A howl of disappointment went up from the crew.
"Oh, if she was only within range," cried "Hay," smiting the breech of the five-inch rifle with his hand. "Just one shot, just one shot."
"Guns' crews will remain at stations," ordered the first lieutenant from near the ladder. "Stand by, men. Be ready for instant action."
"Hurray! the old man won't give it up," cheered "Stump," under his voice. "That's the stuff. Now, if only that measly fog lifts and we get a trifle nearer, we'll do something for the old flag."
The minutes passed slowly. It was heartbreaking work, this waiting and watching, and there was not one of the "Yankee's" crew but would have given a year's pay to have seen the mist lift long enough to bring us within range.
Suddenly, just as the fervent wish was trembling on our lips, "Hod Marsh," who was near the port, cried out joyfully:
"She's fading, fellows, she's fading!"
Like a theatre curtain being slowly raised, the mist lifted from the surface of the water. Little by little the expanse of ocean became visible, and at last we, who were watching eagerly, saw the hull of a steamer appear, followed by masts and stack and upper rigging. An exclamation of bitter disappointment came from Tommy. "Durned if it ain't an old tramp!" he groaned. "Fellows, we are sold."
And so it proved.
The fog lifted completely in the course of an hour and we secured a good view of our "will o' the wisp" of the night's chase. It was a great lumbering tramp, as high out of the water as a barn, and as weather-stained as a homeward-bound whaler. She slouched along like a crab, each roll of the hull showing streaks of marine grass and barnacles. There was little of man-o'-war "smartness" in her make-up, of a verity.
For several days the "Yankee" cruised up and down the coast between Delaware Breakwater and Block Island. Many vessels were sighted, and on two occasions it was considered expedient to sound "general quarters," but nothing came of it. We finally concluded that the enemy were fighting shy of the vicinity of New York, and all began to long for orders to the southward.
Drill followed drill during these waiting days. Target practice was held whenever practicable, and the different guns' crews began to feel familiar with the rapid-fire rifles.
The men, accustomed to a life of ease and plenty, found this first month's work an experience of unparalleled hardship.
Their hands, better fitted for the grasp of pen and pencil, were made sore and stiff by the handling of hawsers, chains, and heavy cases. Bandages on hands, feet, and, in some cases, heads, were the popular form of adornment, and the man who did not have some part of his anatomy decorated in this way was looked upon as a "sloper," or one who ran away from work. For how could any one do his share without getting a finger jammed or a toe crushed?
The work that was done, too, during this month of cruising along the coasts of Long Island and New Jersey was hard and incessant. Drills of all kinds were frequent, and sleep at a premium.
The "Yankee" at this time was attached to the Northern Patrol Fleet, of which Commodore Howell was the commander. It was her business to cruise along the coast from Block Island south to Delaware Breakwater, and watch for suspicious vessels. This duty made constant movement necessary, and unwearying vigilance on the part of the lookouts imperative.
Rainy, foggy weather was the rule, and "oilers" and rubber boots the prevailing fashion in overclothing. Sea watches were kept night and day; half of the crew being on duty all the time, and one watch relieving the other every four hours.
The watch "on deck" or on duty on a stormy night found it very tedious waiting for the "watch below" to come and relieve them. The man who could tell a story or sing a song was in great demand, and the man who could get up a "Yankee" song was a popular hero. The night after our wild goose chase, described in the last chapter, the port watch had the "long watch"; that is, the watch from 8 p.m. to midnight, and from four to eight the next morning—which allowed but four hour's sleep.
It was raining and the decks were wet and slippery. The water dripped off the rims of our sou'westers in dismal fashion, and the fog hung like a blanket around the ship, while the sea lapped her sides unseen. Our fog-horn tooted at intervals, and everything was as damp, dark, and forlorn as could be.
A knot of men were gathered under the lee of the after deckhouse, huddled together for warmth and companionship. There was "Stump," "Bill," Potter, and a number of others.
"Say! can't any one sing, or tell a yarn, or whistle a tune, or dance a jig?" said "Bill" in a muffled tone. "If some one does not start some kind of excitement I will go to sleep in my tracks, and Doctor 'Gangway' says I mustn't sleep out of doors." His speech ended in a fit of coughing and a succession of sneezes.
"Here, 'Morse,' give us that new song of yours," said "Steve," as another oilskinned figure joined the group. "Morse" and "Steve" were our chief song writers. Each sat on a quarter six-pounder, one on the starboard, the other on the port. "I will, if you chaps will join in the chorus," answered "Morse." "No, thank you," he added, as some one handed him an imaginary glass. "Naturehas wet my whistle pretty thoroughly to-night." "Stump," in his most impressive manner, stepped forward, and in true master-of-ceremonies style introduced our entertainer. He was enlarging on the undoubted merits of the composer and singer, and had waxed really eloquent, when a strong gust of wind blew the water that lodged in the awning squarely down his neck. This dampened his ardor but not our spirits.
