Sunday morning, July 3d, was clear and beautiful. The cliffs of the harbor, and the old forts, made a fine show under the blue sky. The red and yellow flag of Spain floated, as usual, on top of Morro Castle. Far in the distance the mountain tops showed plainly—a dark line against the sky. The sea was smooth.
Our vessels were in place near the mouth of the harbor, though a few were missing. The Massachusetts and some smaller vessels had gone to Guantanamo for coal; the flagship New York had gone eastward to a place where Admiral Sampson could go ashore, for he wished to arrange plans with General Shafter. Commodore Schley had been left in charge of the fleet, and his flagship was the Brooklyn. It was at the western end of our half-circle of ships.
On Saturday evening, the night before, some of the men on board the Iowa saw a good deal of smoke rising within the harbor, and thought the Spanish ships might be getting ready to rush out. These men spoke to their captain about the smoke, but the captain thought that the Spaniards were only fixing their fires. The smoke seemed to him no thicker than it had often been before. The men on the deck could not help thinking about the smoke, and tried to ease their minds by making ready the signal, so that it could be run up instantly if the Spanish ships started out. But the night passed away, the signal was not needed, and the men concluded that the smoke really had meant nothing. They never dreamed that the Spaniards would come out in daytime. So it seemed likely that the day would pass quietly.
As it was Sunday, not much work was going on. By nine o'clock all the men were dressed in their white clothes, ready for the Sunday morning "inspection." Some of the officers were gloomy, for they had had news about the terrible losses in the Army during the last two days.
Suddenly, about half past nine, shouts are heard on some of the ships, and the signal flies up on the Iowa: "Enemy's ships are coming out," and a gun is fired from the Iowa, to attract the notice of all the fleet. Our ships, so still a moment before, are now full of life. Every man shouts to his neighbor, "They're coming out! they're coming out!" Men run in all directions to get to their posts; officers buckle on their swords; orders are quickly given. "Sound the general alarm!" "Clear ship for action!" "Bugles call to general quarters!" "Steam and pressure on the turrets!" "Hoist the battle-flags!" "Close the hatches!" "Full steam ahead!" "Turn on the current of the electric hoists!" "Get to your guns, lads!"
Our men are hurrahing and yelling with glad excitement. They throw off their white clothes, and tumble down the ladders, and throw themselves through the hatchways in their haste to obey orders. In less than three minutes every vessel is speeding along, and has obeyed the signal: "Open fire!"
There are the beautiful Spanish ships running at full speed, in a line, one behind the other, all their flags flying as if on a holiday parade. They are coming out of the channel and turning westward, firing fiercely on the Brooklyn, the nearest of our ships, while the forts on the cliffs fire on the rest of our fleet. First of the Spanish ships comes the Maria Teresa, carrying the flag of Admiral Cervera. The last two in the line are the torpedo-boat destroyers.
Our ships send forth a storm of fire; every instant the roar of our guns is heard, and the air is so filled with smoke that our men can hardly see their enemy.
Indeed, it is a wonder that our ships, all rushing toward the Spanish ships, do not crash into one another. And how can they help injuring one another with their guns? Ah, there is good management! Not one of the captains loses his wits—not one of the gunners mistakes a friend for a foe.
Now the Maria Teresa is on fire in different places, and turns in toward the shore. Great columns of flame shoot up as the big ship runs upon the beach and hauls down her flag as a sign of surrender. Now another Spanish ship is on fire from our guns, and runs ashore, hauling down her flag. She is as helpless as the Teresa. Not half an hour has passed since those two ships came out of the harbor, yet now, after running six or seven miles, they are ashore and in flames; most of their men are killed or wounded, the others are clinging to parts of the ships or jumping into the sea, though sharks are plainly seen in the water.