Commodore Schley was on the afterbridge of the flagship. As the yelling broke loose, he smiled grimly. "Yes, they must be in there," he said to Captain Cook. "And if they are, they'll never get home." Prophetic words, as the events of just five weeks later proved.
Owing to the heavy swells of the ocean, the warships under the commodore's command had drifted somewhat apart, but now, when it was known definitely that Admiral Cervera's ships were in the harbor before them, the various craft were signalled to draw closer, until they lay within four to six miles of the entrance. This may seem a long way off to some of my readers, but it must be remembered that guns of the present day can carry as far as ten to twelve miles when put to it, and a destructive fire can be maintained at seven or eight miles.
The night that followed was a trying one, for no one knew but that Admiral Cervera's warships might come dashing out of the bay at any instant ready to do them deadly battle. The Brooklyn had long since been stripped for action, many articles of wood being thrown overboard, to avoid splinters when shot and shell began to fall. The small boats were covered with strong nets, also to keep splinters away, and everywhere throughout the ship the hoses were connected with the water-plugs, to be used in case of fire, and all water-tubs were kept filled for a like purpose. The magazines were kept open, and every gun, big and little, stood ready to be fired at the word of command. Even the wardroom tables were cleared off and covered with the sick-bay cloths, and the surgeons saw to it in a quiet way that their bandages, knives, and saws were ready to hand.
"Say, but that looks like war, eh?" whispered Paul, jerking his thumb in the direction of one of the improvised operating tables. "Gracious, it's enough to give a fellow a cold shiver."
"Then don't look that way, Paul," answered Walter. "As Si said, life here isn't expected to be a picnic. We may gain lots of glory, but we'll have to work for it,—and maybe suffer, too."
It was the 30th of May, Decoration Day, but no services of a special character were had, although the Civil War was talked of by a dozen veterans of both the North and the South, who were now standing once more shoulder to shoulder, as Washington, Jefferson, and a hundred other patriots of old had intended that they should stand, once and forever. "We're under the stars and stripes to stay," said one man who had worn the gray at Gettysburg. "Just let those Dons show themselves, and we'll lick 'em out of their boots." The man's name was Berkeley, and he was as good a soldier as he was a sailor, and wore both Union and Confederate medals for bravery.
Walter had just fallen into a light doze early in the morning when a dull booming awoke him with a start, and made him leap to his feet. "What is that—guns firing?" he asked.
"That's it, lad," came from Caleb. "The commodore is giving his defiance to the enemy, I reckon. There she goes again," he went on, as half a dozen sullen reports rolled over the water. "I just wish we were in this."
A Spanish warship, the Christobal Colon, had again showed herself at the entrance to Santiago Bay, and the Iowa, the Massachusetts, and the New Orleans, had been ordered to move to within seven thousand yards and open fire. Away they darted, and passed and re-passed the harbor entrance twice, firing as they sailed. What damage was done it was impossible to tell, but that the Colon was hit seemed very probable, for she soon disappeared. The shore batteries also took part, and sent one big shell directly over the Iowa, where it burst with a noise that was deafening, but without doing any damage.
"Gracious! what a racket!" exclaimed Walter, as he watched the bombardment from afar.