Fighting in Cuban waters
by Edward Stratemeyer · English · Gutenberg #34306 · 384,130 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Fighting in Cuban waters
or, Under Schley on the Brooklyn
Author: Edward Stratemeyer
Illustrator: A. B. Shute
Release date: November 13, 2010 [eBook #34306]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34306
Credits: Produced by Curtis Weyant, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS ***
Produced by Curtis Weyant, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS
OR
UNDER SCHLEY ON THE BROOKLYN
Old Glory Series
BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER
AUTHOR OF "UNDER DEWEY AT MANILA" "A YOUNG VOLUNTEER IN CUBA" "RICHARD
DARE'S VENTURE" "OLIVER BRIGHT'S SEARCH" "TO ALASKA FOR GOLD" ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
A. B. SHUTE
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY LEE AND SHEPARD.
_All Rights Reserved._
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
[Illustration: "THE FLAGSHIP BEGAN THE FIRING."]
PREFACE
"FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS," although a complete story in itself, forms
the third volume of the "Old Glory Series," tales depicting the various
campaigns in our late war with Spain.
In "Under Dewey at Manila" we followed Larry Russell's adventures on
board of the flagship _Olympia_ during the memorable contest off Cavite;
in "A Young Volunteer in Cuba" we marched and fought with Ben Russell in
that notable campaign leading up to the surrender of Santiago; and in
the present volume are narrated the haps and mishaps of Walter Russell,
who joins Commodore Schley's flagship, the _Brooklyn_, and sails with
the Flying Squadron from Hampton Roads to Key West, thence to
Cienfuegos, and at last succeeds in "bottling up" Admiral Cervera's
fleet in Santiago Bay. The long blockade and the various bombardments
are described, and then follow the particulars of that masterly battle
on the part of the North Atlantic Squadron which led to the total
destruction of the Spanish warships.
Walter Russell's bravery may seem overdrawn, but such is far from being
a fact. That our sailors were heroes in those days we have but to
remember the sinking of the _Merrimac_, the _Winslow_ affair, and a
score of deeds of equal daring. "The hour makes the man," and the
opportunity likewise makes the hero. Walter was brave, but he was no
more so than hundreds of others who stood ready to lay down their lives
in the cause of humanity and for the honor of Old Glory. Like his two
brothers, his religious belief was of the practical kind, and he went
into battle convinced that so long as he did his duty according to the
dictates of his conscience, an all-wise and all-powerful Providence
would guide him and watch over him.
The author cannot refrain from saying a word about the historical
portions of the present work. They have been gleaned from the best
available authorities, including the reports of Admiral Sampson,
Commodore Schley, and a number of captains who took part in the contest;
also the personal narratives of one man who was on board the _Merrimac_
at the time that craft was sunk, and of a number who have made the
_Brooklyn_ their home for several years past, and who will probably
remain on the pride of the Flying Squadron for some time to come.
In presenting this third volume, the author begs to thank both critics
and the public for the cordial reception accorded to the previous
volumes, and trusts that the present story will meet with equal
commendation.
EDWARD STRATEMEYER.
NEWARK, N.J.,
March 1, 1899.
CONTENTS
I. WALTER DETERMINES TO ENTER THE NAVY
II. A VISIT TO THE NAVY-YARD
III. A CHASE AND ITS RESULT
IV. ON THE WAY TO THE "BROOKLYN"
V. SOMETHING ABOUT WAR AND PRIZE MONEY
VI. A GLIMPSE OF THE PRESIDENT
VII. A TALK ABOUT SPANISH SAILORS
VIII. THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
IX. COMMODORE WINFIELD SCOTT SCHLEY
X. WALTER SHOWS HIS PLUCK
XI. THE SAILING OF THE FLYING SQUADRON
XII. AN ADVENTURE OFF CHARLESTON
XIII. IN WHICH THE GOLD PIECE COMES TO LIGHT
XIV. KEY WEST, AND THE LAST OF JIM HASKETT
XV. FROM CIENFUEGOS TO SANTIAGO BAY
XVI. THE FINDING OF ADMIRAL CERVERA'S FLEET
XVII. IN WHICH THE "MERRIMAC" IS SUNK
XVIII. WALTER'S ADVENTURE ON SHORE
XIX. CARLOS, THE REBEL SPY
XX. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
XXI. THE FLIGHT TO THE SEACOAST
XXII. THE LANDING OF THE MARINES AT GUANTANAMO
XXIII. IN A SPANISH PRISON
XXIV. BACK TO THE "BROOKLYN" AGAIN
XXV. THE BOMBARDMENT OF THE SANTIAGO BATTERIES
XXVI. IN WHICH THE ARMY OF INVASION ARRIVES
XXVII. THE SPANISH FLEET AND ITS COMMANDER
XXVIII. "THE ENEMY IS ESCAPING!"
XXIX. THE DESTRUCTION OF THE SPANISH FLEET
XXX. FINAL SCENES OF THE GREAT FIGHT
XXXI. TOGETHER ONCE MORE--CONCLUSION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The flagship began the firing"
"He bent over Walter again"
"The President bowed in return"
"'See here, I want to talk to you!'"
"'I'll get square on all of you!'"
"With a final lurch the _Merrimac_ went down"
"'Surrender, or I'll shoot you where you stand!'"
"Rammer in hand, Walter edged close to the muzzle"
FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS
CHAPTER I
WALTER DETERMINES TO ENTER THE NAVY
"Well, Walter, I suppose the newspapers are going like hot cakes this
morning."
"They are, Mr. Newell. Everybody wants the news. I ran out of 'Globes'
and 'Heralds' before seven o'clock, and sent Dan down for fifty more of
each."
"That was right. It's a windfall for us newsdealers, as well as a
glorious victory to match. It makes me think of my old war days, when I
was aboard of the _Carondelet_ under Captain Walke. We didn't sink so
many ships as Dewey has at Manila, but we sank some, and smashed many a
shore battery in the bargain, along the banks of the Mississippi. What
does that extra have to say?" and Phil Newell, the one-legged civil-war
naval veteran, who was also proprietor of the news-stand, took the
sheet which Walter Russell, his clerk, handed out.
"There is not much additional news as yet," answered Walter. "One of the
sensational papers has it that Dewey is now bombarding Manila, but the
news is not confirmed. But it is true that our squadron sunk every one
of the Spanish warships,--and that, I reckon, is enough for one
victory."
"True, my lad, true; but there is nothing like keeping at 'em, when you
have 'em on the run. That is the way we did down South. Perhaps Dewey is
waiting for additional instructions from Washington. I hope he didn't
suffer much of a loss. Some papers say he came off scot free, but that
seems too good to be true."
"The news makes me feel more than ever like enlisting," continued the
boy, after a pause, during which he served out half a dozen newspapers
to as many customers. "What a glorious thing it must be to fight like
that and come out on top!"
"Glorious doesn't express it, Walter. Why, if it wasn't for this game
leg of mine, and my age being against me, I'd go over to the navy-yard
to-day and reenlist, keelhaul me if I wouldn't!"
"But what of the stand?"
"The stand could take care of itself--until the Dons were given the
thrashing they deserve for making the Cubans suffer beyond all reason."
Phil Newell threw back his head and gave a laugh. "That puts me in mind
of something that happened when the Civil War started. A young lawyer in
New York locked up his office and pasted a notice on his door: 'Gone to
the front. Will be back when the war is over.' I'd have to put up
something similar, wouldn't I?"
"I wish you and I could go together, Mr. Newell."
"So do I, Walter, but I'm over sixty now, and they want young blood. By
the way, what of that brother of yours down in New York?"
"Ben has joined the militia of that State, and is now at Camp Black
waiting to be sworn into the United States service. I wish he had come
on to Boston."
"Well, Uncle Sam wants soldiers as well as sailors, or he wouldn't call
for a hundred and twenty-five thousand volunteers. But give me the deck
or gun-room of a warship every time. Nothing finer in the world. I
served for nearly ten years, and I know."
Walter smiled, and then waited on several additional customers. "My
youngest brother, Larry, takes to the ocean," he answered. "He is out on
the Pacific now, somewhere between the Hawaiian Islands and Hong Kong.
He was always crazy for a boat when we were at home in Buffalo together,
and spent all his spare time on Lake Erie."
"Going to Hong Kong, eh? That's not so far from the Philippines. It is a
pity he is not with Commodore Dewey. It would be a feather in his cap
when he got home."
A steady stream of customers for five minutes broke off the conversation
at this point, and throwing down his newspaper, Phil Newell--he never
wanted to be called Philip--entered the stand to help his young
assistant. The stand was situated in the heart of Boston, just outside
of one of the leading hotels, and trade at this hour in the morning,
eight o'clock, was always brisk.
When there came a lull later on, Walter turned again to his employer.
"Mr. Newell, what if I do enlist? Can you spare me?" he questioned.
"What! do you really mean it, Walter?"
"I do, sir. As you know, I've been thinking the matter over ever since
this war with Spain started."
"But you've got to have your guardian's consent, or they won't take
you."
"I've got it in my pocket now. I wrote to him last week, and he answered
that, as Ben had already joined the soldiers, I could do as I pleased,
but I mustn't blame him if I was killed."
"Which you wouldn't be likely to do, if you were killed dead, so to
speak," laughed Phil Newell. Then he slapped Walter on the back, for
twenty odd years on land had not taken his "sea-dog" manners from him.
"Enlist, my lad, enlist by all means, if you feel it your duty. Of
course I don't like to lose such a handy clerk, but Uncle Sam can have
you and welcome."
"Didn't you say there was a young man named Gimpwell looking for this
position?"
"Yes, and he wants it badly, for he has a sick sister to support."
"Has he any experience?"
"Oh, yes; he tended a railroad stand for several years."
"Then, perhaps you could break him in without much trouble--if I went
away."
"Do you want to go at once?"
"If I am to enlist, then it seems to me the quicker the better. I see by
the papers that some of our warships are still at Hampton Roads and Key
West, but there is no telling when they will start for Cuban waters.
Besides, I've been thinking that if I could manage it, I should like to
get aboard of the _Brooklyn_, the flagship of Commodore Schley's Flying
Squadron, which is now at Hampton Roads awaiting orders."
"It's not so easy to pick your ship, my lad. However, if you wish, you
can go over to the navy-yard this afternoon and see what you can
do,--and I'll go along and leave Dan in charge here," concluded Phil
Newell.
Walter Russell was one of three brothers, of whom Ben was the eldest and
Larry the youngest. Their home had been in Buffalo, where at the death
of their mother, a widow, they had been turned over to the care of their
step-uncle, Mr. Job Dowling, an eccentric old bachelor, whose prime
object in life was to hoard up money.
In the two volumes previous to this, entitled respectively, "Under Dewey
at Manila," and "A Young Volunteer in Cuba," I related how the boys
found it impossible to remain under Job Dowling's roof, and how they ran
away, each to seek fortune as he might find it. Larry drifted first to
San Francisco and then to Honolulu, the principal city of the Hawaiian
Islands, where he shipped on a vessel bound for Hong Kong. From this
ship he was cast overboard with a Yankee friend named Luke Striker, and
both were picked up by the flagship _Olympia_ of the Asiatic Squadron
and taken to Manila Bay, there to serve most gallantly under the naval
commander whose name has since become a household word everywhere. As
Walter had intimated, Larry was a sailor by nature, and it was likely
that he would follow the sea as long as he lived.
Ben and Walter had gone eastward, but at Middletown, in New York State,
they had separated, Walter to drift to Boston, and Ben to make his way
to New York. At the latter city the eldest of the Russell brothers had
secured employment in a hardware establishment, but this place was
burned out, and then Ben enlisted in the 71st Regiment of New York,
while his intimate friend, Gilbert Pennington, joined Roosevelt's Rough
Riders, and both went to Cuba, there to fight valorously in that
campaign which led to the surrender of Santiago and caused Spain to sue
for peace.
As Walter had written to Larry, the recital of the former's adventures
in getting from Middletown to Boston would fill a volume. He had stolen
a ride on the cars from Middletown to Albany, and during this wild trip
his hat blew off and was not recovered. He was put off the train just
outside of the capital city; and, stopping at a farmhouse to inquire the
way, had his clothing torn by a bull-dog that was more than anxious to
get at what was beneath the garments. Walter hardly knew what to do,
when a tramp put in an appearance, and sent a well-directed stone at the
dog's head, causing the beast to slink away. The tramp introduced
himself as Raymond Cass, a bricklayer, out of luck, and bound for Boston
on foot. He proposed that they journey together, and Walter rather
hesitatingly consented. They moved eastward in company for two days,
when, on awakening one morning, Walter found Raymond Cass missing. The
boy's coat was also gone, and with it his entire capital,--forty-seven
cents.
The pair had made their bed in the haymow of a large barn, and while
Walter was searching for the tramp, the owner of the place came up and
demanded to know what the youth was doing on his premises. Walter's tale
was soon told, and Farmer Hardell agreed to give him a week's work in
his dairy, one of the dairymen being sick. For this Walter received four
dollars, and an old hat and a coat in addition.
Leaving Cornberry, the name of the hamlet, Walter had struck out once
more for Boston, but this time steering clear of all tramps, of the
Raymond Cass type or otherwise. He was sparing of his money, and the
first day out earned his dinner and a packed-up lunch for supper, by
putting in two panes of glass for an old lady who had waited for a week
for a travelling glazier to come around and do the job. In addition to
this, the lad worked for two days at a village blacksmith's
establishment during the absence of the regular helper who had gone to
his aunt's funeral in another place, and also found a regular position
with a florist, who had a number of large greenhouses up the Charles
River. Walter was not used to working where there was so much glass, and
on the third day he allowed a step-ladder he was using to slip. The
ladder crashed through several hot-bed frames, and poor Walter was
discharged on the spot, without a cent of pay.
The boy's next move had been to the river, where he had obtained a
position on a freight steamboat. His duty was to truck freight on and
off, and the work blistered his hands and gave him many a backache. But
he stuck to it for two weeks, thereby earning fourteen dollars, and with
this capital entered Boston.
Walter had not expected an easy time finding a situation in the Hub, but
neither had he anticipated the repeated failures that one after another
stared him in the face. For over a week he tramped up and down, without
so much as a "smell of an opening," as he afterwards wrote to his
brothers. In the meanwhile his money diminished rapidly, until more than
two-thirds of it was gone.
A deed of kindness had obtained for him the position with Phil Newell.
Chancing to walk along School Street one afternoon, he had seen two boys
beating a small boy unmercifully. The small boy had turned into Province
Street, and the big boys had followed, and here they had thrown the
little fellow down, and were on the point of kicking him, when Walter
rushed up and flung both back. "You brutes, to attack such a small boy!"
he had cried. "Clear out, or I'll call a policeman, and have you both
locked up."
"We told him to keep back at de newspaper office," growled one of the
big fellows. "Do it again, Dan Brown, and we'll give it to you worse,"
and then as Walter advanced once more, both took to their heels and
disappeared.
Dan Brown had been very grateful, and questionings had elicited the
information that the lad worked for Phil Newell, as a paper carrier and
to do errands. "His regular clerk, Dick Borden, left yesterday," Dan had
continued; "perhaps you can get the job." And Walter had lost no time in
following the small youth to Newell's place of business. Here Dan's
story was told, and the lad put in a good word for Walter, with the
result that the youth was taken for a week on trial. How well Walter
pleased the old naval veteran we have already seen. He had now occupied
the place as head clerk for nearly two months, and his salary had been
increased from four dollars a week to six. He boarded with Dan's mother,
in a little suite of rooms on a modest side street, not a great
distance from the Common.
It must not be supposed that Job Dowling, who held a good deal of money
in trust for the boys, had allowed them to run off without making an
effort to bring them back. Larry was out of his reach, but Ben and
Walter were not, and the miserly man had descended upon Ben in New York
and tried his best to "make things warm," as Ben had mentioned in a
letter to Larry. But Job Dowling had overreached himself by attempting
to sell a watch and some jewelry which had belonged originally to Mr.
and Mrs. Russell, heirlooms which were not to be disposed of under any
circumstances. On his trip to New York after Ben, the articles had been
stolen from him at the Post-office--something that had so frightened Job
Dowling that he had consented to Ben's enlisting in the army with
scarcely a murmur, fearful the youth might otherwise have him brought to
book for what had happened. A vigorous search had been made for the
thief, but he was not found. Later on, when Ben was in the army, Job
Dowling received information that caused him to reach the conclusion
that the thief had gone to Boston. The miserly guardian of the boys
returned to his home in Buffalo and, as much worried as ever, wrote to
Walter to keep an eye open for the missing property. Walter did as
requested, but in such a large place as the Hub the youth had little
hope of ever seeing the precious heirlooms again.
CHAPTER II
A VISIT TO THE NAVY-YARD
There was a rush of business at the news-stand between twelve and one
o'clock, but shortly after one this died away, and inside of half an
hour Phil Newell told Walter that they might be on their way--"If you
are bound to enlist in Uncle Sam's service," he added.
Walter made sure that the paper containing Job Dowling's permission for
him to enter the navy was safe in his coat pocket, and then announced
his readiness to depart. The owner of the stand called up Dan Brown and
gave him a few directions, and in another minute Newell and Walter had
boarded a Charlestown car and were off.
"I haven't been over to the navy-yard for several years," remarked Phil
Newell, as they rode along. "I used to know several of the boys that
were there, but they've grown too old for the service. I reckon the yard
is a busy place these days."
And a busy place it proved to be as they turned into Chelsea Street, and
moved along the solid granite wall which separates the yard from the
public thoroughfare. From beyond came the creaking of hoists, and the
ringing of countless hammers and anvils, for the government employees
were hard at work, fitting out a warship or two and converting several
private vessels into naval craft.
"I don't know if I'm just right about this," went on Phil Newell, as
they headed for one of the numerous buildings near the wall, after being
passed by a guard. "It may be that they want to keep strangers out, now
the war is on, and you'll have to go elsewhere to sign articles. But I
know old Caleb Walton is here, and he'll tell me all he can, and set us
straight."
Walter's heart beat violently, for he began to realize that the step he
was about to take was a serious one. Who knew but that, after getting
into the navy, he might be sent to the Philippines or to the coast of
Spain? Already there was some talk of carrying the war into the enemy's
home waters.
"But I don't care," he said to himself. "If Larry can ship for Hong
Kong, I guess I'm safe in shipping to anywhere. But I do hope I can get
on the _Brooklyn_, or on some other ship of the Flying Squadron."
"Hi, there, Phil Newell! What brought you here, you old landlubber?"
came a cry from their left, and Phil Newell turned as swiftly as his
wooden leg permitted, to find himself confronted by the very individual
he had started out to find.
"Caleb Walton!" he ejaculated joyfully, and held out his bronzed hand.
"I just came in to see you. Here is a young friend of mine who wants to
sign articles under Uncle Sam. Do you think you can take him in?"
"Take him in?" Caleb Walton held out his hand, brown and as tough as a
piece of leather. "Sure we can take him in, if he's sound,--and glad to
get him." He gave Walter's hand a grip that made every bone crack. "So
you want to enlist, eh? Go right over to yonder office, and they'll soon
put you through a course of sprouts," and he laughed good-naturedly.
"But, hold on, Caleb," interposed Newell, as the seaman was about to
show Walter the way. "He don't want to sign articles and go just
anywhere. He would like to get aboard the _Brooklyn_."
"That is what half of all who come here want," answered Caleb Walton. "I
reckon they think Commodore Schley's Flying Squadron is going to settle
the whole war by going after that Spanish fleet said to be at Cadiz, or
thereabouts. Well, the lad better come with me. I belong to the
_Brooklyn_ now."
"You!" came from both Phil Newell and Walter simultaneously.
"I thought you were stationed here?" continued the wooden-legged man.
"I was, but I've just received orders to join the _Brooklyn_ and bring
at least fifteen men with me. It seems they are short-handed and can't
get the men at Norfolk. If this lad wants to go with me, now is his
chance. What's his handle?"
"My name is Walter Russell, sir. But--but are you going to join the
_Brooklyn_ at once?" stammered Walter, never having dreamed that he
would be taken away on the spot.
"Uncle Sam doesn't wait long when he picks his man," replied the old
gunner, for such Caleb Walton was. "Orders were to leave Boston
to-night, but I fancy we'll be kept until to-morrow night, for we are
shy three men, not counting you. Come on." And he led the way to the
building he had previously pointed out.
"He's all right, and you're in luck," whispered Phil Newell, when he got
the chance. "Cotton to Caleb Walton, and you'll have a friend worth the
making." How true were Newell's words the chapters to follow will prove.
The building to which Caleb Walton led them was one in which were
situated the main business offices of the yard. This was now a busy
place, and they had to fairly push their way through the crowd of
seamen, officers, and workmen, who kept coming and going, on one errand
or another. Several telephones were ringing, and from a corner came the
steady click-click of a telegraph sounder.
"Uncle Sam has his shirt sleeves rolled up and is pitching in,"
whispered Caleb Walton. "Here we are. Captain Line, here is another man
for my party."
"He's rather a boy," rejoined Captain Line, as he gave Walter a
searching glance. "Is your father with you?"
"My father is dead," answered Walter, softly. "Here is my guardian's
consent." And he handed over the sheet.
"That seems to be correct. Walton, take him over to the examination
room. And hurry up, for I must catch the four-fifty train for New York."
The "course of sprouts" had begun, and almost before he knew it, Walter
had been passed upon as able-bodied. Time was pressing, and in a quarter
of an hour the youth received a slip of paper signed and sealed by
Captain Line.
