and her captain, officers, and crew, were mostly strangers to each other. Captain Courtney, who commanded her, had the reputation of being brave and enterprising, but his present crew had yet to learn what he was made of.
The day was closing; the fleet had made good progress down channel, and the “Thisbe” was one of the southernmost look-out frigates; the crew were enjoying a short relaxation from their duties, which were pretty severe, for when a ship first gets to sea there is much to be done to put her in order, to encounter an enemy or a gale.
The captain and two of his lieutenants walked the weather side of the quarter-deck, while the other gun-room officers and some of the midshipmen, paced the lee side. Captain Courtney’s appearance was much in his favour; though his firm mouth and the general expression of his features showed that he was accustomed to command, the pleasant smile occasionally playing over his countenance relieved them from too great sternness.
The first lieutenant, Mr Strickland, looked like his chief, the perfect officer and gentleman, while the second, well known in the service as Tom Calder, was more of the rough-and-ready school.
Tom was broad-shouldered and short, with an open countenance, and a complexion which once had been fair, but was now burnt nearly to a bright copper, but neither winds nor sun had been able to change the rich golden tint of his hair, which clustered in thick curls under his hat, which hat he managed to stick on the very back of his head; whether cocked hat, or tarpaulin, or sou’-wester, he wore it the same; it was a puzzle, though, to say how it kept there. But to see Tom as he was, was to catch him at work, with knife and marlin-spike, secured by rope-yarns round his neck, his hands showing intimate acquaintance with the tar bucket, while not a job was there to be done which he could not show the best way of doing.
Tom Calder, as was said of him, was the man to get work out of a crew, and where he led others were ever ready to follow. Altogether, he was evidently cut out for a good working first lieutenant, and there seemed every prospect of his becoming one. He had entered the service at the hawse-hole, and worked his way up, by his steadiness and gallantry, to the quarterdeck, a position to which he was well calculated to do credit.
On the forecastle the three warrant officers sauntered slowly up and down, stretching their limbs after their day’s work was over.
They were accompanied by a fine intelligent-looking boy, apparently of about fifteen, who was attentively listening to their conversation. The likeness which the boy bore to one of them, made it pretty evident that they were father and son.
The boatswain was Rolf Morton. When once pressed into the navy, by the management of Sir Marcus Wardhill, he had, from want of the energy required to take steps to leave it, remained in the service till a warrant had been almost forced on him. Just before the “Thisbe” was commissioned he had paid a visit to Shetland; he had found his boy Ronald grown and improved beyond his most sanguine expectations. The Lady Hilda, as she was still called, had devoted herself to his education, and treated him as her son; and in the more important matters which she unhappily was unable to teach him. Bertha Eswick had afforded him instruction. But Ronald had another instructor, though an eccentric one, in Lawrence Brindister. Not a more daring or expert boatman, a finer swimmer, or a better shot of his age, or much above his age, was to be found in all Shetland.
Poor Hilda had never heard from Pedro Alvarez, nor had she received tidings of her son, though, hopeless as it might seem, she lived on in the expectation of one day recovering him. Both she and Bertha had so earnestly entreated Rolf to leave Ronald in Shetland, that he would have done so, had he not received a warning, not to be neglected, from Lawrence Brindister, to be off and to take his boy with him.
He had often suspected that Sir Marcus Wardhill was his enemy, and now he learned from Lawrence, that he was the enemy of his son also, and would work him ill if he had him in his power.
“Then I will take him out of his power,” observed Rolf; and before the next morning he was away to Lerwick. Sir Marcus sent a fast rowing boat after him, but when she reached the capital of Shetland, Rolf and his son had already taken their departure. Sir Marcus Wardhill was reaping where he had sown.
From his younger and best-loved daughter he had long been almost totally estranged. Colonel Armytage had for years held no direct communication with him, while Edda’s letters were very brief, and she, having become the mother of a daughter, offered this as an excuse for not paying a visit to the north.
It was not till now that Hilda revealed to him the whole history of her marriage and the loss of her boy. His rage knew no bounds when he discovered that no certificate of this marriage was forthcoming. But one witness, who was forthcoming, survived—Bertha Eswick: she, however, had been in a declining state for some time, and but a few days had passed after Rolf and Ronald had quitted Lunnasting before she expired, leaving Hilda more solitary and miserable than ever.