"Morse," like the good fellow he was, got up and sang this song to the tune of "Billy Magee Magaw":
When the "Yankee" goes sailing home again,Hurrah! Hurrah!We'll forget that we're "Heroes" and just be men,Hurrah! Hurrah!The girls will giggle, the boys will shout,We'll all get a bath and be washed out,And we'll all feel gay whenThe "Yankee" goes sailing home.The city bells will peal for joy,Hurrah! Hurrah!To welcome home each wandering boy,Hurrah! Hurrah!And all our sisters and cousins and girlsWill say "Ain't they darlings?" and "Seethe pearls!"So we'll all feel gay whenThe "Yankee" goes sailing home.Our patrolling cruise will soon be o'er,Hurrah! Hurrah!We'll be happy the moment our feet touch shore,Hurrah! Hurrah!And "Cutlets" and "Hubbub" and all the restMay stick to the calling they're fitted for best,Butwe'llall feel gay whenThe "Yankee" goes sailing home.
When the "Yankee" goes sailing home again,Hurrah! Hurrah!We'll forget that we're "Heroes" and just be men,Hurrah! Hurrah!The girls will giggle, the boys will shout,We'll all get a bath and be washed out,And we'll all feel gay whenThe "Yankee" goes sailing home.
The city bells will peal for joy,Hurrah! Hurrah!To welcome home each wandering boy,Hurrah! Hurrah!And all our sisters and cousins and girlsWill say "Ain't they darlings?" and "Seethe pearls!"So we'll all feel gay whenThe "Yankee" goes sailing home.
Our patrolling cruise will soon be o'er,Hurrah! Hurrah!We'll be happy the moment our feet touch shore,Hurrah! Hurrah!And "Cutlets" and "Hubbub" and all the restMay stick to the calling they're fitted for best,Butwe'llall feel gay whenThe "Yankee" goes sailing home.
Even "Bill" was able to find voice enough to shout "Good!" and give "Morse" a resounding slap on his wet oilskinned shoulder. The song voiced our sentiments exactly, and cheered us a lot. None of us believed that "Our patrolling cruise would soon be o'er," however, and hardly a man would have taken his discharge had it been offered to him that moment. We had put our names to the enlistment papers and had promised to serve Uncle Sam on his ship the "Yankee" faithfully. We had gone into this thing together, and we would see it through together. Still we would "All feel gay when the 'Yankee' goes sailing home."
"That reminds me of a story," began Potter, when "Long Tommy," the boatswain's mate of the watch, interrupted with, "Potter, take the starboard bridge. I will send a man to relieve you at the end of an hour." So Potter went forward to relieve his mate, who had stood an hour of lookout duty on the starboard end of the bridge.
He went forward, swaying with the motion of the ship, his oilskin trousers making a queer, grating noise as one leg rubbed against the other, and "Stump" said, "I'll bet he won't stay with us long; he talks too much." A prophetic remark, as future events proved.
The group broke up after this. Some who were not actually on lookout duty went into the hot fire room, and after taking off their outer clothing, tried to snatch a few winks of sleep. The "watch on deck" was not allowed to go below at night, so the only shelter allowed us was the fire room and the main companion-way. The latter could hold but a few men, and the only alternative was the fire or "drum" room, into which the heat and gas from the furnaces ascended from the bowels of the ship, making it impossible for a man to breathe the atmosphere there for more than half an hour at a time. The after wheel-house was sometimes taken advantage of by the more venturesome of the boys, but the risk was great, for "Cutlets" was continually prowling around, and the man found taking shelter there would receive tongue lashings hard to bear, with abuse entirely out of proportion to the offence.
A little before twelve o'clock we heard the boatswain's pipe, and the long drawn shout, "On deck all the starboard watch," and "All the starboard watch to muster." So we knew that we would soon be relieved, and would be able to take the much-needed four hours' sleep in our "sleeping bags," as "Hay" called them. The starboard men came slowly up, rubbing their eyes, buttoning their oilskins, and tying their sou'westers on by a string under their chins as they walked.
"Hurry up there, will you?" calls out a port watch man, as the men of the other watch sleepily climb the ladder. "Get a move on and give us a chance to get out of this beastly wet." A sharp retort is given, and the men move on in the same leisurely way. The men of both watches are hardly in the best of humors. It is not pleasant to be waked up at midnight to stand a four hours' watch in the rain and fog, nor is it the most enjoyable thing in life to be delayed, after standing a four hours' watch in the rain, realizing all the time that each minute of waiting takes that precious time from the scant four hours' sleep.
But finally "all the watch" is piped, and we go below and flop into our hammocks, to sleep as soundly and dreamlessly as babies. A sailor will sleep like a dead man through all kinds of noises and calls, but the minute his own watch is called he is wide awake in an instant, from sheer force of habit.
So when the boatswain's mate went around with his pipe, singing out as he dodged in and out among the swinging hammocks, "On deck all the port watch," each of us jumped out of his swaying bed and began to climb into his damp clothes and stiff "oilers." We then made our way through the darkness, often bumping our heads on the bottom of hammocks, and earning sleepy but strongly worded rebukes from the occupants; colliding with stanchions, and stubbing our toes on ring bolts and hatch covers. All arrived at length, formed an unsteady line on the forecastle deck, and answered to our names as they were called by the boatswain's mate. So began another day's work on one of Uncle Sam's ships.
It was Sunday, and after a while the fog lifted and the sun came out strong and clear. All the men who were off duty came on deck to bask in the sun, and to get dried and thawed out.
"Steve" poked his uncombed, sleepy head through the "booby" hatch cover. "Well, this is something like! If the 'old man' will let us take it easy after inspection, I won't think life in the navy is so bad after all."
