The tackle-blocks fairly smoked.
The only thing that marred our perfect joy was the departure of some of the marines to the "New Orleans." We had grown to like them all very much, and especially a pleasant fellow we dubbed "Happy," because of his unvarying cheerfulness.

We had hoped to bring them all back with us, and were sorry to see them go.
We listened with eager ears for the final order before sailing, "All hands on the cat falls," and just before noon we heard it.

In ready response the men came tumbling up, and in a jiffy the anchor was pulled up as if it weighed five hundred, instead of five thousand pounds.
The leadsman stood on his little platform and sang out, as he heaved the lead, the number of fathoms.

It was the last touch we had of Cuban soil.
As the old ship gathered headway, cheer after cheer rang out from the ships that were left behind, and in answer to each, our crew, which had gathered on the forecastle, gave three rousing hurrahs and a tiger.
So we sailed out of Guantanamo Bay for the last time.
It was with a feeling of sadness mixed with joy that we watched the headland, that stands like a guard on one side of the bay, disappear in the haze.

We were one of the first ships to enter its then hostile portals.