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

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Rolf Morton’s Expedition—Watches the corvette—Hilda’s marriage discussed—The storm—A ship seen driving towards shore.

After Rolf Morton had left the “Saint Cecilia,” and was steering for Yell Sound, he recollected that a long time had passed since he had paid a visit to an old friend, who had been Captain Scarsdale’s first mate on several voyages, but who had now retired from sea life, and settled at Hillswick, in the southern part of that peculiarly shaped peninsula of Shetland, called North Maven. There were two ways of getting there. The most speedy was to haul up to the southward at once, and to steer for Saint Magnus’s Bay, so as to round the southern point of North Maven, called Esha Ness; but then, when he wished to return to Whalsey, he would have had to retrace his course along the whole western coast of the peninsula before he could enter Yell Sound. Should the weather continue fine, this would be of little consequence; but in bad weather the voyage would be one of great danger, as standing out as do its lofty cliffs, to brave the whole roll of the Western Ocean, on no part of the coast does the sea break with more terrific fury. The other course was to run up Yell Sound as he had intended; but, instead of passing through it, to land on the southern shore, in one of the many small voes or inlets, to be found there, so that a walk of a mile or so would enable him to reach the house of his friend Angus Maitland. Before determining what to do, he cast his eye seaward round the horizon. The low bank of clouds he there observed, just rising, as it were, out of the water, made him keep the boat on the course he had before been steering. Before many minutes had passed the increasing wind showed the wisdom of his determination. Away bounded the boat over the rising seas; but no sooner had she entered the Sound than she glided smoothly along over its calm water, and soon reached the point where Morton proposed landing. All the crew, however, had some excuse for visiting Hillswick. Angus Maitland’s abode was known for its hospitality, and no one ever came there who did not receive a hearty welcome, and the best accommodation he could afford, suited to their rank and position. The boat was left securely moored in a little voe, where not the fiercest of storms from without could reach her.

Honesty is a characteristic of the Shetlanders, and Morton and his crew knew well that should she by chance be discovered, not a rope-yarn would be taken away. A high heather-covered hill lay between the spot where they landed and Hillswick. Morton stopped when he reached the top, and took a glance along the whole western horizon, which lay open to view. The corvette was already hull down, standing on close-hauled to the southward of west, in which direction the bank of clouds he had before remarked had greatly increased in height and denseness.

“She is making a good offing, and the Spaniards will have reason enough to be glad they have done so,” observed Morton. “The squall brewing out there will be down upon them before long, hot and strong; but if they heave the ship to at once, it will have blown itself out before they have time to drift back near enough to our coast to come to any harm.”

The men assented to the correctness of Morton’s remark. Perhaps they did not as warmly wish for the safety of the corvette as he did. Formerly, probably, they would have prayed that Providence would mercifully drive her back, and wreck her in some convenient spot among the rocks, where, though the crew might be lost, whatever was of value in her might be cast on shore for the benefit of the people.

Angus Maitland spied Morton coming down the hill, and, his portly figure clad in a suit of grey shepherd’s plaid, and a stout stick in his hand, he sallied forth to meet him. His greeting was warm and hearty.

“Come along, Rolf—come along, man; now I’ve got you I’ll keep you,” he exclaimed, when Morton had told him how it was he had come to North Maven. “Your guid wife will spare ye for a day, and she’ll guess that you would not pass within hail of our shores without coming to see me.”

Morton, however, urged that Bertha was not aware that he had come round to the west coast; that she would be expecting him, and would be anxious if he did not appear.

“Stay, though,” exclaimed his host. “There is Sandy McNab will be crossing the mainland with his pack, and he will send over a message for you to Whalsey; there will be no lack of opportunities.”

Morton promised to stay away this night, should he be able to send a message to his wife, to the effect that he was doing so. Sandy McNab, the packman, was found on the point of starting, with his two half-starved shelties, scarcely the size of ordinary donkeys, but with wonderful strength of limb and power of endurance. He undertook that Morton’s note to his wife should be delivered without fail; and this matter being settled, Rolf, in no way loath, accepted his friend’s invitation. There was good cheer for all hands, though dried fish, oat-cakes, and whisky formed the staple articles of the feast.