Ronald Morton had commenced his life at sea with the greatest zest, and although he had a few difficulties to contend with, and not a few older boys to fight, he invariably came off victorious, and was altogether a general favourite. Rolf devotedly loved his son, and though not ambitious for himself, his great desire was to see Ronald on the quarter-deck, and rising in his profession: he certainly looked as if it were more his proper place than was the forecastle where he now was.
“Father,” he said, turning his beaming countenance, “I do long to be in a battle. Are we likely soon to fall in with an enemy?”
“No hurry for that, boy,” answered the boatswain, who had been in many a desperate fight, and knew what fighting was; “we shall fall in with one before long, depend on that.”
“I hope so, indeed,” exclaimed Ronald; “those Frenchmen who have cut off their king’s head deserve to be thrashed round and round the globe till not a man of them remains alive.”
This sentiment was warmly applauded both by the gunner and carpenter.
“I don’t say as how I ’zactly hates the Frenchmen,” observed Mr Rammage, the gunner; “but it’s my opinion that the sea is not big enough for both of us, and the sooner we drives them off it, the sooner we shall be friends again.”
Ronald had not long to wait before he saw, though chiefly at a distance, one of the most important of England’s naval battles. The “Thisbe” formed one of Lord Howe’s fleet, when he gained the glorious victory of the 1st of June which taught the Frenchmen, by a lesson often to be repeated, that they must expect defeat whenever they might venture to contend with England’s navy on the ocean.
As the “Thisbe” was employed as a look-out frigate, she took but little part in the action. What she did do, far from damping Ronald’s ardour, only made him the more eager to fight again. He had not long to wait. The “Thisbe,” with the rest of the fleet, returned to Spithead to receive the marks of honour the sovereign and the nation showered on the heads of the gallant chiefs, who had led their ships to victory; but before long she was again on a cruise down channel. Rounding Ushant, she steered to the southward, boldly standing along the French coast, and making what the French probably considered a very impertinent examination of their forts and harbours.
She approached the place to be examined during the night, and at early dawn the required information having been obtained, she was again standing off shore, under all sail, before any of the enemy’s ships could get under weigh to pursue her. She proceeded as far south as Rochelle.
Looking one morning into the harbour of that place, a frigate was discovered in the outer roads, apparently ready for sea.
“She seems about our size; if we could draw her out, we might take her,” observed Captain Courtney to his first lieutenant, Mr Strickland.
“No doubt about it, sir,” was the answer; “she is, however, I suspect, rather larger, but so much the better. There is little honour in capturing a Frenchman of one’s own size. That we are of course expected to do. We should be thankful when we fall in with an antagonist of superior strength.”
“You are right, Strickland,” exclaimed the captain, warmly. “Back the maintopsail and fire a gun towards her. The signal of defiance will be understood, and if her captain has a spark of courage, he’ll come out and meet us.”
With colours flying, the British frigate lay-to off the Frenchman’s port. While thus defying the enemy a large schooner was seen standing along shore and apparently making for the harbour.
“We’ll take her before their very noses, and if that does not rouse them, I do not know what will,” observed the captain, as he gave the orders to make sail in chase.
The schooner, little expecting to be snapped up by an enemy in the very sight of port, endeavoured in vain to escape. The “Thisbe,” like an eagle towards its prey, flew after her, and in a short time she was a prize.
Taking out the prisoners and putting a prize crew on board, Captain Courtney stood back, with the schooner in tow, towards the mouth of the harbour; then again firing another shot of defiance, he bore away to the westward.
“The Frenchmen will bear a great deal, but they will not bear that,” observed Morton to his son. “Before this time tomorrow we shall either be inside that harbour, feeling very much ashamed of ourselves—and I don’t think that is likely to happen—or we shall have that frigate in there for our prize, and be standing away with her for old England.”
The “Thisbe” had got some eight miles or so away from the land, when the French frigate was seen under sail and standing towards her. Captain Courtney was anxious to draw the enemy as far from the coast as possible, lest, when the hoped-for result of the action should become known, notice might be sent of the event to other ports to the northward, and a superior force despatched to capture him. He accordingly hove-to occasionally, and then stood on to entice the enemy after him.
When the evening closed in, the Frenchman was in sight about two leagues off, coming up astern. The “Thisbe,” now casting off the prize, stood towards her. At this time there was no other sail in sight, with the exception of a small boat, apparently a fishing boat, which kept as close as she could to the “Thisbe,” possibly to watch what was going to take place.
