As the "Yankee" steamed in toward the blockading fleet off the entrance to Santiago harbor, the scurrying torpedo boats and the many little launches darting here and there like so many beetles on a pond, became more apparent, and it was plainly evident to all that something of great importance had recently happened.
The scattered remarks made by Captain Brownson on the bridge formed, when pieced together, such a wonderful bit of news that I could scarcely contain myself as I hurried aft. I wanted to stop and fling my cap into the air. I felt like dancing a jig and hurrahing and offering praise for the fact that I was an American.
As it happened, I was not the only member of the "Yankee's" crew that had overheard the "old man's" words. The second captain of the after port five-inch gun, a jolly good fellow, known familiarly as "Hay" by the boys, chanced to be under the bridge. As I raced aft on the port side he started in the same direction on the starboard side of the spar deck. His legs fairly twinkled, and he beat me to the gangway by a neck.
"What do you think?" I heard him gasp as I came up. "Talk of your heroes! Whoop! Say, I'm glad I am a son of that old flag aft there. It's the greatest thing that ever happened."
"What?" chorused a dozen voices.
"Last night—"
"Yes."
"Last night a volunteer crew—"
"Hurry up, will you?"
"Last night, or rather early this morning, a volunteer crew, under the command of a naval constructor named Hobson, took the collier 'Merrimac' into the mouth of the harbor and—"
"That old tub?" interrupted a marine who had served in the regular navy, incredulously. "Why, she's nothing but a hulk. She hasn't a gun or—"
"She didn't go in to fight," said "Hay." "They were to block up the channel with her."
"To block up the channel?"
"Yes. Cervera and his fleet are in the harbor, you know, and the scheme was to keep them from coming out."
"Did they succeed?" chorused the whole group of eager listeners.
"Yes, but——"
The conclusion of "Hay's" sentence was drowned in a wild whoop of joy, a whoop that brought a number of other "Yankees" to the spot, and also a gesture of remonstrance from the executive officer on the bridge.
"Wait, boys," I said, gently; "you haven't heard all."
There was quiet at once.
"Hobson and his brave men succeeded in accomplishing their object, but they have paid the penalty for it."
"Not dead?" asked one in almost a whisper.
"So the captain read the signals. The 'Merrimac' went in about three o'clock this morning. It seems she reached the channel all right, but she was discovered and sent to the bottom with all on board."
"Hay" took off his cap reverently, and the others instantly followed his example. Nothing more was said. The glory of the deed was overshadowed by the supposed fate of the gallant volunteer crew.
The "Yankee" steamed in to a position designated by the flagship, and the captain went aboard to pay his respects to Admiral Sampson. A Spanish tug, flying a flag of truce, which had emerged from the harbor at noon, met one of our tugs, also flying a flag of truce, and almost immediately a string of signals went up to the signal yard of the "New York."
Then came such a burst of cheers and whistling and tossing of hats from every ship in the fleet that it seemed as if every officer and sailor in Sampson's squadron had suddenly gone daft. Like wildfire, the glorious news spread—
Hobson and his men were safe!
The tug from the harbor had brought an officer sent by Admiral Cervera himself with a message stating that the brave naval constructor and all his crew had been captured alive and were now prisoners in Morro Castle. Later, a press boat came alongside and confirmed the news through a megaphone.
The excitement on board the "Yankee," like that throughout the fleet, was tremendous. Those in the North who had received both the news of the feat and the rescue at the same time, can hardly understand the revulsion of feeling which swept through the American ships gathered off Santiago. It was like hearing from a supposed dead friend.
These heroes were comrades—nay, brothers. They wore the blue and they were fighting for Old Glory. Their praise was ours and their deed redounded to the eternal credit and fame of the American navy. Small wonder that we welcomed the news of their safety, and cheered until our throats were husky and our eyes wet with something more than mere exertion.
All hail to Richmond Pearson Hobson and his men!
Heroes all!
During the afternoon of our arrival, when we finally secured time to look about us, we were struck with the appearance of the really formidable fleet of warships collected under Admiral Sampson's flag. For size of individual ships and weight of armor and armament, there had never been anything in the history of the United States to equal it.
The fleet consisted of the powerful battleships "Iowa," "Indiana," "Massachusetts," and "Texas," the two splendid armored cruisers "New York" and "Brooklyn," cruisers "New Orleans" and "Marblehead," converted yachts "Mayflower," "Josephine," and "Vixen," torpedo boat "Porter," cable boat "Adria," gunboat "Dolphin," and the auxiliary cruisers "St. Louis" and "Yankee."
