To the seas presentlye went our lord admiral,
  With knights couragious and captains full good;
  The brave Earl of Essex, a prosperous general,
  With him prepared to pass the salt flood.

  At Plymouth speedilye took they ship valiantlye,
  Braver ships never were seen under sayle,
  With their fair colours spread, and streamers o’er their head: 
  Now, bragging foemen, take heed of your tayle. 
  OLD BALLAD, 1596.

Many and various were the questions that were put by our little hero to Adams and others, relative to the fate of his parents.  That they were both dead was all the information that he could obtain; for, to the honour of human nature, there was not one man in a ship’s company composed of several hundred, who had the cruelty to tell the child that his father had been hanged.  It may, at first, appear strange to the reader, that the child himself was not aware of the fact, from what he had witnessed on the morning of execution; but it must be recollected that he had never seen an execution before, and had therefore nothing from which to draw such an inference.  All he knew was, that his father was on the quarter-deck, with a night-cap on, and that he told him that he was going to sleep.  The death of his mother, whose body he was not permitted to see, was quite as unintelligible, and the mystery which enveloped the whole transaction added no little to the bereavement of the child, who, as I have before stated, from his natural talent and peculiar education was far more reflective and advanced than children usually are.

Adams returned to his little charge with pleasure:  he had now a right to adopt the child, and consider him as his own.  In the ship, the boy was such an object of general sympathy, that not only many of the men, but some of the officers, would gladly have taken him, and have brought him up.  The name of his father was, by general consent, never mentioned, especially as Adams informed the officers and men that Peters had been a “purser’s name,” adopted by the child’s father, and that, although the clergyman had stated this, he had not intrusted him with the real name that the child was entitled to bear.  As, therefore, our little hero was not only without parents, but without name, he was re-christened by Adams by the cognomen of the “King’s Own,” and by that title, or his Christian name, Willy, was ever afterwards addressed, both by officers and men.

There is an elasticity supplied to the human mind by unerring Wisdom, that enables us, however broken down by the pressure of misfortune, to recover our cheerfulness after a while, and resign ourselves to the decrees of Heaven.  It consoles the widow ­it supports the bereaved lover, who had long dwelt upon anticipated bliss ­it almost reconciles to her lot the fond and forsaken girl, whose heart is breaking.

Unusually oppressed as Willy was, with the loss of those to whom he had so fondly clung from his birth, in a few months he recovered his wonted spirits, and his cheeks again played with dimples, as his flashing eye beamed from under his long eyelashes.  He attached himself to the old quarter-master, and seldom quitted him ­he slept in his hammock, he stood by his side when he was on deck, at his duty, steering the ship, and he listened to the stories of the good old man, who soon taught him to read and write.  For three years thus passed his life; at the end of which period he had arrived at the age of nine years.

After a long monotony of blockade service, the ship was ordered to hoist the flag of a commodore, who was appointed to the command of an expedition against the western coast of France, to create a diversion in favour of the Vendean chiefs.  Captain A –­, whether it was that he did not like to receive a superior officer on board of his ship, or that he did not admire the service upon which she was to be employed, obtained permission to leave his ship for a few months, for the restoration of his health, to the great joy of the officers and crew; and an acting captain of well-known merit, was appointed in his stead.

The squadron of men-of-war and transports was collected, the commodore’s flag hoisted, and the expedition sailed with most secret orders, which, as usual, were as well known to the enemy, and everybody in England, as they were to those by whom they were given.  It is the characteristic of our nation, that we scorn to take any unfair advantage, or reap any benefit, by keeping our intentions a secret.  We imitate the conduct of that English tar, who, having entered a fort, and meeting a Spanish officer without his sword, being providentially supplied with two cut-lasses himself, immediately offered him one, that they might engage on fair terms.

The idea is generous, but not wise.  But I rather imagine that this want of secrecy arises from all matters of importance being arranged by cabinet councils.  In the multitude of counsellors there may be wisdom, but there certainly is not secrecy.  Twenty men have probably twenty wives, and it is therefore twenty to one but the secret transpires through that channel.  Further, twenty men have twenty tongues; and much as we complain of women not keeping secrets, I suspect that men deserve the odium of the charge quite as much, if not more, than women do.  On the whole, it is forty to one against secrecy, which, it must be acknowledged, are long odds.

