The young volunteer faced aft and screamed into the wind to make himself heard. From his station aft Bush saw the captain advance to the poop rail; Bush could see he was shaking with rage, his nose pointing forward as though seeking a victim.

“You’ll be sorry, Mr. Wellard. Oh yes, you’ll be sorry.”

Hornblower now made his appearance at Wellard’s side. He was green with seasickness, as he had been ever since the Renown left Plymouth Sound.

“There’s a reef point caught in the reef tackle block, sir—weather side,” he hailed, and Bush, shifting his position, could see that this was so; if the men had continued to haul on the tackle, damage to the sail might easily have followed.

“What d’you mean by coming between me and a man who disobeys me?” shouted the captain. “It’s useless to try to screen him.”

“This is my station, sir,” replied Hornblower. “Mr. Wellard was doing his duty.”

“Conspiracy!” replied the captain. “You two are in collusion!”

In the face of such an impossible statement Hornblower could only stand still, his white face turned towards the captain.

“You go below, Mr. Wellard,” roared the captain, when it was apparent that no reply would be forthcoming, “and you too, Mr. Hornblower. I’ll deal with you in a few minutes. You hear me? Go below! I’ll teach you to conspire.”

It was a direct order, and had to be obeyed. Hornblower and Wellard walked slowly aft: it was obvious that Hornblower was rigidly refraining from exchanging a glance with the midshipman, lest a fresh accusation of conspiracy should be hurled at him. They went below while the captain watched them. As they disappeared down the companion the captain raised his big nose again.

“Send a hand to clear that reef tackle!” he ordered, in a tone as nearly normal as the wind permitted. “Haul away!”

The topsails had their second reef, and the men began to lay in off the yards. The captain stood by the poop rail looking over the ship as normal as any man could be expected to be.