Max Raymond, buried in thought, was pacing the deck of the Olympia.

"Hello, Raymond, have you heard the news?" asked a fellow officer, hurrying toward him in evident excitement.

"No; what is it? News from home?" asked Max, pausing in his walk with a look of eager interest.

"Just that. The commodore has had a warning to leave Hong-Kong. War has been declared by our government, and Great Britain has issued a proclamation of neutrality. The official warning comes from the authorities here."

"Ah!" exclaimed Max, "I knew—we all knew—that it would come soon. It is well the commodore has had all our vessels put in war paint, and every preparation made for departure upon short notice."

"Yes; Commodore Dewey is a wise man and officer. I'm glad he's at the head of affairs in this fleet. It looks as if we would have some fighting soon, Raymond."

"Yes, Dale, and it behooves us to be prepared for wounds or death. We are about to fight in a good cause, I think—for the freedom of the poor, oppressed, downtrodden Cubans. But where are we to go now, do you know?"

"Only that it must be out of this harbor quite promptly. It can hardly be to travel the seven thousand miles back to San Francisco."

They were not kept long in suspense. Presently, anchors were taken up, and with bands playing and flags flying the fleet of vessels steamed out of the harbor, while the British residents of the city crowded the quay and shipping, cheering and saluting the Americans as the warships passed. That first voyage of the squadron was but a short one, a few miles up the coast to Mirs Bay, a Chinese harbor, where they anchored and awaited orders from home, the McCulloch having been left behind to bring them when they should arrive. The next day she came, bringing this message, dated Washington, April 24:

"Dewey, Asiatic Squadron: War has commenced between the United States and Spain. Proceed at once to Philippine Islands. Commence operations at once, particularly against the Spanish fleet. You must capture the vessels or destroy. Use utmost endeavors."

"Long."

This message was what Commodore Dewey had been waiting for since his arrival at Hong-Kong in January. He had formed his plans, and was ready to carry them out without delay. His captains were called to a short conference, and about midnight the fleet sailed on its errand of battle. They turned south toward the Philippine Islands, 620 miles away. The nearest United States port was San Francisco, 7000 miles distant. No neutral power would permit him to take more than enough of coal to carry his vessels home by the most direct route, so that there was but one course open to Dewey and his fleet—the capturing of a Spanish harbor somewhere in Asiatic waters, which he could make a naval base. One of Dewey's ships—the Petrel—was slow, and as the fleet of vessels must keep together, that delayed them. It was three days before they reached the line of coast of the Island of Luzon. It was reported that the enemy might be found in Subig Bay, so that was carefully reconnoitred, but the Spanish were not there; the fishermen about the harbor said they had seen no Spanish fleet, and though every nook and corner of the bay was examined, not so much as a gunboat could be found. So the American fleet passed on to Manila, 30 miles away.

It seemed evident that the Spaniards had chosen that station because there they would have the aid of shore batteries. It is said that their ships were comparatively antiquated, but not so much so as to make their defeat at all certain. Their guns were as good as those of the American ships, and they had more of them: to Dewey's six fighting ships Admiral Montojo had ten, and two torpedo boats besides. The Spaniards had no vessel to rank with the Olympia, but the numbers of their vessels, it might have been expected, would probably, in skilled hands, have more than made up for that. The Americans had the advantage in batteries, but not overwhelmingly. The McCulloch did not go into action at all, and the Spanish torpedo boats were sunk before their guns would bear. The Americans were greatly superior in everything that goes to win victory; but that they did not know until the fight had been going on for some time; and as Commodore Dewey led his fleet along the coast of Luzon, toward the harbor where he knew the enemy lay in wait for them, he had nothing less than a desperate battle to expect. The Americans were brave; we know of no cowardice among them, but to the thoughtful ones—Max Raymond among them—it was a solemn reflection that they might be nearing mutilation and sudden, painful death. The Spanish ships were anchored in a harbor protected by shore batteries. To reach them the Americans must pass down a channel sixteen miles long, guarded on each side by powerful forts armed with modern guns; and it was to be expected that it held many mines prepared to blow up our vessels.

