"No, no; none of those things," said he. "What do you suppose we have been doing for the last twenty minutes?"

We confessed we did not know.

"Chasing thunder claps—nothing more nor less than thunder claps! And we'll see nothing worse on this coast," he added sententiously, as soon as he could get his breath.

The wind rose, and while it blew away the fog in part, it kicked up a nasty sea, in which the "Yankee" wallowed for hours, waiting for the fog to clear enough to make the channel and enter New York harbor. It seemed we had been heading for New York, and we did not know it. It was not the custom aboard that hooker to give the men any information.



When we learned for sure that we were bound for New York, our joy was beyond measure.

Shore leave was the chief topic of conversation. And every man not on duty went down into his black bag, fished out his clean blues, and set to work sewing on watch marks and cap ribbons. For Jack must be neat and clean when he goes ashore.

The mud-hook was dropped in the bay off Tompkinsville, Thursday, May 26th, seventeen days after we left the navy yard. It seemed seventeen months.

An "anchor watch" of sixteen men was set for the night, and most of us turned in early to enjoy the first good sleep for many weary days.

All hands were turned out at five o'clock. We woke to find a big coal barge on either side of the ship.

After breakfast the order "turn to" was given. "All hands coal ship, starboard watch on the starboard lighter, port watch on the port lighter." From seven o'clock in the morning till twelve o'clock that night, the crew of the "Yankee"—aforetime lawyers, physicians, literary men, brokers, merchants, students, and clerks—men who had never done any harder work than play football, or row in a shell—coaled ship without any rest, other than the three half hours at meal times. About the hardest, dirtiest work a man could do.

The navy style of coaling is different from that customary in the merchant service. In the latter, the dirty work is done in the quickest, easiest way possible. The ship is taken to a coal wharf and the coal is slid down in chutes, or barges are run alongside and great buckets, hoisted by steam, swing the black lumps into the hold or bunker.

The navy style, as practised on the "Yankee," was quite different. The barges were brought alongside, the men divided into gangs—some to go in the hold of the barge, some to go on the platforms, some to carry on the ship herself. The barge gang shovelled the coal into bushel baskets; these were carried to the men on the stages; and the latter passed them from one to the other, to the gun deck; finally, the gang on the vessel carried the baskets to the bunker holes, and dumped them. The ship was well provided with hoisting machines, but, for some reason, this help was not permitted us.

It was a long, inexpressibly dreary day's work, and though undertaken cheerfully and with less complaining than would have been believed possible, the drudgery of it was a thing not easily forgotten. Before the day had ended, all hope of getting ashore was lost, for we were told that no liberty would be given.

The following day and half of our stay in New York harbor was spent in the same way—shovelling, lifting, and carrying coal. The eyes of many of us were gladdened by the sight of friends and relatives, who were allowed aboard when mess gear was piped, and put off when "turn to" sounded. We were pleased to see our friends, but our friends, on the contrary, seemed shocked to see us. One dainty girl came aboard, and, as she came up the gangway, asked for a forecastle man. The word was passed for him. He had just finished his stint of coaling, and was as black as a negro. In his haste to see his sister, he neglected to clean up, and appeared before her in his coal heaver's make-up.

"You, Will? I won't believe it! I won't, I won't, I won't!" And for a second she covered her face with her hands. Then she picked out the cleanest spot on his grimy countenance and kissed him there, while we looked on in envy.

The "Yankee" at last receiving orders to sail for the front, left Tompkinsville May 29th. We passed out of the Narrows with a feeling of relief. The work we had just finished was the hardest we had ever experienced. It was particularly tantalizing because we were almost in sight of our homes, but could not visit them. A starving man suffers more from hunger if pleasant food is placed within sight, but beyond his reach.

However, we were to go to the front at last, and we rejoiced at the prospect of being really useful to our country.

The following day, Decoration Day, dawned pleasantly, both wind and weather being all that could be desired.

Directly after dinner we were sent to quarters for target practice. The target was dropped astern, and the ship steamed ahead to the required distance. Word was given to the marines manning the six-pounders to prove their skill.

The port forecastle six-pounder, using a shell containing cordite, a powerful English explosive, was in charge of a marine corporal named J.J. Murray, who acted as captain of the gun. After firing several rounds with marked success, Murray saw that the gun was loaded for another trial.

Standing at the breech, he steadied the gun with his left arm and shoulder, seized the pistol-grip, placed his finger on the trigger, and then slowly and carefully brought the target within the sighting line in readiness to fire.

The other members of the gun's crew were at their proper stations. Numbers 2 and 3, respectively second captain and first loader and shellman, were directly behind the corporal. They saw him steady the piece again, take another careful aim, then noted that his finger gave a quick tug at the trigger.

The result was a dull click but no explosion.

The corporal stepped back from his place in vexation. He had succeeded in getting a fine "bead" just as the cartridge failed.

"Blast the English ammunition!" he exclaimed. "It's no good."

The other men at the gun nodded approval. Their experience bore out the corporal's assertion. They also knew that the cordite cartridges were not adapted to American guns, and should not have been used. But they were marines and they were accustomed to obey orders without comment.

Captain Brownson had noticed the incident and he sent word to delay opening the breechblock until all danger of explosion had passed. After waiting some time, Corporal Murray proceeded to extract the shell. He took his place at the breech, while No. 2 unlocked the plug and swung it open.

"Now we'll see what is the matter," he began. "I guess it is another case of—"

He never finished the sentence. With a frightful roar the defective cartridge exploded, sending fragments of shell and parts of the breech-block into the corporal's face and chest. He was hurled with terrific force to the deck, where he lay motionless, mortally wounded.

Numbers 2 and 3 of the unfortunate gun's crew did not escape, the former being struck down with the hand lever, which penetrated his arm. The injured men received prompt attention from the surgeon and his assistants, but Corporal Murray was beyond mortal aid. He died ten minutes after the accident.

He was a good soldier, jolly and light-hearted, and a great favorite with the crew. The peculiar feeling of antagonism which is supposed to exist between the sailors and marines did not obtain in his case.

In the navy the hammock which serves the living as a bed by night is also their coffin and their shroud. It so served Corporal Murray.



Shortly after four bells (six o'clock) on the evening of the day on which the accident occurred, the boatswain's mate sent the shrill piping of his whistle echoing through the ship, following it with the words, doleful and long drawn out:

"All hands shift-ft-ft into clean-n-n blue and stand by to bury the dead-d-d!"

When the crew assembled on the gun deck in obedience to the call, the sun was just disappearing beyond the edge of the distant horizon. Its last rays entered the open port, showing to us the dead man's figure outlined under an American flag. The body had been placed upon a grating in front of an open port, and several men were stationed close by in readiness to launch it into the sea.

The ceaseless swaying of the ship in the trough of the sea, the engines having been stopped, set the lines of blue uniformed men swinging and nodding, and, as the surgeon, Dr. McGowan, read the Episcopal service, it seemed in the half light as if every man were keeping time with the cadence.

The words of the service, beautiful and impressive under such novel circumstances, echoed and whispered along the deck, and at the sentence, "We commit this body to the deep," the grating was raised gently and, with a peculiar swish, the body, heavily weighted, slid down to the water's edge and plunged sullenly into the sea. A moment more and the service was finished, the bugler sounding "pipe down." A salute, three times repeated, was fired by sixteen men of the marine guard.

* * * * *

The voyage down the coast was utilized in making good men-o'-war's men of the "Yankee's" crew. Captain Brownson believes thoroughly in the efficacy of drill, and he lost no time in living up to his belief. When all the circumstances are taken into consideration, the task allotted to the captain of the "Yankee" by the fortunes of war, was both peculiar and difficult.

On his return from Europe, where he had been sent to select vessels for the improvised navy, he was ordered by the Navy Department at Washington to take command of the auxiliary cruiser "Yankee." This meant that he was to assume charge of a ship hastily converted from an ordinary merchant steamer, and to fight the battles of his country with a crew composed of youths and men whose whole life and training had hitherto followed totally different lines.

It was a "licking of raw material into shape" with a vengeance.

When the "Chesapeake" sailed forth to fight her disastrous battle with the British ship "Shannon," her crew was made up of men untrained in the art of war. The result was the most humiliating naval defeat in the history of the United States. The same fate threatened Captain Brownson. There was this difference in the cases, however. The "Chesapeake" had little time for drilling, while the "Yankee" was fully six weeks in commission before her first shot was fired in action. Every minute of those six weeks was utilized.

During the trip down the coast from New York general quarters were held each day, and target practice whenever the weather permitted. In addition to these drills the crew was exercised in man and arm boats, abandon ship, fire drill, infantry drill, and the many exercises provided by the naval regulations. Before the "Yankee" had been in the Gulf Stream two days, the various guns' crews were almost letter-perfect at battery work. As it happened, the value of good drilling was soon to be demonstrated.

As we neared Cuba, the theatre of our hopes and expectations, we were scarcely able to control ourselves. The bare possibility of seeing real war within a few days made every man the victim of a consuming impatience. Rumors of every description were rife, and the many weird and impossible tales invented by the ship's cook and the captain's steward—the men-o'-war oracles—would have put even Baron Munchausen to the blush.

