By the last of May there were sixteen thousand men at Tampa under the command of General Shafter, but it was not until the 14th of June that they set sail for Cuba. On a clear, scorchingly hot morning, June 22d, they landed at Daiquiri, twelve miles east of the entrance to Santiago Bay. From all accounts things seem to have been wofully mismanaged, so that our poor soldiers had no facilities for landing. Those who loaded the ship, it would appear, must have been great bunglers—either exceedingly ignorant in regard to such work or most reprehensibly careless. In consequence, scarcely anything could be found when wanted. Medical stores were scattered among twenty vessels; so that when fever broke out in the trenches before Santiago it was almost impossible to get the needed remedies; probably—though there were never enough on the field—some medicines were left on the ships and carried back to the United States. All this made the work of the physicians doubly trying. Besides, they were too few in number, the wounded many more than it had been expected they would be, and brought in faster than they could be attended to; the surgeons worked all night by the light of spluttering lamps, and there was not enough of even surgical instruments. But the poor wounded men were wonderfully brave and patient. Harold and Herbert Travilla felt that they had not engaged in a cause which did not need them. After the fighting began their labors were exhausting; all the more so because of the drain upon their sympathies.
On the morning of July 2d our troops were found safely intrenched on the ridge of the hill above Santiago. The day before had been one of heavy losses to our army—many officers and men killed and wounded. And now, just as light began to show in the east, the Spaniards opened a heavy fire on our works. Our men made few replies, for ammunition was getting scarce; and so anxious for it were the soldiers that they hailed an ammunition train with great joy, though they were half starved and knew that no provisions could come while the road was crowded with such trains.
The war artist, Frederic Remington, tells of the delight with which the poor hungry fellows hailed a pack-train loaded with ammunition, though they knew that no food would be brought them that night. "The wounded going to the rear cheered the ammunition, and when it was unpacked at the front the soldiers seized it like gold. They lifted a box in the air and dropped it on one corner, which smashed it open.
"'Now we can hold San Juan hill against them garlics; hey, son?' yelled a happy cavalryman to a doughboy.
"'You bet! until we starve to death.'
"'Starve nothin'—we'll eat them gun-teams.'"
The soldiers refilled their cartridge belts, then crouched all day in trenches, watching for an assault, and firing just often enough to keep the enemy from advancing upon them. While doing so they could hear the thunder of the navy's guns far away in the southwest, where it was engaging a battery. At the same time, down in the harbor of Santiago, Cervera was getting ready to make his rush out of the harbor the next day.
The Spaniards made a dash at our men about half-past nine that night, and drove them back for a few minutes from several points on their line, but they soon returned and drove the Spaniards back with heavy loss.
The next day, July 3d, was Sunday, and on the great ships of the American squadron, floating heavily in a half-circle about the mouth of Santiago harbor, the men were swarming on deck in fresh clean white clothes, ready for muster. About nine o'clock the flagship New York showed the signal: "Disregard flagship's movements," and steamed away toward the east. Admiral Sampson had gone in it for a conference with General Shafter, whose troops were then resting after their dreadful fight on San Juan hill and El Caney.
Of our ships on watch outside of the harbor, the Brooklyn was to the southwest, the Texas directly south, while the three big battleships, Indiana, Iowa, and Oregon, made a curve inshore east of the Morro. The little picket boat Vixen was there also, and the Gloucester farthest east and nearest inshore. The New York, now absent, was the one ship supposed to be able to compete with the Spaniards in speed, and her departure left a broad gap in the blockading line.
The lookouts on the fleet had reported fires burning on the hills all the night before, and Commodore Schley, who was in command in Admiral Sampson's absence, signalled to the Texas the query: "What is your theory about the burning of the block-houses on the hill last night?"
He sat on the deck waiting for an answer, and at the same time watching a cloud of smoke rising from the interior of the harbor behind the hills. It did not necessarily mean anything serious, for about that time in the morning a tug was apt to make a visit to the Estrella battery. Still, they watched it, and presently the quartermaster on the forward bridge said quietly to the navigating officer, "That smoke's moving, sir." That officer took a peep himself, and what he saw nearly made him drop the glass. "Afterbridge there," he called loudly through a megaphone; "tell the commodore the enemy is coming out."
