If we had not been so anxious to get ashore we might have been able to appreciate the marine picture.

The harbor, if it could be called a harbor, was full of war vessels, prizes, and colliers. Three grim monitors tugged at their anchor chains, apparently impatient at the restraint, while a few graceful, clean-cut, converted yachts swung with the tide.

The gunboat "Wilmington," and the cruisers "Newark" and "Montgomery," floated with a bored air. In ship's language they said, Why are we loafing here? Why not be up and doing?

The "Lancaster," a fine old frigate, the flagship of the commodore, had a fatherly air and seemed to say: "Be good and you will all have a chance."

Once more we got our shore-going clothes ready, only to be disappointed, and again the promises made to us proved elusive. The day following our arrival, we were told that no shore liberty would be given at Key West, and while the reasons were all sufficient, a man who has set his mind on an outing ashore after a hundred days at sea, finds it somewhat hard to reconcile himself to the inevitable.

One of the hardest, if not the hardest, thing we had to bear was the lack of letters and news from home. When one has been deprived of all tidings from his own people for so long the longing for word of them becomes almost unbearable.

In the midst of our toughest work we felt that a letter from home would act like a strong tonic and brace us for the effort, and it would have done so. But no such balm came, though we eagerly scanned every incoming vessel for the signal "We have mail for you." Now at last, though there might be tons on tons of coal to be put in at Key West, though the ship might have to be scrubbed and painted from truck to water line, we felt certain we would get letters from home. Letters that we ached for. And so when we sighted the fleet and old fort, and realized that we had reached Key West and mail at last, our joy was too great for utterance.

The whaleboat went ashore and brought back two bags of precious missives, with the sad news that eight bags had been sent on a despatch boat to the "Yankee" at Santiago.

We were glad enough to get two bags, yet we almost gnashed our teeth when we thought of the eight fat pouches that were chasing us around the island of Cuba.

The mail was brought to the wardroom and dumped out on the table for the commissioned officers to sort and pick out their own letters. A news-hungry group stood the while at the doors, watching and mentally grumbling that such an awfully long time was being taken to accomplish so simple a thing.

Finally the master-at-arms was sent for and the worth-its-weight-in-gold mail turned over to him to distribute. To the gun deck poured the eager throng. The master-at-arms backed up against the scuttle-butt for protection, then shouted out: "Let one man from each mess get the mail; the rest of you stand off, or you won't get any till to-morrow." The rest of us stood to one side then, realizing that time would be thus saved.

"Jimmy Legs" called out the names, and the representatives of the different messes took them. We heard Kennedy's name called, and a murmur of sympathy spread around. "Poor chap," said one, "he would give the use of his wounded arm for that letter."

"Yes," said another; "he has to suffer homesickness as well as pain, and a letter from home would brace him up as nothing else could."

Every man took his treasures to a quiet place, a place apart, if such could be found, to enjoy them alone. The few who got none—well! may I never see such disappointed, sorrowful faces again.

The letters read and pondered over awhile, tongues began to be loosened, and soon all over the ship was heard the buzz of conversation. Chums told each other the little items of news that to them seemed the most important things in the world. And after all had been told and retold, the men gathered in groups and discussed their past months' experiences.

"Do you know," said Craven (a descendant of that famous line of naval heroes, a seaman and member of Number Thirteen six-pounder gun's crew), "I think we are wonderfully fortunate to come through this experience as well as we have. Just think! We have been under fire five times, and only one man has been injured. Why," he continued, and his hearers nodded assent, "I used to have the most awful visions—thought I saw the men lying round our gun in heaps, while fresh ones jumped to take the places of the fallen."

"And they would," said messenger "Hop," who happened to be passing on his way aft to deliver an order.

The "Yankee" had seen some spirited fighting, though most of her crew had anticipated nothing more exciting than patrol duty.

Moreover, it was almost certain that we had not seen the end of active service. At present, however, the crew settled down once more to the monotony of ship life in port—which is about equivalent to garrison duty for a soldier.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN GOD'S COUNTRY.

The "Yankee's" stay in Key West was marked by one of the most melancholy incidents of the cruise. Thomas Clinton LeValley, one of the first of the New York Naval Reserves to respond to the call for volunteers, died from appendicitis in the hospital ashore, to which he had been removed for treatment. "Tom," as he was familiarly called by his shipmates, was on board the "Yankee" during the five engagements of that vessel, and proved himself loyal and steadfast on every occasion. He was well liked by the officers and men of the crew, and his death was deeply regretted by all. It was his fate to be the one member of the New York Naval Reserves to lose his life in the service of his country.

When a big barge heaped high with coal came alongside and was made fast, we began to doubt the assurances given us, that the coal would be put in by outside labor. A tug hove in sight shortly afterward that caused our gloomy faces to light up with gladness, for it carried a gang of negroes. The tug made fast to the barge, and its living cargo was soon hard at work filling the ship's bunkers.

All that afternoon we "lingered in the lap of luxury," as "Bill" put it. At six o'clock our dusky (doubly dusky) coal heavers went ashore, their labor over for the day. Though the workmen had left, the work was still to continue. The crew coaled till twelve o'clock, working in quarter watches. The following day another barge came alongside and part of the crew had to turn to and help the hired shovellers.

"So much," said "Stump," snapping his fingers, "for the officers' assurances."

Up to this time we did not know where we were going. Of course the "Rumor Committee" were ready with news of destinations galore. We were to return to our patrol duty, to join the Flying Squadron and threaten the coast towns of Spain, to join the blockading squadron off Havana. We were to do a dozen or more things just as probable or just as improbable.

A coal barge still lay alongside the starboard side of the ship, when a lighter appeared and made fast to the port side, loaded with express packages, parts of machinery, pipes, and bags of mail for every ship on the Santiago blockade.

"Now we will get those eight bags of mail," said a forecastle man, exultantly. And from that moment we knew we were going back to Cuba.

But like a good many people who think they know it all—we didn't.

Bunkers, holds—almost every available space, in fact, was filled with coal.

Then began the much dreaded job of painting. Stages were hung over the side, each manned by two men, and with much reluctance we began to daub the old "Yankee" with gray paint.

The men were unaccustomed to such work, though some could handle the brushes sold in "artist's materials" shops well enough, and they spattered gray paint all over themselves. It was thought easier to wash skins than jumpers, so many were decorated in wonderful fashion.

"You would make a 'professor of tattooing' wild with envy," said Greene to "Steve," as the latter appeared over the rail.

"Well, I don't know," retorted "Steve," "I am thinking of reporting you for misappropriating government property. You've got more paint on yourself than you put on the ship."

After a day and a half of dreary work we had the satisfaction of seeing the vessel's sides one uniform color from stem to stern. It was a big job for such a short time and our arms ached at the very thought of it.

The sides painted, our attention was given to the decks. They were swabbed thoroughly, first with a damp swab, and after they were entirely dry the spar deck was covered with red shellac, this being applied with a wide varnish brush. The gun deck was then taken in hand and treated in the same way.

By Saturday night the ship was as fine as a "brand new jumping-jack before the baby sucked the paint off."

Some of the men still suffered from black-and-blue spots, which, however, a little turpentine liniment would have banished.

Rumors were rife that we would be bound for New York shortly, but few believed them; the circulators themselves certainly did not, of that we felt sure.

"The idea!" said "Mourner," who, though ready to swallow most rumoristic pills, could not manage this one. "Go to New York with eighty bags of mail for the Santiago fleet! I can see us doing it."



"Taps" sounded at nine o'clock, and we were glad enough to turn in.

When all hands were called, I rubbed my eyes in astonishment, for as I glanced out of the deadlight near which my hammock swung, I saw that we were under way and well out to sea. I put on my togs in a hurry, and after lashing and stowing my "dream bag," rushed on deck.

Yes, sure enough, we were at sea.

"Stump" came and grabbed me round the waist—he could hardly reach higher. "We're bound for New York," said he. "We met the 'St. Paul' going in and the signal boys say we signalled, 'We have urgent orders to proceed to New York.' What do you think of that?" he added, breathlessly.

"With eighty bags of mail for the Santiago fleet," said I, thinking of the poor fellows who were longing with all their hearts for those same bags.

"Regular navy style," added "Stump."

Though it was hard on our friends off Santiago we could not be cast down, and the near prospect of liberty—of an opportunity to see home and friends, of again setting foot on shore—transformed the entire crew.

Everywhere could be seen smiling faces. Laughter and merry chatter filled the air, and the rollicking songs written by "Steve" and others were more in evidence than ever. The daily routine of work seemed lighter. There was no grumbling, no fault finding; even the interminable task of shifting coal was carried on with actual cheerfulness. Grimy hands and blackened faces and tired bodies were forgotten.

"There's a mighty good dinner waiting for me in the dear old house," exclaimed "Stump," unctuously. "I can sniff it afar. And say, fellows, won't we forget—for a few hours at least—that such things as reveille and scrub and wash clothes and coal humping and salt-horse exist on earth?"

"Oh, good Mr. Captain, how long will it be before we hear the welcome call, 'Shift into clean blue, the liberty party!' and find ourselves piling over the side," groaned "Hay."

"You will be glad enough to come back to your Uncle Samuel," grinned "Steve." "When your time is up you will be waiting for the boat."

"No doubt," replied Flagg. "We will be ready to complete our time of service, but there are some, if rumor speaks the truth—"

He finished with a significant wink.