The Rumor Committee, otherwise known as the "Scuttle-butt Navigators," to which every man on board was elected a life member the moment he promulgated a rumor, was soon actively engaged, and it was definitely settled that the "Yankee" was to become the flagship of the whole fleet, our captain made Lord High Admiral, and the whole Spanish nation swept off the face of the globe, in about thirteen and a half seconds by the chronometer.

CHAPTER VII.

WE ENTER THE "THEATRE OF WAR."

The shrill pipe of the bosun's whistle, followed by the order "All hands to muster," reached our ears a day or two out from New York. We were enjoying an hour of well-earned leisure, so it was with reluctance that we obeyed and went aft on the gun deck. All hands are seldom called to muster, so we knew that something of importance was in the wind.

After the three-sided hollow square had been formed, the captain appeared. The small men stood on tip-toe, and the tall men craned their necks.

"We are about to enter the theatre of war," said the captain, in his sharp, decisive way, "and I expect every man to do his duty, to redouble his efforts to preserve discipline, to perfect drills. Drills will, of a necessity, be frequent and hard. I would have you understand that our best protection is the fire from our own guns. The more rapid and accurate our fire, the safer we shall be. Pipe down."

After we had been dismissed, the men formed little groups and discussed the captain's speech.

"I like the 'old man's' talk," said the "Kid," condescendingly; "it's to the point and short. But how in the name of common sense are we going to find time to drill with more frequency? Three times a day and once or more at night, allows us just about time enough to eat and do the necessary routine work, to say nothing about sleeping. Clear ship, general quarters, and fire drill during the day, and general quarters after ten last night. That's already somewhat frequent, methinks," he concluded, suppressing a yawn.

"Well, if we are to have any scraps," said "Bill," "we certainly must know how to work the ship and the guns. For, as the skipper said, 'our own fire is our best protection.'"

We bowled along at a good fifteen-knot gait, day after day and night after night. The weather was magnificent and the climate delightful. It was full moon, and such a moon as few of us had seen before—so bright that letters could be and were written by her silvery light.

Though drills of all sorts were of constant occurrence, there were times after mess when we could "caulk off" and enjoy the glorious weather. Our experience of bad weather along the coast of New Jersey and Long Island had given us keen zest for the good conditions we were now enjoying. We were sailing along in the warm waters of the Gulf Stream—the Gulf weed peculiar to that current slipping by as we forged through it. "Stump," "Dye," of Number Eight's gun crew, a witty chap and a good singer, "Hay," and I were leaning over the taffrail, looking into the swirling water made by the propeller's thrust, when "Dye" remarked: "This is the queerest water I ever saw in all my days; it looks like the bluing water our laundress used to make, with the suds mixed in."

The smooth sea was dark and clear as could be, but where churned by the propeller it turned to the color of turquoise.

"I really believe," said "Bill," as he joined the group, "that we could use it to turn our whites blue."

It was a delight and marvel to us all; we would have liked nothing better than to have spent hours gazing at these wonderful colors.

As we stood absorbed in the sight before us, we were interrupted by the short, sharp ringing of the ship's bell—a dozen or more strokes given in quick succession followed, after a short pause, by two more strokes.

Some one shouted "Fire, boys!" and all hands rushed for their stations—some to the hose-reel, some below to the gun deck to close the ports, and some to the berth deck to receive the hose when it came down. We did not know whether it was drill or actual fire, but the skipper's talk of the night before gave us unusual energy, and the preparations were made in record time. The canvas hose was pulled along the deck with a swish, the nozzle grasped by the waiting hands below and carried with a run away aft on the berth deck. The fire was supposed to be raging at this point, as was indicated by the two last strokes of the alarm signal.

While the hose was being led out, sturdy arms tugged at the port lanyards and pulled them to. Others battened down the hatches, to keep the draught from adding fury to the flames.

All this was done in less time than it takes to tell it, and the men stood at their posts, perspiring and panting from the quick work.

We had hardly time to catch our breath when the order "Abandon ship" was heard. Immediately there was a scurry of feet, and a rush for the upper deck; but some stayed below to carry ship's bread and canned meats to the boats—two cases of bread and two cases of meat for the large boats, and one case of each for the smaller. The crews and passengers of each boat gathered near it. Every man had been assigned to a boat either as crew or passenger, and when the order "abandon ship" was given, every one knew instantly where to go for refuge.

Though we had already gone through this "fire drill" and "abandon ship" (one always followed the other), it had then been done in peaceful waters and in a perfunctory way. Now that we were entering "the theatre of war," we felt the seriousness of it all, and realized that what was now a mere drill might become a stern reality.

The order "Secure" was given; the hose was reeled up, the ports opened, and the provisions returned to their places in hold and store room. The men went to their quarters, and so stood till the bugler blew "retreat."

The time not devoted to drills was taken up in getting the ship ready for the serious work she was to undertake.

All woodwork on the gun deck not in actual use was carried below or thrown overboard, and the great cargo booms were either taken down and stowed safely away, where the splinters would not be dangerous, or were covered with, canvas.

These preparations had a sinister look that made us realize, if we had not done so before, that this was real war that we were about to engage in—no sham battle or manoeuvres.

The men went about their work more quietly and thoughtfully, for one and all now understood their responsibilities. If the ship made a record for herself, the crew would get a large share of the credit; and if she failed to do the work cut out for her, on the crew would be laid the blame. If the men behind the guns and the men running the engines did not do their work rapidly and well, disaster and disgrace would follow.

As we neared the scene of conflict, the discipline grew more and more strict. Before a man realized that he had done anything wrong, his name would be called by the master-at-arms and he would be hauled "up to the mast" for trial.

"You ought to see the gang up at the mast," said "Stump," one bright afternoon. "'Mac' and 'Hod Marsh' have gathered enough extra duty men to do all the dirty work for a month."

"What were you doing up there?" asked a bystander.

"Why, I thought I heard my name called, and as discretion is the better part of valor, I lined up with the rest, and I was glad I did, too, for it was good sport."

"Maybe you thought it was sport, but how about the chaps that were 'pinched'? Who was up before the skipper, anyhow?"

"Oh, there was a big gang up there—I can't remember them all; 'Lucky Bag Kennedy' was there, for being late at general quarters the other day. When the captain looked at him in that fierce way of his and asked what he had to say for himself, 'Lucky Bag' said he didn't realize the time. The skipper could hardly keep his face straight. 'Four hours,' he said, and that was all there was to it."

"Poor 'Lucky Bag,'" came from all sides as "Stump" paused to take breath.

"Then there was 'Big Bill,' the water tender," continued "Stump." "He was hauled up for appearing on the spar deck without a uniform. When the skipper asked him what he had to say for himself, 'Big Bill' cleared his throat with a woof—you know how it sounds: the ship shakes and trembles when he does it—and the 'old man' fairly tottered under the blast. 'Big Bill' explained that he could not get a uniform big enough for him, because the paymaster could not fit him out. The captain almost grinned when he heard the excuse, and 'Big Bill'—well, he enjoyed the situation, I'll bet a month's pay."

There was a little pause here, and we heard a great voice rumbling from below. Then we knew that "Big Bill" was telling his intimates all about it, embellishing the story as only he could do.

We laughed sympathetically as the shouts of glee rose to our ears. We had all enjoyed his good-humored Irish wit.

"Well, who else was in trouble this afternoon, 'Stump'?" said "Mourner," the inquisitive.

"Oh, a lot of unfortunate duffers. Several who were put on the report for being slow in lashing up their hammocks got a couple of hours extra duty each. One or two were there because they had clothes in the 'lucky bag'—they had left them round the decks somewhere, and the master-at-arms had grabbed them. The owners had to go on the report to get the clothes out. It cost them a couple of hours each."

"Well, how did you get out of it?" said I, when "Stump" paused to breathe.

"I was nearly scared to death," he continued, after a minute or two. "My name was not called, and the rank thinned out till there were only a few of us left. I began to think that some special punishment was being reserved for me, and that the captain was waiting so he could think it over. What my offence was I could not imagine; my conscience was clear, I vow. As I stood there in the sun I thought over the last few days, and made a confession to myself, but couldn't think of anything very wicked. Had I unintentionally blocked a marine sentry's way and thus interfered with him in the performance of his duty? I had visions at this point of myself in the 'brig,' existing on bread and water. Had I inadvertently gone into 'Cutlet's' pet after wheel-house? I was in a brown study, conjuring up imaginary misdeeds, when a voice sounded in my ear: 'Here, my man; what do you want?' I looked around, dazed, at the captain, who stood by, the closed report book in his hand. Then I realized that my being there was a mistake, so I saluted and said, 'Nothing, sir.'"

"That's a very nice tale," said "Dye." "We'll have to get 'Mac' to verify it."

"It's straight," protested "Stump." "Ask the skipper himself if you want to."

The old boat ploughed her way through the blue waters of the Gulf Stream at the rate of from fourteen to fifteen knots an hour. The skies were clear and the sun warm and bright—cool breeze tempered its heat and made life bearable. The ship rolled lazily in the long swell and the turquoise wake boiled astern. We steamed for days without sighting a sail or a light; we were "alone on a wide, wide sea." At times schools of dolphins would race and shoot up out of the water alongside, much to our glee. All the beauties of these tropical waters were new to us. Every school of flying fish and flock of Mother Carey's chickens brought crowds to the rail. The sunsets were glorious, though all too short, and the sunrises, if less appreciated, just as fine.

At night the guns' crews of the "watch on deck" slept round their loaded guns, one man of each crew always standing guard. The men of the powder divisions manned the lookout posts.

