that, in view of the injury already inflicted on the city and the
probable increased difficulty of collecting the sum demanded, he would
agree to allow five days' time in which to pay the latter, on board his
flag-ship.
General Hancock declined to consider this proposal.
"El Cid" now began a new manoeuvre. All the steam-launches of the fleet,
provided with long, forked spars extending from their bows, formed in
front of her, and, thus preceded, she deliberately steamed up to the
Main channel.
The fort on the Hook at once opened upon her, but the shot glanced like
dry peas from her armor. She, in return, shelled the fort, the masonry
of which literally crumbled before the enormous projectiles hurled
against it. Meanwhile, the launches had entered the channel and were
picking up such torpedoes as could be detected. Other launches, having
no crews on board, but being governed entirely by electric wires, were
sent into the channel and caused to drop counter mines, which, on being
fired, caused the explosion of such torpedoes as remained: thus making a
broad and safe channel for the ironclad to enter.
Finally the remaining launches returned to the "Cid" and evidently
reported the channel clear for she boldly steamed into it, stopping only
for an instant, when off the end of the peninsula, to send a double
charge of grape and canister from her huge guns into the ranks of the
fugitives, who were precipitately rushing from the fort.
It was then that General Hancock was killed although the fact has since
often been disputed. His body, wounded in a dozen places, was found on
the sand near the highest wall of the fort, from the top of which, it is
conjectured, he was swept by the fearful hail of the Spanish ironclad.
"El Cid" continued on into the bay, occasionally stopping as signaled by
the launches preceding her, when a torpedo was encountered, and finally
took up her position within about a mile of Fort Hamilton, and hence
about seven miles from the Battery.
As the projectiles from the fort glanced harmlessly from her armor, she
paid no attention to that attack, but resumed her fire upon the city.
Shells now began to fall as far up-town as Forty-second Street.
V.
AT THE MERCY OF THE FOE.
Meanwhile, the other four vessels had ceased their bombardment of the
batteries, as the latter no longer answered them.
They appeared to have new work in hand.
During the following afternoon a fresh sea-breeze set in. Then a large,
swaying globe made its appearance on the deck of each of the vessels.
Examination with the telescope showed to the signal men, who had
established a new station on the Jersey highlands, that these mysterious
spheres were balloons; and that the ships were about to dispatch them,
was evident from the fact that small pilot-balloons were soon sent up.
These last were wafted directly toward the city.
What possible object could the Spanish war-vessels have in this, was a
question asked by every one, as soon as the intelligence became known.
The balloon which rose from the "Numancia" had a car attached, but there
was clearly no one in it. Therefore the balloons were not to be used for
purposes of observation.
The people in New York saw the balloons as they successively rose from
the four vessels, and wonderingly watched their progress.
They saw the first of them gently sail toward the city until about over
the Roman Catholic Cathedral on Fifth Avenue. Then a dark object seemed
to fall from the car, the lightened balloon shot upward, the object
struck the roof of the cathedral there was a fearful explosion, a
trembling of the earth as if an angry volcano were beneath, and the
crash of falling buildings followed.
Through the great clouds of dust and smoke it could be seen that not
only was the cathedral shattered, but that the walls of every building
adjacent to the square on which it stood were down.
_The Spaniards were dropping nitro-glycerine bombs into the city from
the balloons_. They knew how long it would take the breeze to waft the
air-ships over the built-up portion, and it was an easy matter to adjust
clock-work in the car to cause the dropping of the torpedo at about the
proper time.
Accuracy was not needed. A shell, filled with fifty or a hundred pounds
of dynamite or nitro-glycerine, would be sure to do terrible damage
anywhere within a radius of three miles around Madison Square.
A second balloon dropped its charge into the receiving reservoir in
Central Park, luckily doing no damage, but throwing up a tremendous jet
of water. The third and fourth balloons let fall their dejectiles, the
one among the tenements near Tompkins Square destroying an entire block
of houses simultaneously; the other on High Bridge, completely
shattering that structure, and so breaking the aqueduct through which
the city obtains its water supply.
The Spanish admiral now ceased firing voluntarily and sent a message by
flag-of-truce announcing his intention to continue the throwing of
balloon torpedoes into the city until it capitulated, and, in order to
avoid further destruction of property, he renewed the proposal already
made.