"That is good for your passage to Fortress Monroe," he said. "You will
make the journey in company with Walton and a number of others. When you
get there you will report to Lieutenant Lee, who will have you
transferred to the _Brooklyn_,--unless the flagship has already sailed,
in which case you will be assigned to some other ship."
"And when do I start, sir?"
"Walton will have the orders inside of the next hour. Go with him, and
he will tell you what to do." Then came a bang of the curtain to a
roller-top desk, a shoving back of a revolving chair, and in a twinkle
Captain Line had disappeared from view. Truly, Uncle Sam and all under
him were rushing things.
Walter wished very much to visit the dry dock and the great west basin,
filled as both were with vessels in various stages of construction,
alteration, or repair, but he felt if he was to leave that night he must
be getting back to Boston and to his boarding-house, to pack his "ditty
box," as Phil Newell had dubbed his valise, for all such receptacles are
called ditty boxes in the navy.
"All right, Walter, you go ahead," said Newell. "I'll stay with Caleb
and let you know just when you are to leave, so you won't be left
behind." And in a moment more the youth had run out of the navy-yard and
was on board of another car. He made one transfer, and in less than half
an hour entered Mrs. Brown's home.
"Why, Mr. Russell, what brings you?" queried Dan's mother, surprised at
his appearance, for he rarely showed himself during the day excepting at
the dinner and the supper hours.
"I've enlisted, Mrs. Brown, and I'm to get off to-night or to-morrow,"
he answered. "You can let Mr. Keefe have my room now. I'm glad that it
won't be left empty on your hands."
"So am I, Mr. Russell, for a poor widow can't afford to have a room
vacant long," replied Mrs. Brown, with a faint smile. "So you have
really entered the navy? Well, I wish you all the luck in the world, and
I hope you will come out of the war a--a--commodore, or something like
that." And she wrung his hand.
Walter's belongings were few, and soon packed away in his valise. Then
he ran downstairs again and bid Mrs. Brown good-by and settled up with
her. "I'll write to you and Dan some time," he said, on parting.
"Well, did you make it?" was Dan's question, when Walter appeared at the
news-stand.
"I did, Dan." And the protege of Uncle Sam told his youthful friend the
particulars.
"I'm glad you got on the _Brooklyn_," said Dan, with a shake of his
curly head. "She's going to lick the Spaniards out of their boots, see
if she ain't!" And his earnestness made Walter laugh. Dan was but
eleven, yet he read the newspapers as closely as do many grown folks.
The afternoon papers were now coming in and trade picked up, so that
Walter had to help behind the counter. While he was at work a tall,
thin boy sauntered up and gazed at him doubtfully.
"That's George Gimpwell," whispered Dan. "Didn't the boss say something
about hiring him?"
"He did, Dan. Call him over."
The errand boy did so. "Russell wants to see you," he explained.
"I believe you were speaking to Mr. Newell about this situation," began
Walter.
"Well--er--I asked him if he had any opening. I want work the worst
way," sighed George Gimpwell. "Of course, I don't want to do you out of
your job."
"That's all right; I've just enlisted in the navy," replied Walter, and
he could not help but feel proud over the words. "So if you want this
situation, you had best remain around here until Mr. Newell gets back."
"I will." George Gimpwell's face brightened. "So you've enlisted? I
wanted to do that, but I was too tall for my weight, so they told me."
"So you've enlisted?" broke in a gentleman standing by. "Glad to hear
it, young man; it does you credit." And buying a magazine, he caught
Walter by the hand and wished him well. Soon it became noised around on
the block that Newell's clerk was going to join the _Brooklyn_, and half
a dozen, including the clerk of the hotel, came out to see him about it.
In those days, anybody connected with our army or navy was quite a hero,
and somebody to be looked up to, people unconsciously told themselves.
It was after seven o'clock, and Walter was wondering if anything unusual
had delayed his employer, when Phil Newell hove into appearance. "It's
all right, my lad, don't worry," he said at once. "You don't leave until
to-morrow noon. You are to meet Caleb Walton at the New York and New
England railroad depot at exactly eleven o'clock, and all of the others
of the crowd are to be there too. The government wants to get you down
to Norfolk as soon as it can, and will, consequently, send you by rail
instead of by water."
"Hurrah! that will make a jolly trip," cried Walter. "If only I could
stop off at New York, take a run out to Camp Black, and see Ben."
"I doubt if you'll be given time to stop anywhere, time seems to be so
precious. Caleb Walton thinks the Flying Squadron will up anchors before
another week is out."
"Well, I don't care how quickly they leave--after I am on board,"
laughed the youth, much relieved that nothing had occurred whereby he
had been left behind.
George Gimpwell now came up again, and soon he was engaged to take
Walter's place. Phil Newell promised him five dollars weekly, and as
Walter had gotten six, the good-hearted newsdealer put the extra dollar
on Dan's salary, much to that lad's delight.
Eight o'clock found Walter at the stand alone, and it was then that he
penned the letter mailed to Ben, as mentioned in a previous volume,
stating he had enlisted and was making a strong "pull" to get on the
_Brooklyn_. "I won't say I am on her until it's a fact," he thought, as
he sealed up the communication, stamped it, and placed it in the corner
letter-box.
The stand was located in a niche of the hotel, and was open only in the
front, above the counter. At night this space was closed by letting down
two large shutters attached to several hinges and ropes.
"I reckon this is the last time I'll put these shutters down," thought
Walter, as he brought one down on the run. He was about to drop the
second, when a burly man, rather shabbily dressed, sauntered up, and
asked for one of the weekly sporting papers.
"I'm thinking of going to the theatre," he said, somewhat unsteadily,
and now Walter learned by a whiff of his breath that he had been
drinking. "What's the best variety show in town?"
"I'll give it up," said the youth, laughingly. "I haven't been to a show
since I came to Boston, and that's a number of weeks ago."
"Humph! What do you do with yourself nights?"
"I'm here up to eight or half past, and after that I either go home or
to one of the public reading rooms, or to the Young Men's Christian
Association Hall."
"Humph! that must be dead slow." The man lurched heavily against the
counter. "What time is it now?"
"About half past eight. I haven't any watch, so I can't tell you
exactly."
"I've got a watch right here," mumbled the newcomer, still leaning
heavily on the counter. "Here it is. But your light is so low I can't
see the hands. Turn it up."
Walter obligingly complied, and the fellow tried again to see the time,
but failed. "Strike a match," he went on; "I ain't going to no theatre
if it's as late as you say it is."
Walter did not like the man's manner, but not caring to enter into any
dispute, he lit a match as requested, and held it down close to the
timepiece, which lay in the man's open palm.
"Only eight-twenty," grumbled the fellow, slowly. "I knew you was off.
You don't--What's up?" And suddenly he straightened himself and stared
at Walter.
"I want to know where you got that watch," demanded the youth,
excitedly.
"That watch?" The man fell back a pace. "What do you--ahem--why do you
ask that question, boy?"
"Because I know that watch," was Walter's ready reply. "It was stolen
from my uncle in New York only a few weeks ago!"
"Was it?" The man's face changed color. "You--you're mistaken, boy," he
faltered, and fell back still further, and then, as Walter leaped over
the counter, he took to his heels and started down the half-deserted
street at the best speed at his command.
CHAPTER III
A CHASE AND ITS RESULT
Walter knew that watch, which had belonged first to his father and then
his mother, quite well, but if there was anything needed to convince him
that there was no mistake in the identification, it was furnished by the
hasty and unceremonious manner in which the partly intoxicated wearer
was endeavoring to quit the scene.
"If he was honest, he wouldn't run!" thought the youth. "Ten to one he's
the thief who took the grip from Uncle Job." He started after the
fleeing one. "Come back here!" he shouted. "Stop, thief!"
But the man did not stop; instead, he tried to run the faster. But he
did not turn any corners, and consequently, aided by the electric
lights, Walter could see him for quite a distance ahead.
The youth ran but a few yards, then turned and clashed back to the
stand. Bang! the second shutter came down with a crash, and in a trice
he had the padlock secured. Then off he set, satisfied that a form in
the distance was the one he wanted to overtake.
"What's the matter?" questioned a policeman on the second corner, as he
clutched Walter by the arm. "What are you running for?"
"Didn't I call out to catch the thief?" answered the youth, sharply.
"Let me go. If you weren't so dead slow, you'd be doing something,
instead of standing there looking at the moon." And on he went again,
the officer shaking his fist after him, half of the opinion that Walter
was trying to joke him.
At this hour of the evening the street was far from crowded, and Walter
kept the man ahead in sight with comparative ease. Four blocks were
covered, when the fellow paused and looked back. Seeing he was being
followed, he turned and darted into a small side street. Here were a
number of warehouses and several tenements. The door to one of the
latter stood open, and he lost no time in seeking the shelter of the
dark hallway.
"That's the time I made a bad break," he muttered thickly. "When I came
up to Boston with that stuff I reckoned I was safe. I wonder if he'll
follow me to here? He had better not, unless he wants a broken head."
In the meantime, Walter had reached the corner of the side street and
come to a halt. The narrow thoroughfare was but dimly lighted, and not a
soul was in sight.
"He turned in here,--I am certain of that," said the boy to himself.
"More than likely he is in hiding in some dark corner. I wonder if I
hadn't better call an officer?"
With this intention he gazed around, but no policeman was in view, and
he did not think it advisable to go back for the guardian of the peace
before encountered. He entered the side street slowly and cautiously,
peering into every nook and corner, and behind every bill-board, box,
and barrel as he moved along.
He had just passed the tenement where the man was in hiding when the
sounds of muffled voices broke upon his ears, and the front door was
thrown back with a bang.
"Who are you, and what are you doing in here?" came in an unmistakable
Irish voice.
"Excuse me--I--I made a mistake," was the answer; and now Walter
recognized the tones of the fellow who had the watch. "I am looking for
a man named Harris."
"Well, he doesn't live here,--so you had better get out."
"Will you--er--tell me who lives next door?" asked the man Walter was
after, in a lower tone, evidently wishing to gain time ere leaving the
building.
"A man named Casey and another named Barton live there. There ain't a
Harris on the block. If you----"
"Hold him, please," burst in Walter, mounting the tenement steps. "He
has a watch that was stolen from my uncle."
"Shut up, boy!" answered the man fiercely. "My watch is my own, and this
is all a mistake."
"There is no mistake. Hold him, will you?"
"I've got him," came from the gloom of the hallway. "I thought he was a
sneak or something by the way he was tip-toeing around here."
"You are both of you crazy. I never stole a thing in my life. Let go,
both of you!" And then the man began to struggle fiercely, finally
pushing the party in the hallway backward, and almost sending Walter
headlong as he darted down the tenement steps and continued his flight
along the side street.
As Walter went down, he made a clutch at the man's watch-chain, or
rather the chain which belonged among the Russell heirlooms. He caught
the top guard and the chain parted, one half remaining in the boy's
hand, and the other fast to the timepiece.
"Help me catch him!'" gasped the youth, as soon as he could get up. His
breast had struck the edge of one of the steps, and he was momentarily
winded.
"I will," answered the man who lived in the tenement. "Stop there!" he
called out, and set off in pursuit, with Walter beside him. But the
Irishman was old and rheumatic, and soon felt compelled to give up the
chase. "I can't match ye!" he puffed, and sank down on a step to rest;
and once again Walter continued the chase alone.
Had the thief, Deck Mumpers, been perfectly sober, he might have escaped
with ease, for he was a good runner, and at this hour of the evening
hiding-places in such a city as Boston, with its many crooked
thoroughfares, were numerous. But the liquor he had imbibed had made him
hazy in his mind, and he ran on and on, with hardly any object in view
excepting to put distance between himself and his pursuer.
He was heading eastward, and presently reached a wharf facing the harbor
and not a great distance from the Congress Street bridge. Here there was
a high board fence and a slatted gate, which for some reason stood
partly open. Without a second thought, he slipped through the gateway,
slid the gate shut, and snapped the hanging padlock into place.
"Now he'll have a job following me," he chuckled. "I wonder what sort of
a place I've struck?" And he continued on his way, among huge piles of
merchandise covered with tarpaulins.
Walter had come up at his best speed and was less than a hundred feet
away when the gate was closed and locked.
"You rascal!" he shouted, but Deck Mumpers paid no attention to his
words. "Now what's to do?" the boy asked himself, dismally.
He came up to the gate and examined it. It was all of nine feet high,
and the palings were pointed at the top. Could he scale such a barrier?
"I must do it!" he muttered, and thrust one hand through to a cross
brace. He ascended with difficulty, and once slipped and ran a splinter
into his wrist. But undaunted he kept on until the top was gained, then
dropped to the planking of the wharf beyond.
Several arc lights, high overhead, lit up the wharf, and he ran from one
pile of merchandise to another. Half the wharf was thus covered, when he
suddenly came face to face with Deck Mumpers. The thief had picked up a
thick bale stick, and without warning he raised this on high and brought
it down with all force upon Walter's head. The boy gave a groan, threw
up both hands, and dropped like a lump of lead, senseless.
"Phew! I wonder if I've finished him?" muttered the man, anxiously.
"Didn't mean to hit him quite so hard. But it was his own fault--he had
no right to follow me." He bent over Walter and made a hasty
examination. "He's breathing, that's certain. I must get away before a
watchman shows up."
He started to go, then paused and bent over Walter again. With a
dexterity acquired by long practice in his peculiar profession, he
turned out one pocket after another, transferring the cash and other
articles to his own clothing. Then, as Walter gave a long, deep sigh, as
if about to awaken, he took to his heels once more. He was in no
condition to climb the wharf fence as Walter had done, but helped
himself over by the use of several boxes; and was soon a long distance
away.
[Illustration: HE BENT OVER WALTER AGAIN.]
When Walter came to his senses and opened his eyes, the glare from a
bull's-eye lantern struck him, and he saw a wharf watchman eyeing him
curiously.
"What are you doing here, young fellow?" were the watchman's words.
"I--I--where is he?" questioned the youth, weakly.
"He? Who?"
"The thief--the man who struck me down?"
"I haven't seen anybody but you around here."
"A thief who has my uncle's watch came in here, and I followed him, and
he struck me down with a club. When--how long is it since you found me
here?"
"Several minutes ago. I thought you were drunk at first, and was going
to hand you over to an officer."
"I don't drink." Walter essayed to stand up, but found himself too weak.
"Gracious, my head is spinning around like a top!" he groaned.
"You must have got a pretty good rap to be knocked out like this,"
commented the watchman kindly. "So the man was a thief? It's a pity he
wasn't the one to be knocked down. Do you know the fellow?"
"I would know him--if we ever meet again. But I fancy he won't let the
grass grow under his feet, after attacking me like this."
"I'll take a run around the wharf and see if I can spot any stranger,"
concluded the watchman, and hurried off. Another watchman was aroused,
and both made a thorough investigation, but, of course, nobody was
brought to light.
By the time the search was ended, Walter felt something like himself,
and arose slowly and allowed the watchmen to conduct him to their shanty
at one side of the wharf. Here he bathed his face, picked the splinter
from his wrist, and brushed up generally. A cup of hot coffee from one
of the watchmen's cans braced him up still further.
"It must be ten o'clock, isn't it?" he asked.
"Ten o'clock!" came from the man who had found him. "I reckon that clip
on the head has muddled you. It's about three o'clock in the morning."
"Three o'clock in the morning!" repeated Walter. "Then I must have been
lying out there for several hours. That thief has escaped long ago." And
his face fell.
"Yes, he's had plenty of time, if he did the deed as long ago as that.
Did he have anything else besides your uncle's watch?"
"I don't know, but it's likely. You see my uncle came to New York from
Buffalo to sell some heirlooms which were left to my brothers and myself
when our folks died. The heirlooms were in a travelling-bag, and
consisted of the watch and chain, two gold wedding rings, and a diamond
that a grandfather of mine once picked up in Australia. My uncle left
his bag standing in the post-office for a few minutes, and when he got
back the grip was gone. The police hunted everywhere for the thief, but
all that could be discovered was that it looked as if the rascal had
come to Boston. To-night--or rather, last evening--a man came up and
showed the watch, which I know only too well, as it has a little
horseshoe painted on the dial plate. I tried to collar the fellow, but
he ran away, and after stopping in a tenement house, he came here. Now I
suppose he is miles away--perhaps out of the city altogether."
"That's so, yet there is no telling, lad. The best thing you can do is
to report to the police without delay--if you are able to do it."
"Yes, I guess I am able, although my head aches a good bit, I can tell
you that. I am much obliged for what you have done for me."
"Oh, that's all right--hope you get your belongings," replied the
watchman, and led the way to the gate, which he unlocked. Soon Walter
was on the street, and walking as rapidly as his condition permitted to
the police station.
At this hour of the night he found only a sergeant and several roundsmen
in charge. The sergeant listened with interest to what he had to say.
"I remember that case--it was reported to here from New York some time
ago. The pawnshops were ransacked for the jewelry and the watch, but
nothing was found. So you are certain you would recognize the man again
if you saw him?"
"I am--unless he altered his appearance a good deal. He had a small,
dark moustache, but otherwise he was clean-shaven."
"Come into the rear office and look over our album of pickpockets and
sneak-thieves. That is what this fellow most likely is--and a peculiar
one too. No first-class criminal would do this job as he is doing it."
"He drinks heavily--he was partly intoxicated when I met him," said
Walter, as he followed the station official into a rear office.
"Then that accounts for it. A man can't be a really successful criminal
unless he keeps his wits about him. Here is the album. Look it over
carefully, and let me know if you see anybody that looks like your man."
And he left Walter to himself and reentered the outer office, to hear
the reports of the roundsmen coming in.
The book given to Walter was a thick one, filled with cards, photos, and
tin-types of criminals. Under each picture was written a name, usually
accompanied by several aliases, and also a number, to correspond with
the same number in the criminal register.
"Gracious, but they keep pretty good track of them," thought Walter, as
he turned over page after page. "Who would think all these good-looking
men were wrong-doers? Some of them look a good deal more like
ministers."
Walter had gone through half the book, and the photographs were
beginning to confuse his already aching head, when a certain picture
arrested his attention. "I've found him!" he cried out. "That's the
fellow, although he is minus that moustache of his!"
"Did you call?" asked the sergeant, coming to the door.
"I've found him. This is the man. His name is given as Deck Mumpers,
alias Foxy Mumpers, and Swiller Deck."
"If he is called Swiller Deck, he must drink a good deal," said the
sergeant, with a laugh. "You are sure of this identification?"
"I am. But he wants a moustache put on that picture."
"We take them bare-faced if we can. This photo was taken in Brooklyn."
The officer turned to an official register. "Deck Mumpers, age
forty-two, height five feet seven inches, weight one hundred and
thirty-two pounds. Round face, big ears, broad shoulders, poor teeth.
Sent to Sing Sing in 1892 for two years, for robbery of Scott diamonds.
A hard drinker when flush. Now wanted for several petty crimes in New
York. Came originally from South Boston, where he was in the liquor
business." The sergeant turned again to Walter. "I guess you have struck
your man. I'll send out the alarm. What is your address?"
"I have just joined the navy and am bound for the _Brooklyn_. But I can
leave you my uncle's name and address, and he can come on to Boston from
Buffalo, if it's necessary."
"That will do, then," answered the sergeant.
He brought forth a book in which to put down the details of the affair.
While he was writing, Walter slipped his hand into his pocket to see if
the slip of paper he had received at the navy-yard was still safe. The
paper was gone.
CHAPTER IV
ON THE WAY TO THE "BROOKLYN"
"Oh, what luck!"
"What is the matter now?"'
"My order for a railroad ticket from Boston to Fortress Monroe is gone!"
"Is that true? Perhaps Deck Mumpers cleaned you out after he struck you
down," suggested the sergeant, quickly. "Feel in your pockets."
Walter did so, and his face blanched. "He did--everything,--my money,
keys, cash,--all are missing. What in the world shall I do now?"'
"How much money did you have?"
"About twenty dollars. The main thing was that railroad ticket order. If
that is gone, how am I to get to Norfolk?"
"Was your name mentioned on the paper?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where was it to be presented? any particular depot?"
"Yes, the New York and New England railroad depot."
"Then the best thing to do is to ring the railroad folks up and have the
bearer of the order detained, if the slip is presented," went on the
police officer, and stepping to the telephone he rang up central and had
the necessary connection made.
"Is this the ticket office of the New York and New England railroad
depot?" he questioned.
"Yes," came the reply over the wire.
"A navy-yard order for a ticket from here to Norfolk, or Fortress
Monroe, has been stolen. It is made out in the name of Walter Russell.
If it is presented, hold the party having it and communicate with police
headquarters."
"Is the name Walter Russell?" was the excited query, and Walter's heart
began to sink as he seemed to feel what was coming.
"Yes."
"That order has already been filled. It was presented about ten o'clock
last night."
"I've missed it!" groaned the youth, and dropped into a chair. "What
will the navy-yard people say to this when they hear of it?"
"I don't see how they can blame you," returned the sergeant, kindly,
"seeing as you were knocked senseless by the thief. Deck Mumpers has got
the best of it so far."
He called through the telephone for a description of the party having
the order, and soon learned it must have been Mumpers beyond a doubt.
"Can't you telegraph to Norfolk to have him arrested when he arrives?"
asked Walter suddenly.
"You don't think he'll go all the way to Norfolk, do you?" smiled the
police officer. Then he turned again to the telephone. "What kind of a
ticket did that party get on the order?" he asked.
"First-class, with sleepers."