Captain Courtney’s object was, of course, to obtain the weather gauge; and in consequence of having to manoeuvre to obtain it, it was not till past midnight that the two ships got within range of each other’s guns. Not a man of the “Thisbe’s” crew had turned in. The drum beat to quarters. The men flew to their stations with pistols in their belts and cutlasses by their sides, eager to begin the fight.
The “Thisbe” was on the starboard tack, when the enemy, on the larboard tack, slowly glided past her to windward, looking like some dark phantom stalking over the surface of the deep.
Ronald, who stood on the forecastle with his father, watched her with intense eagerness. Presently a sheet of flame burst from her side, followed by the loud thunder of the guns and the whizzing of shot. A few came near the English frigate, but none struck her.
“Return the compliment, my lads. Give it them!” exclaimed Captain Courtney.
The crew, with a cheer, obeyed the order, the flashes of their guns throwing a ruddy glow on the bulwarks and the figures of the crew, as stern and grim they stood at their quarters.
“Hands about ship!” was the next order issued; and the “Thisbe,” tacking in the wake of her opponent, stood after her.
“Father,” asked Ronald, as he stood by Morton’s side on the forecastle, “will the Frenchman try to escape us?”
“No fear of that, he would not have come out at first if he had intended to play us that trick,” was the answer. “He has made one slight mistake, though; he fancies that he is going to take us; and it’s my firm belief that we are going to take him.”
“I hope so, father,” answered Ronald. “I would sooner die than be taken by a Frenchman.”
“That is the right spirit, my boy,” exclaimed Rolf, warmly. “But little fear of what will happen—our captain is not a man to throw away a chance of victory.”
While they were speaking, the “Thisbe” was rapidly coming up with the enemy; and as her guns could be brought to bear they were fired in quick succession—the French frigate returning them with right good will, though as her shot flew high, the “Thisbe’s” masts and spars suffered more than her hull, and few of her men had hitherto been hit.
Morton looked anxiously aloft. “It will be a bad job if they go,” he muttered to himself. He then sent Ronald aft to ascertain the condition of the main and mizenmast, which he believed had been struck.
His son soon returned with a very bad report. The masts were already badly wounded.
Soon after this the “Thisbe” got within musket-shot of the starboard quarter of her opponent; and the marines opened their fire, while the firing of the great guns became warmer than ever.
Captain Courtney had never, for a moment, taken his eye off the French ship, that he might watch for the least indication of any manoeuvre she might be about to perform. Suddenly he exclaimed, “Up with the helm!—square away the after yards!”
Quickly the manoeuvre was executed, though only just in time to prevent the enemy who wore the instant before, from crossing the “Thisbe’s” bows, and pouring in a raking fire. The two frigates now ran on before the wind, closely engaged, broadside to broadside. Fast came the round shot, crashing on board. Splinters from the torn bulwarks were flying about, from aloft some rattling blocks and shattered spars; while showers of bullets were raining down death and wounds in every direction.
Ronald Morton felt his spirits rise to an unnatural pitch as the fight grew hotter and hotter. Not the remotest thought of death, not a shadow of fear crossed his mind. Others were struck down, but those missiles of destruction were not for him. Others might be hit, but he bore a charmed life.
There is something far more terrific and trying to the nerves in a night action than in one fought by day. The dark, mysterious form of the enemy, the flashes of the guns, the irregular glare, the dim light of the fighting lanterns, the cries and groans of the wounded, the uncertainty as to who is hit or what damage has been done, all combine to produce an effect which the most desperate fight by day can scarcely exhibit.
The crew of the “Thisbe” could see that their shot was producing great effect on their antagonist. Her masts still stood, but several of her spars were shot away, and her rigging appeared a mass of wreck. The English frigate was also much injured aloft, but her masts were still standing.
By this time the “Thisbe” had shot ahead of her antagonist. “Starboard the helm!” exclaimed Captain Courtney. “Cease firing, my lads! Be ready to give her a raking broadside as we cross her hawse.”
