We pictured to ourselves the gray mountain massed high about the narrow entrance of Santiago Bay, the picturesque Morro Castle, squatting like a grim giant above the strait, and outside, tossing and bobbing upon the swell of a restless sea, the mighty semicircle of drab ships waiting, yearning for the outcoming of the Dons. We of the "Yankee," I repeat, were in an agony of dread that we would arrive too late.
Cape Maysi, the scene of many an adventurous filibustering expedition, was passed at high noon, and at eight bells in the evening the anchor was dropped off Mole St. Nicholas, a convenient port in the island of Hayti. As we steamed into the harbor we passed close to the auxiliary cruiser "St. Louis."
The anchor was scarcely on the bottom when the gig was called away. We awaited the return of Captain Brownson with impatience. The news he brought was reassuring, however. Nothing of moment had occurred since our departure from New York. Within an hour we were again out at sea, this time en route to Santiago.
There was little sleep on board that night, and when morning dawned, every man who could escape from below was on deck watching, waiting for the first glimpse of Admiral Sampson's fleet. Shortly after daylight, the squadron was sighted. The scene was picturesque in the extreme.
The gray of early dawn was just giving way before the first rays of a tropical sun. Almost hidden in the mist hovering about the coast were a number of vague spots seemingly arranged in a semicircle, the base of which was the green-covered tableland fronting Santiago. The spots were tossing idly upon a restless sea, and, as the sun rose higher, each gradually assumed the shape of a marine engine of war. Beyond them was a stretch of sandy, surf-beaten coast, and directly fronting the centre ship could be seen a narrow cleft in the hill—the gateway leading to the ancient city of Santiago de Cuba.
As we steamed in closer to the fleet we saw indications that something of importance had occurred or was about to occur. Steam launches and torpedo boats were dashing about between the ships, strings of parti-colored bunting flaunted from the signal halliards of the flagship "New York," and nearer shore could be seen one of the smaller cruisers evidently making a reconnaissance.
"We are just in time, Russ," exclaimed "Stump," jubilantly. "The fleet is getting ready for a scrap. And we'll be right in it."
I edged toward the bridge. The first news would come from that quarter. Several minutes later, Captain Brownson, who had been watching the signals with a powerful glass, closed the instrument with a snap, and cried out to the executive officer:
"Hubbard, you will never believe it."
"What's happened?"