AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE.
“Ashley, we will give you something to write about,” remarks Capt.
Meade, as the America steams out of the harbor of Santiago.
“What’s that, captain? A thrilling description of a voyage from Santiago
de Cuba to Key West?”
The commander of the cruiser smiles good-naturedly. “More excitement
than that, and something that will cause the little senorita to cling
frantically to your arm.”
“Ah, then, you may open the ball at once.”
“Not yet; not for an hour. In short, we are going to burn some powder by
and by. A little target practice, and if you have never seen anything of
the sort you will be rather interested.”
“Confound his target practice,” Jack mutters disgustedly, as Capt. Meade
bustles away. “The only powder-burning I want to see is the shelling of
the dingy old city of Santiago by the Spanish fleet.”
But Ashley’s temporary annoyance is soon forgotten in the pleasure of
assisting Juanita up and down the steep ladders, of explaining the
machinery, the guns, the great searchlight and the thousand and one
interesting features of the cruiser.
The target practice, he also finds, is a decidedly interesting affair,
after all, which conclusion may have been influenced by the manifest
delight of his sweetheart over the novel experience.
But the last gun is fired, the buoy mark is demolished, and, within
forty-eight hours, Capt. Meade tells Jack, the America will be lying at
anchor in the harbor of Key West.
“And she will return to Santiago, when?” the correspondent inquires. “I
must be back at the finish, if the insurgents capture the city and it is
shelled by the Spanish fleet.”
Capt. Meade shakes his head. “That depends on instructions received at
Key West. I suppose though, that the cruiser would be ordered directly
back to Santiago after coaling.”
Just then the captain is summoned to the bridge, where it is evident
that some unusual occurrence is engrossing the attention of the
officers.
Jack observes that the captain has his glass turned toward the
northwest, and he also looks in that direction. Trails of black smoke
low down on the horizon, evidently from two steamers, are all that
reward his gaze, but he notices that the course of the America has been
changed and that her speed has been materially accelerated.
“What is in the wind?” he inquires, casually, of the youthful ensign.
“That’s just what we’re going to find out,” is the reply, and Ashley
follows Capt. Meade to the bridge.
“Nothing special that we know of,” is that official’s response to Jack’s
query as to the cause of the change of course. “Some stranger, probably
a Spanish gunboat, is in pursuit of another steamer, and as it is not
much out of our course I concluded to run up nearer the scene.”
The white cruiser is now rushing along at a speed that reminds Jack of
his first memorable trip upon her, and is rapidly reducing the cloud of
smoke on the horizon to the outlines of a formidable man-of-war.
“The Spanish cruiser Infanta Isabel,” is the conclusion of Capt. Meade,
after a long and careful study of the distant steamer. “But the craft
she is in pursuit of I cannot quite make out. She is a large steamship
of some sort and the Don is overhauling her hand over fist. We shall be
there just in time to see the fun.”
The America’s course is converging toward that of pursuer and pursued.
Capt. Meade’s keen eyes are alternately riveted on the Spanish warship
and the unknown vessel.
“If that steamship did not set so low in the water,” he remarks,
thoughtfully, “and was going about two-thirds faster, I should say that
she was our old friend, the big black yacht Semiramis. But—great heaven!
The steamer is sinking! That’s what’s the matter with her! She is
steadily settling!”
All eyes on the cruiser are now directed toward the crippled stranger.
She is, as Capt. Meade says, slowly sinking while yet the waters are
dashing on either side of her bow like mountain streams.
“A game struggle, but all in vain,” is the comment of the captain,
shaking his head. “Probably the Spaniard hulled him below the water line
early in the struggle, and he has been slowly making water ever since.
He can’t last much longer. The water must be near the fires now. Ah! I
thought so!”
For the strange steamer has apparently lost headway. The black smoke
that a moment before poured from her chimneys now mingles with a white
cloud of steam.
“Her fires are out,” Capt. Meade explains to Ashley. “She will go down
in twenty minutes, if she doesn’t blow up before.”
