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.