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

by William Henry Giles Kingston

To return again to the “Thisbe” and rescued “Osterley.” The frigate and Indiaman were once more hove-to, at a short distance from each other. In the far distance appeared a group of islands like blue hillocks rising out of the shining ocean. Volunteers from the frigate eagerly crowded on board the “Osterley,” armed to the teeth. Morton had gained sufficient information from the old man to enable him to form a plan for rescuing the prisoners, should they be, as he trusted, still on the island. He had had frequent conversations with the elder Doull. One day the old man again referred to the abduction transaction in which he had been engaged in his youth. The similarity of the account to that Morton had heard of his father’s history, struck him.

“Where was it? from what part of the coast did you take the child?” he asked, eagerly.

“Did I not say from Shetland?” replied the old man. “And what is strange, Lieutenant Morton, the boy’s name was the same as yours; but maybe you know nothing of Shetland; it’s a fine land anyhow, and you are too young to be the child I was speaking of.”

“You are mistaken in one point, Mr Doull,” said Morton. “I belong to Shetland; I was born and bred there; and I feel almost sure that the boy you carried off was my father. He was picked up at sea by a Captain Scarsdale, who brought him up as his son.”

“Scarsdale!—now you speak it, that’s the name of the master of the vessel who took us off the raft, and from whose ship we ran. For many a long year I have not thought of it. Yes, Andrew Scarsdale; and the boy was called Rolf Morton—the names come back to me as if I heard them but yesterday. There are not many other names I can remember which I knew at that time.”

“But do you believe that that was the real name of the child?” asked Morton, for he had heard his father express his belief that the name he bore was not his true one.

“That I do not know,” answered old Doull. “If it was not, the only one of us who knew the truth was our leader—the man who led us to commit the crime—that villain, Rolf Yell. It’s many a year since I have spoken his name. Now I remember, he gave me a paper to Captain Scarsdale, and put his name to it, and we saw him do it; and we—that is, Archy Eagleshay and I did; and the captain put his name, and we put ours after that, though we didn’t read the paper, but the captain said that it was all right, and that it was what he wanted, and he took it below; and so I supposed that it would make everything square for the poor boy.”

This circumstantial account agreed so exactly with that which Captain Scarsdale had given his father, that Ronald had no doubt that he had found a clue which might lead to the solution of the mystery hanging over his early history.

What had become of the important document? Why had not Captain Scarsdale produced it? Yell, at all events, knew his father’s real name, and he must have communicated it to Captain Scarsdale. He longed to meet his father, that he might give him the information he had received, and consult with him as to what steps it would be best for them to pursue.

Formerly he perhaps would have been very indifferent as to the result; now he could not help feeling that if it could be proved that he was of gentle blood, it might enable him the better to succeed in realising the bright visions in which he had of late been indulging. There might be a thousand obstacles in his path, but he felt that he could clear them all away by courage and perseverance, as he would a host of enemies with the strokes of his cutlass.