All hands were in good spirits, calmed somewhat, however, by the thought that soon we might be in the thick of battle, the outcome of which no man could tell.

It was during this voyage that friendships, begun on the Block Island-Barnegat cruise, were cemented. The life aboard ship tended to "show up" a man as he really was. His good and bad qualities appeared so that all might see. Was he good-natured, even-tempered, thoughtful, his mates knew it at once and liked him. Was he quick-tempered, selfish, uncompanionable, it was quite as evident, and he had few friends. Sterling and unsuspected qualities were brought out in many of the men.

Every man felt that we must and would stand together, and with a will do our work, be it peaceful or warlike.

Where were we bound? Were we to join the Havana blockading fleet? Were we destined for despatch and scout duty? Or were we to take part in actual conflict?

It was while we were settling these questions to our own satisfaction on the morning of June 2d, that a hail came from the lookout at the masthead forward.

"Land O!" he shouted, waving his cap. "Hurray! it's Cuba!"

The navigator, whose rightful surname had been converted by the facetious Naval Reserves into "Cutlets," for reasons of their own, lost no time in rebuking the too enthusiastic lookout.

"Aloft, there, you measly lubber! What in thunder do you mean? Have you sighted land?"

"Ye-es, sir-r," quavered the lookout.

"Then why don't you say so without adding any conjectures of your own?" commented the irascible Lieutenant "Cutlets," severely.

The rest of the crew were too deeply interested in the vague streak of color on the horizon to pay any attention to the "wigging" of the man at the masthead. We knew that the dun-hued streak rising from the blue shadows of the ocean was Cuba, and we could think or talk of nothing else.

Somewhere beyond that towering mountain was Santiago, the port in which the flea-like squadron of Admiral Cervera was bottled up, and there was a deadly fear in our hearts that the wily Spaniard would sally forth to battle before we could join our fleet.

We pictured to ourselves the gray mountain massed high about the narrow entrance of Santiago Bay, the picturesque Morro Castle, squatting like a grim giant above the strait, and outside, tossing and bobbing upon the swell of a restless sea, the mighty semicircle of drab ships waiting, yearning for the outcoming of the Dons. We of the "Yankee," I repeat, were in an agony of dread that we would arrive too late.

Cape Maysi, the scene of many an adventurous filibustering expedition, was passed at high noon, and at eight bells in the evening the anchor was dropped off Mole St. Nicholas, a convenient port in the island of Hayti. As we steamed into the harbor we passed close to the auxiliary cruiser "St. Louis."

The anchor was scarcely on the bottom when the gig was called away. We awaited the return of Captain Brownson with impatience. The news he brought was reassuring, however. Nothing of moment had occurred since our departure from New York. Within an hour we were again out at sea, this time en route to Santiago.

There was little sleep on board that night, and when morning dawned, every man who could escape from below was on deck watching, waiting for the first glimpse of Admiral Sampson's fleet. Shortly after daylight, the squadron was sighted. The scene was picturesque in the extreme.

The gray of early dawn was just giving way before the first rays of a tropical sun. Almost hidden in the mist hovering about the coast were a number of vague spots seemingly arranged in a semicircle, the base of which was the green-covered tableland fronting Santiago. The spots were tossing idly upon a restless sea, and, as the sun rose higher, each gradually assumed the shape of a marine engine of war. Beyond them was a stretch of sandy, surf-beaten coast, and directly fronting the centre ship could be seen a narrow cleft in the hill—the gateway leading to the ancient city of Santiago de Cuba.

As we steamed in closer to the fleet we saw indications that something of importance had occurred or was about to occur. Steam launches and torpedo boats were dashing about between the ships, strings of parti-colored bunting flaunted from the signal halliards of the flagship "New York," and nearer shore could be seen one of the smaller cruisers evidently making a reconnaissance.

"We are just in time, Russ," exclaimed "Stump," jubilantly. "The fleet is getting ready for a scrap. And we'll be right in it."

I edged toward the bridge. The first news would come from that quarter. Several minutes later, Captain Brownson, who had been watching the signals with a powerful glass, closed the instrument with a snap, and cried out to the executive officer:

"Hubbard, you will never believe it."

"What's happened?"

The reply was given so low that I could catch only a few words, but it was enough to send me scurrying aft at the top of my speed. The news was startling indeed.

CHAPTER VIII.

WE JOIN SAMPSON'S FLEET.

As the "Yankee" steamed in toward the blockading fleet off the entrance to Santiago harbor, the scurrying torpedo boats and the many little launches darting here and there like so many beetles on a pond, became more apparent, and it was plainly evident to all that something of great importance had recently happened.

The scattered remarks made by Captain Brownson on the bridge formed, when pieced together, such a wonderful bit of news that I could scarcely contain myself as I hurried aft. I wanted to stop and fling my cap into the air. I felt like dancing a jig and hurrahing and offering praise for the fact that I was an American.

As it happened, I was not the only member of the "Yankee's" crew that had overheard the "old man's" words. The second captain of the after port five-inch gun, a jolly good fellow, known familiarly as "Hay" by the boys, chanced to be under the bridge. As I raced aft on the port side he started in the same direction on the starboard side of the spar deck. His legs fairly twinkled, and he beat me to the gangway by a neck.

"What do you think?" I heard him gasp as I came up. "Talk of your heroes! Whoop! Say, I'm glad I am a son of that old flag aft there. It's the greatest thing that ever happened."

"What?" chorused a dozen voices.

"Last night—"

"Yes."

"Last night a volunteer crew—"

"Hurry up, will you?"

"Last night, or rather early this morning, a volunteer crew, under the command of a naval constructor named Hobson, took the collier 'Merrimac' into the mouth of the harbor and—"

"That old tub?" interrupted a marine who had served in the regular navy, incredulously. "Why, she's nothing but a hulk. She hasn't a gun or—"

"She didn't go in to fight," said "Hay." "They were to block up the channel with her."

"To block up the channel?"

"Yes. Cervera and his fleet are in the harbor, you know, and the scheme was to keep them from coming out."

"Did they succeed?" chorused the whole group of eager listeners.

"Yes, but——"

The conclusion of "Hay's" sentence was drowned in a wild whoop of joy, a whoop that brought a number of other "Yankees" to the spot, and also a gesture of remonstrance from the executive officer on the bridge.

"Wait, boys," I said, gently; "you haven't heard all."

There was quiet at once.

"Hobson and his brave men succeeded in accomplishing their object, but they have paid the penalty for it."

"Not dead?" asked one in almost a whisper.

"So the captain read the signals. The 'Merrimac' went in about three o'clock this morning. It seems she reached the channel all right, but she was discovered and sent to the bottom with all on board."

"Hay" took off his cap reverently, and the others instantly followed his example. Nothing more was said. The glory of the deed was overshadowed by the supposed fate of the gallant volunteer crew.

The "Yankee" steamed in to a position designated by the flagship, and the captain went aboard to pay his respects to Admiral Sampson. A Spanish tug, flying a flag of truce, which had emerged from the harbor at noon, met one of our tugs, also flying a flag of truce, and almost immediately a string of signals went up to the signal yard of the "New York."

Then came such a burst of cheers and whistling and tossing of hats from every ship in the fleet that it seemed as if every officer and sailor in Sampson's squadron had suddenly gone daft. Like wildfire, the glorious news spread—

Hobson and his men were safe!

The tug from the harbor had brought an officer sent by Admiral Cervera himself with a message stating that the brave naval constructor and all his crew had been captured alive and were now prisoners in Morro Castle. Later, a press boat came alongside and confirmed the news through a megaphone.

The excitement on board the "Yankee," like that throughout the fleet, was tremendous. Those in the North who had received both the news of the feat and the rescue at the same time, can hardly understand the revulsion of feeling which swept through the American ships gathered off Santiago. It was like hearing from a supposed dead friend.

These heroes were comrades—nay, brothers. They wore the blue and they were fighting for Old Glory. Their praise was ours and their deed redounded to the eternal credit and fame of the American navy. Small wonder that we welcomed the news of their safety, and cheered until our throats were husky and our eyes wet with something more than mere exertion.

All hail to Richmond Pearson Hobson and his men!

Heroes all!

* * * * *

During the afternoon of our arrival, when we finally secured time to look about us, we were struck with the appearance of the really formidable fleet of warships collected under Admiral Sampson's flag. For size of individual ships and weight of armor and armament, there had never been anything in the history of the United States to equal it.

The fleet consisted of the powerful battleships "Iowa," "Indiana," "Massachusetts," and "Texas," the two splendid armored cruisers "New York" and "Brooklyn," cruisers "New Orleans" and "Marblehead," converted yachts "Mayflower," "Josephine," and "Vixen," torpedo boat "Porter," cable boat "Adria," gunboat "Dolphin," and the auxiliary cruisers "St. Louis" and "Yankee."

The vessels formed a semicircular line, completely enclosing the entrance to Santiago harbor. From where the "Yankee" rested, on the right wing, a fine view of the coast could be obtained. Two insurgent camps were plainly visible—one on the beach and another in the hills, which at that point rose to the height of fully four thousand feet. Morro Castle, a grim, sullen, gray embattled fort, directly overlooking the channel, was in plain sight, and here and there could be seen little green or sand-colored mounds, marking the site of earthworks.

