For more than a century the island of Cuba had been an object of peculiar interest and concern to the United States.272 During the first part of the nineteenth century the fear was that Cuba might be acquired by Great Britain or France, and thus a strong European power would be established at the very gate of the American republic. Manifestly, it was then the policy of the United States to guarantee the possession of the island to Spain. But after the Mexican War the idea of exterritorial expansion entered more and more largely into American statesmanship. The South looked upon Cuba as a desirable addition to slave-holding territory, and it was apparent to every eye that the island occupied an all-important strategic position in relation to the proposed canal routes across the Isthmus of Panama.

In 1822 propositions for annexation came from Cuba to the United States, and Monroe sent an agent to investigate. Later, annexation was a recurrent subject favored by the South, which saw a field for the extension of slavery. In 1848 the American minister at Madrid was instructed by President Polk to sound the Spanish government upon the question of sale or cession. But Spain declined even to consider such a proposition. In 1854 the so-called “Ostend Manifesto,” drawn up by James Buchanan, John Y. Mason, and Pierre SoulÉ (respectively United States ministers to England, France, and Spain), declared in plain language that the “Union can never enjoy repose nor possess reliable security as long as Cuba is not embraced within its boundaries.” It went on to advise the seizing of the coveted territory in case Spain refused to sell. The administration of President Pierce never directly sanctioned the proposition advanced in such extraordinary terms, and Marcy, the Secretary of State, repudiated it unqualifiedly. So the matter fell again into abeyance until in 1873 the Virginius, an American schooner suspected of conveying arms and ammunition to the Cuban insurgents, was captured by a Spanish gunboat and taken to Havana. As a result of the trial, many insurgents, together with six British subjects and thirty American citizens, were executed. For a time international complications seemed certain, but finally Spain made proper apologies and surrendered the Virginius and the survivors of her crew.

The Cuban “Ten Years’ War,” from 1868 to 1878, was characterized by great cruelty and destructive losses of life and property in which American interests were now deeply involved. President Grant seriously considered and even threatened intervention, which would have meant annexation; but Spain promised definite reforms, and the old conditions were continued.

When the insurrection of 1895 began, American citizens owned at least fifty millions of property in the island, and American commerce amounted to a hundred millions annually. Both on the Spanish and Cuban side outrages were of daily occurrence, and the situation quickly became intolerable. The McKinley administration ventured upon a mild remonstrance against the inhumanities of Captain-General Weyler, and the Spanish authorities replied evasively. Finally the United States formally offered its good offices for the adjustment of Cuban affairs, presumably on a basis of independence. Spain declared that it was her intention to grant autonomy to the island, and the decree was actually published on November 27, 1897. But it was now too late, and the unhappy conditions grew worse day by day.

There had been riots at Havana itself, and it was thought advisable to send the United States cruiser Maine on a friendly visit to that port. The Maine arrived at Havana on January 25, 1898. On the night of February 15th the Maine was blown up while lying at her harbor moorings, with a ghastly loss of life. The American Court of Inquiry found that the ship was destroyed from the outside; the Spanish inquiry resulted in a verdict that the ship was destroyed from causes within herself. At the time there was an outburst of passion throughout the United States, and Spain was held guilty of an atrocious crime. While the exact cause of the disaster has never been finally determined, it is the verdict of calmer and more distant consideration that official Spain must be acquitted, although the belief remains on the part of the American naval authorities that the Maine was blown up from outside. At the time, however, this tragedy powerfully reinforced the efforts of Cubans and the pressure of financial interests to secure American support. When Senator Redfield Proctor, of Vermont, a man of peculiarly dispassionate temperament, made public his account of the suffering which he had witnessed among the reconcentrados (collections of native Cubans, particularly women and children, herded together by Spanish troops), the sympathies of Americans were stirred even more deeply. Ministers preached intervention from their pulpits. Many newspapers demanded intervention. Yellow journals clamored for an ultimatum backed by arms. Congress was carried away by the wave of intense feeling, although President McKinley thought that a solution could be reached without an appeal to arms—a belief in which the final verdict of history will probably agree, although it was inevitable that Spain should resign control of Cuba. But the President was powerless against the popular sentiment.

On April 25th war with Spain was formally declared, and for the first time in over three-quarters of a century the republic of the West found itself arrayed in arms against a European nation.

The situation had its peculiar features. It had been assumed that the principal theatre of conflict would be the island of Cuba, and consequently the American campaign must be one of invasion. But the Spaniards, owing to the civil war in the colony, were in virtually the same position—fighting at a distance from their base of supplies.

In material resources the United States ranked immeasurably superior. True, the numerical strength of the regular army was small, but behind it stood thousands of State militia and millions of available reserves. Moreover, the United States was classed among the richest of nations and Spain among the poorest. So far as the land operations were concerned, the final issue could not be doubtful.