"Well, inspection and general muster and the reading of the ship's bible will take up most of the morning," said gunner's mate "Patt," as he emerged from the hatch after "Steve," wiping his grimy hands on a wad of waste, for he had been giving the guns a rub. "And if we don't have to go chasing an imaginary Spaniard or lug coal from the after hold forward, we'll be in luck," he continued.
"What about the 'ship's bible'? What is 'general muster'?" queried half a dozen of us.
"Why," said "Patt," "the ship's bible is the book of rules and regulations of the United States Navy. It is read once a month to the officers and crew of every ship in the navy. The officers and crew will be mustered aft—you'll see—the deck force and engineer force on the port side, the petty officers on the starboard side forward, the commissioned officers on the starboard side aft, and the marines athwartships aft. This forms three sides to a square. See?"
"I don't see the use of all this," broke in the irreverent "Kid." "Do we have to stand there and have war articles fired at us?"
"That's what, 'Kid,'" replied "Patt," good-naturedly.
"After all hands have taken their places," continued our informant, "the 'old man' will walk down the galley ladder in that dignified way of his, followed by the executive officer. 'Mother Hubbub' will then open the blue-covered book that he carries, and read you things that will make your hair stand on end and cause you to consider the best wording for your last will and testament." "Patt" was very impressive, and we stood with open mouths and staring eyes.
"When old 'Hubbub' opens the book, all hands, even the captain, will take off their hats and stand at attention. Then the war articles will be read to you. You will learn that there are twenty-seven or more offences for which you are liable to be shot—such as sleeping on post, desertion, disobedience, wilful waste of Government property, and so forth; you will be told that divine service is recommended whenever possible—in short, you are told that you must be good, and that if you are not there will be the deuce to pay. Then the captain will turn to 'Scully' and say, 'Pipe down,' whereupon 'Scully' and the other bosun's mates will blow a trill on their pipes, and all hands will go about their business."
So concluded our oracle.
"Gee whiz!" said the "Kid." "I nearly got into trouble the other night, for I almost dozed when I was on the buoy. I'm not used to getting along on eleven hours' sleep in forty-eight yet," he added, apologetically.
We all looked forward to "general muster" with a good deal of interest, and when it occurred, and the captain had inspected our persons, clothes, the ship, and mess gear, we decided that "Patt's" description fitted exactly, and were duly impressed with its solemnity.
We found to our sorrow that we of Number Eight's crew were not to enjoy sunshine undisturbed, but were soon put to work carrying coal in baskets from the after hold forward, and dumping it in the bunker chutes.
This work had been going on almost every day, and all day, since we left Tompkinsville. The coal was in the after hold and was needed in the bunkers forward, so every piece had to be shovelled into bushel baskets, hoisted to the gun deck, and carried by hand to the chute leading to the port and starboard bunkers. A dirty job it was, that not only blackened the men, but covered the deck, the mess gear, the paint work, and even the food, with coal dust.
Number Eight's crew had been at this pleasant occupation for about an hour, with the cheerful prospect of another hour of the same diversion. "Hay" was running the steam winch, "Stump" was pulling the baskets over the hatch coaming as they were hauled up by the winch, and the other five were carrying.
"Say, this is deadly slow, tiresome work," said "Flagg," who was carrying with me. "I'd give almost anything for a little excitement."
The last word had scarcely been uttered when there came the sounds of 'commotion on deck. A voice cried out in sharp command, the rudder chains creaked loudly, the ship heeled over to starboard, and then we who were at the open port saw a long, snaky object shoot out from the edge of the haze and bear down upon us.
"My heaven!" shouted "Stump," "it's a torpedo boat!"
The commotion on deck had given us some warning, but the sudden dash of the long, snaky torpedo boat from out the haze came as a decided shock. For one brief moment we of the after port stood as if turned to stone, then every man ran to his quarters and stood ready to do his duty. With a cry, our second captain sprang to the firing lanyard. Before he could grasp it, however, the officer of the division was at his side.
"Stop!" he exclaimed authoritatively.
The interruption was fortunate, for, just then, a swerve of the oncoming torpedo boat revealed a small flag flying from the taffrail staff. It was the American ensign.
The reaction was great. Forgetting discipline, we crowded about the port and laughed and cheered like a lot of schoolboys. Potter, in his joy and evident relief, sent his canvas cap sailing through the air. A rebuke, not very stern, however, came from the lieutenant in charge of the division, and we shuffled back to our stations.
"Cricky! what a sell," exclaimed the second rifleman, grinning. "I was sure we had a big job on our hands this time. I'm rather glad it is one of our fellows after all."
"I'm not," spoke up young Potter, blusteringly. "What did we come out here for, hey? I say it's a confounded shame. We might have had a chance to send one of the Spaniards to the bottom."
"It may be a Dago after all," suggested "Bill," glancing from the port. "The flag doesn't mean anything. They might be flying Old Glory as aruse de guerre. By George! That craft looks just like the 'Pluton.'"
We, who were watching, saw Potter's face lengthen. He peered nervously at the rapidly approaching torpedo boat, and then tried to laugh unconcernedly.
"You can't 'string' me," he retorted. "That's one of your Uncle Samuel's boats all right. See! they are going to hail us."
A bell clanged in the engine room, then the throbbing of the machinery slackened to a slow pulsation. The rudder chains rattled in their fair-leaders, and presently we were steaming along, with the torpedo craft a score of yards off our midships.
