'Three or four leagues, sir,' answered the old man after a moment's consideration.

'Very well. Post a mate forward on the fore t'gallant yard. I want to know the instant that shoal is sighted.'

A master's mate went forward. On his way aloft he passed Drinkwater who stopped him with a question.

'Old man's worried about the shoals to looard,' the mate informed him.

'Oh!' said Drinkwater looking ahead of the frigate. But all he could see was a tumbling waste of black and silver water as clouds crossed the moon, the spume smoking off the wave crests as they tumbled down wind.

A squealing of gun trucks told where the men of the larboard gun battery were hand-spiking their carriages round to bear on the enemy. The Spanish frigate was ahead of Cyclops but when the British ship drew abeam they would be about two cables distant.

'Make ready!'

The order was passed along the dark gun-deck. In his foretop Drinkwater checked the swivel. Under the foot of the topsail he could see the high Spanish poop. Tregembo swung the swivel gun round and pointed it at where he judged the Spanish officers would be. The other seamen cocked their muskets and drew beads on the enemy's mizen top where they knew Spanish soldiers would be aiming at their own officers.

The Spanish frigate was only two points forward of Cyclops's beam. In the darkness of the gun-deck Lieutenant Keene, commanding the larboard battery of twelve-pounders, looked along the barrel of his aftermost gun. When it bore on the enemy's stern his entire broadside would be aimed at the frigate.

A midshipman dodged up to him touching his hat. 'Captain's compliments, sir, and you may open fire when your guns bear.' Keene acknowledged and looked along the deck. Accustomed to the gloom he could see the long line of cannon, lit here and there by lanterns. The men were crouched round their pieces tensely awaiting the order to open fire. The gun captains looked his way expectantly, each grasping his linstock. Every gun was shotted canister on ball…