"He got a first-class ticket. Ten to one he'll not use it at all, but
sell the pasteboard at some cut-rate ticket office right here in Boston
and then buy another ticket for somewhere else."
"I see!" cried Walter. "But if the ticket was sold here, could we trace
it?"
"It is not likely, for many first-class tickets are alike. We might
trace the sleeping-car checks, but I doubt if Mumpers will try to do
anything with those."
"But he may use the ticket," ventured Walter, hardly knowing what else
to say.
"Oh, possibly. I'll have the men at the various stations keep an eye
open for the rascal," concluded the sergeant, and after a few more words
Walter left the station.
It must be confessed that the youth was considerably out of sorts. "I
start off to recover some stolen property and end by losing more," he
groaned. "I'm not fit to join the navy, or do anything." And he gave a
mountainous sigh.
It was almost five o'clock, and knowing Dan would soon be on hand with
Gimpwell to open the stand, he walked slowly in that direction. To keep
up his courage he tried to whistle, but the effort was a dismal failure.
Walter was naturally very light-hearted, but just now no one looking at
his troubled face would have suspected this.
Reaching the stand, he opened the shutters and put out the light which
he had forgotten to extinguish. Soon the first bundles of papers came
along, and he sorted them over and arranged them for sale and for Dan's
route. The work was almost done when the carrier came along, followed
immediately by the new clerk.
"Hullo, I didn't know you'd be here!" cried Dan. "Why didn't you come
home last night? Mother expected you to use the room, and you paid for
it."
"I wish I had used the room," answered Walter, and went over his tale in
a few words, for Dan must be off, to serve several men with newspapers
before they themselves started off to their daily labors.
"Say, but that's too bad!" cried the errand boy. "I've got two dollars,
Walter. You can have the money if it will do you any good."
"Thanks, Dan, I want to see Mr. Newell first. But it's kind of you to
make the offer."
"I'd offer you something, Russell," put in the new clerk. "But the fact
is I haven't even car-fare; had to tramp over from Charlestown."
Phil Newell put into appearance shortly before seven o'clock, coming a
little earlier than usual, to see that Gimpwell got along all right.
Calling him aside, Walter told of what had happened. He was getting sick
of telling the story, but, in this case, there was no help for it.
"Douse the toplights, but you've run on a sunken rock, and no mistake,
Walter," cried the old naval veteran. "So he cleaned you out
completely, eh?"
"Yes, Mr. Newell. I don't care so much for the money, but that order for
the railroad ticket--"
"It's too had; too bad!" Phil Newell ran his hand through his bushy
hair. "I don't believe the navy-yard authorities will issue a duplicate
order."
"Neither do I."
"You see, some sailors wouldn't be none too good for to get such a paper
and then sell it for what she would fetch."
"Yes, that's the worst part of it. I shouldn't want them to think I
was--was getting in on them--or trying to do so."
"The best thing to do, as far as I can see, is to call on Caleb Walton
and get his advice."
"Where does he live?"
"In Charlestown, only a few blocks from the Bunker Hill monument. I
don't know the number, but it's on Hill Street, and I know the house."
"Will you go with me? If I haven't the number--"
"To be sure I'll go with you, just as soon as I can set the new clerk on
his proper course."
"And, Mr. Newell, would you mind--that is, would you make me a--a
loan--" faltered Walter.
"Out with it, my boy, how much do you want? I told you before I'd be
your friend, and what Phil Newell says he means, every trip."
"You are very kind, sir. I don't know how much I want. I had twenty
dollars and thirty-five cents, and Mr. Walton said that was more than
enough to see me through until pay day came along."
"Then here are twenty dollars." The proprietor of the news-stand pulled
a roll of small bills from his pocket and counted out the amount. "You
can pay me back when you recover your money, or else out of your pay
money, if they don't collar that thief. Have you had breakfast yet?"
"No, sir."
"Then you had better get a bite while I instruct Gimpwell. I'll be ready
for you in quarter of an hour."
Fifteen minutes found them on the way, taking a car which took them
directly over to Charlestown, along the navy-yard and up Hill Street.
"Here we are," cried Phil Newell, as he stopped the car. "And just in
time, for there is Caleb Walton leaving his house now."
"What brings you up?" demanded the gunner, when confronted. "Well, this
is certainly a mess," he continued, after he had been told. "No, I'm
certain they won't issue a duplicate order, for Captain Line is out of
the city."
"But we might try and see what we can do," insisted Phil Newell.
"To be sure; come on." And the three set off for the navy-yard. Here it
looked at first as if nothing could be gained, but finally one of the
higher officers took it upon his own shoulders to give Walter a new
order, at the same time saying something about charging it up to the
Emergency Account.
"Well, that's a big relief," murmured Walter, on coming away. "I feel as
if a thousand pounds were taken from my heart." And he certainly looked
it.
"I must leave you now," said Caleb Walton. "Be sure and be at the depot
on time, and take care of that new order."
"It's pinned fast in my pocket," said the youth. "If it goes, so does my
coat."
On returning to the news-stand, Walter procured some paper and an
envelope, and in the reading-room of the hotel sat down and wrote a long
letter to his uncle, Job Dowling, telling of his enlistment in the navy
and of what had happened during the night. "I think you ought to come to
Boston," he concluded. "If the police can't do anything, a detective
ought to be set on this Deck Mumper's track. You are holding a good deal
of money in trust for Ben, Larry, and me, and for my part, I would spend
a good deal rather than see father's watch and his and mother's wedding
rings gone forever,--not to mention grandfather's diamond, which alone
is worth at least two hundred dollars. Write to me concerning this, and
send the letter to the _Brooklyn_, Off Fortress Munroe, Va."
This letter was mailed without delay, and soon after Walter bade Phil
Newell, Dan, and several others good-by, and, grip in hand, walked to
the depot. Here he found several jackies already assembled, and soon
learned that they were members of Walton's party. In a few minutes
Walton himself came hurrying down Federal Street, with several green
hands in tow.
"All here?" he demanded, and began to "count noses." Only one man was
missing, and he soon put in an appearance, and all entered the depot and
procured their tickets. Then Walter asked about the stolen order, but
the clerk had heard nothing new concerning it. "You were mighty lucky to
get another order," he said with a grin. "Next time they may make you
walk the tracks."
The train was in, and hurrying out to the long shed, they found their
proper places. Soon there came a sharp jerk, the train moved off; and
the long journey southward was begun.
For a seat-mate Walter had a typical Yankee lad, one from the coast of
Maine, a young fellow who knew but little about warships, but who had
spent several years on the rolling deep, in voyages to South America, to
Nova Scotia, and elsewhere. His name was Silas Doring, and Walter found
him talkative, although not objectionably so.
"Yes, I couldn't hardly wait till I got to Boston," said Si, for that
was what he said all of his friends "to hum" called him. "We'll lick the
Spanish out of their boots, see if we don't!"
"You are bound for the _Brooklyn_?" asked Walter.
"Thet's it, if they want me, otherwise I'm booked for the _Texas_. Putty
good for a boy from Maine to go on the _Texas_, ain't it, he! he! But I
don't care much. They can put me on the _San Francisco_ if they want
to--so long as they give me a chance at them tarnal Dons. When the
_Maine_ was blowed up, why, I jest jumped up an' down an' up an' down
with rage. 'Si Doring,' sez I, 'Si Doring, are you a-going to let such
an insult an' crime go by unnoticed? Not much!' sez I. 'I'll join the
navy, an' help blow all of the Spanish to Jericho,'--an' I'm going to do
it!" And the Yankee lad struck his fist into his open palm with a thump
of energy.
"I wish I knew as much about ships as you do," ventured Walter. "I've
been on two trips across Lake Erie, and know something, but I'm afraid
I'll feel like a fish out of water when I get on a man-o'-war."
"We'll keep our eyes and ears open, and try to learn--that's the only
way. I know every rope on a merchantman, kin name 'em from fore royal
stay to topping lift, but that ain't the hundredth part on it. We've got
to learn our vessel jest as a person has got to learn a new city and
its streets, fer boats ain't built one like another, not by a jugful!
And after we have learned the ship, we've got to learn the guns, and the
fire-drill, and how to clear ship for action, and a lot more, not to say
a word about learning how to knock out them Dons, as some calls 'em. Oh,
we'll have our hands full after we get on board, don't forget it!" And
Si Doring shook his head vigorously.
On and on sped the train until Hyde Park was reached. Here a brief stop
was made, and several persons including a sailor got on board. The
sailor came through the car as if looking for somebody and finally found
Caleb Walton and shook hands.
"Yes, I'm bound for Norfolk, too," Walter and Si Doring heard him
remark.
"By gum!" whispered the Yankee sailor. "I wonder if thet chap is going
with us?"
"Do you know him?" asked the boy.
"Know him? jest guess I do! His name is Jim Haskett, and he used to be
the mate of the _Sunflower_, a three-master from Penobscot. I sailed
under him once, and he was the hardest man on shipboard I ever got next
to. If he gets in the navy, he'll make everybody under him dance to his
pipings, and worse."
"If that's the case, I sincerely hope he isn't assigned to my ship," was
Walter's comment. "I haven't any use for a bully, big or little."
"I owe Jim Haskett many an old score; I would like to get the chance to
even up," went on the Yankee. "But I've enlisted to do my duty and lick
the Spanish, and if Haskett leaves me alone, I'll leave him alone. Here
he comes now." And Si straightened up.
The former mate of the _Sunflower_ passed down the aisle slowly. When he
saw the Yankee he started and then scowled at him. "Have you enlisted?"
he asked, in a voice that was far from pleasant.
"I have," returned Si. "Got any objections, Haskett?"
"Humph!" was the only answer, and the ex-mate of the _Sunflower_ passed
on, to drop into a vacant seat some distance behind them.
"Oh, he's a corker," whispered the Yankee, and Walter nodded to show
that he agreed with him. Walter was destined to many an encounter with
Jim Haskett before his first term in the navy should come to an end.
CHAPTER V
SOMETHING ABOUT WAR AND PRIZE MONEY
Commodore George Dewey's great victory over Admiral Montojo occurred on
May 1, 1898, and was the first to be scored during our war with Spain.
Previous to this time, matters had moved along swiftly, but with no
definite results. Following the wanton destruction of our battleship
_Maine_ in the harbor of Havana, in February, popular indignation arose
to a fever heat against the country which had offered the American flag
several insults in the past, and which was now engaged in a ruthless
effort to put down the long-standing rebellion in Cuba, be the cost what
it might.
For many months our President, Congress, and the people had watched,
with anxious eyes, the progress of events in Cuba--had seen the Cubans
doing their best to throw off the yoke of Spanish tyranny and
oppression. From a little uprising here, and another there, the
rebellion spread all over what was no longer "the ever-faithful isle,"
until rich and poor, those of Cuban-Spanish blood, and those whose
ancestors had been negroes and Indians, became involved in it. At first
there was no army, only bands of guerillas, who fled to the mountains
whenever a regular Spanish force presented itself, but soon the conflict
assumed a definite shape, a rebel army was formed, to be commanded by
Generals Gomez, Antonio Maceo, Calixto Garcia, and others, and then
Spain awoke to the realization that Cuba, her richest colonial
possession, with the possible exception of the Philippines, was about to
break away from her.
This crisis filled the rulers in Spain with alarm, for Cuba had turned
into her treasury millions of _pesetas_ every year, for which the island
got little or nothing in return. "Cuba must, and shall be subdued," was
the cry, and thousands of soldiers were transported from Spain and
elsewhere, to be landed at Havana, Santiago, and other points. These
soldiers immediately took possession of all the larger cities, causing
those in rebellion to withdraw to the villages and to the forests and
mountains.
A bloody warfare lasting between two and three years followed, and
thousands of the rebels, including the noble Antonio Maceo, one of the
best negro patriots that ever existed, were slain. In addition to this,
millions of dollars' worth of property were destroyed, in the shape of
torn-up railroads, burnt sugar and tobacco plantations, and sacked
villages and towns. Every owner of property was compelled to take sides
in the conflict, and if he did not side with those who waited upon him,
then his property was either confiscated or destroyed.
The Spanish authorities had started out to crush the rebellion on the
spot. As time went by and the rebels grew stronger and stronger, those
in command saw that extreme measures must be resorted to, or the
campaign would prove a failure. The majority of the Cuban men were away
from their homes. At once orders were issued to drive all the
defenceless women and children into the cities held by the Spanish. This
was accomplished under the pretext that Spain wished to keep them from
harm. Once driven into the larger places, these women and children were
not fed and cared for, but were allowed to either live upon the charity
of those about them, or starve. These poor people were called
_reconcentrados_, and it is a matter of record that before the war
closed nearly three hundred thousand of them gave up their lives through
neglect and lack of food.
The people of the United States had stood by mutely and seen the war
waged against the rebels who well deserved their liberty, but no one
could stand by and see women, children, and helpless old men starved to
death. At once it was proposed to send relief ships to Cuba, but Spain
frowned at this, saying that such relief was only one way of helping
those who had taken up arms against her.
At this time there were many Americans in Havana and elsewhere in Cuba,
and as a matter of self-protection the battleship _Maine_ was sent down
to Havana harbor to see that no harm came to them. How the battleship
was blown up and over two hundred and fifty lives lost, has already been
told in the previous volumes of this series. A Board of Inquiry was
appointed by the President, and it was soon settled that the explosion
which had wrecked the warship had come from the outside and that Spain
was responsible for the loss. Spain denied the charge; and the war was
practically on.
The first movement of the authorities at Washington was to blockade the
city of Havana and a large portion of the coast to the east and the west
of that port. This work was intrusted to Commodore (afterwards Admiral)
Sampson, and he left Key West with the North Atlantic Squadron on the
morning of April 22, and in a few days had a grand semicircle of
warships stationed on the outside of Havana, Matanzas, Mariel, Cardenas,
Bahia Honda, Cabanas, and other ports of lesser importance. Later on,
other ports were likewise blockaded, and these portions of Cuba suddenly
found themselves cut off from the outside world. Sampson wished to
bombard Havana and bring the Spanish stationed there to terms at once,
but this suggestion was overruled, as it was imagined that Spain might
be brought to terms without such a great loss of life.
As soon as the blockading of the ports mentioned began, the President
called for volunteers, and how nobly all our states responded we have
already learned in "A Young Volunteer in Cuba." The regular army was
also hurried to the south-east and concentrated at Tampa and other
points, while the volunteers remained in their various state camps,
waiting to be mustered into the United States service. Of the grand
movement to Cuba we shall hear later.
The news of Commodore Dewey's glorious victory, as related in "Under
Dewey at Manila" thrilled our people as they had not been thrilled for
years. In the army and the navy were men from both the North and the
South, and sectionalism was now wiped out forever, and all stood
shoulder to shoulder under Old Glory, fighting for the sake of Humanity.
The battle-cries were "Free Cuba!" and "Remember the _Maine_!" and
certainly none could have been more inspiring.
The blockading of so long a coast line required a great many warships,
and as it was not deemed advisable to place all our big vessels on this
duty, the authorities lost no time in buying or leasing a number of
ocean steamers and coast craft and converting them into vessels of war.
These vessels required a great number of men, and the Naval Reserves
were in great demand, as were also volunteers for the regular navy. This
was the reason that Walter and those with him were taken on so quickly.
Had he applied for enlistment into the navy during times of peace, he
would have found an entrance far more difficult, for Uncle Sam is
growing more and more particular every day as to the class of men he
allows to tread the decks of his men-o'-war.
Shortly after Havana and its neighboring ports were blockaded, it was
rumored that Spain would send over a powerful fleet to bombard New York
or some other principal city along our eastern seacoast. This caused a
good deal of uneasiness, and steps were immediately taken to fortify all
principal points and mine many of the harbor entrances. Patrol boats
were also placed on duty, to give the alarm at the first sight of an
enemy. In some cases channel buoys were removed, and lighthouse lamps
were left unlit, so that no Spanish vessel might creep in under cover of
darkness.
Acting Rear-Admiral Sampson, as he was officially designated, was kept
busy watching the blockade along the northern coast of Cuba, and in
distributing his auxiliary vessels to such points as would be most
advantageous. This being the case, Commodore Schley, next in command,
was left at Hampton Roads, near Fortress Monroe, Virginia, with what
was known as the Flying Squadron, a number of the fastest warships
riding the Atlantic. The Flying Squadron was to wait until the Spanish
fleet started westward, when it was to do its best toward doing as Dewey
had done to Montojo's fleet, "find it and engage it"; in plain words, to
fight it to the bitter end. Great things were expected of the Flying
Squadron, and in this the people were not to be disappointed, as we
shall see.
The trip by rail from Boston to the South proved full of interest to
Walter, who loved riding on the cars. So far two transfers had been
made, one at New York, and the other at Baltimore, but at neither city
was any time allowed for seeing the sights. "It's a case of get there,"
explained Caleb Walton. "You see, that Spanish fleet may sail for the
United States at any moment, and then Schley will be bound to go out on
a hunt for it in double-quick order."
"I see that the Spanish Cape Verde Squadron has joined the fleet at
Cadiz, which is ready for sea," observed Walter, pointing to a morning
newspaper he had purchased on the train. "There are four first-class
cruisers, the _Viscaya_, the _Almirante Oquendo_, the _Infanta Maria
Teresa_, and the _Cristobal Colon_, besides two or three torpedo-boat
destroyers. At Cadiz there are the _Pelaya_, _Alfonso XIII._, and
several other ships. If they all come over here, it seems to me they may
make matters mighty warm for us."
"We want 'em warm," interrupted Si Doring. "I wouldn't give a rap for a
milk-and-water battle. Let us have it hot, say I, hot,--and knock the
Spanish to kingdom come!"
"They won't dare to send all of the ships over," said Caleb Walton.
"They must guard their own coast. If they don't, some of our ships may
slip over there and make it interesting for them."
"Do you think we'll carry the war to Spain?" asked Walter, with deep
interest.
"There is no telling, lad. Some folks have it that half of Europe will
be mixed up in this muss before it's over. One thing is certain, Dewey's
victory at Manila isn't going to be such a smooth thing out there, for
the Filipinos are in a state of revolt and won't want us to govern them
any more than they want the Spanish; and besides, Germany, France, and
other nations have big interests there."
"Well, I guess the best we can do is to look out for our little end,"
smiled the boy. "As for the rest, the authorities at Washington must
settle that."
"Well said, lad; you and I couldn't run the government if we tried. But
we can do our duty, and that will be to obey orders and take what
comes."
"How is it that you got Jim Haskett to enlist?" asked Si.
"Oh, that fellow is after prize money," was the gunner's reply. "He has
been reading of the luck down around Havana, and he wants the chance to
earn a few hundred extra. Well, maybe he'll get it."
"I've heard of prize money before, but I don't exactly know what it is,"
observed Walter.
"It's the money got out of a captured ship when she's sold. You see,
when a ship is captured she's taken to some port and turned over to a
prize court, and if she doesn't turn out a Scotch prize she is knocked
down under the hammer."
"I know what you mean by knocking her down under the hammer. But why
doesn't the rule apply to a Scotch vessel?"
At this query of Walter's Caleb Walton burst into a roar of laughter.
"It's easy to see you're a landsman," he said. "I didn't say a Scotch
vessel; I said a Scotch prize--a ship captured illegally, and one that
must be given back to her owners. I don't know where that term came
from, but it's what the men in the navy always use."
"I see."
"A legitimate prize is sold, and then the money is divided. If the
vessel captured was the equal of that taking her, then all the prize
money goes to her captain and crew; but if the captured ship is
inferior, then her takers get only half of the money, and Uncle Sam
keeps the balance."
"And what part would I get if my ship took a prize?" went on Walter,
more interested than ever, for the question of prize money had not
appealed to him before.
"You would get a share according to your regular pay--perhaps one dollar
out of every five or ten thousand."
"That wouldn't be much--on a small craft."
"You are right, lad, but it would be a tidy amount on a big warship
worth two or three millions. The division of the prize money is
regulated according to law, so there can't be any quarrelling. The
commander of a fleet gets one-twentieth, the commander of a ship
one-tenth of that coming to his ship (when there are more ships than one
interested in the prize), and so on, and we all get our money even if we
are on temporary leave of absence."
"But what does Uncle Sam do with his share?" put in Si.
"His share is put into a fund that is used toward paying naval officers,
seamen, and marines the pensions due them. These pensions are, of
course, not as large as those of the army, but they are considerable."
"Well, I hope we strike a big prize, or half a dozen little ones," said
Walter. "On a pay of eleven dollars a month a fellow can't expect to get
very rich."
"Do your duty, lad, and you may rise before the war is over." The old
gunner caught Walter by the arm. "Come with me," and Caleb Walton arose,
and led the way to the smoking-car. Wondering what was meant by this
movement, Walter followed.
"I want to have a quiet talk with you," went on Caleb Walton, after they
were seated in a secluded corner. "Do you smoke?"
"No, sir."
"You're just as well off. But I must have my pipe." Caleb Walton drew
forth a brier-root, filled it with a dark mixture of tobacco, and lit
it. "Ah, that's just right. And now to business." And he threw one leg
over the other. For a moment he gazed thoughtfully at Walter, and the
boy wondered what was coming next. He was satisfied that it must be of
more than ordinary importance, otherwise the old gunner would not have
asked him to come to the smoking-car, away from their companions.
CHAPTER VI
A GLIMPSE OF THE PRESIDENT
"You see it's this way," began Caleb Walton, after gazing for a moment
at Walter. "Phil Newell is your friend, isn't he?"
"Yes, indeed!" responded the boy, warmly.
