Lieutenant Richard White had the morning watch aboard Victory. Flying the flag of Earl St Vincent the great three decker stood north west under easy sail, the rest of the blockading squadron in line ahead and astern of her. To the east the mole and lighthouse of Cadiz were pale in the sunshine but White's glass was trained ahead to where a cutter was flying the signal for sails in sight to the north.

A small midshipman ran up to him. 'Looks like the convoy, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Lee. Have the kindness to inform His Lordship and the Captain.' Mr Lee was ten years old and had endeared himself to Lieutenant White by being the only officer aboard Victory shorter than himself. Instinctively White looked round the deck, checking that every rope was in its place, every man at his station and every sail drawing to perfection before St Vincent's eagle eye drew his attention to it.

'Good morning, my lord,' said White, vacating the windward side of the deck and doffing his hat as the admiral ascended to the poop for a better view of the newcomers. 'Good morning sir,' responded the admiral with the unfailing courtesy that made his blasts of admonition the more terrible.

Captain Grey and Sir Robert Calder, Captain of the Fleet also came on deck, followed by Victory's first lieutenant and several other officers, for any arrival from England brought news; letters and gossip to break the tedium of blockade.

They could see the convoy now, six storeships under the escort of a brig from whose masthead a string of bunting broke out. In White's ear Mr Lee squeaked the numerals followed by a pause while he hunted in the lists. 'Brig-sloop Hellebore, sir, but newly commissioned under Commander Griffiths.'

'Thank you, Mr Lee. Brig Hellebore, Captain Griffiths, my lord, with convoy'