After a quick trip to the galley to get a cup of coffee, he joined his shipmates swabbing down the deck with fresh water from a lighter that had come alongside. The ship’s medical officer had banned the use of the harbor’s water because of the foul smell it gave off. Breakfast at 0730 was followed by the 0800–1200 watch as signal boy on the poop deck. Normally, Ham’s primary duty was to be available for wig-wag (semaphore) communications with other naval vessels, but because no other U.S. warships were in the harbor, there was no one to communicate with. Instead, he had been directed to keep a sharp lookout for any suspicious activity in the vicinity of the ship. There was none; at noon another apprentice relieved him, and Ham went down to eat dinner.
Ham spent the afternoon polishing brightwork and repairing torn signal flags. At 1730, the bugle sounded for supper, and half an hour later he was sweeping down the decks. He then watched several Sailors dance while one of their shipmates played the accordion. When the bugler sounded the call for hammocks, Ham went below and slung his so that it would be ready when he got off watch at midnight. He returned to the poop deck for the evening watch and began his vigil once again, this time staring into the gathering darkness.
Time crawled by. At 2110, the bugler sounded taps, and the decks emptied as Sailors headed to their hammocks in the stifling compartments below. A friend remained to talk to Ham for a few minutes but, afraid of being caught on deck after taps, he soon went below. The harbor was smooth as glass. Several boats passed by a few hundred yards away, but otherwise all was quiet and still. Like countless Sailors before him and since, Ham noted that night watches were a time of quiet reflection, when homesickness reared its unwanted head, when the unoccupied mind went to places better left alone.
Just a little after 2130, Ham engaged Landsman Thomas J. Waters of Philadelphia in conversation as a way of getting his mind off the creeping pace of time. Shrouded in the protective cloak of darkness, the two men spoke of things they might not have in the glare of daylight: family left behind and hopeful plans for the future. The talk had dwindled, and Ham was about to turn away and head aft, when a great flame shot up, engulfing the forward part of the ship. He heard what sounded like a shot, then a great roar followed, and a flying piece of debris struck him in the face, knocking him senseless.
In that instant, many of Ham’s shipmates had perished, including Ordinary Seaman Frank Andrews. A huge explosion had originated somewhere forward, on the port side, ripping open the ship and curling her main deck back upon itself. Debris rained down into the harbor for hundreds of yards around the stricken vessel.
Once he recovered his senses, Ham headed for his old station as a member of the gig crew. The young apprentice who had switched duty with Ham was killed in the explosion, so Ham helped a handful of other Sailors lower the gig into the water. He noted with dismay how quickly the boat had reached the water, a clear indication that Maine was sinking. He positioned himself in the boat’s bow and began helping to pull men from the harbor as the gig moved slowly through the water. After a time, the gig returned to the ship to rescue those stranded on her gradually disappearing poop deck. Parts of the ship were on fire, and Ham worried that the flames might reach one of the magazines and cause another deadly explosion.
As they pulled up alongside, they found, among others, Captain Sigsbee. “I won’t leave,” Sigsbee said, “until I’m sure everybody is off.” The after portion of the poop deck, Maine’s highest remaining deck, was now at the same level as the gig’s gunwale. As a Sailor handed the captain’s dog, Peggy, to one of the men in the gig, Ham heard Lieutenant Commander Richard Wainwright, the ship’s executive officer, whisper to Captain Sigsbee that the raging fire was very close to the forward magazine and that it might blow at any moment. Ham felt the nearly overwhelming urge to shout, “Let’s get out of here,” but he sat quietly in the bow holding tightly to the bowline that tethered the small boat to the sinking, burning ship.
At last, everyone from the poop deck was in the gig. Sigsbee, convinced that no one else remained on board, stepped into the boat and ordered the crew to shove off. Ham gratefully took in the bowline, aware that his hands ached from the tight grip he had used to hold it during those tense moments. Oars struck the water and the gig moved across the harbor toward a nearby American merchant vessel as Maine continued to burn furiously while she slowly disappeared into Havana’s harbor.