He referred to the many threats of "French leave" made by certain members of the crew—threats which did not materialize except in a very few cases. The disgruntled members of the "Yankee's" crew were composed mainly of the "outside" men—men not of the Naval Reserves. Among the latter, despite the unaccustomed hardships to which they were subjected, a firm determination existed to remain until lawfully mustered out.

The trip from Key West to New York was marked by only one important incident—the celebration of the Fourth of July. It was unlike that familiar to the majority of the crew. There were no fireworks, no parades, nor bands playing the national anthem. The day opened squally, and sharp gusts of rain swept the decks. The usual routine of work was proceeded with, and it was not until eight bells (noon) that we fully realized the date. At exactly midday a salute of twenty-one guns was fired, and those of us who were super-patriotic, took off our caps in honor of the flag. That ended the ceremony.

"Never mind," said Tommy, when one of the boys bewailed the meagre celebration, "never mind, shipmate. There's a good time coming when we can whoop 'er up for Old Glory as much as we please. Then we'll make up for to-day. We can't expect to do much under these conditions, you know."

The day following (a fine, cool, bright one, and how we did appreciate it!) was spent by all hands in getting the ship spick and span for the inspection of visitors, who were sure to be on hand to welcome us.

The semi-weekly ceremony of airing hammocks and bedding was indulged in. The bugler blew "hammocks," whereupon all hands lined up to receive them from the stowers. They were then unlashed on the gun deck, and inspected by the officers of the different divisions, who ordered that they should be taken up to the spar deck. The blankets and mattresses were spread wherever sun and breeze could get at them. The rail, as well as the boats, was covered with them. Red blankets flaunted in the breeze from the rigging till we resembled an anarchist emigrant ship.

The marines aired their hammocks on the forecastle deck in the neighborhood of their guns.

After an hour or two, the word was passed to "stow hammocks," and soon all was shipshape again.

This duty was performed once or twice a week, the frequency depending on weather and circumstances.

Wednesday, July 6th, we passed Sandy Hook and entered New York harbor, just thirty-six days since we left it.

As we made our way up the channel, a pilot boat hailed us and told us of Sampson and Schley's glorious victory over Cervera.

Though our joy was great and our enthusiasm intense, we were greatly disappointed that we were not in at the death. We felt sure that if we had been there our skipper would have worked the old craft in near enough to have given us a shot.

We steamed on up the bay and through the Narrows, the happiest lot of Jackies afloat. The captain of every vessel we met pulled his whistle cord until the steam gave out, and the passengers cheered and waved their handkerchiefs, or whatever came handy.

The health officer passed us in a jiffy, and before eight bells struck we were safely at anchor off Tompkinsville.

It transpired that we had been sent North on account of a yellow fever scare. The health officer proved that the fear was groundless. Again we set to work cleaning, scrubbing, polishing, and painting, so by the time our friends came crowding aboard, the ship was as neat as a new pin.

The visitors—how glad we were to see them! Only one who has looked danger in the face and realized that there might never be a home-coming in this world, could understand our feelings as our relatives and friends—bless them—came aboard.

Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and other fellows' sisters crowded up the gangway to greet us.

And all were welcome.

The second day after we anchored, the port watch was given shore leave of twenty-four hours. So we donned our clean blues, and for the first time since May 9th, set foot on solid ground.

As the port watch came over the side the following day, after its liberty ashore, they were met with the order "Shift into working clothes at once and get those shells below." The red ammunition flag was flying at the foremast head, and all thoughts must be given up of the good times ashore.

The starboard watch then went on liberty ashore and the port watch tackled the ammunition.

From noon till after ten, we were kept busy storing thirteen-inch shells for the biggest guns in the navy. They weigh 1,100 pounds apiece and are dangerous things to handle, not only on account of their weight, but because of the charge of powder each carries. We also loaded eight, six, and five-inch shells into the after hold. We turned in at eleven o'clock, and were roused at 3:30 next morning to begin the same heavy work. When the starboard watch returned the following noon, we were still at it, and they, too, had to pitch in and help as soon as they could get into working clothes.

Saturday, Sunday, and Monday were spent in the same way—stowing food for Uncle Sam's mighty guns.

The thirteen-inch shells were crated in heavy planks, bound with iron; slings of rope were placed around them and they were lowered slowly into the hold. The eight, six, and five-inch shells had a lashing of tarred rope and a loop by which they might be lifted and handled.

Charges of smokeless powder for thirteen, eight, and six-inch guns, in copper canisters, were also taken aboard.

When all was stowed, we carried enough explosives to blow the water out of the bay. At half-past two on July 12th, the anchor was raised, the cat falls manned, and we bade New York good-by once more. A brisk northeast breeze was blowing, kicking up an uncomfortable sea, and when Sandy Hook was passed it became necessary to close all ports and batten down hatches.

The rolling and pitching of the ship soon began to make things interesting on the gun deck. Immense green seas, shipped at intervals on the upper deck, sent little streams of water trickling down through openings as yet unprotected.

At evening quarters it was all we could do to stand upright. A number of men left their stations suddenly without permission, and seemed to take great interest in the sea just over the rail.

As the sun sank, the wind rose, and with it came rain—rain in sheets—the "wettest" kind of rain.

When the port watch was relieved at eight o'clock, even the veriest landsman among us could tell that the situation was becoming serious. We turned in at once, determining to get all the sleep possible in that pandemonium of sound.

The value of hammocks in a heavy sea was proved beyond all peradventure, for once we got into them and closed our eyes, we hardly realized that the ship was almost on her beam ends much of the time.

From time to time we were wakened by the crash of a mess chest, as it broke from its lashings and careened around the deck. The mess pans and pots banged and thumped. At intervals the lurching of the vessel caused a mess table with the accompanying benches to slide to the deck with a crash.

At twelve, we of the port watch were wakened from our much-interrupted rest and ordered on deck for muster.

As we slid from our hammocks we realized for the first time the fury of the storm. It was impossible to stand upright.

The old hooker rolled so, that it was impossible to keep from sliding even when one lay prone on the deck. The men on lookout had all they could do to hang on. One moment the end of the bridge would rise high in air and the next almost bury itself in the seething waters.

The wind roared, the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled.

The dense fog hung like a curtain round the ship, so the whistle was blown incessantly.

The boatswain's mate ordered me to go forward and stand an hour's watch on the bridge. I obeyed, creeping on all fours most of the time, till I reached the opening between the deck houses. I escaped, by a hair's breadth, a sea which came over the side like a solid green wall.

The man on the port end of the bridge whom I relieved, shouted in my ear—he could not be heard otherwise—"You want to get a good hold or you'll be fired overboard in a jiffy." Then he left me.

It was the kind of a night one felt the need of companionship. I spent a lonely hour on the bridge, eyes and ears strained for signs of other vessels, face and hands stung by the pelting rain. Underlying all other thoughts was the consciousness that we carried several hundred tons of deadly explosive that might shift any moment or be ignited by a spark from a lamp and explode.

The sandbags stored about the steering gear broke loose and were heaped in picturesque confusion. The scene aft was indescribable. A quantity of debris of varying nature slid across the smooth surface of the gun deck with a rush at every roll, making navigation a difficult, if not perilous, task. Later, to add to the tumult, one man's hammock was cut down by a falling mess table, but he escaped serious injury.

It was not until the following morning that the seas subsided, but the day proved pleasant, and the mishaps of the preceding afternoon were forgotten in the excitement of reaching Norfolk, which port was reached by the "Yankee" shortly before dark. Later in the evening the ship was taken to the navy yard.

"Which means that we are going to hustle more ammunition," observed Tommy, as we made fast to a dock.

"And more stores," added "Dye."

"And coal," chimed in "Stump," with a grimace. "I am glad of it, too."

"Glad of it?" echoed "Dye," in surprise. "That's queer."

"Not at all, dear boy," was the second loader's calm reply. "D'ye see, I am in training for the billet of chief deck hand on a tramp canal boat, and this experience is just in my line."

Four days later the mooring hawsers were cast off and the "Yankee" steamed out between the capes en route to Santiago. From the hour we left Norfolk until the sighting of the Cuban coast, our time was taken up with drills of every description. The following extract from the log for July 18th, will suffice for an example:

"Cleared ship for action at three bells along with general quarters. General quarters again half an hour after turn to at noon. Fire drill and abandon ship at three bells in the afternoon. General quarters again at two bells (9 p.m.)."

Under date of July 19th, one of the crew states in his private diary: "Clear ship for action again. This is a very pretty drill, and is much liked by the boys, as it includes sending all the mess gear and provisions below, where most of them are usually 'pinched.' Clear ship for action always means an exchange of undesirable mess gear, such as broken benches, tables, etc. General quarters at 1:30; fired two shots at an invisible target with smokeless powder. Great success, this new powder. If we had only been provided with it before, every living Spaniard would have trembled at the word 'Yankee'!"

"What are we doing all this clear ship, general quarters, fire drill, and such business for?" said a forecastle man to Craven, who, besides being on a deck gun, from which all that was occurring on the bridge could be seen, was a messenger.

"Why, don't you know?" said the latter. "We have a war artist aboard, and all this extra drilling is being done for his special benefit, so he can work it up for his paper, I suppose."

