The days following our arrival at Guantanamo were days of keen expectation and equally keen disappointment.  A rumor that we were to return home at once would start up from nowhere in particular, and circulate until it was believed.  Then would come a denial and consequent discontent.  The enforced idleness of riding at anchor day after day became so monotonous at last, that any little incident served to create excitement.  Visiting parties between the ships were permitted occasionally, and the “Yankee’s” crew grasped the opportunity to inspect some of the other auxiliary cruisers.  One or two liberty parties were allowed ashore at Camp McCalla, from which the men returned, tired and warm, but full of enthusiasm and interest for the things they had seen.  The amount of “curios” and souvenirs brought aboard would fill a museum.  Pieces of projectiles and Mauser cartridge shells, fragments of an unusual red wood, and pieces of fossil rock, of which the cliff was composed, were stowed away in bags and ditty boxes.

The bay now had a very deserted appearance.  All the battleships and many of the cruisers had gone North.  The auxiliary cruisers, “New Orleans,” “Newark,” “Marblehead,” and a number of converted yachts were all that remained, besides our own vessel.  It was still a goodly fleet, but in comparison to the great squadron, seemed small.

For the first time we were at a loss for something to do.  Time hung heavy on our hands.  The routine work, including morning “quarters,” was finished by half-past ten every morning, and the balance of the day was spent as pleased us best, within certain well-defined limits.

Much time and thought were spent in chasing down rumors, and watching signals from the flagship.

Troopships from Santiago, laden with homeward-bound troops, sailed by the mouth of the harbor, but we, the first volunteers to reach the seat of war and to see active service, still lingered.  The “Resolute” and “Badger” left at last, and it was rumored that we would follow next day.  But still we lingered.

Occasionally we got mail that told of home doings, and almost every letter finished with, “I suppose that you will soon be home, now that peace is declared.”  But still we lingered.

We knew that we could hardly expect to be relieved at once; that there were many arrangements to be made in the Navy Department; many orders to be signed, and new plans to be formulated.  But the thought carried little comfort with it.  The pangs of homesickness were getting a strong hold on us.

Dr.  “Gangway” McGowan had the ship’s carpenter nail a nice, smooth piece of board over a hole in the wire netting of his cabin door; some wag took advantage of the opportunity, and lettered plainly the following, on its white surface: 

[Illustration]

He would have done a rushing business if he could have found a sure cure for homesick “heroes.”

On Tuesday, August 23d, our depression reached its culminating point, for the word had been passed unofficially that we might lay here indefinitely—­two weeks, a month, three months—­there was no telling when we would get away from what had become a hateful spot to us.  The men went about with a dejected air, and while all were good-natured enough, there was little inclination to talk.