THE CRUISE OF A COMMERCE-DESTROYER.
BY YATES STIRLING, JUN.
The officer of the deck is pacing his last hour of a very dull forenoon watch upon the bridge of the U. S. S. Minneapolis. The tropical sun beats down with unflinching savageness upon his head; his eyes are restlessly scanning the horizon at every turn, but nothing has disturbed the monotony of its outline, as his sullen pacing bears witness. The sentries and men on lookout are at their stations, and are listlessly walking to and fro on the small patch of deck called their posts. Small knots of men are gathered together here and there on the spar-deck, under the shade of a boat or a gun-shield, spinning yarns or playing at sailor games. Some of the younger officers can be seen aft on the quarter-deck gazing fixedly over the wide expanse of ocean, as if they expected an enemy to rise up before them from the sea. Some of the more impulsive ones occasionally lift their voices in expostulation at the dull life they are leading, while others are seeing active service on fighting-ships. The great hull of the cruiser is slowly forging ahead in the quiet sea; her huge and powerful engines are barely turning over.
Like a picture in a kinetoscope, all this has changed. Every man on board has awakened from his lethargy. All hands are alert and gazing at the horizon to the eastward. What is the cause of this sudden awakening? Two words from the lookout in the foretop: "Sail ho!" Yes, broad on the port-bow can be seen a low line of black smoke that to any but a sailor's eye would appear to be a cloud on the distant horizon. Scarcely a quarter of an hour, and with all speed the cruiser is cutting the sea in the direction of the fast-approaching smoke.
Eager young officers have ascended into the tops to be the first to make out the character of the stranger. In the foretop are two midshipmen, still in their teens, class-mates at the Naval Academy, and stanch friends. Scarcely a thought has one the other does not share. With that reckless ambition that is one of the attributes of youth they are both longing for excitement. Their dreams of battle and glory have toppled like a castle of cards.
As yet the Minneapolis has seen no fighting; she has been doing the work cut out for her without bloodshed. Merchantman after merchantman has been overhauled and captured or ransomed in the last six months, and the cruiser's name has become the terror of the enemy's merchant marine.
Once only, while coming out of a neutral port, she had to run the gauntlet of two of the enemy's cruisers, but with her superior speed two hours sufficed to put the enemy hull-down astern, with but slight damage to the commerce-destroyer. Her orders were, on the outbreak of the war "to capture or destroy the enemy's commerce wherever met; refuse battle," and this order had been faithfully carried out. All hands had grown rich in prize-money; fresh provisions were obtained in abundance.
Coal was the problem. It had been attempted to coal at sea from captured vessels, but this mode could not be relied upon to replenish the bunkers of a ship with such a tremendous expenditure. So a certain amount of risk had to be run in coaling in neutral ports.
The Minneapolis and her two sister ships were the prizes coveted of all the enemy's cruisers. When the United States was building them other nations laughed at the idea, and put their dock-yards at work building ships of greater armament but less speed. But now they saw too late the awful advantage of these beautiful toys, as the foreign press were wont to call them, that could give or refuse battle at pleasure.
Ship after ship of the enemy's navy was in search of these "freebooters," but very few had even had the honor of coming within signal distance. One of these was the Whistle, a cruiser of a little heavier armament, but several knots less speed. The Minneapolis was in the port of St. Thomas, coaling, when this warlike hull hove in sight. Very little time was lost in putting to sea, but not before two or three shots had been exchanged, and some very taunting signals had been displayed by the disappointed ship.
All the officers and men would gladly have accepted battle, with but small fear of the result, but each and every one knew what awful odds would be on the Whistle's side. America had but a few handfuls of ships; if these were pitted against the navy of the enemy, they would be overwhelmed, annihilated. No; the quickest way to humble the foe is through her commerce. So the bitter pill had to be swallowed in silence. But the mere thought of the occurrence brought a hot flush to the cheek of every man aboard.
