The noise was terrific. It seemed to gather at times in such an overwhelming, soul-stunning clamor of sound, that the very air was rent and split and shattered, and the senses refused further burden. There was no possibility of hearing the human voice, save at odd intervals when a brief cessation occurred in the firing. Orders were transmitted by gestures.
The smoke was thick and stifling, the saltpetre fumes filling the throat and lungs, until breathing was difficult. The dense bank of vapor enveloping the ship also rendered it almost impossible to aim with any accuracy. We of Number Eight gun were early impressed with this fact, and "Hay," the second captain, exclaimed during a lull:
"It's that fellow in charge of Number Six. He won't give us any show. Just look how he's working his crew. Did you ever see the beat of it?"
The captain of Number Six, a broker of considerable note in New York, a member of the Calumet Club, and the son of a distinguished captain in the Confederate navy, was fighting his gun with savage energy. Under his direction, and inspired by a running fire of comments from him, the different members of Number Six crew were literally pouring a hail of steel upon the batteries. The firing was so rapid, in fact, that it kept our port completely filled with smoke, much to our sorrow.
Notwithstanding that fact, "Hay," the second captain of Number Eight, did such marvellous shooting, that word presently came from Captain Brownson on the bridge, publicly commending him. We were correspondingly elated, and worked all the harder.
It was not until we had been firing some time that we began to take particular note of our surroundings. At first the novelty of the situation and a state of excitement, natural under the circumstances, kept us absorbed in our duties, but when it became apparent that the engagement was to be a matter of hours—and also that the Spaniards did not aim very well—we commenced to look about.
One of the first things to strike me personally, and it was rather humorous, was the appearance of "Stump," the second loader. Orders had early been given to avoid exposing ourselves to the enemy's fire as much as possible. "Stump," than whom no more daring and aggressive man could be found on board, thought it wise to obey, so he crouched behind the gun-mount and compressed himself so as to be out of range. From this position he had only to reach out one hand to train the gun, which was his special duty. Meanwhile, he continually urged "Hay" to keep on firing.
"Doesn't make any difference whether you can see or not," he exclaimed. "Shoot anyway. Give it to the beggars! That's the ticket, old chap. Now another. Whoop! did you see that land? Ah-h-h! we are the people."
As the novelty of the scene gradually wore off we began to enjoy it hugely. We pumped away at the guns, commenting freely on the enemy's marksmanship. We felt more like a party watching a fireworks display than the crew of a warship engaged in bombarding a number of forts.
The two lines were steaming back and forth in front of the batteries, firing as the guns would bear. At first, Morro Castle and the smaller forts maintained a spirited fire, but finally their response to our fusillade slackened considerably, and it became evident that they had been driven from their guns.
The difference in aim between the Spanish gunners and ours was very perceptible. Their shells invariably passed over the ships or landed short, and at no time during the engagement were any of the American vessels in imminent danger. This was not due to length of range either, as the lines were maintained at from two to four thousand yards. As Bill put it, "Any Dago that can't hit a flock of barn doors like this fleet, had better go back home and hoe onions."
The ships of our fleet also made better targets than did the batteries ashore. It was certainly easy to distinguish the position of each vessel, but as the Spanish batteries were nearly all situated a short distance back from the crest of the ridge with a background little different in color from that of the battery, we found it difficult to locate them at times. Our elevation had to be perfect, as with an inch or two below or above, the projectile would either vanish in the distance or take effect on the cliffs below the batteries.
We of Number Eight gun, when the "Yankee" was steaming with the starboard broadside bearing, managed to slip across the deck and watch the firing from the ports and deadlights. It was really beautiful to see the landing of the great shells upon the forts and surrounding earth. Some battered into the soft spots on the cliffs, sending huge masses of dirt and débris high into the air; then when the explosion came, there would follow a great cloud of dust resembling the wavering smoke over a city fire.
Others struck the harder portions of the cliff, bursting into a shower of fragments, each kicking up its own pother of dirt and shattered rock. At times a shell would land in a crack in the face of the hill, and immediately following would come an upheaval of stones. These boulders, many of them of immense size, would roll down the slope and splash in the water at the base, creating a series of fountain-like cascades.
Accompanying the display was a continuous roar of explosion and detonation that echoed and reechoed across the water like the pealing of tropical thunder. In fact, it was these noises, mingled with the fierce reports of our guns, which impressed us the most. Taking it all in all, the scene was spectacular in the extreme.