"Exactly--likewise he is my friend, too. We served together for years,
and I sometimes looked up to Phil as a kind of elder brother. Well,
after you left us at the navy-yard he and I had a long talk about you,
and he made me promise to keep my eye on you--do you understand?"
"I think I do."
"Now, keeping an eye on you is out of the question unless you are placed
where I can see you."
"But aren't we both to go aboard of the _Brooklyn_?" cried Walter.
"Yes, according to the course we're steering now. But both being on the
_Brooklyn_ doesn't cover the bill. I expect to be in charge of one of
the guns--will be if Bill Darworthy is still in the hospital. Now if
you enter as a mere boy, or even as a landsman, it may be that you'll
never get around to where I am. You must remember that the _Brooklyn_ is
a big ship, and all the men on her are divided into classes,--officers,
petty officers, seamen, gunners, marines, and so on,--and one class is
pretty well separated from another."
"I presume that is so, but I never thought of it before."
"Even seamen are divided into seamen gunners, apprentices and the like,
and if you went on as a mere boy you might not see me once a week,
unless we happened to be off duty at the same time."
"I see what you are driving at, Mr. Walton; you--"
"Avast there, Walter, no mister for me, please. I'm plain Caleb Walton."
"Well then, Walton, you want to get me attached to that gun you hope to
have placed in your charge?"
"Now you've struck the bull's-eye, lad. The thing of it is, can I manage
it?"
"I'm sure you must know more about that than I do. I'll like it
first-rate if you could, for I--well, to be plain, I like you."
Caleb Walton held out his horny hand. "The liking is mutual, Walter, and
there's my fist on it. Now I have an idee." The old gunner took several
puffs at his pipe. "I know Captain Cook of the _Brooklyn_ tolerably
well--served under him for a short spell, and once did a little private
business for him. Now, Captain Cook won't do a thing as is out of his
line of duty, but still----"
"He may aid you in having me assigned to the gun you expect to have
charge of?" finished Walter.
"That's it. I think I can work the deal--almost sure of it,--but you
must help me."
"What must I do?"
"Say nothing and leave it all to me, and if my plan goes through, don't
tell any one that you were favored. If you do, you'll only make
enemies."
"I'll remember that. But what of Haskett, Doring, and the others?"
"I'd like to have Doring in my gang--he's the right sort. I don't want
that scowling Jim Haskett, not after what Doring has told me of him. But
he's out of it, anyway, for he enlisted as a first-class seaman, at
twenty-six dollars per month."
"I wish I knew a little more about a warship," said the youth,
longingly. "The more I hear, the less I seem to know."
"It will all come to you in time, and when you are on board I'll show
you all I can. It would do no good to talk about guns and the like until
I can point out the different parts to you, for you wouldn't know a
breech-block from a priming-wire until you laid eyes on it."
"But how is a ship commanded? Won't you tell me something about that?"
"Of course you mean a warship, not a merchantman. Well, the highest
officer is, of course, the captain, although the vessel may be the
flagship of a commodore or an admiral."
"And what of a commodore and an admiral? You see I'm awfully green, when
it comes down to the navy. My younger brother Larry is the real sailor
in our family."
"You'll get there, lad; anybody will who is in for learning as you are.
An admiral is the highest officer in any navy, and he commands
everything that floats, from battleship to despatch tug. Next to him is
the vice-admiral. In the United States navy these offices don't exist
any more, having died out with the deaths of Admiral Porter and
Vice-Admiral Rowan."
"But the newspapers speak of Admiral Sampson."
"He is acting rear-admiral, but holds only the office of commodore. He
commands a fleet of warships, while a commodore commands only a
squadron; that is, four or six, usually, although he may have more at
times. His ships are generally divided into two divisions."
"I understand. Please go on."
"Well, as I said before, the captain really commands the ship. Next to
him are the commander and the lieutenant-commander. The first of these
takes orders from the captain and issues them to those under him. The
lieutenant-commander is called the executive officer, and he's always
put down as the hardest worked man on the ship. What he does would fill
a book, and he rarely gets leave of absence, for nobody can spare him."
"But what does he do?"
"Well, in the first place he sees that the whole crew keeps straight,
and he keeps a conduct book for reference. He hears all complaints and
straightens out all difficulties. He sees to it that the ship is kept
clean, and he has the say about arranging messes. He must also station
the hands for the various fire, sail, and boat drills, the gun
exercises, and the drills with small-arms and cutlasses. Then every
night at eight o'clock he receives the reports of petty officers, to
show that each department is O. K. up to that hour. And there is a lot
more besides."
"Thanks, but I don't care to be an executive officer," smiled Walter.
"But perhaps he gets well paid for it."
"He earns from twenty-eight hundred to three thousand dollars per year.
The commander gets five hundred more than that. A commodore gets five
thousand a year, and a rear-admiral six thousand, when at sea. When on
shore all these figures are slightly reduced."
"Those are nice salaries."
"That is true. But don't forget that everybody on the ship in the shape
of an officer must board himself. The crew does that too, but Uncle Sam
makes them an allowance for that purpose."
"Don't the higher officers get anything?"
"They have a ration allowed them--that or thirty cents. Of course such
a ration cuts no figure with a commander or a captain."
"I suppose that's so. But please go on. Who is next to the executive
officer?"
"The junior lieutenant, and then come the ensigns and naval cadets; that
is, those young fellows from Annapolis who are studying up to become
higher officers."
"And after that what?"
"Then come the warrant officers, that is, those warranted by our
President, and they include boatswain, gunner, carpenter, and
sail-maker. And you mustn't forget the marines--the soldier-sailors."
"Gracious, what a lot! Any more?"
"We are not half through, lad, but the others will explain themselves by
their titles, such as chief engineer, chief surgeon, paymaster, and
chaplain. The chaplain holds the relative position to a captain or a
commander, but his whole duty is to hold church and keep the men from
going wrong, morally and spiritually. Besides these, we have boatswain's
mate, gunner's mate, and the like. Then among the seamen the leading men
are called captains; as, for instance, captain of the top, captain of
the afterguard, and like that. You'll soon get to know them all, never
fear."
"How will I know them--by their uniforms?"
"By their uniforms, and also by the stripes and devices they wear. Don't
you see this flaming spherical shell of silver that I wear? That shows
that I am a gunner and have seen over twenty years of service. If I was
a gunner with less time to my credit, the shell would be of gold."
"And does everybody wear some device?"
"Everybody, from a rear-admiral with his two silver stars and anchor
down to the apprentice who has his figure 8 knot. If I get to be a chief
gunner, I'll wear two crossed cannons instead of this shell."
"And if you got to be a captain, what would you wear?"
"A silver spread eagle, with an anchor at each end, on my shoulders."
"That's another deal to learn. I should think a fellow would get mixed
on all these stars, eagles, shells, cannons, and the rest."
"It takes time to learn, lad. Let me give you a bit of advice. If you
meet another person on shipboard and you are in doubt about it, salute.
You may be making a mistake, but it will be a mistake on the right
side."
"I'll remember that. But I feel as if I had more than ever to learn.
Can't I get some book and study it?"
"I've got such a work in my valise. I'll get it for you," concluded
Caleb Walton, and he arose. "But remember about that other thing--mum is
the word."
"I certainly shall remember," and Walter smiled. "I'm awfully glad I've
found such a friend as you," and he squeezed the old gunner's hand.
They returned to the other car, and soon Walter was deeply interested in
the volume which Caleb Walton loaned him. It was a technical work,
issued by the authority of the Navy Department, and contained all that
he desired to learn, and a deal besides.
"Going to learn your duty as soon as possible, eh?" observed Si Doring,
as he looked over the boy's shoulder. "That's right. If you want to know
anything about sails or knots, call on me."
"What's the matter with calling on me?" put in the voice of Jim Haskett,
as he slid into the seat behind them, and leaned over. "I reckon I know
as much as Doring about a ship, and maybe a leetle more."
At this Si Doring fired up on the instant. "See here, Haskett, I ain't
under ye no longer, remember that!" he cried. "I don't want you to talk
to me, or about me. I owe you one, and more, and I ain't forgetting
it--remember that!"
"Oh, don't get on a high horse," growled the former mate of the
_Sunflower_. "I won't talk to you if you don't want me to."
"And ye needn't talk about me, either. Think ye know a leetle more about
a ship than I do, eh? Well, maybe Captain Pepperill didn't think so,
when you let the _Sunflower_ split her foremast in that blow off--"
"I wasn't responsible for that!" interrupted Jim Haskett, his surly face
growing red. "You let the past drop, and I'll let it drop." He glared
savagely at Si, then turned to Walter. "Do you want some p'ints
explained, Russell?"
"Thank you, but I would just as lief study this book for the present,"
answered Walter, coldly, and somewhat astonished to learn that Haskett
knew his name.
"Maybe I can make some p'ints clearer. I'm an old sea-dog, you know."
"I think Doring can explain all I wish to know," continued the boy,
feeling he ought to stick up for the Yankee who had made himself so
agreeable since leaving Boston.
"Don't want my advice, then?"
"I think not."
"All right, then, suit yourself. If you want to cotton to such a fellow
as Doring, you can do so, but"--he lowered his voice--"I reckon you are
making a mistake." And then, before either Walter or Si could answer, he
bounced up, and strode down the aisle and into the smoker.
The train was approaching Washington, and shortly after this
conversation it rolled into the depot at the Capitol city, and came to a
standstill.
"We stop here for fifteen minutes," said the porter to Walter, when
questioned on the point. "Give you sailor-boys time to stretch your
shoah legs." And he grinned, having been on a warship himself once,
serving as a "striker,"--one who waits on the mess tables.
"Let us take a few minutes' walk; I am all cramped up," said Walter to
his Yankee friend; and Si readily agreed. Caleb Walton was willing they
should go, but warned them not to stay too long.
"Fifteen minutes don't mean sixteen; remember that," he called after
them.
"I should like to spend a few days here," observed Walter, as he and his
companion hurried on. "The Capitol, patent offices, and other buildings
must be very interesting."
"I'd rather see President McKinley," returned the Yankee. "My, but he
must have his hands full these days!"
"Do you want to see the President?" questioned a man who was just
passing them. "If you do, he's in his carriage three blocks below here.
There's a cave-in of a sewer, and his carriage just stopped."
"Then here's our chance, Si!" cried Walter, eagerly. "Come on; we can
make it if we run. I wouldn't miss seeing the President for a good
deal!"
"Thet's me!" burst out the Yankee. "Off we go!" And he started to run,
his long legs giving Walter all he could do to keep up with him. The
three blocks were covered, and they came to where the cave-in was
located, but only some very ordinary vehicles were in sight.
"We're too late!" grumbled Si, crestfallen. "Come on back."
"Too late for phwat?" asked an Irishman standing near the sewer.
"We wanted to see the President."
"Sure an' there goes his carriage down beyant." And the Irishman pointed
to a side street.
It was still less than a block away, and without stopping to think twice
they made after it, and came up just as it was turning a corner. A very
trim driver sat on the box of the turn-out, and on the rear seat, the
sole occupant of the carriage, sat our country's chief executive.
"Hurrah!" shouted Walter, impulsively, and waved his cap, and Si did the
same. Several others bowed and tipped their hats, and the President
bowed and tipped his silk hat in return. Then the carriage rolled
swiftly away.
[Illustration: THE PRESIDENT BOWED IN RETURN.]
"It was him all right enough," exclaimed Si, enthusiastically, and with
a total disregard for grammar. "He looks jest like his pictures, only a
little more care-worn. I suppose he loses lots o' sleep these nights."
"Yes, indeed. Being the President isn't the easiest berth in the world.
If I--" Walter broke off short. "Our train--I'll wager a dollar we'll
miss it!"
"Creation! don't say that!" gasped Si; and then both took to their heels
as if running the race of their lives.
CHAPTER VII
A TALK ABOUT SPANISH SAILORS
"The train is gone!"
It was Walter who gasped out the words, as he and his companion rushed
upon the depot platform. In the distance they could see the end of the
rear car just vanishing from view in a cloud of dust.
"Thet's so!" groaned Si, panting for breath, for they had done their
best to reach the depot in time. "What's to be the next move?" And he
looked anxiously at his companion.
"I'm sure I don't know," was Walter's slow answer. "I--I almost wish I
hadn't seen the President--now."
"Can't we take a later train?"
"I don't know if the tickets will be good. Certainly we'll have no
sleeping accommodations for to-night."
"Who cares for that, so long as we get to Fortress Monroe? Come on, let
us see what can be done." And Si led the way to the ticket office.
The ticket-seller was busy, and it was several minutes before they could
get to him. "Yes, there will be another train in an hour and a quarter,"
he said. "About your tickets, did you have stop-over privileges?"
"We did not--we didn't intend to stop over," answered Walter.
"Then I don't believe the conductor will accept them."
"Gee shoo!" groaned Si, dismally. "Do you mean to say we've got to pay
the fare from here to our destination? Why, it will take all I've got
with me, and maybe more."
"There ought to be some way of having our tickets fixed up," said
Walter. "Can't we go to the main office and see about them?"
"Certainly, if you desire," rejoined the ticket seller, and turned to a
number of others who were waiting impatiently to be served.
The main offices of the railroad company were not far distant, and
hither they made their way. Inside, a young clerk learned what they
wanted, and then took them to an inner apartment.
"Government fares, eh?" questioned the elderly gentleman to whom they
had been conducted. "What was the reason you didn't catch your train?"
"We lingered to see President McKinley, who was out in his carriage,"
said Walter. "We got so interested we forgot the time until we were just
about a minute late."
"Well, I can't blame you much for wanting to see the man you are
fighting under," said the railroad official. "Let me see your tickets."
And, taking them, he wrote upon the back of each in blue pencil. "There
you are, but you'll have to ride in an ordinary coach."
"We don't care if it is a freight," put in Si, earnestly. "We want to
get there." And, after both had thanked the official for his kindness,
they withdrew.
"We're all right so far," observed Walter, as "to kill time," they
walked slowly down one of the broad avenues for which our Capitol city
is famous. "The question is, what will Caleb Walton think of us when he
finds us missing?"
"I hope he doesn't think we are trying to desert!" cried Walter, to whom
this idea had not before occurred.
"Some fellows wouldn't be any too good to desert, Walter. Only last week
a lot of fellows deserted on their way from one of the western states.
They got to Chicago, where they wanted to go, and that was the last seen
of them. They were like tramps--willing to do anything for a free ride
on the cars. But they ran the risk of being court-martialled for it."
"I think the fact that we had our tickets fixed up will go to show what
our intentions were, Si. However, we have put our feet into it, and must
take what comes."
After a walk of half an hour, both felt hungry and entered a
modest-looking restaurant on a side street. They had just ordered a
cheap meal each, when a newsboy entered with a bundle of afternoon
newspapers.
"Have a paper, sir? Extra, sir; all about the Flying Squadron going to
sail. Only one cent, sir."
"What's that?" questioned Walter. "Here, give me a paper." And he
grasped the sheet eagerly, while Si also purchased one of another sort.
Soon both were devouring the "scare-heads" showing upon each.
THE FLYING SQUADRON READY TO SAIL!
Schley and His Warships May Leave Hampton Roads To-night!
The Spanish Fleet Said To Be On Its Way Westward!
Has It Sailed for Cuba or Will It Bombard Some City on Our
Coast?
The Authorities Very Reticent, but a Strict Watch To Be Kept
from Maine to Florida for the Appearance of the Enemy!
"By ginger, they're a-comin' over here, sure pop!" burst from the Yankee
youth's lips. "Supposing they bombard New York? Why, I heard tell that
they could lay out in the harbor and plant a shell right on the top of
Trinity Church, or come up to Boston Harbor and knock the top off of the
Bunker Hill monument!"
"Our ships and forts won't give them the chance to come so close, Si.
But what I'm thinking of is, supposing the warships sail before we can
get on board?"
"Thet's so!" Si Doring heaved a long sigh. "Why didn't we wait some
other time for to see the President? If we miss the ships, I don't know
what we'll do. We'll be stranded."
"Oh, I presume, they'll put us on some other vessel. But my heart was
set on getting aboard the _Brooklyn_." And Walter sighed, too.
Both had lost interest in eating, and swallowed the food mechanically.
Then, without waiting, they hurried back to the depot, bound that the
next train should not slip by.
The route to Fortress Monroe was by way of Fredericksburg, Richmond, and
Newport News. Soon the train came along and they got aboard. The cars
were comfortable, but not nearly so elegant as the one previously
occupied.
"It is odd to me to see separate cars for negroes and whites," observed
Walter, after the journey had begun. "We don't have any such thing up
North."
"They will be done away with in time, I guess," answered Si. "By the
way, I see in this newspaper that among the first troops to be sent to
Cuba will be two regiments of negroes. Hurrah for those boys, say I."
It was growing dark, and soon the car lamps were lighted. The boys read
their newspapers through from end to end, and Walter learned that the
volunteer regiments were everywhere being sworn into the United States
service as rapidly as possible.
"I wonder who will get to the front first?" he mused. "It would be odd
if they should send Ben to the Philippines instead of Cuba. If only
Larry was with me to go into the navy. I am sure he would enjoy this
sort of service." And thus musing, he dropped asleep, never dreaming of
the part his younger brother had taken in the contest of Manila Ray.
"Richmond! Change cars for James City, Williamsburg, and Newport News!"
Such was the cry which awoke him. He arose sleepily, to find Si snoring
heavily.
"Si, wake up!" he cried, and shook his companion. "We have to change
here."
"Change--for what?" questioned the Yankee, as he blinked his eyes in the
glare of an electric light. "How far have we got?"
"Richmond. Come--the other train leaves in a few minutes."
It was early morning, and the depot platform was deserted excepting for
the passengers that left the train. Soon the second train rolled in, and
they found a double seat, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable.
"By ginger! I never thought of 'em before," remarked Si, suddenly.
"What?"
"Our satchels, that we left in that first train."
"I had mine checked through."
"I didn't, because I wanted to look over some things of mine on the way
down." Si shook his head in dejection. "Say, but ain't I running up
against the worst luck ever was! I'll bet a new pocket-knife the satchel
is gone when I get to the end of this trip."
"Oh, I hope not, Si. Did it contain much of value?"
"It had my clothing in, a Bible that my mother gave me, and a ten-dollar
gold piece that I've been carrying around for twelve years for luck,
because it was given to me by a South American rain-maker, a kind of
water-witch I met in San Luiz, Brazil. And that ain't the worst on it,
either. The grip wasn't locked."
"It's too bad. But let us hope it's all right, Si. Anyway, I wouldn't
worry until you know the truth," said Walter, trying to put a bright
face on the matter, and then he dropped asleep again, and the Yankee
youth presently followed his example.
Luckily the train ran right through from Newport News to Hampton, which
is within two miles and a half of Old Point Comfort and Fortress Munroe.
The ride proved uneventful, and when they reached Hampton they fell
directly into the arms of Caleb Walton.
"What does this mean?" demanded the old gunner, as he caught each by the
arm. "Missed the train, eh? I told you to be careful."
"We'll know better next time," answered Walter. "But what of the Flying
Squadron? Has it sailed?"
"Not yet, but the ships may leave Hampton Roads at any hour. I made up
my mind to wait for this train and then go on. I sent the others ahead."
"What of my satchel?" put in Si.
"It's in the baggage room. But hurry up; every hour counts just about
now." And he led the way to where the bag had been left.
"Here is a big wagon bound for the fort," said Walton, as they left the
station. "We'll ride down on that, for the soldiers in charge gave me
permission, should you show up."
The wagon was loaded with blankets, and the pile made a soft seat. Soon
there came a crack of a whip, and they were off, down a sandy highway
leading directly to the sea. Soon the salt air filled their nostrils.
"Oh, we're in good shape to give the Dons a hot reception, if they show
themselves around here," said one of the soldiers, in reply to a
question from Walter. "We've got some of the finest guns in the country
at the fort, and can reach a ship ten or twelve miles out in the
harbor."
"I should like very much to inspect a real fort," answered the youth.
"The guns must be even more complicated than on board a warship."
"The disappearing guns are very fine. But I doubt if you could get
permission to go through now--at least, not until you were duly enlisted
into the navy and had your uniform on. You know we have strict orders to
keep all outsiders at a distance. We don't want any Spanish spies to get
plans of our hidden batteries and the fort itself."
"Would they dare to try to get them?" asked Si. "'Pears to me that would
be a mighty risky piece of business."
"Certainly they would try. You mustn't think that all Spaniards are
cowards--even if the authorities are responsible for blowing up the
_Maine_. They'll give us a good shake up, if they get the chance."
"I don't think so," said Caleb Walton. "They are not as up-to-date as we
are. I know we can beat 'em at gun practice every round."
"Don't brag. Wait till the war is over."
"I'm not bragging--only talking facts, sergeant. I have a friend at the
Brooklyn Navy-Yard, and he wrote to me about the gunners on the
_Vizcaya_, when that Spanish warship was lying off Staten Island this
spring. He said they were--well tired, I reckon we'd call it,--and
didn't have any drills worth mentioning all the while the ship was
there. Now you know that won't do."
"Oh, yes, I know a man must keep at his drills if he doesn't want to
grow rusty."
"Besides that, you must remember that four-fifths of their sailors don't
enlist for themselves. They are shanghied out of the seaport towns, made
drunk, and taken on the ships like so many cattle, and they are lucky if
they get away inside of ten or fifteen years. And in addition the
cat-o'-nine tails is always dangling afore their eyes. Now a man
treated like that can't make a good sailor, for the simple reason that
he knows he has been treated unjustly, and he can't take an interest in
his duties."
