His advice to Stukeley had the usual results. Olivia’s first night at sea was passed in the marriage-bed of the state-room by the side of a sea-sick boor, who groaned and damned and was violently sick all through the night. He complained of cold before the dawn broke, so she gave him her share of blankets, tenderly tucking him in. Up on deck the men passed quietly to relieve the wheel. The main race-block grunted and rattled; the mizen topsail sheets flogged on the woolding of the mast, making a noise like drums. Up and down, above her head, in a soft, never-ending shuffle, went the ship’s boy, keeping the lee poop. At each bell she heard the hails of the lookouts: “Weather cathead,” “Lee cathead,” “Gangway,” “Lee poop,” coming in the gusts of the storm. Often, too, she heard a noise which she had never heard before, a terrifying noise, the noise of water breaking aboard, the lash of spray against her scuttle. The wind freshened through the night, till it blew a fresh gale. The _Broken Heart_ took on strange antics, which seemed very dreadful to Olivia. Far aft, as she was, the pitching was violent and broken. Each little sea seemed deep as the valley of the shadow. The roaring in the shrouds increased. At 4 a.m., all hands reefed topsails. Creeping out of bed to the great cabin, she managed to peep to leeward through the skylight, in a heavy lee-roll, which made her clutch the table. She saw a wild sky, notched by the sea; great billows foaming, spray flying down wind, angry gleams in blown cloud. From just above her head came the bull-roar of Captain Cammock, who was damning the mizen-top men. “Lay in to the top, you,” he was shouting. “Lay down a few of you and clue it up.” Then from just above her head came the thunder of the slatting sail as the topsail yard came down. “Away. Away. Lee-ay,” came the startling shouts of the men on the clue-lines. The sail thundered and jangled. The men roared at the ropes. Captain Cammock, with his head tilted back, yelled to them to lay out, and hand the leech in. One phrase struck upon her sharply. He bade them make it fast, letting the bunt go to a place she had never heard of. “Pass your gaskets. Pass them yard-arm gaskets. Get on the yard, you. Stamp that damned bunt down.” The excited angry tone, the noise, the wild sky, all helped her fears. She crept back to Stukeley’s side sure that the end was coming, that the gale was increasing to a hurricane, and that, in a little while, they would all sink together in some wild whirlpool screamed over by the seagulls.