Five times the American fleet passed in front of the enemy, keeping up the same deadly fire, that showed only too well the results of American training and marksmanship. And though the Spanish guns in the ships and the forts ceased rattling not one instant, they neither disconcerted nor damaged in the least the Americans. It was now a quarter of eight, and so dense was the smoke hanging over the waters, that it was impossible for the Americans to distinguish not alone the enemy’s ships, but their own vessels, and the signals, too.
The Commodore Pipes All Hands to Breakfast.
The Commodore now wisely concluded to stop for awhile the fighting, and allow his men a chance to take some breakfast; for the brave fellows, after their morning’s hard work, were hungry as wolves; so the signal “cease firing” was given, and the ships were headed for the eastern side of the bay, near the transport ships.
It is related that the Spaniards were exceedingly relieved when they saw the Americans in—as they thought—full retreat, and many of them stood on the decks and cheered, thinking they had gained the victory.
When the various commanders came on board to report to Commodore Dewey, it was found that not a ship was disabled, not a gun out of order, not a man killed or injured. It is true, Frank B. Randall, the engineer of the McCulloch, died from heart-disease as the fleet steamed past Corregidor, but this was not in any wise due to the engagement. Many miraculous escapes, indeed, are related; and it is really wonderful that no serious casualties took place. The sailors, as may easily be imagined, were nearly wild with joy; and as all hands were piped to breakfast, the decks were gay with merry jackies improvising a dance of victory; while the strains of Yankee Doodle and the Star-Spangled Banner filled the morning air. Cheery was that breakfast, and sweet, ah, sweet was the three hours’ rest so nobly earned.
The Americans Renew the Battle.
At 10.45 the boatswains’ whistles and the drums announced the renewal of the battle. Instantly every man was at his post, eager to finish the job so well begun. Again the American squadron was headed to ward the enemy’s battle line; but several of the Spanish ships were now almost disabled, the Cristina and the Castilla were both on fire, and the Mindanao beached not far from Cavité.
Admiral Montojo had meanwhile transferred his flags to the Isla de Cuba; and the Baltimore, leaving the American line, made straight for his former flagship, which threw a torrent of shells toward the intrepid American. The Baltimore, however, notwithstanding that a few of these deadly missiles exploded on her deck, wounding eight of her crew, continued her course till within 2500 yards of her antagonist. Then from her decks she fired a broadside at the Spaniard. There was an ominous silence for a minute or two, and both Spaniards and Americans waited anxiously for the smoke to lift. Suddenly, all saw a sight that struck every man in both fleets with terror, for it seemed the probable fate of all. The Cristina shot into the air and then fell back upon the waves with a thunderous crash, while a thousand fragments of men and timbers—promiscuously mingled in awful confusion—were whirling through the air. Down into the waves she sank—that gallant man-of-war—the pride of the Spanish fleet—down into the deep blue sea. Upon the surface, amid tons of floating débris, a hundred sailors struggled for life; many sank to rise no more; some, however, succeeded in reaching one of the adjacent consorts.