The vessels formed a semicircular line, completely enclosing the entrance to Santiago harbor. From where the "Yankee" rested, on the right wing, a fine view of the coast could be obtained. Two insurgent camps were plainly visible—one on the beach and another in the hills, which at that point rose to the height of fully four thousand feet. Morro Castle, a grim, sullen, gray embattled fort, directly overlooking the channel, was in plain sight, and here and there could be seen little green or sand-colored mounds, marking the site of earthworks.
The stretch of blue sea, edged by the tumbling surf-beaten beach, and the uprising of foliage-covered hills, all brought out clearly by a tropical sun, formed a picture as far removed from the usual setting of war as could be. But war was there, and the scenery appealed to few. There was more interest in the drab hulls of the fleet and the outward reaching of the mighty guns.
That evening—the evening of June 3d—the "Yankee's" decks presented an animated spectacle. The novel surroundings and the prospect of action kept the boys interested. The "Rumor Committee" was in active session, and one of its principal members, the captain's orderly, brought the news forward that the auxiliary cruiser would surely lead a procession of battleships into Santiago harbor the following day.
This was a little too strong for even the marines to swallow. We lay down by our loaded guns that night, feeling that it was well to be within easy reach of our defenders.
Hammocks were laid on the deck close to each five-inch breechloader, and the regular watch was doubled. Lack of experience made all these warlike preparations very impressive, and it was some time before the boys fell asleep. For my part, such a restlessness possessed me that, after trying to woo slumber for a half hour, I left my place and crawled over nearer the open port.
"Hello, Russ," whispered a voice, apparently from the outside. "Just lean out here if you want to cool off. Isn't the night air fine?"
A small figure wriggled in from where it had been hanging over the port sill, and in the faint light I recognized "Kid," as we called him, the smallest boy on board, and so pleasant and popular that we had unanimously elected him the mascot of the ship.
I was glad to see that it was "Kid." His fund of ready wit and his never-failing good-nature made him a welcome companion at all times. He did not belong to my gun, being a "powder monkey" on No. 16, a six-pounder on the spar deck, but "Kid" was privileged, and he could have penetrated to the captain's cabin with impunity.
"Thought I'd drop down here for a rest," he began, stretching himself and yawning. "Too much tramping about on deck to sleep. Say, looks as if we were going to have a little rain, doesn't it?"
The moon had just passed behind a scurrying cloud, causing the silvery sparkle of its reflection to suddenly fade from the surface of the water. The lights and shadows on the nearby beach changed to a streaky dark smudge. There was a damp touch to the air.
"This would be a proper night for one of those sneaking torpedo boats to give us a scare," resumed "Kid," thoughtfully. "Funny ways of fighting those Dagoes have, eh? It's like prisoner's base that I played when I was a boy."
"Kid's" eighteen years were a mature age in his opinion.
"The two torpedo craft in Santiago harbor could do a great deal of damage if they were properly handled," I ventured. "They are magnificent vessels of their class. Look what Cushing did with a slow steam launch and a powder can on the end of a stick."
"The case was different."
"Yes, but——"
"Cushing was an American," interrupted the boy convincingly.
There was silence for awhile and we lolled in the port, gazing idly at the black spots in the gloom representing the blockading fleet. Between us and the shore was the "New Orleans," the faint tracery of her masts just showing above the distant background of the hills. The dampness in the air had increased, and a dash of rain came in the open port.
"What were you doing at the mast this morning, 'Kid'?" I asked by way of variety.
"Had a mustering shirt in the lucky bag."
I heard the boy chuckle. There was an escapade behind the remark.
"You know that wardroom Jap with the bad eye?"
"Yes."
"It was his shirt."
"But how——"
"It was this way. You know how hard it has been to put up with 'government straight' as a steady diet, don't you?"
I nodded. As "government straight" meant the extremely simple bill of fare provided by Uncle Sam, consisting of salt beef, pork, hardtack, beans, and canned butter, with an occasional taste of dried fruit, I was compelled to admit my acquaintance with it.
"Well, the other night I got to dreaming that I was back in New York," resumed "Kid." "I dreamt I dropped into a bang-up restaurant and ordered beefsteak, fried potatoes, pie, and——"
A groan came from one of the gun's crew, who was within hearing, and "Kid" lowered his voice.
"Hit him where he lived, I guess," he chuckled. "Well, I woke up so hungry that I couldn't stand it any longer. I looked up the Jap and struck him for a hand-out. He wanted a shirt, and I wanted something to eat, and we made a bargain. I brought him my extra mustering shirt—it was too large for me, anyway—and he gave me some bread and butter, cold potted tongue, three bananas, and——"
"For mercy's sake, stow that," muttered a voice from back of the gun-mount. "Don't we suffer enough?"
