Spanish sailors arrived and took over attending to their shipmates, ignoring the Americans. With difficulty, I stood up and surveyed the scene, realizing what had happened. A pair of 1,100-pound shells from Oregon’s forward 13-inch gun turret had impacted the water on either side of Colón’s stern, detonating when they hit the surface of the sea and sending steel shards in all directions. If they had struck the ship squarely, I would be dead and the ship sunk.
Rork shouted in my ear. “Near miss!”
His false hand had a chunk out of it, and there was a stain on his right calf. He didn’t care, he was gleefully shouting into my ear. “Oohee, sir! But didn’t me darlin’ Oregon bracket us just as she should! Damned fine example o’ shootin’ by our dear Sean. Aye, an’ the next pair o’ rounds’ll be right on target.”
“Where’s the captain?” I asked, ignoring the obvious implications of Rork’s comment.
Law pointed toward the bridge. “Captain Díaz-Moreu is in the wheelhouse, sir. He was just about there when we were hit. Shrapnel must’ve barely missed him.”
My hearing was coming back. I belatedly noticed the lieutenant had dark stains on his arm and chest.
“Are you two hit bad?” I asked them.
They both shook their heads. Law said, “Only nicks on me, sir. Your face looks worse than my wounds.”
I looked questioningly at Rork. “And you?”
“Fit as a fiddle, sir,” he roared. “These’re just wee scratches on me hide. An’ now that me own lads on Oregon’re takin’ care o’ business in proper naval fashion, things are finally lookin’ up. Took ’em bloody long enough to get in range!”
A petty officer ran by, cursing at his men aft of us but disregarding us completely. So did the stretcher party who took the wounded men away. We were on our own.
I tried to remember the rate of fire for a 13-inch gun. Two and a half minutes, I seemed to recall, for a well-trained gun crew. We had maybe sixty seconds before Sean’s next rounds arrived.
I started heading forward. “Come with me!”
Colón heeled over to port as she veered sharply to starboard. I knew Díaz-Moreu was trying to throw Oregon’s aim off, or rather, my son’s aim. Colón had very little sea room to maneuver in, though, for the rocky coast was close aboard to starboard. We couldn’t head farther out offshore or we’d lose even more ground to Oregon. It was the classic quandary of the pursued. Every twist or turn on our part allowed the pursuers to close the distance on us.
Two more rounds rumbled through the sky toward us and exploded in our wake. They lifted the stern, but we were just far enough forward that the shards didn’t get us. This was my first time on the receiving end of 13-inch guns, and even the concussions were mind stopping. They sounded like a train approaching, not at all like the high-pitched scream of smaller calibers.
“Fifty feet short. Next one’ll do it once an’ for all,” exclaimed Rork.
I could imagine the entire American fleet, thousands of sailors, watching Oregon’s forward turret to see if the guns could do what had to be done. Sean’s next step would be simple. Elevate his guns’ trajectory another two degrees to the maximum of fifteen degrees elevation and send a plunging trajectory right down into Colón’s stacks.
Our ship would disappear in a flash of light and a volcano of debris. The wreckage would continue moving forward for a moment, rapidly settling down into the water before sinking completely. The suction of the sinking hull would take the few initial survivors down with her.
A change of two degrees, and the battle would be won.
49
Let Us Do This with Dignity
Off the Santiago Coast, Cuba
Sunday, 3 July 1898
WHEN WE REACHED the armored citadel on the bridge, all the ports had been shut again. After the glaring sun outside, it was dark as a cave in there and I stumbled into an officer. He swore savagely at me. A stern voice in the gloom admonished the officer to stay calm.
Amidst the constant drone of battle reports and acknowledgments I heard Emilio’s voice rise above the others. “Peter, I thought you were killed! Stay safe in that corner.”
Rork, Law, and I wedged ourselves together against the bulkhead as our eyes began to adjust to the dim light of the battle lanterns. The air was thick with smoky haze and human desperation. From what little I could make of the reports coming in from around the ship, the scenario was bleak. Colón was taking on water from opened seams, electrical and firefighting water lines were severed, hydraulics for the guns’ training mechanisms were failing, fires had started in the after storage rooms, the engine shafts were beginning to warp from overheated bearings, and more than two dozen wounded were crammed into the surgeon’s room.
