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'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 maintopsail, and then brought her up to the wind again.

'Can't say that she does, sir,' he decided. 'Mebbe she does, a trifle. No, sir, I can't say that she gripes. Just a touch of weather helm's all she needs now, sir.'