'Sail! I see sail to the south-east! One, no, two cogs.' Ewell steeled himself and rushed to the rail but could see nothing through the driving rain.

'Where? Where?' he shouted back.

'To the south-east, two cogs, full armaments!'

'What designs do they show?' Ewell yelled back, his throat sore at competing with the wind.

'No colours. Two pennants from the masts!' came the reply.

Ewell hoped they were English. Oh, sweet Christ, he did! No longer the thoughts of land and knighthood but his pleasant-faced wife, young daughters and his beloved ship which strained under the wind. He knew, at the bottom of his heart, that the ships were French, sent in pursuit like greyhounds after a startled hare. Ewell stared around in disbelief, every inch of sail had been loosed to catch the wind, two men on the stern manned the huge tiller, the rest were either below or in the rigging awaiting orders. He turned and saw the white, anxious face of his bo'sun and steward, Stephen Appleby. Ewell checked the panic which clutched his own heart and stomach and tried to put a brave face on it.

'Rouse the men, Stephen,' he said quiedy. 'Give them helmets, sallets, cloaks, crossbows and a quiver of quarrels.' Stephen grimaced, nodded and went below, his shouts faint in the roaring wind.

In a while the men stumbled on deck, tired, drawn, white-faced as they fastened their leather jerkins, put on helmets, wrist-guards and desperately tried to keep the cords of their crossbows dry against the cutting rain. Ewell ordered them to their posts on the fighting castles at either end of the ship, as well as into the rigging which ran like snakes up the great central mast. He issued a further spate of orders and two young boys brought sand and salt to strew the slippery docks while another tried to light and heat a small, capped charcoal brazier beneath the mast.