Knowing all these things, Commodore Dewey, his officers, and his men must have been expecting a hard fight, with no certainty of winning the victory. There was probably but little sleep on board the vessel that night. About ten o'clock Saturday night the men were sent to their stations for battle.

Max had spent some leisure time in writing to the dear ones in his home, and the still dearer one pledged to become his wife, telling just where he was and the prospect immediately before him, expressing his hope that all would go well with the Americans—now championing the cause of the poor, oppressed Cubans and of these downtrodden Filipinos—and that he would be able to write further after the conflict ended, should he pass safely through it; but if he should be killed or seriously wounded, doubtless the news would reach them in due season, and they must think of him as having fallen in a good cause, hoping to meet them all in a better land.

A little before that, the commodore was walking back and forth on the starboard side of the upper deck, when he noticed an old sailor who seemed to be trying to find something to do on the port side. He was a man who had been forty years in the service of the navy and army of the United States, and was a privileged character on the Olympia. He seemed to be keeping a careful lookout on the commodore, who noticed it and perceived that he had something on his mind.

"Well, Purdy, what is it?" he asked.

Purdy straightened up and saluted. "I hope, sir," he said, "ye don't intend to fight on the 3d of May."

"And why not?" asked the commodore.

"Well, ye see, sir," Purdy replied, in the most serious manner, "the last time I fought on the 3d of May I got licked—at the battle of Chancellorsville, under Fighting Joe Hooker."

"All right, Purdy, we won't fight on the 3d of May this time," said the commodore; "but when we do fight, Purdy, you'll have a different kind of a May anniversary to think about. Remember that, Purdy."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied Purdy, saluting, then hurrying away to rejoin his blue jacket comrades, whom he told, "We'll lick those Spaniards if they was ten times as many as they are."

The moon was in its first quarter, and though often veiled by clouds its light might enable the Spaniards on the fortified points here and there to perceive the stealthy approach of their foe. Max, on the watch with others, overheard the commodore say, as they neared the opening between Mariveles and the Island of Corregidor, "We ought to hear from this battery about now."

But its guns were silent. They went on two miles further without perceiving any evidence that the Spaniards were awake and aware of their approach.

"They seem far from alert and watchful," Max presently remarked. But at that moment a bright light was thrown on the Point, an answering one was seen on the island, as if they were signalling each other, then a rocket soared up from the centre of Corregidor, and the commodore said, "It has taken them a long time to wake up, but probably they will make it all the hotter for us when they begin."

Day had not yet dawned when they reached the mouth of Manila Bay. They did not stop to reconnoitre, but pressed on at once, running the gantlet of batteries and concealed mines without waiting for daylight to make it easier.

They waited a little for the setting of the moon, then went on in single file, the Olympia leading and the McCulloch bringing up the rear, and with no lights except one lantern at the stern of each ship for the next to steer by.

A great light marked the entrance to the harbor, gleaming in the darkness as though to welcome the gray ships stealing so quietly in, as if to come suddenly and unexpectedly upon their prey. The forts were as silent as though all their defenders were asleep or dead. That was a wonder to the Americans, for the rush of their vessels through the water seemed to make a sound that might be heard by the enemy, and every moment they expected it to attract their attention; and so anxious were they to pass unnoticed, that they spoke to each other in whispers, and moved about with muffled tread. They were in momentary expectation of a cannon shot or the explosion of a mine that might rend the plates of some one of their ships; but nothing of either kind occurred, until the last ship in the procession—the McCulloch—gave the first alarm. Coal was flung on her furnace, and a red flame flared up, lighting up the waters and the rigging of the ship itself and of those ahead. All the men on the fleet turned expectantly toward the batteries on the land, thinking that shots would certainly come now. But all was silence there. Again and again the unlucky beacon flared, and after the third time it was noticed by the flash of a gun on a rock called El Fraile. But the aim was not good, and the shot did not strike any of our vessels. The Concord fired in return, and cannon roared from the Boston, the McCulloch, and again from the Concord, but the Olympia and other big ships passed on in silent dignity.

