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. As night drew near, we saw several troopships pass the harbor homeward bound, and the sight did not lighten our gloom. When the sun finally sank, we were as melancholy a crowd as ever trod a deck. The men gathered in little groups, bewailing in monosyllables the decidedly gloomy future, when some one glanced up and saw that Commodore Watson's flagship, the "Newark," was showing the general signal lights. Then, as the answering lights blazed on the other ships, the red and white lanterns began to spell out a message. The news spread at once that the flagship was signalling a general message or one of interest to the whole fleet. Soon the rail was lined with signal boys, and signal boys, _pro tem_. Those who could read them, spelled the messages aloud, letter by letter. "'Y-A-N-K-E-E' A-N-D 'N-I-A-G-A-R-A' W-I-L-L S-A-I-L F-O-R T-O-M-P-K-I-N-S-V-I-L-L-E T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W. 'D-I-X-I-E' A-N-D 'F-E-R-N' W-I-L-L G-O T-O H-A-M-P-T-O-N R-O-A-D-S." With a single bound all was changed from gloom to gladness. No man could say how glad he was, but every man felt his heart grow warm within him. There was a deep feeling of gratitude for the providential care we had received, and for the happy release that now had come. "Cupid," the ship's bugler, played "Home, Sweet Home," and instead of mobbing him as we would have done had he played it three hours earlier, we applauded. He also played "America," and then "Dixie," in honor of our Maryland friends on our sister ship of that name. It pleased them mightily, as was evidenced by the cheer that came over the quiet water to us. Their bugler returned the compliment soon after by playing "Yankee Doodle." There was much good feeling when the men went below, to turn in, but not to sleep; we were too happy for that. As the talk and laughter gradually died down (the order, "Turn in your hammocks and keep silence," was not very strictly observed that night), a voice would be heard singing--not always the same voice: "But we'll all feel gay when The 'Yankee' goes sailing home." The following morning Scully did not have to repeat "up all hands," for he had hardly got the words out of his mouth before every man was scrambling into his clothes as fast as he could. Soon after breakfast the order was given to hoist up the catamaran, and then the rest of the boats were pulled up one by one. The boat's falls were run away with in a fashion that made the officers smile. The tackle-blocks fairly smoked.