His words were heard all over the ship, and commodore, officers, sailors, powder-boys were all rushing for their station.
The cry rang out, "Clear ship for action," and gongs and bugles which call to general quarters clanged and pealed on the quiet air. There were echoes of the same sounds from the other ships, and the signals, "The enemy is escaping," ran to the masthead of the Brooklyn, the Texas, and the Iowa at the same moment; for that suspicious smoke had been watched from all the ships.
It seemed that all the vessels of the blockade had caught the alarm at the same time, and the flagship's signal was quickly changed for another—"Clear ship for action!"
But it was quite unnecessary. On every ship men were dropping off the white clothes which they had donned for general muster, and hurrying to their quarters without waiting for a command. Every wooden thing was tumbled overboard, water-tight compartments were hastily shut, hose was coupled up and strung along the decks ready to fight fire, battle-hatches were lowered, and in less time than it takes to tell of it all this was accomplished. Then at the sudden blast of a bugle the five hundred and more men to a ship stood at their posts, each one where he would be most needed in battle, and all perfectly silent. Doubtless every eye was turned toward Estrella Point, where the Spanish vessels, if indeed coming out, must first show themselves, and there presently a huge black hull appeared. It came out far enough to show a turret, and from that came a flash, and then the boom of a heavy shot, instantly answered by a six-pounder from the Iowa. The battle had begun, and "Fighting Bob" Evans had fired the first shot.
That ship just coming out was the Maria Teresa, and she was followed by the Vizcaya, the Cristobal Colon, and the Almirante Oquendo. All the American ships were standing in toward the harbor to meet them, firing rapidly from every gun that could be brought to bear. It was uncertain at first which way the Spaniards would turn when they had passed the shoals that extend half a mile beyond the mouth of the harbor. If they turned eastward they would have to run into the midst of the most formidable ships of our squadron. If they went directly west they might outrun the battleships and escape. The Brooklyn was the fastest ship on the blockade, and was also in the best position to head off the Spaniards should they take that course. But it was possible she might be lost, as she was no match for the number of the enemy that would be in a position to engage her when she came up to them. Commodore Schley says that the possibility of losing his ship in that way entered very clearly into his calculations, but also that in sinking the Brooklyn the Spaniards would be delayed long enough for the battleships to come up to them and that then there would be no reason to fear their escape. The difficulty was that because the Brooklyn was on a parallel course with the Spaniards, and going in a directly opposite direction, she would have to make a complete circle in order to chase them; and had they had the speed with which they were credited, that would have put the Brooklyn out of the fight, one of her engines being uncoupled, and in consequence her speed greatly reduced.
But the Spanish vessels fell far behind their estimated speed, so that the Brooklyn was able to circle about and still overhaul the fleetest of them, and the Texas, the slowest of our battleships, held its own in the race.
The Maria Teresa passed the shoals and turned west. The little Vixen, lying near the Brooklyn, when she saw the Maria Teresa turn toward her, fired off her six-pounders, then slipped away, while the rest of the American ships came rushing down toward the enemy with their funnels belching black smoke, and turrets, hulls, and tops spurting out red flames and yellow smoke. They steamed toward the foe as fast as possible, at the same time firing fiercely from every gun that could be brought to bear, and paying no attention to the shore batteries which were firing upon them. The Indiana was nearest the shore and nearest the Maria Teresa, the leading ship of the enemy, when the fight began. It is said that the water fairly boiled with the flood of projectiles from Morro and the broadside with which the Maria Teresa opened battle. As she turned toward the west the shot from the Indiana struck her more than once; but after that the Indiana gave her attention to the Vizcaya.
By this time all the American ships were engaged, but in the dense smoke it was almost impossible to make out how great was the success of any single one.
