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'Perhaps you're right.'

Bush appeared at this moment, touching the hat that was now pulled down hard on to his head.

'The guns are shifted aft, sir. The lashings are bowsed up taut.'

'Thank you.'

Hornblower kept his hands on the hammock netting, and his gaze steadily forward, so that, by not turning either to Bush on one side or to Prowse on the other, the whiteness of his landlubber's face might not be noticed. He struggled to picture the chart of the Channel that he had studied so carefully yesterday. There was the twenty-league gap between the Casquets and the Start; an incorrect decision now might keep them windbound for days inside it.

'We might just weather the Start on this course, sir,' prompted Prowse.

Unexpected nausea suddenly welled up in Hornblower, and he moved restlessly as he fought with it. He did not want Prowse to prompt him, and as he swung about he caught sight of Cargill standing by the wheel. It was still Cargill's watch--that was one more factor to bring Hornblower to a decision, along with Bush's report and Prowse's prompting.