The stretch of blue sea, edged by the tumbling surf-beaten beach, and the uprising of foliage-covered hills, all brought out clearly by a tropical sun, formed a picture as far removed from the usual setting of war as could be. But war was there, and the scenery appealed to few. There was more interest in the drab hulls of the fleet and the outward reaching of the mighty guns.

That evening—the evening of June 3d—the "Yankee's" decks presented an animated spectacle. The novel surroundings and the prospect of action kept the boys interested. The "Rumor Committee" was in active session, and one of its principal members, the captain's orderly, brought the news forward that the auxiliary cruiser would surely lead a procession of battleships into Santiago harbor the following day.

This was a little too strong for even the marines to swallow. We lay down by our loaded guns that night, feeling that it was well to be within easy reach of our defenders.

Hammocks were laid on the deck close to each five-inch breechloader, and the regular watch was doubled. Lack of experience made all these warlike preparations very impressive, and it was some time before the boys fell asleep. For my part, such a restlessness possessed me that, after trying to woo slumber for a half hour, I left my place and crawled over nearer the open port.

"Hello, Russ," whispered a voice, apparently from the outside. "Just lean out here if you want to cool off. Isn't the night air fine?"

A small figure wriggled in from where it had been hanging over the port sill, and in the faint light I recognized "Kid," as we called him, the smallest boy on board, and so pleasant and popular that we had unanimously elected him the mascot of the ship.

I was glad to see that it was "Kid." His fund of ready wit and his never-failing good-nature made him a welcome companion at all times. He did not belong to my gun, being a "powder monkey" on No. 16, a six-pounder on the spar deck, but "Kid" was privileged, and he could have penetrated to the captain's cabin with impunity.

"Thought I'd drop down here for a rest," he began, stretching himself and yawning. "Too much tramping about on deck to sleep. Say, looks as if we were going to have a little rain, doesn't it?"

The moon had just passed behind a scurrying cloud, causing the silvery sparkle of its reflection to suddenly fade from the surface of the water. The lights and shadows on the nearby beach changed to a streaky dark smudge. There was a damp touch to the air.

"This would be a proper night for one of those sneaking torpedo boats to give us a scare," resumed "Kid," thoughtfully. "Funny ways of fighting those Dagoes have, eh? It's like prisoner's base that I played when I was a boy."

"Kid's" eighteen years were a mature age in his opinion.

"The two torpedo craft in Santiago harbor could do a great deal of damage if they were properly handled," I ventured. "They are magnificent vessels of their class. Look what Cushing did with a slow steam launch and a powder can on the end of a stick."

"The case was different."

"Yes, but——"

"Cushing was an American," interrupted the boy convincingly.

There was silence for awhile and we lolled in the port, gazing idly at the black spots in the gloom representing the blockading fleet. Between us and the shore was the "New Orleans," the faint tracery of her masts just showing above the distant background of the hills. The dampness in the air had increased, and a dash of rain came in the open port.

"What were you doing at the mast this morning, 'Kid'?" I asked by way of variety.

"Had a mustering shirt in the lucky bag."

I heard the boy chuckle. There was an escapade behind the remark.

"You know that wardroom Jap with the bad eye?"

"Yes."

"It was his shirt."

"But how——"

"It was this way. You know how hard it has been to put up with 'government straight' as a steady diet, don't you?"

I nodded. As "government straight" meant the extremely simple bill of fare provided by Uncle Sam, consisting of salt beef, pork, hardtack, beans, and canned butter, with an occasional taste of dried fruit, I was compelled to admit my acquaintance with it.

"Well, the other night I got to dreaming that I was back in New York," resumed "Kid." "I dreamt I dropped into a bang-up restaurant and ordered beefsteak, fried potatoes, pie, and——"

A groan came from one of the gun's crew, who was within hearing, and "Kid" lowered his voice.

"Hit him where he lived, I guess," he chuckled. "Well, I woke up so hungry that I couldn't stand it any longer. I looked up the Jap and struck him for a hand-out. He wanted a shirt, and I wanted something to eat, and we made a bargain. I brought him my extra mustering shirt—it was too large for me, anyway—and he gave me some bread and butter, cold potted tongue, three bananas, and——"

"For mercy's sake, stow that," muttered a voice from back of the gun-mount. "Don't we suffer enough?"

"That's 'Hand-Out' Hood," grinned "Kid." "He's kicking because he didn't get it. Well, I gave the shirt to the Jap, and what did he do but lose it. My name was on the collar, and 'Jimmy Legs' put me on the report. The 'old man' was easy, though. Gave me four hours extra duty. I asked him if I couldn't work it out in the wardroom pantry."

"Kid's" chuckle came to a sudden stop, and he leaned out through the port.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"Thought I saw something moving over there near the beach."

"Must have been a shadow."

"Guess so. Still, it looked like some kind of a—"

Bang!

The sharp report of a rapid-fire gun cut short his words. Another followed almost instantly, then came a regular volley. The effect on the crew of the "Yankee" was instantaneous. The men sleeping at the guns scrambled to their feet, hammocks were kicked out of the way, and before the word to go to general quarters was passed, every member of the crew was at his station.

"I thought I saw something moving inshore," cried "Kid," as he scurried away.

"It's a Spanish torpedo boat," muttered "Stump." "Great Scott! just listen to the 'New Orleans.' She's firing like a house afire."

Suddenly there came a deep, thunderous roar. It was the voice of a thirteen-inch gun on the "Massachusetts." Sixty seconds later the six-pounders on the "Yankee's" forecastle joined in the chorus, and the action became general.

"Do not fire without orders, men," cautioned Lieutenant Greene, the officer in charge of our division. "Just take it easy and bide your time."

It was our first experience in actual fighting, and our anxiety to "let loose" was almost overwhelming. We were held to our stations so rigidly that but few glimpses could be caught of the outside. The "New Orleans," on our starboard, was still rattling away.

Notwithstanding our own inaction (the gun deck battery was not used), there was a certain exhilaration in even listening to the sounds of conflict, and the eager, tense faces surrounding the guns reflected in the dim light of the deck lanterns such a fierce desire to fight that they were absolutely transfigured.

"Can't stand this much longer," muttered "Hay," the second captain, as a peculiarly vicious report came from the direction of the "Massachusetts." "Why don't they give a fellow a chance?"



"Steady, men," admonished Lieutenant Greene. "Don't be impatient. Our turn will come soon. Steady!"

A turn of the hull—we were under way at half speed—brought the land on the port bow just then. The moon suddenly emerged from behind the clouds, and we who were nearest the port, distinctly saw a long, black object fade into the obscurity of the coast almost directly under Morro Castle.

"She's escaped!" groaned "Stump." "It's the torpedo boat, and she is safe again."

As if to prove the truth of his words the guns on the "New Orleans" and "Massachusetts" became silent; then word was sent below to "secure." Our first action was disappointing, but there was little grumbling. We knew full well that momentous events were bound to occur before long.

The following morning, shortly after daybreak, the torpedo boat "Porter" steamed alongside. Her coming created some excitement, and the "Yankee's" crew promptly lined the railing.

"What's that object on the deck?" asked "Stump," pointing to a long brass cylinder lying abaft the after conning tower.

"It's a torpedo, but not like those used in our navy," replied "Hay."

Captain Brownson leaned over the end of the bridge and waved his hand to Lieutenant Fremont, the "Porter's" commander. The latter was smiling, and as we watched, he made a gesture toward the mysterious brass cylinder.

"See that thing, Brownson?" he called out.

The captain nodded.

"It almost paid you a visit last night."

"What——"

"We picked it up near shore this morning and sunk another. That Spanish torpedo boat made a great attempt to sink one of our ships, and, if I am not mistaken, the 'Yankee' was her intended prey. Congratulations."

As the "Porter" steamed away we felt very much like congratulating ourselves. This was grim war of a certainty. Like the boy who was blown a mile in a cyclone without injury, we experienced a certain pride that we really had been in danger.

About the middle of the afternoon a signal was seen on the flagship. It was read at once, and immediately the boatswain's mate passed a call that sent a thrill of anticipation through us. It was:

"All hands clear ship for action!"



CHAPTER IX.

CLEAR SHIP FOR ACTION.

The boatswain's mate's shrill piping and the long drawn out cry, "All hands clear ship for action!" was not entirely unexpected. An unusual activity on the part of the signal men on the flagship "New York" had not escaped our notice, and when the summons to prepare for battle echoed through the "Yankee's" decks it found us in readiness for prompt obedience.

At the time the call sounded a number of us were standing in the port waist idly watching the fleet and the shore. "Bill," a member of the powder division, whose father is a prominent real estate broker of New York, and whose great talent is for practical joking and general fun making, was telling a story. As we scattered at the summons, he started below with me. Even the circumstances could not prevent him following his hobby, and he whispered as we hurried along:

"Say, Russ, this reminds me of a good story I once heard. There was a man who was too lazy to live and the neighbors finally decided to bury him. So they took him out to the village graveyard one morning before day and——"

"Here, you men, pass this mess chest below," interrupted an officer, beckoning to us. "Bill" grasped one end of the object indicated and lugged it to the hatch.

"They took the lazy man to the village graveyard, as I was saying," resumed "Bill," "and they buried him up to his neck in the earth. Then they hid back of tombstones and——"

"Less talking there, men," exclaimed the navigator, hurrying past us. "You 'heroes' do too much yarning to suit me. Get those things below at once. Shake it up."

