Cecil Forester: Hornblower and the Hotspur

“I’d been hoping you’d ask me, sir,” said Bush. “I couldn’t really think you’d want me as a first lieutenant.”

“Nobody I’d like better,” Hornblower had replied.

At this moment he nearly lost his footing as Hotspur heaved up her bows, rolled, and then cocked up her stern in the typical motion of a ship close-hauled. She was out now from the lee of the Wight, meeting the full force of the Channel rollers. Fool that he was! He had almost forgotten about this; on the one or two occasions during the past ten days when the thought of seasickness had occurred to him he had blithely assumed that he had grown out of that weakness in eighteen months on land. He had not thought about it all this morning, being too busy. Now with his first moment of idleness here it came. He had lost his sea-legs—a new roll sent him reeling—and he was going to be sick. He could feel a cold sweat on his skin and the first wave of nausea rising to his throat. There was time for a bitter jest—he had just been congratulating himself on knowing where his next meal was coming from, but now he could be more certain still about where his last meal was going to. Then the sickness struck, horribly.

Now he lay face downward across his cot. He heard the rumble of wheels, and cleared his thoughts sufficiently to make the deduction that, with the guns brought aft, Bush was bringing the gun-carriages aft as well. But he hardly cared. His stomach heaved again and he cared even less. He could think about nothing but his own misery. Now what was that? Someone pounding vigorously on the door, and he realized that the pounding had grown up from an earlier gentle tapping that he had ignored.

“What is it?” he called, croaking.

“Message from the master, sir,” said an unknown voice. “From Mr. Prowse.”

He had to hear what it was. He dragged himself from his cot, and staggered over and dumped himself into his chair, hunching his shoulders over his desk so that his face could not be seen.

“Come in!” he called.

The opening of the door admitted considerably more of the noise that had been more and more insistently making itself heard.

“What is it?” repeated Hornblower, hoping that his attitude indicated deep concentration upon the paper-work of the ship.

“Message from Mr. Prowse, sir,” said a voice that Hornblower could hardly place. “Wind’s freshening an’ hauling forward. Course will have to be altered, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll come.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He certainly would have to come. He stood up, holding on to the desk with one hand while he adjusted his clothes with the other. He braced himself, and then he plunged out on to the quarter-deck. He had forgotten all these things; he had forgotten how fresh the wind blew at sea, how the rigging shrieked in a gust, how the deck heaved under unwary feet. As the stern rose he was hurried forward, struggling vainly to retain his dignity, and just managed to fetch up without disaster against the hammock netting. Prowse came up at once.

“Course is sou’west by south, now, sir,” he said. “I had to let her fall off a couple of points. Wind’s still backing westerly.”

“So I see,” said Hornblower. He looked at sky and sea, making himself think. “How’s the glass?”

“Hardly fallen at all, sir. But it’s going to blow harder before nightfall, sir.”

“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 wind-bound 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.

“No,” he said. “We’ll put the ship about.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Prowse, in reluctant agreement.

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.

“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.”

“That’s as it should be,” said Hornblower. Bush and Prowse had not spoken a word, and there was no need even for a glance to underline the situation, but a word to Cargill would not be out of place. “You can go off watch feeling better pleased with yourself now, Mr. Cargill.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said Cargill.

Cargill’s round red face split into a grin. Hotspur rose to a wave, lay over, and Hornblower, taken by surprise, staggered down the deck on to Cargill’s broad chest. Luckily Gargill was a heavyweight and fast of footing; he took the shock without staggering—otherwise he and his captain might have gone reeling across the deck into the scuppers. Hornblower felt a burst of shame. He had no more sea-legs than the merest landlubber; his envy of Cargill and Bush and Prowse, standing firm and swaying easily with the send of the ship, amounted to positive dislike. And his stomach was about to betray him again. His dignity was in peril, and he summoned up all that was left of it, turning to Bush stiff-legged and stiff-necked.