The frigate luffed up into the wind; and, as she did so, her larboard guns were discharged in quick succession into the bows of the Frenchman; but amid the roar of the guns a loud crash was heard, and the mizenmast, unable to bear the additional strain on it, went by the board, but falling to starboard, did not impede the working of the guns. As the crew were running from under it, the tall mainmast was seen to totter, and with all its yards and sails, over it went on the same side. With a groan the boatswain saw what had occurred. He feared, too, that the enemy might escape, as her masts were still standing; but as the “Thisbe’s” mainmast went, the French frigate ran stern on to her, on her larboard quarter, her bowsprit passing directly across her deck over the capstan.
“She is our own if we can but keep her,” exclaimed the boatswain; and, followed by Ronald, he hurried aft, calling to some of his mates to assist him.
The officers and crew had enough to do at that moment, for the Frenchmen trusting to their number, which appeared to be very great, were swarming on the forecastle, and rushing along the bowsprit with the intention of boarding the “Thisbe.”
“Boarders! repel boarders!” shouted the captain, setting the example in attacking the first Frenchmen who presented themselves as they sprang forward.
Now the clash of steel, the sharp report of pistols, intermingled with the roar of the great guns—those on the quarter and main-decks still continuing to pour a destructive fire into the enemy’s starboard bow as they could be brought to bear the Frenchmen, from the position in which their ship was placed, being only able to reply with musketry. Their critical position made them rush on and on again with the greatest frenzy, but each time they were driven back with heavy loss, many of them falling overboard from off the bowsprit, or being cut down by the British seamen. Meantime Rolf Morton and his followers were busily engaged in lashing the enemy’s bowsprit to their capstan with such ropes as they could lay hands on. Captain Courtney looked round, and saw how they were engaged.
“Admirably done, Mr Morton,” he cried out. “Keep her there, and we will give a good account of the Frenchmen in her.”
At that moment the enemy, with loud shouts and sacrés and other oaths, came rushing forward in greater numbers than before, intending to drop down on the “Thisbe’s” deck, and hoping to overwhelm her crew by their numbers. Again they felt the effect of British cutlasses. Desperately as they fought, they were once more driven back with diminished numbers to the ship. In vain the Frenchmen endeavoured to free their ship from the position in which they had placed her. The “Thisbe” stood on, towing them after her. Scarcely one of their guns could be brought to bear, but the marines, however, kept up a hot and destructive fire of musketry on the deck of the frigate, from the tops as well as from some of her quarter-deck guns which had been run in midships fore and aft. Though the darkness prevented their taking good aim, no sooner was it known that the bowsprit was being made fast to the capstan of the English frigate, than the whole of their fire was turned in that direction. The lashings were not yet completed. Showers of bullets fell around the brave men engaged in the work. Several had fallen. The boatswain did not think of himself, but he dreaded lest his son should be hit. He was considering on what message he should send him to another part of the ship, when he felt a sharp blow, his fingers relaxed from the rope he was grasping, and he fell to the deck. He had the feeling that he had received his death wound. Ronald saw what had happened, and in an instant was on his knees supporting his father’s head.
What thought he then of the fierce contest raging? What did he care who gained the victory? All his feelings were concentrated on his father. Was he mortally wounded, or would he recover? He entreated some of the men to carry him below, but they were at that moment too much occupied to attend to him. Rolf recovered slightly.
“No, no, boy; let me remain here,” he said in a firm voice. “All hands have work enough to do; I am but hit in the leg, and if they would set me on my feet again I could still be of use.”
But Ronald did not heed him, and continued imploring the men to carry the boatswain below. Just then the lashings were torn away, and the French frigate floated clear of the “Thisbe.” Cries of disappointment escaped from the English crew, but they redoubled their efforts to cripple their opponent, so as once more to get hold of her. Meantime several of the men, being now at liberty, offered to take the boatswain below, but he desired to be left on deck.
“I’ll see the fight out, lads,” he answered. “Help me up, some of you, and pass this handkerchief round the limb. Cheer up, Ronald, I’m not so badly hurt as you fancy, boy.”
“Hurra, lads! here she comes again; we’ll have her fast this time,” shouted the captain at this juncture.
The “Thisbe,” deprived of her after-sail, paid off before the wind, and thus the French frigate ran directly into her, on the starboard quarter, the enemy’s bowsprit hanging over the stump of her mainmast. The opportunity of securing the French ship was not lost, though her crew attempted to rush on board, as before, to prevent the operation.
