Chapter 10 THE SPANISH FLEET LEAVES THE HARBOR.

While our Army had been toiling along narrow roads and through dense forests, wading the streams and storming the forts, on the way to Santiago, our Navy had been keeping up its blockade of the harbor. Perhaps I should explain to you that the Merrimac, sunk by Lieutenant Hobson, did not really close the channel, because the Merrimac had not gone down in the right spot on account of the breaking of the rudder. So our vessels still kept a close blockade.

The Spaniards now felt worried. Our Navy was at one side of Santiago, and our Army at the other. The Spaniards in the city thought our Army was larger than it was, and the word passed round that fifty thousand American soldiers were on the hills. Food was scarce in Santiago; there would soon be danger of starvation. In this state of affairs, Admiral Cervera, taking a wild chance for life and liberty, with the hope of being able afterward to help his countrymen, led his fleet out of the harbor.

Sunday morning, July 3d, was clear and beautiful. The cliffs of the harbor, and the old forts, made a fine show under the blue sky. The red and yellow flag of Spain floated, as usual, on top of Morro Castle. Far in the distance the mountain tops showed plainly-a dark line against the sky. The sea was smooth.

Our vessels were in place near the mouth of the harbor, though a few were missing. The Massachusetts and some smaller vessels had gone to Guantanamo for coal; the flagship New York had gone eastward to a place where Admiral Sampson could go ashore, for he wished to arrange plans with General Shafter. Commodore Schley had been left in charge of the fleet, and his flagship was the Brooklyn. It was at the western end of our half-circle of ships.

On Saturday evening, the night before, some of the men on board the Iowa saw a good deal of smoke rising within the harbor, and thought the Spanish ships might be getting ready to rush out. These men spoke to their captain about the smoke, but the captain thought that the Spaniards were only fixing their fires. The smoke seemed to him no thicker than it had often been before. The men on the deck could not help thinking about the smoke, and tried to ease their minds by making ready the signal, so that it could be run up instantly if the Spanish ships started out. But the night passed away, the signal was not needed, and the men concluded that the smoke really had meant nothing. They never dreamed that the Spaniards would come out in daytime. So it seemed likely that the day would pass quietly.

As it was Sunday, not much work was going on. By nine o'clock all the men were dressed in their white clothes, ready for the Sunday morning "inspection." Some of the officers were gloomy, for they had had news about the terrible losses in the Army during the last two days.

Suddenly, about half past nine, shouts are heard on some of the ships, and the signal flies up on the Iowa: "Enemy's ships are coming out," and a gun is fired from the Iowa, to attract the notice of all the fleet. Our ships, so still a moment before, are now full of life. Every man shouts to his neighbor, "They're coming out! they're coming out!" Men run in all directions to get to their posts; officers buckle on their swords; orders are quickly given. "Sound the general alarm!" "Clear ship for action!" "Bugles call to general quarters!" "Steam and pressure on the turrets!" "Hoist the battle-flags!" "Close the hatches!" "Full steam ahead!" "Turn on the current of the electric hoists!" "Get to your guns, lads!"

Our men are hurrahing and yelling with glad excitement. They throw off their white clothes, and tumble down the ladders, and throw themselves through the hatchways in their haste to obey orders. In less than three minutes every vessel is speeding along, and has obeyed the signal: "Open fire!"

There are the beautiful Spanish ships running at full speed, in a line, one behind the other, all their flags flying as if on a holiday parade. They are coming out of the channel and turning westward, firing fiercely on the Brooklyn, the nearest of our ships, while the forts on the cliffs fire on the rest of our fleet. First of the Spanish ships comes the Maria Teresa, carrying the flag of Admiral Cervera. The last two in the line are the torpedo-boat destroyers.

Our ships send forth a storm of fire; every instant the roar of our guns is heard, and the air is so filled with smoke that our men can hardly see their enemy.