On the arrival of the squadron at the point of attack, a few more days were thrown away, ­probably upon the same generous principle of allowing the enemy sufficient time for preparation.  Troops had been embarked, with the intention of landing them, to make a simultaneous attack with the shipping.  Combined expeditions are invariably attended with delay, if not with disagreement.  An officer commanding troops, who if once landed, would be as decided in his movements as Lord Wellington himself, does not display the same decision when out of his own element.  From his peculiar situation on board, ­his officers and men distributed in different ships, ­the apparent difficulties of debarkation, easily remedied, and despised by sailors, but magnified by landsmen, ­from the great responsibility naturally felt in a situation where he must trust to the resources of others, and where his own, however great, cannot be called into action, ­he will not decide without much demur upon the steps to be taken; although it generally happens, that the advice originally offered by the naval commandant has been acceded to.  Unless the military force required is very large, marines should invariably be employed, and placed under the direction of the naval commander.

After three or four days of pros and cons, the enemy had completed his last battery, and as there was then no rational excuse left for longer delay, the debarkation took place, without any serious loss on our side, except that of one launch, full of the –­ regiment, which was cut in halves by the enemy’s shot.  The soldiers, as they sank in the water, obeyed the orders of the sergeant, and held up their cartouch-boxes, that they might not be wetted two seconds sooner than necessary, ­held fast their muskets, ­and, without stirring from the gunnels of the boat, round which they had been stationed, went down in as good order as could be expected, each man at his post, with his bayonet fixed.  The sailors, not being either so heavily caparisoned or so well drilled, were guilty of a sauve qui peut, and were picked up by other boats.  The officer of the regiment stuck to his men, and it is to be hoped that he marched the whole of his brave detachment to heaven, as he often had before to church.  But we must leave the troops to form on the beach as well as they can, and the enemy’s shot will permit, and retire on board.

The commodore’s arrangement had been punctually complied with.  The ships that were directed to cover the landing of the troops, knocked down many of the enemy, and not a great many more of our own men.  The stations of the other ships were taken with a precision deserving of the highest encomiums; and there is no doubt, that, had not the enemy had the advantage of stone walls, they must have had the worst of it, and would have been well beaten.

The commodore himself, of course, took the post of honour.  Anchored with springs on his cables, he alternately engaged a heavy battery on his starboard bows, a much heavier, backed by a citadel, throwing shells, on his beam, and a masked battery on his quarter, which he had not reckoned upon.  The latter was rather annoying, and the citadel threw shells with most disagreeable precision.  He had almost as much to do as Lord Exmouth at Algiers, although the result was not so fortunate.

A ship engaging at anchor, with very little wind, and that wind lulled by the percussion of the air from the report of the guns, as it always is, has the disadvantage of not being able to disengage herself of the smoke, which rapidly accumulates and stagnates as it were between the decks.  Under these circumstances you repeatedly hear the order passed upon the main and lower deck of a line-of-battle ship, to point the guns two points abaft the beam, point-blank, and so on.  In fact, they are as much in the dark as to the external objects, as if they were blindfolded; and the only comfort to be derived from this serious inconvenience, is, that every man is so isolated from his neighbour that he is not put in mind of his own danger by witnessing the death of those around him, for they may fall three or four feet from him without his perceiving it: ­so they continued to fire as directed, until they are either sent down to the cock-pit themselves, or have a momentary respite from their exertions, when, choked with smoke and gunpowder, they go aft to the scuttle-butt, to remove their parching thirst.  So much for the lower and main deck.  We will now ascend to the quarter-deck, where we shall find old Adams at the conn, and little Willy standing behind him.

The smoke is not so thick here, but that you may perceive the commodore on the poop, walking a step or two to star-board, and then turning short round to port.  He is looking anxiously through his glass at the position of the troops, who are ashore to storm the batteries, hoping to see a diversion in our favour made by them, as the affair becomes serious.  By a singular coincidence, the commandant of the troops on shore is, with his telescope, looking anxiously at the shipping, hoping the same thing from the exertions of the navy.  The captain of marines lies dead upon the poop; both his legs have been shot off by a spent shot ­he is left there, as no surgeon can help him; and there are two signalmen lying dead alongside him.