"Boys," remarked No. 7 of our crew—"Morrie," we called him—"this sight is worth all the coaling and standing watches and poor food we have had to put up with. I would experience it all over again just to see this bombardment."
And we heartily agreed with him.
After a time it seemed as if the admiral was determined to plump shells into the vicinity of Santiago until there was nothing left to fire at. There had been a continuous outpouring of projectiles from the guns of the fleet for over an hour, yet that grim line of gray steel fortresses still passed and repassed in front of the forts.
It was really growing monotonous, when something occurred at the gun to which I was attached that served to give us an exciting minute or two. "Hay" had just fired a shot which caught one of the new batteries directly in the centre. The shell was extracted, and another inserted, but when the second captain pressed the electric firing lanyard, there was no report. The shell had missed fire.
"Long Tommy" reached forward to open the breech, but was stopped by a sharp order from the divisional officer.
"Don't open that breech till I give the word," he said.
The electrical connections were examined and the contacts scraped bright.
"Stand by," said "Hay" finally; "let's try her again."
The great gun moved slowly on its pivot while "Hay" worked the elevating gear. The orders came sharp and clear through the roar of the cannon and the shriek of the shells.
As we watched our young gun captain, we saw his set face grow even more determined, and we knew that he had got his sight to suit him and that he was about to fire the gun.
With a gesture of disgust he threw down the firing lanyard.
"It's no go," he said, "that cartridge will have to come out."
We looked at one another; it was a serious moment. The bombardment was now at its height, and the thunderous roaring of the guns was increasing with every passing second. Above and around us the vicious reports of the "Yankee's" five-inch rapid-firers seemed like one continuous volley. A hoarse cheer came from a nearby ship, proclaiming the landing of some favored shot.
"Hurry, fellows," shouted "Hay" in an ecstasy of impatience. "Lively there; we're missing all the sport."
The scene on the gun deck of the "Yankee" at that moment would have made an eloquent subject for the brush of a Meissonier. It was the deck of a warship in battle, and the spectacle enacted was accompanied, by an orchestra of the mighty guns of a fleet in action.
Imagine a compartment of steel, a compartment filled with smoke that surged and eddied as the ship lunged forward or rolled upon a heavy swell.
Imagine scattered about in this pungent vapor many groups of men, men half-naked, perspiring; their glistening bodies smeared and stained with the grime of conflict.
Imagine in the centre of one of these groups a wicked, menacing gun—a five-inch breechloader, its long, lean barrel raised shoulder-high upon the apex of a conical gun-mount, near the base of which are significant wooden cases, some empty and others filled with elongated, formidable cartridges; and pails of black, dirty water ascum with powder; and other objects each significant of war.
Imagine these things, and then understand that this gun, made to be turned against an enemy, has now turned against its workers. In the bore, pent in by the polished breechblock, is a cartridge which has failed in its duty. It is apparently defective.
The tide of battle is surging on; other ships of the bombarding fleet are still pouring their shot and shell upon the grim array of forts ashore; other guns of this ship are pursuing their duty with savage energy. But this gun is silent.
The men wax impatient. It is the height of the conflict. Many shots have been fired, and many more will yet be required to subdue the enemy. To be "out of action" will mean passiveness in the face of the enemy. Anything but that.
There is a rivalry between the guns' crews. It is a rivalry as to which shall make the best shots and create the most damage. The members of Number Eight—the after gun on the port side—are proud of their record. Their second captain—he whom they call "Hay"—has received the public commendation of the captain himself, sent down from the bridge in the midst of the battle. It is a mark of distinction not given freely, and Number Eight is eager for more honors.
But the men have not forgotten a similar case, occurring on the voyage down the coast, when another cartridge failed, and on being extracted from the breech chamber, exploded, killing a marine corporal and wounding others.
The men of Number Eight have not forgotten that tragedy, and that is why their gun is now to them a menacing creature of steel, whose breath may be the breath of death. They stand in groups, they eye it, they speculate, and they feel that a desperate and perilous duty is before them.
The risk must be taken. The cartridge must be extracted. It is a fortune of war which all who enlist must expect. But it is one thing to fall before an enemy's blow, and another to lose your life at the stroke of your own weapon.
