“On to Manila!” was my answer. “Ding the torpedoes—go ahead! Give us Spaniards or give us death!”
These words inspired every ship in the line, and we immediately strained forward, except the McCulloch, which I despatched at once to Hong-kong to cable my last words to you in time for the Adirondack edition of your Sunday issue leaving New York Thursday afternoon.
The rest of us immediately proceeded. In a short while, taking advantage of the darkness for which I had provided by turning the clock back so that the sun by rising at the usual hour should not disclose our presence, we turned Corregidor and headed up the Boca Grande towards Manila. As we were turning Corregidor the telephone-bell rang, and somebody who refused to give his name, but stating that he was aboard the Petrel, called me up.
“Hello!” said I.
“Is this Dewey?” said the Petrel.
“Yes,” said I.
“There are torpedoes ahead,” said the Petrel.
“What of it?” said I.
“How shall we treat ’em?”
“Blow ’em off—to soda water,” I answered, sarcastically.