The cause of the explosion has been debated to this day. One theory accuses the Spanish of using a mine to destroy the battleship. Another attributes the tragedy to a fire in a coal bunker that ignited a nearby magazine. Yet another theory lays the blame on the Cuban revolutionaries, explaining that, by making it appear as an act of Spanish aggression, the explosion would urge the United States into war with Spain and thereby ensure Cuba’s freedom.
Along with divers who had inspected the sunken hulk of the American battleship, Ambrose Ham and the other survivors testified before a board of inquiry. The divers reported that some of the ship’s hull plates had been bent inward, and the board concluded that this “could have been produced only by a mine situated under the bottom of the ship.” An aroused nation clamored for war against Spain, and on 25 April Congress declared that a state of war had existed since the twenty-first.
One of the many missions of the Navy is to “show the flag”—that is, remind other nations of U.S. power through the presence of one or more American warships. This can be a relatively easy mission with minimal risks, or it can be one with very high stakes. Commodore Matthew Perry’s peaceful opening of diplomatic and trade relations with Japan in 1853 stands in sharp contrast to what happened to USS Cole at Aden in 2000. In Havana in 1898, a strategic “showing of the flag” at a time of great tension had led to war. USS Maine had been the first casualty as she carried out her difficult mission.
For the remainder of the Spanish-American War, however, U.S. warships would be on the offensive, and a blend of effective tactics and simple courage would ensure that Maine’s sacrifice would be avenged.
You May Fire When Ready
On the other side of the world, another Sailor, Landsman John T. Tisdale, stood at ease aboard the cruiser USS Olympia, flagship of the Asiatic Squadron, listening intently as an officer read a dispatch from the Navy Department. “Proceed at once to Manila; engage and destroy the Spanish fleet, when and where you find them,” the lieutenant read. Tisdale and his shipmates “went mad with joy.” Several times they shouted “Remember the Maine” as they celebrated.
When dismissed, many of those not on watch gathered together and began work on a battle flag. They discovered that among the crew of the flagship there was a representative from each of the forty-five states of the union, so one man from each state wrote his name and that of his home state on the back of a star and it was then added to the blue field of the flag. Tisdale wrote “California” on his. Before taps, the flag was finished and there was much self-congratulation among all who had contributed.
The American strategy to eliminate the Spanish naval presence in the Far East was indicated in the dispatch from the Navy Department; it had come about largely because of the writings of Captain Alfred T. Mahan, who some years earlier had penned what would become a classic work on naval warfare, The Influence of Sea Power upon History. Among the many principles that Mahan described were: “passive defenses belong to the army,” whereas navies must be used as a means of “offensive defense”; coastal defenses were for weak nations who could do no better; and “the enemy must be kept not only out of our ports, but far away from our coasts.” Far away was no exaggeration in this case. Commodore George Dewey’s Asiatic Squadron was more than seven thousand miles from the nearest American support base as his ships steamed from China toward the Philippine Islands to engage the Spanish fleet based there.
The American squadron tasked with carrying out this strategy consisted of the cruisers Baltimore, Boston, Raleigh, and Olympia, the gunboats Concord and Petrel, the revenue cutter Hugh McCulloch, and the co
al transports (“colliers”) Nanshan and Zafiro. The squadron was manned by nearly fifteen hundred men, displaced more than nineteen thousand tons, and carried more than one hundred guns that could fire a total broadside of thirty-seven hundred pounds. The cruisers, launched as a result of a shipbuilding program begun some ten years earlier, represented the main firepower. With their tall masts and crossed yards ready to take on sail should the need arise, and their large smoke stacks billowing black clouds of coal-fired smoke, they were monuments to a dying age and pioneers of the next.
The next morning the order to “clear for action” was passed. Barricades of canvas and iron were built up around the gun crews’ stations, and heavy chains were rigged over awnings to provide additional protection to the ships’ ammunition hoists. Although these ships were built primarily of steel, veterans of the then-recent Sino-Japanese War had told of terrible casualties resulting from flying wood splinters, so Dewey made the tactical decision to have hatch covers, spars, chests, and other removable wood items either safely stowed or jettisoned. Overzealous cooks even threw some of Olympia’s mess tables over the side before they were stopped. A lieutenant in Baltimore noted that a trail of wood “was strewn for fifty leagues [150 miles]” in the ships’ wakes.