Indeed, it is a wonder that our ships, all rushing toward the Spanish ships, do not crash into one another. And how can they help injuring one another with their guns? Ah, there is good management! Not one of the captains loses his wits-not one of the gunners mistakes a friend for a foe.

Now the Maria Teresa is on fire in different places, and turns in toward the shore. Great columns of flame shoot up as the big ship runs upon the beach and hauls down her flag as a sign of surrender. Now another Spanish ship is on fire from our guns, and runs ashore, hauling down her flag. She is as helpless as the Teresa. Not half an hour has passed since those two ships came out of the harbor, yet now, after running six or seven miles, they are ashore and in flames; most of their men are killed or wounded, the others are clinging to parts of the ships or jumping into the sea, though sharks are plainly seen in the water.

Meanwhile, the Gloucester, one of our smallest vessels, is attacking the two torpedo-boat destroyers, and, with a little help from some of our battleships, soon puts an end to the two little Spanish boats. One of them sinks, the other is compelled to run ashore; both ruined in less than eight minutes after the Gloucester fired the first shot at them.

The chase goes on, the guns keep up their deadly fire. Now another Spanish ship, the Vizcaya, turns to the shore, flames shooting from her decks. As she touches the beach, two loud explosions shake her from end to end. She has held her course for an hour and twenty minutes, but now she is burning on the shore.

Only one Spanish ship is left, the Cristóbol Colón, flying at full speed, six miles ahead of our first ship, the Brooklyn. The Oregon and the Texas follow the Brooklyn, and the New York is only a short distance behind. For, of course, the New York, though several miles away when the race began, heard the signal gun, and turned, and flew back to Santiago on the wings of the wind. Faster and faster flies the New York, gaining rapidly in the race.

Surely, it is an exciting race, for the Colón is flying for life. Commodore Schley takes the Brooklyn farther out to sea, to head off the Colón, when she turns her course; but our other ships follow the Spaniard. There is little firing now from either side-the ships are racing.

Destruction of Admiral Cervera's Fleet.

Two hours pass in this way, and now the Brooklyn and the Oregon fire heavily at the Cristóbol Colón, again and again. The helpless Colón hauls down her flag, and turns toward the shore. The last Spanish ship gives up the struggle at fifteen minutes after one o'clock, fifty miles west of Santiago.

While Commodore Schley is sending Captain Cook in a small boat to receive the surrender of the Colón, the crews of the Brooklyn and Oregon crowd upon the decks and turrets to cheer each other and shout for joy. Some of the men of the Oregon rush at once for their drums and bugles, and the notes of "The Star Spangled Banner" rise in place of the roar of the guns. The New York and the Texas arrive, and the four ships rest in triumph.

While waiting and resting, a scene took place on the Texas that will long be remembered. The captain suddenly ordered, "All hands aft!" The crew of five hundred men went to the deck to hear their captain's message. The captain, in a few simple words, spoke to the men of his faith in the Father Almighty, and then said: "I want all of you, officers and crew, to lift your hats, and in your hearts to offer silent thanks to God." The men were silent a few minutes, and then left the deck, giving, as they went, "Three cheers for our captain."

Working the Guns on the Brooklyn.

While the Brooklyn, Oregon, Texas, and New York were following the Cristóbol Colón, our other vessels were busy saving the lives of Spaniards on board the sinking and burning ships. One small boat after another was lowered from our vessels, and the crews went to the burning vessels, where stores of powder were exploding every moment, took off the wounded Spaniards, and saved the men who had jumped into the sea and were trying to swim ashore. The work of rescue lasted till eight o'clock that night. A thousand Spaniards, among them Admiral Cervera and his son, were brought to our ships, and were well tended. Most of the Spaniards needed clothes, having thrown aside their garments when jumping into the sea; all needed food; a large number, being wounded, needed the care of our doctors. What the captain of the Iowa said of his men may be said of the crews of all our other vessels: "I cannot express my admiration for my magnificent crew. So long as the enemy showed his flag, they fought like American seamen; but when the flag came down, they were as gentle and tender as American women."

Admiral Cervera.