"Gracious, don't you think you are stretching it a bit?" put in Walter.
"What of their officers?"
"Nearly every one of them comes from the ranks of the nobility, and that
takes a good deal of ambition from the men, too, knowing it will be next
to impossible for them to rise, even to a petty office. Now in our navy
it's totally different. A man enlists of his own free will, he is
treated fairly even though subject to rigorous discipline, and if it's
in him he can rise to quite a respectable office and earn a good
salary--and he's certain to get his money, while the Spanish sailors and
soldiers go without a cent for months and months."
"T know what you say about wages is true," said the sergeant in command
of the army wagon. "I have it from a friend who left Havana when Lee,
our consul, came away, that the majority of the Spanish troops stationed
about the city hadn't seen a pay-day for nearly a year."
"And then there is another thing," continued Caleb Walton. "The
Spaniards have little mechanical ability, and before this war broke out
they had a great number of engineers and the like who were foreign
born--Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Germans principally. Now those men
won't stay on Spain's warships during this little muss,--at least the
Englishmen and Germans won't,--and a green hand at a marine engine can
do more damage in ten minutes than a ship-yard can repair in a month.
Take it, all in all, therefore, I think we have the best of it,"
concluded the old gunner.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
By the time Fortress Monroe was reached it was quite dark, so but little
could be seen outside of those sturdy and frowning walls behind which
were concealed the heavy guns intended to protect the entrance to
Chesapeake Bay.
The warships rode at anchor some distance beyond. To the squadron had
just been added the protected cruiser _Minneapolis_, and the _New
Orleans_ and _St. Paul_ were also expected, and all was a buzz of
excitement alongshore.
"They'll be off before long," said one old soldier. "I know because I
saw one of the captains saying good-by to his family. Such a parting
means a good deal."
"I understand a Spanish warship was sighted last night," put in another.
"We may have a fight right here unless Schley keeps his eyes open."
"Oh, he's got the _Scorpion_ out on scout duty--she can take care of any
sneak work," was the answer. He referred to the gunboat _Scorpion_ of
the auxiliary navy, which was doing duty just beyond the capes. The
_Scorpion_ was fast, and carried a strong searchlight, so it was likely
nothing could pass her without being detected and the alarm being given.
Alarms were numerous, but they were likewise all false, for no Spanish
ship of war came anywhere near our coast.
A boat was in waiting at the wharf, and Walter, Si, and the others were
ordered aboard without delay. The boat was manned by eight sturdy
jackies.
"Up oars!" came the command, and up went the eight blades straight into
the air; "Let fall!" and the oars fell into the water; "Give way!" and
the blades moved in a clock-like stroke, and they were off to the ships.
It was destined to be many a day before Walter should set foot on land
again.
"Halt! who goes there?" came suddenly from out of the darkness, and
Walter saw that they were lying beside what looked to be a bulging wall
of dark-colored steel.
"Aye! aye!" was the answer, and there followed a short talk. "Got ten of
them, sir," said the wardroom officer, in charge of the small boat. Then
a rope ladder was thrown down, and the newcomers clambered aboard the
warship that was to be their home for so long to come.
Walter gazed about him eagerly, but that look was hardly satisfactory,
for to the darkness was now added a heavy fog through which the ship's
lights shone but faintly. All had their baggage, and without ceremony
they were told to fall in, and were then marched below by order of the
officer of the deck.
"This looks like home to me," exclaimed Caleb Walton, as he gazed around
the berth deck. "I went over the _Brooklyn_ many a time when she was up
at the navy-yard, so I know her from stem to stern." He took Walter by
the arm. "Here is the baby I hope to manage," he whispered, and pointed
to one of the starboard monsters, whose long muzzle pointed frowningly
outward. "Isn't she a daisy?"
"I suppose she is," was the boy's reply. "But how in the world do you
manage such a mass of metal? Surely a man can't do it by hand."
"It might be done by hand, but nowaday everything is worked by
electricity and hydraulic pressure. You'll learn it all after you have
been on board awhile. At present just do what you are told and keep your
eyes open."
Supper had been served some time before, but as it was not intended to
let the newcomers go hungry, a table was set and they messed together.
The swinging table and the tableware all interested Walter, especially
when he was provided with his own personal cup, plate, spoon, knife, and
fork.
"As a gunner I'll mess with the other warrant officers," exclaimed Caleb
Walton, in reply to a question about messes from Walter. "You see, there
are a great number of tables. The commodore is entitled to dine alone,
so is the captain and the commander, while the other officers have what
they call the wardroom mess. Then there are the steerage mess, for
midshipmen, ensigns, and clerks; the master-at-arm's mess, for yeomen,
machinists, boiler-makers, and so on; and three or four other messes
besides, including that to which you will belong. We gunners dine with
the boatswain, sail-maker, and carpenter."
The meal was a plain one, of bread and butter, coffee, cold corned
beef, and apple sauce, but it was well cooked, and all the new men and
boys ate heartily. As soon as it was finished, Walton hurried off to
interview Captain Cook, if he could obtain that privilege.
"Well, where are we going to sleep? I don't see any beds," said one of
the boys, a timid lad named Paul Harbig. His query brought forth a roar.
"Your bed is rolled up and lashed away, Paul," answered Si, who had
rather taken to the little lad. "Do you see those gratings over yonder?"
"Yes."
"Well, all the hammocks for this deck are stowed away behind that. When
it comes time to go to bed, we'll get them out, fasten them up to the
hooks you see about you, and there you are. And let me tell you there is
nothing finer nor a good canvas hammock to sleep in. I'll take it before
I take a greasy, dirty bunk in a buggy fo'castle every time."
"But a fellow may fall out," suggested Paul.
"If you're afraid of that, get a rope's-end and tie yourself in,"
answered Si, philosophically. "But you won't tumble, unless we strike
some putty rough weather."
The order was now passed to bring along all baggage, and Walter and Si
picked up their satchels. Thinking to take out several things he needed,
the Yankee youth opened his bag and put his hand inside.
"By ginger!" came from him in an undertone, but loud enough for Walter
to hear.
"What's up, Si?"
"Thet ten-dollar gold piece is gone!"
"Are you sure? Perhaps it has slipped among some of the clothing."
"I'll soon see," was the quick response, and the Yankee youth dumped the
articles out in a heap. Sure enough, the golden eagle was gone.
"Somebody has robbed me," came in a groan. "Now who did it, do you
suppose?"
"I'm sure I don't know. It might have been done here or on the train, or
at the depot."
Si looked around him sharply. Not far away stood Jim Haskett, watching
him intently. As soon as the ex-mate of the _Sunflower_ saw that he was
noticed he turned away.
"I've got half a notion Haskett was the one to play me foul," he
whispered to Walter. "What do you think?"
"He wouldn't be much of a man to rob a messmate of ten dollars."
"Oh, you don't know Haskett. He's as close as he is brutal. Once we got
up a list to give Captain Pepperill a birthday present, but Haskett,
although he was first mate, only gave twenty-five cents,--no more than
Cooley, the cook, chipped in. In his eyes a ten-dollar gold piece is a
big lot of money."
"It wouldn't do you any good to accuse him if you wasn't pretty certain
he was guilty," returned Walter, cautiously. "You don't want to get into
trouble right after coming on board. If you raised a row, they might put
both you and Haskett in the brig."
"I'm going to ask him about it, anyway," answered the Yankee youth.
"See, he is looking at us, and it 'pears to me as if he was enjoying
himself to see me in trouble."
Leaving his satchel and scattered clothing as they were, Si advanced
upon Haskett and without ceremony caught the man's shoulder.
"Haskett, I want to ask you something," he said, in a low tone. "Do you
know anything about this, or don't you?"
"I don't know--" The ex-mate of the _Sunflower_ stopped short. "What are
you talking about, Doring?"
"I left my satchel on the train, as you know. A ten-dollar gold piece is
missing. I want to know----"
"What! do you accuse me of taking it?" demanded the man, wrathfully.
"I asked you if you knew anything about it."
"No, I don't. I've got my own affairs to look after. More than likely
the car porter took your money--if you really had that amount."
"Well, I'm going to find that gold piece sooner or later, as sure as my
name is Si Doring," exclaimed the Yankee youth, determinedly, and with a
shake of his head he rejoined Walter and Paul Harbig.
The officer who had previously taken them in charge now came forward and
assigned them to their various sleeping places. This matter was readily
arranged, for one of the main features of the cruiser _Brooklyn_ is her
commodious berthing quarters, there being two complete decks, running
from end to end of the ship, for this purpose, also an extra forecastle,
so that the vessel can accommodate a thousand men if required--a number
nearly double that of her usual crew.
"It's a big hotel, with one room on a floor," thought Walter, as he took
the hammock assigned to him. He was glad to find Si on one side of him
and Paul Harbig on the other. Si showed both boys how to take their
canvasses and sling them. This work was just completed, when Caleb
Walton came back with a broad smile on his face.
"It's all right," he whispered to Walter. "The captain treated me better
than I thought he would. He called up the chief gunner, and we had a
talk, and you are to take the place of a man named Silvers, who has gone
lame through having a cat-block fall on his foot. If you'll only mind
yourself, and study up as I tell you, you'll have the chance of your
life."
"Study! I'm ready to begin right off," answered Walter, earnestly. "I'm
just crazy to get at that gun you pointed out to me. Can't you show me
something to-night?"
Caleb Walton laughed outright. "Don't try to learn it all before you go
to bed, Walter," he said. "Of course, you know more than some
landlubbers who think that on warships of to-day they handle the guns
as they used to, when one man took the powder and ball from the
powder-monkeys, another rammed them home in the gun, and the gunner
sighted his piece and pulled the string. Those days are gone, and a head
gunner like myself has very little to do, even if the position is a
responsible one. Come, I'll get permission to go below, and show you
just how a big gun is served from start to finish. Folks talk about 'the
man behind the gun' when they really mean from eight to twelve men."
The two hurried off, and presently descended an iron staircase which
seemed to lead into the very bowels of the ship. At last they came to a
steel trap-door, barred and locked.
"Below this door is one of the magazines," explained Caleb. "It contains
the ammunition for the eight-inch guns in the turret above. The keys to
the magazine are in the captain's cabin, and can only be had on special
order and by certain persons. The magazines are kept locked continually,
excepting when in use or when being inspected. All of them are connected
with huge water tanks, so at the first sign of a fire they can be
flooded, thus lessening the danger of an explosion."
"Yes, I remember the Spaniards tried to prove that the _Maine_ blew up
from one of her magazines."
"Such a thing couldn't happen in the American navy, because the
discipline is too strict. Now, when a gun is being served, several men
in the magazine get out the shells for the shellmen, who load them on
the ammunition hoist over there, which is nothing more than a warship
dumbwaiter. The hoist takes the shells up to the guns, in this case in
the forward turret. Other hoists supply the rear turret and the
secondary battery and other guns, including the rapid-firing weapons in
the military tops."
"You mean those platforms around the upper ends of the two masts?"
"Exactly. The tops are the places for the sharpshooters and the
range-finders."
"The range-finders?"
"Exactly. You see, it is a difficult matter to get an exact range on an
enemy several miles off, and we have to try to get the range in various
ways. One of the simplest ways is to station two range-finders in the
tops, as far away from each other as possible. Each man gets a bead on
the enemy with his glasses, and then proceeds to get the angle between
the bead and an imaginary line drawn between his station and that taken
by the other fellow. The three points--that is, the two range-finders
and the enemy--form a triangle, and having one line and the two angles
to work on, the working out of the problem gives the distance the
gunners are hunting for."
"That makes pointing a gun nothing but a mathematical problem doesn't
it?"
"It makes it partly a mathematical problem, lad. But having the distance
isn't everything, for that will only give us the height at which a gun
should be elevated in order to make its charge cover that distance and
hit the mark, instead of flying over it or ploughing the water below it.
After getting the distance we have to calculate on how the enemy's
vessel is moving, if she is under steam, and then, most important, we
have to let the gun go off at just the right motion of our own craft. In
some navies they discharge the guns on the upward roll of the ship, and
in others on the downward roll. My private opinion on that point is, a
downward roll in clear weather, and an upward roll in a choppy sea, when
you don't know just what is coming next."
"I see. Firing a gun isn't so easy as one would imagine."
"Easy enough if you want to waste ammunition, as those Spaniards did at
Manila. Gun practice is expensive, and Spain hasn't any money to waste
in that direction. Come, we'll have to get up to sleeping quarters now,"
concluded the old gunner, as a drum beat was heard sounding throughout
the warship. "That's tattoo. It will soon be two bells, nine o'clock,
and then comes pipe down."
"All right, I'm willing enough to go to sleep," said Walter. "But just
one question more. How do you count the time by bells on a warship?"
"Just the same as on any ship, lad. The bell strikes at each half-hour,
starting at half-past twelve at night, which is one bell. This makes one
o'clock, two bells, half-past one, three bells, and so on, up to four
o'clock, which is eight bells, when you start again from the beginning.
By this means the day and night are divided into periods of time called
watches, as morning watch, middle watch, dog watch, and the like. You'll
get the lay of it soon," finished Walton, and then, having reached the
berth deck, the pair separated for the night.
CHAPTER IX
COMMODORE WINFIELD SCOTT SCHLEY
In a couple of days Walter began to feel at home on the flagship, and he
could no longer be termed a "greeny," strictly speaking, although there
were still a great number of things for him to learn. He was much
interested in the _Brooklyn_ as a whole as well as in detail, and was
proud to learn that this armored cruiser was the largest of the class in
our navy, having a displacement of 9215 tons, as against her sister
ship, the _New York_, which had a displacement of about a thousand tons
less.
"This ship is just four hundred feet and six inches long," said Caleb.
"She don't look so long as she rides the water, but as a city block is
ordinarily two hundred feet deep, so to speak, she would cover two
blocks of a side street, providing the street was sixty-five feet wide,
for her to rest in. That's pretty big, eh?"
"And how much water does she draw, Walton?"
"Draws twenty-four feet, which is the height of an ordinary two-story
house. Her three smokestacks are about a hundred feet high each, and
that gives her fires a first-class draught, sailing or standing still."
"I'm awfully glad I'm on her," smiled Walter. "Oh, I do hope we have a
fight with the Dons. I want to see the big guns go off. I know the main
battery, as you call it, has eight 8-inch guns. How many guns are there
besides?"
"There are twelve 5-inch rapid-fire guns, twelve 6-pounders, four
1-pounders, four Colts, and two field guns. Besides, we carry four
torpedo tubes."
"We're a regular floating arsenal!" exclaimed Walter. "It must make
things shake when they all get to firing."
"You'll think you've struck the infernal regions, lad, if we ever do get
them all a-going. Yes, the _Brooklyn_ is nothing but a floating fort.
She's an unusual type, because she has an extra high forecastle deck.
Some folks don't think that makes her a beauty, but they must remember
that warships aren't built altogether for looks, although to my mind
she's as handsome as any of 'em. The high bow enables us to carry our
forward guns eight feet higher than those on the _New York_, and it will
come in mighty handy if we ever want to run full steam after an enemy in
a heavy sea which would drown out a ship with a low freeboard."
"And why is she called an armored cruiser?"
"Because she is protected by steel plating three inches thick on her
sides and on her deck, and under this is an additional protection of
coal and of cocoa-fibre, for keeping out water. It would surprise you to
see how the sides and deck, as well as the bottom, are built, were they
taken apart for examination."
Discipline Walter found very strict, and once he had donned his uniform
he was kept employed from sunrise to sunset, his duties being largely
similar to those performed by his brother Larry on the _Olympia_. Early
in the morning he was aroused by the blare of a bugle, or the roll of a
drum, and given but a few minutes in which to dress and roll up his
hammock and put it away. Then came the work of washing down the deck,
followed by breakfast, and later all hands were called to quarters, to
attend some drill, sometimes at the guns, sometimes at the hose pipes
scattered about in case of fire, and occasionally with small-arms and
with cutlasses. Each afternoon there was a "run around," lasting from
ten minutes to half an hour. In this the men fell in singly or in pairs,
and ran around and around the deck, at first slowly until "second wind"
was gained, and then faster and faster. This is the one chance a jackie
gets of stretching his legs while on board of his ship, and how he does
enjoy it!
Taking them as a whole, Walter found the ship's company a jolly crowd,
with but few men of the Jim Haskett stamp among them. The men connected
with the guns were a particularly brotherly set, and the youth soon felt
thoroughly at home among them. He was always willing to do anything
asked of him, and in return the best gunners on the vessel did not
hesitate to give him "points" whenever he asked for them. One jocularly
called him The Questioner, but Walter did not mind, and went on picking
up all the information possible.
On his second morning on board Walter was talking to Si when a low roll
of drums reached their ears. "Hark!" cried the Yankee boy. "Two ruffles.
Do you know what that means? The commodore is either leaving or coming
on board. They always give a high officer that salute, or a similar
one."
"Let us see him if we can," exclaimed Walter, who had not yet caught
sight of the commander of the squadron. They crowded to an open port and
were just in time to see Commodore Schley descend by the swinging ladder
to the gig. Soon the little craft shot out of sight through the fog, for
the day was far from clear.
"He looks like a fighter," remarked Walter. "He has quite a record,
hasn't he?"
"Yes, indeed, I was reading about him only last week. He was in the
Civil War, operating along the Mississippi, and after that he saw a lot
of fighting besides."
"I know all about our commodore," said a gunner standing near. "My
father fought with him on the Mississippi, and also when Port Hudson, in
Louisiana, was taken. He is named after General Winfield
Scott,--Winfield Scott Schley,--for his father and the general were warm
friends."
"It's a good name for a fighter; for certainly nobody fought better than
did General Scott, through the war with Mexico," was Walter's comment.
"Schley entered the Naval Academy in 1856 and remained until 1861, when
the war broke out," continued the gunner. "They say he graduated at the
head of his class and was so well liked that he was given sea-duty on
the frigate _Potomac_, and in 1862 he was made a master, and ordered on
the _Winona_, of the Gulf Squadron.
"After the Civil War was over, he was sent to the Pacific, and there he
aided in the suppression of an outbreak among the Chinese coolies in the
Chin Chi Islands. The United States consulate at this place was in
danger of being mobbed, but Schley took a hundred marines ashore, and
knocked the whole uprising in the head in short order."
"No wonder he's a commodore," said Walter; and Si nodded approvingly.
"It wasn't long before the young officer was made a
lieutenant-commander, and coming back from the Pacific, he was placed in
charge of a department at the Naval Academy. He remained ashore for
three years, then went to the coast of Africa, on the _Benicia_, where
he took part in a number of contests, and helped clear the Congo River
of pirates, and overthrew the forces defending the Salu River in Corea,
another bit of work for which he was warmly praised."
"Oh, he's a corker," cried Si, enthusiastically.
"I'm not done yet," went on the gunner, who loved to talk about the
exploits of his old commander. "Of course you have heard how the Greely
Expedition to the North Pole got lost and couldn't get back home. Well,
it was Schley who went after them, and found Greely and six of his
companions at Cape Sabine and brought them safely back. For this
Congress voted him a medal, and President Arthur raised him to the full
rank of captain and made him Chief of the Bureau of Equipment, a very
important office in the Naval Department. But Schley couldn't stand it
on land, he must have the rolling ocean under him, and so he gave up his
berth ashore and took command of the _Baltimore_."
"I remember about that," put in Walter. "I was reading about John
Ericsson, the inventor of the monitor. When Ericsson died, the body was
sent to Sweden, his fatherland, on the _Baltimore_ under Schley."
"Exactly, and the King of Sweden gave Schley a medal to commemorate the
event, at a grand gathering at Stockholm. From Sweden Schley took the
_Baltimore_ to Southern waters, and while off the coast of Chili he
smoothed out what threatened to become a serious difficulty between that
country and ours on account of some of Uncle Sam's jackies being stoned
on the streets of Valparaiso. For this the Navy Department was extremely
grateful, and he went up several points on the register, so that it
didn't take him long to become a commodore."
"He's certainly a man worth sailing under," said Walter. "I suppose he
is married?"
"Yes, and has several children--but that don't interest me," concluded
the gunner, who was an old bachelor, with a peculiar dislike for the
gentler sex.
Since the time that Si had spoken to Haskett about the missing money,
the seaman had steered clear of both the Yankee lad and Walter. Perhaps
he was afraid that Si would accuse him openly of the theft of the gold
piece, or perhaps he was afraid of Caleb Walton, who was continually
around and ready to champion his "boys," as he had dubbed both. But
there was one boy who could not get away from him, and that was Paul
Harbig.
"You're just the right sort to take to," said Haskett, as he caught Paul
by the arm one morning, while both were coming from mess. "You're too
much of a real little man to have anything to do with that Russell boy
or Si Doring."
"Oh, I like them both very much!" answered Paul, and attempted to pass
on. With a frown Haskett caught him by the arm and swung him back.
"See here, I want to talk to you," he cried uglily. "Has Si Doring been
telling you any yarns about me?"
[Illustration: "SEE HERE, I WANT TO TALK TO YOU."]
"You let go of me," was Paul's only answer. "I don't want anything to do
with you."
"Answer my question."
"I haven't got to." And now Paul did his best to get away. He had just
twisted himself loose when Jim Haskett struck him a cruel blow on the
head.
"You--you brute!" gasped the boy, as the tears came. He was about to try
retreating again, when Haskett caught him once more.
"Now answer me, or I'll thrash the life out of you," he hissed into
Paul's ear. "And mind you tell the truth."
