The Convict Ship, Volume 1 (of 3)Russell, William Clark
General
The Convict Ship, Volume 1 (of 3)
Russell, William Clark
Convict ships -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
‘We shall be able to score one good point,’ said he. ‘The mate
Rotch, some five or six years ago, quarrelled with your sweetheart
Tom, at Valparaiso. Butler was then mate of a ship. They met at a
fandango. Rotch insulted a young lady Butler had been dancing with
and had previously known. Your sweetheart took him by the throat and
backed him out of the room, half suffocated and black in the face.
Strangely enough, two years later, Butler found himself master of a
small Indiaman, called the _Chanticleer_, with this same man Rotch as
second mate under him. The mate of the _Chanticleer_ complained much
of Rotch’s insolence. One night, when in Soundings, homeward bound,
Butler found Rotch sleeping in his watch, with a dozen ships looming
dark all round. This was extraordinary. Butler reported his conduct to
the owners of the _Chanticleer_, and the man lost his berth. But on
your sweetheart learning that Rotch had been married shortly before
sailing, and that a child had been born to him during his absence at
sea, he went to work to procure his reinstatement or to obtain another
situation for him, and was successful. There may be other motives; but
here is a point that must go far to confirm Butler’s declaration that
he is the victim of a conspiracy.’
I listened greedily. I kept my eyes, smarting and burning, fastened
upon my uncle’s face.
‘What is scuttling a ship?’ I asked.
‘Did I not explain? It is boring a hole in her so that she may sink.’
‘Who says that Tom bored a hole in his ship?’
‘Rotch and Nodder and two seamen.’
‘Did they see him bore the hole?’
‘They affirm that they saw the holes which he had bored, and discovered
a tree-nail auger in his cabin.’
‘Oh, he would not do it!’ I cried. ‘It is a lie! He is innocent!’
Here my aunt advised me to go to bed, and said that she herself could
sit up no longer. But I detained my uncle for another half hour with
many feverish, impassioned questions, before I could force myself from
the room, and a church bell struck one through the stillness of the
snowing night as I went to the bedroom that had been prepared for me.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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