The officer of the division steps forward.
"We will see if we can't take it out without much danger," he says, briefly. "Bring a rope."
One is hastily procured, and the first captain—a great, brawny, good-natured fellow, who has spent years at sea—deftly fastens the bight of the rope to the handle of the breechblock. He then retreats a short distance and signifies his readiness.
"When I give the word," calls out the officer, "pull handsomely. Ready—pull away!"
From out the smoke-filled compartment men lean forward, eagerly—anxiously. They instinctively shrink back as the breech plug slowly moves. Then, when it finally opens, revealing the brass head of the cartridge inside the firing chamber, a sigh of relief comes from all.
But the danger is not yet over.
The defective projectile must be taken out and tossed into the sea. The second loader steps forward at a signal from the gun captain. This second loader is "Stump." He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and passes it to another man and myself. Carrying it between us—and carrying it gingerly—we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the hundred-pound projectile through the open port.
It barely clears the port sill, coming so close to it, in fact, that for one breathless second we think that it will strike. As the shell passes from view, another sigh of relief comes from the spectators. "Hay" passes a grimy towel over his perspiring face.
"Whew! that was a ticklish moment," he said, solemnly. "I'd just as soon not handle any more defective shells."
Which exactly represented our sentiments.
Three minutes later Number Eight was barking away at the forts ashore, and the episode of the cartridge that missed fire was a thing of the past.
The bombardment of Santiago had now lasted over an hour. As yet not one of the American vessels had been reached by a shell, nor had the forts suffered any perceptible damage. The fleet, roaring and thundering, was swinging back and forth through the great semicircle, the smoke from the guns was banking along the beach, and from Morro Castle and its attending batteries came sharp, defiant answers to the interminable volleys fired by our squadron.
"It's a good thing Uncle Sam's shot locker is pretty capacious," remarked Flagg, as we shoved another cartridge into the yawning breech of our five-inch gun. "If we haven't fired over three hundred rounds since seven o'clock I can't count."
"It'll be double that before we get through," grunted "Long Tommy," as we stepped back from the loaded gun. "Steady, there. Stand by!"
A motion to "Hay," who held the firing lanyard, and almost instantly came the sharp, vicious report of the breechloader. Each man sprang back to his station, and the process of reloading went on without delay. The battle smoke from Number Six, which had filled our port for some time, cleared away just then, enabling us to see "Hay's" last shot strike squarely upon the outer line of earthworks of the Punta Gorda battery.
"Splendid shot, 'Hay'!" exclaimed our division officer, briefly.
"Bully, that's what it is—bully!" cried "Stump," patting the second captain upon the back.
"Hurray! it's knocked out a gun," reported "Dye," from nearer the port. "I saw the piece keel over backward."
There was no time for further comment. When a gun's crew is firing at will, and the excitement of combat has taken possession of the individual members, the task in hand requires all one's attention. We of Number Eight had suffered one delay, and we really felt that the lost time must be made up.
Personal impressions in battle have been described in prose and poem until the subject is hackneyed, but it may be of interest to note that the impressions experienced by the novices in naval warfare manning the "Yankee," during the bombardment of Santiago, consisted mainly of one feeling. It was well-voiced by "Hod," who said many days later:
"I felt just as I did one time when I attended Barnum's circus in Madison Square Garden. They had three rings, two platforms, a lot of tight-ropes and trapezes and other things all going at the same time. Before I had been in the place three minutes I was wishing for a hundred eyes. And that is the way I felt at Santiago."
What we saw of the bombardment was limited to the range of our gun port, but that little was worth all the hardships and toil and discomforts of the whole cruise. The spectacle of the fleet itself was almost enough. To see the great ships ploughing through the water, each enveloped in a shroud of smoke, shot here and there with tinges of ruddy flame; to see that mighty line swinging and swaying in front of the enemy; to see the shells land and explode in fort and battery; to see the great gaps torn in cliff and earthworks; to see the geyser-like fountains of water spout up here and there as the Spanish shells struck the surface of the bay—to see all this, and to hear the accompanying thunder and booming of the guns, was payment in full for coal handling and standing watch and "Government straight." Not one of the "Yankee" boys would have missed the spectacle for anything earth could offer.
