They were bunched, more like three ragged lines overlapping each other, and not a well-ordered in-line-ahead. Earlier, Jervis's line had shifted from two cruising lines into one battle-line, crossing the Dons' bows, while they'd come to do battle in three or four columns, as if to bore through in several places at once. But they'd been shot out of that plan-if plan it had been.

They could only fire the guns of those which were nearest, Lewrie grimly decided-only the first six or so! That, unfortunately, seemed to be more than enough to swat Captain away, for it included that four-decker which that moment erupted again in a ragged broadside he could almost count.

He quit when his tally rose over 60-odd guns along her starboard beam-times two equaled a sum too terrible to contemplate. He felt like a headache was coming on.

Yet, like a city-bred terrier too stupid of the consequences of tackling a huge farm animal, Captain opened fire as she neared the middle of that nearest line-of-battle, delivering a well-timed broadside from her 32-pounders and 18-pounders that pummeled her target like an Alpine avalanche of boulders.

Fresh gunfire came, this from Culloden as she cruised up close to the tail of that nearest rank of Spanish ships. Sails were flying loose, puckering to round-shot; t'gallant and royal masts and yards at odd angles as they fell and tangled along the tops'ls and the fighting-top platforms; and timbers and bulwarks screamed, man-sized slivers of oak blown high as their main-course yards from that hopeless pummeling.

"Sir, deck there!" the main-mast lookout shouted down. "They be turnin'! D'ye hear, there! Head o' th' line's turnin' North!"

A fresh broadside from HMS Captain as she stood on, as if she'd pierce through between enemy ships to get at the second line, if that's what it took, hazing and becoming slightly indistinct as she sailed into the sour battle-fog of spent powder.