On the hammock-nettings of the quarter-deck stands the acting captain of the ship, erect, and proud in bearing, with an eye of defiance and scorn as he turns towards the enemy.  His advice was disregarded; but he does his duty proudly and cheerfully.  He is as cool and unconcerned as if he were watching the flying fish as they rise from the bows of the ship, when running down the tropics, instead of the enemy’s shot, as they splash in the water alongside, or tear open the timbers of the vessel, and the bodies of his crew.  The men still ply their half-manned guns; but they are exhausted with fatigue, and the bloody deck proves that many have been dismissed from their duty.  The first-lieutenant is missing; you will find him in the cock-pit ­they have just finished taking up the arteries of his right arm, which has been amputated; and the Scotch surgeon’s assistant, who for many months bewailed the want of practice, and who, for having openly expressed his wishes on that subject, had received a sound thrashing from the exasperated midshipmen, is now complimenting the fainting man upon the excellent stump that they have made for him:  while fifty others, dying or wounded, with as much variety as Homer’s heroes, whose blood, trickling from them in several rivulets, pours into one general lake at the lowest level of the deck, are anxiously waiting their turn, and distract the purser’s steward by their loud calls, in every direction at the same time for the tin-pot of water, with which he is relieving their agonising thirst.

A large shark is under the counter; he is so gorged with human flesh, that he can scarcely move his tail in the tinged water; and he now hears the sullen plunges of the bodies, as they are launched through the lower-deck port, with perfect indifference.  “Oh! what a glorious thing’s a battle!”

But to return to our particular narrative.  As we mentioned before, the citadel threw shells with remarkable precision, and every man who had been killed on the quarter-deck of the commodore’s ship, towards which the attention of the enemy was particularly directed, had been laid low by these horrible engines of modern warfare.  The action still continued, although the fire on both sides had evidently slackened, and the commodore’s glass had at several intervals been fruitlessly directed towards the troops on shore, when accident brought about a change in favour of our countrymen.  Through some unknown cause, the magazine of the enemy’s largest battery exploded, and buried the fabric with its tenants in one mass of ruin.  The enemy were panic-struck with their misfortune ­our troops and sailors inspired with fresh courage ­and the fire was recommenced with three cheers and redoubled vigour.  The troops pushed on, and succeeded in taking possession of the masked battery, which had so long and so effectually raked the commodore.

A few minutes after this had occurred, the citadel recommenced its fire, and a shell, descending with that terrific hissing peculiar to itself alone, struck the main-bitts on the quarter deck, and, rolling aft, exploded.  Its fragments scattered death around, and one piece took the hat off the head of little Willy, who was standing before Adams, and then buried itself in the old man’s side.  He staggered forward, and fell on the coils of rope, near the companion-hatch; and when the men came to assist him below, the pain of moving was so intense, that he requested to be left where he was, that he might quietly breathe his last.

Willy sat down beside his old friend, holding his hand. ­“A little water, boy ­quick, quick!” It was soon procured by the active and affectionate child; who, indifferent to the scene around him, thought only of administering to the wants, and alleviating the misfortune, of his dearest friend.  Adams, after he had drunk, turned his head round, apparently revived, and said, in a low and catching voice, as if his powers were fast escaping, “Willy, your father’s name was not Peters ­I do not know what it was; but there is a person who does, and who takes an interest in your welfare ­he lives in ­”

At this moment another shell bounded through the rigging, and fell within a few feet of the spot where Willy and old Adams were speaking.  Willy, who was seated on a coil of rope, supporting the head of his benefactor, no sooner perceived the shell as it rolled towards the side, with its fuse pouring out a volume of smoke, than, recollecting the effects of the former explosion, rather than the danger of the attempt; he ran towards it, and not being able to lift it, sank down on his knees, and, with astonishing agility, succeeded in rolling it overboard, out of the larboard entering-port, to which it was near.  The shell plunged into the water, and, before it had descended many feet, exploded with a concussion that was communicated to the ship fore and aft.  Our hero then resumed his station by the side of Adams, who had witnessed what had taken place.

“You have begun well, my boy,” said the old man, faintly.  “There’s ne’er a man in the ship would have done it.  Kiss me, boy.”

The child leaned over the old man, and kissed his cheek, clammy with the dews of death.  Adams turned a little on one side, uttered a low groan, and expired.