The commodore was standing on the bridge of the Olympia, piloting his fleet, and the shot from El Fraile had given him a clear idea of how the shore lay. And now, having passed that battery, all the defences of the harbor's mouth were left behind, and excepting mines that might lie concealed under the water there was no further danger to meet until they should reach the city with its forts at CavitÉ.

As the ship steamed on up the bay, Max and Dale standing together on deck fell into conversation.

"What ails these Spaniards?" queried Dale. "I, for one, expected nothing less than a severe fight at the very mouth of this bay, but they have let us come in and on up toward their city almost unnoticed. The strait where we came in is only about five miles wide, and broken by three islands, all fortified, and armed with Krupp guns. And on the mainland there are two forts—one on each side—which, as I have been told, are armed with steel rifled cannon."

"Yes," said Max, "and we passed them all within easy range, and received only ineffective fire from one battery. But this is only the beginning; at any minute we may come in contact with a mine in the channel which will explode, or an electric mine may be discharged in a way to work us serious mischief."

"True enough," said Dale; "and it behooves us to be ready for the worst. There will probably be men killed and wounded on both sides."

"Yes," sighed Max; "war is an awful thing; but in this instance right is on our side, because we have undertaken the cause of the oppressed. And," he added with an effort, "if we have made our peace with God—are believing in the Lord Jesus Christ and trusting in his perfect righteousness—death will be no calamity to us; and if we are wounded, no matter how painfully, he will give us strength to bear it."

"I do not doubt it," said Dale; "nor that you are in that state of preparation, Raymond. I hope I am also; and that being the case, we surely can go bravely on to meet whatever awaits us."

"I hope so," said Max, "and believing, as I do, that we are in the right, I have a strong hope that God will give us the victory."

"Ah, see!" cried a voice near them, "yonder are the Spanish ships, lying at anchor under the batteries at CavitÉ."

"Yes," said another, "and there is the old town of Manila, with its low clustering roofs and towering cathedral."

Men crowded to the best points from which to obtain a good view, and stood in silence gazing upon it. Max had a glass, and looking through it could see the roofs and quays of the city crowded with spectators. Evidently the engagement with the battery at El Fraile had been heard and had alarmed the city.

Dewey had planned for a prompt fight, but did not intend to have his men go into it hungry; and now some of his sailors were passing up and down distributing cups of hot coffee and biscuits.

That duly attended to, signals fluttered from the gaff, black balls were run up to every peak on all the vessels, and, breaking out, displayed the great battle flags. At that, some nine-inch guns on Fort Lunette were fired—without doing any damage—and the American vessels suddenly moved on to closer quarters.

"Hold your fire!" was the order from the flagship, and two shots from the Concord was the only answer given to the forts. Onward the fleet sped toward that of the Spaniards, which was silent also. Suddenly there was a muffled roar, and a great volume of mud and water was thrown into the air right before the flagship, showing that the dreaded mines were near. In an instant there was another explosion, but neither did any harm; and they were all our men saw of the Spanish explosives of that sort.

Now the fleet was nearing the enemy. On the Olympia's bridge stood Commodore Dewey, with Captain Gridley and Flag-captain Lamberton at his side. The Spanish ships now joined the forts in pouring their fire on the advancing foe, but still there was no response. Presently the sun rose red and glaring with midsummer heat, and at that the commodore, turning to the officer at his side, said quietly, "You may fire now, Gridley, when ready."

Gridley was ready, and the next instant an eight-inch shell was on its way toward the enemy, who was only about 4500 yards distant. Presently a signal from the flagship gave the same permission to the other vessels, and the whole fleet was engaged.

Shortly before that, Dewey had assembled the men of the Olympia and given them this final direction for their conduct during the fight: "Keep perfectly cool, and pay attention to nothing but orders." Such was the watchword through his whole fleet that morning, and the result was a deliberate and deadly fire. The ships steamed along in regular order—the Olympia, the Baltimore, the Raleigh, Petrel, Concord, and Boston—parallel to the Spanish ships, working every gun that could be brought to bear, and receiving the fire of ships and forts in return. The fire of the Spanish guns was a succession of brilliant misses—shots that came very near hitting, but did not quite do so. It was, as Dewey put it in his report, "vigorous, but generally ineffective."