"Well, if we ever get that artist aboard the old 'New Hampshire' we will teach him a few things, so he can describe them from actual experience," said "Hod" the husky. "He'll be able to describe scrub and wash clothes, sweeping decks, washing dishes, and all the rest, most vividly," he continued, vindictively. "We'll show him how we get under the hose in the morning. Oh, we'll have a bully time with him, and I'll wager that when we're through the honors of naval battles will seem too trivial for him to draw!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE "YANKEE" ARRIVES OFF SANTIAGO

On the twenty-first of July the "Yankee" arrived off Santiago. The "Brooklyn" was the only warship on guard, and the absence of that grim line of drab-colored ships changed the whole appearance of the coast. The "Brooklyn" seemed lonely, though she rode the seas proudly. "See," she seemed to say, "I am monarch of all I survey"; and she looked every inch a queen, as she swayed slowly in the long ground swell, her ensign snapping in the brisk breeze and Admiral Schley's flag standing out like a board. From our proximity to the shore we were enabled to obtain a better view than before. Old Morro Castle, perched above the mouth of the channel, seemed battered and forlorn. The Stars and Stripes floated on high exultingly from the very staff that formerly bore the Spanish colors, and we thrilled when we saw it. The wreck of the "Reina Mercedes" could be plainly made out, and beyond her could also be seen the masts and stack of the "Merrimac"—a monument to American heroism.

With the U.S.S. "Yankton" (which had run out of coal) in tow, we proceeded to Guantanamo. While entering the bay, the first fleet of transports bearing troops for the invasion of Porto Rico was encountered. Inside the harbor a vast squadron of American ships lay at anchor—some forty vessels in all. The spectacle of such a mighty fleet bearing our beloved colors was indeed inspiring.

We found the "Iowa," "Massachusetts," "Indiana," "Oregon," "Texas," "New York," "Marblehead," "Detroit," "Newark," "Porter," "Terror," "Gloucester," the repair ship "Vulcan," several despatch boats and colliers in the bay. Two gunboats and several steamers captured at Santiago also bore the American colors.

Such a fleet many an important port has never seen, and in New York harbor would draw immense crowds. Here the spectacle was wasted on unappreciative Cubans.

The bay presented a lively appearance with the innumerable little launches and despatch boats darting about from ship to ship. Vessels went alongside sailing colliers to have their bunkers replenished; other ships entered or left at all hours; signals were continually flying from the flagship; occasionally a Spanish launch bearing a flag of truce would come down from the town, and in the midst of it all the crews of the different men-of-war worked on in the accustomed routine, as if peace and war, drills and fighting, were all a part of man's ordinary existence.

Over a month ago we had sailed into this harbor with the "Marblehead"; the ship cleared for action, the crews at their loaded guns, and the battle ensigns flying from fore and mainmast, as well as from taffrail. This time we entered the bay with a feeling that we were to take part in a great naval spectacle.

As soon as we joined the fleet we became amenable to fleet discipline. All orders for routine work came from the flagship. "Quarters" were held but twice a day instead of three times, and then they were short and, therefore, sweet.

Each morning at eight o'clock, when a war vessel is in port, the bugler plays "colors," while the drummer beats three rolls; those of the crew who are under the open sky stand at attention, silent, facing aft, where the flag is being hauled slowly to its place. At the completion of the call all hands salute; then the work is carried on. It is a beautiful ceremony.

Saluting the "colors" morning and evening is not merely a mark of respect for the Government of the nation, but is an act of worship to the God of nations—a silent prayer for guidance and care and an expression of thankfulness.

Shortly after "colors" the morning following our arrival at Guantanamo, orders were given to "turn to" on the ammunition. Launches and barges from other warships came alongside, and the charges of powder and the shells were transferred to them.

When this cargo of deadly explosive began to come aboard a "magazine watch" was set. The ammunition was stowed in all parts of the ship—forward, main, and after holds were filled. A watch was set on each of the holds. It was their duty to watch the temperature day and night and to report the same to the officer of the deck every half hour. Extreme care was taken to guard against fire. In case fire was discovered, it was the duty of the man on watch to run and turn on the water—the key for the valve which regulated this being always carried on his wrist. Then he must notify the officer of the deck, shouting "fire" as he went, after which he must go back and with the hose endeavor to put out the blaze.

Constant, wide-awake, alert watchfulness was necessary. It was hot and close below, and at night it was almost impossible to keep awake. It is difficult enough to keep wide awake for an hour's lookout on deck, when there is much to see and the air is brisk and invigorating, but it is quite a different matter to be roused in the middle of the night to stand two hours' watch in a close, hot hold, where nothing more interesting than cases of powder and the bare, blank sides of the ship are to be seen.

At first, the knowledge that the lives of all on board and the safety of the ship herself depended on the alertness of the watch, kept us wide awake and anxious, but as time went on, it grew harder and harder to resist nature's demand for sleep; therefore, when the order was given to unload the ammunition, none were gladder than the men of the "magazine watches."

After evening mess the boatswain's mate—he got his orders from the bridge—came aft, shouting as he walked, "All you men who want to go in swimming may do so right away."



There was no doubt as to the popularity of that order. "All we men" wanted to go in swimming, and that right away. In a jiffy, white figures began to drop over the side with a splash, and soon shouts of glee filled the air. The water was warm and clear as crystal, and so dense with salt that a man diving, came up like a cork. In fifteen minutes the order "Knock off swimming" was passed, and though we left the water with reluctance, obedience was prompt, lest the privilege might not again be accorded us.

After hammocks had been given out, boats hoisted—all the work of the day finished, in fact—most of the men gathered aft to hear the band of the "Oregon" play. It was a volunteer band; that is, the musicians were enlisted men, not assigned for the band. They played with vim and precision.

It was almost dark; only the ships' outlines could be made out. The red and white signal lights twinkled at intervals at the mastheads of different vessels, while beams of light showed on the still, dark water from open ports. The whole fleet lay quiet while the men listened to the strains of music from the "Oregon." It was more like the rendezvous of a cruising yacht club than a fleet of warships gathered in the enemy's country.

The music from the battleship ceased, and for a moment all was still save for the lapping of the water against the ships' sides and the splash of a fish as it leaped out of water.

Suddenly and together, a shrill piping on all the ships broke the silence, followed by the hoarse cry, "All the anchor watch to muster."

On all men-of-war at eight o'clock, the anchor watch is mustered. It consists of sixteen men—eight on duty from nine till one o'clock, the other eight from one till "all hands" at 5:30. The first part always calls its relief at one o'clock.

The mustering over, all flocked aft to hear the band again, but were disappointed, for the concert was over.

However, the men had come aft for music and music they must have in some shape.

So "Steve" the modest was dragged out, and after some persuasion sang the following to the tune of "Lou, Lou, How I Love Ma Lou." "Baron," the gunner's mate, accompanied him on the mandolin, and Eickmann, the marine corporal, helped out with his guitar.

"'Way down at the Brooklyn navy yard, Where ships are rigged for sea, Three hundred little 'heroes' Went aboard the old 'Yankee.' Oh! we were young and foolish, We longed for Spanish gore, And so they set us working As we never worked before.

CHORUS: "Hard-tack and salt-horse every day, Work, slave, for mighty little pay; And just before we get to sleep We hear the bosun pipe like this (Whistle), 'Up all hammocks, all hands.'

"They turn us out each morning, To scrub our working clothes; To polish guns and bright work, To 'light' along the hose. To wash down decks and ladders, To coil down miles of rope, To carry coal in baskets, To live on air and hope.

CHORUS: "Hard-tack and salt-horse every day, Work, slave, for mighty little pay; And when we think our work is done We hear the bosun pipe like this (Whistle), 'Turn to.'

"Way down at Santiago, We fit the forts one day. The shells were bursting o'er us, There was the deuce to pay. We hid our inclination To run and hide below, Because we're little 'heroes,' They've often told us so.

CHORUS:

"Hard-tack and salt-horse every day, Work, slave, for mighty little pay; And just as all the fight was over We heard the bosun pipe like this (Whistle), 'Gun-deck sweepers, clean sweep fore and aft. Sweepers, clean your spit kits.'

"One Saturday we anchored Just off the Isle of Pines, To load up with pineapples, And look for Spanish signs. We called away the cutters, With seamen filled them up, And captured five small sailboats, Two Spaniards and a pup.

CHORUS:

"Hard-tack and salt-horse every day, Work, slave, for mighty little pay; And when we'd like to talk it over We heard the bosun pipe this (Whistle), 'Pipe down.'"

"That's great!" said one and all.

"There is just time for the 'Intermezzo' before tattoo, 'Baron,'" said "Pair o' Pants," the signal boy. "Give it to us, will you?"

"Baron" obligingly complied.

The boys lay around in comfortable, though ungraceful, attitudes, a small but appreciative audience.

As the last high note died away the ship's bugler began that lovely call, "tattoo." We listened in silence, for though we had heard it many times, it was always a delight to us. Then, too, it meant rest (not a drug in the market by any means). Every ship's crew in the harbor, at the same moment was listening to the call blown by their own bugler.

The men tumbled below and began to prepare for the voyage to dreamland.

Five minutes later, when the sleepy "taps" sounded, the decks were almost deserted save for the hammocks, which looked like huge cocoons swung horizontally.

The following days till Sunday were spent in unloading powder and shell. The six and eight-inch charges of powder and the shell were lifted by hand and slid down chutes to the barges alongside. To handle the powder and shell for the thirteen-inch guns, steam was called into service; the thirteen-inch charges being lowered into the waiting boat, by the aid of the cargo boom and steam winch.