During the second hour of the attack we were enabled to observe the work being done by other vessels of the fleet. Near us was the gallant "New Orleans," the ship purchased from Brazil. Her foreign build made it easy to distinguish her, and, as she was the only craft using smokeless powder, she presented a prominent mark. The guns on board the "New Orleans" were being served rapidly and with precision, and we saw a number of shots strike well within the limits of the batteries.
At our end of the line the flagship "New York," the "Iowa," and the "Oregon" were pouring an appalling fire into some new earthworks near Morro Castle. It was seen that but very few shots were sent in the direction of the latter, and it transpired that Admiral Sampson had issued strict orders to the fleet to avoid endangering Lieutenant Hobson and his brave companions, who were supposed to be imprisoned in old Morro. Before the end of the second hour the "New York" and the "New Orleans" had succeeded in completely silencing Cayo Battery, dismantling the guns and wrecking the outer fortifications.
At the other end of the line Admiral Schley's division was doing splendid work. We could see the "Massachusetts," "Brooklyn," and "Texas" move in toward shore and open fire at close range. It was a stirring sight, this mighty duel between warships and forts. As compared with the cliffs and hills of the land, the ships seemed veritable pigmies, but in this strife the pigmies were all powerful.
The guns of the fleet were working havoc in the forts ashore, and we could see the Spanish artillerymen abandon battery after battery. Cayo, Punta Gorda, Estrella, and Catalena were rapidly being vacated. The former was entirely out of the fight, and the others were replying only at intervals. Presently the "Massachusetts" and "Marblehead" advanced within two thousand yards of the Estrella fortification and began such a terrific firing that within a few minutes a great cloud of smoke appeared above the works. The Spanish guns became quiet at once, and a rousing cheer went up from the fleet.
"Hay," in his exuberance, wanted to send a five-inch shell from our gun at the burning fort, but the distance was too great and he was compelled to be content with a couple of well-aimed shots at the nearest battery.
"I wish we had thirteen-inch guns and the range was about ten feet," grumbled "Stump." "I'd like to smash the whole outfit in a pair of minutes. By Cricky! we have poured enough good old American steel into those forts to build a bridge across the Atlantic, but the dagoes are still giving us guff."
"It won't last much longer," said Tommy reassuringly. "From the looks of those batteries they haven't much fight left. I'll bet a hardtack against a prune we haul off at four bells."
"Licked?" queried Flagg.
"Nope."
"Will the Spaniards give up?" asked "Dye."
Tommy hesitated before replying. It was a brief lull and we were resting at the gun. The crew, grimy, dirty, battle-stained and tired, was glad to lean against the side of the deck or a convenient stanchion. Tommy's long service in the regular navy as apprentice and seaman made his opinions official, and we were always glad to listen to his explanations.
"Will the Spaniards give up?" repeated "Dye."
"Yes, and no," replied the first captain thoughtfully. "You see, it's this way. Those dagoes are not fools by any means. They have selected good places for their batteries, and they know earthworks are hard to destroy. They aren't like the old-style stone forts that could be knocked to pieces in no time. When a shell, even a thirteen-incher, hits a mound of earth it tears up the dirt and spoils the look of the parapet, but it really doesn't do much harm. To completely ruin an earthwork battery, you must dismantle every gun in it. And that's pretty hard to do. Mark my words, those fellows will give us a shot of defiance after we quit."
"What's the idea of all this bombarding then?" asked "Stump." "We'd be much better 'caulking off,' seems to me."
"And think what it costs the Government," I suggested. "The cost of the projectiles and the wear and tear to guns and ships must be something enormous."
Tommy's answer was drowned in the thundering roar of the "New York's" battery, which opened fire just then a short distance away, but it was evident he agreed with me. A moment later Number Eight went into action once more, and we worked the breechloader without cessation until the conclusion of the bombardment, which came a half hour later.
The fortifications ashore had entirely ceased firing, and at ten o'clock a signal to stop bombarding appeared on the flagship. It was obeyed with reluctance, and it was evident the crews of the various ships were anxious and eager to continue. As the fleet drew off there was a puff of smoke in one corner of Punta Gorda battery and a shell whizzed over the "Massachusetts." A second shot came from one of the earthworks, and still another from Punta Gorda; then the firing ceased again.
"Didn't I tell you so?" quietly remarked Tommy. "The beggars ain't licked yet."
"But they got a taste of Uncle Sam's strength," said Flagg.