General Grant, on receiving this message--for the citizens had literally
forced him to take active command of the troops--simply remarked:
"Let him fire away!"
But the Safety Committee vehemently protested; and finally, after much
discussion, induced Grant to send back word that the terms were
accepted.
The situation was, in truth, one of sadness--of bitter humiliation. The
Empire City had fallen, and lay at the mercy of a foreign foe. The
immense ransom demanded must be raised and paid, or the work of
destruction would be resumed until the defenders of the bay removed
their torpedoes from the Narrows and permitted the Spanish forces to
enter and occupy the metropolis.
VI.
THE FLAG WITH THE LONE STAR.
As it was manifestly impossible to obtain fifty millions of dollars in
specie and foreign notes within New York--for all the money in the
vaults of the banks and the treasury had long since been sent to other
cities--the general government assumed payment of the amount demanded by
the Spaniards, which, however, it was decided not to make until just
before the expiration of the last of the five days of grace.
As will now be seen, this was a fortunate decision. The unremitting
bombardment which had been maintained by the four vessels off the Long
Island shore had so greatly reduced their supply of ammunition that it
became necessary to send for more: and for this purpose the "Vittoria"
was dispatched to meet a transport which had been ordered to sail from
Cuba at about this time.
On the evening of the third day the weather assumed a threatening
appearance, and the "El Cid" left her position near Fort Hamilton for a
more secure anchorage near Sandy Hook. The other ships stood out to sea.
It stormed heavily during that night, and before evening on the morrow
one of the strongest gales ever known in this vicinity had set in.
The situation in which the Spanish flag-ship now found herself was
critical. She had put down her two bower anchors, but they were clearly
insufficient to hold her. To veer out cable was dangerous, for it was
not known how near the ship was to sunken torpedoes; to allow her to
drag was to run the double chance of striking a torpedo or going ashore.
During the night she parted both cables, and the morning found her
firmly imbedded in the beach off the Hook. Of the other vessels, the
"Numancia" only was in sight.
The signal men, however, could see black smoke on the horizon; and this
they anxiously watched, expecting momentarily to make out the "Arapiles"
and "Zaragoza." Shortly after daybreak, a thick fog settled down,
completely cutting off the seaward view.
In the signal station were General Grant and several members of the
Safety Commission. The ransom money was in readiness, and the intention
was to pay it over during the morning.
At about eight o'clock, heavy firing was heard from the sea.
It was too far distant to be accounted for by a supposed renewal of the
bombardment by the Spanish ships, even under the assumption that they
had thus broken the truce.
The watchers at the signal station looked at each other in astonishment,
and eagerly waited for the fog to lift.
An hour later, the mist began to clear away. The sight that met the
eyes of the spectators was one never to be forgotten.
The "Numancia" was evidently ashore on the East bank. Her fore and
mainmasts were gone, and clouds of dark smoke were lazily ascending from
her forecastle. Suddenly, the whole ship seemed to burst into a sheet of
flame, there was a deep explosion, the air was filled with flying
fragments, and a blackened hull was all that was left of the proud
man-of-war.
The "Arapiles," about two miles further out to sea, was making a gallant
defense against three strange vessels. Two, lying at short range on her
quarters, were pouring in a fearful fire; the third, which had evidently
been engaged with the "Numancia," was rapidly bearing down upon her,
apparently intending to ram.
Who could the strangers be?
The flags which floated from their mast-heads bore a strong resemblance
to our own, yet they were not the stars and stripes; for the stripes
were replaced by but two broad bands of red and white, and in the blue
field there was but a single star.
"Chili, by Jove!" ejaculated some one in the signal station.
He was right.
The new-comers were the "Huascar," the "Almirante Cochrane" and the
"Blanco Encelada," the three armored vessels of the South American
Republic.
It was the "Huascar" which was now bearing down upon the "Arapiles."
Suddenly, the Chilian monitor was seen to slacken her speed and change
her course.
She no longer meant to ram; the necessity had ceased. At the same time,
the other Chilian vessels ceased firing.
The Spanish ensign on the "Arapiles" had been lowered. In a few minutes
after it rose again, but this time surmounted by the Chilian flag.
