THE DESTRUCTION OF THE SPANISH FLEET
"We are lost!"
"That ship will cut us in half!"
"Give her a broadside, boys, before we go down!"
These and a hundred other cries rang out, as the _Vizcaya_ came leaping
over the waves on her awful mission of death and destruction. Then gun
after gun roared out, sending shot and shell on the enemy's deck. If
this was their last hour on earth, these brave jackies were going to
make the most of it.
But commodore, captain, and executive officer were all on the alert and
were not to be caught napping. As the _Vizcaya_ came on, the necessary
orders were given, and the _Brooklyn_ began to turn in a twelve-point
circle to starboard. Like a flash she swept past the warship dashing on
to destroy her, and then the command rang out, "Give her another
broadside!" And the port guns, twenty in number, vomited out their
death-dealing shots and shells, raking the Spanish deck from end to end,
and killing and wounding a great number of sailors and officers. To this
awful fire was added that from the _Oregon_, which now came up to assist
the flagship. Realizing that the plan to ram the _Brooklyn_ was a
failure, the _Vizcaya_ started westward once more.
It was now high time to turn attention to the two torpedo-boat
destroyers, _Pluton_ and _Furor_, that were coming out of the harbor at
a speed of twenty knots per hour. Once these destroyers gained the open
sea, to catch them would be impossible. Like long, steel arrows
glistening in the sunlight, they darted through the greenish waves and
for a moment hid themselves behind their big sisters.
Then on came the _Gloucester_, a converted yacht, commanded by
Lieutenant Wainwright. Wainwright had been executive officer of the
_Maine_ when she was blown up in Havana Harbor, and had vowed more than
once to sink something if only he were given a chance. Like an avenging
angel the _Gloucester_, but lightly armed, bore down upon the torpedo
boats and sent shot after shot into them. Then the destroyers began to
turn, as if to sink the little enemy who dared to molest them, but now
it was too late,--the big warships were coming to the _Gloucester's_
aid.
It was the _Oregon_ and the _Iowa_ that first came to the converted
yacht's assistance, and as the destroyers turned, first one way and then
another, as if to ram or to run, a perfect hailstorm of shot and shell
landed on their sides and decks, churning up the water into a milk-white
froth, and causing the destroyers to look like gigantic whales lashing
themselves in their death throes. The noise was even greater than it had
been before, and the smoke made the heavens above look as if a violent
thunderstorm was at hand.
Finding they could not withstand such a combined attack, and with the
_Texas_ hurrying to the scene, the destroyers turned tail, as if to make
for the shore. As the turn was made a huge shell, flying over the masts
of the _Gloucester_, hit the _Pluton_ directly amidship, and with a
crash and a splutter she broke and sank, leaving the still living
members of her crew struggling in the boiling waters for their lives.
Left to herself, the _Furor_ again paused, like some wild animal seeking
in vain for cover. She started to get behind the _Oquendo_, but, in
spite of the fire from the shore batteries, the _Gloucester_ went in
after her, with every available gun doing its utmost, and fairly filling
her with small holes. At last the destroyer could stand it no longer,
and with a lurch she struck on a reef and began to break. In a moment
more the water poured over her sides, and her crew was compelled to
surrender. The instant the surrender was made, the converted yacht, from
being an angel of vengeance, became an angel of mercy, and to gallant
Lieutenant-commander Wainwright fell the honor of rescuing hundreds of
wounded and drowning Spaniards who must otherwise have perished.
Such was the close of this running fight. At the front, the four big
warships were still trying to push on, with the _Brooklyn_, _Oregon_,
_Iowa_, _Texas_, and _Indiana_ in the chase. With a full head of steam
the noble _Oregon_ reached a position between Commodore Schley's
flagship and the _Texas_, and every vessel in the line belched forth its
messengers of death and destruction.
Presently a cry echoed throughout the squadron regarding the _Oquendo_.
"She is on fire! See, she is burning in three places!"
The report was true. A shell had burst near the quarterdeck of the
warship, and now high to the sky arose a column of yellowish red smoke.
Then the flames burst out of her bow. In vain the Spaniards tried to man
their fire-hose. A shower of projectiles from the fighting-tops of our
own ships assailed them and drove them to shelter, while the big guns
continued to "pump up" shot and shell as never before.
But the _Oquendo_ was no worse off than the _Maria Teresa_, if as badly.
She staggered on, and a few minutes later passed her sister ship as if
looking for aid, when aid could not be given.
"The _Maria Teresa_ is on fire!" was the next cry, but a few minutes
later. "Down goes Cervera's flag! Hurrah, boys, we've got em 'on the
run! Give it to 'em hot!"
Yes, the admiral's flag was down, and so was the mast that had held it.
Would the Spanish emblem go up again? All watched anxiously, and
meanwhile the _Brooklyn_ continued to pour in her hottest fire.
"She's going ashore!" rang through the American flagship. "She's burning
up!" and then came a heavy shot from the _Brooklyn_, another from the
_Texas_, and staggering like a thing of life, the _Maria Teresa_ ran for
the beach, a mass of seething and roaring flames. Admiral Cervera's doom
was sealed. Five minutes later the _Oquendo_ was also cast on the shore.