On the forward deck of the latter stood two officers clad in the uniform of the commissioned service. One placed a speaking trumpet to his lips and called out:
"Cruiser ahoy! Is that the 'Yankee'?"
"You have made a good guess," shouted Captain Brownson. "What boat is that?"
"'Talbot' from Newport. Any news? Sighted you and thought we would speak you."
Our commander assured them that we were in search of news ourselves. The "Talbot's" officers saluted and then waved a farewell.
The narrow, low-lying craft spun about in almost her own length, a series of quick puffs of dense black smoke came from the funnels, and then the haze swallowed up the whole fabric.
We were left to take our discomfiture with what philosophy we could muster. When "secure" was sounded we left our guns with a sense of great danger averted and a feeling of relief.
The little strip of North American coast between Delaware Breakwater and Block Island is very interesting, and, in places, beautiful. The long beaches and bare sand dunes have a solemn beauty all their own.
Though the boys on the "Yankee" took in and appreciated the loveliness of this bit of coast, they were getting rather familiar with it and somewhat bored. They longed for "pastures new."
Summer had almost begun, but still the fog and rain held sway. The ship crept through the night like a big gray ghost—dark, swift, and, except in the densest fogs, silent. Pea-coats were an absolute necessity, and woolen gloves would have been a great comfort. All this in the blooming, beautiful month of May!
One bleak morning the starboard watch was on duty. We of the port watch had turned in at four (or, according to ship's time, eight bells). We were glad to be between decks, and got under way for the land of Nod without delay. It seemed as if we had been asleep but a few minutes, when "Scully," chief boatswain's mate, came down the gun deck gangway, shouting loud enough to be heard a mile away: "All hands, up all hammocks;" then, as the disposition to get up was not very evident, "Show a leg there; ham and eggs for breakfast." This last was a little pleasantry that never materialized into the much-coveted and long abstained from delicacy.
The hammocks were lashed up and stowed away in the "nettings," as the lattice-like receptacles are called, leaving the deck clear for the work of the day.
Mess gear for the "watch below" had just been piped, and we were glad; even the thought of burnt oatmeal and coffee without milk was pleasant to us.
The ports were closed and the gun deck was dark and dismal. The fog oozed in through every crack and cranny, and all was very unpleasant.
Of a sudden there was a sharp reverberation that sounded so much like the report of a big gun that all hands jumped.
The course of the ship was changed, and the jingle bell sounded. The "Yankee" forged on at full speed in the direction from which the sound had come.
We all stood in expectant attitudes, listening for another report. We had about made up our minds that our ears had deceived us, when another explosion, louder and nearer than the first, reached us.
On we rushed—toward what we knew not—through a fog so thick that the water could be seen but dimly from the spar deck.
The suspense was hard to bear, and the desire to do something almost irresistible. The men unconsciously took their regular stations for action, the guns' crews gathered round their guns, the powder divisions in the neighborhood of the ammunition hoists.
"I wish Potter was here," said "Stump." "I rather think he would be white around the gills. This sort of business would give him a bad case of 'cold feet.'"
"Oh, he had 'cold feet' a few days after we left New York, and wrote to his friends to get his discharge," said "Bill." "Got it and quit two weeks after we left New York, the duffer," added "Hay."
The "Yankee" still steamed on into the bank of fog.
"Cupid," the ship's bugler, began to play the call for general quarters, but was stopped by a sharp command from the bridge.
What was it all about? Was it to be tragedy or farce?
Then Scully came down the starboard gangway, a broad smile on his ruddy face.
A clamoring group gathered round him instantly. "What is it?" "Is the 'old man' playing a joke on us?" "Do you suppose Cervera has got over to this side?" "Scully," overwhelmed with questions, put up his hands protestingly.
"No, no; none of those things," said he. "What do you suppose we have been doing for the last twenty minutes?"
We confessed we did not know.
"Chasing thunder claps—nothing more nor less than thunder claps! And we'll see nothing worse on this coast," he added sententiously, as soon as he could get his breath.
The wind rose, and while it blew away the fog in part, it kicked up a nasty sea, in which the "Yankee" wallowed for hours, waiting for the fog to clear enough to make the channel and enter New York harbor. It seemed we had been heading for New York, and we did not know it. It was not the custom aboard that hooker to give the men any information.
When we learned for sure that we were bound for New York, our joy was beyond measure.
Shore leave was the chief topic of conversation. And every man not on duty went down into his black bag, fished out his clean blues, and set to work sewing on watch marks and cap ribbons. For Jack must be neat and clean when he goes ashore.
The mud-hook was dropped in the bay off Tompkinsville, Thursday, May 26th, seventeen days after we left the navy yard. It seemed seventeen months.
An "anchor watch" of sixteen men was set for the night, and most of us turned in early to enjoy the first good sleep for many weary days.
All hands were turned out at five o'clock. We woke to find a big coal barge on either side of the ship.
After breakfast the order "turn to" was given. "All hands coal ship, starboard watch on the starboard lighter, port watch on the port lighter." From seven o'clock in the morning till twelve o'clock that night, the crew of the "Yankee"—aforetime lawyers, physicians, literary men, brokers, merchants, students, and clerks—men who had never done any harder work than play football, or row in a shell—coaled ship without any rest, other than the three half hours at meal times. About the hardest, dirtiest work a man could do.