This work was hard and the heat trying, but it was accomplished with good grace, for we were glad to get rid of the dangerous stuff.

Sunday, after the usual inspection, several visiting lists were arranged, the most popular being that for the "Oregon." We all wanted to inspect that wonderful ship. Visiting is generally conducted on Sunday or after dark. The word is passed for those who wish to visit a certain ship to "lay aft and report to the officer of the deck." The party, all in clean clothes, are taken to the vessel designated and lined up. After being counted they are allowed to go forward, where they yarn to their heart's content until the word is given by the boatswain's mate for them to muster aft again.

The "visiting party" to Uncle Sam's bulldog was cordially received and shown all over. The great battleship was as clean and neat as a new pin. She looked as if she had just come out of her builders' hands. Paint work spotless, brass work shining, engines fairly dazzling in their brightness. The crew contented and full of enthusiasm for their ship and commander—gallant Captain Clark!

We saw the guns that helped to lay low Cervera's splendid fleet and we saw "the men behind the guns."

Our attention was called to a Jacky sewing on a blue shirt.

"Do you see that man over there?" said our guide.

We answered "Yes."

"Well, that's the chap that blew up one of the torpedo boats."

"Is that so? Tell us about it." We gazed open-mouthed at the gunner as he sat cross-legged on the deck, sewing with all his might.

"Yes, that's the chap. You see, the Spaniard was coming in our direction, and coming like greased lightning. The six-pounders on the superstructure had not been able to stop her, and things began to be interesting—"

"Yes," we gasped, breathlessly, as he stopped to light his pipe.

"Well, as I was saying, the blooming torpedo boat came nearer and nearer, and did not seem to mind the hail of six-pounders any more than a duck does the rain. I dunno why, for she had no protection that a sixer would not penetrate.

"It got to be blamed exciting, when the officer of the division said to that feller over there, who was a captain of an eight-inch rifle, 'Try your hand at it.'

"Bill said, 'Aye, aye, sir, give me time and I'll plunk her sure.' All this time the sneaking craft was coming nearer and nearer. Bill adjusted his sight and looked and looked, but still did not fire.

"'For heaven's sake, hurry up!' said the division officer, getting nervous.

"'In a minute, sir,' said Bill. 'As soon as I get a good bead.'

"He was as cool as an ice machine, and as deliberate as an old hen, but he could shoot, so we held ourselves in as best we could and watched. After waiting for what seemed an hour, Bill pulled the lanyard and the old gun roared. As soon as the smoke cleared away, we looked to see the result of the shot. There was some wreckage floating where the torpedo boat had been—that was all. Bill's shot went home, and exploded in the boiler room, and the whole craft went up in an instant."

We looked again admiringly at the man sitting there so unconcernedly, and then in obedience to the boatswain's call, went aft and aboard our cutter.

All the ammunition for the fleet was unloaded by Tuesday. We still carried a small quantity of both powder and shell for the "Massachusetts."

Tuesday afternoon we anchored alongside the sailing collier "Frank A. Palmer," and began to coal. The "Yankee's" sister ship "Prairie," manned by the Massachusetts Naval Reserves, lay on the other side; we exchanged visits and found them good fellows, and we yarned away to our heart's content.

We had now become, in a degree, used to coaling; our muscles were hardened and some long-needed labor-saving devices had been introduced, so the work was a little easier.

Coaling continued till Friday night. During the morning of that day we were told that if two hundred tons were put aboard, a chance would be given us on the morrow to see the wrecks of Cervera's once fine vessels. It was all the incentive we needed, and the coal came aboard in a steady stream. A little after seven the required amount was in the bunkers, and by eight o'clock the stages and other coaling paraphernalia were stowed away and the "Yankee" had cast loose and was anchored by herself.

The following morning dawned bright and clear. Admiral Sampson came aboard at 8:30. We manned the "cat falls" and got under way at once.

On the way down to the wrecks, the ship was cleaned, so by the time we reached the ruins of the Spanish vessels, the "Yankee" was spick and span.

We passed the wrecks of the two torpedo boats, passed the mouth of Santiago harbor, till finally we came to the "Almirante Oquendo" and the "Maria Teresa," fifteen miles west of old Morro.

The two wrecks lay close together. They were a melancholy sight; the "Almirante Oquendo," badly listed to port, a great rent in her side, rusted, almost completely demolished. The "Maria Teresa" seemed in better shape, but many shot holes were visible in her side.

It was a dreary though gratifying sight. The great green-clothed mountains looked down serenely on these two examples of man's handiwork and man's destructiveness; the blue sea dashed itself to foam against the coral-bound coast; and the bright sun shone over all.

The admiral went over in our gig, together with the captain and executive officer. Several other boats went along, carrying, beside the regular crews, commissioned and chief petty officers.

As we watched the boats bobbing in the short billows on their way, we, who were left behind, could not help comparing these battered hulks before us with our magnificent ships in Guantanamo Bay.

All hail to the American seamen, "the men behind the guns"!

CHAPTER XIX.

HOPE DEFERRED.

For a few days there was little to do beyond the never-ending routine work: scrubbing decks, cleaning paint, and polishing bright work on guns and equipments.

We were beginning to wonder if we were to lie at anchor indefinitely, and if our last chance of seeing any active service had gone by.

On the morning of Monday, August 1st, we had orders to get under way and go to sea. Tongues began to wag at once, and before we had fairly cleared the harbor a dozen different destinations had been picked out.

It would seem as if there could be no great danger in letting the men have some knowledge of where they are bound when fairly at sea, with no beings to whom the secret might be told, save sharks and dolphins, but

"Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why."

The navy has little use for Jacky's brains; only his trained muscles and sinews. There is no life that can be depended upon to take the pride of intellect out of a man like that of a sailor, as Rudyard Kipling has shown in the case of Harvey Cheyne. We of the crew could think of many a cad on whom we would like to try the discipline.

The most popular rumor ran to this effect: we are bound for Porto Rico to take part with the "Massachusetts," "New Orleans," "Dixie," and other ships of the fleet in a bombardment of San Juan.

By the time land had faded from view, we knew that we really were bound for Porto Rico, but for what purpose we knew not. The rumor was correct in part, at least.

We were glad to get to sea again. There is an undefinable feeling of relief, almost of joy, when the regular throbbing of the engines begins and the ship rolls and heaves to the swell.

The spirits of the men rise; smiles lighten up their faces, and snatches of song can be heard as they work coiling down lines, lashing movables, and preparing the vessel for the rough-and-tumble conflict with the sea.

As the sun sank, the waves rose. By the time the first night watch went on duty, the old steamer was tossing like a chip.

The guns' crews of the watch on deck were ordered to sleep by their posts, and all was in readiness for instant action.

At eleven o'clock we were roused by the call for "general quarters," and in a minute, all hands were in their places. We looked vainly, at first, for the cause of this commotion, but finally made out off our port bow the dim outlines of a steamer.

It was only when our ship was on the top of the roll that we could make out our chase at all—nothing but a wall of water could be seen when we lay in the trough.

"That boat is certainly doing her best to get away," said "Bill." "And, holy smoke! see how she rolls."

"She can't trot in our heat," said "Dye." "We're gaining on her every minute."

"She's not a warship," said "Long Tommy," who was lucky enough to possess a pair of glasses. "I wonder if we're going to get a prize at last?"

"You forget the fishing sloops. 'Remember the fish,'" laughed "Hay."

The two vessels came nearer and nearer, till finally they were within hailing distance.

"What ship is that?" called out Captain Brownson, through the megaphone. "And where are you bound?"

The answer came faintly over the tossing waves: "The 'Burton,' with coal for Santiago from Guadeloupe."

"Ah, ha!" said Tommy, "we get a prize at last."

"Wait a minute," said "Stump," "he is saying something else."

A gust of wind came at that moment and carried most of the sound away, but we gathered that our hoped-for prize had papers from our consul allowing her free passage.

There was a universal groan of disappointment, and when the order was given to "secure," the hose was pulled up with unnecessary violence, hatches were lowered, and gun closets closed with no gentle hands. Such keen disappointment must somehow find a vent.

There was great excitement the following afternoon when the word was passed for all hands to get out their leggings and to wear shoes to midday quarters. And when we were arranged into companies, and had haversacks, canteens, and knapsacks doled out to us, we concluded that a landing party would be made up for Porto Rico.

"The 'old man' is going to show the 'Spinache' that the 'Yankee' boys can fight on land as well as on sea," said Tommy, as he yanked at an obstinate haversack strap.

We marched round and round the spar deck to the music of bugle and drum till we got well into the swing of it, and felt very martial and formidable indeed.

The "Dixie" hove in sight at this juncture, and after a long megaphone conversation, we learned that the "Massachusetts," for which we had some ammunition, was on her way to Guantanamo, so we reluctantly turned around and retraced our way, the "Dixie" leading. Porto Rico was not for us. Alas!

We felt like

"The King of France and his hundred thousand men Drew their swords and put them up again."

The next morning we hove-to a Norwegian steamer, the "Marie," and before we realized what was being done, we found that we had a prize at last. A snug little steamer she was, well loaded down with coal for Cervera's fleet.

"Cutlets" went over in a whaleboat, with a prize crew of six men.