"And I'll bet anything they haven't enough whole guns left to equip one small fort," added "Stump."
"I heard the skipper say the destruction of life must be enormous," spoke up the "Kid," stopping on his way aft to deliver a message. "He watched the whole thing with his glass. He told 'Mother Hubbub' the moral effect was worth all the trouble."
"That's an expert opinion," observed "Hay," wiping off the breech of the gun. "Now you've had your little say, youngster, so just trot along."
The fleet presently reached its former station several miles off shore, and the bombardment of Santiago was at an end.
No attempt was made to clean ship until late in the afternoon. The men were permitted to lie around decks and rest, smoke, and discuss the fight, which they did with exceeding interest. When dinner was piped at noon, the shrill call of the boatswain's whistle was welcome music. A sea battle is a good appetizer.
About four o'clock in the afternoon the fleet was treated to a spectacle both novel and humorous. The little "Dolphin," a gunboat of not fifteen hundred tons displacement, which was keeping guard close in shore, began to use her guns. A battery near the channel returned the fire, but the plucky little craft maintained her position, and from the series of rapid reports coming from her four-inch breechloaders and six-pounders, it was evident she had something important on hand.
The "Yankee" was signalled to run in to her assistance, but before we could reach a position, the "Dolphin" had accomplished her task. It was not until then that we discovered what she had been doing.
"May I never see home again if the gunboat hasn't corralled a railway train in a cut!" exclaimed "Patt." "Just look there, fellows. See that ridge of earth on the other side of the channel? Just under it is a track running into a cut and—"
"The 'Dolphin' has closed up both ends," interrupted "Stump," with a laugh. "She's knocked down a pile of earth and débris on the track and the, train can't get out. What a bully trick."
Flagg produced a glass, and after a careful scrutiny reported that he could see part of the train lying on its side at the eastern end of the cut. He could also distinguish a number of bodies, and it was plain that the Spanish loss had been heavy. It was not until later that we learned the details, which were as follows:
After the bombardment the "Dolphin" remained at her station, firing occasionally at the batteries ashore. She was directly opposite a cut in the cliff, through which runs a little railway connecting the iron mines with the dock in Santiago harbor. During the bombardment, a train loaded with Spanish troops remained in the cut, and at its conclusion attempted to leave. It was espied by the "Dolphin" and driven back. It tried the other end with like results, and for an hour this game of hide-and-seek was kept up, to the discomfiture of the train. While waiting for the train to appear at either end, the gallant little gunboat shelled a small blockhouse, and in time disabled it. Then she steamed back to the fleet and reported that she had "wrecked a trainload of troops and dismantled a blockhouse." When she left for her station again she was applauded by the whole squadron. We learned later that one hundred and fifty men were killed on the train.
Shortly after supper the "Yankee's" whaleboat was called away and sent to the flagship, returning an hour later with sealed orders from the admiral.
At midnight we quietly steamed from our station and passed out to sea, our destination being unknown to all save the commanding officer.
When a man-of-war sails from port under what are called "sealed orders," which means that the orders given to the captain by the admiral are not to be opened for a certain number of hours, or until the ship reaches a certain degree of latitude, there is a mystery about the affair which appeals strongly to the crew.
We of the "Yankee" felt very curious as to our destination when we left Santiago that night, and the interest was greatly stimulated by the discovery, before we had gone very far, that the "St. Louis" and "Marblehead" were following us.
The "Rumor Committee" went into active session without delay.
"Bet I can guess it," said "Stump," as a half dozen of us met in the gangway. "We are bound for a cable station somewhere."
"To cable the news of the fight?" said Flagg.
"No. That was done by one of the other ships."
"What then?"
"To get permission from Washington to go ashore and reclaim all that steel we wasted in the bombardment."
There was a laugh at this sally.
"I have been figuring on the cost of the fight," remarked "Hay," after a pause. "A five-inch shell is worth $60, and as we fired about two hundred and fifty, it means just $15,000 worth of five-inchers alone."
"Then there are the six-pounders."
"They cost $20 a shot," resumed "Hay," reflectively. "I guess we must have fired about a million of them."
"Hardly that," smiled Tommy, "but we expended enough to bring the total up to $18,000 at the very least. War is a costly thing, boys."
When the quartermaster on duty came off watch he joined us in the gangway, and reported that we were steering a straight course to the southward.
