They had only been steaming for three hours when smoke was sighted on the horizon. Immediately action stations was signalled, and the gun crews fell in. There were several Spanish merchantmen known to be in the Gulf of Mexico, and some of these were suspected to be armed. Joe and Cotter studied the stranger through their binoculars as she approached, and realised that she was in fact nothing more than a tramp, albeit a large one, and certainly she was flying the Spanish flag. All eyes were then on the flagship, and the men on the foredeck manning the Dahlgren’s quickfirer muttered their disappointment when the gunboat Nashville was signalled to take the prize. Increasing to full speed, black smoke belching from her funnel, the little warship streaked for the merchantmen, which held its course without paying the slightest attention to the armada which was coming up on its port bow, obviously in complete ignorance of the imminent break between Spain and the United States. The Nashville had to put a shot across her bows before she would heave to to permit a boarding party to be sent across.
‘That was the first shot of the war, Mr Cotter,’ Joe observed. ‘I wonder when the last one will be.’
‘Ensign Magruder serves on Nashville,’ Cotter muttered. ‘He’ll have commanded the boarders. I was with Magruder at the Academy. He always did have all the luck.’
‘So he’s captured a merchantman,’ Joe said. ‘You’ll have your chance for some luck, Ted.’
But now they had committed an act of war, he realised, as the ship, whose name was the Buenaventura, headed back for Key West under the Nashville’s guns. There could be no turning back now.
*
That evening, as planned, the fleet appeared off Havana. Immediately there was a salvo of guns from Morro Castle, but as there were no splashes to be seen it seemed obvious that the Spaniards were signalling the arrival of the Americans with blank shot rather than shooting in earnest. The searchlights criss-crossed the water, and in view of the concern over the possibility of Spanish torpedo boats — of which there were known to be several based on the island — coming out to attack the fleet under cover of darkness, these were kept in action all night, while again there was very little sleep.
Next morning revealed the sight of the American fleet strung out over a large area, covering as much of the north coast as possible, and there they stayed, although within twenty-four hours news arrived by despatch boat from Florida that war had indeed been declared. But for the moment the Spaniards and their enemies were content to glare at each other, although the fleet did manage to pick up several prizes during the first week, unsuspecting merchantmen, out of touch through being at sea, like the Buenaventura, heading back for the supposed safety of Havana, and instead finding themselves also on their way to Florida under a naval escort. None of them was armed, and the only real excitement was when a foreign warship turned up and was nearly sunk by the guns of every ship in the fleet. Just in time she was identified as the Italian cruiser Giovanni Bausan on a courtesy call to Havana. To the dismay of the Americans, Admiral Sampson decided to allow the call to proceed, and the Italian ship to depart some days later. It was no part of his business to antagonise any of the other European powers, all of whom, headed by Great Britain, had promptly declared their neutrality in the struggle.
‘Some struggle,’ Ensign Cotter commented.
‘Wait until Admiral Cervera gets here,’ Joe promised. But it was boring and meaningless work, and he was relieved when two days later the signal was passed down the fleet to Dahlgren, ‘Assigned ships proceed with detached mission.’
*
After dark that evening some half of the American fleet, led by the New York, with the battleships Iowa and Indiana behind her — Commodore Schley’s squadron had now come up to replace the detached ships, and Schley would command the blockading fleet in the Admiral’s absence — as well as two cruisers and the monitors, set course west to pass north of the Archipeligo do los Colorados and thence Cabo San Antonio, from whence they would shape a course for Puerto Rico. They were accompanied by several of the smaller vessels, and it was not till they were on their way that Joe revealed their true destination to Cotter and Lucas. ‘Now, obviously,’ he told them, ‘no Spaniard watching from the shore must suspect what we are about. We will therefore keep fifty miles off shore until we round Cabo Crus, and then behave as if we are on detached patrol, until it is time to close the land, which will be just beyond the port of Daiquiri.’ He indicated the place on the chart. ‘That is held by the Spanish, or it was when last I was in Cuba, but there are beaches a little further on where a landing may be effected.’