"Well, well! this is almost too good to be true," said an after guard. "This is great luck. We capture a prize and get rid of 'Cutlets' at the same time."

To which we all said, Amen.

We separated from the "Marie," and, as the "Yankee" was much the faster, she was soon lost to sight.

The anchor had no sooner been dropped in Guantanamo Bay than our captain went over to the "New York," and then signals began to be displayed, and soon after all hands were hauling on the "cat falls."

The skipper returned; the gig was pulled up to its place, and very soon we were ploughing the water in the open. As we went out, our prize came in.

It seems the encounter with the "Burton" was told to the admiral, and he at once ordered us to go out and get her.

We headed straight out. The black smoke poured out of the funnels; the ship shook with the pounding of the strained engines. The land faded from view.

About two o'clock we sighted the object of our chase, and it only required a blank shot from the forward six-pounder to bring her to.

The prize crew, consisting of six seamen, some firemen and engineers, and officered by Lieutenant Duncan, went over and took possession of our second prize in one day.

Captor and captive then turned and headed for Guantanamo.

The men were in high spirits. Speculation was rife as to the amount of prize money each would secure, and some even went so far as to plan the spending of it.

Every one felt very gay, and as if something should be done to celebrate our good fortune. We would have liked to spend some money for an entertainment, but that was impossible.

"Dick," however, was impressed into service to furnish some amusement. "Dick," a forecastle man, is a born story-teller, and we knew if we could get him started, some fun would be assured.

After some pressure he acquiesced, and began the following yarn:

"One day a certain Irishman, Mike Dooley by name, departed this life. He was much respected, and his death caused no little sorrow to his friends and neighbors. His wife and children were simply inconsolable. The widow wished to have a handsome funeral in his honor and spent her savings in furtherance of that plan. She had enough money for everything, except the silver inscription plate. But that difficulty was easily overcome, for 'What's the matter wid Pat Molloy painting it nately in white paint?' she said.

"Pat, being approached on the subject, expressed his entire willingness, and soon after called for the casket and took it away. He was told to letter the following, in neat, white letters: 'Michael Dooley departed this life in his prime, at the age of twenty-eight.'

"Pat was a bricklayer by trade, and painting was only a 'side line' with him.

"He started to put the inscription on the casket, and got along bravely till he came to 'age of twenty-eight.' Then he realized that he could not make the figures. He puzzled over it a long while, for he did not like to ask and thus show up his ignorance.

"Finally a bright idea struck him. Four sevens make twenty-eight—why not put down four sevens—that was easy!

"The job was finished just in time.

"The relatives and friends were gathered round to pay their last respects. One friend was asked to get up and make a few remarks. He did so and began as follows:

"'I am glad to be able to say a few words on this sad occasion, a few words of praise for our beloved friend; for other words than praise could not be said of him. I am proud to have known him and to have been numbered among his friends. His virtues need hardly be repeated. You knew him well. His generosity, his friendliness, and all the rest he possessed. I knew him from his youth up, and I am well aware of his goodness, as are you. He was a good husband, a good father, and a good friend. It is hard to give him up, but it must be. He died at the age of——'

"Here the speaker glanced at the casket beside which he stood, and read the following:

MICHAEL DOOLEY

DEPARTED THIS LIFE IN HIS PRIME, AT THE AGE OF 7777.

"'Yis, my bereaved friends,' he continued, 'he was a good father, husband, and friend, and none knows that better than I. He was cut off in the pride of manhood, you might say—in his prime, at the age of——'

"He glanced at the inscription again, then, after a painful pause, blurted forth: 'Well, how the divil did he escape the flood?'"

The sound of "tattoo" interrupted our laughter at this point, and all Hands tumbled below.

The following day we got rid of the last of the ammunition to the "Massachusetts." A sigh of relief and thankfulness went up as the last charge of powder was taken over the side.

The same day we saw some of our prize money vanish into thin air. The "Burton" was released, and steamed out of the harbor.

It was about this time that a well-authenticated rumor went the rounds to the effect that we were to go with a formidable fleet to Spain, harass her coasts, and do up Camara's fleet. This rumor was so well founded that many of us believed it, and, consequently, much time was spent in writing farewell letters.

The prospect of soon seeing the "land of the free and the home of the brave" was not very bright. The consensus of opinion at this time was that we would see our year out in Uncle Sam's service.

There was considerable gloom. The start once made and the "Yankee" actually on her way to the land of the Dons, all would be well and all hands would be cheerful; but the contemplation of the long trip in the wrong direction was a very different matter.

The air was full of rumors. All was uncertain. We continued to write farewell letters, while the invading fleet still lay quietly at anchor, but ready to sail to the ends of the earth at a few hours' notice.

The night of August 10th was moonless and dark. There had been no music from the "Oregon's" band, and none of our men felt inclined to sing.

The uncertainty had begun to tell, and all were a little depressed.

I was "it" for anchor watch, and, as is often the case, the anchor watch manned the running small boat.

We visited several vessels of the fleet, the crew staying in the boat while the officers went aboard. When we finally started to return to our own ship, we carried two of our officers, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Barnard, and an officer from the "Indiana." As we cleared the wall-like sides of the "St. Paul," we noted that the general signal call (four red lights) was up on the "New York." Then, as we watched, the red and white bulbs began to spell out a message that made us all thrill with joy. The interest of the moment broke down all barriers of rank, and officers and men spelled out the exciting words aloud.

A-S-S-O-C-I-A-T-E-D P-R-E-S-S D-E-S-P-A-T-C-H S-T-A-T-E-S T-H-A-T P-E-A-C-E P-R-O-T-O-C-O-L H-A-S B-E-E-N A-G-R-E-E-D U-P-O-N.

We Jackies would have liked to yell, but our lessons had been too well learned, and we restrained ourselves. We put the officer from the "Indiana" aboard his own ship and then returned to the "Yankee."

As soon as the boat was secured for the night, I went around waking some of my particular friends to tell them the great news, forgetting that they could see it quite as well as I. All were too good-natured, however, to object; on the contrary, they seemed glad to talk about it. There was some dispute as to the meaning of the word "protocol"; but all agreed that, whatever its meaning, it must be good, coupled as it was with "peace."

As we talked quietly, we heard faintly, softly, a verse of "Morse's" song:

"Our fighting cruise will soon be o'er, Hurrah! Hurrah! We'll be happy the moment our feet touch shore, Hurrah! Hurrah! And 'Cutlets' and 'Hubbub' and all the rest May stick to the calling they're fitted for best, But we'll all feel gay when The 'Yankee' goes sailing home."

In spite of the peace news we got orders to go out with the "Dixie" and blockade the Crooked Island Passage. So about four o'clock we hauled up the anchor and went to sea. All were gay, and many shook their hands in farewell to Guantanamo Bay.

We were instructed to keep a sharp lookout for the steamer "Monserrat," which had gained fame as a blockade runner. It was rumored that she carried Captain-General Blanco; that she was well armed, and had a captain noted for his unscrupulousness and for his fighting qualities.

"I'd like to meet that ship," said "Hay," "have a good 'scrap' with her, get a couple of shot holes in our upper works and battle flags, and then bring her triumphantly into Key West or, better still, New York."

"Want to go out in a blaze of glory, do you?" said Tommy, the long.

"Sure. I'd like to burn some of that powder we took such trouble to load."

This expressed the sentiments of the whole ship's company.

To have one more good fight—in which we were to come out victorious, of course—get a few souvenir shot holes where no harm would be done, and then go home. This would just about have suited us.

We floated around lazily all day Friday and Saturday with a chip on our shoulder, as it were, but no "Monserrat" came to knock it off.

The lookouts at the masthead strained their eyes, and half the men not actually at work did likewise. All in vain; not an enemy did we see. A number of transports homeward bound, bearing worn but happy soldiers, were passed, and some came near enough to exchange cheers and good wishes.

The screw revolved but slowly, and the ship moved just enough to give steerage way. Every passing wave did as it wished with the great hulk, and she rolled like a log in the long swell.

Sunday night a change came over the almost quiet ship. The propeller turned with some energy; the steering engine whirred, and the "Yankee" changed her course. This time she headed straight for Guantanamo, and before many minutes we knew that we were returning to our old anchorage. The orders were to blockade the passage and keep a bright lookout for the "Monserrat"; if by Sunday at six o'clock she had not appeared, we were to return to the fleet.

The men who were so sure that we should never see Guantanamo again wore a sheepish air, and those who were not so sure lorded over them and remarked cheerfully, "I told you so."

Those of us who were sleeping at midnight were wakened and told to come to the port and look. Sleepily we obeyed, but the moment we reached the opening we were wide awake. There, not three miles off, rolling in the ground swell, lay a great fleet, the searchlights sweeping the heavens and sea; the signal lanterns twinkling.

As we looked, we saw at the masthead of the foremost vessel the signal lights spell out A followed by D, the "Yankee's" private night signal. Then, and our eyes almost started from our heads as we gazed, the lights continued to spell:

"Blockade raised; hostilities ceased."

"Hurrah!" shouted some one behind me.

"Wait a minute," said "Hay," "that's not all."

The lights went on spelling: "We are on our way to New York. You are to proceed to Guantanamo."

The hurrah, as we spelled out the first sentences, was followed by a groan, as we read the last. We were glad, indeed, to know that peace had come, but it was hard to see that great fleet homeward bound, and know that we must go back to our old post, to stay indefinitely.