While the captain and most of the superior officers who had escaped wounds or death were engaged in repelling them, Rolf caused himself to be brought nearer to the mainmast, that he might superintend the crew in lashing the bowsprit to it.
This time they took care that it should not again break away; and now the “Thisbe,” running directly off before the wind, dragged the Frenchman after her.
The fight had been hot before, but it became hotter still. Again and again the Frenchmen endeavoured to cut away those second lashings, but the English marines kept up so hot a fire, that each time the attempt was frustrated. Still the enemy showed no signs of yielding. Something must be done. Wounded as he was, Morton dragged himself up to where the captain was standing.
“I beg your pardon, Captain Courtney, but if we could get a couple of guns run out abaft on the main-deck, we could silence that fellow pretty quickly,” he said, touching his hat with all due formality.
It was somewhat out of rule for the boatswain to offer his advice unasked to the captain, but under the circumstances the irregularity was easily overlooked by such a man as Captain Courtney.
“You are right, Mr Morton,” he answered; “send the carpenter and his crew aft, Mr Calder,” to the second lieutenant. “Get the two after guns on the main-deck ready to run out astern as soon as we have some ports made for them.”
Having given this order, the captain descended to the main-deck.
Mr Gimbol, the carpenter, soon made his appearance there from below, where he had been going his rounds through the wings, to stop any shot-holes which might have been made between wind and water.
With axes and saws he and his crew set to work, but the upper transom beam resisted all their efforts.
“We must blow out some ports,” exclaimed the captain. “Send the firemen here.”
A gang of men with buckets were quickly on the spot. The guns were pointed aft. “Fire!” cried the captain. The two guns went off together, and as the suffocating smoke blew off, two holes with jagged edges were seen in the stern, but flames were bursting out around them. These, however, the firemen with their buckets quickly extinguished, and the guns, being again loaded, opened their fire through them on the deck of the Frenchman. The effect produced from this unexpected quarter was terrific. Fore and aft the shot flew crashing between the decks, seldom failing to find some victims, and oftentimes carrying off the heads of half-a-dozen men, as they stood at their guns, in its course from one end of the ship to the other. Never were guns more rapidly worked than were those two twelve-pounders on board the “Thisbe.” The captain stood by, encouraging the men.
Rolf Morton went about, badly wounded as he was, to ascertain where his services were most required. Ronald followed his father, dreading every moment to see him fall from the effects of his first wound, or to find that he was again hit. Once more they returned to the upper deck. Their numbers were falling, wounds were being received, and havoc was being made aloft and on every side. The masts of the French ship were still standing, but from the shrieks and cries which proceeded from her decks, there seemed little doubt that she was suffering even more than the “Thisbe.” Ronald kept watching the enemy.
“See, father!—see!” he exclaimed. “Down, down they come!” He pointed at the Frenchman’s foremast. It bent on one side, the few ropes which held it gave way, and crash it came down over the side. The mainmast stood, but the mizenmast in an instant afterwards followed the foremast, preventing the crew from working the greater number of the guns. However, with those still unencumbered they continued to fire away with the greatest desperation. The English seamen fought on with the same determined courage as at first. They had made up their minds that they would take the enemy, and there was not a man on board who would have given in till they had done so, or till the ship sunk under them. Half-an-hour passed away. It seemed surprising that either ship could float with the pounding they gave each other, or that any human beings could survive on their decks amid the storm of shot and bullets rushing across them. At length a loud cheer burst from the throats of the English seamen, the Frenchman’s last remaining mast was seen to lean over, and down it came with a tremendous crash, crushing many in its fall, and completely preventing the crew from working any of their guns.
“They will give in now, father, to a certainty,” exclaimed Ronald.
“Not so sure, boy; see, they are going to make a desperate attempt to revenge themselves.”
“Here they come!” he answered, and then the cry arose from the English ship of, “Boarders! repel boarders!”
Once more the Frenchmen came on with the most determined courage. Captain Courtney and some of his officers and men who were aft threw themselves before the enemy, to stem the torrent which threatened to pour down on the “Thisbe’s” decks; but with such fury and desperation did the Frenchmen come on, that many of the English were driven back, and there seemed no little probability that the former would gain their object. Rolf Morton, on perceiving this, and forgetting his wound, seized a cutlass, and calling on all the men at hand, followed by Ronald, sprang aft to the aid of his captain. His assistance did not come a moment too soon. Captain Courtney was brought to his knee, and a French officer, who had led the boarders, was on the point of cutting him down, when Ronald sprang to his side, and thrusting his cutlass before him, saved him from the blow intended for his head. Ronald would have had to pay dearly for his gallantry, had not Rolf cut the Frenchman down at the moment he was making, in return, a fierce stroke at his son.