The stranger has drawn near, and is soon made out to be a merchantman, an ocean liner, one of the greyhounds that had plied between New York and Harborport before the outbreak of hostilities. Large volumes of black smoke from her immense smoke-pipes show she has scented danger, and is making all speed to escape.
The young officers in the foretop are thrilled with excitement as their glass shows them the character of the stranger. The younger is a boy of eighteen, his light hair and blue eyes betokening his Saxon ancestry. He is clad in a neat-fitting blue uniform, and his cap set jauntily on the back of his head revealed a mass of light curly locks. With his eyes fairly sparkling, he bears a striking contrast to his companion. Dark and sullen, with lowering eyes and heavy forehead, the other showed not by a single sign that he realizes that in a short time the first and long-cherished battle of his life will be enacted.
The younger lad has dreamed of battles both in his sleep and his waking moments, in which he has cut his way with his sword to honor and distinction. He has oftentimes pictured his friends, his mother, and his sweetheart reading of his heroic deeds in the daily papers of his home, and now it seems to his youthful mind his dreams are to be fulfilled.
As his glass scans the stranger he realizes that in the eyes of naval experts the stranger is nearly equal to the Minneapolis in fighting qualities. He knows that these fast ships have been subsidized by the hostile government, and are heavily armed and protected. His dreams fairly dance before his eyes. But another picture flashes across his mental vision. He is on the battery-deck; the decks are wet and slippery with blood; the terribly mangled dead and wounded are lying all about him; he sees brave men struck down around. A cold shiver runs through his well-knit frame as he shakes from him the ghastly nightmare.
The other lad is not a dreamer. Morose, almost cynical, he never gives himself up to such reveries. To him everything appears in a less gilded light. He knows that if the stranger has not superior speed, his services and his companion's will soon be needed on the deck below.
The two lads scramble down through the hollow mast as the drummers are beating the long-roll to quarters. All during the hot sultry day the chase continues, and when night settles down on the watery waste the Minneapolis is still out of gun-shot astern. The night is bright, and when morning dawns the blood-hound is still upon the trail. The crew of the 8-inch breech-loading rifle on the forecastle is called to quarters, and a shell is sent speeding over the water in the direction of the fleeing ship. Slowly the distance diminishes. Suddenly a white cloud of smoke bursts from the liner, and a heavy shell strikes close aboard the American ship.
All hands are soon at their stations, and in a short time all is in readiness for battle. The stars and stripes at her trucks flaunt a challenge to the enemy's ensign at the Calabria's gaff.
The two ships are now within battle range, and the thunder of their heavy ordnance breaks the stillness of the ocean.
Shells go speeding through the unarmored sides of the ships, their explosions making terrific havoc among their unprotected crews. The picture before the midshipman's eyes is now a reality. Tirelessly the two lads work; their guns are next to each other. As they give their commands in sharp decisive voices, the contrast seems less striking. A shell comes in the gun-port and strikes down the captain of the younger lad's gun; the lock-string falls from his lifeless hand. Gently laying the dead man aside, he takes the lanyard.
As he stood at his gun before the heat of action, he was seized with an awful trembling, and he feared lest he might show by his actions the white feather to his men. Then came the bursting of shells and the explosion of discharges, and then the shell striking down his gun-captain, spluttering his life-blood all about him. At once his fears left him, his eyes brightened, and a terrible anger awoke in him, the like of which he had never known. He fired his gun at the enemy with a fierce exultancy, wondering in a cruel way how many lives the shell had cut down. It seems ages since the battle started. With his eyes always on the enemy, he is spared from seeing his friend, struck by a flying splinter, being carried below to the surgeons. He sees the Calabria, her sides ablaze with fire, sweep majestically across his small horizon, and then disappear. He is always aware of her awful presence from the never-ceasing bursting of her shells around him. Then again she appears, and is once more in his angle of fire. During this small space of time his gun has done all that could be expected; he has watched shell after shell from it explode aboard the enemy; he can see large rents in her black hull, and he notices her fire is becoming more desultory; the fight will soon be over. As she disappears again, he musters up courage to look about him. There is but little life on the battery-deck, that only a half-hour before was the scene of so much activity. The gun next his is not in action; a shell has completely shattered the breech-plug; nearly its entire crew are lying about on the deck, their dark life-blood staining the white planking. His companion's cap is lying near a dark mass on the deck. Is it his blood? His senses are so paralyzed that he feels his mind must give way. The enemy emerges into view; his hand is upon the lock-string; the elevator and trainer are attentively watching for their orders. They do not come. His thoughts are far away in the midst of a modest New England home. He sees a beautiful motherly woman, her face pale and anxious, and by her side is a young girl in the first blush of womanhood.
