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Off Jester's lee bow, down to the Sou'east, there were about eight or nine Spanish ships of the line, with accompanying frigates, and coming up slowly to merge with another pack. And that pack, Good God! Seventeen, at the last, tall-sided, ugly brutes there were; two-decker 68's, 74's and 80-gunners; some of them 3-deckers, and one monstrous 4-decker flying more admiral's flags than sail-canvas, it seemed. And so stuffed with guns that every time she lit off a broadside, it looked like a mountain blowing up!
"I can make out, sir..." Lt. Ralph Knolles attempted to say, as he took off his hat and swiped both forearms of his coat at his hair and brows. A bad sign, that; usually, one nervous hand over his blonde locks was sufficient sign of nervousness.
"Aye, Mister Knolles?" Commander Alan Lewrie replied, sounding almost calm in comparison.
"Beyond, sir." Knolles pointed towards the Spanish fleet. "It may not be a convoy. About eight or nine more rather large ships over yonder...to the West-Nor'west. Do they all assemble, sir...Well!"
"Two-deckers, d'ye think, sir? Lewrie frowned, stepping to the starboard side of his quarterdeck, leaning on the bulwarks, and raising his telescope for a look-see.
"Cah-rrisstt!" Was Lewrie's sudden, un-captainly comment. And a rather loud comment it was, too.
In his telescope's ocular, he'd just discovered the fore-end of a ship of the line which wasn't crossing right-to-left, sailing obediently in the battle-line. He was looking at the beak-head and figure-head, the cutwater and frothing bow-wave below an out-thrust bowsprit and jib-boom of a warship - pointing right at him!