The boom of a heavy cannon startles the watchers and they turn quickly
to the Spanish man-of-war. A curling wreath of smoke from her forward
deck tells the origin of the report, and their eyes return to the
sinking vessel. A puff of wind lifts for a moment the flag hanging limp
at her masthead, as if in mute defiance of the Spanish shot. Capt. Meade
starts as if he had received an electric shock.
“The American flag!” he thunders, “and fired on by the Spaniard!” Then
to the executive officer: “Signal for the forced draught and bear down
on the steamer. We will pick up her boats and then investigate the
outrage on the flag.”
Another shot, and still another, comes echoing over the water from the
Infanta Isabel, her target the fast-filling steamer.
Suddenly Ashley is electrified by the command in the stentorian tones of
Capt. Meade:
“Clear the ship for action!”
A second later the trumpet’s harsh notes and the sharp rattle of drum,
mingling with the shrill whistles and rough voices of the boatswain,
mates and the noisy clanging of the electric gongs, call the sturdy crew
of the America to “general quarters.”
Then, indeed, is the blood of the newspaper man stirred by the scenes
about him. The decks throb with the rush of hurrying feet as the men
hasten to their stations. The gun crews are casting loose the great
guns, the murderous rapid-fire cannon and the secondary batteries. Some
are hastily donning equipments, others filling sponge-buckets and still
others stripping themselves of all superfluous clothing, laying bare
their brawny forms.
Hatches are covered, hose laid and pumps rigged, ladders torn away, and
decks turned topsy-turvy, in the twinkling of an eye. Rifles, cutlasses
and revolvers come out from the armory in quantities that amaze Ashley.
The marine guard falls in and topmen are scrambling nimbly aloft to
secure anything movable there.
Down come the rails, out come davits and awning stanchions—everything
movable is stowed away or secured. The magazines are opened and the
tackle rigged over the ammunition hatches ready to hoist shot and shell
for the guns.
“The grim panoply of war,” Jack thinks, as he hastens to conduct the
wondering Juanita below. Even here, he observes to his great surprise,
the captain’s sacred cabin has been invaded “on the jump” by the crews
of the after guns.
As Ashley returns to the quarter-deck he notes that the America is
bearing hard down almost at right angles on the Spanish warship, now
distant less than a mile.
“Evidently here is an excellent opportunity for an international
episode,” he thinks, as he glances at the stern face of “Fighting Dave”
Meade on the bridge. Then his hand involuntarily goes to his ears and he
catches at the rail for support, as the forward gun of the American
cruiser thunders forth and an eight-pound solid shot skims over the
waves across the bow of the Spanish cruiser.
Before he recovers from the shock of the concussion there is a murmured,
“She’s going!” from the officers on the quarter-deck and Jack looks
quickly in the direction of the sinking steamer. But the black hull has
already disappeared beneath the waves and he sees only the fluttering
red, white and blue ere the whirling eddies reach their eager arms for
the beautiful emblem.
The gun from the America does not have the anticipated effect on the
Spaniard, for he continues full speed toward the spot where the steamer
sunk. But it has evidently had effect in another direction. With the aid
of his marine glasses Ashley observes four boats, which had hitherto
escaped his notice, pulling toward the white cruiser. The purpose of the
Spanish vessel is thus apparent. She designs to cut off the fleeing
boats before they may reach the America.
Again the white cruiser careens to one side and a second deafening
report, this time the gun from amidship, roars out in language not to be
misunderstood by the on-rushing Spanish man-of-war.
It is not misunderstood.
There is a rapid gush of escaping steam, the stacks cease to vomit forth
their black clouds and the Infanta Isabel turns her course and steams
slowly toward the America.
Ashley watches curiously the flashing oars of the coming boats, and when
the forward one is almost within hail he lifts the glasses to his eyes
and scans her passengers.
“Thunder and Mars!” he exclaims, “if there isn’t John Barker in the bow
and—yes, it must be Louise Hathaway, Van Zandt, and—who the devil is
that chap with the ferocious mustachios? El Terredo, or I’m a sinner!”
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