The navy style of coaling is different from that customary in the merchant service. In the latter, the dirty work is done in the quickest, easiest way possible. The ship is taken to a coal wharf and the coal is slid down in chutes, or barges are run alongside and great buckets, hoisted by steam, swing the black lumps into the hold or bunker.
The navy style, as practised on the "Yankee," was quite different. The barges were brought alongside, the men divided into gangs—some to go in the hold of the barge, some to go on the platforms, some to carry on the ship herself. The barge gang shovelled the coal into bushel baskets; these were carried to the men on the stages; and the latter passed them from one to the other, to the gun deck; finally, the gang on the vessel carried the baskets to the bunker holes, and dumped them. The ship was well provided with hoisting machines, but, for some reason, this help was not permitted us.
It was a long, inexpressibly dreary day's work, and though undertaken cheerfully and with less complaining than would have been believed possible, the drudgery of it was a thing not easily forgotten. Before the day had ended, all hope of getting ashore was lost, for we were told that no liberty would be given.
The following day and half of our stay in New York harbor was spent in the same way—shovelling, lifting, and carrying coal. The eyes of many of us were gladdened by the sight of friends and relatives, who were allowed aboard when mess gear was piped, and put off when "turn to" sounded. We were pleased to see our friends, but our friends, on the contrary, seemed shocked to see us. One dainty girl came aboard, and, as she came up the gangway, asked for a forecastle man. The word was passed for him. He had just finished his stint of coaling, and was as black as a negro. In his haste to see his sister, he neglected to clean up, and appeared before her in his coal heaver's make-up.
"You, Will? I won't believe it! I won't, I won't, I won't!" And for a second she covered her face with her hands. Then she picked out the cleanest spot on his grimy countenance and kissed him there, while we looked on in envy.
The "Yankee" at last receiving orders to sail for the front, left Tompkinsville May 29th. We passed out of the Narrows with a feeling of relief. The work we had just finished was the hardest we had ever experienced. It was particularly tantalizing because we were almost in sight of our homes, but could not visit them. A starving man suffers more from hunger if pleasant food is placed within sight, but beyond his reach.
However, we were to go to the front at last, and we rejoiced at the prospect of being really useful to our country.
The following day, Decoration Day, dawned pleasantly, both wind and weather being all that could be desired.
Directly after dinner we were sent to quarters for target practice. The target was dropped astern, and the ship steamed ahead to the required distance. Word was given to the marines manning the six-pounders to prove their skill.
The port forecastle six-pounder, using a shell containing cordite, a powerful English explosive, was in charge of a marine corporal named J.J. Murray, who acted as captain of the gun. After firing several rounds with marked success, Murray saw that the gun was loaded for another trial.
Standing at the breech, he steadied the gun with his left arm and shoulder, seized the pistol-grip, placed his finger on the trigger, and then slowly and carefully brought the target within the sighting line in readiness to fire.
The other members of the gun's crew were at their proper stations. Numbers 2 and 3, respectively second captain and first loader and shellman, were directly behind the corporal. They saw him steady the piece again, take another careful aim, then noted that his finger gave a quick tug at the trigger.
The result was a dull click but no explosion.
The corporal stepped back from his place in vexation. He had succeeded in getting a fine "bead" just as the cartridge failed.
"Blast the English ammunition!" he exclaimed. "It's no good."
The other men at the gun nodded approval. Their experience bore out the corporal's assertion. They also knew that the cordite cartridges were not adapted to American guns, and should not have been used. But they were marines and they were accustomed to obey orders without comment.
Captain Brownson had noticed the incident and he sent word to delay opening the breechblock until all danger of explosion had passed. After waiting some time, Corporal Murray proceeded to extract the shell. He took his place at the breech, while No. 2 unlocked the plug and swung it open.
"Now we'll see what is the matter," he began. "I guess it is another case of—"
He never finished the sentence. With a frightful roar the defective cartridge exploded, sending fragments of shell and parts of the breech-block into the corporal's face and chest. He was hurled with terrific force to the deck, where he lay motionless, mortally wounded.
Numbers 2 and 3 of the unfortunate gun's crew did not escape, the former being struck down with the hand lever, which penetrated his arm. The injured men received prompt attention from the surgeon and his assistants, but Corporal Murray was beyond mortal aid. He died ten minutes after the accident.
He was a good soldier, jolly and light-hearted, and a great favorite with the crew. The peculiar feeling of antagonism which is supposed to exist between the sailors and marines did not obtain in his case.
In the navy the hammock which serves the living as a bed by night is also their coffin and their shroud. It so served Corporal Murray.
Shortly after four bells (six o'clock) on the evening of the day on which the accident occurred, the boatswain's mate sent the shrill piping of his whistle echoing through the ship, following it with the words, doleful and long drawn out:
"All hands shift-ft-ft into clean-n-n blue and stand by to bury the dead-d-d!"
When the crew assembled on the gun deck in obedience to the call, the sun was just disappearing beyond the edge of the distant horizon. Its last rays entered the open port, showing to us the dead man's figure outlined under an American flag. The body had been placed upon a grating in front of an open port, and several men were stationed close by in readiness to launch it into the sea.
The ceaseless swaying of the ship in the trough of the sea, the engines having been stopped, set the lines of blue uniformed men swinging and nodding, and, as the surgeon, Dr. McGowan, read the Episcopal service, it seemed in the half light as if every man were keeping time with the cadence.