‘Those look like reefs to me,’ Cotter commented, indicating the little crosses on the chart, off the southern coast of the island.
‘They are. But they are scattered, and there are passages. I had a good look at the area when the Maine was on patrol in these waters back in’95. I think I can take a boat in, and that is all we shall need.’
‘And what then, sir?’
‘Then? Why, we simply make contact with the guerrillas, and leave again.’ That it might not be so simple as that he decided to keep to himself for the time being.
As Admiral Sampson needed to conserve fuel, the fleet steamed at twelve knots, and it was dawn before they rounded Cabo San Antonio, and entered the Yucatan Channel. Then Joe laid a course east by south, to clear the Isle of Pines and then the Archipeligo do los Jardines de la Reina, on their way to Cabo Cruz. Now they gradually diverged from the rest of the fleet, which soon became just smudges of smoke on the horizon, and by midday they were quite alone, pursuing a long, five hundred mile voyage, at a distance of some fifty miles offshore, as Joe had planned. Cuba was just a cloud on the north eastern horizon for the next twenty-four hours, as it took them just under two days, so that it was again dusk when they came in sight of the cape which marked the western extremity of the broad, flat, Cuban base. It was a tense period, as they were constantly on the lookout for Spanish naval craft, but also an exhilarating one, certainly for Joe. He had his first independent command, and events had moved so quickly that he had only just had the time to board the little ship in Hampton Roads, three days after the close of the Inquiry which had, as Navy Secretary Long had predicted, placed the blame for the loss of the Maine squarely on Spanish shoulders, and sail her immediately down the coast to join the fleet at Key West. So every moment he could spend at sea he not only relished for the sheer pleasure of standing on his own bridge, however small, but was also to be used to train his men, and he had them at gunnery practice for several hours, not actually firing their pieces, but loading and unloading, sighting on distant targets, and in general getting to know what they were about.
While all the time excitement built as the men understood their mission, and the chance it would give them to exchange fire, at least with Spanish soldiers. They rounded Cabo Cruz in the dark, now steering due east, and it was just getting light when the familiar bulk of the Grand Piedra came in sight, and soon afterwards Santiago de Cuba could be identified by the forts guarding the entrance to the harbour, just west of the mountain.
‘There’s a Spanish cruiser in there,’ Joe commented. And grinned at their sudden concern. ‘But she can’t move, because her engines are out of action.’
‘Gee, sir,’ commented Midshipman Lucas. ‘Wouldn’t it be something if we could take the Dahlgren in and put a torpedo into her.’
‘You can do it, sir,’ Cotter said. ‘You know the harbour.’
Joe stared at the shore, which they had now closed to within a few miles, for here in the south the reefs were very near to the beach. I also know it’s damned well defended, he thought. Yet it was a tremendous temptation, to return to Santiago with a bang, as it were. He was sure he could get in, forts or no forts. And Santiago, or just outside it, was where Christina was in captivity. But that was wishful thinking. He lacked the strength to land and attack the city itself, and he had been given a mission. He could not disobey orders. ‘Maybe some other time,’ he said.
‘Well,�
� Lucas commented, also gazing at the shore, ‘seems like they want it now.’
Joe raised his glasses again, saw the long, sleek hull of the ship coming out.
‘That’s a torpedo boat,’ Cotter commanded.
‘Just like us,’ Lucas said.
Joe continued to study the approaching craft. The Spaniard certainly meant to investigate them, at the very least. She was approximately the same size, so far as he could judge, and would carry a similar armament. It was no part of his business to engage in combat, in view of the importance of opening communications with the insurgents, but in this situation to avoid a fight might well jeopardise the success of the mission; he could not possibly land further down the coast with an enemy warship watching his every move. ‘Action stations, Mr Cotter,’ he said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Yes, sir,’ Cotter said, and pressed the alarm button.
