Morton unsuspectingly followed his guide, but no sooner had he reached the arch, than a body of seamen rushed out of a door close at hand. He was wondering where they were going, when he found himself surrounded by them, and dragged off to a boat lying at a jetty not far off.
He was in the hands of a press-gang. He had no power of making any resistance. He was forced into the boat, which pulled away to a ship-of-war at anchor in the Forth. He explained that he was virtually master of a merchantman, and that the owners would suffer loss should he be detained. He was ordered to exhibit his protection. He had none. His remonstrances were unheeded. He found that with his will, or against his will, he must serve his Majesty. Many other men had been brought on board in the same way that he had been.
“It matters little, if a man does his duty, in what condition of life he is placed; he may be equally happy in one as the other,” he said to himself; “I shall have fewer cares and responsibilities as a man-of-war’s man, than as a master of a ship. Why should I sigh and moan thus over my lot? What can’t be cured must be endured. Yes, sir, I’ll serve his Majesty, and serve him well, I hope,” he exclaimed aloud, turning to the officer who was examining the pressed men.
Rolf Morton kept his word. He was soon known as one of the best men in the ship, and he had not been long on board before he was raised to the rank of a first-class petty officer. He saw much service in various parts of the world. Wherever work was to be done he was foremost in doing it. Had he been younger, he would probably have been placed on the quarterdeck: but he was unambitious, and contented with his lot, though he, at last, was made a warrant officer, and ultimately became boatswain of a dashing frigate, under as gallant a captain as ever took a ship into action.
Chapter Fourteen.
The Fleet at Spithead—Rolf Morton’s Visit to Shetland—Rolf takes Ronald to Sea—The Thisbe and French Frigate—Ronald Morton’s first Battle—The Enemy strikes.
One of the most beautiful sights on the ocean, to the eye of a sailor, is the spectacle presented by a large fleet, when the signal for weighing is seen flying from the flag-ship. The boatswain’s whistle sends its shrill sounds along each deck; the capstan bars are shipped, the merry pipe strikes up, with sturdy tramp round go the men—others of the crew swarm upon the yards, the broad folds of canvas are let fall, and, as if by magic, those vast machines, lately so immovable, now looking like tall pyramids of snow, begin noiselessly to glide over the blue surface of the water.
Such was the sight witnessed by numerous spectators, both on the Isle of Wight shore and that of Portsmouth, when early in the year 1794 one of England’s noble fleets sailed from Spithead. A fine breeze from the northward enabled the ships to be well out round Saint Helen’s, when hauling their tacks aboard they stood down channel under all sail. In the centre were the heavy line-of-battle ships, exhibiting a dense mass of shining canvas; while scattered around on either side were the lighter frigates, like skirmishers on the field of battle feeling the way for the main body of the army. Among the fastest, the finest, and most dashing of the latter craft, was the thirty-eight gun frigate “Thisbe.”