Among the passengers were several interesting people; Colonel Fabens of Salem, an idealist, interested like my father in the uplift of the Dominicans and convinced of the future importance to our country of the splendid harbor of Samana Bay; Judge O’Sullivan, a mysterious man, who either was, or assumed to be, very deaf, and yet knew everything that was whispered on the ship; and whose interest in annexation was more practical and not quite so disinterested as Colonel Fabens’ and my father’s. Germany was even then plotting against American influence in the island, and a few years later German intrigue brought about a revolution that sent Baez into exile, and placed a very inferior man in his place. A group of young naval officers on their way to join their ship, the _Nantasket_, at Puerta Plata, were pleasant additions to the company. One of these, George W. DeLong, later became famous as an Arctic explorer. At this time DeLong was twenty-eight years old, tall, blond, with a firm, underhung jaw, the veiled blue eyes of a dreamer, and a spirited bearing that somehow set him apart from the other young officers. The twelfth day after leaving New York the _Tybee_ dropped anchor in the harbor of Puerta Plata. Lieutenant DeLong was in the boat that took us ashore. I remember his sympathy with our delight at the picturesqueness of harbor, landing place, and town. Mount Isabella rose steeply from the shore, its lower slopes fringed with fan and coconut palms, the upper reaches dark with the rich foliage of the mahogany, satinwood, mango, and logwood trees. The color of the sea was now like molten emerald, sapphire, and turquoise. In spite of these shifting jewel tints, looking down from the little boat the water was crystal clear. It seemed as if I could reach out my hand and pick up the coral on the yellow sands, fathoms below. The white belly and cruel jaw of a shark appeared below us, and the hand was quickly withdrawn. Three days later we sailed into the harbor of Santo Domingo, to find midsummer weather, a land breeze scented with the perfume of unknown fruit and flowers. Our captain pointed to the mighty stump of an ancient tree on the bank of the Ozama River. “The folks here claim Columbus tied his boat to that tree first time he came ashore. He set great store by this island, gave it the name of Espanuela, which, I reckon, means little Spain.” I remembered my father’s writing me, a year before: “This is one of the most beautiful islands of the world, ever warm, ever clad in rich foliage, ever abounding in luscious fruits.” A white handkerchief fluttered between the iron bars of a seaward-looking window, high up in an old gray stone building: “A welcome from the prison,” the captain murmured. “Poor Peynado, he always salutes the _Tybee_ when she comes and as she goes; he’s shut up for some political business, I’m told.” “Do many ships touch here?” I asked.