"They are in an almighty hurry," grumbled "Bill." "The forts won't move. They'll be there to-morrow, I guess. Well, as I was saying, the villagers concealed themselves behind convenient tombstones and waited to see what the lazy man would do when he woke up. By and by day broke, and just as the sun gilded the windows of the old church the fellow who was buried up to his neck——"

"Chase those mess chests below, bullies," called out the boatswain's mate, dropping down the ladder a few feet away. "Lively there; the 'old man' wants to break a record. When you have finished, hustle to the oil and paint lockers and help carry all inflammable material to the spar deck."

For several minutes "Bill" worked away in silence. Between us we managed to lower a number of chests into the hold where they would be out of the way; then we disposed of more objects liable to produce unwelcome splinters, and finally we started toward the paint locker.

The gun deck presented a scene of the most intense activity. The process of clearing ship for action requires the united efforts of the entire crew. On vessels of the regular service, such as the "New York" or "Indiana," where everything has been constructed with a view to the needs of battle, the work is thoroughly systematized and comparatively easy. The "Yankee," being a merchant steamer hastily converted into a vessel of war, presented greater difficulties.

However, the crew was fairly familiar with its duties and the work progressed at a rapid rate. When "Bill" and I reached the paint locker we found several others preparing to convey the oil to the deck. It was a momentary respite, and "Bill" took advantage of it.

"When the sun rose the fellows hiding behind the tombstones saw the lazy man open his eyes," he resumed hurriedly. "He looked around and took in all the details of the scene, the old church with the windows glowing redly, the weeping willows shaking and trembling in the crisp morning breeze, the rows of sod-covered mounds, the crumbling tombstones, and on one side the old rickety fence marking the passing of the road. All this he saw and then—"

"Hear the news, fellows?" interrupted the "Kid," suddenly approaching. "We are going to—what's the matter, 'Bill'?"

For "Bill" had caught him by the slack of the shirt and one arm and was hustling him along the deck. The "Kid," looking aggrieved, went his way, and "Bill" returned.

"As I was saying," he continued calmly; "the lazy fellow saw all those things, then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. 'Whoop!' he cried, 'this is the best piece of luck I've struck yet. Hurray! blamed if it ain't the resurrection day and I'm the first feller above ground. Whoop!'"

After I had finished laughing I picked up a can of oil and asked:

"Where's the similarity, 'Bill'? It's a good story, but you said this reminded you of it."

"Humph! aren't we going to see the resurrection of some of these old Spanish fossils around here to-day?" "Bill" demanded. "And aren't we the first volunteer force on the spot? I guess that makes the story apropos."

As the "Yankee" was the first vessel manned by Naval Reserves to reach the scene of hostilities, I could not deny "Bill's" claim. Seeing the success of one story, he was on the point of telling another, when word came to hasten the clearing of the ship for action, and we were compelled to devote our energies to the work in hand.

The decks were sanded—a precaution that made more than one wonder if the spilling of blood was really anticipated; all boats and spare booms were covered with canvas to prevent the scattering of splinters, the steel hatch covers were closed down, hammocks were broken out of the racks and made to serve as an added protection to the forward wheel-house, and everything possible done to make the ship fit for action.

The time taken to gain this end did not exceed ten minutes, which was almost a record. Signals were displayed stating that we were in readiness, then all hands were called to general quarters. As we hurried to our stations I saw the entire blockading fleet moving slowly shoreward.

"We are going to bombard the Dagoes this trip for sure," observed the first captain of Number Eight as we lined up. "I see their finish."

"Don't be too sure," said "Stump." "There's many a slip between the muzzle and the target. Maybe we won't do much after all. Just to make it interesting I'll bet you a dinner at Del's that we will only chuck a bluff. What d'ye say?"

"Done, if you make it for the whole ship's company," chuckled the first captain.

"Stump" shook his head.

"A dinner at Del's for over two hundred hungry Reserves, and on a salary of $35 per month. Nope. Not on your life."

"Cast loose and provide," came the order.

There were a few moments of rapid work, then the battery was reported in readiness for firing. Through the open port we could catch a glimpse of the other vessels of the fleet, and the spectacle formed by the low-lying battleships, the massive cruisers, and the smaller, but equally defiant gunboats, was one long to be remembered.

Every ship was cleared for business. On the vessels of the "Oregon" class nothing could be seen but the gray steel of turrets and superstructure. The "New York" and the "Brooklyn" were similarly cleared. On the bridges could be seen groups of officers, but the decks were empty. Every man was at his gun.

The ships steamed in to within a short distance of the beach and then formed a semicircle, the heavier vessels taking the centre where they could directly face the forts. The little "Dolphin" was on the extreme right of the line, with the "Yankee" next.

When within easy range of the guns ashore there ensued a wait. No signal to fire came from the flagship, and there did not seem to be any move toward opening the battle by the forts. We stood at our guns in silence, awaiting the word, until finally patience ceased to be a virtue.

"Seems to me they ought to do something," murmured "Stump," glancing shoreward rather discontentedly. "Ain't we fair targets?"

"Why don't the admiral tell us to sail in?" queried the first captain in the same tone. "The day is fine and the range is good. There's the beggars plain enough with their measly old forts. What more is wanted?"

"Wish they would pipe down and light the smoking lamp," said the second loader. "It would be a great deal more fun than standing here like a dummy."

The sun had passed beyond the top of the hills, but the light was sufficiently strong to bring out in plain relief the batteries guarding the entrance to Santiago. Grim Morro Castle appeared almost deserted. The red and yellow banner of Spain flaunted lazily from the ramparts, but only here and there could be distinguished the little black dots representing the soldiers on guard. The earthworks and smaller forts were equally idle.

"We won't get anything out of them to-day," remarked "Stump" decisively. "It must be one of their eternal feast days when they won't even fight."

"There goes a signal on the flagship," exclaimed the first loader, pointing out the port. "I'll bet a dollar it's—"

"The signal to pull out again," groaned "Stump." "Didn't I say so?"

"The admiral intends to postpone the bombardment for some reason," I ventured. "Perhaps it's too late in the day."

Whatever the cause, it was now plain that we would not engage the forts. In obedience to the signals on the "New York," which were repeated by the "Brooklyn," the whole fleet returned to the former station several miles from shore. The word to "secure" was passed and presently the "Yankee" had resumed its former condition of armed watchfulness.

That evening after supper there was a gathering of the choice spirits of the crew in the vicinity of the after wheel-house. "Dye," the chief member of the "Yankee's" choir, started one of "Steve's" little songs, which, although rendered very quietly in deference to the rules observed on blockade, was greatly enjoyed. The air was "Tommy Atkins," and the words ran as follows:

"They made us sign our papers for a year, And dressed us in a natty sailor's suit; They taught us how to heave the lead and steer, And how to handle guns and how to shoot. We fancied we'd be leaving right away To capture prizes on the Spanish Main, And be raising merry hades With the dusky Spanish laddies, And within a month come steaming home again.

CHORUS.

"But instead we ran a ferry All along the Jersey shore, And our turns were empty very, And our hands were awful sore. We would give our bottom dollar Just to see a cable car, Just to hear a newsboy holler, Just to smoke a good cigar.

"In times of peace we do not have to sweep Or carry coal or stand on watch all night; We do not have to scrub down decks or keep Our toothbrush chained, or brasswork shining bright. We never washed our faces in a pail, We never heard the fog-horn's awful shriek, We never ate salt horse, We combed our hair, of course, And we never wore our stockings for a week."

CHORUS.

"Suppose you 'heroes' pipe down there," came from the darkness just then. "What do you think this is, a concert hall?"

"It's 'Cutlets,'" muttered "Stump." "He would like to make the ship a funeral barge."

We sat in silence for a while, watching the retreating form of the navigator passing forward; then Tom Le Valley, a zealous member of Number Nine gun's crew, spoke up.

"Do you see those two lights twinkling over there about where the 'Dolphin' should be, fellows?" he asked.

Some one yawned and nodded.

"Reminds you of a story, eh?" asked "Bill," who was leaning against the rail. "Well, come to think of it I remember a—"

"Several years ago I happened to be a patient in a hospital over in Brooklyn," continued Tom. "I was almost well and about to leave the place when a man in the upper ward—"

"I had a cousin once who used to travel a great deal," interrupted "Bill," taking a seat on the deck with his back against a bitt. "One time he happened to be in a small town just outside of Dublin, Ireland. The inn was crowded and he had to take up his quarters with a family who occasionally rented out rooms. A circus and menagerie was giving exhibitions in the city, and one night the biggest monkey escaped from its cage and skipped out. They instituted a search at once, but the animal could not be found. Well, it happened that the family with whom my cousin was stopping consisted of father and mother and one son about ten years old. The boy, whose name was Mike, was a regular limb. Always in mischief and——"

"As I was saying," broke in Tom at this juncture, "when I was about to leave the hospital, a man in the upper ward concluded to depart this world for a better one. It happened about eight o'clock in the evening, and, as was usual in such cases, the nurse on watch was supposed to get several convalescent patients and a stretcher and carry the body down to a little wooden house a hundred yards from the main building. The nurse, with whom I was on friendly terms, had an important case to attend to just then and he asked me if I wouldn't take charge of the stretcher party. Well, we started down the yard, I leading the way with a lantern, and we finally reached the little house. We entered and——"

"Some people think they are the only story tellers in the group," remarked "Bill" with mild sarcasm at that interesting point. "To tell a good story with a point to it is an art. Now, as I was saying, this boy Mike would rather get into mischief than eat a—what's the Irish for potato?"