‘Yippee!’ Lucas shouted.
The men hurried to the guns, while Joe opened his speaking tube to tie engine room. ‘I will need all the speed you have, Chief,’ he said.
‘You will have it, Captain,’ replied Warrant Officer Janes, who was his engineer.
‘Then full speed ahead. Helm hard a port,’ he told the coxswain, moving to stand beside him; the two of them were alone on the bridge, as Cotter had gone forward and Lucas aft, each to take command of a gun.
‘Hard a port,’ the seaman replied, and the little ship heeled as she turned, and raced for the shore, while the increased speed set up an enormous vibration, forcing Joe to seize the grab rail and hang on for dear life.
The Spanish vessel held her course for a moment or two longer, while she decided what action to take. Then her bow gun gave a puff of smoke, and there was a splash some distance to the Dahlgren’s left. A very small splash, but Joe knew that even one of those small shells would make a wreck of his ship. On the other hand, so would his, going the other way. ‘Hold your fire,’ he shouted at Cotter, who was peering round the shield of the forward quickfirer, his crew at his shoulder, waiting for the order to reply. ‘We want to make sure of this one.’
There was a sudden enormous burst of water from their right side. Every head turned in alarm, to see what had caused it, and only then did the rumbling roar reach them, and they made out the smoke rising above the headland; the shore batteries had opened up in support of the patrol boat.
‘Holy Mary Mother of God,’ muttered the coxswain, who was also an Irishman by descent.
‘They’ll not find it easy to hit us,’ Joe said reassuringly, not mentioning that if one of those massive shells even landed close the blast would probably stove in the thin steel sides of the torpedo boat.
The Spanish ship was now turning away, but the Dahlgren had approached at such a speed they were already within a mile of her. ‘Now, Mr Cotter,’ Joe shouted. ‘Now, give her everything you’ve got.’
The quickfirer exploded again and again, pumping three shots into the enemy in a couple of minutes, while the range closed every second, and the shore batteries were forced to cease firing for fear of hitting their own ship. Joe held on until he estimated they were not more than five hundred yards distant, then altered course to port, while the little ship, still travelling at full speed, heeled almost on her beam ends. All this while both Cotter and the Spanish had been firing, but the Spanish shooting was very wild. Now Cotter was adjusting his gun and still pouring shots into the enemy, missing with some, but hitting with others, while as the Dahlgren swung Lucas was also able to open fire with the after gun.
Joe braced himself in one comer of the bridge and raised his binoculars, saw that the Spanish ship was a wreck, her forward gun shield shattered, with men lying to either side of it, and tongues of flame shooting upwards from the engine room. ‘Cease firing,’ he bawled. The noise stopped and the smoke cleared. ‘Good shooting, Mr Cotter,’ Joe called, and was thrown sideways as the Dahlgren turned sharply again to avoid the next salvo from the forts, which had resumed firing as the two warships separated; the huge mushrooms of water were very close and splattered spray across their heads.
‘Great Scot!’ Cotter shouted, and Joe twisted his head to look over his shoulder, in time to see the flash of light and the huge ball of red-tinged smoke, several seconds before the noise of the explosion reached them; the Spanish torpedo boat had exploded. Joe licked his lips. The Maine must have looked like that as she had gone up, only on a much larger scale. But the Spanish ship had died in a fair fight, face to face with a legitimate foe.
‘Do we see if there are any survivors, sir?’ Cotter asked, climbing back on to the bridge.
Joe stared through his binoculars at first of all the smoke pall which marked the sunken boat, then at the narrow split in the cliffs which indicated the entrance to die harbour. He could see boats coming out, and even as he watched he saw smoke again belching from the guns above them. To stand in and, certainly to stop his ship and put down a boat, would be to invite his own destruction. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
The coxswain spun the wheel, and the Dahlgren streaked away, leaving the next plumes of water far behind, and being out of range before the Spanish gunners could adjust their sights.