The words of the service, beautiful and impressive under such novel circumstances, echoed and whispered along the deck, and at the sentence, "We commit this body to the deep," the grating was raised gently and, with a peculiarswish, the body, heavily weighted, slid down to the water's edge and plunged sullenly into the sea. A moment more and the service was finished, the bugler sounding "pipe down." A salute, three times repeated, was fired by sixteen men of the marine guard.
The voyage down the coast was utilized in making good men-o'-war's men of the "Yankee's" crew. Captain Brownson believes thoroughly in the efficacy of drill, and he lost no time in living up to his belief. When all the circumstances are taken into consideration, the task allotted to the captain of the "Yankee" by the fortunes of war, was both peculiar and difficult.
On his return from Europe, where he had been sent to select vessels for the improvised navy, he was ordered by the Navy Department at Washington to take command of the auxiliary cruiser "Yankee." This meant that he was to assume charge of a ship hastily converted from an ordinary merchant steamer, and to fight the battles of his country with a crew composed of youths and men whose whole life and training had hitherto followed totally different lines.
It was a "licking of raw material into shape" with a vengeance.
When the "Chesapeake" sailed forth to fight her disastrous battle with the British ship "Shannon," her crew was made up of men untrained in the art of war. The result was the most humiliating naval defeat in the history of the United States. The same fate threatened Captain Brownson. There was this difference in the cases, however. The "Chesapeake" had little time for drilling, while the "Yankee" was fully six weeks in commission before her first shot was fired in action. Every minute of those six weeks was utilized.
During the trip down the coast from New York general quarters were held each day, and target practice whenever the weather permitted. In addition to these drills the crew was exercised in man and arm boats, abandon ship, fire drill, infantry drill, and the many exercises provided by the naval regulations. Before the "Yankee" had been in the Gulf Stream two days, the various guns' crews were almost letter-perfect at battery work. As it happened, the value of good drilling was soon to be demonstrated.
As we neared Cuba, the theatre of our hopes and expectations, we were scarcely able to control ourselves. The bare possibility of seeing real war within a few days made every man the victim of a consuming impatience. Rumors of every description were rife, and the many weird and impossible tales invented by the ship's cook and the captain's steward—the men-o'-war oracles—would have put even Baron Munchausen to the blush.
The Rumor Committee, otherwise known as the "Scuttle-butt Navigators," to which every man on board was elected a life member the moment he promulgated a rumor, was soon actively engaged, and it was definitely settled that the "Yankee" was to become the flagship of the whole fleet, our captain made Lord High Admiral, and the whole Spanish nation swept off the face of the globe, in about thirteen and a half seconds by the chronometer.
The shrill pipe of the bosun's whistle, followed by the order "All hands to muster," reached our ears a day or two out from New York. We were enjoying an hour of well-earned leisure, so it was with reluctance that we obeyed and went aft on the gun deck. All hands are seldom called to muster, so we knew that something of importance was in the wind.
After the three-sided hollow square had been formed, the captain appeared. The small men stood on tip-toe, and the tall men craned their necks.
"We are about to enter the theatre of war," said the captain, in his sharp, decisive way, "and I expect every man to do his duty, to redouble his efforts to preserve discipline, to perfect drills. Drills will, of a necessity, be frequent and hard. I would have you understand that our best protection is the fire from our own guns. The more rapid and accurate our fire, the safer we shall be. Pipe down."
After we had been dismissed, the men formed little groups and discussed the captain's speech.
"I like the 'old man's' talk," said the "Kid," condescendingly; "it's to the point and short. But how in the name of common sense are we going to find time to drill with more frequency? Three times a day and once or more at night, allows us just about time enough to eat and do the necessary routine work, to say nothing about sleeping. Clear ship, general quarters, and fire drill during the day, and general quarters after ten last night. That's already somewhat frequent, methinks," he concluded, suppressing a yawn.
"Well, if we are to have any scraps," said "Bill," "we certainly must know how to work the ship and the guns. For, as the skipper said, 'our own fire is our best protection.'"
We bowled along at a good fifteen-knot gait, day after day and night after night. The weather was magnificent and the climate delightful. It was full moon, and such a moon as few of us had seen before—so bright that letters could be and were written by her silvery light.
Though drills of all sorts were of constant occurrence, there were times after mess when we could "caulk off" and enjoy the glorious weather. Our experience of bad weather along the coast of New Jersey and Long Island had given us keen zest for the good conditions we were now enjoying. We were sailing along in the warm waters of the Gulf Stream—the Gulf weed peculiar to that current slipping by as we forged through it. "Stump," "Dye," of Number Eight's gun crew, a witty chap and a good singer, "Hay," and I were leaning over the taffrail, looking into the swirling water made by the propeller's thrust, when "Dye" remarked: "This is the queerest water I ever saw in all my days; it looks like the bluing water our laundress used to make, with the suds mixed in."
The smooth sea was dark and clear as could be, but where churned by the propeller it turned to the color of turquoise.
"I really believe," said "Bill," as he joined the group, "that we could use it to turn our whites blue."
It was a delight and marvel to us all; we would have liked nothing better than to have spent hours gazing at these wonderful colors.
As we stood absorbed in the sight before us, we were interrupted by the short, sharp ringing of the ship's bell—a dozen or more strokes given in quick succession followed, after a short pause, by two more strokes.