"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick."

CHAPTER XX.

TAPS.

The days following our arrival at Guantanamo were days of keen expectation and equally keen disappointment. A rumor that we were to return home at once would start up from nowhere in particular, and circulate until it was believed. Then would come a denial and consequent discontent. The enforced idleness of riding at anchor day after day became so monotonous at last, that any little incident served to create excitement. Visiting parties between the ships were permitted occasionally, and the "Yankee's" crew grasped the opportunity to inspect some of the other auxiliary cruisers. One or two liberty parties were allowed ashore at Camp McCalla, from which the men returned, tired and warm, but full of enthusiasm and interest for the things they had seen. The amount of "curios" and souvenirs brought aboard would fill a museum. Pieces of projectiles and Mauser cartridge shells, fragments of an unusual red wood, and pieces of fossil rock, of which the cliff was composed, were stowed away in bags and ditty boxes.

The bay now had a very deserted appearance. All the battleships and many of the cruisers had gone North. The auxiliary cruisers, "New Orleans," "Newark," "Marblehead," and a number of converted yachts were all that remained, besides our own vessel. It was still a goodly fleet, but in comparison to the great squadron, seemed small.

For the first time we were at a loss for something to do. Time hung heavy on our hands. The routine work, including morning "quarters," was finished by half-past ten every morning, and the balance of the day was spent as pleased us best, within certain well-defined limits.

Much time and thought were spent in chasing down rumors, and watching signals from the flagship.

Troopships from Santiago, laden with homeward-bound troops, sailed by the mouth of the harbor, but we, the first volunteers to reach the seat of war and to see active service, still lingered. The "Resolute" and "Badger" left at last, and it was rumored that we would follow next day. But still we lingered.

Occasionally we got mail that told of home doings, and almost every letter finished with, "I suppose that you will soon be home, now that peace is declared." But still we lingered.

We knew that we could hardly expect to be relieved at once; that there were many arrangements to be made in the Navy Department; many orders to be signed, and new plans to be formulated. But the thought carried little comfort with it. The pangs of homesickness were getting a strong hold on us.

Dr. "Gangway" McGowan had the ship's carpenter nail a nice, smooth piece of board over a hole in the wire netting of his cabin door; some wag took advantage of the opportunity, and lettered plainly the following, on its white surface:



He would have done a rushing business if he could have found a sure cure for homesick "heroes."

On Tuesday, August 23d, our depression reached its culminating point, for the word had been passed unofficially that we might lay here indefinitely—two weeks, a month, three months—there was no telling when we would get away from what had become a hateful spot to us. The men went about with a dejected air, and while all were good-natured enough, there was little inclination to talk.

As night drew near, we saw several troopships pass the harbor homeward bound, and the sight did not lighten our gloom.

When the sun finally sank, we were as melancholy a crowd as ever trod a deck.

The men gathered in little groups, bewailing in monosyllables the decidedly gloomy future, when some one glanced up and saw that Commodore Watson's flagship, the "Newark," was showing the general signal lights. Then, as the answering lights blazed on the other ships, the red and white lanterns began to spell out a message.

The news spread at once that the flagship was signalling a general message or one of interest to the whole fleet.

Soon the rail was lined with signal boys, and signal boys, pro tem.

Those who could read them, spelled the messages aloud, letter by letter.

"'Y-A-N-K-E-E' A-N-D 'N-I-A-G-A-R-A' W-I-L-L S-A-I-L F-O-R T-O-M-P-K-I-N-S-V-I-L-L-E T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W. 'D-I-X-I-E' A-N-D 'F-E-R-N' W-I-L-L G-O T-O H-A-M-P-T-O-N R-O-A-D-S."

With a single bound all was changed from gloom to gladness.

No man could say how glad he was, but every man felt his heart grow warm within him. There was a deep feeling of gratitude for the providential care we had received, and for the happy release that now had come.

"Cupid," the ship's bugler, played "Home, Sweet Home," and instead of mobbing him as we would have done had he played it three hours earlier, we applauded. He also played "America," and then "Dixie," in honor of our Maryland friends on our sister ship of that name. It pleased them mightily, as was evidenced by the cheer that came over the quiet water to us. Their bugler returned the compliment soon after by playing "Yankee Doodle."

There was much good feeling when the men went below, to turn in, but not to sleep; we were too happy for that.

As the talk and laughter gradually died down (the order, "Turn in your hammocks and keep silence," was not very strictly observed that night), a voice would be heard singing—not always the same voice:

"But we'll all feel gay when The 'Yankee' goes sailing home."

The following morning Scully did not have to repeat "up all hands," for he had hardly got the words out of his mouth before every man was scrambling into his clothes as fast as he could.

Soon after breakfast the order was given to hoist up the catamaran, and then the rest of the boats were pulled up one by one. The boat's falls were run away with in a fashion that made the officers smile. The tackle-blocks fairly smoked.

The only thing that marred our perfect joy was the departure of some of the marines to the "New Orleans." We had grown to like them all very much, and especially a pleasant fellow we dubbed "Happy," because of his unvarying cheerfulness. We had hoped to bring them all back with us, and were sorry to see them go.

We listened with eager ears for the final order before sailing, "All hands on the cat falls," and just before noon we heard it. In ready response the men came tumbling up, and in a jiffy the anchor was pulled up as if it weighed five hundred, instead of five thousand pounds.

The leadsman stood on his little platform and sang out, as he heaved the lead, the number of fathoms. It was the last touch we had of Cuban soil.

As the old ship gathered headway, cheer after cheer rang out from the ships that were left behind, and in answer to each, our crew, which had gathered on the forecastle, gave three rousing hurrahs and a tiger.

So we sailed out of Guantanamo Bay for the last time.

It was with a feeling of sadness mixed with joy that we watched the headland, that stands like a guard on one side of the bay, disappear in the haze. We were one of the first ships to enter its then hostile portals. We had gained renown there; we had seen the American flag raised on its beautiful shores, and but a few minutes ago we heard a ringing American cheer come over its clear waters, bidding us Godspeed and a joyful home coming.

The voyage home was like a triumphal journey. All hands were in high spirits. The gloom of a few hours before was dispelled by the talismanic words, "'Yankee' and 'Niagara' will sail for Tompkinsville."

Though we were exceedingly glad, there was a good deal of quiet thinking going on.

One and all realized that we had been exposed to no ordinary dangers. Danger from the enemy's fire; danger from a deadly climate; danger from the effects of unaccustomed labor; danger from wind and raging sea. We had been brought through safe and sound by an all-wise God to lead peaceful, useful, and, it is hoped, helpful lives at home.

This same thought had been in our minds many times before, and with the feeling of thankfulness would come a sense of surprise that we should pass through it all without harm.

We sped on and on, the ship's prow ever pointed North. We watched the water to note the change in color; to see when the blue water of the Gulf Stream should be left behind and the green northern sea should be entered.

As we neared New York our impatience grew with every added mile, and this eagerness was felt by officers as well as men.

We sometimes forgot that our officers were capable of feeling disappointment, impatience, and joy; that they also had to stand watch and get along on short allowance of sleep; that they, too, were subject to annoyances as well as we. If we had not felt this before, we fully realized, now, how much our officers had done for us.

Lieutenants Duncan, Greene, and Barnard, Dr. McGowan, Ensigns Dimock and Andrews, always treated us fairly and honestly.

Every man has a deep-seated feeling of loyalty and affection for them that will last as long as life shall last.

As the tropical latitudes were left astern the nights became cool, and the watch on deck had the novel experience of walking post in pea coats. Shortly after daybreak on the twenty-seventh of August the Atlantic Highlands were sighted, and, to quote one of the forecastle men, "All hands shouted to see God's country once more!"

Though we had seen the Highlands, Sandy Hook, and all the familiar landmarks of the harbor many times, never had they seemed so attractive.

The steam vessels we met tooted a welcome, as our identity became known, and the sailing craft dipped their colors in salute.

Inside the Narrows, and ranged along the Staten Island shore, we found our companions of the Santiago blockade, and, as we passed through the fleet to our anchorage, the crew stood at "quarters" in their honor.

We heard later of the great reception these tried and true fighting ships of Uncle Sam's had received, and we only regretted that we were not present to add our little mite to the applause.

After two days' stay off Tompkinsville, during which time the ship was fairly overrun with visitors eager to see the "Yankee" and her crew of "heroes," we steamed through the Narrows en route for League Island. Orders had arrived from Washington providing for the paying off and discharge of the New York Naval Reserves, and little time was lost in obeying.

On reaching League Island, the naval station near Philadelphia, we found the old-time war monitors "Nahant" and "Jason" in port. The crew of the "Nahant," made up of the New York Naval Reserves, were in readiness to accompany the "Yankee's" crew back to the metropolis.

While waiting for the specified date—Friday, September 2d—bags were packed for the last time, and all preparations made for leaving the ship. Now that the hour for departure was rapidly approaching, many of the boys began to express regrets. Despite the hardships attending the cruise, it had brought many happy days—days made pleasurable by novel and strange surroundings—and it is not claiming too much to say that not one of the "Yankee's" crew would have surrendered his experience.

Friendships had been formed, too—friendships cemented by good fellowship and mutual peril. Those who have spent many days at sea know that acquaintances made on shipboard in the midst of calms and storms and the dangers of the deep, are lasting. And that was now being impressed upon the boys of the "Yankee."