But the aim was not always bad. One shell struck the gratings of the bridge of the Olympia; one narrowly missed the commodore himself, and so hot did the fire become that he bade Captain Gridley go into the conning tower lest both of them might be killed or disabled at once. On the Boston a six-inch gun was disabled, and a box of ammunition exploded. Also a shell burst in a stateroom, and set it on fire. Our six vessels steamed along down past the Spanish line, the port side of every ship a mass of flame and smoke, then circling around in a grand sweep—that made the Spaniards think for a moment they were pulling out of action—the column returned again on its course, and the men of the starboard batteries had a chance to try their skill while their fellows rested. They had made this circuit but three times when three of the Spanish ships were on fire. Looking through glasses the shots could be seen striking the Spanish hulls, which were thinly plated.

Admiral Montojo, stung into fury by his losses, slipped the cables of his flagship, just as the Americans were beginning their third round, and under full steam darted out as if intending to attack the Olympia. But as his vessel—the Reina Christina—swung away from her fellows the fire of the whole American fleet was concentrated upon her. The storm of shot and shell came pouring down upon her, pierced her hull like paper, swept her decks and spread death and destruction on every side. Her engines were pierced, her bridge shot away. She could hardly be controlled by her helm, and as she turned her stern to the American fire an eight-inch gun on the Olympia sent a projectile that struck her there, tore its way forward, exploding ammunition, shattering guns, killing men, piercing partitions, tearing up decks, and finally exploding in her after-boiler.

Agonized screams of wounded men were heard rising above the thunder of the battle, and the Reina Christina staggered back with flames leaping from her hatches.

While this was going on the two Spanish torpedo boats slipped out and ran for the American fleet. One hastened toward the supply ships, but was caught by the Petrel, driven ashore, and fired upon until she blew up. The other, running for the Olympia, was struck by a shell, broke in two, and sank out of sight.

Five times the circuit was made by the American ships; then a signal fluttered from the yard of the Olympia, and the fleet turned away to the other side of the harbor, where the McCulloch and the colliers had been lying.

At that the Spaniards, supposing the Americans were retreating, raised a resounding cheer. The men on the American ships were not so well pleased. They were asking what this move was for, and when told that it was in order to give them their breakfast, there was much grumbling.

"Breakfast!" exclaimed one of the gunners, "who wants any breakfast? Why can't we finish off the Dons, now we've got them going?"

But breakfast was not what the delay was for. A misunderstood signal had made the commodore fear that the supply of ammunition for the five-inch guns on board of some of the vessels was running low, and he wished to replenish their stock. It was found, however, not to be necessary. But officers and sailors had their breakfast and a three hours' rest, during which guns and machinery that had been used in that morning's fight were examined and a supply of fresh ammunition was prepared. Then the signals for a renewal of the battle were given, and the ships again bore down upon the enemy, revolving as before in a great circle of smoke and fire, but at closer range than at first.

The Spaniards seemed desperate, fired wildly, and in a half-hearted way. The Reina Christina was blown up by the shells of the Baltimore; quickly after the Don Juan de Austria was destroyed by the Raleigh, and so on till all of the ten Spanish ships had been destroyed or had surrendered.

Admiral Montojo had transferred his flag to the Isla de Cuba, and fought till her guns were silenced and she was in flames; then leaving her to her fate, he escaped to the city. It is said that a great crowd of people had come out from that city that morning to see "the pigs of Yankees" annihilated.

The last ship left fighting was the Don Antonio de Ulloa, and at length she sank, with her flag still nailed to her mast. One of the American shots entered the magazine at CavitÉ, and that ended the resistance of the shore batteries. Then from the Olympia was flung out the signal, "The enemy has surrendered," the hot, weary, smoke-begrimed men swarmed cheering out of turrets and up from the bowels of the ships, and the flagship's band broke out with the "Star Spangled Banner," for the victory of Manila was won, the first victory of the war with Spain for the help of the sorely oppressed Cubans.