"Spud," suggested "Hod."

"Murphy," said "Stump."

"Well, it's immaterial. Anyway the boy was full of mischief. The night the monk got away he had been sent to bed early because of some trick he had played. He slept in a little room at the head of the stairs leading to the second story. His window opened on a lean-to shed, and, as it was a warm evening, the sash was raised. Shortly after the youngster got to bed, something slipped over the back fence, and after prowling about the yard for a moment, climbed upon the shed and through the window into the room where Mike was just in the act of falling asleep. The thing, which was about the youngster's size, crept over the floor toward the bed, and then with a spring, landed squarely upon——"

"Some people use more wind in telling a story than would fill a maintop-sail," drawled Tom. "There's nothing like getting at your subject. Now, when we reached the little wooden house we entered, and after accomplishing our errand, started back to the main building. While on the way it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to close the door between the two rooms of which the house was composed. There was an open window in the front room, and there was no telling what might get in. I told the fellows to go on and I tasked back to the little house. I still carried the lantern, but just as I reached the door, it went out. I tell you, I felt like letting the whole thing go, but I didn't want to get the nurse into trouble. So I unlocked the front door, opened it, and, Great Scott! I saw——"

"There's everything in choosing a subject when you want to tell a good story," calmly interrupted Bill. "This story I am trying to tell has a laugh in it. You don't have to keep your hair down with both hands and feel the cold chills playing tag up and down your spinal column, like you have to do when some people are trying to yarn. Well, when the thing that had crept through the window landed on the bed, Mike let out a yell that could have been heard in Dublin. 'Ow-w-w!' he whooped, scrambling to the floor. He caught one sight of the visitor, and then made a dash for the window and slid clear to the ground, leaving pieces of shirt and his epidermis on every nail on the shed roof. The noise he made roused the father and mother below, and the latter started for the stairs. 'That b'ye 'll be the death av me yet,' she complained. 'I'll go up and give him a slap.' She lost no time in reaching the little room, and when she entered she saw the bed with what she thought was Mike under the clothes. 'Mike, ye rascal,' she exclaimed, 'turn down the sheet this minute. It's mesilf as'll tache ye to raise a noise at this time o' night. For shame, ye spalpane! What, ye won't obey your own mother? I'll show ye. Take that!' She brought her hand down upon the figure outlined under the sheet with a resounding whack. The next second the thing leaped from the bed squarely into her arms. 'Wow! Murther! Mike, what have ye been doing?' she howled, adding at the top of her voice, 'Patrick, Patrick, come quick! The b'ye has got hold of your hair restorer. He's all covered with hair and he's gone daft. Murther!' With that the father made for the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. Just as he got to the top—"

"The sight I saw when I opened the outer door of the little house almost knocked me silly," broke in Tom, rather excitedly. "There in the other room gleamed—"

"When Patrick reached the second floor," interrupted Bill, raising his voice, "he felt something strike him full in the chest; then two hairy arms clasped him about the throat and—"

"In the other room gleamed two—"

"Oh, give a fellow a chance, will you?" cried Bill. "You want the whole floor. What do you think—"

"Sh-h-h! here comes the executive officer," hastily whispered "Stump." "We've made too much racket. Let's go into the after wheel-house."

"We must be quiet about it," spoke up the "Kid," warningly. "'Cutlets' is chasing around to-night, and if he catches us in there he'll raise Cain."

"All right," replied Bill. "And I'll finish that story if I have to stay up all night."

"Same here," retorted Tom, with evident determination. "Come on."

And we all followed the twain.

CHAPTER X.

WE BOMBARD SANTIAGO DE CUBA.

The after wheel-house on board the "Yankee" was a round structure of steel built on the spar deck directly over the counter. It contained a steering wheel to be used in case the wheel in the pilot-house should be disabled. When the chill winds of May and early June were blowing off the northern coast during the "Yankee's" period of cruising in that vicinity, the after wheel-house formed a snug and comfortable retreat for the men of the watch.

It was freely used for that purpose until the navigator chanced to discover the fact. He forthwith issued orders forbidding any person to enter the house, except on duty. His order, like many others, received respectful consideration—when he happened to be looking. In the present case we were so eager to hear the conclusion of the stories being related by the rival yarn-spinners, that we were fain to brave "Cutlets'" displeasure. Led by Bill and Tom, we piled inside.

"What I was trying to say," spoke up the former, getting the first opening, "was that when Patrick reached the top of the stairs, something struck him full in the chest, and two hairy arms were thrown about his neck. The sudden shock sent him tumbling backward, and he fell kerflop! down the steps. Up above, his wife was howling to beat the band, 'Mike, Mike, ye spalpane! You do be killing your poor father. Och! why did I live to see this day?' In the meantime the real Mike—for the one inside was the escaped monk from the menagerie—had scooted for the police. They came, a half dozen of them, and as they entered the front door—"

"Time!" chuckled "Stump." "Give Tom a chance."

"As I opened the front door of the little wooden house where we had placed the body," said Tom, prompt to take advantage of the opportunity, "I saw two gleaming eyes glaring at me from the inner room. I tell you, my heart fell clean down into my boots."

"Should think it would," muttered the "Kid," peering about the wheel-house with a shiver. "Ugh!"

"I dropped the lantern," resumed Tom, "and staggered back. Just then a——"

"Half dozen policemen entered the front door just as Patrick and the supposed Mike reached the bottom of the stairs," broke in Bill, taking up the thread of his story. "Well, when the Irish coppers saw Pat with the monk hanging around his neck they thought the old Nick had him. They started to run, but the old woman reached the lower floor in time to see both Mike and the monkey. She grabbed a broom, but the monk slipped through the front door, and——"

"That's the end of your story. And a good job it is too," remarked Tom.

"It is better than having no end," retorted Bill. "You spin out a yarn to beat the band."

"It's getting late," spoke up "Hod," yawning. "If you fellows are going to chew the rag all night I——"

"Only a word more," interrupted Tom. "As I staggered back I fell into the arms of the nurse, who had come down to see what kept me. I explained in a hurry, and he lit a match. We both went in and discovered——"

"Sh-h-h! Get out of here, you fellows," suddenly spoke up a voice at the door on the starboard side. "Here comes 'Cutlets'!"

There was a scramble for the opposite door, and in much less time than is taken in the telling, the wheel-house was empty. We huddled in the shadows for a moment; then dodged forward. As we reached the hatch I heard the "Kid" ask Tom:

"Say, what was it you saw? Tell a fellow, won't you?"

"Two brass knobs on an old chest," was the calm reply.

"Huh!"

The following day being Sunday, was given over to rest and recreation and the writing of letters, until late in the afternoon. The day dawned clear but very warm. There was very little breeze stirring, and the spar and gun decks, where we spent the most of our time, were almost stifling. "Corking mats," as they are termed in naval parlance, were very much in evidence. The sailor's "corking mat" is a strip of canvas which he spreads upon the deck to protect his clothing from the tarry seams, when he feels the necessity for a siesta or nap, which is quite often.

Toward evening we were put to work at a task which gave welcome promise of coming action. Under the direction of the executive officer we broke out a number of bags of coal from the orlop deck and piled them five deep, and about the same number in height, around the steam steering engine under the forward wheel-house. This was to give added protection to a vital part of the ship.

The work was hard and unpleasant, especially to men who had not spent the major portion of their lives at manual labor, but it was one of those disagreeable fortunes of war to which we were growing accustomed, and we toiled without comment. That night when we turned in, that is, those who were fortunate enough to have the "off watch," it was generally rumored about the decks that the fleet would surely bombard early the following morning.

About two bells (five o'clock) the different guns' crews, who were sleeping at the batteries, were called by the boatswain's mates, and told to go to breakfast at once.

"It's coming," exclaimed "Hay," joyfully. "The old 'Yankee' will see her real baptism of fire to-day. 'Kid,' you young rat, you'll have a chance to dodge shells before you are many hours older."

"You may get a chance to stop one," retorted the boy.

After a hurried meal, word to clear ship for action was passed, and the "Yankee's" boys set to work with a vim. The task was done more thoroughly than usual. The boats and wooden hatches were covered with canvas, everything portable that would splinter was sent below, the decks were sanded, and all the inflammable oils were placed in a boat and set adrift for the "Justin," one of the colliers, to pick up.

The day seemed fitted for the work we had in hand. The sky was overcast, and occasionally a rain squall would sweep from the direction of the land, and envelop the fleet. It was not a cold, raw rain, like that encountered in more northern latitudes in early summer, but a dripping of moisture peculiarly grateful after the heat of the previous day.

Shortly before seven o'clock, the members of the crew were in readiness for business. The majority had removed their superfluous clothing, and it was a stirring sight to watch the different guns' crews, stripped to the waist and barefooted, standing at their stations. There was something in the cool, practical manner in which each man prepared for work that promised well, and it should be said to the everlasting credit of the Naval Reserves that they invariably fought with the calmness and precision of veterans whenever they were called upon.