I looked at the clock, which showed 1:12 p.m. We’d been running for our lives for three and a half hours. The race was ending. I braced for the inevitable.
It was a single shot. The sea just ahead of the bow erupted in a gigantic burst of blinding light, black smoke, white water, and white-hot steel. The hail of steel fragments swept across our foredeck, ricocheting off the armor plating like some berserk percussionist was banging away on it. Spray sluiced through the slits, soaking the officers peering out.
The shell’s flight must have barely missed the corner of the citadel in which we hid. If it had struck the structure full on, no amount of plating would have saved us. No one commented on the obvious fact that the citadel was the intended target.
The Spanish officers followed Emilio’s guidance: unemotional adherence to procedure. They passed along concise damage, engineering, and gun mount reports, each of which their captain acknowledged in his slow, deep voice. They were determined to play out this performance to the bitter end, for the curtain had not yet dropped. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Dreamlike, almost absurd.
Rork counted down the next two minutes. Five seconds after he predicted it the next round arrived. This one exploded right under the stern, two hundred feet aft of where we stood, with a massively thunderous sound. It was far more damaging than the last shot. The blast lifted the entire hull, twisting and shaking it. I felt the vibration of the interior bulkheads buckling. Cabling and pipes fell from the overhead. Battle lanterns shattered. The chart table collapsed. Charts, pencils, navigation instruments, coffee cups, reports—anything that wasn’t secured—were thrown into the air. Those inside the small space were thrown against one another, some ending up down on the deck. Spontaneous curses and cries for God filled the darkness until their captain imperturbably reminded them to give their reports.
There were none. All communications from other parts of the ship were gone. Messengers were sent to get reports. Emilio opened the hatch and went out onto the starboard bridge wing. Looking out through the door, I could see the shoreline. I gauged our speed at eight to ten knots and dropping. The stern seemed to be squatting.
Emilio reentered the wheelhouse and quietly ordered a course change, which was echoed by the officer of the watch and the helmsman. “Full right rudder, steady on course 350 degrees. Steer for the mouth of that river you see below the peak of the tallest mountain.”
Everyone knew what that meant. He was running his beloved Cristóbal Colón—the ship he’d commanded since she was born in the builder’s yard—ashore. It was her final act. The destination was the riverfront beach below Mount Turquino, at more than six thousand feet in elevation the highest peak in all of Cuba, and a landmark of great symbolic value to the islanders.
After the order was acknowledged, no one said a word. The ship sluggishly turned north. She was slowing rapidly. I debated internally what to say, but there was little time. Another shell would come in seconds.
At last, I spoke up. “Captain Díaz-Moreu, is it time, sir?”
“Not yet, Peter. But very soon.”
He passed the word for all hands to hold on tightly and stand by for grounding. Then he told his officers they could get their personal belongings from their cabins if they wished. None o
f them left the bridge.
A breathless messenger from the engine room arrived. He reported flooding and that the engineers said they could no longer ensure engine control. The signalman reported the gaff flying the national battle flag as having collapsed, but added that another ensign was set on the mainmast. Another messenger reported the surgeon was moving the wounded topside.
The mountain loomed over us as we closed in on the beach.
Captain Emilio Díaz-Moreu, who had served his country for forty years since he joined the navy at the age of twelve, stood tall in the open doorway. He took a breath and turned to his executive officer, calmly uttering the words no naval officer wants to even think about saying.
“Strike the national colors and deliver them to me. Send officers to all guns and compartments to pass the word that we have surrendered. Upon grounding, they will abandon the ship and make their way to the beach.”