"That's 'Hand-Out' Hood," grinned "Kid." "He's kicking because he didn't get it. Well, I gave the shirt to the Jap, and what did he do but lose it. My name was on the collar, and 'Jimmy Legs' put me on the report. The 'old man' was easy, though. Gave me four hours extra duty. I asked him if I couldn't work it out in the wardroom pantry."
"Kid's" chuckle came to a sudden stop, and he leaned out through the port.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Thought I saw something moving over there near the beach."
"Must have been a shadow."
"Guess so. Still, it looked like some kind of a—"
Bang!
The sharp report of a rapid-fire gun cut short his words. Another followed almost instantly, then came a regular volley. The effect on the crew of the "Yankee" was instantaneous. The men sleeping at the guns scrambled to their feet, hammocks were kicked out of the way, and before the word to go to general quarters was passed, every member of the crew was at his station.
"I thought I saw something moving inshore," cried "Kid," as he scurried away.
"It's a Spanish torpedo boat," muttered "Stump." "Great Scott! just listen to the 'New Orleans.' She's firing like a house afire."
Suddenly there came a deep, thunderous roar. It was the voice of a thirteen-inch gun on the "Massachusetts." Sixty seconds later the six-pounders on the "Yankee's" forecastle joined in the chorus, and the action became general.
"Do not fire without orders, men," cautioned Lieutenant Greene, the officer in charge of our division. "Just take it easy and bide your time."
It was our first experience in actual fighting, and our anxiety to "let loose" was almost overwhelming. We were held to our stations so rigidly that but few glimpses could be caught of the outside. The "New Orleans," on our starboard, was still rattling away.
Notwithstanding our own inaction (the gun deck battery was not used), there was a certain exhilaration in even listening to the sounds of conflict, and the eager, tense faces surrounding the guns reflected in the dim light of the deck lanterns such a fierce desire to fight that they were absolutely transfigured.
"Can't stand this much longer," muttered "Hay," the second captain, as a peculiarly vicious report came from the direction of the "Massachusetts." "Why don't they give a fellow a chance?"
"Steady, men," admonished Lieutenant Greene. "Don't be impatient. Our turn will come soon. Steady!"
A turn of the hull—we were under way at half speed—brought the land on the port bow just then. The moon suddenly emerged from behind the clouds, and we who were nearest the port, distinctly saw a long, black object fade into the obscurity of the coast almost directly under Morro Castle.
"She's escaped!" groaned "Stump." "It's the torpedo boat, and she is safe again."
As if to prove the truth of his words the guns on the "New Orleans" and "Massachusetts" became silent; then word was sent below to "secure." Our first action was disappointing, but there was little grumbling. We knew full well that momentous events were bound to occur before long.
The following morning, shortly after daybreak, the torpedo boat "Porter" steamed alongside. Her coming created some excitement, and the "Yankee's" crew promptly lined the railing.
"What's that object on the deck?" asked "Stump," pointing to a long brass cylinder lying abaft the after conning tower.
"It's a torpedo, but not like those used in our navy," replied "Hay."
Captain Brownson leaned over the end of the bridge and waved his hand to Lieutenant Fremont, the "Porter's" commander. The latter was smiling, and as we watched, he made a gesture toward the mysterious brass cylinder.
"See that thing, Brownson?" he called out.
The captain nodded.
"It almost paid you a visit last night."
"What——"
"We picked it up near shore this morning and sunk another. That Spanish torpedo boat made a great attempt to sink one of our ships, and, if I am not mistaken, the 'Yankee' was her intended prey. Congratulations."
As the "Porter" steamed away we felt very much like congratulating ourselves. This was grim war of a certainty. Like the boy who was blown a mile in a cyclone without injury, we experienced a certain pride that we really had been in danger.
About the middle of the afternoon a signal was seen on the flagship. It was read at once, and immediately the boatswain's mate passed a call that sent a thrill of anticipation through us. It was:
"All hands clear ship for action!"
The boatswain's mate's shrill piping and the long drawn out cry, "All hands clear ship for action!" was not entirely unexpected. An unusual activity on the part of the signal men on the flagship "New York" had not escaped our notice, and when the summons to prepare for battle echoed through the "Yankee's" decks it found us in readiness for prompt obedience.