‘Congratulations, sir,’ Cotter said. ‘That has got to be the first action of the war.’
Joe hadn’t thought of that; he didn’t feel the least like cheering.
*
He took the ship right out of sight of land so that no one in Santiago could have any suspicion that he was on other than a detached patrol, and only turned back in at dusk, having taken a sun sight at noon to establish his exact position. Once they closed the island he reduced speed to dead slow, every man on deck, eyes staring into the darkness, to detect any white flurries which might denote a rock close beneath the surface.
The night was bright, although moonless, and they could make out the mountains, away to the north west now, and then the lights of Daiquiri came into view. Joe turned away and steamed slowly east, following the rippling line of the reef, until the little seaport disappeared. Then he moved in as close as he dared, using a lead line to establish the depths of water. When the leadsman called twenty feet, he dropped anchor. It wanted an hour for dawn, and he ordered the boat to be immediately got ready. He was undertaking the mission himself. Navy rules required that a captain always remain with his ship, but he had no option, as neither Cotter nor Lucas spoke Spanish, and he was the one with the previous acquaintance with both the country and the people.
He was also the one with a personal stake in what he might find, although he hoped that had not influenced his decision.
At the first sign of dawn the boat was manned. ‘Once I’m ashore, you’ll take the ship back out to sea, well away from land, and heave her to,’ Joe told Cotter. ‘You will remain there for one week.’
‘A week sir?’ Cotter asked in dismay.
Joe shrugged. ‘I cannot tell how long it will take me to make contact with Garcia. During that time you will engage no enemy. I want this clearly understood. Run away, if you have to. Then, on the seventh day, put back in to this beach. If I am not waiting for you, stand out again and return forty-eight hours later. Repeat that three times. If I have not rejoined the ship a fortnight from now, assume that I have been captured or killed by the enemy, and report as such to Admiral Sampson. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cotter said unhappily. ‘But you’ll be here, sir.’
Joe grinned at him. ‘I sure intend to be, Mr Cotter. Good luck. Remember the Maine.’
‘And the hell with Spain,’ Cotter said.
The passage through the rocks was really very simple, as there was little continuous reef here such as was to be found along the south west facing coast, where the water was much shallower. Joe had taken Lucas with him, and showed him the way, while once inside the rocks the seamen pulled for the beach with all
424
their strength, and were soon grounding, allowing their captain to jump ove
r the side into the shallow water and splash ashore, before backing off. ‘One week, Mr Lucas,’ Joe reminded the midshipman, and gave them a wave. Then he turned to look at the low cliffs in front of him, delineated by the first rays of the rising sun.
He had debated the question of whether or not to wear civilian clothes, and decided against it. Was he seen at all by Spanish soldiers, he could never pass off his height as being Cuban, and if taken in disguise he would be shot as a spy. In uniform he was a legitimate enemy officer, and although he carried a revolver on his belt and spare cartridges in his haversack, along with his rations and a change of underwear, his object had to be avoid being seen by any hostile eyes at all.
He climbed the cliffs, and watched the torpedo boat proceeding to sea at high speed. It was still only six in the morning, and he doubted there was anyone around here anyway. His plan was very simply to make his way to Obrigar, over country he knew, and from there go into the mountains to locate Garcia, who would undoubtedly rapidly be informed by his lookouts that there was an American naval officer tramping through the hills.
He was unaware, of course that Obrigar had been burned, but that meant that it had also been abandoned by the Spanish army, and therefore it should make a safe starting off point. As for Rafael and Toni, presuming they were still together, while his instincts made him want to find them as well, if they were still in the north of the island they were beyond his reach. He intended to tell Garcia to have them rejoin him, and hopefully make arrangements to take Toni off, at least. She could do nothing more here until the war was over, and she could now safely leave the fighting to General Miles and his doughboys.
Wind of Destiny Page 30