"He said that he had a--a--" the boy broke off short. "I won't tell you,
there! Now let go!" And he began to squirm.
"I know what he said," blustered Haskett. "Said he had had a ten-dollar
gold piece in his valise, didn't he?"
"Ye-es."
"And he accused me of taking it, eh?"
"He didn't say so outright. He said you had been where you could get at
the bag."
"It amounts to the same thing. As a matter of fact I couldn't get at the
bag any more than could you, or Russell, or Walton, or any of the
others."
"I suppose that is so. Now let me go."
"I will in a minute, but I want to tell you something, for it's not nice
to have folks taking you to be a thief," went on Haskett, tactfully.
"I haven't said anything about the affair."
"Perhaps not, Paul, but Doring talks, and I reckon so do Russell and
Walton. During the past couple of days I've found more than one fellow
aboard the _Brooklyn_ looking at me queer-like, and I can put two and
two together as quick as the next man. If I allow this to go on, there
won't be a soul speak to me after a while."
"I shan't say a word--I'll promise you."
"It's Russell who will talk the most, I reckon," went on Haskett, with
apparent bitterness. "Russell, the very fellow who ought not to say a
word."
"I'll caution him, if you want me to," went on Paul, who was
tender-hearted and very willing to help anybody out of trouble.
"Caution Russell! Not for the world. See here, I'll tell you something,
and you can tell Doring or not, just as you please. To the best of my
knowledge Russell is the thief."
"Walter!" ejaculated Paul. "Oh, no, you must be mistaken. Why, why--how
could he get at the satchel? He was with Doring."
"I don't know about that. But I'm almost positive Russell is guilty."
"Have you any proof? You shouldn't say such a thing unless you have,"
retorted Paul, anxious to stick up for Walter, who had served him
several good turns since they had become acquainted.
"I've got more proof against Russell than Doring has against me,"
answered Jim Haskett, boldly. "And what is more, I can prove what I've
got to say."
"But what have you to say?" came in a cold, heavy voice behind Haskett,
and turning swiftly the former mate of the _Sunflower_ found himself
confronted by Caleb Walton. The old gunner's face looked stern and
angry.
"Why--er--where did you come from?" stammered the seaman.
"I asked you what you have to say against Walter Russell," demanded
Caleb. "Come, out with it, or by the jumping beeswax, I'll wipe up this
deck with you!" And he doubled up his fists.
"I'm not afraid, if you want to fight, Walton," replied Haskett,
recovering somewhat from his fright. "What I said about Russell, I'll
stick to."
"But what have you got to say? out with it," was the old gunner's
demand.
"I've got this much to say. I think Russell took Doring's gold piece,
and I am not the only one that does either. If you think I'm wrong, ask
Cal Blinker, the shellman. He heard almost as much as I did."
"Heard what?"
"Heard Russell talk in his sleep. It was last night. I got up to get a
drink of water and slipped and roused up Blinker. Then, when I went to
the water tub, I passed Russell's hammock. He was dreaming and talking
about the gold piece and saying that Doring would never learn that he
had it, and a lot more about hiding it under the gun. He went on about
the money and about hiding it for fully ten minutes. If you don't
believe me, go to Blinker about it."
CHAPTER X
WALTER SHOWS HIS PLUCK
"And is that all you have to say?" asked Caleb Walton, after a few
seconds of silence, during which he gazed so sharply at Jim Haskett that
the fellow felt compelled to drop his eyes. "Because a fellow dreams
about a gold piece, must you accuse him of stealing?"
"That's all right, too," responded Haskett, doggedly. "I know he
wouldn't dream that way unless there was something in the wind. I'm
satisfied he took the money."
"And I am satisfied that he is innocent," cried Caleb. "That boy would
never steal a cent from anybody."
"Why, he was after a thief himself before he left Boston," put in Paul,
who had now sought protection behind the old gunner.
"Well, suit yourselves," answered Haskett, with a shrug of his somewhat
rounded shoulders. "But let me tell you that I won't allow Russell,
Doring, or anybody else to speak of me as having taken the money--mind
that!" And he shook his fist savagely.
"Here comes Walter now," announced Paul. "Walter, come here!" he called
out, before Caleb could stop him.
At once Walter came up, an inquiring look upon his manly face, which was
now becoming sunburnt through exposure on deck. "What do you want,
Paul?" he asked.
"It's only some of Haskett's nonsense," answered Caleb, ere the boy
could speak. "Tell us, lad, do you remember dreaming anything about Si's
gold piece?"
For the instant Walter looked puzzled, then his face brightened. "I do,"
he answered. "What of it?"
"Tell us what you dreamed first."
"Why--I--I can't remember exactly, excepting that I was having a good
lot of worry about it," he stammered. "You know how dreams come and go."
"To be sure, Walter."
"You dreamt about the money you hid, didn't you?" said Haskett,
sneeringly.
"The money I hid? I hid no money."
"Oh no, of course not!"
"See here, Haskett, what do you mean?" And Walter strode over to the
seaman, his face flushing deeply. "Do you mean to insinuate that I took
Si's gold piece and hid it away?"
"He just does," burst out Paul. "And he says you talked in your sleep
about it, too."
"It is false--at least, it is false that I took the money. I might have
dreamed about it and talked in my sleep. We are not accountable for what
we do when we are sleeping."
"Perhaps you took the gold piece when you were asleep," said Haskett,
squinting suggestively at those surrounding him.
"The gold piece was taken while Si and I were left behind in Washington.
It was taken by somebody on the train."
"That's your story--and you've been trying to lay the thing at my door.
But I shan't stand it--not me," stormed Haskett. "I heard what you said
in your sleep, and so did Cal Blinker. If anybody is guilty, it is you!"
And he pointed his long, bony finger full in Walter's face.
By this time a crowd of a dozen or more had gathered round, realizing
that a quarrel of some sort was in progress. "It's about a gold piece,"
said one. "Haskett says Russell took it. Say, fellows, we don't want
anything to do with a thief."
"Not much we don't!" answered a messmate. "Heave him overboard if he is
guilty."
"This matter ought to be reported to the officer of the deck," put in a
third. "If there is a thief on board, no man's ditty-box will be safe."
At Haskett's concluding remark Walter's face grew as red as a beet, then
deadly pale. For a moment he stood stock still, breathing heavily.
Suddenly he leaped forward with clenched fist and struck Haskett a
stunning blow on the chin which sent the seaman staggering up against a
gun-carriage.
"That, for talking to me in this fashion!" he exclaimed.
"Oh!" grunted the ex-mate of the _Sunflower_, as he caught at the gun
just in time to prevent himself from falling to the deck. "You--you
young rascal, what do you mean by hitting me?"
"A fight! a fight!" cried several, and soon a crowd of about fifty
jackies surrounded the pair.
"Wasn't that a pretty blow though! And he's only a boy, too!" came from
a gunner's mate.
"I'll fix you for this!" went on Haskett, putting one hand to his chin,
where a lump was rising rapidly. "I never before allowed anybody to hit
me--leastwise a boy." And he rushed at Walter with a fierceness which
boded the youth no good.
"Don't you hit him, Haskett," put in Caleb, catching the seaman by the
arm. "If you do, you'll have to settle this affair with me."
"He hit me."
"And you as much as said he was a thief."
"And so he is."
"I am not, and I've a good mind to hit you again for saying so," burst
out Walter, and before anybody around could separate them he and Haskett
had closed in. Several ineffective blows were struck on each side, when
they were pulled apart.
"This won't do, Walter," whispered Caleb. "If you're not careful, you'll
spend a week in the brig."
"But--but it's awful to have him say I'm a--a--"
"I know, I know. But keep cool, lad; it's best, take my word for it.
You've been on board only a few days, but you have made lots of
friends, while I reckon most of the men have already sized up Haskett
for the meanest chap on board."
"He has no right to talk about me."
"He says you and Si Doring talked about him."
Haskett now pushed his way forward again. "I don't want trouble with the
officers, so we'll let this matter drop for the present," he blustered.
"But I'll remember you, and some day you'll be mighty sorry we had this
little mix-up." And muttering some more that nobody could understand he
strode off, the majority of the crowd gazing after him curiously.
"Ran away from a boy!" said one old tar. "He must be a regular coward,
and no mistake!"
Many wanted Walter to relate his version of what had brought the
encounter about, but Caleb hurried the lad away to a corner, where he
took a wash up and brushed off his clothing.
"I want to interview that Cal Blinker," said the youth. "Where can I
find him?"
"Down around the forward ammunition hoist," answered Paul, and Walter
hurried off, accompanied by his friends.
"Yes, I did hear you say something about a gold piece," the shellman
admitted. "You didn't talk very plainly and I understood very little.
Haskett said he understood every word. Well, maybe he did. I've been in
the navy so long that the noise of the big guns has affected my
hearing."
"Did I say I stole the piece?" insisted Walter.
"I don't know as you did. All I could make out was 'ten dollars in gold'
and 'the gun--just the place.'"
This was all Cal Blinker had to say. He was rather old and it was plain
to see that he wanted nothing to do with the controversy, one side or
the other.
Si Doring had been attending a special boat drill, and it was not until
an hour had passed that he came below and heard what had occurred.
Without hesitation he slapped Walter on the shoulder.
"Don't you take this to heart," he said. "No matter what that mean old
rascal of a Haskett says, he'll never make me believe that you are
anything but perfectly straight. I believe yet that he took the gold
piece and that some day I'll be able to prove it." And there the
incident, for the time being, dropped.
The manner in which Walter had "sailed into Haskett," as Caleb
expressed it, made the youth many friends among the crew, for if there
is one thing a jack tar loves it is to see a messmate stand up for
himself. "You're all right, you are," said more than one, and caught
Walter's hand in a grip calculated to break the bones. Several, who had
thought to play a few tricks on the "greeny," reconsidered their ideas
on the subject and concluded that it was best not to run any chances
with such a spirited lad.
For some time Walter was afraid that the executive officer would hear of
the encounter and bring him to book for it; but if the "mix-up" was
reported, nothing came of it. As a matter of fact, Uncle Sam's officers
just then had affairs of more importance requiring their attention.
For every hour on board of the warships composing the Flying Squadron
increased the anxiety concerning the Spanish ships which it was felt
were preparing to make a quick dash for Cuba or for our own coast. How
soon would these warships sail, and where would they make their presence
felt? those were the all-important questions commodore and captains
asked of each other. "They'll most likely try to break the blockade at
Havana," said one. "No, they'll bombard one of our down-east seacoast
cities," said another. "I think they'll rush through the Suez Canal to
fight Dewey," was the conclusion reached by a third. Under-officers and
men speculated quite as much as did their superiors, arriving at equally
opposite conclusions. "They have our whole seacoast and Cuba to pick
from," Commodore Schley said. "They will go where they can do the most
good--to their way of thinking. I think they'll go to Cuba or Porto
Rico." How correct the commander was history has shown.
Although the _Scorpion_ was patrolling the ocean just outside of the
capes, a strict watch was kept on every one of the warships, night and
day. Rumors were numerous, and one was to the effect that the Spaniards
had a submarine craft in their service and that this boat would soon
arrive along our eastern seacoast, to destroy the shipping from Maine to
the Gulf of Mexico. In these days, when we know the truth, we can afford
to laugh at such a report, but to the jackies on the warships, who
remembered only too well the fate of the _Maine_, it was no laughing
matter. Even when off duty, many would go on the spar deck and lie flat,
gazing into the dark waters for the best part of a night, hoping to
catch a glimpse of the unknown terror, should it come to that vicinity.
Sunday, with its deeply impressive church service, came and went, and
still the squadron lay at anchor. In the meantime it was rumored that
Sampson would soon take his most powerful vessels from the blockade and
bombard Havana. The newspapers reported this, but if such was the plan
of the Navy Department, it was altered at the last moment.
On May 12 came news of a fierce fight in the harbor of Cardenas, a
seaport a hundred and twenty miles east of Havana. In an attempt to
effect a landing, the torpedo boat _Winslow_ had her boiler blown to
pieces and several men were killed and injured, among them Ensign Worth
Bagley, who was thus the first American officer to fall in the war. Two
other warships, the _Wilmington_ and the _Hudson_, also took part in the
contest, but were repulsed after a gallant onslaught lasting over an
hour.
"This is war," said Caleb, as he read the news from the paper that one
of the gunners had just brought on board. "Those fellows on the
_Winslow_ caught it hot. Think of running right into that harbor and
having a shell drop and smash your boiler and send the live steam all
over you. I tell you Ensign Bagley was a plucky one, all honor to his
memory."
The next day brought even more important news. Dewey had gained a
foothold in the Philippines, the main city of Cuba was in a state of
blockade, and now Rear-Admiral Sampson had shifted the scene of action
to Porto Rico, by shelling the forts of San Juan, the principal city of
Spain's only other possession in the West Indies.
"We're getting there!" cried Caleb, excitedly. "We'll soon give the Dons
all they want."
"If Sampson succeeds in making the San Juan forts surrender, the whole
city will be at our mercy," said Walter. "Hurrah for the American navy,
and every ship and man in it."
"We are bound to get them on the run," put in Si. "Here is another
report about a fight at Cienfuegos. Where is that?"
"On the southern coast of Cuba," answered Walter, who had always had a
good head for geography, and who, since the war had started, had studied
the map of Cuba closely. "Havana, San Juan, and Manila! Say, but this
is becoming a war of magnificent distances."
"It's a naval war, that's what it is," said Caleb. "If we--hullo! Did
any of you see this telegram?" He pointed to his newspaper. "The Spanish
Squadron under Admiral Cervera has slipped away from Cape Verde Islands
and is undoubtedly bound westward."
"And here is another report that some strange vessels, supposed to be
warships, have been sighted off Martinique, Windward Island," added
Walter, quickly. "I'll wager we leave soon!"
"But where to--the Windward Islands?" queried Si.
"That's for Commodore Schley to decide. Rest assured he'll find this
Admiral Cervera sooner or later, just as Dewey found old Admiral
Montojo."
The news was spreading, and officers and men gathered in knots to
discuss the situation. As for Commodore Schley and Captain Cook, they
smiled knowingly, but said nothing. Everybody in the Flying Squadron
remembered what Dewey and his men had accomplished, and all were on
their mettle accordingly.
CHAPTER XI
THE SAILING OF THE FLYING SQUADRON
"We are off at last!"
It was Walter who broke the news, as he came tumbling down the stairs to
the berth deck, where Si and Caleb were engaged in a friendly game of
checkers on the top of a ditty-box.
"Off!" cried the old gunner, and leaped up, scattering the men on the
checkerboard in all directions. "Who told you?"
"The signal has just been hoisted on the military mast. I couldn't read
it, but Sandram could and he translated it for me."
Caleb waited to hear no more, but rushed on deck, with Walter and the
others following. The news was true, the signal flew the words, "Weigh
anchor and follow the flagship," and the heavy black smoke was pouring
in dense volumes from every warship's funnels.
"I wonder where we are bound?" questioned Walter, whose heart was
thumping within him at the thought war might soon become a stern reality
to him. "Of course we are going after Admiral Cervera's ships."
"I reckon that's right, but there's no telling," responded Caleb. "The
officers don't consult us when they want to move, you know." And he said
this so dryly that both Walter and Si had to laugh.
The warships at hand were four in number,--the _Brooklyn_, which I have
already described, and the _Massachusetts_, _Texas_, and _Scorpion_.
With them was the collier _Sterling_, loaded to the very rail with huge
bags of coal, for the exclusive use of the Flying Squadron.
The _Massachusetts_ was a battleship of the first-class, a sister ship
to the _Indiana_. She had a displacement of over ten thousand tons, and
a speed of sixteen knots per hour. Her massive armor was eighteen inches
thick--enough to withstand some of the heaviest shots ever fired from
any gun. Her armament consisted of a main battery of four 13-inch and
eight 8-inch guns and four 6-inch slow-fire guns. The secondary battery
comprised twenty 6-pounders, four 1-pounders, four Gatlings, and two
field-guns. Besides this she carried three torpedo tubes and an immense
quantity of small-arms. Captain Francis J. Higginson was in charge, with
Lieutenant-Commander Seaton Schroeder.
The _Texas_ was a battleship of the second class, her displacement being
only 6315 tons. She had the honor to be the first vessel built when our
navy began its reconstruction, in 1886. Her armor was just one foot
thick, and she could speed along at the rate of nearly eighteen knots an
hour. Two 12-inch and six 6-inch slow-fire guns made up her main
battery, while her secondary battery counted up six 1-pounders, four
Hotchkiss and two Gatling guns. There were two torpedo tubes. The
_Texas_ was under the command of Captain John W. Philip and
Lieutenant-Commander Giles B. Harber.
The _Scorpion_ was a despatch boat of the gunboat pattern, with a
displacement of six hundred tons, and a rapid-firing battery of four
5-inch and six 6-pounders. She was a swift craft, and had done duty as a
scout for a long time.
The signal to weigh anchor was hoisted on the flagship at four o'clock
in the afternoon, and inside of half an hour the Flying Squadron and the
collier were standing down Hampton Roads toward the capes, each
ploughing the waters at a twelve to fifteen knot rate. The wharves
alongshore were lined with people, who waved their hats and their
handkerchiefs, and shouted out their best wishes for the departing ones.
"Remember the _Maine_, boys, and send us a good account of yourselves!"
shouted one old Southern veteran, as he shook a partly empty coat sleeve
at them. "I wish I was younger; I'd go along and fight as well for the
old stars and stripes as I once did for the stars and bars."
"Now you're talking," responded a Union veteran. "That other quarrel was
our own, eh, neighbor? Let foreign nations keep their hands off Uncle
Sam's family and the children seeking his protection. Three cheers for
Old Glory and Free Cuba!" And the cheers were given with a will, while
Fortress Monroe thundered out a parting salute.
A number of other vessels, including the protected cruisers
_Minneapolis_ and _New Orleans_ and the auxiliary cruiser _St. Paul_ had
been left behind, to join their sister ships later on. The _New Orleans_
was a warship but recently purchased from the Brazilian government, and
formerly known as the _Amazonas_. The _St. Paul_ had formerly been a
trans-Atlantic steamer, and was commanded by Captain Charles E. Sigsbee,
who had so gallantly stuck to his post until the last moment when the
_Maine_ was destroyed.
Each of the warships had a harbor pilot on board and proceeded under a
full head of steam for the passage between the capes, which were passed
a little after seven o'clock in the evening. Leaving Cape Henry well to
starboard, the pilots were dropped, and the warships, taking the middle
course, as it is termed, disappeared from the gaze of those who had
watched their departure so eagerly.
"We're out for a fight now, sure enough," said Caleb, as he and Walter
went below, each to the mess to which he had been assigned. "Orders are
to prepare for action, so I've just been told."
"I noticed that lights were being extinguished," answered the youth. "Do
you suppose they are afraid that the Spanish warships are coming up this
way?"
"No telling, lad. It's a game of hide and seek, until one fellow or the
other sneaks up and thumps his opponent in the neck. I only hope we're
in it to do the first thumping."
Mess was scarcely over when there came a call to quarters. Ports were
closed with massive steel covers, the battle hatches were put down, and
the big guns were carefully loaded. Watches had, of course, already been
established, and now the men were ordered to take turns at standing by
the guns.
"Which way are we pointing, eastward or down the coast?" questioned
Walter of Si, who had come up during his off hours to take a look at the
cloudy sky from which only a few stars were peeping.
"We are moving almost directly southward," was the slow reply of the
Yankee youth, after a long look overhead.
"And where will that bring us to, Si?"
"It will take us to Cape Hatteras first, and if we keep on long enough
it will bring us to the neighborhood of San Salvador Island. But I
reckon we'll change our course after Hatteras is passed."
"Isn't Hatteras a bad point to pass?"
"Is it? You just ought to try it in dirty weather. Many a craft has left
her hulk off that cape. But such a craft as the _Brooklyn_, with her
high bow, ought to weather almost anything. To my mind, the worst thing
we can run into is a fog-bank, and that's just what we are likely to do
in this vicinity."
The regular lights of the warship had been extinguished, but behind its
hood the great searchlight glowed and spluttered, ready to be turned to
one point or another at a second's notice. All was quiet on board, save
for the rumble and quiver of the powerful engines which were driving
this floating fort on her way through the rolling ocean. While daylight
lasted the vessels kept more or less apart, but with the coming of night
they closed in, and the fretting and puffing little _Scorpion_ darted
ahead on picket guard.
Walter's duty at his gun came to an end at midnight, and none too soon
for the lad, whose head had suddenly begun to spin around like a top. "I
guess I'm getting seasick," he murmured to Si; and the Yankee lad at
once led him away to a secluded corner, where he might have matters all
his own way, and where none might look on and enjoy his misery. Once
Haskett started to pass some uncomplimentary remarks about Walter, but a
single stern look from Caleb silenced the seaman, who tumbled into his
hammock without another word. For several days Jim Haskett had kept his
distance, but he was only biding his time to "even up," as he termed it.
"I'll make young Russell feel mighty sore before I'm done with him," was
what he promised himself.
Walter was expected to go on duty again at four o'clock, but he was in
no condition for service, and sent Caleb word to that effect. Paul took
the message and soon returned with a reply.
"You're to take it easy until you're all right," said Paul. "Walton will
fix it up so there will be no trouble."
"He's the best friend a fellow ever fell in with," sighed Walter. "If I
hadn't met him I don't know what I should have done."
"Oh, you would have taken care of yourself," answered Paul, lightly. He
had not yet forgotten the attack Haskett had sustained at Walter's
hands.