At the time the call sounded a number of us were standing in the port waist idly watching the fleet and the shore. "Bill," a member of the powder division, whose father is a prominent real estate broker of New York, and whose great talent is for practical joking and general fun making, was telling a story. As we scattered at the summons, he started below with me. Even the circumstances could not prevent him following his hobby, and he whispered as we hurried along:
"Say, Russ, this reminds me of a good story I once heard. There was a man who was too lazy to live and the neighbors finally decided to bury him. So they took him out to the village graveyard one morning before day and——"
"Here, you men, pass this mess chest below," interrupted an officer, beckoning to us. "Bill" grasped one end of the object indicated and lugged it to the hatch.
"They took the lazy man to the village graveyard, as I was saying," resumed "Bill," "and they buried him up to his neck in the earth. Then they hid back of tombstones and——"
"Less talking there, men," exclaimed the navigator, hurrying past us. "You 'heroes' do too much yarning to suit me. Get those things below at once. Shake it up."
"They are in an almighty hurry," grumbled "Bill." "The forts won't move. They'll be there to-morrow, I guess. Well, as I was saying, the villagers concealed themselves behind convenient tombstones and waited to see what the lazy man would do when he woke up. By and by day broke, and just as the sun gilded the windows of the old church the fellow who was buried up to his neck——"
"Chase those mess chests below, bullies," called out the boatswain's mate, dropping down the ladder a few feet away. "Lively there; the 'old man' wants to break a record. When you have finished, hustle to the oil and paint lockers and help carry all inflammable material to the spar deck."
For several minutes "Bill" worked away in silence. Between us we managed to lower a number of chests into the hold where they would be out of the way; then we disposed of more objects liable to produce unwelcome splinters, and finally we started toward the paint locker.
The gun deck presented a scene of the most intense activity. The process of clearing ship for action requires the united efforts of the entire crew. On vessels of the regular service, such as the "New York" or "Indiana," where everything has been constructed with a view to the needs of battle, the work is thoroughly systematized and comparatively easy. The "Yankee," being a merchant steamer hastily converted into a vessel of war, presented greater difficulties.
However, the crew was fairly familiar with its duties and the work progressed at a rapid rate. When "Bill" and I reached the paint locker we found several others preparing to convey the oil to the deck. It was a momentary respite, and "Bill" took advantage of it.
"When the sun rose the fellows hiding behind the tombstones saw the lazy man open his eyes," he resumed hurriedly. "He looked around and took in all the details of the scene, the old church with the windows glowing redly, the weeping willows shaking and trembling in the crisp morning breeze, the rows of sod-covered mounds, the crumbling tombstones, and on one side the old rickety fence marking the passing of the road. All this he saw and then—"
"Hear the news, fellows?" interrupted the "Kid," suddenly approaching. "We are going to—what's the matter, 'Bill'?"
For "Bill" had caught him by the slack of the shirt and one arm and was hustling him along the deck. The "Kid," looking aggrieved, went his way, and "Bill" returned.
"As I was saying," he continued calmly; "the lazy fellow saw all those things, then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. 'Whoop!' he cried, 'this is the best piece of luck I've struck yet. Hurray! blamed if it ain't the resurrection day and I'm the first feller above ground. Whoop!'"
After I had finished laughing I picked up a can of oil and asked:
"Where's the similarity, 'Bill'? It's a good story, but you said this reminded you of it."
"Humph! aren't we going to see the resurrection of some of these old Spanish fossils around here to-day?" "Bill" demanded. "And aren't we the first volunteer force on the spot? I guess that makes the story apropos."
As the "Yankee" was the first vessel manned by Naval Reserves to reach the scene of hostilities, I could not deny "Bill's" claim. Seeing the success of one story, he was on the point of telling another, when word came to hasten the clearing of the ship for action, and we were compelled to devote our energies to the work in hand.
The decks were sanded—a precaution that made more than one wonder if the spilling of blood was really anticipated; all boats and spare booms were covered with canvas to prevent the scattering of splinters, the steel hatch covers were closed down, hammocks were broken out of the racks and made to serve as an added protection to the forward wheel-house, and everything possible done to make the ship fit for action.
The time taken to gain this end did not exceed ten minutes, which was almost a record. Signals were displayed stating that we were in readiness, then all hands were called to general quarters. As we hurried to our stations I saw the entire blockading fleet moving slowly shoreward.
"We are going to bombard the Dagoes this trip for sure," observed the first captain of Number Eight as we lined up. "I see their finish."
"Don't be too sure," said "Stump." "There's many a slip between the muzzle and the target. Maybe we won't do much after all. Just to make it interesting I'll bet you a dinner at Del's that we will only chuck a bluff. What d'ye say?"
"Done, if you make it for the whole ship's company," chuckled the first captain.
"Stump" shook his head.
"A dinner at Del's for over two hundred hungry Reserves, and on a salary of $35 per month. Nope. Not on your life."
"Cast loose and provide," came the order.