Some one shouted "Fire, boys!" and all hands rushed for their stations—some to the hose-reel, some below to the gun deck to close the ports, and some to the berth deck to receive the hose when it came down. We did not know whether it was drill or actual fire, but the skipper's talk of the night before gave us unusual energy, and the preparations were made in record time. The canvas hose was pulled along the deck with a swish, the nozzle grasped by the waiting hands below and carried with a run away aft on the berth deck. The fire was supposed to be raging at this point, as was indicated by the two last strokes of the alarm signal.
While the hose was being led out, sturdy arms tugged at the port lanyards and pulled them to. Others battened down the hatches, to keep the draught from adding fury to the flames.
All this was done in less time than it takes to tell it, and the men stood at their posts, perspiring and panting from the quick work.
We had hardly time to catch our breath when the order "Abandon ship" was heard. Immediately there was a scurry of feet, and a rush for the upper deck; but some stayed below to carry ship's bread and canned meats to the boats—two cases of bread and two cases of meat for the large boats, and one case of each for the smaller. The crews and passengers of each boat gathered near it. Every man had been assigned to a boat either as crew or passenger, and when the order "abandon ship" was given, every one knew instantly where to go for refuge.
Though we had already gone through this "fire drill" and "abandon ship" (one always followed the other), it had then been done in peaceful waters and in a perfunctory way. Now that we were entering "the theatre of war," we felt the seriousness of it all, and realized that what was now a mere drill might become a stern reality.
The order "Secure" was given; the hose was reeled up, the ports opened, and the provisions returned to their places in hold and store room. The men went to their quarters, and so stood till the bugler blew "retreat."
The time not devoted to drills was taken up in getting the ship ready for the serious work she was to undertake.
All woodwork on the gun deck not in actual use was carried below or thrown overboard, and the great cargo booms were either taken down and stowed safely away, where the splinters would not be dangerous, or were covered with, canvas.
These preparations had a sinister look that made us realize, if we had not done so before, that this was real war that we were about to engage in—no sham battle or man[oe]uvres.
The men went about their work more quietly and thoughtfully, for one and all now understood their responsibilities. If the ship made a record for herself, the crew would get a large share of the credit; and if she failed to do the work cut out for her, on the crew would be laid the blame. If the men behind the guns and the men running the engines did not do their work rapidly and well, disaster and disgrace would follow.
As we neared the scene of conflict, the discipline grew more and more strict. Before a man realized that he had done anything wrong, his name would be called by the master-at-arms and he would be hauled "up to the mast" for trial.
"You ought to see the gang up at the mast," said "Stump," one bright afternoon. "'Mac' and 'Hod Marsh' have gathered enough extra duty men to do all the dirty work for a month."
"What were you doing up there?" asked a bystander.
"Why, I thought I heard my name called, and as discretion is the better part of valor, I lined up with the rest, and I was glad I did, too, for it was good sport."
"Maybe you thought it was sport, but how about the chaps that were 'pinched'? Who was up before the skipper, anyhow?"
"Oh, there was a big gang up there—I can't remember them all; 'Lucky Bag Kennedy' was there, for being late at general quarters the other day. When the captain looked at him in that fierce way of his and asked what he had to say for himself, 'Lucky Bag' said he didn't realize the time. The skipper could hardly keep his face straight. 'Four hours,' he said, and that was all there was to it."
"Poor 'Lucky Bag,'" came from all sides as "Stump" paused to take breath.
"Then there was 'Big Bill,' the water tender," continued "Stump." "He was hauled up for appearing on the spar deck without a uniform. When the skipper asked him what he had to say for himself, 'Big Bill' cleared his throat with awoof—you know how it sounds: the ship shakes and trembles when he does it—and the 'old man' fairly tottered under the blast. 'Big Bill' explained that he could not get a uniform big enough for him, because the paymaster could not fit him out. The captain almost grinned when he heard the excuse, and 'Big Bill'—well, he enjoyed the situation, I'll bet a month's pay."
There was a little pause here, and we heard a great voice rumbling from below. Then we knew that "Big Bill" was telling his intimates all about it, embellishing the story as only he could do.
We laughed sympathetically as the shouts of glee rose to our ears. We had all enjoyed his good-humored Irish wit.
"Well, who else was in trouble this afternoon, 'Stump'?" said "Mourner," the inquisitive.
"Oh, a lot of unfortunate duffers. Several who were put on the report for being slow in lashing up their hammocks got a couple of hours extra duty each. One or two were there because they had clothes in the 'lucky bag'—they had left them round the decks somewhere, and the master-at-arms had grabbed them. The owners had to go on the report to get the clothes out. It cost them a couple of hours each."
"Well, how did you get out of it?" said I, when "Stump" paused to breathe.
"I was nearly scared to death," he continued, after a minute or two. "My name was not called, and the rank thinned out till there were only a few of us left. I began to think that some special punishment was being reserved for me, and that the captain was waiting so he could think it over. What my offence was I could not imagine; my conscience was clear, I vow. As I stood there in the sun I thought over the last few days, and made a confession to myself, but couldn't think of anything very wicked. Had I unintentionally blocked a marine sentry's way and thus interfered with him in the performance of his duty? I had visions at this point of myself in the 'brig,' existing on bread and water. Had I inadvertently gone into 'Cutlet's' pet after wheel-house? I was in a brown study, conjuring up imaginary misdeeds, when a voice sounded in my ear: 'Here, my man; what do you want?' I looked around, dazed, at the captain, who stood by, the closed report book in his hand. Then I realized that my being there was a mistake, so I saluted and said, 'Nothing, sir.'"
