The fever raged in full force that summer and many, especially negroes, died. As we never heard from Aunt Sally, we felt sure she was one of the victims.
This part of our journey was very different from our previous experiences. We were no longer honored and feasted. We were only one group among many forlorn refugees. We were shabby and neglected. Part of the time we were seasick, and always uncomfortable in our cramped quarters. The boys looked neat in their sailor suits, but the rest of us were, to say the least, not dressed in the latest fashion. The first day my brother Tom was wandering alone about the saloon, when an officer ordered him to go forward, saying, “No sailors were allowed aft.” It took a good deal of explanation before he was satisfied that the boy was a passenger, for the suit was so exactly right that he could hardly be convinced that it belonged to a landsman. That was before it was the fashion for boys to wear sailor suits. The rest of my story is not very thrilling. We arrived at our home in Rhode Island after an uneventful trip to New York, and were welcomed by my father and brother, who had passed a long and lonely winter. The old farm seemed a haven of rest and plenty after our hard experience in Apalachicola.
Several of our kind naval friends have visited us since then, and we were very happy at being able to offer hospitality to those who had befriended us in time of peril and need.