Admiral Cervera was picked up by the Gloucester, but afterwards was taken to the Iowa, where he was received with due honors. The bugles were sounded as he came over the side of the ship, the officers saluted him as Admiral, the crew cheered him to show their admiration for his courage. The Admiral's kindness to Lieutenant Hobson was remembered by our men, and they showed that they were grateful. Afterward, the Admiral was asked why the Spanish ships had not left the harbor during the hours of night, and he answered: "The searchlights of your ships were too blinding."

What a change had taken place in less than four hours on that Sunday! The Spanish fleet had been destroyed, six hundred Spaniards had lost their lives, many were wounded, a thousand were in the hands of the Americans. Our men had won a great victory, had not lost a ship, and had only one man killed and one wounded.

The story of the Gloucester's fight with the "destroyers" has been graphically told by one who was on board her during that exciting time.

"The Spaniards were beginning to get the range with their deadly automatic one-pounders. One shot in the right place would sink us. There was a line of splashes in the water, like that made by jumping fish, tracing accurately the length of our vessel, and gradually coming nearer and nearer.

"Crash! crash! went our guns, and suddenly, when within ten yards of the ship, the splashes ceased. The man at the gun had been killed. We were saved temporarily, but still the enemy was fighting for dear life. Both destroyers were trying their best to sink us; we refused to go down. Suddenly the pin of number four gun dropped out and it was necessary to remove the breach block and find the pin. It was all done quietly, quickly, but the nervous strain was awful. We were now within five hundred yards of the Furor, firing; sometimes at her and sometimes at the Pluton. At this point the New York went speeding by and cheered us as she passed. Gradually the Pluton's guns became silent, and it was evident that she was in distress. She was making for the shore.

"Suddenly there was a great flash aboard her, a mass of steam rose into the air, and she had exploded, probably in the engine room. Later we learned that a shot had passed clear through her boilers. A great cheer went up from the Gloucester's crew. But what was the Furor doing? Coming toward us? It was the last act of desperation. Again the starboard battery had come into use. There was no time to be lost; either we must sink the Furor or she would sink us.

"Our fire was redoubled. It was too fierce; no vessel could stand it. Still continuing on the circle, with a starboard helm, the Furor turned away from us toward Morro. But we kept up our heart-breaking fire. Like a stag, the boat turned again and made for her companion, which was now lying on her side amid the breakers, endeavoring, to escape us, but in vain; and, still turning, she made weakly toward us again. Then the truth dawned upon us; she was unmanageable, and was, simply moving in a circle, with a jammed helm. The battle was at an end.

"But our work was by no means over. We had spent two hours in slaughtering our friends who had crossed the sea to meet us, and we now spent twelve hours in rescuing the survivors."

Lieut.-Commander Wainwright.

The Gloucester was commanded by Lieutenant-Commander Wainwright, a most gallant and plucky officer. He was the executive officer of the battleship Maine when she was blown up in Havana harbor shortly before the war began. His fight with the "destroyers" was one of the bravest deeds ever recorded in naval history. After rescuing Admiral Cervera from the water, he placed his cabin at his disposal, did everything to make him comfortable, and treated him with the deference due his rank.

A midshipman on the Almirante Oquendo, who managed to get ashore after his ship was beached, told this story:

"The flagship opened fire while we, being the last, were still some way from the harbor mouth, yet before we cleared the entrance we got struck by a few shells. I was in the forward central torpedo room, and as, according to orders, the port holes were shut, I could see but little of what was taking place outside. We did not at once use our torpedoes, for shortly after the action began, a heavy projectile crashed through the upper deck and destroyed the shield near which I was standing. I was knocked down by the force of the explosion, receiving a slight leg wound from a fragment of the shell, while a splinter of the starboard gangway was driven into my chest near the heart. On recovering my feet, I found that the starboard torpedo tube was smashed and that the deck was strewn with dead and wounded, a few of whom were seeking to go up the gangway, which was also destroyed. Very shortly we all had to clear out of the room, as it became impossible to breathe there, owing to a lot of material taking fire. I sank, half choked, on the upper deck, but was revived by someone turning a hose on my head.