"If we keep it up we'll land somewhere near the Antarctic Ocean," remarked Kennedy, doubtfully. "I wonder—"
"I know, I know," broke in the "Kid," eagerly. "We're going for ice."
The burning question was solved at daybreak. The morning sun brought into view a stretch of highland which proved to be Cuba. We had steamed out to sea on scouting duty, and had doubled on our tracks, as it were. The port we found to be Guantanamo, a small place some forty miles to the eastward of Santiago.
The town itself lies on a bay connected with the sea by a tortuous and winding channel. The entrance is protected by a fort and several blockhouses, and when we steamed inshore we espied the "St. Louis" and "Marblehead" laying to, waiting for us outside.
The "Marblehead" preceding us, we entered the harbor, and the two ships began a lively bombardment, while the "St. Louis" lay outside. Shortly after the firing began, a Spanish gunboat was seen steaming out past the fort. A few shots in her direction sent her scurrying back again, and that was the last seen of her during the fight. After the battle of the previous day, this affair seemed insignificant, and aroused little interest.
The blockhouses were destroyed and the fort silenced after a short period of firing, and the "St. Louis" proceeded with the duty which evidently had caused our visit. It was the cutting of a cable connecting Guantanamo with the outer world.
Our little fleet steamed to sea in the afternoon, returning just before dark. The fort, showing signs of reanimation, was treated to another bombardment, which effectually settled it. A small fishing hamlet composed of a dozen flimsy huts of bamboo was set on fire and burned to the ground. When we left Guantanamo shortly after dark, bound back for Santiago, we had the satisfaction of knowing that one more blow had been struck against Spanish rule in the fair isle of Cuba.
At dawn the following day, Santiago was sighted. The fleet was still lying off the entrance like a group of huge gray cats watching a mouse hole. As we passed in, the flagship began signalling, and it soon became noised about the ship that we had received orders to leave for Mole St. Nicholas after dark.
"It looks as if the 'Yankee' will come in handy as a messenger boy," said "Stump." "When the admiral wants 'any old thing' he tells his flag officer to send the Naval Reserve ship."
"It's a good thing to be appreciated," grinned "Dye." "To tell the truth, though, I'd rather be on the move than lying here watching the land."
"We don't want to be away when Cervera comes out," remarked Flagg.
"When he comes out," retorted "Stump," emphasizing the first word meaningly. "The old gentleman knows when he is well off and he'll stay inside."
"Which, as the Texan said when he was accused of stealing a horse," put in Tommy, "remains to be proved. Just you keep your eye on the gun and wait."
"There goes another string of signals on the 'New York,'" exclaimed "Dye," pointing toward the flagship. "Whiz! I'd hate to be a signalman aboard of her. They are always at it."
The flagship of a fleet like that assembled in front of Santiago during the blockade, is certainly kept very busy. In the naval service, everything in the way of routine emanates from the flagship. Every ship in the squadron, for instance, takes the uniform of the day from her. The number of sick each morning must be reported by signal; all orders (and they are legion) are transmitted by wigwag or bunting; scores of questions are asked daily by each ship, and it is indeed seldom that the signal yards of a flagship are bare of colored flags.
In the American navy the present methods of communication are by the use of flags representing numerals, by the Meyer code of wigwag signals, and by a system of colored electric bulbs suspended in the rigging. The latter system is called after its inventor, Ardois.
In the daytime, when ships are within easy distance, wigwagging is commonly used. A small flag attached to a staff is held by the signalman in such a position that it can be seen by the ship addressed. A code similar to the Morse telegraph alphabet is employed. By this system the flag, when waved to the right, represents 1, or a dot; and 2, or a dash, when inclined to the left. Each word is concluded by bringing the flag directly to the front, which motion is called 3. Naval signalmen, generally apprentices, become very expert, and the rapidity with which they can wigwag sentences is really remarkable.
The Ardois system of night signalling consists of electric lights attached to the rigging. There are four groups of double lamps, the two lamps in each group showing red and white respectively. By the combination of these lights letters can be formed, and so, letter by letter, a word, and thence an order, can be spelled out for the guidance of the ships of a squadron. The lamps are worked by a keyboard generally placed on the upper bridge.
