We looked at picturesque old Morro on the bluff, and there, close to the lighthouse, still floated the Spanish colors. It was aggravating, and we would like to have shot the hateful bunting away.
We had no sooner reached our station than the boatswain's call echoed from one end of the ship to the other, "Away gig." Whereupon the gig's crew rushed below and "broke out" clean whites. No matter what happens, the gig's crew must always be clean, both in person and apparel.
Our gig soon joined the fleet of waiting boats at the flagship's gangway, and lay there while the captain went aboard.
The skipper returned about noon and went forward. Immediately, we heard the cry "All hands on the gig falls." Then, before the boat was fairly out of water, we heard the engine bell jingle.
We were off again.
Some active member of the "Rumor Committee" said we were bound for Jamaica. And after consultation with a signal boy, who came aft to read the patent log, we found that we were heading for that island.
The wind was dead ahead and blowing fresh and cool, but the sun was hot, and the boatswain's mates were instructed to keep the men in the shade as much as possible.
The stress and strain of the night before made the few hours of "caulking off," that we now enjoyed, particularly grateful.
We lay so thick on the windward side of the spar deck under the awning, that it would have been difficult to find foot room.
Every hour a signal boy came running aft to read the log, which was attached to the taffrail on the starboard quarter. The log worked on the same principal as a bicycle cyclometer. It had two dials that indicated the miles and fractions of miles as they were reeled off. A long, braided line, having what we called a "twister" attached, trailed behind in the water and made the wheels go round, a certain number of revolutions to the mile.