While the crews of the "Nahant" and "Yankee" were preparing for the railway trip to New York, arrangements were being made in that city for a rousing welcome to the returning Naval Reserve Battalion.

Shortly after ten the boys were mustered aft to hear Captain Brownson's parting speech. In his usual brisk manner he said that we were now to go back to our peaceful avocations; to our homes; to join our relatives and friends, and to become again private citizens. He ended by wishing us the best of luck.

The cheers that followed shook the old ship from keel to topmast, nor were the cheers for Lieutenant Hubbard any the less hearty.

A very few minutes after, we piled into a tug and steamed away. Little was said, for there was a feeling of real regret: we were fond of the old boat, after all.

"Patt," the gunner's mate; the marines, and the few men of the engineer force who stayed on board, waved good-by.

We boarded a special train with the crew and officers of the "Nahant," and were soon speeding over the level country towards New York.

After a very fast trip we reached Jersey City, where we were fitted out with rifles and belts, and were met by the band that was to lead us through the city.



The people of New York turned out to give us a rousing welcome.

It was a welcome we shall never forget—a welcome that made us forget all hardships, all dangers. Whatever pride we may have had in our achievements was drowned in that thunderous greeting; we were humbled, for real heroes could hardly have deserved such a reception.

The Mayor stood in front of the City Hall and reviewed us, and later we were reviewed by the President himself, at Madison Square.

As the head of the column turned down Twenty-sixth Street, heading to our old receiving ship the "New Hampshire," the band struck up "Home, Sweet Home." The men still marched with heads erect and eyes to the front, but many of those eyes were dimmed with a moisture that almost prevented their owners from seeing the long, homeward-bound pennant that floated from the masthead of the old frigate.

As for the greeting given by mothers and sisters and relatives of every degree and by friends assembled on the "New Hampshire," that is one experience that cannot be described; it must be felt to be appreciated. Suffice it that every member of the New York Naval Battalion felt amply repaid for the hardships endured and the sacrifices made in the service of Old Glory. And if the occasion should again arise for the calling out of the Naval Reserves of the First New York Battalion, they, together with their comrades, the Naval Reserve Battalions of other cities, will cheerfully don their "clean whites" and respond to muster.

"Pipe down!"

APPENDIX.

THE NAVAL MILITIA OF THE UNITED STATES.

The Naval Militia is a volunteer organization made up of certain patriotic citizens of the United States, who conceived the idea that the country could be served by its sons as well in the naval branch of the National Defence as in the military. The subject of a naval volunteer force had been agitated for several years, but it was not until the latter part of June, 1891, that the first enlistments were made.

Since that time the success of the organization has been continuous and most gratifying, and it has required only the recent war with Spain to prove that its value to the country at large cannot be overestimated. At the outbreak of hostilities, the strength of the Naval Militia throughout the country was 4,445 officers and enlisted men, but the rush of recruits incidental to the opening of the war vastly increased that number.

The scope of the organization is naturally limited to those States bordering on the seacoast and the Great Lakes, but the interest taken in it to-day by the people is widespread and emphatic. The existence of this interest was amply proved by the enthusiastic welcome tendered the returning crews of the "Badger," "Dixie," "Prairie," "Yosemite," and "Yankee" by the citizens of the cities more closely concerned, and by the country at large.

In a report made to Secretary Long in 1897 by Theodore Roosevelt, then Assistant Secretary of the Navy, these prophetic words were used:

"The rapidity with which modern wars are decided renders it imperative to have men who can be ready for immediate use, and outside of the regular navy these men are only to be found in the Naval Militia of the various States. If a body of naval militia is able to get at its head some first-class man who is a graduate of Annapolis; if it puts under him as commissioned officers, warrant officers, and petty officers men who have worked their way up from grade to grade, year after year, and who have fitted themselves for the higher positions by the zeal and painstaking care with which they have performed their duties in the lower places; and if the landsmen, ordinary seamen, and seamen go in resolutely to do real work and learn their duties so that they can perform them as well as the regulars aboard our warships, taking pride in their performance accordingly as they are really difficult—such an organization will, in course of time, reach a point where it could be employed immediately in the event of war.

"Most of the Naval Militia are now in condition to render immediate service of a very valuable kind in what may be called the second line of defence. They could operate signal stations, help handle torpedoes and mines, officer and man auxiliary cruisers, and assist in the defence of points which are not covered by the army. There are numbers of advanced bases which do not come under the present scheme of army coast defence, and which would have to be defended, at any rate during the first weeks of war, by bodies of Naval Militia; while the knowledge they get by their incessant practice in boats on the local waters would be invaluable.

"Furthermore, the highest and best trained bodies could be used immediately on board the regular ships of war; this applies to the militia of the lakes as well as to the militia of the seacoast—and certainly no greater tribute is necessary to pay to the lake militia. Many of these naval battalions are composed of men who would not enlist in time of peace, but who, under the spur of war, would serve in any position for the first few important months."

The last sentence of the above extract is of peculiar interest, inasmuch as it proved true in every particular. The crews of the auxiliary ships manned by the Naval Militia during the Spanish-American war of 1898 were composed of men who, in civil life, were brokers, lawyers, physicians, clerks, bookkeepers, or men of independent means. They sacrificed their personal interests for the moment, and, in their patriotic zeal, accepted positions of the most menial capacity on board ship.

Prior to the outbreak of war they had entered into training with the utmost enthusiasm. The Navy Department had assigned some of the older vessels to the various naval brigades, to be used as training ships, and with these as headquarters the brigades began drilling. In addition to the regular routine, summer cruising was taken up.

The First Battalion, New York State Militia, for instance, went in a body to Fisher's Island, off the eastern end of Connecticut, and there engaged in landing parties, camping, and sham battles. On another occasion the battalion embarked on board the battleships "Massachusetts" and "Texas," each militiaman having a regular bluejacket for a running mate, and doing just as he did. The two ships cruised in the vicinity of Fisher's Island, and a programme was carried out which included instruction in the different parts of the ship in great guns and ordnance, such drills as abandon ship, arm and away boats, clear ship for action, general quarters, signalling, and in the use of torpedoes.

During one of the cruises of the Massachusetts Naval Brigade a detachment was engaged in locating signal stations on the coast from the New Hampshire State line to Cape Ann, and it was due to the efforts of this detachment that the signal stations established during the late war proved so efficient.

The Naval Militia of Maryland, Louisiana, Illinois, and other States were given opportunities for instruction in the handling of guns, the care of wounded, in infantry drill, limited artillery practice with rapid-fire batteries, and all the details of naval life, and so well did they benefit by it that the authorities at Washington announced a willingness to trust any of the warships in their sole charge.

It was to reach this pinnacle, as it may be termed, that the Naval Militia organizations of the United States had striven, and when they were finally called upon by the Government they proved their worth by boarding modern warships, doing the work of regular sailors, and fighting for their country with a degree of skill and zeal that has earned for them the commendation of their fellow-citizens.

UNITED STATES NAVAL CODE FOR VISUAL SIGNALLING.

To signal with flag or torch "wigwag":

There are but one position and three motions.

The position is with the flag held vertically in front of the body; the signalman facing squarely the point to which the message is to be sent.

APPENDIX

The first or 1 is a motion to the right of the sender.

The second or 2 is a motion to the left of the sender.

The third or 3: the flag is dropped in front of the sender and instantly returned to position.

The entire code is made up of these three motions—1, 2, and 3. Every letter begins and ends with position.

"WIGWAG" CODE. UNITED STATES NAVAL CODE FOR VISUAL AND TELEGRAPHIC SIGNALLING.

ALPHABET.

A 22 B 2112 C 121 D 222 E 12 F 2221 G 2211 H 122 I 1 J 1122 K 2121 L 221 M 1221 N 11 O 21 P 1212 Q 1211 R 211 S 212 T 2 U 112 V 1222 W 1121 X 2122 Y 111 Z 2222

NUMERALS. 1 1111 2 2222 3 1112 4 2221 5 1122 6 2211 7 1222 8 2111 9 1221 0 2112

ABBREVIATIONS.

a after. b before. c can. h have. n not. r are. t the. u you. ur your. w word. wi with. y why.

x x 3 = "numerals follow" or "numerals end." sig. 3 = signature. 3 = End of word. 33 = End of sentence. 333 = End of message. 22, 22, 3 = I understand.

The complete number opposite each letter or numeral stands for that letter or numeral.

Example: The signal sent by Commodore Schley's flagship "Brooklyn" that memorable 3d of July—

T H E E N E M Y' S F L E E T 2, 122, 12 3 12, 11, 12, 1221, 111, 212 3 2221, 221, 12, 12, 2, 3 L, RLL, RL D RL, RR, RL, RLLR, RRR, LRL D LLLR, LLR, RL, RL, L, D

I S C O M I N G O U T O F 1, 212 3 121, 21, 1221, 1, 11, 2211 3 21, 112, 2 3 21, 2221 R, LRL D RLR, LR, RLLR, R, RR, LLRR D LR, RRL, L D LR, LLLR

H A R B O R. 122, 22, 211, 2112, 21, 211, 333. RLL, LL, LRR, LRRL, LR, LRR, DDD.

R = Right = 1. L = Left = 2. D = Drop = 3.

NIGHT SIGNALLING.

