Aboard the Fern was that sturdy American hero, General Fitzhugh Lee.
Up to the last moment he had served the interests of the United States and her citizens as consul general at Havana.
Now, when the state of affairs there had become intolerable, General Lee had sailed on the Fern.
After indomitable efforts extending over several days, he had succeeded in shipping, as he believed, the last American in that danger-infested city.
Then, and not until then, had General Lee stepped aboard the Fern.
His coming had been the signal for the start. A moment later the little steamer’s prow was cutting the muddy, blood-stained waters of Havana harbor.
Close to the wreck of the United States’ once proud battleship Maine passed the Fern.
Standing on deck, General Lee and his immediate party had bared their heads in silent respect and grief for the two hundred and sixty-six sailors whom Spanish treachery had destroyed.
General Lee believed that he had succeeded in bringing the last American away.
He certainly had, so far as he knew. He had done his duty like an American.