In Olympia the word was passed that the Sailor’s wooden ditty boxes would have to be jettisoned as well. As evidenced by their celebrations the day before, Tisdale and his shipmates were eager to fight the Spanish and were even willing to sacrifice their lives if necessary. But giving up their ditty boxes seemed too much to ask. Here on this disciplined warship on the far side of the world, the ditty box was the one thing a Sailor could call his own, where he kept tokens of his former life, where he had some small ties to home. To the crew’s everlasting gratitude, Commodore Dewey came to the rescue, urging Olympia’s commanding officer, Captain Charles Gridley, to allow the men to stow their boxes below the cruiser’s protected deck rather than toss them into the South China Sea.
Tisdale soon learned that wood was not the only thing that had to go. As the squadron drew closer to the Philippines, the ships’ barbers got busy shaving each Sailor’s hair down close to the scalp because the surgeons warned that “hair is as dangerous as cloth in a wound.”
That evening, Olympia’s band assembled and played a series of rousing pieces, including several Sousa marches and “Yankee Doodle.” Tisdale enjoyed the concert, but he and his shipmates were most enthusiastic when the band struck up a popular song of the day, “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight!” That odd sensation of nervous excitement that often prevails as battle draws near had taken hold of many Sailors of the Asiatic Squadron, and they swayed rhythmically and slapped each other’s backs as they sang along. Indeed, a “hot time” in the “old town” of Manila was just a few days away as the U.S. ships steamed onward, ever closer to the Philippine Islands and to a page in the history books.
In the meantime, Admiral Patricio Montojo y Pasaron prepared his fleet for battle with the approaching American squadron. When word of the outbreak of war had come, the Spanish admiral had moved his fleet out of Manila to the more remote Subic Bay some thirty miles to the north. Upon his arrival, however, Montojo discovered that defensive preparations there were hopelessly behind schedule. Noting that the water at Subic was more than forty meters deep, Montojo concluded that his crews would have a better chance of survival if sunk in the much shallower waters of Manila Bay. This combination of tactics and pessimism caused him to return to Manila Bay to make his stand there.
Dewey had been concerned about the possibility of Montojo moving to Subic. “With this strategic point effectively occupied,” he later wrote, “no hostile commander-in-chief would think of passing it and leaving it as a menace to his lines of communication.” So he was relieved to find Subic Bay empty when his squadron arrived on 30 April. Calling a council of war on board Olympia, Commodore Dewey told his commanders, “We shall enter Manila Bay tonight and you will follow the motions of the flagship, which will lead.”
That night, the Asiatic Squadron approached the Boca Grande—“Big Mouth”—of Manila Bay. The Moon was low in the sky and mostly masked by towers of clouds built up by the tropical heat of the day. Flickers of lightning that danced among the clouds occasionally broke the darkness, and light showers doused the white duck uniforms of those on deck. Guns were loaded but breechblocks were left open to prevent accidental premature firing. As had always preceded battle in the days of sail, the decks were covered with sand to provide traction should blood and sweat make them slick.
Sure that guns mounted among the high rocks on either side guarded the entrance to the bay and that mines had been placed in locations unknown, tension among the crews of the U.S. ships ran high. Apprentice Seaman Wayne Longnecher felt this was “the hardest part of the fight . . . running the gauntlet of both mines and forts, not knowing which moment a mine or torpedo would send you through the deck above.” He sardonically reflected on the fact that he was doing this for sixteen dollars a month.
The scene was reminiscent of an earlier time, when Dewey’s Civil War hero, David Glasgow Farragut, had run past the guns of Confederate forts at New Orleans and again at Mobile Bay, uttering his famous words, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.” But those guns were firing furiously and, so far, these were silent.