"On rising again, I found myself close to the second commander, Don Victor Sola, who was encouraging the crew, and Se?or Nunoz, who put his arm around me, exclaiming, 'They are making a man of you to-day.' At that moment a heavy shell burst behind me, small particles lodging in my neck. This shell killed Don Victor Sola, whom I saw fall on his face without uttering a word. Right across his body fell that of the first gunner. When Captain Lazaga heard that the forward magazines were ablaze he followed the lead of the Teresa, heading for land and running the vessel ashore. I went back to the torpedo room and stripped. When I got back on deck, my companions were gone, so I got through the port cannon embrasure and slipped down a chain into the water."

The destruction of the Spanish fleet at Santiago was as complete as the destruction of the Spanish fleet at Manila. Commodore Schley was the senior officer in command, and it was fitting that the man who "bottled-up" Cervera's fleet should be the one to destroy it. After peace was declared, he was promoted to be a rear-admiral, and the people of the United States presented him with the costliest sword ever given a military or naval officer. It was a direct gift from the people to the man, and showed the estimation in which they held him.

In the running fight at Santiago, as at the battle of Manila, every officer and man did his duty. The Spanish vessels were out-sailed and out-fought. The American vessels were not injured and the Spanish were crushed. The American gunnery was effective at close range and long; the Spanish gunnery was not good at any range. The American shells told wherever they struck and the American vessels were maneuvered with the greater skill. Under the stress of the greatest excitement, the Americans showed the effect of their splendid drill and discipline.

Admiral Cervera and the principal Spanish officers were taken to Annapolis and installed in comfortable quarters. One of them said: "You ought to be proud of your country, because you have such good people." Another remarked, "I do not know that I am a prisoner except that I cannot go home." Eventually they were all sent back to Spain.

It has been truly said that laughter and tears lie very close together. It is equally true that in the midst of solemn and terrible events some amusing things happen, even though they may not seem funny at the time. And so, in connection with the exciting events of July 3d, 1898, some laughable stories are told.

When the Spanish fleet came out of the harbor with all their colors flying, a lieutenant on the Texas looked up and saw that his ship was displaying nothing but the Stars and Stripes. "Where are our battle-flags?" said he. Just then the Texas sent a shell against the Maria Teresa. "I guess they won't have any doubt about our being in battle," said Captain Philip. But the lieutenant thought that a battle was nothing without battle-flags, and sent a messenger after them. But the flags were locked up, and the man who had the key was busy in another part of the ship. "Then smash the locker," said the lieutenant, when informed of this fact. The locker was smashed, and soon the Texas was fighting under her battle-flags.

In the thickest of the fight a young lad on the Texas was heard to say: "Fourth of July celebration, eh? A little early, but a good one!"

During the chase after the Colón, the men of the Oregon went in turn to dinner, Captain Clark having called to them: "Now, children, go and get something to eat, if it is only a little bread and butter." The men satisfied themselves with a few bites, and then hurried back to the deck to watch the exciting race. The Oregon and the Brooklyn were gaining steadily on the Colón. Suddenly the Brooklyn signaled to the Oregon: "She seems built in Italy." And the Oregon signaled back: "She may have been built in Italy, but she will end on the coast of Cuba."

While some of the ships were chasing the Colón, and others were rescuing the wounded and drowning Spaniards, the Indiana, according to orders, returned to watch the harbor entrance. Suddenly an excitement was caused on the Indiana by news that a large Spanish battleship was coming from the eastward. Captain Taylor at once made ready for another fight, and sent his men to their guns. The officers on the bridge looked through their field-glasses at the strange ship, three miles away. "Yes, it is a Spanish ship." "Yes, she has Spanish colors." The stranger drew near, the guns of the Indiana were just about to open fire, but the foreign ship signaled her name and country-"Kaiserin Maria Theresa, Austria"-in time to save both parties from further trouble.