Daybreak found the squadron running into the first of a series of
fog-banks. At once the speed of each warship was reduced, and presently
it became necessary to use the fog-horns and ship-bells. In the meantime
all hands were put through several drills, "to get them into fighting
trim," as the officer of the deck explained. The drills lasted until
dinner time, and in some way they made Walter feel much better. As a
matter of fact, his spell of seasickness was of short duration, and once
gone, the malady never returned.
"I'm a fine specimen of a jackie, am I not?" he said to Caleb, with a
faint smile, on first presenting himself. "Why, a Spaniard could knock
me over with a feather."
"Don't you go for to find fault with yourself," was the old gunner's
reply. "I've known men who have been on the ocean for years to get sick
the first day out. It's something they can't overcome, try their best.
Why, I saw several officers of the marines as sick as so many dogs."
Mess over, Walter went on deck for a breath of fresh air. They had just
left a fog-bank and were standing out boldly into the ocean. The youth
sauntered slowly forward as far as the rules permitted.
"Sail O!" came suddenly from the military mast.
"Where away?" demanded the officer on the bridge.
"Dead ahead, sir."
"Is she flying any flag?"
"I think not, sir."
"What does she look like?"
"I can't make out very well, for she is running into the fog. I don't
know but that she looks a bit like a warship," continued the lookout,
after some hesitation.
Without delay Commodore Schley and Captain Cook were notified. A brief
consultation took place, and it was decided to pursue the unknown craft
and find out what she was and where she was going.
CHAPTER XII
AN ADVENTURE OFF CHARLESTON
The news that a strange vessel was in sight soon travelled throughout
the ship, and all who could do so, crowded to the spar deck, while the
officers stationed themselves on the forecastle, bridge and other points
of vantage.
There was no necessity to give the order, "Clear ship for action!" for
the _Brooklyn_ was already cleared. Moreover, all the big guns contained
their charges of eight-inch and other shells. The six-pounders and the
Colts were now "provided," as it is termed, and then there was nothing
to do but to lie by the guns and await further orders.
Immediately upon notification that a strange sail was in sight, the
flagship had run up a signal to the _Scorpion_, "Follow the unknown ship
to the southward," and away darted the little gunboat at a rate of speed
which caused the mighty waves of the Atlantic to wash her decks from
end to end. Presently the sea proved almost too heavy for her and she
had to reduce her speed, and the _Brooklyn_ went ahead, her high
freeboard sending the water to port and starboard with scarcely an
effort. Once, however, she did get caught below an unusually high crest
and all on the forward deck received a liberal drenching.
"Fire a shot across her bow!" was the order given, when the strange
craft again emerged from a fog-bank, and boom! one of the smaller guns
belched forth. The echoes of the shot had scarcely died away when the
unknown ship was seen to hoist the British flag.
"Only a Britisher!" sighed Caleb, when the news came down to him. "And I
thought we were going to have the profit of a nice Spanish prize."
Not caring to go entirely by the flag displayed, since the unknown ship
had acted so strangely, the _Scorpion_ was again sent forward to make an
investigation. In quarter of an hour she came up within hailing
distance.
"What ship is that?" was bawled out through a megaphone.
"British steamer _Elsie_. What gunboat is that?"
"The _Scorpion_, of the United States navy. Where are you bound and what
have you on board?"
"Bound for Norfolk, Virginia, with a cargo of phosphate rock."
"Why didn't you show your flag before?"
"Well, to tell the truth we were afraid we had run into some Spanish
warships, and that England might be mixed up in this muss, in which case
we didn't want to become a Spanish prize. How is it? are we in it yet?"
"No, Uncle Sam is running this war without outside help," was the
concluding remark, and then the two vessels separated; and the Flying
Squadron proceeded on its way.
Saturday found the course of the _Brooklyn_ changed to southwest by
south. "We are still hugging the coast," explained Si. "I shouldn't
wonder if we are to make a stop somewhere, say at Charleston or
Savannah."
"Perhaps the commodore has word that the Spanish ships are sailing for
our south-east coast," suggested Walter. "My! what a nasty day it is
going to be." He referred to the mist, which was so heavy that it felt
almost like rain. For May, the weather was raw and cold, and all hands
were glad to stay below decks as much as possible.
On this day another long exercise at the gun was had, and Walter learned
more thoroughly than ever how the charge was raised from the ammunition
hoists to the gun, pushed into place by the mechanical rammer, and how
the gun was moved up, down, or sideways by merely touching this button
or that wheel or lever. "It's wonderful!" he observed. "I suppose it
would be next to impossible to move such a big gun by hand."
"Oh, it can be done," answered Caleb. "In the old navy they used to do
it by hand, and each gun had ten to sixteen men to man it. In those days
they had no device to lessen the shock of the recoil as we have now.
Instead of having a water cushion for the gun to strike on, they used a
heavy rope in the back, and sometimes the rope broke, and the gun did
more damage flying backward than the charge did flying forward."
"They didn't have any breech-loaders in those days, did they?"
"They had some in the Civil War, but not many before that. Everything in
the way of powder and ball had to be put into the muzzle, and was rammed
home by hand. The first breech-loading guns were clumsy affairs, and not
a few accidents were had by guns going off before the breeches were
properly locked."
"And what about sighting the pieces?"
"Oh, they have had dozens of devices for getting a correct aim, some
pretty good and some decidedly bad. In the old navy the guns didn't
carry near so far as they do now, and your old-time gunner was just what
his name calls for, for he sighted the piece and fired it himself. But
the old times are gone, and I expect one of these days all the work
still left will be done by machinery, and a dozen men sitting up in the
conning tower will control the warship from stem to stern."
Walter laughed at this. "I reckon we're some time off from that yet,
Walton. But it is wonderful how much the commander can control by using
his bells, annunciators, speaking-tubes, and electrical indicators. I
guess that is a great improvement on the old way of yelling orders
through a speaking-trumpet and having a dozen middies rushing around
telling this man and that what to do."
"No doubt of it, lad. But when it's all done and said, you must remember
one thing--we have still to prove the worth of our floating forts in war
times. Dewey did well at Manila, but it may be that the Spanish warships
out there weren't in the best condition. Now this Admiral Cervera, whom
we are after, has ships that are thoroughly up to date, and when his
outfit meets ours, then--well, we'll see what we will see," concluded
the old gunner.
That afternoon Walter took his first lesson in making knots. He had had
some idea concerning a variety of knots which had been taught to him by
Larry, when he and his younger brother were sailing about Lake Erie, but
those which were now exhibited were truly bewildering.
"The single bend and figure of 8 are easy enough," he sighed. "But when
you come to that sheep-shank and bowline upon the bight, as you term
them, it grows confusing."
"This is only the beginning," answered Caleb. "After you know the knots,
you'll want to learn the hitches--half-hitch, rolling-hitch, and so
on,--and after that you'll want to take up the splices, and then the
different kinds of tackle,--long-tackle, single-whip, and all that. I
reckon those will keep your mind busy for a week or two. To be sure,
those things belong more to a seaman than a gun-hand, but it's good to
know how to do, in case you are called upon at some time."
The night came on with a storm in the air. As before, all the lights
were extinguished, and the different watches took their turns at the
guns. Walter had just turned in when a shout rang out. "Another vessel
in sight!" As rapidly as possible the lad leaped up.
"Is it a Spanish warship?" he asked.
"Don't know," answered Caleb, laconically, but leaped to the gun, with
Walter and the others following.
But it was only another scare, for the vessel in sight proved to be a
merchantman bound for a northern port. The big searchlight of the
_Brooklyn_ was turned upon her, and instantly every light on the
merchantman went out and the ship sneaked away with all sails set. No
effort was made to pursue her.
"The captain of that craft will report falling in with a big Spanish
fleet; see if he don't," said Caleb; and the old gunner was right, as a
newspaper of a few days later proved.
By noon on Sunday Charleston Harbor was sighted, and a few hours later
the squadron came to anchor near Charleston Bar, nine miles from the
city.
"The _Sterling_ isn't in sight," said Walter, as he came on deck and
took a look behind. "I wonder if the heavy sea was too much for the
collier."
"Oh, she'll turn up sooner or later," answered Si. "But a boat loaded as
she was isn't the safest thing to sail around such a point as Cape
Hatteras, I can tell you that." The collier came in before night,
reporting a thoroughly disagreeable trip.
A lighthouse tender was at hand, ready to take the mail ashore, as well
as to deliver letters and special messages. The messages were at once
delivered to Commodore Schley.
"I wonder how long we'll stop here," said Walter. "I wouldn't mind a run
ashore, just to see what the city looks like."
"There goes a signal to the _Texas_," said Si, as the signalman took up
his flag and began to wig-wag. "Wait a moment till I read what he is
saying."
"Can you read it?" asked Walter, in deep interest.
"Certainly, it's easy enough." Si began to spell to himself. "'W-h-a-t,
what--i-s, is--y-o-u-r, your--b-e-s-t, best--r-a-t-e, rate--o-f,
of--s-p-e-e-d, speed--n-o-w, now?' He is asking what the _Texas_ can do
at once, so far as speed is concerned. That means something important.
Hold on, here comes the answer." Again the Yankee youth began to spell.
"Might go fifteen and a half knots." Then the signalman on the
_Brooklyn_ sent another message. "We are off on business now." And the
signal went up for the squadron to weigh anchor again.
"We're off for a fight!" ejaculated Walter. "But tell me about that
wig-wagging, Si; how do they signal the letters?"
"It's easy enough. You take a small flag of some bright color, attached
to a pole six or eight feet long. As soon as you attract the attention
of the other fellow, you begin to use the flag in three motions, to the
right, the left, and down in front. To the right means one, to the left
means two, and down in front means three. Now all the letters are
represented by combinations of numbers, and all you have to do is to
learn the combinations and spell ahead. It's easy enough when one gets
the hang of it. At night you can use a lantern instead of a flag."
"That is easy," commented Walter. "But what about those signals at the
masthead. Can you read those?"
"No. In those, most every flag represents a letter, or a word, or
sentence; but to read the signal you have got to have either the
international signal code-book, or else the United States Navy
code-book. The navy code is locked up in the captain's cabin, and the
book is weighted with lead, so that if anything happens, it can be
heaved overboard and sunk, thus keeping it out of the enemy's hands."
"I declare, signalling isn't so difficult, after all," cried Walter. "To
me it looked like a perfect jumble."
"The trouble with flags is, that when there's no wind they won't
straighten out so you can see 'em," put in Caleb, who had joined the
pair. "Lanterns are more to be depended upon, and they have a new system
now, called the Ardois electric, in which they use four powerful
electric lights, so that the signals can be read at a distance of
several miles. You'll learn all about them if you stay in the navy long
enough."
CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH THE GOLD PIECE COMES TO LIGHT
"Where now?" was the question which more than one man on board of the
_Brooklyn_ asked himself. But no answer was forthcoming. The commodore,
captain, and commander knew, of course, but they kept the information to
themselves. In war it is a rule not to let the enemy know what you are
doing until you do it, and so a strict guard was kept, so that no
information might leak out. Yet Spanish spies in Canada learned a good
deal, and notified the home government as quickly as it could be done.
From Charleston the course was almost due south, and both Si and Caleb
came to the conclusion that the flagship and her sister craft were bound
for Cuban waters. "Perhaps we're going to join in the blockading of
Havana," remarked the old gunner.
"Oh, I hope not," said Walter. "Riding in one spot day after day must
be awfully tiresome. I'd like to hunt the Spaniards out and do them
battle, as Dewey did. He didn't waste any time."
Dewey's name was to be heard constantly, for the jackies never got done
talking about this first great victory of the war. Some of them had
served on the _Olympia_, _Boston_, and other vessels of the Asiatic
Squadron, and they described just how these boats were built, and what
parts they must have taken in the contest.
"Don't grow impatient, Walter," said Caleb. "We'll run up against
something soon--perhaps more than you care for. It's easy enough to
think of sinking an enemy's ship. Supposing he puts a few thirteen-inch
shells through your craft, and you begin to go down--what then?"
"I'll make the best of it," returned the boy, calmly. "I enlisted to
fight for Uncle Sam, and I'm willing to take what comes."
Jim Haskett was passing when Walter made this remark, and his lip curled
with a sneer. "That boy is too big for his boots," muttered the seaman.
"I can't see what the other men find in him to like."
Jim Haskett was more sour than ever, for his disagreeable ways had lost
to him the few friends he had picked up when first coming on board. The
fact that Si and Walter were growing more popular every day caused him
fairly to grate his teeth with rage.
"I'll fix him, see if I don't," he told himself that night. "They shan't
tell everybody that I took that gold piece--when I didn't touch his
bag."
Jim Haskett was one of those mean, unscrupulous men, who do a wrong and
then try to argue themselves into thinking that it is all right. It was
not true that he had taken the ten-dollar gold piece from Si's bag, but
it _was_ true that he had found the Yankee boy's satchel overturned and
partly open, and had closed it up and locked it, and afterward found the
money on the floor of the car within a few feet of where the bag had
stood. Any fair-minded man would have told himself that the gold piece
must be the one lost by Si; but Haskett was not fair-minded, and it was
doubtful if the man could ever become so, any more than a dwarfed and
crippled tree can be forced to become straight and upright.
On Monday morning, the day after leaving Charleston Bar, Haskett heard
Caleb tell Walter and Si that the gun must be cleaned and oiled. "We'll
go over the piece from top to bottom to-morrow," said the old gunner,
"and if there is anything more that you don't understand I'll explain it
to you."
"This is my chance," said Haskett to himself, and lost no time in
bringing forth the gold piece from the place where he had hidden it.
Watching his opportunity, when Caleb, Si, and Walter were asleep that
night, he secreted the piece in a corner of the track upon which the
gun-base revolved.
Inside of half an hour after breakfast the next day, Walter, stripped to
the waist, was working over the gun, in company with his friends and
Steve Colton, the second gun-captain, and Carl Stuben, the hose-man. All
were supplied with cotton waste, polishing-paste, and rags, and in a
short while the bright portions of the gun shone like a mirror.
"There, I reckon that will suit the chief gunner," was Caleb's remark as
he stood back to inspect the work. "No piece on the starboard side
brighter than this, I'll wager my month's pay."
Si was bending down under the gun, swabbing up some oil which had run
down from one of the working joints. Suddenly the Yankee youth threw
down his swab and caught up something which shone in spite of the dirt
upon it.
"My gold piece, as sure as you're born!" he ejaculated, after he had
made an inspection at the porthole. "Now how in creation did that get
there?"
He looked at Caleb, and half unconsciously both turned to Walter.
"What's that?" asked the youth.
"My gold piece--I found it hidden under the gun-track," answered Si.
Walter's face turned red, as he remembered what Jim Haskett had said
concerning his talking in his sleep. "Why, Si--are--are you sure it is
your piece?" he faltered.
"Certainly. There is the date, 1876--centennial year, and here is a
scratch I once made with my jack-knife. It's the very one that was taken
from my bag, beyond any doubt."
Si continued to look at Walter, while Caleb suddenly turned and gazed
out of the porthole, while Stuben, the hose-man, whistled softly to
himself.
"Why, Si, have you got your money back?" cried Paul, who had just
chanced up.
"Yes."
"And where did you find it?"
"Under the gun, by the track." And Si pointed out the place with his
forefinger.
"Under the gun! Why, that is where Haskett said Walter hid it!" was
Paul's comment, before he stopped to think twice. "I mean--that is,
Haskett said something about it," he stammered.
"I know he did," answered the Yankee youth, coldly.
Walter's face was burning hotly now, and he could scarcely trust himself
to speak. "Si, do you think I put that money there?" he asked in a
strained voice.
"I'm sure I don't know what to think," was the dogged answer, and now Si
turned his gaze away. "Haskett said--well, you know what,--and Cal
Blinker backed him up in it," he went on, hesitatingly.
"Yes, I know what Haskett and Blinker said," answered Walter.
"But--but--do you think I stole your money?" The words would scarcely
come, but he forced them out.
"I don't say that, Walter; but the whole thing looks mighty queer."
"I have it!" burst out Caleb. "Perhaps Walter put the money there when
he was asleep. Folks often do queer things when they have the
nightmare."
"Yes, but if he put it there while he was asleep, how did he come by it
in the first place?" questioned Si, bluntly.
"Perhaps he took it out of the bag while he was asleep on the train,"
suggested Caleb. "You had the bag with you all the way from Boston,
didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And Walter bunked with you, too?"
"He did."
"Then it's as plain as day," went on the old gunner. "Walter took the
money while you were asleep on the train and hid it away in his
clothing, or somewhere. When he got on board he took to sleep-walking
and put the piece under the gun. Of course he doesn't know anything
about the transaction."
Again all eyes were turned upon Walter, whose face was as red as ever.
"Perhaps that's true--but it's mighty queer," murmured Colton, the
second gun-captain.
"I don't believe I did anything of the sort!" cried the youth, at last.
"I can give you my word on it that I never saw Si's money until just
now. To my mind, this whole matter is a job put up by Jim Haskett. He
took the money, and then when Si raised such an ado about it he was
afraid to get it changed or to spend it, and he watched his chance to
get rid of it. He's down on me, and when he heard me mutter in my sleep
he formed his plan to get me into trouble. I'm going to find Haskett on
the spot." And off he rushed before anybody could detain him.
Haskett was discovered mending his jacket, which had become torn the
evening before. "What do you want?" he asked, as Walter ran up and
caught him fiercely by the arm.
"I want you to own up to your dirty trick on me," answered the boy. "You
thought you had me, but your little plot won't work."
"What do you mean?" blustered Haskett, although he knew well enough what
was coming.
By this time the crowd had followed Walter, and they gathered round the
pair. Soon Haskett had heard all there was to say.
"Don't lay it off on me," he cried. "I knew Russell was guilty from the
start. Si Doring can think as he pleases. As for me, I'm glad that I'm
not training with a night-walker--or a thief."
Walter leaped forward with blazing eyes. But before he could strike out,
Caleb caught him, while another man held Haskett. Then, before anything
more could be done or said, Si stepped to the front.
"Haskett, I lost the money, and I think I ought to have the biggest say
in this matter. If you played a trick on Walter, you are the meanest man
that ever trod the deck of a ship. If you didn't, let me say that I
don't think Walter stole the gold piece, although he may have taken it
while he was asleep and not responsible for his doings."
"Thank you for saying that, Si," came from Walter. "But I don't think I
took it even when asleep. To my mind Haskett is guilty, and nobody
else."
"If I wasn't held--" began Haskett, when a young seaman named George
Ellis, chief yeoman of the _Brooklyn_, stepped forward and asked to know
what the trouble was about.
"I think I can tell something about this," said George Ellis, after the
matter had been explained.
"You just hold your jaw!" stormed Haskett. "You don't know anything."
"I know what I see," answered the chief yeoman, pointedly; and something
in his manner attracted such attention that all in the crowd gathered
around to learn what he might have to say.
CHAPTER XIV
KEY WEST, AND THE LAST OF JIM HASKETT
George Ellis was known to be an upright honest man, and one whose word
was worth taking upon every occasion. He had an education above that of
the ordinary man in the navy, and was anxious to make something of
himself while in the service of his country, never dreaming, alas! that
his life was so soon to be taken from him during our struggle in the
cause of humanity and Cuban freedom.
"And what did you see?" questioned Caleb, as all eyes were turned upon
Ellis, inquiringly.
"It was last night," answered the Range Finder, for such was the man's
popular title, given him because he was so good at determining
distances. "I was rather feverish and couldn't sleep. I walked the berth
deck for a while and then went up to Walton's gun and stood leaning out
of the porthole, gazing at the water.
"Presently I heard a slight noise behind me, and turning around I saw in
a dim way the figure of a man behind me. He was bending down under the
gun, as if he was hunting for something. I was just on the point of
speaking to him when he straightened up and slunk away as silently as a
ghost. I watched him, and when he got under the rays of the electric
light I got a good look at his face."
"And was it this man?" cried Si, pointing to Jim Haskett.
"It was."
With a cry of anger Si leaped upon Haskett and bore him to the deck.
"You good-for-nothin' rascal!" he panted. "Will try to shove off your
dirty tricks on Walter, eh? So you stole my money and then got afraid to
use it? Take that, and that, and that!"
Each _that_ was a blow in the face, one on the cheek, another on the
nose, and a third directly in Haskett's left eye. They were heavy, and
Haskett roared with pain.
"Let up!" he sputtered. "Let go of me,"--the latter to Caleb, who still
held him. "Oh, my eye! Is this fair fighting, two to one?"
"It is as fair as you treated Walter," answered Caleb. "Give him
another, Si; he deserves it." And Si followed directions by planting a
blow on Haskett's neck, something which spun the former mate of the
_Sunflower_ around like a top. At last Haskett broke loose and backed
away.
"I'll get square on all of you!" he foamed, shaking his fist first at
Caleb and then at the others. "I'm not done yet."
[Illustration: "I'LL GET SQUARE ON ALL OF YOU!"]
"I've a good mind to report you," put in Walter. "I reckon you'd be good
for a month in irons, on bread and water."
At this Haskett grew pale. "The officers won't believe your story.
Ellis, and the rest of you haven't any witnesses," he replied, but his
voice shook. "Just wait; my day will come some time." And then, as Si
started to advance again, he beat a hasty retreat.
"That settles that mystery," remarked Caleb, when the excitement was
over. "I calculate, Walter, that you are not sorry the way matters came
out."
"No, indeed." Walter turned to George Ellis. "I owe you one for your
kindness. I'll not forget it."