But Commodore Eaton, who was watching the fight from the tug Resolute, says: "As the Vizcaya came out I distinctly saw one of the Indiana's heavy shells strike her abaft the funnels, and the explosion of this shell was followed by a burst of flame, which for a time obscured the after part of the stricken ship." The Iowa and Oregon, belching forth great clouds of smoke until they looked like huge yellow clouds on the water, steamed straight toward the fleeing enemy. Says Mr. Abbott: "As the battleships closed in on their prey, they overlapped each other, and careless use of the guns or failure to make out accurately the target might have resulted in one of our ships firing into another. But so skilfully were they handled that at no time were they put in jeopardy from either the guns or the rams of each other, though at one time the Oregon was firing right across the deck of the Texas."
The end of the Maria Teresa, the first ship to leave the harbor, came upon her very swiftly, and was frightful. The shells and small projectiles searched out every part of her, spreading death and ruin, and soon setting her woodwork ablaze. The scarlet flames like snakes' tongues darted viciously from her sides; but her gunners stood manfully to their guns. Little smoke hung about her, and her bold black hulk seen against the green background of the hills made her a perfect target. A shot from the Brooklyn cut her main water-pipe, and a shell—probably from the Oregon—entered her hull and exploded in the engine room; a six-inch shell from the Iowa exploded in her forward turret, killing or wounding every man at the guns; while the storm of smaller projectiles swept her decks, and with the noise of their bursting made it impossible for the men to hear their officers' commands.
Admiral Cervera was on that vessel. One of his officers, telling of it afterward, said: "He expected to lose most of his ships, but thought the Cristobal Colon might escape; that is why he transferred his flag to the Maria Teresa, that he might perish with the less fortunate." And this is the story told an American journalist by another officer who stood by the admiral's side while that dreadful fight went on. Of a shell from the Brooklyn he said: "It struck us in the bow, ploughing down amidships; then it exploded. It tore down the bulkheads, destroyed stanchions, crippled two rapid-fire guns, and killed fifteen or twenty men." Of a shell from the Iowa he said: "It struck the eleven-inch gun in the forward turret of the cruiser, cutting a furrow as clean as a knife out of the gun. The shell exploded halfway in the turret, making the whole vessel stagger and shake in every plate. When the fumes and smoke had cleared away so that it was possible to enter the turret, the other gunners were sent there. The survivors tumbled the bodies which filled the wrecked turret through the ammunition hoist to the lower deck. Even the machinery was clogged with corpses. All our rapid-fire guns aloft soon became silent, because every gunner had been either killed or crippled at his post and lay on the deck where he fell. There were so many wounded that the surgeons ceased trying to dress the wounds. Shells had exploded inside the ship, and even the hospital was turned into a furnace. The first wounded who were sent there had to be abandoned by the surgeons, who fled for their lives from the intolerable heat."
The Teresa came under the fire of our guns about 9.35 that morning. Fifteen minutes later smoke was rising from her ports and hatches, showing that she had been set afire by the American shells. The shot from the Brooklyn that cut her water-main made it impossible to extinguish the flames, and the fire from the American ships grew more accurate and deadly every minute; so she was beached and her flag hauled down in token of surrender.
The men on the Texas raised a shout of joy. But Captain Philip spoke from the bridge: "Don't cheer, men; those poor fellows are dying."
For less than forty minutes Admiral Cervera had been running a race for life, and now, clad in underclothes, he tried to escape to the shore on a raft, directed by his son, but was captured and taken to the Gloucester, where he was received with the honors due his rank. His voyage from Santiago had been just six miles and a half, but had cost the lives of nearly half his officers and crew.
The Vizcaya had followed the Teresa at a distance of about eight hundred yards in coming out of Santiago harbor. Upon her decks, in Havana harbor, Cuba, Spanish officers had looked down with careless indifference upon the sunken wreck of our gallant battleship, the Maine, and it may be supposed that when she came ploughing out of the bay, Wainwright, late of the Maine, now on the little Gloucester, aimed some shots at her with a special ill-will. But the Vizcaya, under gathered headway, rushed on to the west, passing the heavier battleships Iowa and Indiana, but receiving terrible punishment from their guns. A lieutenant of the Vizcaya, taken prisoner to the United States, in an interview by a newspaper reporter, told of the murderous effect of the shells from the Indiana.