Four of the enemy's ships had been laid low, but the great fight was by
no means over. Shot and shell were flying around the _Vizcaya_ and
_Cristobal Colon_, but both warships kept on their way, the _Colon_
slowly but surely forging to the front. Both Spanish ships were
returning the Americans' hot fire, and many a shot hit the _Brooklyn_
and many a shell burst over her deck. But as yet no serious damage had
been inflicted.
But a calamity was at hand, as rapid in its execution as it was
appalling. Near the forward eight-inch turret George Ellis was standing,
watching the struggle of the enemy's ships to escape.
"Ellis, give us the range again!" shouted Captain Cook.
"I'll have it in a moment, captain," answered the chief yeoman, and took
up his stadiometer. Making his calculation, he turned to Commodore
Schley, who was but a short distance away. "It is fourteen hundred yards
to the _Vizcaya_, sir," he said.
These were the last words he ever uttered, for an instant after there
was the whistling of a shell, and those standing around were horrified
to see Ellis's headless body drop to the deck below. The poor fellow had
been killed instantly, in the very midst of his duties. What a shock
this was to those about him I will leave my readers to imagine. Never
until now had they realized what this awful war meant. "Poor Ellis, he
was such a fine man!" murmured one comrade as he turned away. And then
his face grew even more sober. "But he's the first on board of this
ship. What of those poor Dons yonder, who are going down by the
wholesale?" And though they were enemies, his heart beat in sympathy for
the poor wretches who were struggling madly amid shot, shell, fire, and
water for their lives. Fortunately the _Iowa_ was already coming to the
succor of the defeated ones.
"We're going to catch it now, lad," remarked Caleb to Walter, as he
pointed through a rift in the cloud of smoke hanging over the gun.
"There are two of the enemy's ships, and they are both going to pound
us. Where in the world are our other vessels?"
"The _Oregon_ is coming up!" came from the after-deck, a minute later.
"And the _Texas_ isn't far behind."
Around the gun it was suffocating, and every hand was ready to drop.
Indeed, fainting fits were frequent, but the most that could be done for
a sufferer was to either throw some water over his head or yell out to
the surgeons' helpers to carry the men to the ward room for treatment.
As the _Brooklyn_ was struck here and there, splinters began to fly, and
a number were injured, although no one seriously.
The _Texas_ had done wonderful work on the _Maria Teresa_ and the
_Oquendo_, and now did her best to keep to the front of the chase. But
the speed was too great for her, and gradually she dropped behind,
although still continuing to throw shot and shell after the _Vizcaya_
that had dropped some distance behind the _Colon_. It was now apparent
to all that if any vessel was going to get away it was to be the
_Colon_, for her speed was greater than the _Vizcaya_ and as yet she had
hardly been touched.
"The _Vizcaya_, boys, the _Vizcaya_!" came the cry from the quarterdeck.
"Don't let her screen the _Colon_!"
"We'll pound 'em both!" was the answer. "Remember the _Maine_! Remember
Manila Bay!"
And then the mighty guns of the _Brooklyn_ and _Oregon_ roared out
swifter than ever, and the _Vizcaya_, doing her best to sink one or the
other of the American warships, was raked as if passing through a
blizzard of fire, until her men were forced again and again from their
posts, and at last the guns were abandoned. Then fire caught the craft
in its awful embrace, and rolling from side to side, she, too, sought
for a harbor of refuge, but found none. Down came her colors, and at the
same instant she struck with a crash on the rocks. The fight had started
at quarter to ten. Now it was but quarter past eleven,--just an hour and
a half,--and all the Spanish ships but one had been destroyed. Such is
the appalling swiftness of modern naval warfare. Where in olden days
jack tars had fought for hours, they now fought for minutes.
But the destruction of the _Vizcaya_ had taken time, and the _Colon_ was
forging onward, panting and throbbing like a thing of life trying to
escape from unspeakable terrors. Down in the bowels of the warship the
furnaces were at a white heat, and the engineers had long since pushed
their engines far past the danger point. "Faster! faster!" came the cry
from the deck and tower. "It will be better to blow up than to allow the
Yankee pigs to sink us. We must save at least one ship!" And the engines
pounded and quivered, threatening each instant to blow into a million
pieces. For once Don Quixote was making the run of his life.
Unable to stand the heat, Walter had obtained permission to lay off for
a few minutes and get some fresh air. A look from the spar deck had
showed him the _Colon_ dashing far ahead, enveloped in a thin line of
smoke. Every few seconds a flash of fire would come from her stern guns,
but the marksmanship was poor and no serious damage was done to the
_Brooklyn_.
The boy returned to his gun to find Caleb and the others in deep
perplexity. Something was wrong with a shell, and it had become wedged
in the gun and could not be pushed forward to its proper place or hauled
back. "We can't use Polly any more!" groaned Caleb.
"I'll fix her!" cried Si Doring, and caught up a rammer. In a moment the
brave Yankee lad was crawling out over the smoking piece toward the
muzzle. But he had scarcely reached the outward end of the gun than the
_Brooklyn_ gave a lurch and down he slipped over the side and into
space!