Then the four vessels stood in toward the Hook.
The watchers on the signal station now waited in breathless suspense.
The "Arapiles," with a prize crew from the other vessels to work her
guns, was to be made to attack her former consort, the stranded "El
Cid;" and that vessel, aware of her danger, was now firing rapidly at
her approaching enemies.
It was not reserved, however, for the Chilians to complete their victory
by the capture of the great ironclad.
The giant was to be killed by a pigmy scarce larger than one of his own
huge weapons. A smaller steam-launch slowly crept out from the Staten
Island shore. But two men could be seen on board of her--one in the bow,
the other at the helm.
"They don't see us yet, Ned," said the man in the bow.
"No; they have all they can do to take care of the other fellows. Look
out! Are you hurt?"
A shell from the Chilians just then came over the Hook, and, bursting
under the water near the launch, deluged the boat with spray.
"Not a bit," said the other.
"Is your boom clear?"
"All clear."
Bang! A shot, this time from the Spaniard came skipping along the water
in the direction of the launch, and flew over the heads of the daring
pair.
"Hang them! They've seen us."
"Rig out your boom. We're in for it now!"
The man in the stern pushed shut the door of the boiler furnace, and
turned on full steam.
The little craft fairly leaped ahead.
The two men set their teeth. He of the stern lashed the tiller
amidships, and crept forward, aiding the other to push out the long boom
which projected from the bow.
Ten seconds passed. Then the torpedo on the end of the boom struck the
"El Cid" under the stern. There was a crash--a vast upheaval of water
and fragments.
The great ironclad rolled over on her side and lay half submerged.
Of the two men who had done this, one swam ashore bearing the other,
wounded to the death.
A mighty cheer arose from the Chilian fleet, repeated from the shore
with redoubled volume.
"El Cid" lay sullen and silent; two of her guns were pointing under
water, two up to the clouds.
The "Arapiles" fired the last shell at her own admiral--now a corpse,
torn to pieces by the torpedo.
Then some one scrambled along the deck of the wrecked monster and
lowered the Spanish flag.
"I think we'll keep that money," remarked Grant, as he lit another
cigar.
* * * * *
The Chilian fleet had relieved New York. Elated by her victory over
Peru, and thirsting for revenge against Spain for the latter's merciless
bombardment of Valparaiso in 1866, the Chilians, as soon as they had
learned of the declaration of war against the United States, tore up the
treaty of truce and armistice made with Spain in 1871, and announced
themselves an ally of this country. Realizing the weakness of our navy,
and the unprotected position of our seaports, Chili instantly dispatched
her three ironclads to New York. They made the voyage with remarkable
celerity, stopping only for coal and provisions, and reached the
beleaguered city just in the nick of time, as has already been detailed.
It was fortunate that the "Zaragoza" had been obliged to put so far out
to sea that she could not return in season to take part in the conflict,
otherwise the result might have been different.
As it was, when she came back a day later, and discovered the position
of affairs, she took to her heels without delay.
It is not necessary here to speak of the greeting which the Chilians
received, or the thanks which were lavished upon them by the people of
the United States. Neither need we picture the dismay of the citizens of
New York when they came to realize the fearful damage which had been
inflicted upon their city. Fully one-half of the town lay in ruins. The
metropolis was the metropolis no longer. The proudest city of the Great
Republic had been at the mercy of a conqueror, and, as if this
humiliation were not deep enough, she owed her preservation from utter
destruction to the guns of an insignificant Republic of South America.
* * * * *
Six months after the relief of the city, a Chilian sailor belonging to
the "Huascar," which was lying off the Battery, stopped to watch a crowd
of workmen who were busily engaged in clearing away the ruins of some
tenement buildings near Tompkins Square.
The face of one of the workmen had evidently attracted the foreigner's
attention, as he gazed at him intently and curiously.
Suddenly there was a sharp detonation. The crowd scattered in all
directions. An unexploded shell which had lodged in the building had
been struck by a pick in the hands of one of the laborers, and had been
fired.
The sailor helped carry out the dead.
Among the victims was the man at whom he had been so intently looking a
moment before. This one he took in his arms and bore him apart from the
rest.
