The Dog Watches came and went with no relenting of the storm; full dark, as black as a boot, and the Evening Watch was a roaring and soaking horror. So much spume, spray, and solid waves broke over the weather decks that the tar and oakum in the seams between the planking could not keep out a constant drizzle on sleeping off-watch men and their violently swaying hammocks. From the sick-berth and livestock manger under the forecastle right aft to the great-cabins, the decks bore puddles that were swept to either beam and fore and aft, so that the black-and-white enamel-painted chequered canvas deck covering in Lewrie's cabins became as slick as the marble tile design that it emulated, and the good Turkey or Axminster carpets had long been rolled up and stowed atop the transom settee.

It was only at Two Bells of the Middle Watch that the winds and seas seemed to ease, and the vast explosions of spray over the bows with each thundering, timber-cracking plunge diminished, allowing Lewrie to go below at last for a cold glass of tea, some cheese and a couple of soaked pieces of ship's biscuit… eaten in the gloom of a single candle, and the weevils in the biscuit considered "out of sight and out of mind." His bedding in the wide-enough-for-two hanging bed-cot was cold and damp despite an oiled canvas covering, so Lewrie, in all his clothes, tried to nap on the starboard-side collapsible settee for an hour or two.

It was hopeless, of course, for the settee was only long enough for two, only deep enough for sitting, and that in the proper mode of the age, which was to say erect, and mostly on the forward edge. He ended in a sprawl with one leg up, the other braced on the deck cover, and thought he'd wished his man Pettus a rest of his own, and to wake him should anyone need him before dropping off in a slouched, snoring bundle.