Once well in the trades we sailed along with great regularity, running up our latitude with the precision of a steamer. While still within the belt of thunder showers I had an experience that cured me of a habit of long standing. I would, whenever possible, if on lookout, strip on the approach of a shower while in mild weather, and enjoy a fresh water bath. I usually pulled off my shirt and trousers, and balling them in a knot would tuck them around the clapper of the great bell on the foremast, this kept them dry, and left me to enjoy the refreshing rain. Of course lookouts were only stood at night. This last time, a beautiful black cloud came down with the wind, we were close hauled under all plain sail, and it did not look like a job that would need me down from my station. Accordingly, I stripped and going to the bowsprit, caught hold of the fore stay and started some gymnastics in anticipation of a real douse from aloft. It was not long in coming, and with the coldness of it, and the look of the white caps lashed up under the cloud as it bore down on the ship, I felt that I had made a mistake. It was hail and not rain that came and while I was dragging my clothes out from under the bell and getting into them, I underwent a pummelling that left me sore from head to foot.

Of course we always went barefoot, except in real cold weather, and on the clean decks of a ship, this has much to recommend it. On the St. Mary's the order to go barefoot was always given when at sea during warm weather, and on the Fuller I found that all hands forward did this as a rule. How beautifully simple it makes things cannot be imagined, except by those who are lucky enough to be able to look back at barefoot boyhood days.

While working up in the trades, we again shifted to better canvas, and also got our cables up and shackled to the anchors, these being sent off the fo'c'sle head and hung under the catheads, the flukes, of course, gripped into the bill boards.

We had a lot of rain at this stage of the voyage, and as the wind was strong the rigging would dry out rapidly after each wetting. Manila rope shrinks very much when wet, and this sort of weather always kept us on the go "checking" ropes to prevent damage to gear aloft, and then as the stuff dried out we would have to take in the slack all round. The remarkable strength of this shrinking process is shown in the grip of lashings put on dry, and then wet just before taking up their work. Rafts put together on deck and hove overboard are a good example of this sort of thing.

September 10th, found us one hundred days out from Honolulu. This was on a Saturday, and that afternoon we were permitted to have a last field day. Also we sighted a steamer, a welcome indication of approaching shore lines.

"Here, Felix, take this." Australia handed me a sheath knife that I had always admired. "Remember me by it," he said. We were digging among our personal belongings, and as Australia passed around a number of things among the watch, the crowd all looked over their gear and there was a general exchange of remembrances. Scouse gave me a tintype he had taken in Honolulu, and Frenchy gave me a handsome pair of beckets with turks heads, that he had worked for my sea chest. Pipes, and even tobacco, changed hands.

The weather was much cooler, though far from uncomfortable, and as we neared port, talk about the future again came to the fore, there having been a lapse of several weeks, almost a month, following the great revival of interest when we had put the Horn safely behind us. Work kept up incessantly, and as a final splurge, we scrubbed the ship over the side down to her copper composition, and painted her fore and aft, finishing off with a white stripe in the line of her sheer. As the scroll work forward, under the bowsprit, that did duty in place of a figurehead, and the scroll work aft, had been gilded only the voyage before, the Fuller presented a very neat appearance.

The brass work lining the pin rails, and aft on the poop, was polished to perfection, and every last turn and corner was done to the final satisfaction of the mate. Aloft we were as trim as a ship ever got. No loose ends, all mats and chafing gear neatly stopped in position, masts scraped clean and rubbed with just enough grease to keep the parrals from sticking, yards scrubbed and painted, and the tops and doublings bright as a new pin. We were to go into port with the old girl reflecting a well spent voyage, for the critical eye of Captain Burnham would appraise her, and rate his captain and mate acccordingly, for he was a most knowing old ship manager.

A week of rains and blows with fair wind was followed by a day of calm, a heavy fog settling down. We had been sighting vessels constantly, schooners and steamers, and knew we were close to our port. The old mechanical fog horn, an ancient device worked by hand, was set croaking on the fo'c'sle head, a job as bad as the bilge pumps, and we lay flapping our idle wings in the mist. Several casts were taken with the deep sea lead; we were in soundings.

