“Course is sou’west by west, half west, sir,” he said. “When we tack we may just be able to make that good, close-hauled.”

“Thank you, Mr. Prowse. You may mark it on the board.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Prowse was pleased at this mark of confidence. He naturally had no idea that Hornblower, revolving in his mind, yesterday afternoon, all the responsibilities he would be carrying on the morrow, had made the same calculation to reach the same result. The green hills of the Isle of Wight were momentarily touched by a watery and level sun.

“There’s the buoy, sir,” said Prowse.

“Thank you. Mr. Cargill! Tack the ship, if you please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower withdrew aft. He wanted not merely to observe how Cargill handled the ship, but also how Hotspur behaved. When war should come it was not a mere possibility, but a definite probability, that success or failure, freedom or captivity, might hinge on how Hotspur went about, how handy she was in stays.

Cargill was a man of thirty, red-faced and corpulent in advance of his years; he was obviously trying hard to forget that he was under the simultaneous scrutiny of the captain, the first lieutenant, and the sailing master, as he applied himself to the manoeuvre. He stood beside the wheel looking warily up at the sails and aft at the wake. Hornblower watched Cargill’s right hand, down by his thigh, opening and shutting. That might be a symptom of nervousness or a mere habitual gesture of calculation. The watch on deck were all at their stations. So far the men were all unknown faces to Hornblower; it would be profitable to devote some of his attention to the study of their reactions as well.

Cargill obviously braced himself for action and then gave his preliminary order to the wheel.

“Helm’s alee!” he bellowed, but not a very effective bellow, for his voice cracked half-way.