The "flag hoist" system, as it is termed, consists of the displaying of different flags at some conspicuous place like the masthead. There are a great many flags and pennants, differing in color, shape, and design, each having its own particular meaning, and when three or four are shown aloft together, a number is formed, the significance of which can only be determined by referring to a code book. Each navy has a private code, which is guarded with great care. So particular are Governments in this respect, that the commanding officer of every ship has instructions to go to any length to destroy the code book, if capture is imminent. During the late war with Spain it was reported at one time that the Spanish code had been secured. This means that the Dons will be compelled to adopt an entirely new code of signals.
Besides the above systems, signalling in the navy includes various other devices. For instance, the fog whistle can be utilized in connection with the Meyer system of numerals. One toot represents 1, two short toots 2, and a long blast the end of a word. In a fog, this is the only means practicable. Similar sounds can be made by horn or gunfire. At night searchlights are often used by waving the beam from the right to the left, thus forming an electric wigwag, or by flash like the heliograph. On small ships not fitted up with the Ardois system, the Very night signal is used. This consists of a pistol made for the purpose, which discharges lights similar to those found in the ordinary Roman candles. The colors are red and green, and they are fired in combinations expressing the numbers from 1 to 9 and 0, so that the numbers to four digits contained in the signal book may be displayed.
The "Yankee" was rigged with the Ardois lamps, and she also carried all the necessary signal flags and other paraphernalia required to communicate with other vessels of the fleet. The signalmen on board had been drilled in their work as members of the Naval Reserve prior to the beginning of the war, and they were experts to a man.
On the evening of June 8th, while we were idling about decks awaiting the order to get under way, a small boat came alongside, having as a passenger a captain of the army. He proved to be a special agent who had succeeded in visiting the vicinity of Santiago, and was on his way to Mole St. Nicholas for the purpose of cabling to Washington. The mysterious manner in which he boarded the ship, and the quickness with which we steamed from port, created some excitement, and we felt the importance of our mission.
The night was dark and muggy—an ideal time for torpedo-boat work, and extra lookouts were posted by order of the captain. Nothing of interest occurred, however, until early next morning. The ship was ploughing along at a steady gait, and those of the watch who were not on actual duty were snatching what sleep they could in out-of-the-way corners, when suddenly the call to "general quarters" was sounded. Long practice caused prompt obedience, and the various guns' crews were soon ready for action.
Very few of us knew just what was on foot until the "Kid," in passing, contrived to convey the interesting information that a big Spanish fleet had been sighted dead ahead.
"That's funny," remarked "Stump," trying to peer from the port. "We are not changing our course any. Surely the 'old man' doesn't intend to tackle them alone."
"I guess the 'Kid' is 'stringing' us," observed Tommy, sagely. "He's up to that trick every time. We're not chasing Spanish fleets alone. The captain knows his business all right, all right."
Word was brought from the upper deck presently, that we were in pursuit of a strange steamer which had been discovered lurking on the horizon. She failed to respond to our signals, and chase was made forthwith. The "Yankee's" speed soon proved superior to that of the stranger, and within an hour we had her close aboard.
"It's an English tramp from the looks of her," reported "Hay," who had a choice position near the gun port. "She's got a dozen people on the bridge and they are badly scared."
A blank six-pounder was fired, but she did not heed it, so a shot was fired across the stranger's bows, and she hove-to in short order.
"Steamer ahoy!" came faintly to our ears from on deck. "What steamer is that?"
The answer reached us in disjointed sentences, but we heard enough to set us laughing. Tommy smacked his hand upon the breech of the gun and chuckled: "It's one of those everlasting press boats. The sea is full of 'em."
"What in the deuce did they run for, I wonder?" exclaimed Kennedy.
"Afraid of us, I suppose. It's ticklish times around here, and I don't blame them. Press boats are not made to fight, you know."
"That idea doesn't carry out their motto," drawled "Dye."
"How's that?" asked Flagg, innocently.
"Why, they claim that the pen is mightier than the sword, don't they?"
After the laugh had subsided, "Morrie," one of the Rochester detail, who acted as a shellman in the crew of Number Eight, said seriously:
"I am a great admirer of the press representatives down here, fellows. They are capable, good writers, and there is not a branch of the whole outfit that has been more faithful to duty. They were sent here to get the news, and they get it every time. There has never been a war more ably reported than this, and, although the correspondents have to hustle day and night, they still find time to keep us informed, and to give us an occasional paper from home. They are good fellows all."
