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.
[Illustration: 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."
[Illustration: 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."
[Illustration: 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."
[Illustration: 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 Señor 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.
[Illustration: (Battle at sea)]