But another possibility was present in Hornblower’s mind, and he turned upon the steward.

“There were green coconuts for the use of the cabin,” he said. “Were there any left?”

“Yes, sir. Four or five dozen.” The man could hardly speak, with thirst, or weakness, or excitement.

“In the lazarette?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In a sack?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come along,” said Hornblower.

Coconuts floated as lightly as coir, and were more watertight than any cask.

They pried up the after-hatch cover, and looked down at the heaving water below. There was no cargo there; the bulkhead had stood the strain. The distance down to the surface corresponded to the three-foot freeboard remaining to Pretty Jane. There were things to be seen there—almost at once a wooden piggin came floating into sight, and the surface was nearly covered with fragments. Then something else floated into view—a coconut. Apparently the sack had not been fastened—Hornblower had hoped he might find a whole sackful floating there. He leaned far down and scooped it up. As he rose to his feet again with the thing in his hand there was a simultaneous wordless croak from the whole group; a dozen hands stretched out for it, and Hornblower realised that he must maintain order.

“Stand back!” he said, and when the men still advanced on him he pulled out his sheath knife.

“Stand back! I’ll kill the first man to lay a hand on me!” he said. He knew himself to be snarling like a wild beast, his teeth bared with the intensity of his feeling, and he knew that he would stand no chance in fight, one against nine.

“Come now, lads,” he said. “We’ll have to make these last. We’ll ration ‘em out. Fair divs all round. See how many more you can find.”

The force of his personality asserted itself; so did what remained of the common sense of the crew, and they drew back. Soon three men were kneeling round the hatchway, with the others leaning precariously over them to look over their shoulders.

“There’s one!” croaked a voice.

An arm went down and a coconut was scooped up.

“Give it here,” said Hornblower, and he was obeyed without question; another was already visible, and another after that. They began to pile up at Hornblower’s feet, a dozen, fifteen, twenty, twenty-three of the precious things, before they ceased to appear further.

“With luck we’ll find some more later,” said Hornblower. He looked round the group, and over at Barbara huddled at the foot of the mainmast. “Eleven of us. Half a one each for today. Another half each tomorrow. And I’ll go without for today.”

No one questioned his decision—partly, perhaps, because they were all too anxious to wet their lips. The first coconut was chopped open at the end, with desperate care lest a drop be spilt, and the first man took a drink. There was no chance at all of his drinking more than his half, with everyone grouped round him, and the man destined for the other half snatching it from his lips at every sip to see how far down the surface had sunk. The men forced to wait were wild with eagerness, but they had to wait all the same. Hornblower could not trust them to make a division without fighting or waste unless he was supervising. After the last man had drunk he took the remaining half over to Barbara.

“Drink this, dear,” he said, as at the touch of his hand she blinked awake from her heavy doze.”

She drank eagerly before she took the nut from her lips.

“You’ve had some, dear?” she asked.

“Yes, dear, I’ve had mine,” said Hornblower steadily.

When he returned to the group they were scraping the thin jelly out from inside the nuts.

“Don’t damage these shells, lads,” he said. “We’ll need ‘em when we get a rain-squall. And we’ll put those nuts under Her Ladyship’s guard. We can trust her.”

They obeyed him again.

“We got two more up while you was away, sir,” volunteered one of the men.

Hornblower peered down the hatchway at the litter-covered water. Another idea came up into his mind, and he turned to the steward again.

“Her Ladyship sent a chest of food on board,” he said. “Food in tin boxes. It was put aft here somewhere. Do you know where?”

“It was right aft, sir. Under the tiller ropes.”

“M’m,” said Hornblower.

As he thought about it a sudden motion of the ship tossed the water below up in a fountain through the hatchway. But it ought to be possible to reach that chest, break it open, and bring up its contents. A strong man, able to stay submerged for long periods, could do it, if he did not mind being flung about by the send of the water below.

“We’d have something better to eat than coconut jelly if we got those boxes up,” he said.

“I’ll have a go, sir,” said a young seaman, and Hornblower was inexpressibly relieved. He did not want to go down there himself.

“Good lad,” he said. “Put a line round yourself before you go down. Then we can haul you out if we have to.”

They were setting about their preparations when Hornblower checked them.

“Wait. Look for’rard!” he said.

There was a rain-squall a mile away. They could see it, a vast pillar of water to windward streaming down from the sky, well defined; the cloud was lower whence it fell, and the surface of the sea which received it was a different grey from the rest. It was moving down towards them—no, not quite. The centre was heading for a point some distance on their beam, as everyone could see after a moment’s study. There was an explosion of blasphemy from the grouped hands as they watched.

“We’ll get the tail of it, by God!” said the mate.

“Make the most of it when it comes,” said Hornblower.

For three long minutes they watched it approach. A cable’s length away it seemed to stand still, even though they could feel the freshening breeze around them. Hornblower had run to Barbara’s side.

“Rain,” he said.

Barbara turned her face to the mast, and bent down and fumbled under her skirt. A moment’s struggle brought down a petticoat, and she stepped out of it and did her best to wring the salt damp out of it as they waited. Then came a few drops, and then the full deluge. Precious rain; ten shirts and a petticoat were extended to it, wrung out, re-extended, wrung out again, until the wringings tasted fresh. Everyone could drink, madly, with the rain roaring about them. After two minutes of it Hornblower was shouting to the crew to fill the empty coconut shells, and a few men had sense and public spirit enough to wring their shirts into them before returning to the ecstasy of drinking again—no one wanted to waste a single second of this precious rain. But it passed as quickly as it came; they could see the squall going away over the quarter, as far out of their reach as if it were raining in the Sahara Desert. But the young hands of the crew were laughing and joking now; there was an end to their care and their apathy. There was not one man on board except Hornblower who spared a thought for the possibility, the probability, that this might be the only rain-squall to touch the ship for the next week. There was urgent need for action, even though every joint and muscle in his body ached even though his mind was clouded with weariness. He made himself think; he made himself rally his strength. He cut short the silly laughter, and turned on the man who had volunteered to venture down into the steerage.

“Put two men to tend your line. The steward had better be one of ‘em,” he said. “Mr. Mate, come for’rard with me. We want to get sail on this ship as soon as may be.”

That was the beginning of a voyage which was destined to become legendary, just as did the hurricane which had just passed—it was called Hornblower’s Hurricane, singled out not only because Hornblower was involved in it but also because its unexpected arrival caused widespread damage. Hornblower never thought that the voyage itself was particularly notable, even though it was made in a waterlogged hulk precariously balanced upon bales of coir. It was only a matter of getting the hulk before the wind; a spare jib-boom (the only spare spar surviving the storm) made a jury mast when fished to the stump of the foremast, and the sacking from coir bales provided sails. Spread on the jury foremast these enabled them to get the Pretty Jane before the trade wind, to creep along at a mile an hour while they set to work on extemporising aftersails that doubled her speed.