“’Vast hauling there! ‘Vast hauling!”
There was a piercing urgency about the order, and obediently the men ceased to pull. Then the captain bellowed from the poop:
“Who’s that countermanding my orders?”
“It’s me, sir—Wellard.”
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.”