That Sunday morning the chaplain of the New York was preparing to hold service when the sound of a gun caused the ship to turn in her course and speed back to Santiago. The ship was cleared for action, and the pulpit was hastily thrown aside. As the ship sped along, some of her men saw a Spanish sailor struggling in the water. One of the men quickly picked up the pulpit-a clumsy, awkward affair, with a gilt cross on the side of it-and heaved it overboard, at the same time yelling to the poor Spaniard: "Cling to the cross, my lad, cling to the cross and you'll be saved." The struggling sailor clung to the cross and was afterward picked up by one of the small boats.

This story is told of two gunners on the Oregon. One was an old fellow whose name has been on the navy list for thirty years, the other was a young seaman gunner.

When Admiral Cervera led his ships out of the harbor of Santiago, in that brave dash for the freedom of the open sea, the veteran was engaged in his usual occupation of polishing the sleek coat of one of the big thirteen-inch guns. When the cry went up that the enemy was escaping, he gave a finishing touch to the muzzle and quickly took his station in the turret. Presently he turned to a young gunner near him and said: "Charley, I bet you a month's pay that I make a better shot at the dago beggars than you. What d'you say?"

"'Done,' was the prompt reply.

"Ten minutes later, the old gunner squinted his eye along the sight, signalled the man at the training lever to ease off a little, took the range from the officer in charge of the division, then gave the firing lanyard a quick jerk. When the smoke lifted, the eager watchers saw a great yawning hole in the port bow of the Almirante Oquendo. A cheer came from the men in the turret, and the veteran glanced triumphantly toward the younger gunner.

"The latter's turn soon came. The Oquendo, battered and helpless, drifted ashore in flames. The Oregon accompanied by the Brooklyn, sped on after the fleet-footed Colón. The rapid-fire batteries of both American ships rattled and shrieked after the fugitive. The eight-inch guns of the Brooklyn rumbled an unceasing chorus as they belched forth their shells, and occasionally a deeper roar from the thirteen-inch monsters of the Oregon would give a mightier volume to the din.

"It was after one of the latter shots that the forward turret of the Oregon echoed with a rousing cheer. Charley, the young gunner, had just dropped the firing lanyard from his hand and it was seen the Colón's conning tower was hit. 'He told me before he pulled the lanyard that he would fetch it,' exclaimed one of the gun's crew, admiringly, 'and he did.'"

A proud father, whose son was on one of the battleships during the destruction of Cervera's ships, said:

"Among the four letters I have received from my son is one which contains an amusing story of one of the officers of the Indiana. The officer in question is well known throughout the navy for his fastidiousness regarding apparel, and even on board his ship, is always the best-dressed man. He considers it his imperative duty to appear 'just so,' on every occasion.

"My son writes that when the fight began, everybody had on most of his clothes, the officers generally being in proper uniform. My boy started in with a full accompaniment of cap, shirt, coat, pants and shoes, but says that before the hour and a half was over he had shed everything except his trousers. The heat was, of course, intense and the main cause of the boy's throwing off all unnecessary garments. It has been his duty to carry messages several times from the commanding officer on the bridge to the rear of the vessel, where our dandy officer was stationed, and when the fight began he was fully uniformed. On the second trip back the officer was seen to be the only person in sight with a coat on his back, but the perspiration was rolling down his cheeks and dropping off in black beads and his face was besmeared and almost unrecognizable.

"Just before the last shot was fired, my son was sent to find the executive officer to deliver him a message from the bridge. He hurried to the deck, and, in clouds of black smoke endeavored to locate the lieutenant. He looked in vain, however, and finally stepped up to a man who at first appeared to be clothed in pajamas, and my son was just going to inquire for the first officer, when the smoke cleared away a little revealing our fastidious but brave officer dressed in his nightgown, with his sword strapped around his waist, and a pistol stuck in his belt."

Doubtless many more anecdotes could be told in connection with that day's history.

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