There were a few moments of rapid work, then the battery was reported in readiness for firing. Through the open port we could catch a glimpse of the other vessels of the fleet, and the spectacle formed by the low-lying battleships, the massive cruisers, and the smaller, but equally defiant gunboats, was one long to be remembered.
Every ship was cleared for business. On the vessels of the "Oregon" class nothing could be seen but the gray steel of turrets and superstructure. The "New York" and the "Brooklyn" were similarly cleared. On the bridges could be seen groups of officers, but the decks were empty. Every man was at his gun.
The ships steamed in to within a short distance of the beach and then formed a semicircle, the heavier vessels taking the centre where they could directly face the forts. The little "Dolphin" was on the extreme right of the line, with the "Yankee" next.
When within easy range of the guns ashore there ensued a wait. No signal to fire came from the flagship, and there did not seem to be any move toward opening the battle by the forts. We stood at our guns in silence, awaiting the word, until finally patience ceased to be a virtue.
"Seems to me they ought to do something," murmured "Stump," glancing shoreward rather discontentedly. "Ain't we fair targets?"
"Why don't the admiral tell us to sail in?" queried the first captain in the same tone. "The day is fine and the range is good. There's the beggars plain enough with their measly old forts. What more is wanted?"
"Wish they would pipe down and light the smoking lamp," said the second loader. "It would be a great deal more fun than standing here like a dummy."
The sun had passed beyond the top of the hills, but the light was sufficiently strong to bring out in plain relief the batteries guarding the entrance to Santiago. Grim Morro Castle appeared almost deserted. The red and yellow banner of Spain flaunted lazily from the ramparts, but only here and there could be distinguished the little black dots representing the soldiers on guard. The earthworks and smaller forts were equally idle.
"We won't get anything out of them to-day," remarked "Stump" decisively. "It must be one of their eternal feast days when they won't even fight."
"There goes a signal on the flagship," exclaimed the first loader, pointing out the port. "I'll bet a dollar it's—"
"The signal to pull out again," groaned "Stump." "Didn't I say so?"
"The admiral intends to postpone the bombardment for some reason," I ventured. "Perhaps it's too late in the day."
Whatever the cause, it was now plain that we would not engage the forts. In obedience to the signals on the "New York," which were repeated by the "Brooklyn," the whole fleet returned to the former station several miles from shore. The word to "secure" was passed and presently the "Yankee" had resumed its former condition of armed watchfulness.
That evening after supper there was a gathering of the choice spirits of the crew in the vicinity of the after wheel-house. "Dye," the chief member of the "Yankee's" choir, started one of "Steve's" little songs, which, although rendered very quietly in deference to the rules observed on blockade, was greatly enjoyed. The air was "Tommy Atkins," and the words ran as follows:
"They made us sign our papers for a year,And dressed us in a natty sailor's suit;They taught us how to heave the lead and steer,And how to handle guns and how to shoot.We fancied we'd be leaving right awayTo capture prizes on the Spanish Main,And be raising merry hadesWith the dusky Spanish laddies,And within a month come steaming home again.CHORUS."But instead we ran a ferryAll along the Jersey shore,And our turns were empty very,And our hands were awful sore.We would give our bottom dollarJust to see a cable car,Just to hear a newsboy holler,Just to smoke a good cigar."In times of peace we do not have to sweepOr carry coal or stand on watch all night;We do not have to scrub down decks or keepOur toothbrush chained, or brasswork shining bright.We never washed our faces in a pail,We never heard the fog-horn's awful shriek,We never ate salt horse,We combed our hair, of course,And we never wore our stockings for a week."CHORUS.
"They made us sign our papers for a year,And dressed us in a natty sailor's suit;They taught us how to heave the lead and steer,And how to handle guns and how to shoot.We fancied we'd be leaving right awayTo capture prizes on the Spanish Main,And be raising merry hadesWith the dusky Spanish laddies,And within a month come steaming home again.
CHORUS.
"But instead we ran a ferryAll along the Jersey shore,And our turns were empty very,And our hands were awful sore.We would give our bottom dollarJust to see a cable car,Just to hear a newsboy holler,Just to smoke a good cigar.
"In times of peace we do not have to sweepOr carry coal or stand on watch all night;We do not have to scrub down decks or keepOur toothbrush chained, or brasswork shining bright.We never washed our faces in a pail,We never heard the fog-horn's awful shriek,We never ate salt horse,We combed our hair, of course,And we never wore our stockings for a week."
CHORUS.
"Suppose you 'heroes' pipe down there," came from the darkness just then. "What do you think this is, a concert hall?"
