“Say, what was it you saw?  Tell a fellow, won’t you?”

“Two brass knobs on an old chest,” was the calm reply.

“Huh!”

The following day being Sunday, was given over to rest and recreation and the writing of letters, until late in the afternoon.  The day dawned clear but very warm.  There was very little breeze stirring, and the spar and gun decks, where we spent the most of our time, were almost stifling.  “Corking mats,” as they are termed in naval parlance, were very much in evidence.  The sailor’s “corking mat” is a strip of canvas which he spreads upon the deck to protect his clothing from the tarry seams, when he feels the necessity for a siesta or nap, which is quite often.

Toward evening we were put to work at a task which gave welcome promise of coming action.  Under the direction of the executive officer we broke out a number of bags of coal from the orlop deck and piled them five deep, and about the same number in height, around the steam steering engine under the forward wheel-house.  This was to give added protection to a vital part of the ship.

The work was hard and unpleasant, especially to men who had not spent the major portion of their lives at manual labor, but it was one of those disagreeable fortunes of war to which we were growing accustomed, and we toiled without comment.  That night when we turned in, that is, those who were fortunate enough to have the “off watch,” it was generally rumored about the decks that the fleet would surely bombard early the following morning.

About two bells (five o’clock) the different guns’ crews, who were sleeping at the batteries, were called by the boatswain’s mates, and told to go to breakfast at once.

“It’s coming,” exclaimed “Hay,” joyfully.  “The old ‘Yankee’ will see her real baptism of fire to-day.  ‘Kid,’ you young rat, you’ll have a chance to dodge shells before you are many hours older.”

“You may get a chance to stop one,” retorted the boy.

After a hurried meal, word to clear ship for action was passed, and the “Yankee’s” boys set to work with a vim.  The task was done more thoroughly than usual.  The boats and wooden hatches were covered with canvas, everything portable that would splinter was sent below, the decks were sanded, and all the inflammable oils were placed in a boat and set adrift for the “Justin,” one of the colliers, to pick up.

The day seemed fitted for the work we had in hand.  The sky was overcast, and occasionally a rain squall would sweep from the direction of the land, and envelop the fleet.  It was not a cold, raw rain, like that encountered in more northern latitudes in early summer, but a dripping of moisture peculiarly grateful after the heat of the previous day.

Shortly before seven o’clock, the members of the crew were in readiness for business.  The majority had removed their superfluous clothing, and it was a stirring sight to watch the different guns’ crews, stripped to the waist and barefooted, standing at their stations.  There was something in the cool, practical manner in which each man prepared for work that promised well, and it should be said to the everlasting credit of the Naval Reserves that they invariably fought with the calmness and precision of veterans whenever they were called upon.