“We might just weather the Start on this course, sir,” prompted Prowse.
Unexpected nausea suddenly welled up in Hornblower, and he moved restlessly as he fought with it. He did not want Prowse to prompt him, and as he swung about he caught sight of Cargill standing by the wheel. It was still Cargill’s watch — that was one more factor to bring Hornblower to a decision, along with Bush’s report and Prowse’s prompting.
“No,” he said. “We’ll put the ship about.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said Prowse, in reluctant agreement.
Hornblower looked towards Cargill, summoning him with a glance; he did not wish to leave the comforting support of the hammock netting.
“Mr Cargill,” said Hornblower. “Let’s see you tack the ship again, now that we’ve altered her trim.”
“Aye aye, sir,” answered Cargill. That was the only thing the poor devil could say in any case, in reply to a direct order. But he was clearly nervous. He went back to the wheel and took the speaking trumpet from its beckets — the freshening wind made that necessary.
“Hands ’bout ship!” he called, and the order was instantly underlined by the calls of the bos’n’s mates and the bellowings of Mr Wise. The hands ran to their stations. Cargill stared round at wind and sea; Hornblower saw him swallow as he nerved himself. Then he gave the order to the wheel; this time it was the fingers of his left hand that drummed upon his thigh, for his right was occupied by the speaking‑trumpet. Hotspur rose to an even keel while sheets and braces were being handled. She was turning — she was turning.
“Let go and haul!” yelled Cargill into the speaking‑trumpet. Hornblower felt he would have waited three or four more seconds before giving that order, but he knew that he might be wrong; not only was sea‑sickness dulling his judgement but, standing as he did, looking aft, he did not have the ‘feel’ of the ship. Events proved that Cargill did, or else was lucky, for Hotspur came on round without hesitation.
“Hard‑a‑lee!” snapped Cargill to the helmsman, and the wheel spun round in a blur of spokes, catching Hotspur at the moment when she was beginning to fall off. A straining group of men hauled out the fore‑tack; others tailed on to the bowlines. Hotspur was on the new tack, having handled as sweetly, apparently, as anyone could ask.
Hornblower walked up to the wheel.
“Does she gripe?” he asked the quartermaster.
The quartermaster eased off the wheel a couple of spokes, squinting up at the leech of the main‑topsail, and then brought her up to the wind again.
“Can’t say that she does, sir,” he decided. “Mebbe she does, a trifle. No, sir, I can’t say that she gripes. Just a touch of weather helm’s all she needs now, sir.”
“That’s as it should be,” said Hornblower. Bush and Prowse had not spoken a word, and there was no need even for a glance to underline the situation, but a word to Cargill would not be out of place. “You can go off watch feeling better pleased with yourself now, Mr Cargill.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said Cargill.
Cargill’s round red face split into a grin. Hotspur rose to a wave, lay over, and Hornblower, taken by surprise, staggered down the deck on to Cargill’s broad chest. Luckily Gargill was a heavyweight and fast of footing; he took the shock without staggering — otherwise he and his captain might have gone reeling across the deck into the scuppers. Hornblower felt a burst of shame. He had no more sea‑legs than the merest landlubber; his envy of Cargill and Bush and Prowse, standing firm and swaying easily with the send of the ship, amounted to positive dislike. And his stomach was about to betray him again. His dignity was in peril, and he summoned up all that was left of it, turning to Bush stiff‑legged and stiff‑necked.
“See that I am called when any alteration of course is necessary, if you please, Mr Bush,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir.”
The deck was heaving, but he knew it was not heaving as much as his distorted mind told him it was. He forced himself somehow to walk aft to his cabin; twice he had to stop and brace himself, and when Hotspur rose to a wave he was nearly made to run — certainly he had to walk faster than a captain should — past the sentry, and he fetched up against the door with some little violence. It was no comfort — in fact it added to his distress — to see that the sentry had a bucket on the deck beside him. He wrenched open the door, hung suspended for a moment as Hotspur completed her pitch, with her stern in the air, and then crashed down groaning on to his cot, his feet dragging on the deck as the cot swung.