"They appeared to slide along the surface of the water and hunt for a seam in our armor," he said. "Three of those monster projectiles penetrated the hull of the Vizcaya, and exploded there before we started for the shore. The carnage inside the ship was something horrible and beyond description. Fires were started up constantly. It seemed to me that the iron bulkheads were ablaze. Our organization was perfect. We acted promptly and mastered all small outbreaks of flame, until the small ammunition magazine was exploded by a shell. From that moment the vessel became a furnace of fire. While we were walking the deck, headed shoreward, we could hear the roar of the flames under our feet above the voice of artillery. The Vizcaya's hull bellowed like a blast furnace. Why, men sprang from the red-hot decks straight into the mouths of sharks."
But the Vizcaya lasted longer than the Almirante Oquendo, which followed her out of the harbor. The Vizcaya turned at the mouth of the harbor and went west, the Brooklyn, Oregon, and Texas in hot pursuit, while the Indiana and Iowa attacked the Oquendo. She had been credited with as great speed as that of her sister ships, but this day moved so slowly that she fared worse than any of her comrades. She stood the fire of her foes five minutes longer than had the Teresa, then with flames pouring out of every opening in her hull, she ran for the beach, hauling down her flag as she went, in token of surrender, while at the same time men were dropping from her red-hot decks into the water.
Thus, in the first three-quarters of an hour two great Spanish war vessels were destroyed, and the American fleet was concentrating its fire on the other two.
The fighting men on the vessels were not the only ones who did noble work for their country that day. In the engine rooms and stoke-holes of the men-of-war, on that scorching hot July day, men worked naked in fiery heat. They could hear the thunder of the guns above them, and feel the ship tremble with the shock of the broadsides. How the battle was going they could not see. Deep in their fiery prison, far below the lapping waves that rushed along the armored hull, they only knew that if disaster came they would suffer first and most cruelly. A successful torpedo stroke would mean death to them, every one. The clean blow of an enemy's ram would in all probability drown them like rats in a cage, even if it did not cause them to be parboiled by the explosion of their own boilers. A shot in the magazine would be their death warrant. All the perils which menaced the men who were fighting so bravely at the guns on deck threatened the sooty, sweating fellows who shovelled coal and fixed fires down in the hold, with the added certainty that for them escape was impossible, and the inspiration which comes from the very sight of battle was denied them. They did their duty nobly. If we had not the testimony of their commanders to that effect, we still should know it, for they got out of every ship not only the fullest speed with which she was credited under the most favorable circumstances, but even more—notably in the cases of the Texas and Oregon, which, despite bottoms fouled from long service in tropical waters, actually exceeded their highest recorded speed in the chase. On the Oregon, when she was silently pursuing the Colon at the end of the battle, Lieutenant Milligan, who had gone down into the furnace room to work by the side of the men on whom so much depended, came up to the captain to ask that a gun might be fired now and then. "My men were almost exhausted," said Milligan, "when the last thirteen-inch gun was fired, and the sound of it restored their energy, and they fell to work with renewed vigor. If you will fire a gun occasionally it will keep their enthusiasm up." On most of the ships the great value of the work the men in engine rooms were doing was recognized by the captain's sending down every few minutes to them an account of how the fight progressed. Each report was received with cheers and redoubled activity.
On the Brooklyn, when the Colon was making her final race for life, Commodore Schley sent orderlies down to the stoke-holes and engine room with this message: "Now, boys, it all depends on you. Everything is sunk except the Colon, and she is trying to get away. We don't want her to, and everything depends on you." The Colon did not get away.