The lights in the Ardois system—named after its inventor—sometimes called "shroud lights," are placed well up on the foremast. They are red and white electric bulbs. There are four of each placed in a line one above the other, in groups of two—- a red and white bulb together. Unlike the "wigwag" system, the whole letter is shown at once.

The code is the same as the "wigwag." One is indicated by a red light, two by white, and three by the combination, white, white, red and white.

Both systems may be mastered very easily by a little painstaking practice, and much amusement may be had through the mystification of those who do not understand it. A "wigwag" flag may be easily made by sewing a white square of muslin in the centre of a red bandana handkerchief.

The best method of learning this system is to send simple messages, looking up the letters that there is any doubt about, and correcting mistakes as you go along.

APPENDIX.

NAVY CODE FLAGS.

Messages sent by the navy code flags cannot be read except by the aid of the code book. There are ten numeral flags—1 to 9, and one for 0. All messages are made up by means of these ten flags headed by the code flag (whether it be geographical, telegraph, or navy list).

For instance, a line of bunting is sent up on the flagship's signal halliards. It is read from the top down. The geographical flag flies first; then follow 7, 6, 3, 8. It means that the message can be found in the geographical list, number 7638.

The repeaters are used to avoid confusion. Instead of putting two number 1 flags together, for instance, number 1 is flown with a repeater under it; second repeater repeats number 2, and so on.

PREPARATORY.—Over hoist. Prepare to execute subjoined order.

INTERROGATION.—Alone. What is that signal? or "I don't understand—repeat." Above hoist puts signal in interrogative sense.

ANSWERING.—Flown by ship receiving message indicates that signal is understood.

AFFIRMATIVE.—Alone. Yes. Above hoist puts message in affirmative or permissive sense.

NEGATIVE.—Alone. No. Above hoist puts message in negative sense.

MEAL or NUMERAL.—Alone. Crew at mess. Above or below hoist—the numeral flags are to be taken as numbers simply.

CONVOY.—Alone at fore, means naval convoy. Above hoist means use navy list.

POSITION.—In manoeuvres, hoisted by each ship as it gets into position ordered; lowered when next ship gets into place.

GUARD or GUIDE.—As its name implies—flown by guard or guide ship.

TELEGRAPH.—Use telegraph list.

DESPATCH or GEOGRAPHICAL.—Alone at fore, indicates that the ship flying it is carrying despatches. Above hoist. Use geographical list.

CORNET.—Alone. Ship about to sail. Over number. Official number of ship.

GENERAL RECALL.—Recalls all small boats.

POWDER.—Hoisted alone in port. Taking powder on board. Alone at sea. Distress.

RATING MARKS IN THE UNITED STATES NAVY.

THE INSIGNIA OF RANK OF COMMISSIONED, WARRANT, AND PETTY OFFICERS.

There are four classes of officers in the United States navy, and each has its own distinguishing mark.

The commissioned officers of the line.

The commissioned corps.

The warrant officers.

The petty officers.

The first two classes are graduates of Annapolis, or regularly commissioned by the Government. The last two are composed of enlisted men who have been promoted.

The rank device of the commissioned officers is worn on the shoulder-knot of the full dress uniform and on the collar of the service coat.

The marks are as follows:



Foul anchor with silver stars at ends; and one stripe of gold lace two inches wide, and one of one-half inch wide above it, on sleeves.



A star with a foul anchor at either side of it; and one stripe of gold lace two inches wide on sleeves.



A spread eagle with foul anchor at either side. Four one-half-inch stripes of gold lace on sleeves.



Foul anchor with silver oak leaves at ends. Three stripes of half-inch gold lace on sleeves.

LIEUTENANT-COMMANDER.—A silver foul anchor with a silver oak leaf at either end. Two stripes of half-inch gold lace with a quarter-inch stripe between.



Silver foul anchor with two silver bars at either side. Two stripes of gold lace one-half inch wide on sleeves.



Silver foul anchor with one silver bar at either side. Two stripes of gold lace, half and quarter-inch, on sleeves.



A gold foul anchor on collar or shoulder-knot and one stripe of gold lace on sleeves.

THE COMMISSIONED CORPS.

The commissioned corps' devices are substituted for the anchor by staff officers, who wear the same rank devices as are prescribed for line officers with whom they have relative rank.

THE PAY CORPS.—A silver oak sprig and a narrow band of white cloth above and below the gold lace on sleeves.

THE MEDICAL CORPS.—A spread oak leaf of gold with an acorn of silver, and a band of dark maroon velvet above and below the gold lace on sleeves.

THE ENGINEER CORPS.—Four silver oak leaves, and a band of red cloth above and below the gold lace on sleeves.

PETTY OFFICERS' RATING MARKS.

All petty officers wear a rating device on the sleeve of the outer garment above the elbow. If they belong to the starboard watch the mark will be sewed on the right sleeve; if the port, on the left.



The petty officers' device always has a spread eagle above it. The specialty mark indicating to which department he belongs is just below in the angle formed by the chevrons. The chevrons indicate the class. Three chevrons, first class; two, second class, and so on. The chief petty officers have an arch of the same cloth connecting the two ends of the top chevron.

The specialty marks are as follows:



The seaman class is indicated by the rows of braid on the cuffs.

Seamen, first class or able-bodied seamen, have three rows of braid.

Seamen, second class or ordinary seamen, have two rows of braid.

Seamen, third class or landsmen, have one row of braid.

The watch mark for the enlisted men not petty officers consists of a stripe of braid on the sleeve close to the shoulder. For the seaman, white on blue clothes, blue on white clothes.

For the engineer force, red on both white and blue clothes.

The watch mark indicates the watch of which the wearer is a member. The starboard men wear it on the right arm, and the port men on the left.

TAKING SOUNDINGS.

HEAVING THE LEAD.

The man using the "lead line" (as the sounding-line weighted with lead is called) stands on a grating that projects over the side. This is placed near enough so that the steersman can hear the man who "heaves the lead" when he calls out the number of fathoms of water. This he tells by the marks on the "lead line" as follows:

2 fathoms, twelve feet, 2 strips of leather. 3 " 3 strips of leather. 5 " white rag. 7 " red rag. 10 " leather with hole in it. 13 " 3 strips of leather or blue rag. 15 " white rag. 17 " red rag. 20 " 2 knots. 25 " 1 knot. 30 " 3 knots. 35 " 1 knot. 40 " 4 knots. 9 " are called mark. 11 " " " deeps.

The leadsman stands on his little grating and swings the lead so it just clears the water. When it is swinging well he lets it fly in the direction in which the ship is moving and then notes the depth by the strips of leather or rags. The result is shouted out so the steersman can hear and keep the vessel in the channel.

THE BOATSWAIN'S CALLS.

The boatswain's calls or "pipes" are very difficult to reduce to a musical scale, because the pitch of the instrument depends entirely on the amount of energy expended by the blower. The novice, after a few trials, would probably assert that the primitive little whistle had only one note—and not very much of that; but he would be surprised indeed at the volume of sound, the range, and the command over the instrument which a veteran boatswain would soon make everyday matter to him. Not only do these experts sound the regular calls with ear-piercing exactness, but actual tunes are often included in their repertoire.

The pipe or whistle is held with the bulb in the centre of the palm, the hole being towards the wrist. The lobe to which the ring and lanyard are attached, serves simply as a handle.

In the diagram given, the black line indicates the "pipe" or call; the four faint horizontal lines, the notes, and the vertical bars, the time.

The roll indicated by the wavy line in the diagram is made by rapidly opening and closing the hand. The gradual rise and fall is effected in the same way, but slowly. The rattle is done by a quick movement of the tongue.

This diagram is furnished by an old boatswain. As a rule, the calls are taught entirely by personal instruction, and it is believed that they have here been put into print for the first time. None of the ordinary manuals have ever given them, the young sailor having had to learn them by experience on shipboard.

Their importance is evident from the fact that every order aboard ship is preceded by the pipe peculiar to the command; for though the words may not be heard, the whistle can always be distinguished. Even the most lubberly landsman, with such continuous practice, soon learns the meaning of the different calls, and jumps to obey them.



1. First Captain, Second Boarder. 2. Second Captain, First Boarder. 3. First Loader, Second Boarder, 4. Second Loader, First Boarder. 5. First Shellman, Pumpman, Port guard. 6. Second Shellman, Fireman, Port guard. 7. First Shellman, Second Rifleman. 8. Second Shellman, First Rifleman.

1. Stands at elevating gear wheel and sights and fires the gun.

2. Stands at the right and beside the breech; opens same after firing so shell can be taken out.

3. Stands at the left training wheel—i.e., the wheel that moves the gun laterally. He also loads the gun.

4. Stands at the right training wheel. He takes out the empty shell after firing, and wears heavy gloves for that purpose.

5 and 6. Stand just behind No. 2 to the right of the gun. They may be termed emergency men. They assist with the shells, carry the wounded, if any; will be called away in case of fire, and are qualified to sight and fire the gun in case the first and second captains are wounded or killed. They provide revolvers and belts for Nos. 1, 2, and 3, and belts for Nos. 5, 6, 7, and 8. They are also port guards, and defend the ports in case of close action.

7 and 8. Carry shells from the ammunition hoist to a position amidships convenient for quick transport to the gun. They are also riflemen, and may be called to protect any part of the ship from boarders or from fire on shore.

THE END