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.
MARCHING THROUGH CITY HALL PARK, NEW YORK CITY (page 295).
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!"