In naval strength, however, there was less disparity. On paper the United States ranked sixth among the world powers, while Spain occupied eighth place. But the United States, with its thousands of miles of coast on both the Atlantic and the Pacific seaboards, was unquestionably vulnerable. Coast defences were admittedly inadequate, and it was conceivable that one swift dash by a Spanish squadron might endanger millions of property at Boston, New York, and Baltimore; at San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle.

The situation on the Pacific coast seemed even more delicate than that on the Eastern seaboard. There was a formidable Spanish squadron at Manila in the Philippine Islands, and all depended upon the fighting ability of the American Pacific fleet; if Dewey failed, the Western States of America were absolutely at the mercy of the enemy.

For more than a month Commodore Dewey had lain with his fleet in the harbor of Hong-Kong, waiting for events to shape themselves. In anticipation of the coming strife, and the consequent declaration of neutrality on the part of Great Britain, the American commander had purchased two transport steamers, together with ten thousand tons of coal. He was thus prepared for prompt and decisive action.

War had been declared on April 25th, and the American squadron immediately left Hong-Kong for Mirs Bay, some thirty miles away. On April 26th Commodore Dewey received the following despatch:

“Washington, April 26.

“Dewey, Asiatic Squadron,—Commence operations at once, particularly against the Spanish fleet. You must capture or destroy them.

McKinley.”

On April 27th the American fleet sailed for Manila, six hundred and twenty-eight miles away, and on the morning of Saturday, April 30th, Luzon was sighted, and the ships were ordered to clear for action.

Under Commodore George Dewey were the Olympia, the Boston, the Petrel, the Concord, the Raleigh, and the Baltimore. The only armored vessel in the squadron was the Olympia, the protecting belting, four inches thick, being around the turret guns. The auxiliary force was made up of the revenue-cutter McCulloch and two transports, the Vaughan and the Zafiro. Altogether, the American fighting force included four cruisers, two gunboats, fifty-seven classified big guns, seventy-four rapid-fire and machine guns, and 1808 men. On the other side, Rear-Admiral Montojo commanded seven cruisers, five gunboats, two torpedo-boats, fifty-two classified big guns, eighty-three rapid-fire and machine guns, and 1948 men. It will thus be seen that the Americans mounted a few more heavy guns, but the Spanish had several more ships and over a hundred more men. Moreover, the Spanish ships were assisted by the fort and land batteries at Manila, and they also possessed the great advantage of range-marks. Finally, the ship-channels were supposed to be amply protected by mines and submarine batteries. After satisfying himself that the ships of the enemy were not in Subig Bay, Commodore Dewey resolved to enter Manila Bay the same night. It was known that the channel had been mined, but that risk must be taken. With all lights except the stern ones extinguished, the American vessels steamed steadily onward; finally, Corregidor Island, with its lofty light-house, came into view, and the fleet swept into the main ship-channel known as the Boca Grande.

Up to this point no sign had been made by the enemy that the approach of the American ships had been discovered, although the night was moonlit and it was only a little after eleven o’clock. Then a fireman on the McCulloch threw some soft coal in the furnace and a shower of sparks flew from the cutter’s funnel. A solitary rocket ascended from Corregidor, and there was an answering light from the mainland. At a quarter-past eleven a bugle sounded, and from the shore batteries came a blinding glare, followed by the boom of a heavy gun—the first shot of the Spanish-American War.

The Raleigh had the honor of replying for the American side, and the Boston followed quickly. A well-aimed six-inch shell from the Concord plumped into the Spanish fort; there was a crash and a cry, and all was still. The forts had been silenced.

At slow speed the squadron moved onward, for Commodore Dewey did not wish to arrive at Manila before dawn. Some of the men managed to get a little sleep, but the ever-present danger of torpedoes and the excitement of the approaching battle were not conducive to peaceful slumbers.

The morning of Sunday, May 1st, dawned clear and beautiful, although the day promised to be hot. The squadron found itself directly across the bay from the city of Manila; and there, under the guns of CavitÉ, lay the Spanish fleet.