Nervously he tore open the dead man's shirt. On the bared breast was a
curiously shaped mole.
The sailor sank on his knees in prayer beside the body for a moment.
Then he turned, and addressing an officer who, with a file of soldiers,
had come upon the scene, and was directing the removal of the dead, he
asked in broken English, pointing to the corpse:
"Will you give me this?"
"Why?"
"He was my brother--_Leon Sangrado_."
The war had found a victim in him who had caused it.
[3] _Fiction, October 31, 1881._
WHY THOMAS WAS DISCHARGED.[4]
BY GEORGE ARNOLD.
Brant Beach is a long promontory of rock and sand, jutting out at an
acute angle from a barren portion of the coast. Its farthest extremity
is marked by a pile of many-colored, wave-washed boulders; its junction
with the mainland is the site of the Brant House, a watering-place of
excellent repute.
The attractions of this spot are not numerous. There is surf-bathing all
along the outer side of the beach, and good swimming on the inner. The
fishing is fair; and in still weather yachting is rather a favorite
amusement. Further than this there is little to be said, save that the
hotel is conducted upon liberal principles, and the society generally
select.
But to the lover of nature--and who has the courage to avow himself
aught else?--the sea-shore can never be monotonous. The swirl and sweep
of ever-shifting waters, the flying mist of foam breaking away into a
gray and ghostly distance down the beach, the eternal drone of ocean,
mingling itself with one's talk by day and with the light dance-music in
the parlors by night--all these are active sources of a passive
pleasure. And to lie at length upon the tawny sand, watching, through
half-closed eyes, the heaving waves, that mount against a dark blue sky
wherein great silvery masses of cloud float idly on, whiter than the
sunlit sails that fade and grow and fade along the horizon, while some
fair damsel sits close by, reading ancient ballads of a simple metre, or
older legends of love and romance--tell me, my eater of the fashionable
lotos, is not this a diversion well worth your having?
There is an air of easy sociality among the guests at the Brant House, a
disposition on the part of all to contribute to the general amusement,
that makes a summer sojourn on the beach far more agreeable than in
certain larger, more frequented watering-places, where one is always in
danger of discovering that the gentlemanly person with whom he has been
fraternizing is a faro-dealer, or that the lady who has half-fascinated
him is Anonyma herself. Still, some consider the Brant rather slow, and
many good folk were a trifle surprised when Mr. Edwin Salsbury and Mr.
Charles Burnham arrived by the late stage from Wikhasset Station, with
trunks enough for two first-class belles, and a most unexceptionable
man-servant in gray livery, in charge of two beautiful setter-dogs.
These gentlemen seemed to have imagined that they were about visiting
some backwoods wilderness, some savage tract of country, "remote,
unfriended, melancholy, slow," for they brought almost everything with
them that men of elegant leisure could require, as if the hotel were but
four walls and a roof, which they must furnish with their own chattels.
I am sure it took Thomas, the man-servant, a whole day to unpack the
awnings, the bootjacks, the game-bags, the cigar-boxes, the guns, the
camp-stools, the liquor-cases, the bathing-suits, and other
paraphernalia that these pleasure-seekers brought. It must be owned,
however, that their room, a large one in the Bachelors' Quarter, facing
the sea, wore a very comfortable, sportsmanlike look when all was
arranged.
Thus surrounded, the young men betook themselves to the deliberate
pursuit of idle pleasures. They arose at nine and went down the shore,
invariably returning at ten with one unfortunate snipe, which was
preserved on ice, with much ceremony, till wanted. At this rate it took
them a week to shoot a breakfast; but to see them sally forth, splendid
in velveteen and corduroy, with top-boots and a complete harness of
green cord and patent-leather straps, you would have imagined that all
game-birds were about to become extinct in that region. Their dogs,
even, recognized this great-cry-little-wool condition of things, and
bounded off joyously at the start, but came home crestfallen, with an
air of canine humiliation that would have aroused Mr. Mayhew's tenderest
sympathies.