"It's 'Cutlets,'" muttered "Stump." "He would like to make the ship a funeral barge."
We sat in silence for a while, watching the retreating form of the navigator passing forward; then Tom Le Valley, a zealous member of Number Nine gun's crew, spoke up.
"Do you see those two lights twinkling over there about where the 'Dolphin' should be, fellows?" he asked.
Some one yawned and nodded.
"Reminds you of a story, eh?" asked "Bill," who was leaning against the rail. "Well, come to think of it I remember a—"
"Several years ago I happened to be a patient in a hospital over in Brooklyn," continued Tom. "I was almost well and about to leave the place when a man in the upper ward—"
"I had a cousin once who used to travel a great deal," interrupted "Bill," taking a seat on the deck with his back against a bitt. "One time he happened to be in a small town just outside of Dublin, Ireland. The inn was crowded and he had to take up his quarters with a family who occasionally rented out rooms. A circus and menagerie was giving exhibitions in the city, and one night the biggest monkey escaped from its cage and skipped out. They instituted a search at once, but the animal could not be found. Well, it happened that the family with whom my cousin was stopping consisted of father and mother and one son about ten years old. The boy, whose name was Mike, was a regular limb. Always in mischief and——"
"As I was saying," broke in Tom at this juncture, "when I was about to leave the hospital, a man in the upper ward concluded to depart this world for a better one. It happened about eight o'clock in the evening, and, as was usual in such cases, the nurse on watch was supposed to get several convalescent patients and a stretcher and carry the body down to a little wooden house a hundred yards from the main building. The nurse, with whom I was on friendly terms, had an important case to attend to just then and he asked me if I wouldn't take charge of the stretcher party. Well, we started down the yard, I leading the way with a lantern, and we finally reached the little house. We entered and——"
"Some people think they are the only story tellers in the group," remarked "Bill" with mild sarcasm at that interesting point. "To tell a good story with a point to it is an art. Now, as I was saying, this boy Mike would rather get into mischief than eat a—what's the Irish for potato?"
"Spud," suggested "Hod."
"Murphy," said "Stump."
"Well, it's immaterial. Anyway the boy was full of mischief. The night the monk got away he had been sent to bed early because of some trick he had played. He slept in a little room at the head of the stairs leading to the second story. His window opened on a lean-to shed, and, as it was a warm evening, the sash was raised. Shortly after the youngster got to bed, something slipped over the back fence, and after prowling about the yard for a moment, climbed upon the shed and through the window into the room where Mike was just in the act of falling asleep. The thing, which was about the youngster's size, crept over the floor toward the bed, and then with a spring, landed squarely upon——"
"Some people use more wind in telling a story than would fill a maintop-sail," drawled Tom. "There's nothing like getting at your subject. Now, when we reached the little wooden house we entered, and after accomplishing our errand, started back to the main building. While on the way it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to close the door between the two rooms of which the house was composed. There was an open window in the front room, and there was no telling what might get in. I told the fellows to go on and I tasked back to the little house. I still carried the lantern, but just as I reached the door, it went out. I tell you, I felt like letting the whole thing go, but I didn't want to get the nurse into trouble. So I unlocked the front door, opened it, and, Great Scott! I saw——"
"There's everything in choosing a subject when you want to tell a good story," calmly interrupted Bill. "This story I am trying to tell has a laugh in it. You don't have to keep your hair down with both hands and feel the cold chills playing tag up and down your spinal column, like you have to do when some people are trying to yarn. Well, when the thing that had crept through the window landed on the bed, Mike let out a yell that could have been heard in Dublin. 'Ow-w-w!' he whooped, scrambling to the floor. He caught one sight of the visitor, and then made a dash for the window and slid clear to the ground, leaving pieces of shirt and his epidermis on every nail on the shed roof. The noise he made roused the father and mother below, and the latter started for the stairs. 'That b'ye 'll be the death av me yet,' she complained. 'I'll go up and give him a slap.' She lost no time in reaching the little room, and when she entered she saw the bed with what she thought was Mike under the clothes. 'Mike, ye rascal,' she exclaimed, 'turn down the sheet this minute. It's mesilf as'll tache ye to raise a noise at this time o' night. For shame, ye spalpane! What, ye won't obey your own mother? I'll show ye. Take that!' She brought her hand down upon the figure outlined under the sheet with a resounding whack. The next second the thing leaped from the bed squarely into her arms. 'Wow! Murther! Mike, what have ye been doing?' she howled, adding at the top of her voice, 'Patrick, Patrick, come quick! The b'ye has got hold of your hair restorer. He's all covered with hair and he's gone daft. Murther!' With that the father made for the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. Just as he got to the top—"
"The sight I saw when I opened the outer door of the little house almost knocked me silly," broke in Tom, rather excitedly. "There in the other room gleamed—"
"When Patrick reached the second floor," interrupted Bill, raising his voice, "he felt something strike him full in the chest; then two hairy arms clasped him about the throat and—"
"In the other room gleamed two—"
"Oh, give a fellow a chance, will you?" cried Bill. "You want the whole floor. What do you think—"
"Sh-h-h! here comes the executive officer," hastily whispered "Stump." "We've made too much racket. Let's go into the after wheel-house."