According to Commodore Dewey’s report, the shore batteries began firing at a quarter-past five. The Olympia, flying the signal “Remember the Maine,” led the American column, followed closely by the Baltimore, Raleigh, Petrel, Concord, and Boston in the order named. The ships came on in a line approximately parallel to that of the enemy, reserving their fire until within effective range. As the fleet advanced two submarine mines were exploded, but neither did any damage. At twenty minutes to six Commodore Dewey shouted to Captain Gridley in the conning-tower of the flag-ship: “Fire as soon as you get ready, Gridley.” Instantly the Olympia discharged her broadside, the Baltimore followed the lead, and each successive ship in turn discharged every gun that could be brought to bear. The Spanish returned the fire with great energy, but with inconclusive results. Several of the American ships were struck, but no casualties followed. Lieutenant Brumby, of the flag-ship, had the signal halliards shot out of his hands; a shot passed clean through the Baltimore, and another smashed into the foremast of the Boston. Incessantly firing, the battle-line steamed past the whole length of the stationary Spanish fleet, then swung slowly around and began the countermarch. Once Montojo’s flag-ship, the Reina Cristina, made a desperate attempt to leave the line and engage at close quarters, but she was quickly driven back.

A little after half-past seven the American commander ordered the firing to be stopped, and the fleet headed for the eastern side of the bay for breakfast and a redistribution of ammunition for the big guns. The Spaniards, seeing the withdrawal of the American vessels, rashly concluded that the enemy had been repulsed and raised a feeble cheer. In reality they were hopelessly beaten: several of their ships were on fire, the decks of all were covered with dead and dying men, and ammunition was running low.

At a quarter-past eleven the battle was renewed. Several of the Spanish ships were now disabled and on fire, and Admiral Montojo had been forced to transfer his flag to the Isla de Cuba.

A few minutes later the Reina Cristina, his former flag-ship, was blazing from end to end, and the explosion of her magazine completed the destruction of the vessel. One after another the Spanish ships succumbed under the storm of shot and shell, and either surrendered or were cut to pieces. The Don Antonio de Ulloa, riddled like a sieve and on fire in a dozen places, refused to acknowledge defeat, and went down with colors flying. Finally, Admiral Montojo hauled down his flag, and, leaving the Isla de Cuba, escaped to the shore. The arsenal building at CavitÉ ran up the white flag, and at half-past one Commodore Dewey signalled to his ships that they might anchor at discretion.

Never was victory more decisive. Not a man had been killed on the American side, and but four men were wounded—this through the explosion of a Spanish shell on the Baltimore. None of the American ships received any material damage. On the other hand, the following Spanish ships were completely destroyed: Reina Cristina (flag-ship), Castilla, Don Antonio de Ulloa, Don Juan de Austria, Isla de Luzon, Isla de Cuba, Marquiz del Duero, General Lezo, Correo, Velasco, and Isla de Mandanao. The casualties on the Spanish side amounted to about four hundred men. Moreover, the water-batteries of CavitÉ had been demolished, the arsenal had been captured, and the city of Manila lay defenceless under the guns of the American fleet.

But Commodore Dewey’s difficulties were by no means at an end. He had immediately proclaimed a blockade of the port. The German Pacific squadron, under Vice-Admiral von Diederich, had arrived at Manila shortly after the battle, and were, of course, in the position of neutrals, having access to the harbor merely on the ground of international courtesy. This privilege the Germans quickly began to abuse, disregarding Commodore Dewey’s regulations at will, and committing various acts inconsistent with the neutrality laws. Their attitude was both annoying and insolent, and it was evident that it must be promptly and effectually checked if the American supremacy were to be maintained.

At last the opportunity came. Commodore Dewey learned, on unquestionable authority, that one of the German vessels had been landing provisions at Manila, thereby violating neutrality. He immediately sent a vigorous protest to Admiral von Diederich—a message that ended with these significant words: “And, Brumby, tell Admiral von Diederich that if he wants a fight he can have it right now.”

That was enough. The German admiral was not quite ready to involve his country in a war with the United States; he made an apology, and the incident was closed. On June 30th the first army expedition from the United States arrived at Manila, and Commodore Dewey’s long vigil was at an end, the succeeding operations in the Philippines being almost exclusively military, and consisting of the capture of the city of Manila by the Americans and subsequent warfare with Aguinaldo and insurgent Filipinos.

Such, in large outline, was the battle of Manila Bay. Foreign critics have derided American enthusiasm on the ground that the American fleet was far superior, that the Spanish vessels, many of them mere gunboats, lacked armor and adequate guns, and that they were imperfectly manned. Yet the same critics ranked the naval forces of Spain as quite equal to the American at the outset of the war. Furthermore, the action of Dewey, without a single battle-ship or torpedo-boat under his command, in entering a mined harbor without waiting to countermine, and in attacking a fleet whose strength was not accurately known, under the guns of land batteries, must be classed among the distinctive achievements of naval history. The battle was decisive in its immediate outcome, far-reaching in its ultimate consequences. Dewey’s victory but presaged the final triumph of American arms. The Battle of Manila Bay meant the expulsion of Spain from the Pacific and the succession of the United States to Spain’s heritage of Asiatic power. Politically, therefore, in its establishment of the United States as a power in the Orient, Manila Bay is to be placed among the decisive battles of history.273