In the present case, there would have been some excuse for faint-heartedness. The crew of the "Yankee," made up of men whose previous lives had been those of absolute peace, who had never heard a shot fired in anger before their arrival at Santiago, who had left home and business in defence of the flag—these men went about their preparations for attacking the fortifications with as little apparent concern as if it were simply a yachting trip.

There was no holding back, no hesitancy, no looks of concern or anxiety, but when the signal to advance inshore appeared on the "New York," at six bells (seven o'clock), there was a feeling of relief that the time of waiting was over.

We were to be in it at last.

The flagship's signal to advance in formation was obeyed at once. Moving in double column, the fleet stood in toward the batteries. The first line, as we saw from the after port, was composed of the "Brooklyn," "Texas," "Massachusetts," and "Marblehead." The line to which the "Yankee" was attached, included, besides that vessel, the "New York," "Oregon," "Iowa," and "New Orleans." When within three thousand yards from shore, the first line turned toward the west, leaving us to steam in the opposite direction.

The batteries ashore could now be plainly distinguished. Morro Castle, grim and defiant, seemed to ignore our coming, if the absence of life was any proof. Lower down on the other side of the entrance where the Estrella and Catalena batteries were located, there seemed to be more activity. Men could also be seen running about in some new batteries a little to the eastward of Morro Castle. It was evident to us at once that the enemy had not anticipated an attack on such a rainy, windy day.

On swept the two lines of ships without firing a shot until they formed a semicircle, with the heavier vessels directly facing the forts; then the "New York" opened fire with one of her heavy guns, the "Iowa" following immediately. At this moment, 7:45 a.m., the ships were arranged as follows, counting from the right: "New York," "Yankee," "New Orleans," "Massachusetts," "Oregon," "Iowa," "Indiana," "Texas," "Marblehead," and "Brooklyn." Guarding the extreme left were the "Vixen" and "Suwanee," and doing similar duty on the other flank were the "Dolphin" and "Porter."

The shot from the flagship was the signal for a general bombardment. There was no settled order of firing, but each ship just "pitched in," to use a common expression, and banged away at the forts with every available gun.

The scene on the gun deck of the "Yankee" was one never to be forgotten. When the word to commence firing reached us, we sprang to the work at once. Each crew paid strict attention to its own station, and the routine of loading and firing went on with the regularity of clockwork. A number of boxes of the fixed ammunition had been "whipped" up from below while we were steaming into position, and there was no lack of death-dealing food for the hungry maws of the battery.

Not much could be seen of the outside at first, as the task in hand claimed our strict attention, but after a while an occasional glimpse was obtained of the other ships and the forts. The heavy battleships, the "Indiana," "Oregon," "Massachusetts," "Iowa," and "Texas," were lost in the dense smoke of their guns. It was thrilling to see them, like moving clouds, emitting streams of fire which shot through the walls of vapor like flashes of lightning athwart a gloomy sky.



The noise was terrific. It seemed to gather at times in such an overwhelming, soul-stunning clamor of sound, that the very air was rent and split and shattered, and the senses refused further burden. There was no possibility of hearing the human voice, save at odd intervals when a brief cessation occurred in the firing. Orders were transmitted by gestures.

The smoke was thick and stifling, the saltpetre fumes filling the throat and lungs, until breathing was difficult. The dense bank of vapor enveloping the ship also rendered it almost impossible to aim with any accuracy. We of Number Eight gun were early impressed with this fact, and "Hay," the second captain, exclaimed during a lull:

"It's that fellow in charge of Number Six. He won't give us any show. Just look how he's working his crew. Did you ever see the beat of it?"

The captain of Number Six, a broker of considerable note in New York, a member of the Calumet Club, and the son of a distinguished captain in the Confederate navy, was fighting his gun with savage energy. Under his direction, and inspired by a running fire of comments from him, the different members of Number Six crew were literally pouring a hail of steel upon the batteries. The firing was so rapid, in fact, that it kept our port completely filled with smoke, much to our sorrow.

Notwithstanding that fact, "Hay," the second captain of Number Eight, did such marvellous shooting, that word presently came from Captain Brownson on the bridge, publicly commending him. We were correspondingly elated, and worked all the harder.

It was not until we had been firing some time that we began to take particular note of our surroundings. At first the novelty of the situation and a state of excitement, natural under the circumstances, kept us absorbed in our duties, but when it became apparent that the engagement was to be a matter of hours—and also that the Spaniards did not aim very well—we commenced to look about.

One of the first things to strike me personally, and it was rather humorous, was the appearance of "Stump," the second loader. Orders had early been given to avoid exposing ourselves to the enemy's fire as much as possible. "Stump," than whom no more daring and aggressive man could be found on board, thought it wise to obey, so he crouched behind the gun-mount and compressed himself so as to be out of range. From this position he had only to reach out one hand to train the gun, which was his special duty. Meanwhile, he continually urged "Hay" to keep on firing.

"Doesn't make any difference whether you can see or not," he exclaimed. "Shoot anyway. Give it to the beggars! That's the ticket, old chap. Now another. Whoop! did you see that land? Ah-h-h! we are the people."

As the novelty of the scene gradually wore off we began to enjoy it hugely. We pumped away at the guns, commenting freely on the enemy's marksmanship. We felt more like a party watching a fireworks display than the crew of a warship engaged in bombarding a number of forts.

The two lines were steaming back and forth in front of the batteries, firing as the guns would bear. At first, Morro Castle and the smaller forts maintained a spirited fire, but finally their response to our fusillade slackened considerably, and it became evident that they had been driven from their guns.

The difference in aim between the Spanish gunners and ours was very perceptible. Their shells invariably passed over the ships or landed short, and at no time during the engagement were any of the American vessels in imminent danger. This was not due to length of range either, as the lines were maintained at from two to four thousand yards. As Bill put it, "Any Dago that can't hit a flock of barn doors like this fleet, had better go back home and hoe onions."

The ships of our fleet also made better targets than did the batteries ashore. It was certainly easy to distinguish the position of each vessel, but as the Spanish batteries were nearly all situated a short distance back from the crest of the ridge with a background little different in color from that of the battery, we found it difficult to locate them at times. Our elevation had to be perfect, as with an inch or two below or above, the projectile would either vanish in the distance or take effect on the cliffs below the batteries.

We of Number Eight gun, when the "Yankee" was steaming with the starboard broadside bearing, managed to slip across the deck and watch the firing from the ports and deadlights. It was really beautiful to see the landing of the great shells upon the forts and surrounding earth. Some battered into the soft spots on the cliffs, sending huge masses of dirt and debris high into the air; then when the explosion came, there would follow a great cloud of dust resembling the wavering smoke over a city fire.

Others struck the harder portions of the cliff, bursting into a shower of fragments, each kicking up its own pother of dirt and shattered rock. At times a shell would land in a crack in the face of the hill, and immediately following would come an upheaval of stones. These boulders, many of them of immense size, would roll down the slope and splash in the water at the base, creating a series of fountain-like cascades.

Accompanying the display was a continuous roar of explosion and detonation that echoed and reechoed across the water like the pealing of tropical thunder. In fact, it was these noises, mingled with the fierce reports of our guns, which impressed us the most. Taking it all in all, the scene was spectacular in the extreme.

"Boys," remarked No. 7 of our crew—"Morrie," we called him—"this sight is worth all the coaling and standing watches and poor food we have had to put up with. I would experience it all over again just to see this bombardment."

And we heartily agreed with him.

After a time it seemed as if the admiral was determined to plump shells into the vicinity of Santiago until there was nothing left to fire at. There had been a continuous outpouring of projectiles from the guns of the fleet for over an hour, yet that grim line of gray steel fortresses still passed and repassed in front of the forts.

It was really growing monotonous, when something occurred at the gun to which I was attached that served to give us an exciting minute or two. "Hay" had just fired a shot which caught one of the new batteries directly in the centre. The shell was extracted, and another inserted, but when the second captain pressed the electric firing lanyard, there was no report. The shell had missed fire.

"Long Tommy" reached forward to open the breech, but was stopped by a sharp order from the divisional officer.

"Don't open that breech till I give the word," he said.

The electrical connections were examined and the contacts scraped bright.

"Stand by," said "Hay" finally; "let's try her again."

The great gun moved slowly on its pivot while "Hay" worked the elevating gear. The orders came sharp and clear through the roar of the cannon and the shriek of the shells.

As we watched our young gun captain, we saw his set face grow even more determined, and we knew that he had got his sight to suit him and that he was about to fire the gun.

With a gesture of disgust he threw down the firing lanyard.

"It's no go," he said, "that cartridge will have to come out."

We looked at one another; it was a serious moment. The bombardment was now at its height, and the thunderous roaring of the guns was increasing with every passing second. Above and around us the vicious reports of the "Yankee's" five-inch rapid-firers seemed like one continuous volley. A hoarse cheer came from a nearby ship, proclaiming the landing of some favored shot.

"Hurry, fellows," shouted "Hay" in an ecstasy of impatience. "Lively there; we're missing all the sport."

CHAPTER XI.

A PERILOUS MOMENT.

The scene on the gun deck of the "Yankee" at that moment would have made an eloquent subject for the brush of a Meissonier. It was the deck of a warship in battle, and the spectacle enacted was accompanied, by an orchestra of the mighty guns of a fleet in action.

Imagine a compartment of steel, a compartment filled with smoke that surged and eddied as the ship lunged forward or rolled upon a heavy swell.

