I mention this merely to indicate to your readers that I felt myself in a position of extreme peril, and did not forget my obligations to my family. It is a small matter, but if you will search the pages of history you will see that in the midst of the greatest dangers the greatest heroes have thought of apparently insignificant details.
At this precise moment we came in sight of the fortresses of Manila. Signalling the Raleigh to heave to, I left the flag-ship and jumped aboard the cruiser, where I discharged with my own hand the after-forecastle four-inch gun. The shot struck Corregidor, and, glancing off, as I had designed, caromed on the smoke-stack of the Reina Cristina, the flag-ship of Admiral Montojo. The Admiral, unaccustomed to such treatment, immediately got out of bed, and, putting on his pajamas, appeared on the bridge.
“Who smoked our struck-stack?” he demanded, in broken English.
“The enemy,” cried his crew, with some nervousness. I was listening to their words through the megaphone.
“Then let her sink,” said he, clutching his brow sadly with his clinched fist. “Far be it from me to stay afloat in Manila Bay on the 1st of May, and so cast discredit on history!”
The Reina Cristina immediately sank, according to the orders of the Admiral, and I turned my attention to the Don Juan de Austria. Rowing across the raging channel to the Baltimore, I boarded her and pulled the lanyard of the port boom forty-two. The discharge was terrific.
“What has happened?” I asked, coolly, as the explosion exploded. “Did we hit her?”