"That's a very nice tale," said "Dye." "We'll have to get 'Mac' to verify it."
"It's straight," protested "Stump." "Ask the skipper himself if you want to."
The old boat ploughed her way through the blue waters of the Gulf Stream at the rate of from fourteen to fifteen knots an hour. The skies were clear and the sun warm and bright—cool breeze tempered its heat and made life bearable. The ship rolled lazily in the long swell and the turquoise wake boiled astern. We steamed for days without sighting a sail or a light; we were "alone on a wide, wide sea." At times schools of dolphins would race and shoot up out of the water alongside, much to our glee. All the beauties of these tropical waters were new to us. Every school of flying fish and flock of Mother Carey's chickens brought crowds to the rail. The sunsets were glorious, though all too short, and the sunrises, if less appreciated, just as fine.
At night the guns' crews of the "watch on deck" slept round their loaded guns, one man of each crew always standing guard. The men of the powder divisions manned the lookout posts.
All hands were in good spirits, calmed somewhat, however, by the thought that soon we might be in the thick of battle, the outcome of which no man could tell.
It was during this voyage that friendships, begun on the Block Island-Barnegat cruise, were cemented. The life aboard ship tended to "show up" a man as he really was. His good and bad qualities appeared so that all might see. Was he good-natured, even-tempered, thoughtful, his mates knew it at once and liked him. Was he quick-tempered, selfish, uncompanionable, it was quite as evident, and he had few friends. Sterling and unsuspected qualities were brought out in many of the men.
Every man felt that we must and would stand together, and with a will do our work, be it peaceful or warlike.
Where were we bound? Were we to join the Havana blockading fleet? Were we destined for despatch and scout duty? Or were we to take part in actual conflict?
It was while we were settling these questions to our own satisfaction on the morning of June 2d, that a hail came from the lookout at the masthead forward.
"Land O!" he shouted, waving his cap. "Hurray! it's Cuba!"
The navigator, whose rightful surname had been converted by the facetious Naval Reserves into "Cutlets," for reasons of their own, lost no time in rebuking the too enthusiastic lookout.
"Aloft, there, you measly lubber! What in thunder do you mean? Have you sighted land?"
"Ye-es, sir-r," quavered the lookout.
"Then why don't you say so without adding any conjectures of your own?" commented the irascible Lieutenant "Cutlets," severely.
The rest of the crew were too deeply interested in the vague streak of color on the horizon to pay any attention to the "wigging" of the man at the masthead. We knew that the dun-hued streak rising from the blue shadows of the ocean was Cuba, and we could think or talk of nothing else.
Somewhere beyond that towering mountain was Santiago, the port in which the flea-like squadron of Admiral Cervera was bottled up, and there was a deadly fear in our hearts that the wily Spaniard would sally forth to battle before we could join our fleet.
We pictured to ourselves the gray mountain massed high about the narrow entrance of Santiago Bay, the picturesque Morro Castle, squatting like a grim giant above the strait, and outside, tossing and bobbing upon the swell of a restless sea, the mighty semicircle of drab ships waiting, yearning for the outcoming of the Dons. We of the "Yankee," I repeat, were in an agony of dread that we would arrive too late.
Cape Maysi, the scene of many an adventurous filibustering expedition, was passed at high noon, and at eight bells in the evening the anchor was dropped off Mole St. Nicholas, a convenient port in the island of Hayti. As we steamed into the harbor we passed close to the auxiliary cruiser "St. Louis."
The anchor was scarcely on the bottom when the gig was called away. We awaited the return of Captain Brownson with impatience. The news he brought was reassuring, however. Nothing of moment had occurred since our departure from New York. Within an hour we were again out at sea, this time en route to Santiago.
There was little sleep on board that night, and when morning dawned, every man who could escape from below was on deck watching, waiting for the first glimpse of Admiral Sampson's fleet. Shortly after daylight, the squadron was sighted. The scene was picturesque in the extreme.
The gray of early dawn was just giving way before the first rays of a tropical sun. Almost hidden in the mist hovering about the coast were a number of vague spots seemingly arranged in a semicircle, the base of which was the green-covered tableland fronting Santiago. The spots were tossing idly upon a restless sea, and, as the sun rose higher, each gradually assumed the shape of a marine engine of war. Beyond them was a stretch of sandy, surf-beaten coast, and directly fronting the centre ship could be seen a narrow cleft in the hill—the gateway leading to the ancient city of Santiago de Cuba.
As we steamed in closer to the fleet we saw indications that something of importance had occurred or was about to occur. Steam launches and torpedo boats were dashing about between the ships, strings of parti-colored bunting flaunted from the signal halliards of the flagship "New York," and nearer shore could be seen one of the smaller cruisers evidently making a reconnaissance.
"We are just in time, Russ," exclaimed "Stump," jubilantly. "The fleet is getting ready for a scrap. And we'll be right in it."
I edged toward the bridge. The first news would come from that quarter. Several minutes later, Captain Brownson, who had been watching the signals with a powerful glass, closed the instrument with a snap, and cried out to the executive officer:
"Hubbard, you will never believe it."
"What's happened?"
The reply was given so low that I could catch only a few words, but it was enough to send me scurrying aft at the top of my speed. The news was startling indeed.