The booming of cannon kept up for several hours and then died away gradually, but a few days later the bombardment was continued. We now felt certain that a battle of some sort was on, and Mr. Raymond questioned the jailer.
“The Yankee pigs will be well whipped,” growled the fellow, and that was all we could get out of him.
Again the days lengthened into weeks, and nothing of importance happened—to us. But in the outside world great events were taking place. The entrance to Santiago Bay was being blockaded by the vessels under Sampson’s command, and an army of invasion was gathering at Tampa, Fla., to land on the southeastern coast of Cuba and attack Santiago from the rear. The army of invasion, under command of General Shafter, was sixteen thousand strong, and left Tampa in between thirty and forty transports.
A landing of the army was effected at Baiquiri and other points, and here General Shafter consulted with General Garcia, and it was decided that about three thousand Cuban troops should co-operate with the United States forces. Among the Cuban troops was the company commanded by Alano’s father; and my chum, let me add right here, was in the fight from start to finish.
The Spanish authorities now saw what the Americans were up to, and without delay Santiago was fortified from end to end. Every road leading from the city was barricaded with logs and earthworks, and barriers of barbed wire were strung in various directions. Thousands of Spanish troops had been gathered in the vicinity, and these were hurried to San Juan Hill, El Caney, and other points of vantage just outside of Santiago proper.
As the American forces advanced closer and closer to the city Admiral Cervera became anxious for the safety of his fleet. He knew that if Santiago was captured there would be nothing left for him to do but to try to escape from the bay, and that would mean to go forth and fight the American warships stationed on the blockade beyond Morro Castle.
One day the jailer came in evidently much depressed. We had expected the usual stew that day, but got only a chunk of dry bread. “And you are lucky to get even so much,” said the Spaniard, as he hurried out.
“Something has gone wrong,” remarked Mr. Raymond, as he translated the fellow’s words to me. “I begin to believe that Santiago is suffering some sort of an attack.”
He had hardly spoken when the dull booming of cannon broke once more on our ears. It was a strange sound, and I threw myself down on our straw bed to listen.