The following day, Sunday, it cleared a bit, with a warm sun on the waters, but the wind was still up and down and a rim of mist shut us in, for our horizon was very dim.

"Keep that horn barking!" shouted the mate after the washdown. I was on the fo'c'sle head breaking my back over the ancient contraption, when an echo seemed to come in over the bow. The fog had shut down again.

"Steamer off port bow!" I shouted, for I recognized the deep tones of a whistle.

"Aye, aye! Give her the horn!"

I pumped down hard, and a moment later a tug shoved her nose through the mist, a stumpy craft with the typical high pilot house of the American tug boat; we were home at last!

"Where bound, Captain?" came the hail.

"Delaware Breakwater!"

"Want a tow?"

"How far are we?"

"About three miles!"

"All right, give us your line!"

As the tug ranged ahead and took our heaving line, we read her name; she was the Atkins Hughes, of Philadelphia.

Droughing slowly through the heavy fog, we furled sail and toward noon were at anchor behind the Delaware Breakwater. A launch came out and we found the war with Spain was over, the date of our landfall being September 18th, 1898.

We heard of the great battle off Santiago, and that the Hawaiian Islands had been annexed. Peter and I got the surviving Kanakas, Kahemuku and Joe, up on the fo'c'sle head and made them give three cheers for their new country. After several starts they did this very well, much to our amusement.

"Where is Pilladelpia?" Kahemuku wanted to know.

"Right up there, Kahee," said Peter, pointing up the Delaware. "Now that you are an American citizen you will have a fine time when you get there."

That Sunday afternoon we sat about yarning; anchor watches were chosen, and a full night in was before us. We were tired and sea worn and a trifle sad. Back of us the hard days of the voyage, ahead of us, what? We were soon to part and no one mentioned this important fact. We were glad, of course, happy to so soon collect that long looked forward to payday, and to carry out the great plans so long in the making. I felt a hollow homesickness that had to be suppressed with a firm hold and, as we rested, smoking and yarning, I have no doubt many wondered if they were really to act upon the good resolutions so bravely determined.

Axel and Frenchy joined me on the fo'c'sle head and we talked of many things. I was going home, but they wanted me to surely write them. Both were to ship as soon as possible for their native shores. Old Smith was as quiet as it is possible for a sailor of the old school to be. He sat on the forehatch smoking. "What are you going to do?" I asked Smith.

"Well, if what I have done before is any criterion," he said grandly, "I guess I am going to sea again as soon as my pay is spent and I get a ship. China for me next, I am through with the Horn."

The light on Cape May, the twinkle of lights ashore, and the clear autumn night following the day of fog, came as a welcome relief. We needed sleep; we were tired and we were on the eve of parting. I remember during my anchor watch, from two to four in the mid watch, I stumped the deck in a highly reminiscent mood. Several times I went to the fo'c'sle doors and looked in; bad as the drill had been, I hated to leave it.

On Monday, Captain Nichols went ashore and sent out fresh provisions, but there was no mail for us forward. Orders were to come soon and we spent the time polishing and cleaning as if our salvation depended upon the brilliance of the ship. The day passed without word, and we kept at our brass and paintwork until Wednesday, when orders were received for New York. The Hughes was notified, and on Thursday noon, a break in her engine having delayed her, the tug took us in tow for Sandy Hook. We found the wind favorable off the Five Fathom Bank lightship and set all plain sail to top-gallant-sails. At midnight it started to rain, and the wind freshening, we were startled by a commotion under our bows and found we were bearing down on the Atkins Hughes, her smoke pipe sheering off to one side of our flying jibboom, and her steam whistle protesting in strident blasts.

We at once shortened down to lower tops'ls and topmast stays'ls, and as we gathered in her wings the old ship lay back on the hawser; for the last time that voyage she had felt the independent urge of her canvas.