Presently she heard the sentry’s shrill cry on the brow of the hill, “Twelve o’clock! All’s well!” The echo of his repeated call had scarcely died away when Marie thought she saw something dark on the water near the center of the channel, perhaps three miles away. She whispered to a member of the artillery corps, who sat near her watching the shadow of his pipe on the rock near the base of the cannon. They both looked. Surely! it’s Dewey! The artilleryman sent up a rocket as a warning. Marie took hurried aim. “Boom!” went her cannon, and from its mouth a seven-inch shot was hurled over the “Concord,” between its main and mizzen masts. It went a trifle high and did no harm.
The Hero of Manila Bay
“Bang!” went one of the port batteries on the “Raleigh” and before its flash was gone a shudder shot through every vein, every nerve and every fiber of Marie’s body. Such a crash she had never heard before. “War is hell” to be sure. She sniffed the smoke from her own gun, and looked around to see what had happened. The stone precipice behind her was torn into fragments. A man’s hand protruded from the debris. “My God!” she murmured. Yes, there was the evidence. The man who had sat by her side and who sent up the rocket, lay cold in death. His head was torn off and his body was mangled among the pieces of broken rock. The gunner on the “Raleigh” had done his work well; and Marie’s dream of American cowardice, of their poor marksmanship and of her ability to sink Dewey’s flag ship, were shattered in an instant. She had fired the FIRST gun of the war, but not the LAST!
Chapter III.
Avenged Her Lover’s Death
After Dewey’s fleet had passed the island and entered the bay, proper, Marie crept up to the top of the cliff and awaited the results. As she sat there shivering with fright, day began to dawn. Presently she heard the Spanish batteries on Point Cavite fire a heavy shot—then a second one; and a few minutes later she saw flames of fire and smoke belching forth from the starboard sides of Dewey’s entire squadron. Then the Spanish fleet, lying off of Point Cavite, commenced a united and simultaneous action.
Shells rent the air; the men on both fleets cheered as they beheld the effect on the enemy of a well-directed shot; smoke-begrimed gunners, with the perspiration washing light-colored furrows down their manly cheeks, stood at their guns and worked like demons as they swabbed their cannon and crowded into them shot after shot. Hissing projectiles that missed the opposing ships and plunged into the bay, were throwing volumes of splashing foam into the air. Dewey’s vessels were moving in a figure eight and using alternately the several guns on their port and on their starboard sides, while the Spanish ships moved about promiscuously among each other in an awkward fashion, over a small area, and fired only as an opportunity offered.