"Daft little bugger," Lewrie whispered in appreciation. "There's method to his madness, aye… Still mad as a hatter though."
"It's…!" Knolles gulped, as if witnessing the Second Coming.
"A cheer for Captain, lads!" Lewrie bade in a quarterdeck roar, "… a cheer for Commodore Nelson… he's showing us the way!"
His crew obeyed gladly, sure they were witness to one of those rare miracles, whooping and tossing their hats into the air and overside, no matter the cost of replacements that their Purser, Mr. Giles, would dun them for once soberer heads prevailed.
Lewrie looked astern again for aid. Several other vessels had taken Nelson's cue; for here came Blenheim of 98 guns, Prince George of 98, with Ocean and Irresistible in their wakes to re-enforce the insanity; still out of gun-range, far astern of Culloden but spreading more sail, letting fall their powerful courses, which were usually brailed up during battle to prevent accidental fires from the discharges from their own guns. And HMS Victory-Old Jarvy's flagship-was in the process of wheeling about, tacking ponderously slow but sure, exposing her tall, bluff sides. Would those powerful ships arrive soon enough though, Lewrie fretted? Turning back to look at Captain, Lewrie could see her snuggling up close to a large Spanish two-decker, guns ablaze and ripping pieces off her with every shot. Taking fire too, taking damage but shrugging it off. The Spanish ships weren't firing quickly, none of them-nothing like three broadsides in less than two minutes.