"We must be quiet about it," spoke up the "Kid," warningly. "'Cutlets' is chasing around to-night, and if he catches us in there he'll raise Cain."
"All right," replied Bill. "And I'll finish that story if I have to stay up all night."
"Same here," retorted Tom, with evident determination. "Come on."
And we all followed the twain.
The after wheel-house on board the "Yankee" was a round structure of steel built on the spar deck directly over the counter. It contained a steering wheel to be used in case the wheel in the pilot-house should be disabled. When the chill winds of May and early June were blowing off the northern coast during the "Yankee's" period of cruising in that vicinity, the after wheel-house formed a snug and comfortable retreat for the men of the watch.
It was freely used for that purpose until the navigator chanced to discover the fact. He forthwith issued orders forbidding any person to enter the house, except on duty. His order, like many others, received respectful consideration—when he happened to be looking. In the present case we were so eager to hear the conclusion of the stories being related by the rival yarn-spinners, that we were fain to brave "Cutlets'" displeasure. Led by Bill and Tom, we piled inside.
"What I was trying to say," spoke up the former, getting the first opening, "was that when Patrick reached the top of the stairs, something struck him full in the chest, and two hairy arms were thrown about his neck. The sudden shock sent him tumbling backward, and he fell kerflop! down the steps. Up above, his wife was howling to beat the band, 'Mike, Mike, ye spalpane! You do be killing your poor father. Och! why did I live to see this day?' In the meantime the real Mike—for the one inside was the escaped monk from the menagerie—had scooted for the police. They came, a half dozen of them, and as they entered the front door—"
"Time!" chuckled "Stump." "Give Tom a chance."
"As I opened the front door of the little wooden house where we had placed the body," said Tom, prompt to take advantage of the opportunity, "I saw two gleaming eyes glaring at me from the inner room. I tell you, my heart fell clean down into my boots."
"Should think it would," muttered the "Kid," peering about the wheel-house with a shiver. "Ugh!"
"I dropped the lantern," resumed Tom, "and staggered back. Just then a——"
"Half dozen policemen entered the front door just as Patrick and the supposed Mike reached the bottom of the stairs," broke in Bill, taking up the thread of his story. "Well, when the Irish coppers saw Pat with the monk hanging around his neck they thought the old Nick had him. They started to run, but the old woman reached the lower floor in time to see both Mike and the monkey. She grabbed a broom, but the monk slipped through the front door, and——"
"That's the end of your story. And a good job it is too," remarked Tom.
"It is better than having no end," retorted Bill. "You spin out a yarn to beat the band."
"It's getting late," spoke up "Hod," yawning. "If you fellows are going to chew the rag all night I——"
"Only a word more," interrupted Tom. "As I staggered back I fell into the arms of the nurse, who had come down to see what kept me. I explained in a hurry, and he lit a match. We both went in and discovered——"
"Sh-h-h! Get out of here, you fellows," suddenly spoke up a voice at the door on the starboard side. "Here comes 'Cutlets'!"
There was a scramble for the opposite door, and in much less time than is taken in the telling, the wheel-house was empty. We huddled in the shadows for a moment; then dodged forward. As we reached the hatch I heard the "Kid" ask Tom:
"Say, what was it you saw? Tell a fellow, won't you?"
"Two brass knobs on an old chest," was the calm reply.
"Huh!"
The following day being Sunday, was given over to rest and recreation and the writing of letters, until late in the afternoon. The day dawned clear but very warm. There was very little breeze stirring, and the spar and gun decks, where we spent the most of our time, were almost stifling. "Corking mats," as they are termed in naval parlance, were very much in evidence. The sailor's "corking mat" is a strip of canvas which he spreads upon the deck to protect his clothing from the tarry seams, when he feels the necessity for a siesta or nap, which is quite often.
Toward evening we were put to work at a task which gave welcome promise of coming action. Under the direction of the executive officer we broke out a number of bags of coal from the orlop deck and piled them five deep, and about the same number in height, around the steam steering engine under the forward wheel-house. This was to give added protection to a vital part of the ship.
