Ronald Morton; or, the Fire Ships: A Story of the Last Naval War

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Please, sir, this old man says as how he is my father,” began Bob, handing him aft on the quarter-deck. “Come, cheer up, and tell Lieutenant Morton all you know.”

The old man cast an inquiring, doubtful look at Morton’s countenance, but seemingly satisfied with his scrutiny, he exclaimed, “I want, sir, to make a clean breast of it. For many years of my life I haven’t known what happiness is, and don’t ever expect to know it again.”

“As to that,” said Morton, interrupting him, “I’ll hear you by-and-by; but first, I wish to know where you have come from, and where the passengers and crew of this ship are now to be found?”

“I was coming to all that presently,” persisted the old man. “It’s of the past I want to speak.”

“But, man, lately, what have you done?—what crimes have you committed?” exclaimed Morton.

“None that I know of,” answered the seaman. “I was always a wild blade, from the time I first set foot on a ship’s deck. There was no mischief I was not up to, no crime I feared committing. I had done many bad things, but the worst was to come. I was still a lad, and so was my chum, Archy Eagleshay, and another, an older man, and older in crime, too, but he’s gone to his account, as we must all go, great and small.”

“You speak truth, my man,” exclaimed Morton, now losing all patience. “Again I ask you to pass over your early days, and to come to the latter events of your career. How did you happen to be on board this ship, among a set of Frenchmen and ruffians of all nations?”

“That was what I was coming to tell you, sir,” giving a peculiar look at Morton, who was doubtful whether it was caused by stupidity or obstinacy. He saw, at all events, that there was no use in attempting to draw forth the information he required before the old man was ready to give it.

After a pause, seeing that Morton was not again going to speak, the old man continued: “Well, as I was saying, sir, he who is gone came to Eagleshay and me, and says he, ‘Are you lads ready to gain more golden guineas than you ever set eyes on in your life?’ Of course we were. ‘It’s nothing but carrying off a slip of a baby who can do little more than talk, and just leaving him in the plantations.’ We didn’t ask questions, but we went on board a little sloop he owned, and then we waited, cruising about, till one evening he told us to pull on shore, and there we found a nurse and child, and the woman gave us the child. Away we went with it aboard the sloop, and made sail, and never dropped anchor till we reached the port of Dublin. Then our captain sold the sloop, and we all went aboard a ship and sailed for America. We didn’t reach it though. We had done a cursed deed, and God’s curse was to follow us. Our ship went down, and we were left floating on a raft; we were well-nigh starved, when a ship fell in with us, and we were taken on board. The captain was a kind-hearted man, and he said he would take care of the little fellow; and as our captain—he that’s gone—had got the money for the deed he’d done, he didn’t try to keep him; indeed, he could not have kept him if he’d wished; and so the good captain drew up a paper from what we’d told him, and he made us put our names to it, and he went and locked it up, and after that he never talked about the matter. We didn’t know what he might do, so we ran from the ship at the first port we came to. From that day to this I never set eyes on the youngster, or heard of the good captain again. Well, one bad thing leads to another. We all then went out to the West Indies, and we shipped aboard some strange craft, and strange flags they sailed under. It was difficult to know, when you came on deck, what was flying at the peak. There were many things done which sickened me, and some of my shipmates I saw hung up at Port Royal in a way I didn’t like, and at last I got away back to England. I then took a wife. Many years, you’ll understand, had passed by. I thought I was going to remain on shore, and be quiet and honest. I’d one little chap born, and I began to be fonder of him than I had been of any living creature before; but I was short of money, and the old feeling came over me. When I wanted it out in the West Indies then I took it. I now did a thing or two which made me fly the country. From that day to this I have never set foot on the shores of old England.”

Morton thought that he might now venture to interrupt the old man. He had been so anxiously waiting for the account he might give of the passengers, that he paid little attention to the first part of the narrative.