"It's a clever chief who knows when to retreat." The great gray ships still tossed idly on the rolling blue sea when we took our station at the right of the line.
It seemed more like a panorama, arranged for the amusement of an admiring crowd, than a fleet of floating forts ready at a moment's notice to pour out death and destruction.
The flagship "New York," gay with signal bunting, was the centre of a fleet of launches and small boats.

The boats' crews, in white duck, lounged in their places, while the captains were aboard conferring with the admiral.
The torpedo boat "Porter" flashed in and out between the grim battleships in an almost playful way.
A signal boy on the "Brooklyn" held a long wigwag conversation with the flagship, the bit of bright color showing sharply against the lead-colored turret.
It was hard to realize that only a few days ago these same ships, that now rested so calmly and majestically, were enveloped in clouds of smoke, their great guns spitting forth fire and a fearful hail of steel.
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.