The seaman made shift for him and Drinkwater looked around. The blue circle of the sea was broken by some two hundred odd white specks as the armada sailed south. In that direction, below the horizon, the advanced frigates reconnoitred. Behind them in three divisions came the dark hulls of the ships of the line, a few of them wearing the yellow gunstrakes that would soon become uniform. In the centre of the middle column Sandwich carried Admiral Rodney, the man responsible for all this puissance. Behind the battleships a couple of cutters and a schooner, tenders to the fleet, followed like dogs in the wake of their master. Then in a great mass came the convoy of troopships, storeships, cargo vessels with an escort of four frigates and two sloops of war. Cyclops's station on the inshore bow of the convoy made her the nearest frigate to the rear division of battleships and the most advanced ship of the convoy itself.

From his elevated position Drinkwater looked out to larboard. Eight or nine leagues distant, slightly dun coloured in the westering sun, the coast of Portugal was clearly visible. His eyes raked over the horizon casually and he was about to descend to the deck when his attention was caught by an irregularity. A small speck of white almost abeam of them was set against the backdrop of the coast. He nudged the seaman and pointed.

'Sail, sir,' the man responded matter-of-factly.

'Yes — I'll hail,' then in as manly a voice as he could muster: 'Deck there!'

Faintly the voice of Keene, the third lieutenant came back, 'Aye, aye?'

'Sail eight points to larboard!' Drinkwater reached for the backstay and began his spectacular hand over hand descent. In the excitement of the strange sail nobody noticed him.