More of the English crew, led by their officers, now came hurrying aft, and the Frenchmen, disheartened by the loss of their leader, again retreated to their ship, leaving eight or ten of their number dead or dying behind them. Still no one cried for quarter; and though not a gun was discharged, the marines and small-arm men kept up as hot a fire as before.
All this time the “Thisbe’s” two after-guns on the maindeck kept thundering away at them, fearfully diminishing their numbers. And thus the fight continued: they made, however, no signal of yielding.
The Frenchmen had scarcely retreated from their daring attempt to board the frigate, when the lashings which secured their bowsprit to her began to give way. The boatswain had, however, got a hawser ready ranged along the deck, and this, in spite of the fire kept up at them, he, with his mates and others of the crew, secured to the gammoning of the Frenchmen’s bowsprit.
“Now the lashings may go as soon as they like!” he exclaimed, almost breathless with the exertion; “the Frenchmen will gain little by the change.”
So it proved: the enemy’s ship, when the lashings gave way, dropped astern a few fathoms, and there she hung, towed onwards, as before, by the “Thisbe,” whose crew were thus enabled to rake her decks with more deadly effect. Still the battle raged as at first.
At length some voices were heard from the bowsprit of the French frigate.
“Quarter! quarter!” was the cry. “We have struck! we yield!”
“Cease firing, my lads!” shouted the captain; “we have won the night!”
The order was obeyed. For an instant there was a perfect silence, a contrast to the uproar which had so long continued; even the wounded restrained the expression of their sufferings; and then there burst forth one of those hearty cheers, which few but English seamen can give, and which they so well know how to give with effect. And now many of the brave fellows who had hitherto worked away at their guns without flinching, sank down with fatigue, Rolf Morton even then would not go below.
“I’ll stay on deck and see the enemy secured, and get the ship put to rights a little,” he answered; “I am only just showing my boy how I wish him to behave. While there is duty to do, and a man has strength to do it, he should not shrink from it, whatever it may cost him.”
Ronald listened to what his father was saying.
“That’s it, father; I’ll try and stick to that,” he observed, looking up in his father’s face.
It was now necessary to board the French ship to take possession of her, but how that was to be accomplished was the question, for not a boat that could swim remained on board either of the combatants.
The second lieutenant—one of the few officers unwounded—volunteered to work his way along the hawser, and a midshipman and several of the men offered to accompany him; Ronald begged leave to go also.
In those days, strange as it may seem, many seamen could not swim.
The boarding-party commenced their somewhat hazardous passage from one ship to the other. The “Thisbe” had but slight way on her; the hawser was consequently somewhat slack, and the weight of the people on it brought it down into the water. The lieutenant and several of the men clung on, but the midshipman was by some means or other washed off. Unable to swim, he cried out loudly for help, but no one could afford it, till Ronald let go his own hold of the rope, and swam towards him. Of course to regain the hawser was hopeless, and it was equally difficult to swim back to the “Thisbe.” Ronald had practised swimming from his childhood, and was as much at home in the water as on shore. He struck out with one hand while he supported the young midshipman with the other. His first fear was that the French ship would run them down, but a few strokes carried him and his charge clear of that danger. He next attempted to get alongside her. He looked up, and saw her dark hull rising up above him. There were plenty of ropes hanging overboard; he found one that appeared secure above; he put it into the midshipman’s hands.
“There, Mr Glover,” he exclaimed; “we shall be the first on the enemy’s deck after all.”
He was not long in finding another rope for himself, and to the surprise of the Frenchmen they found two stranger boys standing on their quarter-deck.
“Have you come to take possession?” asked a lieutenant in tolerable English. “What! are all your superior officers killed?”
“Oh, no, monsieur,” answered the midshipman; “they will be on board presently; but we are somewhat lighter craft, so made quicker work of it.”
The second lieutenant of the “Thisbe” and his companions soon made their appearance, having clambered in over the bows; and the French frigate, which was found to be the “Concorde”—one of the largest class in the French navy—was formally taken possession of.