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.