Ben Burton: Born and Bred at Sea

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Is Ben Burton your name?” said the midshipman, looking at me. “I understand you are going to join us. You are a lucky chap, for our ship is a happy one, and we are likely to see a good deal of service.”

When we got on board, one of the first people I set eyes on was Pat Brady.

“I could not help it, Ben,” he said. “Some of the boys got round me and talked of old times, and faith, though I was living on shore like a gintleman, after all I could not resist the look of the trim frigate, and the thoughts of the fighting and the fun on board. But, Ben, I hear you are to be one of the young gintlemen, and I know my place too well and your interests ever to be claiming relationship with you. You will understand that, Ben. If ever you can do me a good turn I am sure you will, and I need not tell you that when we are boarding an enemy’s ship, and you are in the thickest of the fun, Pat Brady won’t be far off your side. Just tell your mother that, for may be I may not have an opportunity of speaking to her as I would wish.”

“He is a good honest fellow, that cousin of ours,” said my mother when I told her. “It is just like him, and I am very thankful to think that you have so true a friend among the men. If you behave wisely and kindly to them, depend upon it you will always be able to get work done, when others much older than yourself will fail, and that more than anything else will gain you the approval of your superior officers.”

The Third-Lieutenant of the frigate had gone home on sick leave, and his cabin was given up to my mother. She told me she felt very strange occupying a berth aft when she had been so long accustomed to one in the fore-part of the ship. It was satisfactory to see as much attention paid her as if she had always occupied the position of a lady. Indeed I may say with satisfaction that she was well deserving of all the attention paid her, while in her manner and conversation she was thoroughly the lady. I was said to take after her, and, at the risk of being considered vain and egotistical, it is satisfactory to believe I did. “It would be a shame not to place that boy on the quarter-deck,” I heard the Captain observe to Mr Schank one day, when he was not aware how near I was. “He looks, and is, thoroughly the gentleman, and will make a smart young officer, depend on that.”

I was delighted to find myself on board ship again, and if the choice had been given me I suspect that I should have remained rather than have accompanied my mother back to Whithyford. After we had doubled Cape Clear a sail hove in sight, to which we gave chase. She was a large brig, and soon showed us that she had a fast pair of heels, by keeping well ahead. All sail was pressed on the frigate, and yet, after chasing several hours, we appeared to be no nearer to her. Still Captain Oliver was not a man to strike to an enemy, or to give up a chance of making a prize as long as the slightest possibility of doing so remained. All night long we kept in her wake; she probably expecting a fog, or a change of wind, or some other circumstance to enable her to alter her course without being perceived by us. The night, however, was very clear, and when morning broke there she was still ahead. It was evident, also, that we had gained on her considerably.

“I say, Ben, our skipper and First-Lieutenant are licking their lips at the thoughts of the prize we shall pick up before the day is many hours older,” observed my friend Tom Twigg, the midshipman who steered the boat which brought us on board; he had ever since then marked me as an object of his especial favour. He was a merry little fellow, with the funniest round face, and round eyes, and round nose possible. He often got into scrapes; but he declared that, like a hedgehog or slater, or woodlouse, he always managed to roll himself out of them. “I rather think the skipper has entered you on the books that you may have a share in the prize we are going to make,” he observed. “It will not be very great, but it is something, and no man on board will grudge it you.” About noon we got the brig under our guns, when she hauled down her colours, and proved to be a richly-laden Letter of Marque. It was very pleasant returning into port with her, and this circumstance put everybody on board in good humour, the Captain and Lieutenant Schank especially, who of course had large shares.

“I wish I could accompany you, Mrs Burton,” said Mr Schank, when we reached Portsmouth; “but that is impossible. You must let me frank you up, however, to my mother’s. I dare say by this time you pretty well know how to manage on the road. Pay the postboys well, and take care that youngster does not tumble off the roof and break his neck.” Of course my mother thanked the Captain and all the officers for the kindness she had received on board. They insisted on her saying nothing about the matter; indeed, they declared they had not done enough, and would not let her go till they had made her accept a purse of gold, which they declared would have been my father’s share of the prize just taken had he been alive. Lieutenant Schank had written on before to announce our coming. The old lady, therefore, and the three Misses Schank were on the look-out for us as our post-chaise drove up to the cottage, while I saw poor Mrs Lindars looking out at an upper window from the room she occupied, and there in the midst of the ladies downstairs was the Little Lady, a perfect little fairy she looked among the three mature Misses Schank. Miss Anna Maria held her up in her arms, and the little girl cried out, “Oh! Mamma, mamma, I know you are my mamma, though I have got four other mammas here.” She had grown very much, and instead of going off in beauty, had become one of the most perfect little creatures I ever set eyes on. Nothing could be more hearty than the welcome we received, and the dear old lady told my mother that she must look upon herself as one of the family, and only help the other ladies just as much as she felt inclined. Mrs Lindars, soon after we arrived, begged we would come up, and the Little Lady, taking me by the hand, led the way. There was something very striking in the affectionate and tender way the Little Lady addressed Mrs Lindars; indeed it for the moment struck me that they were something alike, though one was somewhat advanced in life, and the features of the other were scarcely yet formed. Mrs Lindars welcomed my mother very kindly. “And Ben has indeed grown into a fine lad,” she observed. “And Emily, too, you see her greatly improved, Mrs Burton. Ben, you must be her champion if she requires one. Alas! I fear she will. I trust her fate may be happier than mine.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will fight for her, that I will,” I answered, looking at Emily; “not that I think anyone would ever be so wicked as to try and harm her.” The poor lady smiled sadly and shook her head.

“Beauty is rather a snare than a protection,” she observed.