Olympia passed unharmed into the bay, as did several of the other ships following in column behind, steering by the single dim light that had been mounted on each ship’s stern. It seemed as though they might all pass un-challenged, but near the end of the column, accumulated soot in McCulloch’s smokestack ignited, and a bright column of flame erupted skyward, giving the Spanish gunners an unmistakable target. A battery from the nearby headland opened fire, and an artillery round passed over McCulloch and hit the water on her far side. She immediately returned fire with her 6-pounder, and Boston, Raleigh, and Concord opened up with their larger batteries. The deep rumble of gunfire rolled across the bay and the garish flashes briefly lit up the dark waters. But the exchange was short-lived. The Spanish battery fired only three more shots before a round from Boston silenced it. And the Asiatic Squadron proceeded on into Manila Bay without further molestation.
Once past the Spanish guns guarding the entrance, the American ships slowed to four knots. The bay was twenty-five miles across, and Dewey decided it made good tactical sense to make a slow transit so that it would be daylight when he engaged the enemy. His squadron had a finite amount of ammunition and no means of rapid resupply, so he could not afford to waste many shots firing blindly into the dark. With no enemy in sight and the great expanse of the bay before them, the word was passed for the men to remain on station but to stand easy. Tisdale, Longnecher, and the others tried to lie down on the deck to catch a little sleep, but the excitement of the moment and the gritty sand on the decks made that a difficult proposition.
Montojo had likewise made some tactical decisions. Knowing that the U.S. ships were more maneuverable than his, he chose to fight from an anchored position where he could control and consolidate his firepower. Not wanting to subject the city of Manila to the ravages of the battle, he had positioned his fleet at Cavite, an arsenal some five miles to the south of the city. While achieving his aim of sparing the city, this decision greatly reduced his available firepower, because there were just 34 land-based guns in the Cavite area compared with 226 guns of various types at Manila.
To prevent his ships from being vulnerable to torpedoes, Montojo had constructed a protective boom in front of his anchored ships, consisting of lighters filled with stones and water and held together in a continuous line by heavy chains. Unlike his American counterpart, Montojo had not ordered the wood stripped from his ships.
At 0400, a cold breakfast augmented by hot coffee was served to the American crews still at their battle stations. As they ate, a young Sailor in Olympia began to sing a somber rendition of “Just Before the Battle, Mother.” One of his shipmates poured coffee on him, cutting
the concert short.
Increasing speed to eight knots, the U.S. squadron approached Manila as the sun lightened the sky behind the city. Before long it was evident that only sail-driven merchant ships were moored at the city. No warships. Dewey turned his column southward and, as the ships paraded past the Manila waterfront, a few of the Spanish gun batteries opened fire on the squadron. One 9.4-inch shell passed uncomfortably close between the cruisers Raleigh and Baltimore, but none of the Spanish shots found their marks.
A sharp-eyed Olympia lookout peering southward through binoculars discerned through the morning mist a row of masts topped with bright red and yellow flags. His report was what Dewey had been waiting to hear. Here was the Spanish fleet, the object of his strategy.
“Monday morning quarterbacks” later pointed out that Dewey gave away a significant tactical advantage by moving his squadron in close to the Spanish fleet. His largest caliber guns had a greater range than any of the opponent’s and, by remaining outside his enemy’s reach, he could have fired upon the Spanish ships without any risk to his own. But Dewey felt that “in view of my limited ammunition supply, it was my plan not to open fire until we were within effective range, and then to fire as rapidly as possible with all of our guns.”
The Asiatic Squadron moved in ever closer to their adversary. Even when the Spanish opened fire, Dewey withheld the order to commence firing. Like so many others, Landsman Tisdale found the tension of waiting, under fire, excruciating. “Our hearts threatened to burst from desire to respond. I sat upon the gun-seat repeating to the rhythm of the engine’s throb, ‘Hold your fire . . . hold your fire . . . hold your fire until the bugle sounds,’ while my fingers grew numb upon the spark.”
A Sailor's History of the U.S. Navy Page 23