The eight, six, and five-inch shells had a lashing of tarred rope and a loop by which they might be lifted and handled.
Charges of smokeless powder for thirteen, eight, and six-inch guns, in copper canisters, were also taken aboard.
When all was stowed, we carried enough explosives to blow the water out of the bay.

At half-past two on July 12th, the anchor was raised, the cat falls manned, and we bade New York good-by once more.

A brisk northeast breeze was blowing, kicking up an uncomfortable sea, and when Sandy Hook was passed it became necessary to close all ports and batten down hatches.
The rolling and pitching of the ship soon began to make things interesting on the gun deck.

Immense green seas, shipped at intervals on the upper deck, sent little streams of water trickling down through openings as yet unprotected.
At evening quarters it was all we could do to stand upright.

A number of men left their stations suddenly without permission, and seemed to take great interest in the sea just over the rail.
As the sun sank, the wind rose, and with it came rain--rain in sheets--the "wettest" kind of rain.
When the port watch was relieved at eight o'clock, even the veriest landsman among us could tell that the situation was becoming serious.