“Ah, Mr. Raymond, glad to see you!” said Captain Brownley, a bluff New Englander, as he extended his hand. “A fine night to come on board.” And then he turned to us and we were introduced.
The Rosemary was bound for Philadelphia, but would not sail for three days. She was under strict Spanish watch, so it was necessary for us to keep out of sight. We were locked in a stateroom, but made as comfortable as circumstances permitted.
From time to time during the three days the captain came to us with various bits of news. One was to the effect that the Spanish detachment which had had my father and Mr. Raymond in charge had reported a conflict with a Cuban force fifty or sixty strong. Another was that the United States had declared war upon Spain and was going to bombard Havana.
“I wonder if it is true that we are to fight Spain?” I said to Burnham. “What do you think?”
“We ought to fight Spain,” answered the newspaper man. “Cuba deserves her freedom, and if she can’t help herself against Spanish imposition and brutality we ought to give her a friendly hand.”
We talked the matter over at some length; but neither of us knew the truth—that war was really declared, and that not Havana, but Santiago, was to be attacked by the time the year was half over.
At last came the hour when the ship’s anchors were hove apeak and the sails were set. We sailed at high noon, and, having a good wind, soon passed outside of Guantanamo Bay, which, as my readers may know, is situated but a few miles to the eastward of Santiago Bay.
“Free at last!” cried my father, as he came on deck to get the fresh air. “I must say I am not sorry to leave Cuba—since the times have grown so troublesome.”
He had scarcely spoken when a small Spanish revenue cutter hove in sight, steaming down the coast evidently from Santiago Bay. While Captain Brownley was examining the craft, there was a flash of fire, and a dull boom sounded over the water.