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

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The Indiaman rapidly approached the land. As she drew in with it the French ensign was hoisted at the peak. Job Truefitt looked up at it.

“It’s the first time that I minds that I ever sailed under that buntin’, and I would be sorry to see it often hoisted over my head,” he observed to the elder Doull, pointing at it with his thumb half over his shoulder, and a contemptuous sneer on his lips. “I never loved them mounseers, and hopes I never may. They are to my mind the nat’ral born enemies, so to speak, of Englishmen, and it’s my belief that they’ll remain the same to the end of the world.”

Doull was now summoned aft to pilot the ship among the reefs which surrounded the group of islands she was approaching. The wind had been faithful, and Morton managed so well that it was close upon sunset before the “Osterley” got inside the reefs. It would have been anxious work to carry a ship, in the uncertain light which still remained, among those numerous rocks and shoals, even with a friendly port in which to drop her anchor. Ronald, with the old man by his side, stood conning the ship, while two seamen with sharp eyes were placed at the end of the jib-boom, and others at the fore yardarms, to give notice of any danger they might discover.

“There’ll be no use keeping the lead going, sir,” said Old Doull. “You may get a cast of twenty fathom, and the next moment have the ship’s bows hard and fast.”

Ronald knew that this was the case, nor did it decrease his anxiety. Steady hands were at the helm. The seamen were at their stations to trim or shorten sail. The Indiaman glided onward. She was already inside the reefs, and the heaving motion of the ocean was no longer felt. Hills clothed with verdure rose close before them, the shore on either side, fringed with cocoa-nut trees, seen here and there over the yellow beach rising against the deep blue sky. The forts, too, could be made out, though thrown into shade in the centre of the landscape, as the ship, boldly guided by the old seaman to a berth, dropped her anchor. The carpenter had been busily employed all day in constructing a canoe. It was forthwith lowered noiselessly into the water, and Doull and his son stepping into it, paddled away to the shore, keeping, however, as far off as possible from the forts.

“That man can be trusted,” observed Ronald to Glover, though the words implied a doubt of the fact.

“At all events we must trust him, sir,” answered the midshipman; “that is very clear.”

After waiting for some time, and no one appearing from the shore, the boats were lowered without noise into the water, and at once manned. By this time the dim outline of the shores of the bay could alone be seen. Morton took command of one, Glover of another, and the boatswain of the frigate of a third. Sims remained on board in charge of the ship. The Indiaman’s boats followed with a midshipman in each, so that there were six altogether.

There were three forts, and it was arranged that two boats’ crews should simultaneously attack each of them. The oars were muffled, and away the flotilla glided from the side of the big ship, as Glover observed to the midshipman with him, like a brood of new-born serpents sallying from their parents’ side intent on mischief. Not a sound was heard on shore, not a sound either did the boats make as they glided over the smooth surface of the bay. Morton’s mind misgave him. It seemed strange that no people from the shore had come off to the ship.

“Surely they must have seen her even through the gloom,” he said to himself. “Can the Frenchman have left the place, and carried off the prisoners?”