The sight of their danger and distress changed Wainwright from a pitiless foe to a helping friend. He manned his boats and went to the rescue of those still alive on the burning ship. Many were saved, and the Americans had hardly left the smoking ship when it blew up with a resounding roar, and vanished as had its companion. Just forty minutes they had lasted under the American fire, and without being at any time a serious menace to our ships.
The battle had now lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The Infanta Maria Teresa and the Oquendo were blazing on the beach with their colors struck. The battleship Indiana had been signalled to turn in toward the shore and give aid to the survivors on the burning ships. Only two Spanish vessels were left—the Vizcaya, running and fighting bravely in a hopeless struggle for life, and the Cristobal Colon, which was rushing at great speed down the coast to the westward. In the chase of these two vessels the Brooklyn held the place of honor. Her position on the blockade at the time that the enemy came out was a commanding one, and her speed kept her well to the front. At the beginning of the fight the Texas was next her. In this battle she developed marvellous speed, and fought with reckless gallantry. The Oregon was third at the start, but by a wonderful dash passed the Texas and actually caught up with the Brooklyn, whose tars turned out on deck to cheer her—the wonderful fighter from the Pacific coast dockyard. The Iowa was only a short distance in their rear, and the fire of the four was now concentrated upon the unhappy Vizcaya, which had escaped serious injury while the attention of the entire American fleet was given to the Oquendo and the Teresa, but now with four of the best fighting machines in the world devoting their entire attention to her, she began to go to pieces. The heavy shells and smaller projectiles that struck her made a great clangor, and caused her great frame to quiver. When an hour had passed the Brooklyn, Oregon, and Texas were the only ones still pursuing her. The Indiana had been left behind, and the Iowa had stopped to aid the burning and drowning men on the blazing warships. The fire of the three warships was concentrated on the Vizcaya. Word was passed to the turrets and tops of the Brooklyn to aim at the Vizcaya only. They were scarcely more than half a mile from her, and the effect of the shots began to tell. One of the Brooklyn gunners reported to the lieutenant who had charge of that turret that he didn't see any of the shots dropping into the water. "Well, that's all right," replied the officer; "if they don't drop into the water they are hitting." And so they were. The beautiful woodwork inside of the vessel was all in a blaze. The hull was pierced below the water line, the turrets were full of dead and wounded men, and the machinery was shattered. Captain Eulate, her commander, was a brave officer and a gentleman, but he found himself compelled to abandon the fight, so turned his ship's prow toward that rocky shore on which lay the wrecks of the Oquendo, the Teresa, and the Furor.
As the Vizcaya swung about, a shell from the Oregon struck her fairly in the stern. An enormous mass of steel, charged with explosives of frightful power, it rushed through the steel framework of the ship, shattering everything in its course, crashed into the boiler, and exploded. Words are powerless to describe the ruin that resulted. Men, guns, projectiles, ragged bits of steel and iron, splinters, and indescribable débris were hurled in every direction, while flames shot up from every part of the ship. A fierce fire raged between her decks, and those who were gazing at her from the decks of the American men-of-war could see what looked like a white line reaching from her bow to the water, which was in fact the naked men dropping one after another over the side to seek the cool relief of the ocean from the fiery torment they were enduring.
The Colon was now left alone, and was doing her utmost to escape. The men on our foremost pursuing ships soon perceived that there could be no hope of escape for her. Commodore Schley saw it, and began to lighten the strain on his men. They were called out on the superstructure to see what had been done by the guns of the fleet and to watch the chase. They came pouring out from the turrets, up from the engine rooms and magazines—stalwart fellows, smoke-begrimed and sweaty. Almost abeam they saw the Vizcaya with men dropping from every port. Far astern were the smoking wrecks of the Teresa and Oquendo, ahead on the right was the Colon, fleeing for her life, while the Brooklyn rushed after her relentlessly.
As the men crowded on along the decks and on the turret top, they suddenly and spontaneously sent up a cheer for Admiral Schley. The admiral, on the bridge above them, looked down upon them with moistened eyes. "They are the boys who did it," he said to one who stood beside him, and he spoke truly.
Then the men cheered the Oregon, which was coming up gallantly, and her men returned the cheer. Now all felt that even the last of Cervera's vessels was sure to be soon taken, and signals of a social and jocular character were exchanged. One from the Brooklyn suggested to the Oregon that she try one of her thirteen-inch guns on the chase. The great cannon flashed and roared from the forward turret, and the shell, which rushed past the Brooklyn with a noise like a railway train, fell short. On they rushed, the Oregon visibly gaining on the fastest ship of the Spanish navy; a battleship built for weight and solidity overhauling a cruiser built for speed! Another shell was sent, and fell so near the Colon that the captain seemed to read in it the death-warrant of his ship. He turned her toward the shore and beached her, hauling down his flag as she struck. Captain Cook went in a boat to take possession of the prize, his crew being ordered not to cheer or exult over the vanquished. The Colon surrendered at 1.10 P.M., ending a naval battle that lasted less than four hours, and possessed many extraordinary and unique qualities. It completed the wreck of Spanish naval power and dealt the decisive stroke that deprived Spain of her last remnant of American colonies. It was of absorbing interest to naval experts in all parts of the world, and it was unique in that while the defeated fleet lost six ships, more than six hundred men killed and drowned, and eighteen hundred prisoners, many of them wounded, the victors had but one man killed and one wounded.
No wonder that when the fight was over, the victory won—such a victory too—a Christian man, such as Captain Philip of the Texas, whose crew were cheering in a very delirium of joy, should call them about him, and, uncovering his head, say in a reverential tone: "I want to make public acknowledgment here that I believe in God the Father. I want you all to lift your hats and from your hearts offer silent thanks to the Almighty."
And truly they had abundant reason for great thankfulness, having escaped with so few casualties, while the foe suffered so terribly, scores of them being literally roasted alive, for the whole interior of the ships, Vizcaya, Oquendo, and Teresa became like iron furnaces at white heat. Even the decks were red hot, and the wounded burned where they lay. So crazed by the sight of the agony of men wounded and held fast by the jamming of gratings, were some of those otherwise unhurt, that they could hardly be induced to respond to efforts for their own rescue. They would cling to a ladder or the side of a scorching hot ship and have to be literally dragged away before they would loose their hold and drop into a boat below. Our sailors worked hard on blistering decks, amid piles of ammunition that were continually being exploded by the heat, and under guns that might at any minute send out a withering blast, risking life and limbs in succoring their defeated foes; for it is not too much to say that in that work of mercy the bluejackets encountered dangers quite as deadly as those they had met in the fury of battle.
The poor marksmanship of the Spaniards saved our ships from being much damaged. A good many shots struck: the Brooklyn bore in all some forty scars of the fight, twenty-five of them having been shells; but she was so slightly injured that she could have begun all over again when the Colon turned over on the shore. The Iowa was hit twice, the Texas three times, one shell smashing her chart-house and another making a hole in her smokestack. The injuries to the other ships were of even less importance.