The Annihilation of Spain.
Arrival of the "Death Angels" over Spain. Spaniards cross the
Pyrenees into France. The doom of Weyler and his cohorts. "Remember
the Maine." Madrid and the principal cities of Spain in
ashes. Portugal's action applauded. No more ærial warships.
On the 21st day of May, 1930, a remarkable sight presented itself
over the Pyrenean range of mountains on the northern boundary of
Spain, dividing that country from her northerly neighbor, "la belle
France." High above the peaks of [Arrival of the "Death Angels."]
that natural barrier between those two countries, and visible to the
naked eye, could be seen what appeared to be a large flock of birds
of enormous size, moving swiftly and silently in a southerly direction.
Vast multitudes of Spaniards who were crossing the Pyrenees to seek
shelter in French territory, gazed with awe upon the ominous sight
presented by these "death angels" as they proceeded south on their
errand of destruction. They knew only too well the character of these
deadly messengers of war whose use had been prohibited in battle by
all civilized nations. In the case of Spain they were not used for
purposes of warfare but merely as instruments of punishment for her
wanton violation of the Treaty.
During the preceding thirty days the volume of immigration from Spain
into France had kept an unbroken stream. On the 21st day of May, 1930,
the appointed day of doom, a large share of the Spanish population
had found its way across the border into France, and some of the
provinces about Madrid, notably Segovia, Castille and Salamanca,
were as innocent of population as the desert of Sahara is of cascades.
On that memorable day of May, 1930, the cities of Spain might easily
have been [Spanish Cities Two For a Cent.] bought up for a song or
a jack lantern. Weyler and his ferocious cut-throats, (the same imps
who blew up our Maine and martyred 266 brave American sailors), were
the only beings who remained in Spain on that day of doom. The gang
had the run of the kingdom for a few brief hours and were probably
amusing themselves very much after the manner of rats who enjoy the
exclusive privilege of a sinking ship.
The Butcher and his satellites were holding high carnival in the
regal apartments of the Royal Palace in doomed Madrid, when the ærial
war craft of America, England and the Allied nations, silently stood
guard and floated over the city, veritable angels of death, fearful
to behold.
The cellars of the Royal Palace had been ransacked and wines of the
choicest vintage [Handwriting on the Wall.] were being guzzled
by the Weyler brigands. Amidst revelry and shouting, and the din
of rattling castenets, the mazes of fandangos were performed by
voluptuous and sinuous Castillian sirens, from whose wild eyes blazed
forth that baleful light, incited by wine and unholy passion. These
dark, olive-skin belles in their terpsichores before the Butcher
and his aides, were as innocent of habiliments as Madame Eve when
that exalted personage made her début in Eden. In the midst of this
debauchery, and while revelry was yet at its zenith, history again
repeated itself. Suddenly, like a prolonged flash of lightning,
the revelers saw distinctly the handwriting on the wall. It was an
inscription that carried terror and consternation into the hearts of
the Weylerites and read: "Remember the Maine."
At this critical and interesting part of the program, Capt. Sigsbee,
(then eighty-one years of age,) who in 1930 commanded the ærial warship
"Maine," and who had been especially selected for that mission, gave
the signal and from her kelson the ærial "Maine" dropped a little
surprise package containing one hundred and thirty pounds of dynamite
upon the Royal Palace of Spain. Weyler and his gang, one moment later,
were roasting in company with their forefathers. Such, then, was the
fate of Weyler, the destroyer of our noble "Maine," an [More Spanish
Mules Killed.] arch fiend whose cruel orders were blindly obeyed
by others of his ilk, carrying to unhappy Cuba a degree of misery,
starvation and death that shocked the entire world.
The British ærial warships, as well as those of Germany, Russia,
Austria, Italy, France, Holland, Greece and Japan, took their signal
from the first shot or discharge of dynamite dropped by the "Maine,"
and joined forces with the American ærial warships in the total
annihilation of Madrid. The scene of destruction that followed the
attack of these ærial warships baffles all belief. Indeed, naught
may come within the scope of human imagination that can depict the
horrors, wholesale slaughter and utter desolation that may be wrought
by ærial warships. Ships floating in the air [It's Murder in The Air.]
two miles over a city and dropping within its limits huge charges
of dynamite, are fearful engines of destruction. In the twinkle of
an eye they can turn stately churches, lofty buildings, beautiful
homes, hospitals, colleges, parks and pleasure resorts into ashes,
and still vastly more terrible would be the loss of life.
