"Was it a Spanish fleet?" queried "Hay."
"They are not certain. The skipper now thinks that it was a convoy of transports bringing the army of occupation. He didn't stop to find out, though. Say, you fellows look tired. Why don't you 'pipe down'?"
He scurried off with a laugh, and we were just settling back for another siege of it when the welcome order came to "secure." The order was executed in a jiffy, and then those who had the off watch piled into their hammocks with a celerity seldom equalled. Santiago was reached early the following morning, and before the day was over we heard that our neighbors of the night before were, as the captain had suspected, a fleet of transports bringing troops from the United States.
"Which doesn't alter the fact that we displayed wisdom in taking a 'sneak,'" commented Tommy, grimly. "It's a clever chief who knows when to retreat."
The great gray ships still tossed idly on the rolling blue sea when we took our station at the right of the line.
It seemed more like a panorama, arranged for the amusement of an admiring crowd, than a fleet of floating forts ready at a moment's notice to pour out death and destruction.
The flagship "New York," gay with signal bunting, was the centre of a fleet of launches and small boats. The boats' crews, in white duck, lounged in their places, while the captains were aboard conferring with the admiral.
The torpedo boat "Porter" flashed in and out between the grim battleships in an almost playful way.
A signal boy on the "Brooklyn" held a long wigwag conversation with the flagship, the bit of bright color showing sharply against the lead-colored turret.
It was hard to realize that only a few days ago these same ships, that now rested so calmly and majestically, were enveloped in clouds of smoke, their great guns spitting forth fire and a fearful hail of steel.