Imagine scattered about in this pungent vapor many groups of men, men half-naked, perspiring; their glistening bodies smeared and stained with the grime of conflict.

Imagine in the centre of one of these groups a wicked, menacing gun—a five-inch breechloader, its long, lean barrel raised shoulder-high upon the apex of a conical gun-mount, near the base of which are significant wooden cases, some empty and others filled with elongated, formidable cartridges; and pails of black, dirty water ascum with powder; and other objects each significant of war.

Imagine these things, and then understand that this gun, made to be turned against an enemy, has now turned against its workers. In the bore, pent in by the polished breechblock, is a cartridge which has failed in its duty. It is apparently defective.

The tide of battle is surging on; other ships of the bombarding fleet are still pouring their shot and shell upon the grim array of forts ashore; other guns of this ship are pursuing their duty with savage energy. But this gun is silent.

The men wax impatient. It is the height of the conflict. Many shots have been fired, and many more will yet be required to subdue the enemy. To be "out of action" will mean passiveness in the face of the enemy. Anything but that.

There is a rivalry between the guns' crews. It is a rivalry as to which shall make the best shots and create the most damage. The members of Number Eight—the after gun on the port side—are proud of their record. Their second captain—he whom they call "Hay"—has received the public commendation of the captain himself, sent down from the bridge in the midst of the battle. It is a mark of distinction not given freely, and Number Eight is eager for more honors.

But the men have not forgotten a similar case, occurring on the voyage down the coast, when another cartridge failed, and on being extracted from the breech chamber, exploded, killing a marine corporal and wounding others.

The men of Number Eight have not forgotten that tragedy, and that is why their gun is now to them a menacing creature of steel, whose breath may be the breath of death. They stand in groups, they eye it, they speculate, and they feel that a desperate and perilous duty is before them.

The risk must be taken. The cartridge must be extracted. It is a fortune of war which all who enlist must expect. But it is one thing to fall before an enemy's blow, and another to lose your life at the stroke of your own weapon.

The officer of the division steps forward.

"We will see if we can't take it out without much danger," he says, briefly. "Bring a rope."

One is hastily procured, and the first captain—a great, brawny, good-natured fellow, who has spent years at sea—deftly fastens the bight of the rope to the handle of the breechblock. He then retreats a short distance and signifies his readiness.

"When I give the word," calls out the officer, "pull handsomely. Ready—pull away!"

From out the smoke-filled compartment men lean forward, eagerly—anxiously. They instinctively shrink back as the breech plug slowly moves. Then, when it finally opens, revealing the brass head of the cartridge inside the firing chamber, a sigh of relief comes from all.

But the danger is not yet over.

The defective projectile must be taken out and tossed into the sea. The second loader steps forward at a signal from the gun captain. This second loader is "Stump." He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and passes it to another man and myself. Carrying it between us—and carrying it gingerly—we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the hundred-pound projectile through the open port.

It barely clears the port sill, coming so close to it, in fact, that for one breathless second we think that it will strike. As the shell passes from view, another sigh of relief comes from the spectators. "Hay" passes a grimy towel over his perspiring face.

"Whew! that was a ticklish moment," he said, solemnly. "I'd just as soon not handle any more defective shells."

Which exactly represented our sentiments.

Three minutes later Number Eight was barking away at the forts ashore, and the episode of the cartridge that missed fire was a thing of the past.

The bombardment of Santiago had now lasted over an hour. As yet not one of the American vessels had been reached by a shell, nor had the forts suffered any perceptible damage. The fleet, roaring and thundering, was swinging back and forth through the great semicircle, the smoke from the guns was banking along the beach, and from Morro Castle and its attending batteries came sharp, defiant answers to the interminable volleys fired by our squadron.

"It's a good thing Uncle Sam's shot locker is pretty capacious," remarked Flagg, as we shoved another cartridge into the yawning breech of our five-inch gun. "If we haven't fired over three hundred rounds since seven o'clock I can't count."

"It'll be double that before we get through," grunted "Long Tommy," as we stepped back from the loaded gun. "Steady, there. Stand by!"

A motion to "Hay," who held the firing lanyard, and almost instantly came the sharp, vicious report of the breechloader. Each man sprang back to his station, and the process of reloading went on without delay. The battle smoke from Number Six, which had filled our port for some time, cleared away just then, enabling us to see "Hay's" last shot strike squarely upon the outer line of earthworks of the Punta Gorda battery.

"Splendid shot, 'Hay'!" exclaimed our division officer, briefly.

"Bully, that's what it is—bully!" cried "Stump," patting the second captain upon the back.

"Hurray! it's knocked out a gun," reported "Dye," from nearer the port. "I saw the piece keel over backward."

There was no time for further comment. When a gun's crew is firing at will, and the excitement of combat has taken possession of the individual members, the task in hand requires all one's attention. We of Number Eight had suffered one delay, and we really felt that the lost time must be made up.

Personal impressions in battle have been described in prose and poem until the subject is hackneyed, but it may be of interest to note that the impressions experienced by the novices in naval warfare manning the "Yankee," during the bombardment of Santiago, consisted mainly of one feeling. It was well-voiced by "Hod," who said many days later:

"I felt just as I did one time when I attended Barnum's circus in Madison Square Garden. They had three rings, two platforms, a lot of tight-ropes and trapezes and other things all going at the same time. Before I had been in the place three minutes I was wishing for a hundred eyes. And that is the way I felt at Santiago."

What we saw of the bombardment was limited to the range of our gun port, but that little was worth all the hardships and toil and discomforts of the whole cruise. The spectacle of the fleet itself was almost enough. To see the great ships ploughing through the water, each enveloped in a shroud of smoke, shot here and there with tinges of ruddy flame; to see that mighty line swinging and swaying in front of the enemy; to see the shells land and explode in fort and battery; to see the great gaps torn in cliff and earthworks; to see the geyser-like fountains of water spout up here and there as the Spanish shells struck the surface of the bay—to see all this, and to hear the accompanying thunder and booming of the guns, was payment in full for coal handling and standing watch and "Government straight." Not one of the "Yankee" boys would have missed the spectacle for anything earth could offer.



During the second hour of the attack we were enabled to observe the work being done by other vessels of the fleet. Near us was the gallant "New Orleans," the ship purchased from Brazil. Her foreign build made it easy to distinguish her, and, as she was the only craft using smokeless powder, she presented a prominent mark. The guns on board the "New Orleans" were being served rapidly and with precision, and we saw a number of shots strike well within the limits of the batteries.

At our end of the line the flagship "New York," the "Iowa," and the "Oregon" were pouring an appalling fire into some new earthworks near Morro Castle. It was seen that but very few shots were sent in the direction of the latter, and it transpired that Admiral Sampson had issued strict orders to the fleet to avoid endangering Lieutenant Hobson and his brave companions, who were supposed to be imprisoned in old Morro. Before the end of the second hour the "New York" and the "New Orleans" had succeeded in completely silencing Cayo Battery, dismantling the guns and wrecking the outer fortifications.

At the other end of the line Admiral Schley's division was doing splendid work. We could see the "Massachusetts," "Brooklyn," and "Texas" move in toward shore and open fire at close range. It was a stirring sight, this mighty duel between warships and forts. As compared with the cliffs and hills of the land, the ships seemed veritable pigmies, but in this strife the pigmies were all powerful.

The guns of the fleet were working havoc in the forts ashore, and we could see the Spanish artillerymen abandon battery after battery. Cayo, Punta Gorda, Estrella, and Catalena were rapidly being vacated. The former was entirely out of the fight, and the others were replying only at intervals. Presently the "Massachusetts" and "Marblehead" advanced within two thousand yards of the Estrella fortification and began such a terrific firing that within a few minutes a great cloud of smoke appeared above the works. The Spanish guns became quiet at once, and a rousing cheer went up from the fleet.

"Hay," in his exuberance, wanted to send a five-inch shell from our gun at the burning fort, but the distance was too great and he was compelled to be content with a couple of well-aimed shots at the nearest battery.

"I wish we had thirteen-inch guns and the range was about ten feet," grumbled "Stump." "I'd like to smash the whole outfit in a pair of minutes. By Cricky! we have poured enough good old American steel into those forts to build a bridge across the Atlantic, but the dagoes are still giving us guff."

"It won't last much longer," said Tommy reassuringly. "From the looks of those batteries they haven't much fight left. I'll bet a hardtack against a prune we haul off at four bells."

"Licked?" queried Flagg.

"Nope."

"Will the Spaniards give up?" asked "Dye."

Tommy hesitated before replying. It was a brief lull and we were resting at the gun. The crew, grimy, dirty, battle-stained and tired, was glad to lean against the side of the deck or a convenient stanchion. Tommy's long service in the regular navy as apprentice and seaman made his opinions official, and we were always glad to listen to his explanations.

"Will the Spaniards give up?" repeated "Dye."

"Yes, and no," replied the first captain thoughtfully. "You see, it's this way. Those dagoes are not fools by any means. They have selected good places for their batteries, and they know earthworks are hard to destroy. They aren't like the old-style stone forts that could be knocked to pieces in no time. When a shell, even a thirteen-incher, hits a mound of earth it tears up the dirt and spoils the look of the parapet, but it really doesn't do much harm. To completely ruin an earthwork battery, you must dismantle every gun in it. And that's pretty hard to do. Mark my words, those fellows will give us a shot of defiance after we quit."