The bare thought that human beings with souls to save and a God to
answer to, might, in a flash, be hurled into eternity by these ærial
dynamite ships, without a moment's warning, and their habitations
turned into charnel-houses, is in itself sufficient to make one's
flesh creep.
The Washington treaty of 1924, forbidding forever the use of this
barbarous method of warfare and threatening with destruction any
nation that employed it, was a wise and humane compact.
Spain's flagrant violation of the international treaty in 1929, when
she wantonly destroyed Fez and Tangier, was universally condemned. On
the other hand, the destruction and razing of Spain in 1930, as a
punishment for her bad faith, received the warmest commendations of
the world. It was fully realized that Spain's chastisement fitted
her case as perfectly as the bark fits the tree that it encircles.
Yet, the razing of Spain in 1930 fills one's better nature with
sadness. The [Too Bad about Spain.] widespread destruction of a
kingdom replete with historic memories, rich in treasure-troves of
art and science, dotted with thriving cities, fertile plains, lovely
vales and teeming with beautiful homes, appeals to heart, as well
as imagination. Although richly meriting her fate in 1930, Spain's
doom in that year deeply stirred the hearts of all humanity, but the
lesson it taught was that the world would never tolerate the use in
war of ærial dynamite warships, and this lesson proved a salutary one.
From Cadiz to Saragossa, and from Alicante to Corunna, the deadly
ærial ships pressed on their way, sweeping destruction before them. The
chief cities of Spain, namely, Barcelona, Valencia, Seville, Malaga,
Murcia, Cartagena, Granada, Cadiz and Saragossa, were all destroyed
in rapid succession, after the fate of Madrid had been decided. The
costly palaces of the Madrid grandees crumbled into dust from only
a few dynamite discharges of these air-ships.
Sad indeed it was to witness the destruction of the magnificent
paintings in the Royal Art Gallery of Madrid, containing as it
did in 1930 three thousand chef-d'oeuvres of the world's immortal
artists. The gallery contained the best examples of Titian, Raphael,
Rubens, Muerillo, Van Dyck, Veronese and Tenier, a grand collection
of rare paintings that were valued at $300,000,000, and that had
required several hundreds of years to collect.
Strange to say, in 1930, there was no cathedral in Madrid for the
air-ships to destroy. For some reason, unknown even to Spaniards,
their national capital had never enjoyed this luxury. It is a maxim,
old as the hills, that shoemakers are usually the ones who wear the
shabbiest shoes; the ill-dressed man in a community is very apt to
be the tailor; the most neglected man during sickness is oftentimes
the physician, and the man who invariably neglects to make his will
is the lawyer. Following in the line of this well-established rule,
it ceases to be a surprise that priest-ridden Spain, the first-born of
Rome, should find herself without a cathedral within the limits of her
national capital. If the cathedral of Madrid escaped the palsied touch
of the dynamite air-ships the reason therefor was simple enough. Madrid
never possessed one.
Portugal escaped the ravages of the dynamite air-ships, and in 1999
that kingdom [Ordered West by Portugal.] still proudly guarded the
western shores of the Iberian peninsula. In the spring of the year
1898, Portugal endeared herself to every American heart when her
government ordered Admiral Cervera and his squadron to sail away from
her possessions, the Cape de Verde islands, and "go west." Cervera had
to face the music, and it was with heavy hearts that the mariners on
board of the Oquendo, Marie de Teresa, Vizcaya, Colon, and the torpedo
destroyers, Pluton and Furore, weighed anchor and, like Columbus,
set their faces toward the Western Hemisphere, but, this time, with
the certainty that their noble vessels never again would plough their
prows in European waters.
The inglorious fate of Spain in 1930 ever after proved a warning to
all other nations. In 1999 air-ships navigated the "blue ethereal"
in every quarter of the globe. It was a safe, economical and swift
method [No More Ærial Warships.] of transportation, but after
the destruction of Spain, in 1930, ærial warships were put out of
commission and condemned. In 1999 so stringent were the international
laws against their use that the mere possession of an ærial warship
by any nation was likely to embroil others in a war of extermination
and on suspicion alone a most rigid investigation was instituted.