The Vizcaya was still making a gallant running fight, and in some degree protecting the magnificent Cristobal Colon. While these fled, disaster fell upon the two torpedo-boat destroyers, Pluton and Furor. Instead of dashing at the nearest American ship—which would have been their wisest course—both followed the example of the cruisers, and turned along the shore to the westward. Either of them would have been more than a match for the little Gloucester, but her commander, Richard Wainwright, sped forward in a cloud of smoke from her own guns, receiving unnoticed shots from the batteries and the nearer Spanish cruisers, though one six-inch shell would have destroyed her. The batteries of the Pluton and Furor were of twice the power of the Gloucester's, and they had, besides, the engine of destruction which they could send out from their torpedo tubes. But in a few minutes Wainwright was engaged with them both at short range and under the fire of the Socapa battery. The other American battleships had been firing at them, but desisted when they perceived that the Gloucester alone was capable of managing them. In a very few minutes they both began to smoke ominously, and their fire became much less rapid. Then the Furor moved as if her steering gear had been cut. Wainwright and his men redoubled their efforts at the guns. Suddenly, on the Furor, amidships, there shot up a great cloud of smoke and flame, with a deafening roar and shock that could be felt across the water, even amid the thunders of the guns. A shell from one of the battleships had struck her fairly, and broken her in two, exploding either the magazine or the boilers, or both, and she sank like a stone.
Wainwright pursued the other torpedo boat, the Pluton, more vigorously. She was already badly crippled, and tried hard to escape; but at last, fairly shot to pieces, she hauled down her flag, and ran for the line of breaking surf, where her men leaped overboard to escape the fierce flames that were sweeping relentlessly below from bow to stern.
The sight of their danger and distress changed Wainwright from a pitiless foe to a helping friend. He manned his boats and went to the rescue of those still alive on the burning ship. Many were saved, and the Americans had hardly left the smoking ship when it blew up with a resounding roar, and vanished as had its companion. Just forty minutes they had lasted under the American fire, and without being at any time a serious menace to our ships.
The battle had now lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The Infanta Maria Teresa and the Oquendo were blazing on the beach with their colors struck. The battleship Indiana had been signalled to turn in toward the shore and give aid to the survivors on the burning ships. Only two Spanish vessels were left—the Vizcaya, running and fighting bravely in a hopeless struggle for life, and the Cristobal Colon, which was rushing at great speed down the coast to the westward. In the chase of these two vessels the Brooklyn held the place of honor. Her position on the blockade at the time that the enemy came out was a commanding one, and her speed kept her well to the front. At the beginning of the fight the Texas was next her. In this battle she developed marvellous speed, and fought with reckless gallantry. The Oregon was third at the start, but by a wonderful dash passed the Texas and actually caught up with the Brooklyn, whose tars turned out on deck to cheer her—the wonderful fighter from the Pacific coast dockyard. The Iowa was only a short distance in their rear, and the fire of the four was now concentrated upon the unhappy Vizcaya, which had escaped serious injury while the attention of the entire American fleet was given to the Oquendo and the Teresa, but now with four of the best fighting machines in the world devoting their entire attention to her, she began to go to pieces. The heavy shells and smaller projectiles that struck her made a great clangor, and caused her great frame to quiver. When an hour had passed the Brooklyn, Oregon, and Texas were the only ones still pursuing her. The Indiana had been left behind, and the Iowa had stopped to aid the burning and drowning men on the blazing warships. The fire of the three warships was concentrated on the Vizcaya. Word was passed to the turrets and tops of the Brooklyn to aim at the Vizcaya only. They were scarcely more than half a mile from her, and the effect of the shots began to tell. One of the Brooklyn gunners reported to the lieutenant who had charge of that turret that he didn't see any of the shots dropping into the water. "Well, that's all right," replied the officer; "if they don't drop into the water they are hitting." And so they were. The beautiful woodwork inside of the vessel was all in a blaze. The hull was pierced below the water line, the turrets were full of dead and wounded men, and the machinery was shattered. Captain Eulate, her commander, was a brave officer and a gentleman, but he found himself compelled to abandon the fight, so turned his ship's prow toward that rocky shore on which lay the wrecks of the Oquendo, the Teresa, and the Furor.
As the Vizcaya swung about, a shell from the Oregon struck her fairly in the stern. An enormous mass of steel, charged with explosives of frightful power, it rushed through the steel framework of the ship, shattering everything in its course, crashed into the boiler, and exploded. Words are powerless to describe the ruin that resulted. Men, guns, projectiles, ragged bits of steel and iron, splinters, and indescribable dÉbris were hurled in every direction, while flames shot up from every part of the ship. A fierce fire raged between her decks, and those who were gazing at her from the decks of the American men-of-war could see what looked like a white line reaching from her bow to the water, which was in fact the naked men dropping one after another over the side to seek the cool relief of the ocean from the fiery torment they were enduring.