He is suddenly conscious of a young seaman standing before him, giving him a message. In a dazed way he relinquishes his lock-string to one of his gunners, and is making his way over the reeking deck toward the bridge. He hears a voice, as if in a dream, giving him orders to be ready to board the prize. Then the enemy has surrendered? His gaze seeks the other ship. But a short distance away he sees her shattered hull rolling in the smooth sea. A huge white flag flutters from her signal-halyards. The boats are ready and alongside. The men are embarking. He takes his place, and they shove off, and are soon scaling the side of the captured vessel. Her decks are almost deserted, scarcely a living man is about, but everywhere death and destruction reign. He hears a well-known voice close to him. Has the last hour been an awful nightmare, or has his mind been shaken at last? He cannot grasp the situation. There is his friend, looking paler than ever, his right arm in splints, and his head tied up in a huge bandage. His joy knows no bounds. With a fervent "Thank Heaven!" they embrace. There is no time now for explanations; it is enough to know that his companion is still alive. With orders from his Lieutenant, he is leading, pistol in hand, a gang of tars down into the Calabria's bowels. The surprised firemen and stokers are quickly manacled, and ready Americans have taken their places. An engineer officer is giving rapid orders to his men; the huge engines start ahead, slowly at first, then the revolutions increase, till the shafts are revolving at a terrific speed. When he again reaches the deck everything is again calm and peaceful. On the port quarter, but a short distance away, he sees the Minneapolis. Both ships are going at full speed; and astern, just out of gun-shot, he sees the hulls of three more ships. He understands it all now. The Calabria had nearly led them into a trap.
A red wigwag flag is waving on board the white cruiser: "Must reduce speed in order to reach port." Coal is running short. The horribly significant signal can hardly be realized. Will she fall a prey to the enemy's cruisers after such a glorious victory? Foot by foot the hostile ships draw nearer to the commerce-destroyer and her prize. In case they are overtaken, the Calabria is to go on and reach Hampton Roads in safety. It is the only thing to do. Why sacrifice another ship unnecessarily? For two days and nights the pursuit continues. Cape Henry Light-house is sighted on the port bow. Just within gun-shot astern are the three heavily armed cruisers, using their bow chasers with great rapidity and precision on the fleeing ships. Large volumes of brown smoke pour from the American cruiser's smoke-pipes. She is making her last spurt for life. Bulkheads, furniture, and all combustible material have been fed to the mighty furnaces.
Slowly they draw away from their pursuers. The light-house is close on the port beam. The heavy guns there are directed against three dark hulls to the eastward. They are the baffled enemy.
There is a story told of an Irishman who went out in the woods to shoot a bear. It was winter-time, and the Irishman wanted a fur coat very badly. When he finally sighted his bear he cried out, "Ah, there is my fur overcoat!" The bear was very hungry, and when he saw the hunter, he cried out, "Ah, there is my meal!" Well, the hunter fired his rifle and the bear jumped behind the tree. Now, the amusing part of the story is, that the hunter fired his rifle and didn't hit the bear; still he got the fur of the bear for an overcoat because the bear ate the hunter. Which of the two was the better satisfied is still in doubt.