Now he lay face downward across his cot. He heard the rumble of wheels, and cleared his thoughts sufficiently to make the deduction that, with the guns brought aft, Bush was bringing the gun-carriages aft as well. But he hardly cared. His stomach heaved again and he cared even less. He could think about nothing but his own misery. Now what was that? Someone pounding vigorously on the door, and he realized that the pounding had grown up from an earlier gentle tapping that he had ignored.
“What is it?” he called, croaking.
“Message from the master, sir,” said an unknown voice. “From Mr. Prowse.”
He had to hear what it was. He dragged himself from his cot, and staggered over and dumped himself into his chair, hunching his shoulders over his desk so that his face could not be seen.
“Come in!” he called.
The opening of the door admitted considerably more of the noise that had been more and more insistently making itself heard.
“What is it?” repeated Hornblower, hoping that his attitude indicated deep concentration upon the paper-work of the ship.
“Message from Mr. Prowse, sir,” said a voice that Hornblower could hardly place. “Wind’s freshening an’ hauling forward. Course will have to be altered, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll come.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He certainly would have to come. He stood up, holding on to the desk with one hand while he adjusted his clothes with the other. He braced himself, and then he plunged out on to the quarter-deck. He had forgotten all these things; he had forgotten how fresh the wind blew at sea, how the rigging shrieked in a gust, how the deck heaved under unwary feet. As the stern rose he was hurried forward, struggling vainly to retain his dignity, and just managed to fetch up without disaster against the hammock netting. Prowse came up at once.