The Colon was now left alone, and was doing her utmost to escape. The men on our foremost pursuing ships soon perceived that there could be no hope of escape for her. Commodore Schley saw it, and began to lighten the strain on his men. They were called out on the superstructure to see what had been done by the guns of the fleet and to watch the chase. They came pouring out from the turrets, up from the engine rooms and magazines—stalwart fellows, smoke-begrimed and sweaty. Almost abeam they saw the Vizcaya with men dropping from every port. Far astern were the smoking wrecks of the Teresa and Oquendo, ahead on the right was the Colon, fleeing for her life, while the Brooklyn rushed after her relentlessly.
As the men crowded on along the decks and on the turret top, they suddenly and spontaneously sent up a cheer for Admiral Schley. The admiral, on the bridge above them, looked down upon them with moistened eyes. "They are the boys who did it," he said to one who stood beside him, and he spoke truly.
Then the men cheered the Oregon, which was coming up gallantly, and her men returned the cheer. Now all felt that even the last of Cervera's vessels was sure to be soon taken, and signals of a social and jocular character were exchanged. One from the Brooklyn suggested to the Oregon that she try one of her thirteen-inch guns on the chase. The great cannon flashed and roared from the forward turret, and the shell, which rushed past the Brooklyn with a noise like a railway train, fell short. On they rushed, the Oregon visibly gaining on the fastest ship of the Spanish navy; a battleship built for weight and solidity overhauling a cruiser built for speed! Another shell was sent, and fell so near the Colon that the captain seemed to read in it the death-warrant of his ship. He turned her toward the shore and beached her, hauling down his flag as she struck. Captain Cook went in a boat to take possession of the prize, his crew being ordered not to cheer or exult over the vanquished. The Colon surrendered at 1.10 P.M., ending a naval battle that lasted less than four hours, and possessed many extraordinary and unique qualities. It completed the wreck of Spanish naval power and dealt the decisive stroke that deprived Spain of her last remnant of American colonies. It was of absorbing interest to naval experts in all parts of the world, and it was unique in that while the defeated fleet lost six ships, more than six hundred men killed and drowned, and eighteen hundred prisoners, many of them wounded, the victors had but one man killed and one wounded.
No wonder that when the fight was over, the victory won—such a victory too—a Christian man, such as Captain Philip of the Texas, whose crew were cheering in a very delirium of joy, should call them about him, and, uncovering his head, say in a reverential tone: "I want to make public acknowledgment here that I believe in God the Father. I want you all to lift your hats and from your hearts offer silent thanks to the Almighty."
And truly they had abundant reason for great thankfulness, having escaped with so few casualties, while the foe suffered so terribly, scores of them being literally roasted alive, for the whole interior of the ships, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Teresa became like iron furnaces at white heat. Even the decks were red hot, and the wounded burned where they lay. So crazed by the sight of the agony of men wounded and held fast by the jamming of gratings, were some of those otherwise unhurt, that they could hardly be induced to respond to efforts for their own rescue. They would cling to a ladder or the side of a scorching hot ship and have to be literally dragged away before they would loose their hold and drop into a boat below. Our sailors worked hard on blistering decks, amid piles of ammunition that were continually being exploded by the heat, and under guns that might at any minute send out a withering blast, risking life and limbs in succoring their defeated foes; for it is not too much to say that in that work of mercy the bluejackets encountered dangers quite as deadly as those they had met in the fury of battle.
The poor marksmanship of the Spaniards saved our ships from being much damaged. A good many shots struck: the Brooklyn bore in all some forty scars of the fight, twenty-five of them having been shells; but she was so slightly injured that she could have begun all over again when the Colon turned over on the shore. The Iowa was hit twice, the Texas three times, one shell smashing her chart-house and another making a hole in her smokestack. The injuries to the other ships were of even less importance.