After breakfasting, usually in their room, the friends enjoyed a long
and contemplative smoke upon the wide piazza in front of their windows,
listlessly regarding the ever-varied marine view that lay before them in
flashing breadth and beauty. Their next labor was to array themselves in
wonderful morning-costumes of very shaggy English cloth, shiny flasks
and field-glasses about their shoulders, and loiter down the beach, to
the point and back, making much unnecessary effort over the walk--a
brief mile--which they spoke of, with importance, as their
"constitutional." This killed time till bathing-hour, and then another
toilet for dinner. After dinner a siesta: in the room, when the weather
was fresh; when otherwise, in hammocks hung from the rafters of the
piazza. When they had been domiciled a few days, they found it expedient
to send home for what they were pleased to term their "crabs" and
"traps," and excited the envy of less fortunate guests by driving up and
down the beach at a racing gait to dissipate the languor of the
after-dinner sleep.
This was their regular routine for the day--varied, occasionally, when
the tide served, by a fishing trip down the narrow bay inside the point.
For such emergencies they provided themselves with a sail-boat and
skipper, hired for the whole season, and arrayed themselves in a highly
nautical rig. The results were, large quantities of sardines and pale
sherry consumed by the young men, and a reasonable number of sea-bass
and blackfish caught by the skipper.
There were no regular "hops" at the Brant House, but dancing in a quiet
way every evening to a flute, violin, and violoncello, played by some of
the waiters. For a time Burnham and Salsbury did not mingle much in
these festivities, but loitered about the halls and piazzas, very
elegantly dressed and barbered (Thomas was an unrivalled _coiffeur_),
and apparently somewhat _ennuyé_.
That two well-made, full-grown, intelligent, and healthy young men
should lead such a life as this for an entire summer might surprise one
of a more active temperament. The aimlessness and vacancy of an
existence devoted to no earthly purpose save one's own comfort must soon
weary any man who knows what is the meaning of real, earnest life--life
with a battle to be fought and a victory to be won. But these elegant
young gentlemen comprehended nothing of all that: they had been born
with golden spoons in their mouths, and educated only to swallow the
delicately insipid lotos-honey that flows inexhaustibly from such
shining spoons. Clothes, complexions, polish of manner, and the
avoidance of any sort of shock were the simple objects of their
solicitude.
I do not know that I have any serious quarrel with such fellows, after
all. They have strong virtues. They are always clean; and your rough
diamond, though manly and courageous as Coeur de Lion, is not apt to be
scrupulously nice in his habits. Affability is another virtue. The
Salsbury and Burnham kind of man bears malice toward no one, and is
disagreeable only when assailed by some hammer-and-tongs utilitarian.
All he asks is to be permitted to idle away his pleasant life
unmolested. Lastly, he is extremely ornamental. We all like to see
pretty things; and I am sure that Charley Burnham, in his fresh white
duck suit, with his fine, thoroughbred face--gentle as a girl's--shaded
by a snowy Panama, his blonde moustache carefully pointed, his golden
hair clustering in the most picturesque possible waves, his little red
neck-ribbon--the only bit of color in his dress--tied in a studiously
careless knot, and his pure, untainted gloves of pearl gray or lavender,
was, if I may be allowed the expression, just as pretty as a picture.
And Ned Salsbury was not less "a joy forever," according to the dictum
of the late Mr. Keats. He was darker than Burnham, with very black hair,
and a moustache worn in the manner the French call _triste_, which
became him, and increased the air of pensive melancholy that
distinguished his dark eyes, thoughtful attitudes, and slender figure.
Not that he was in the least degree pensive or melancholy, or that he
had cause to be; quite the contrary; but it was his style, and he did it
well.
These two butterflies sat, one afternoon, upon the piazza, smoking very
large cigars, lost, apparently, in profoundest meditation. Burnham, with
his graceful head resting upon one delicate hand, his clear blue eyes
full of a pleasant light, and his face warmed by a calm, unconscious
smile, might have been revolving some splendid scheme of universal
philanthropy. The only utterance, however, forced from him by the
sublime thoughts that permeated his soul, was the emission of a white
rolling volume of fragrant smoke, accompanied by two words: "Doocéd
hot!"
Salsbury did not reply. He sat, leaning back, with his fingers
interlaced behind his head, and his shadowy eyes downcast, as in sad
remembrance of some long-lost love. So might a poet have looked, while
steeped in mournfully rapturous daydreams of remembered passion and
severance. So might Tennyson's hero have mused, while he sang: