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

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“How I pity the poor men who may be wounded in the battle!” she remarked.

Her father sneered.

“May we go on deck and help them?” she asked suddenly. “I am sure that we can be of use.”

“Certainly not,” he answered, sternly. “We shall have enough to do without being interrupted by the interference of women.”

“Oh, father! do not say that,” said Edda. “We would be of all the use in our power; we would tend the wounded; we would take food to those who were weary; we would carry up powder and shot if required. I have read of women doing such things. Why should not we?”

“Because there are men enough to fight, and it is considered that you will be safer down below,” said Colonel Armytage, casting a look of involuntary admiration at his daughter. “Round shots are no respecters of persons, and one might destroy you or your mother or the other women as readily as the roughest man on board. In Heaven’s name, child, keep out of danger.”

A part of the hold was quickly arranged for the accommodation of the ladies during the expected action. Two lanterns were hung up in it below the beams, but notwithstanding all that was done, it was a very dreary, dark abode. Edda entreated that she and her mother might remain on deck till they were within range of the enemy’s guns. Most of the other ladies followed her example, and the deck once more resumed its usual orderly appearance, though there were signs of the expected strife in the warlike costumes of the gentlemen, who walked up and down with swords buckled to their sides, pistols in their belts, or muskets on their shoulders.

The captain had not vainly boasted of the sped of the ship, and, as he now hauled up a little to the westward there appeared to be a considerable chance of her running the stranger out of sight during the night. Darkness was now coming on. The stranger was seen on the lee-quarter continuing the pursuit under all sail. Some of the more timid suggested that part of the cargo should be thrown overboard to lighten the ship, so as to afford them a better chance of escaping, but to this the captain would not consent. He was responsible for the property. He hoped to defend it and every part of it, and even if hove away it could do little to aid their escape. His calmness and determination infused courage into all around him. Night came on. The stranger was still far beyond gunshot. Not a light was allowed to be shown on board the Indiaman. The ladies were induced to retire to their cabins, many under the happy belief that all danger had passed, and that they might look forward to a pleasant continuance of the voyage. None of the officers or crew, however, went below.

Many of the passengers also remained on deck. As night closed in, far off was still to be seen the dark outline of the stranger ship. Was she gaining on the “Osterley?” Captain Winslow and his officers looked and looked again. There seemed to be little doubt about that. No more canvas could be clapped on the Indiaman. Everything had been done that could be thought of to make her sail fast. A hurricane just then would have been welcome. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and, as the night drew on, the darkness increased. At length the stranger was hid from sight. Some declared that they could still see her, but Captain Winslow was of opinion that they were mistaken. Still even he, as he walked the deck, continued to cast many an anxious glance astern. He called his first officer to him, and they held an earnest consultation together.

“We’ll try it,” he observed; and the yards were squared away, and the Indiaman was once more steering to the southward dead before the wind; it was her best point of sailing. It was hoped that the stranger, believing that she was bound for Madras, would continue the chase in that direction. The darkness continued.