"That's all right--I only did what any fair-minded fellow would do,"
answered the chief yeoman, and strolled away.
It was time for dinner, and Walter hurried off arm in arm with Si, who
was still somewhat worked up over what had happened. "Walter, don't you
go for to imagine I thought you guilty," said the Yankee boy. "I know
you are honest to the core."
"Even if I do talk in my sleep," said Walter, from whose heart a great
load had been lifted.
Once more the course of the Flying Squadron had been changed and now
they were making straight for the coast of Florida. Tuesday passed
quietly, although the same vigilance prevailed as before. It was
evident, come what might, Commodore Schley did not mean to allow the
enemy to catch him napping.
They had passed through the Straits of Florida, and now they turned to
the westward, past a number of the Florida Reefs. Far across the ocean
could be seen the low-lying shore, backed up by stately palms and other
trees. The weather was now much warmer.
"You see, we are drawing closer to the equator," remarked Caleb. "I
reckon we are bound for Key West." And his surmise proved correct, for
they dropped anchors in Key West Harbor early on the morning following.
"What a lot of warships around here," cried Walter, as he came on deck.
"What is that big fellow over yonder?"
"That is the _Iowa_," answered the old gunner. "You can well say big
fellow, for the _Iowa_ is the largest seagoing battleship we possess.
She has a displacement of over eleven thousand tons and can speed in any
sea at over seventeen knots. She carries four 12-inch guns and a whole
host of others. Her armor belt is solid steel, fourteen inches thick."
"She's a beauty. I wonder if she will go out with us?"
"That is according to what Rear Admiral Sampson has to say about it,
lad. You see, this campaign in Atlantic waters is largely in his hands."
The _Iowa_ lay quite close, and during the day several messages were
transmitted from one warship to the other by means of the wig-wag
system. Walter had now mastered the mysteries of wig-wagging and amused
himself by spelling out the messages as they passed to and fro.
A salute had been fired when the commodore entered the harbor, eleven
rounds being shot off. "If he was a rear-admiral, he'd get thirteen
guns," explained Caleb. "You see the salute varies from the President
down. McKinley gets twenty-one guns, the Vice-President or Secretary of
the Navy nineteen guns, a foreign minister fifteen guns, a consul seven
guns, and so on. By counting the guns every man on the ships can tell
what sort of a dignitary has arrived."
It was a cloudy day, and the air was so close that Walter was glad
enough to take it easy. Presently he saw a boat leave the side,
containing several petty officers and George Ellis and Jim Haskett.
"I wonder where they are going," said Walter to Si.
"Some special business for Captain Cook," answered Paul, who stood near.
"Oh, but Haskett is in an ugly mood to-day. It will be a big wonder if
he and Ellis don't get into a fight before they come back."
"Ellis is too much of a gentleman to fight with any one," returned
Walter. "By the way, what is his real position on board?"
"He is chief yeoman," replied Si. "He is going ashore to look after some
ship's stores, so I heard him tell one of the paymasters."
The small boat was soon out of sight, and Walter turned away to seek the
shade, for it was growing hotter and hotter. "If this is a sample of
weather in the torrid zone, what shall we do when we get into Cuban
waters?" he observed.
"We are not very far from Cuban waters now," said the Yankee youth. "We
could make Havana in six or seven hours if it was necessary."
"I wonder how the people of that city feel, Si, all cooped up as they
have been for so long."
"I reckon they wish they had some fighting ships to come out after us,
Walter. I've heard it said that General Blanco hardly knows how to turn
himself, food is so scarce and so many idlers are about. It wouldn't
surprise me if they had a riot there, if they haven't had one already.
Even soldiers won't keep quiet when the grub fails."
But little could be seen of Key West outside of the numerous shipping.
Presently a couple of petty officers came along with marine glasses and
one pointed out to his companion several Spanish prizes in the port.
"They'll be worth a good bit of money to the sailors on the blockade,"
he added. "I wish we were in for a share of the spoils."
"There are several transports," said Caleb, on joining his friends.
"They are fitting out to go to Tampa. It won't be long before an army of
invasion starts for Cuba."
"I wonder if my brother Ben will go along," mused Walter, but just then
to get word from his older brother was impossible.
Inside of two hours the small craft came back. Somewhat to his surprise
Walter saw that Jim Haskett was missing. He would not have thought much
of this had it not been that the _Brooklyn_ was already preparing to
continue on her trip.
"Haskett did not come back," he announced to Si. "I'll wager something
is wrong."
"Oh, I guess not," said the Yankee youth; nevertheless, he, too, began
to watch for the former mate of the _Sunflower_.
Several hours later Walter passed George Ellis on the upper deck and
saluted. The chief yeoman hesitated and then called Walter to him.
"I suppose you and your friend will be interested to know that James
Haskett has been left behind at Key West under military arrest," he
began.
"Indeed! And what for, if I may ask?"
"For getting into a rough-and-tumble fight with a soldier named
Grumbell. It seems Grumbell once owned a fishing-smack down East, and
Haskett failed to settle up on a cargo of fish he sold for Grumbell
three years ago. They had a quarrel of words and then got to blows, and
Haskett hit a captain of the regulars who tried to separate them. Both
he and the soldier are now in prison, and I rather imagine it will go
pretty hard with the seaman, for striking a captain is no light
offence." And after a few words more, George Ellis passed on.
Of course Walter lost no time in carrying the news to his friends. All
listened with interest, and Si said he was glad Haskett was gone. "And I
hope he doesn't ever come back," he added.
And Jim Haskett never did come back, nor did Walter ever set eyes on the
man again. For quarrelling with the soldier and striking the captain of
the regulars, Jim Haskett was dishonorably discharged from the navy, and
sentenced to a year's imprisonment at hard labor. Thus, in a roundabout
way, was the rascal made to suffer the punishment he so richly
deserved.
CHAPTER XV
FROM CIENFUEGOS TO SANTIAGO BAY
From Key West the Flying Squadron set sail direct for Cienfuegos. The
_Brooklyn_, _Massachusetts_, _Texas_, and _Scorpion_ left together, and
were followed, twenty-four hours later, by the _Iowa_, mentioned in the
previous chapter, and by the _Castine_ and the collier _Merrimac_.
Cienfuegos is a town of good size lying on a small bay on the south
coast of Cuba, about midway between the eastern and western extremities.
For several days the Navy Department had been watching, or trying to
watch, the movements of the Spanish squadron, satisfied at last that it
was somewhere in Cuban waters. One report had it that Admiral Cervera
was at Cienfuegos, another that he was at Santiago de Cuba, many miles
to the eastward. Commodore Schley was now sent out to bring the truth to
light, were it possible to do so.
The rainy season, as it is termed, was at its height in this vicinity,
and the showers came down nearly all day, striking the hot metal decks,
and converting the water into something closely resembling steam. It was
so muggy and uncomfortable that hardly any of the jackies could sleep,
and more than one poor fellow was overcome and had to be carried to the
sick bay for treatment.
"If that Spanish squadron has passed Santiago and Cienfuegos, and is
crawling up around the western turn of Cuba, it won't be long before we
see some hot work," observed Caleb, as he lounged at a porthole, devoid
of any clothing but his shirt and trousers.
"Any kind of work would be hot," said Walter, laughingly. "Why, I think
a fellow could cook eggs on deck."
"Puts me in mind of a voyage I took to South America," put in Si, who
had just soused his head into a bucket of water, and was dripping from
nose, ears, and chin in consequence. "We lay off the mouth of the Amazon
for two days, waiting to get on a cargo of rubber. It was right under
the equator, and the tar just poured out of all our seams. One afternoon
I ran across the deck in my bare feet, for I was taking a swim, and as
true as I live I blistered my feet."
"Oh, that's nothing," returned Caleb, dryly. "I was under the equator
once, off the coast of Columbia in the bark _Sally D_. The captain let
us go fishing in the jolly-boat. We caught about a dozen fish and threw
'em in the bottom as fast as they came in, and when we got back to the
bark hang me if the first two fish we had brought up weren't baked as
nice as you please, all fit for the captain's table." And Caleb turned
away and began to whistle softly to himself, while Si continued his
ablutions without another word. Among old sailors, "matching yarns" is a
constant pastime, and the stories sometimes told would shame even a
Baron Munchausen.
The watch on board of the warship was now more strict than ever, and the
men slept at their guns, sometimes not seeing a hammock for several
nights. Everybody, from the captain down to the apprentices, felt that a
crisis could not be far off.
It must not be imagined that while Commodore Schley was skirting the
southern coast of Cuba, the northern coast was neglected, for such was
not the case. The blockade of Havana and vicinity still continued, and
in addition Rear-Admiral Sampson took his own flagship, the _New York_,
and several other warships, and sailed eastward, thinking to occupy the
St. Nicholas Channel. Thus, if Admiral Cervera tried to gain the
vicinity of Havana by the northern coast, he would be likely to fall in
with Sampson; if he took the southern way, Schley would intercept his
path. By keeping his ships in the St. Nicholas Channel Sampson remained
ever ready to dash northward should the Spanish destroyers take a new
course and show themselves along our own coast.
"We are coming in sight of land," cried Walter, toward nightfall, two
days after leaving Key West. "I suppose this is some port on the
southern coast of Cuba."
"It is Cienfuegos Bay," returned Caleb. "I just heard one of the
officers say so. We're to lie at anchor until morning, and then perhaps
the fun will commence."
At this announcement Walter's heart beat quickly, and it must be
admitted that he did not sleep a wink that night for speculating on what
the morrow might bring forth. In this particular, his thoughts were not
far different from those of every one else on board.
Daybreak brought more rain, and the big warship rode on the long swells
of the ocean grim and silent. Not far away lay the _Texas_, and several
newcomers could be seen approaching from a distance. "This looks like
business," observed Si to Walter, and the boy nodded.
Immediately after breakfast the signal was hoisted to clear ship for
action, and once more the jackies rushed to their various places and got
into fighting trim. Then the great engines of the _Brooklyn_ began to
work, and they crept slowly toward the entrance to the harbor.
"If Cervera is there, he keeps himself pretty well hidden," remarked one
of the officers, within hearing of Walter. "I don't see anything that
looks like a warship."
Presently the flagship came to a halt, and the _Texas_ steamed past her
and quite close to the harbor. Here the Spaniards had a small land
battery, but it kept silent. The inner portion of the bay was hidden
from view by a high spur of land.
What to do next was a problem. If the Spanish squadron was really
there, it would be foolhardy to rush in and do battle while the enemy
would have the support of the shore battery. Commodore Schley thought
the matter over and, ever on the alert, decided to play a waiting game.
Sunday passed without anything unusual developing, and so did the day
following. The strain on the men at the guns was great, for they were on
duty constantly. Night and day the bosom of the outer bay was closely
watched, for it was known that Cervera had with him one or two
torpedo-boat destroyers, and these were dreaded more than anything else.
"Let one of those torpedo destroyers get near us, and we'll go up as
quickly as did the _Maine_," said Caleb. "I'm not afraid of the dagos,
but let me get out of the way of a torpedo boat every time." And this
opinion was shared by all Walton's messmates.
"There's another boat coming up," announced Si, at six o'clock on
Tuesday morning. "Walton, what do you make her out to be?"
"She's the _Marblehead_," was the old gunner's answer, after a long look
at the craft. "And she's got despatches for the commodore," he added,
as the signal went up and a small boat put off for the _Brooklyn_. Soon
Commander McCalla of the _Marblehead_ came on board, and a long
conference with Commodore Schley resulted, after which the newly arrived
officer departed for his own warship with all possible speed. McCalla's
mission was to communicate with the Cuban insurgents who were encamped
near Cienfuegos, with a view to ascertaining if Admiral Cervera's ships
were really in the harbor.
The morning passed quietly, and by noon the _Marblehead_ and her
commander returned. The Cuban spies had made an investigation, and not a
single ship of war belonging to Spain had been found, outside of a
little harbor vessel of small moment.
It was now thought that if Admiral Cervera was not at Cienfuegos he must
either be on his way hither or at Santiago. Accordingly, toward evening,
the squadron received orders to sail for Santiago.
"We're off for Santiago Bay," said Caleb. "And if we don't find the
dagos there, I'll give up where they are. Perhaps they have gone back to
Spain." He continually alluded to the Spaniards as dagos,--a term which
became quite common among soldiers and sailors during the war, although
many referred to the enemy as the Dons.
It had cleared off, and the sun shone down fiercely on the deck and
elsewhere. Inside of the steel turrets the air was stifling, and no one
could remain at his post over a couple of hours. From below, the
engineers, firemen, and coal-heavers came up constantly for a whiff of
fresh air.
"We're badly enough off," remarked Walter. "But look at those poor
chaps. Why, some of the firemen look ready to melt."
"Yes, and the worst of it is they never get any credit when it comes to
a battle," added Caleb. "Now to my mind, the engineer who sticks to his
engine during a battle, obeying orders and running the risk of having a
shot plough through a boiler and scald him to death, is just as much of
a hero as the chap behind a gun--and in one way he's more of a hero; for
if the ship should start to sink, a gunner has got the chance to leap
overboard and swim for it, while the man below is likely to be drowned
like a rat in a trap."
"And the coal-heavers work harder than negroes," put in Paul. "Just
think of the tons and tons of coal they shovel every twenty-four hours
when we are under full steam. I'm quite certain such work would break my
back."
"Oh, life on a warship isn't all a picnic," was Si's comment. "If a
fellow enlists to have an easy time of it, he deserves to get left. I
enlisted to serve Uncle Sam, and I'm going to do it--if Providence will
give me the chance."
As Commodore Schley sailed toward Santiago from Cienfuegos, Rear-Admiral
Sampson, gaining additional information concerning the whereabouts of
the enemy, moved slowly and cautiously eastward toward Cape Maysi and
the Windward Passage. Thus, if Cervera was where he was supposed to be,
he was bound to be discovered before many more days passed.
"Do you know anything about Santiago Bay?" asked Si of Walter. "I've
travelled to South America and Central America, but I never stopped
anywhere in Cuba."
"I know only what the geographies teach," answered Walter. "It is on the
south side of Cuba, a hundred and some odd miles from the eastern end of
the island. It is said to be a very pretty harbor, about eight miles
long and one to two miles wide. Santiago, which is the next largest
Cuban city to Havana, is located on the northeast shore. I heard Caleb
say that the entrance to the harbor is shaped like the neck of a crooked
bottle, and that on the eastern side there is a strong fortress called
Morro Castle, and opposite to it a heavy concealed battery called La
Zocapa. Somehow, it's in my mind that we'll see a good deal of the
harbor before we come away," concluded the boy.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FINDING OF ADMIRAL CERVERA'S FLEET
"Well, this doesn't look much like fighting."
It was Paul who uttered the remark. The youngest member of the gunners'
crowd rested in the shadow of one of the long guns, half asleep. Near by
sat Walter and Si, each writing letters, although there was no telling
when the communications would be taken from the _Brooklyn_ and sent
home. At Key West Walter had looked for some word from Ben and from Job
Dowling, but none had come.
"I'd like to know if my uncle went to Boston, and if he learned anything
concerning that Deck Mumpers and the stolen heirlooms," Walter observed
to Si, after nodding to Paul, in agreement that it didn't look like
fighting.
"Well, you'll have to possess your soul in patience," answered the young
Yankee. "But oh, this is dead slow!" And thrusting his letter into an
envelope, he addressed it and laid it away.
Several days had been spent around the mouth of Santiago Bay, without
anything being brought to light. If the Spanish fleet was within the
harbor, it knew enough to keep out of sight, that was certain.
"If I was Commodore Schley, I'd rush past old Morro and make short work
of this," grumbled Paul, stretching himself and yawning. "Why, we'll all
die of laziness if this keeps on."
"I hear the _Merrimac_ has broken down," put in Caleb, who had just come
below. "That means another wait of twenty-four hours or more, even if
Cervera isn't in the harbor. Why under the sun must those dagos play
such a game of hide-and-seek? Why can't they come up and fight like
men?"
"Perhaps Admiral Cervera is bombarding some of our cities at this very
moment--" began Si, when a sudden loud hurrah caused all hands to leap
up and make for the deck.
"What's up?" came from a hundred throats.
"The _Iowa_ has just signalled that she has seen a big Spanish warship
showing her nose around the harbor point!" was the wild answer. "We've
found the Dons at last!"
And then came another hurrah and a wild yell. "Let us get at 'em! Down
with the Spaniards! Remember the _Maine_ and Dewey's victory at Manila!"
Commodore Schley was on the afterbridge of the flagship. As the yelling
broke loose, he smiled grimly. "Yes, they must be in there," he said to
Captain Cook. "And if they are, they'll never get home." Prophetic
words, as the events of just five weeks later proved.
Owing to the heavy swells of the ocean, the warships under the
commodore's command had drifted somewhat apart, but now, when it was
known definitely that Admiral Cervera's ships were in the harbor before
them, the various craft were signalled to draw closer, until they lay
within four to six miles of the entrance. This may seem a long way off
to some of my readers, but it must be remembered that guns of the
present day can carry as far as ten to twelve miles when put to it, and
a destructive fire can be maintained at seven or eight miles.
The night that followed was a trying one, for no one knew but that
Admiral Cervera's warships might come dashing out of the bay at any
instant ready to do them deadly battle. The _Brooklyn_ had long since
been stripped for action, many articles of wood being thrown overboard,
to avoid splinters when shot and shell began to fall. The small boats
were covered with strong nets, also to keep splinters away, and
everywhere throughout the ship the hoses were connected with the
water-plugs, to be used in case of fire, and all water-tubs were kept
filled for a like purpose. The magazines were kept open, and every gun,
big and little, stood ready to be fired at the word of command. Even the
wardroom tables were cleared off and covered with the sick-bay cloths,
and the surgeons saw to it in a quiet way that their bandages, knives,
and saws were ready to hand.
"Say, but that looks like war, eh?" whispered Paul, jerking his thumb in
the direction of one of the improvised operating tables. "Gracious, it's
enough to give a fellow a cold shiver."
"Then don't look that way, Paul," answered Walter. "As Si said, life
here isn't expected to be a picnic. We may gain lots of glory, but we'll
have to work for it,--and maybe suffer, too."
It was the 30th of May, Decoration Day, but no services of a special
character were had, although the Civil War was talked of by a dozen
veterans of both the North and the South, who were now standing once
more shoulder to shoulder, as Washington, Jefferson, and a hundred other
patriots of old had intended that they should stand, once and forever.
"We're under the stars and stripes to stay," said one man who had worn
the gray at Gettysburg. "Just let those Dons show themselves, and we'll
lick 'em out of their boots." The man's name was Berkeley, and he was as
good a soldier as he was a sailor, and wore both Union and Confederate
medals for bravery.
Walter had just fallen into a light doze early in the morning when a
dull booming awoke him with a start, and made him leap to his feet.
"What is that--guns firing?" he asked.
"That's it, lad," came from Caleb. "The commodore is giving his defiance
to the enemy, I reckon. There she goes again," he went on, as half a
dozen sullen reports rolled over the water. "I just wish we were in
this."
A Spanish warship, the _Christobal Colon_, had again showed herself at
the entrance to Santiago Bay, and the _Iowa_, the _Massachusetts_, and
the _New Orleans_, had been ordered to move to within seven thousand
yards and open fire. Away they darted, and passed and re-passed the
harbor entrance twice, firing as they sailed. What damage was done it
was impossible to tell, but that the _Colon_ was hit seemed very
probable, for she soon disappeared. The shore batteries also took part,
and sent one big shell directly over the _Iowa_, where it burst with a
noise that was deafening, but without doing any damage.
"Gracious! what a racket!" exclaimed Walter, as he watched the
bombardment from afar.
"Racket!" repeated Caleb, who stood beside him. "Why, lad, this is
nothing to what we'll have when we get mixed up. I only hope the
commodore signals us to line up for the scrap," he went on, for
Commodore Schley had left the _Brooklyn_ temporarily, and hoisted his
pennant on the _Massachusetts_. But the signal did not come, much to the
old gunner's disappointment.
By dark the bombardment was at an end. It had been brought about by the
commodore with the view to ascertain the strength of the enemy, his
ability to shoot straight, and the number and location of the shore
batteries. Now this information was gained, and it was likely to be of
great value in the near future.
It had been decided, should Admiral Cervera's fleet be discovered in
Santiago Bay, that Commodore Schley should unload the collier _Merrimac_
as quickly as possible, and then sink the craft directly across the
channel at the narrow entrance. If this was accomplished, it would make
it impossible for the Spanish warships to escape until the sunken wreck
was blown up and cleared away, and in the meantime several other
available American vessels could be hurried to the scene of action. A
number of spies had been sent ashore, and at last the commodore was
positive that the enemy was just where he wanted him. "And now we'll
sink the _Merrimac_ and bottle him up," he said.
The _Merrimac_ was an iron steamboat of five thousand tons' burden. She
had previously been a "tramp" steamer; that is, one going from port to
port, picking up any cargo that came to hand. She carried a large
quantity of coal for the various ships, and, as we already know, had
followed the Flying Squadron from Key West to Cienfuegos and the present
ocean territory. She was a heavily built craft, carrying two masts, and
just the right sort for the plan now at hand.
A heavy salute on the morning of June 1 announced the coming of Admiral
Sampson with a number of additional warships,--the _New York_, _Oregon_,
_Mayflower_, _Porter_, and others. The _New York_, it may be added here,
was a cruiser, similar to the Brooklyn, only somewhat smaller. The
_Oregon_ was a battleship o
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