The work was hard and unpleasant, especially to men who had not spent the major portion of their lives at manual labor, but it was one of those disagreeable fortunes of war to which we were growing accustomed, and we toiled without comment. That night when we turned in, that is, those who were fortunate enough to have the "off watch," it was generally rumored about the decks that the fleet would surely bombard early the following morning.
About two bells (five o'clock) the different guns' crews, who were sleeping at the batteries, were called by the boatswain's mates, and told to go to breakfast at once.
"It's coming," exclaimed "Hay," joyfully. "The old 'Yankee' will see her real baptism of fire to-day. 'Kid,' you young rat, you'll have a chance to dodge shells before you are many hours older."
"You may get a chance to stop one," retorted the boy.
After a hurried meal, word to clear ship for action was passed, and the "Yankee's" boys set to work with a vim. The task was done more thoroughly than usual. The boats and wooden hatches were covered with canvas, everything portable that would splinter was sent below, the decks were sanded, and all the inflammable oils were placed in a boat and set adrift for the "Justin," one of the colliers, to pick up.
The day seemed fitted for the work we had in hand. The sky was overcast, and occasionally a rain squall would sweep from the direction of the land, and envelop the fleet. It was not a cold, raw rain, like that encountered in more northern latitudes in early summer, but a dripping of moisture peculiarly grateful after the heat of the previous day.
Shortly before seven o'clock, the members of the crew were in readiness for business. The majority had removed their superfluous clothing, and it was a stirring sight to watch the different guns' crews, stripped to the waist and barefooted, standing at their stations. There was something in the cool, practical manner in which each man prepared for work that promised well, and it should be said to the everlasting credit of the Naval Reserves that they invariably fought with the calmness and precision of veterans whenever they were called upon.
In the present case, there would have been some excuse for faint-heartedness. The crew of the "Yankee," made up of men whose previous lives had been those of absolute peace, who had never heard a shot fired in anger before their arrival at Santiago, who had left home and business in defence of the flag—these men went about their preparations for attacking the fortifications with as little apparent concern as if it were simply a yachting trip.
There was no holding back, no hesitancy, no looks of concern or anxiety, but when the signal to advance inshore appeared on the "New York," at six bells (seven o'clock), there was a feeling of relief that the time of waiting was over.
We were to be in it at last.
The flagship's signal to advance in formation was obeyed at once. Moving in double column, the fleet stood in toward the batteries. The first line, as we saw from the after port, was composed of the "Brooklyn," "Texas," "Massachusetts," and "Marblehead." The line to which the "Yankee" was attached, included, besides that vessel, the "New York," "Oregon," "Iowa," and "New Orleans." When within three thousand yards from shore, the first line turned toward the west, leaving us to steam in the opposite direction.
The batteries ashore could now be plainly distinguished. Morro Castle, grim and defiant, seemed to ignore our coming, if the absence of life was any proof. Lower down on the other side of the entrance where the Estrella and Catalena batteries were located, there seemed to be more activity. Men could also be seen running about in some new batteries a little to the eastward of Morro Castle. It was evident to us at once that the enemy had not anticipated an attack on such a rainy, windy day.
On swept the two lines of ships without firing a shot until they formed a semicircle, with the heavier vessels directly facing the forts; then the "New York" opened fire with one of her heavy guns, the "Iowa" following immediately. At this moment, 7:45 a.m., the ships were arranged as follows, counting from the right: "New York," "Yankee," "New Orleans," "Massachusetts," "Oregon," "Iowa," "Indiana," "Texas," "Marblehead," and "Brooklyn." Guarding the extreme left were the "Vixen" and "Suwanee," and doing similar duty on the other flank were the "Dolphin" and "Porter."
The shot from the flagship was the signal for a general bombardment. There was no settled order of firing, but each ship just "pitched in," to use a common expression, and banged away at the forts with every available gun.
The scene on the gun deck of the "Yankee" was one never to be forgotten. When the word to commence firing reached us, we sprang to the work at once. Each crew paid strict attention to its own station, and the routine of loading and firing went on with the regularity of clockwork. A number of boxes of the fixed ammunition had been "whipped" up from below while we were steaming into position, and there was no lack of death-dealing food for the hungry maws of the battery.
Not much could be seen of the outside at first, as the task in hand claimed our strict attention, but after a while an occasional glimpse was obtained of the other ships and the forts. The heavy battleships, the "Indiana," "Oregon," "Massachusetts," "Iowa," and "Texas," were lost in the dense smoke of their guns. It was thrilling to see them, like moving clouds, emitting streams of fire which shot through the walls of vapor like flashes of lightning athwart a gloomy sky.