But, as all American boys know, the Spaniard was mistaken. The American squadron under Commodore, afterward Admiral, George Dewey, was not defeated. Instead, it gained a most glorious victory, some of the particulars of which will be related in a volume to follow this, of which more later.
The news was staggering, and while we talked it over among ourselves, each of us was handcuffed, I being linked to Mr. Raymond, while my father was linked to Burnham. Captain Brownley and his first mate were also handcuffed, and the sailors were told to obey the Spanish captain’s orders or run the risk of being shot down.
The announcement that a naval battle had been fought in the Philippines seemed to worry Mr. Raymond a good deal. “I wonder if Oliver knows anything of this?” he half muttered.
“Oliver, who is he?” I asked.
“Oliver is my son,” answered the merchant. “He took a trip to China a year ago, and from there went to Manila, the principal city of the Philippines. I haven’t heard of him for a number of months now. He is perhaps a year older than you.”
“I never heard much of the Philippines,” I answered. “I know they are a good way off—somewhere between Australia, the Hawaiian Islands, and China. Do they belong to Spain?”
“Yes, but she is having as much trouble to hold them as she is having to hold Cuba.”
We were now ordered to keep silent, and compelled to march from the cabin of the Rosemary to the deck of the Spanish vessel. Here we were made to stand in a line, our weapons having previously been taken from us. The course of the sailing vessel had been eastward toward Cape Maysi, but now both craft were headed westward.
“I’ll wager we are bound for Santiago,” murmured Burnham, who stood beside me, and he was right, for in a little over an hour the narrow entrance to Santiago Bay came into view, with Morro Castle, a famous old fortress, standing high upon the rocks to the right.