HMS Jester-sloop of war, 18-still served.

Though again, to her captain's mind (and a rather chary mind it was at that moment, thankee!) being on the lee-side didn't particularly mean the "safe" side of the battle-line. Off Jester's lee bow, down to the Sou'east, there were about eight or nine Spanish ships of the line, with accompanying frigates, and coming up slowly to merge with another pack. And that pack, good God! Seventeen, at the least, tall-sided, ugly brutes they were: two-decker 68s, 74s, and 80-gunners; some of them three-deckers, and one monstrous four-decker flying more admiral's flags than sail-canvas it seemed. And so stuffed with guns that every time she lit off a broadside, it looked like a mountain blowing up!

And here they were, curling about into a rough Vee, sandwiched like a forlorn nut between two arms of a nutcracker, fifteen warships of Admiral Sir John Jervis's fleet-formerly the Mediterranean Fleet before they'd been run out of that sea the previous summer-all just about as bad off as Jester in material condition when you got right down to it, yet blithely standing into danger as though they were about as fresh as new-picked daisies. Or as belligerent as a rutting bulldog!

With their artillery crashing and bellowing, making that thunder… sending shock waves through the sea.

"I can make out, sir…" Lieutenant Ralph Knolles attempted to say, as he took off his hat and swiped both forearms of his coat at his hair and brows. A bad sign that; usually, one nervous hand over his blond locks was sufficient sign of worry.

"Aye, Mister Knolles?" Commander Alan Lewrie replied, sounding almost calm in comparison.

"Beyond, sir." Knolles pointed towards the Spanish Fleet. "It may not be a convoy. About eight or nine more rather large ships over yonder… to the West-Nor'west. Do they all assemble, sir… well!"