“Can I have a couple of hands to carry my seachest down?” he asked, hoping that the words did not sound nearly as stilted to the captain as they did to his own ears.

“Of course, Mr. Bush,” said Hornblower, with a formidable formality. “See to it, if you please, Mr. James.”

“Ha!” snorted the captain, and disappeared once more down the companion.

Hornblower flicked one eyebrow at Bush, but that was the only indication he gave, even then, of any recognition that the captain’s actions were at all unusual, and Bush, as he followed his seachest down to his cabin, realised with dismay that this was a ship where no one ventured on any decisive expression of opinion. But the Renown was completing for sea, amid all the attendant bustle and confusion, and Bush was on board, legally one of her officers, and there was nothing he could do except reconcile himself philosophically to his fate. He would have to live through this commission, unless any of the possibilities catalogued by Hornblower in their first conversation should save him the trouble.

Chapter II

HMS Renown was clawing her way southward under reefed topsails, a westerly wind laying her over as she thrashed along, heading for those latitudes where she would pick up the northeast trade wind and be able to run direct to her destination in the West Indies. The wind sang in the taut weather-rigging, and blustered around Bush’s ears as he stood on the starboard side of the quarterdeck, balancing to the roll as the roaring wind sent one massive grey wave after another hurrying at the ship; the starboard bow received the wave first, beginning a leisurely climb, heaving the bowsprit up towards the sky, but before the pitch was in any way completed the ship began her roll, heaving slowly over, slowly, slowly, while the bowsprit rose still more steeply.