IN THE MIDST OF PEACE.
As the sun was sinking that night in a blaze of red and gold behind the
green-bowered coast of Cuba, the boys, leaning over the starboard rail
with hundreds of other white-uniformed jackies, saw a sudden signal
broken out on the after signal halliards of the flagship.
"Coming to an anchorage," exclaimed old Tom, as the string of gayly
colored signal flags fluttered out. "There's Guantanamo yonder." He
pointed to a huddle of red roofs set among tall palms.
"The signal's for flying moorings!" exclaimed Herc, who, as well as
Ned, had received a thorough schooling in signaling at the training
school.
"That's right," rejoined old Tom approvingly, "flying moorings it is."
And now all became activity throughout the fleet. Aboard the
_Manhattan_, and, indeed, on every other ship of the squadron, the
most active bustle prevailed.
Coming to "flying moorings" is one of the greatest tests of a captain's
ability to handle his ship, and right well did every commander in that
squadron of ten mighty fighting ships show that he was entitled to wear
his uniform.
Master's mates flew about among the crew of the _Manhattan_, and a
shrill sound of piping arose as the men assigned to the various posts
connected with dropping the vessel's "mud hooks" hastened to their
stations.
"Look close now! You are going to see something worth watching," said
old Tom, as the crucial moment drew near.
On the flagship ahead the lads saw motion suddenly cease, following a
mighty splash as her huge anchor shot downward twenty fathoms or more,
and her engines ceased revolving for the first time in many days.
At the same instant the boys' hands instinctively flew to their caps in
a prompt salute as Old Glory broke out on the rear-admiral's jackstaff
and fluttered in the evening breeze, a sign that the ship was at anchor.
On the bridge of the _Manhattan_, Captain Dunham, his officers in
full uniform at his side and an attentive midshipman at his elbow, was
watching his flagship anxiously. As she swung to her anchor a sharp
command was barked out:
"Slow down!"
The middy's hand shoved the engine-room telegraph indicator over, and
instantly the strong vibration of the engines began to diminish. It
felt strange, this sudden cessation of a sound and motion that the boys
had come to regard almost as second nature.
"Let go the star-bo-ard an-chor!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" shouted a watchful boatswain's mate, springing forward.
Instantly a shrill screeching of whistles broke out, and with a mighty
roar the great anchor of the _Manhattan_ shot from the cat-heads and
plunged into the water.
After it roared thirty fathoms of chain before the further screams of
the pipes stopped the rapid "paying out" of the iron-linked cable. The
_Manhattan_, her engines idle at last, came to an anchorage.
"Caught her to the eighth of an inch, sir!" remarked
Lieutenant-Commander Scott to his chief.
Sailor-like pride wreathed the faces of every man on the bridge.
The _Manhattan_ swung at anchor behind her flagship at precisely the
same distance as she had steamed in column behind her all the long
voyage from New York. It was a feat to be proud of, and called for a
high degree of seamanship.
Behind the _Manhattan_ the other vessels came to similar moorings,
the Stars and Stripes fluttering out from the stern staff of each as
the anchor touched the bottom. It was a sight to make the heart of a
patriot beat proudly. Ten of the finest ships in the United States Navy
swung at exact intervals in a perfect line. The flag of their country
whipped out from the stern staff of each, as if in defiance of their
country's foes.
Hardly had the anchor of the _Iowa_, the last ship in line, dropped
before from the flagship another signal was broken out.
"Well done!" read Ned, studying the bright bits of bunting.
"Congratulations to officers and men."
A great cheer went up from the fore deck of the _Manhattan_, and its
echoes went winging down the line of grim fighting craft and was
caught up by ship after ship.
At almost the same instant the sun dipped behind the coast hills, and
the bugles began to sound the musical call of "Retreat."
It was the boys' first opportunity to see the impressive ceremony of
"colors," as the lowering of the flag on a man-o'-war is termed. The
ceremony is not gone through at sea, and the boys had been below when
it had been carried out in New York on their first night on board.
Now they were to witness one of the most impressive ceremonies of the
United States Navy.
Division after division of the crew was formed in line and marched aft,
in rhythmic tread, to the stern deck, on which stood Captain Dunham
and a group of his officers in full uniform, the last rays of the sun
glinting on their gold braid.
The men stood facing the flag and grouped on each side of the deck.
Their hands raised uniformly in salute to the flag as at the last notes
of the bugle it slowly descended the staff.
As it reached the deck, the band, stationed with their shining
instruments on the starboard side of the ship, burst forth into the
"Star-Spangled Banner."
The eyes of every man on that deck shone as the emblem for which they
were pledged to fight fluttered down and the band blared forth the
inspiring strains of the national anthem. Their officers stood in a
little group, bare-headed, the chaplain conspicuous among them in his
plain braided garb.
"First division, right about face!"
The sharp command of the ensign in charge of that division broke the
impressive silence.
"March!"
Division after division, the men melted away from the after deck and
left the little group of officers standing chatting alone. In all their
after years in the navy, the two Dreadnought Boys never forgot that
ceremony. Its recollection remained with them long after the annoying
incidents and trials of their first year of service had faded.
There were three men in that crew, however, on whose hearts the solemn
scene made no impression. These men were Carl Schultz, his friend
Silas, and Ralph Kennell.
In the breast of the latter dark feelings of hatred burned, and a
keen sense of humiliation over his deposition from the forward turret
rendered him oblivious to any better feelings. As the second division,
in which all three were stationed, wheeled to return forward, their
eyes met, and in them there flashed something that seemed more than a
mere gleam of recognition.
Was there actually more in the glance they exchanged than seemed to be
the case? Was it a mutual sense that they were at the scene which was
to be the theatre of their daring attempt?
We shall see.
As the Dreadnought Boys sat discussing the ceremony they had witnessed
and earnestly talking over their plans and ambitions, they became aware
that a hush had fallen over the fore deck and that a group of men were
carrying something aft.
With the other men, they pressed closer to see what the burden was, and
were startled to hear a sudden groan.
On the stretcher the men carried lay a bronze-faced jackie, his skin
a deadly white under the brown. Drops of sweat--the moisture of
agony--jetted his forehead as he was borne past on his way to the sick
bay, where the surgeon and his assistants were already prepared to
begin a battle for his life.
"It's Bill Hudgins," ran the word among the jackies. "He was crushed
badly when the cable caught him as we dropped anchor."
Although the boys afterward had the pleasure of meeting Hudgins and
congratulating him on his recovery, the incident taught them that even
in times of peace there is peril to be faced on board a man-o'-war, and
that it is the duty of Uncle Sam's fighters to meet it unflinchingly.
After supper that night, while the men were still discussing poor
Hudgins' mishap, the boatswain's mate--the same one who had received
them on board--hastened up to Ned and Herc as they lay on the fore
deck, gazing at the soft tropic stars, and announced:
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Hudgins was signalman of
the target officer's wherry. You boys go out in his place to-morrow."