"Amen!" said "Hay."
After a time, the press boat sheered off, and we continued on our course. Later in the morning another steamer was sighted. The "Yankee" was sent after her at full speed. The chase crowded on all steam, but she was soon overhauled, and found to be a Norwegian trader. After a satisfactory explanation she was permitted to go. Three hours later the "Yankee" dropped anchor off Mole St. Nicholas, a Haytian seaport brought into some prominence through the location of a cable station.
Mole St. Nicholas is a little collection of tropical-looking houses set among palm trees at the foot of a large hill, which in places aspires to the dignity of a mountain. The town itself is rather picturesquely situated, the foliage-covered background and beautiful inlet of pure clear water giving it a natural setting very attractive to our eyes.
After we had been anchored an hour or so, a bumboat came out, manned by a crew of two coal-black negroes who spoke a French patois, intermingled with comical English. The boat itself was a queer, stubby craft propelled by home-made oars. Before the morning was well advanced the ship was surrounded by boats carrying shells, limes, prickly pears, green cocoanuts, bananas, fish, and "water monkeys." The latter were jugs made of a porous clay, and they were eagerly purchased. The "water monkey" is a natural cooler, and when placed in a draught of air will keep water at a temperature delightful in a warm latitude.
We parted with our mysterious passenger, the army officer, and weighed anchor just as the sun was setting. Lookouts were posted early, and special instruction given by the captain to maintain a vigilant watch. The fact that we were in the very theatre of war, and that several Spanish cruisers, including the Spanish torpedo boat "Terror," were reported as being in the vicinity, kept a number of us on deck.
"It is one thing lying off a port with a lot of other ships and bombarding a few measly earthworks, and another to be sneaking about in the darkness like this, not knowing when you will run your nose against an enemy twice as large," said Flagg, as several of Number Eight's crew met on the forecastle. "I tell you, it feels like war."
"Reminds me of a story I heard once," put in "Stump," lazily. He was lounging over the rail with his back to us and his words came faintly. The deck was shrouded in gloom, and the vague outlines of the pilot-house, only a dozen feet away, was the length of our vision aft. A soft, purling sound came from over the side where the waves lapped against the steel hull. A shovel grated stridently now and then in the fire room, and occasionally a block rattled or a halliard flapped against the foremast overhead. The surroundings and the strange, weird "feel" of the darkness were peculiarly impressive.
"I don't know whether we care to hear any story," observed "Hay." "Better keep it until later, 'Stump.' The night's too wonderful to do anything except lounge around and think. Whew! isn't it dark?"
"This story I was going to tell you requires a setting like this," replied "Stump." "It is about a ship that started from England years and years ago. She had as passengers a lot of lunatics who were to be experimented upon by a doctor about as crazy as they. He bought the ship, fitted it up with a number of little iron cages, and set forth with his queer cargo. Ten days out, the lunatics broke from their quarters and captured the vessel. One of them, who had been a sea captain in his time, took charge, and proceeded to carry out a little idea of his own, which was to make sane people crazy."
"That was turning the tables with a vengeance," drawled "Dye," from his perch on an upturned pail. "I wonder if he was any relation to 'Cutlets'?"
"A lineal ancestor, I'll bet a biscuit," chimed in "Hay." "Don't you remember the quotation, 'By these acts you will know their forefathers,' or something like that?"
"Well," resumed "Stump," "the crazy captain put the doctor and the crew in the cages and began to feed them hardtack and berth-deck scouse and salt-horse and—"
"Must have been a Government naval contractor in his time," murmured "Morrie."
"I bet I know the rest," exclaimed the "Kid," coming up in time to grasp the situation. "The captain set his prisoners to carrying coal from the after hold forward and then back again, didn't he?"
"If you fellows think you can tell the story better than I can, go ahead," retorted "Stump," in disgust. "You are like a lot of old maids at a sewing circle. I give—"
"What was that?" suddenly cried "Hay," springing to his feet. "If it wasn't a flash of light I'll eat my—"
A figure hastily emerged from the gloom aft.
"Go to your stations at once, you men," called out a voice. "General quarters!"
As we scurried toward the hatch a great shaft of light appeared off the port beam, and began sweeping back and forth across the black of the horizon.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed "Hay," "it's a searchlight on some man-of-war. We're in for it now!"