He waited while the officers showed their understanding, then continued. “Engineers will open all sea cocks and flood the ship when she grounds. Put Jacob’s ladders over the starboard bow and assemble some rafts. Officers will muster their divisions on the foredeck and depart the ship by division, with the medical division and wounded men first, followed by the engineers, the deck division, the gunnery division, then the rest. The wounded will float ashore on the rafts. The senior staff officers will remain aboard to make sure all our men are off, then they will depart. The executive officer will go ashore first and set up a camp for the wounded.”
The executive officer hesitated.
Emilio put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I know it is difficult, my friend. But you need to get to work now. I am depending on you.”
The executive officer saluted and stepped away to send officers off on their missions. None said a word as they departed. Most of the watch personnel emptied the wheelhouse, leaving only the senior officers and a few petty officers remaining.
My men and I stood there quietly watching our approach to the shoreline. Legally, I suppose we were the victors at that point. As senior American officer present, I could have started issuing orders. I didn’t feel like a victor, though, and just stood there, mute.
I felt a gentle rasping as the bow slid across the sandy bottom in twenty feet of water, then a thud as it hit a coral reef. The ship stopped. The bow was aground, but the stern was still afloat, settling down as the flooding increased with the opened seacocks.
“The Americans have stopping firing, sir,” a petty officer reported. “They are still approaching at full speed.”
Emilio nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, gentlemen. We have surrendered and are now under the protection of the Americans. But remember we are still the officers and sailors of Spain. Let us do this with dignity. Keep order and discipline. I will be in my cabin for a moment and will see you ashore once I know everyone else is off the ship. Captain Wake, would you care to join me briefly in my cabin? I had your belongings placed there for safekeeping when you came aboard.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said with instinctive respect.
I heard grown men weeping as they exited the wheelhouse to fulfill their final duties to their captain, their ship, and their men. It was an unforgettable scene. I’d never been on board a ship when she surrendered, but now I understood that each man there felt the abject humiliation to his very marrow.
I should have been jubilant, but I wasn’t. There were tears in my eyes too.
50
Honoring the Enemy
The Mouth of the Turquino River, Santiago de Cuba, Cuba
Sunday Afternoon, 3 July 1898
THE CAPTAIN WAS ALONE in his cabin, said his orderly, who stood faithfully in the passageway outside. Leaving Law and Rork with the orderly, I knocked on the door and stepped inside.
Emilio stood there, sword and scabbard in hand. “I believe this is the part where you take my sword, Peter.”
“No, Emilio. I did not defeat you, Captain Clark did. I was your prisoner after you defeated me, remember? It’s an archaic practice anyway. Nobody uses swords anymore, so why even give them away after a battle?”
“Because it is romantic, Peter, and naval officers are a romantic breed. We cling to our archaic practices as few others do. But I can see your point about the expectations of others. I will present it to Captain Clark when I meet him.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, wanting to offer something positive. “I would imagine they will be here soon. Your people will be treated with respect, and your wounded will be attended to immediately.”
“Yes, of all that I am sure. Peter, I am glad I met you again, and that you survived this ordeal. Please congratulate your son for me. And do not forget our future evening of sea stories. I look forward to it and to introducing you to my dear Martina.”
“I also look forward to our future reunion, Emilio. And it will be my pleasure to buy the first two bottles.”
“Ha, as you should!” It was a sad laugh.
He gestured toward the seabag on his bunk. “This is yours. I took the liberty of looking through it and am a bit jealous of your collection of weaponry. The coxswain of my steam launch should be thankful you chose not to employ them on him.”
“No, I could see it was time for me to surrender, Emilio. Old sailors know when it is time.”
I called Rork in to get the seabag. He returned to the passageway, leaving us alone again.
“It is time for me to go, Emilio. Thank you for your kindness and hospitality. I am privileged to be your friend, and Spain should be honored to have you as a son.”
After we shook hands, I stood at attention and saluted my Spanish adversary. He returned the salute. When I left the cabin, he was staring at the sword and scabbard in his hands.
51
Triumphant Glory
Turquino Beach, Santiago de Cuba, Cuba
Sunday, 3 July 1898
DOWN ON THE MAIN deck ten minutes later, Rork pointed over my shoulder. “Aye, sir, an’ here come our lads.” Oregon and Brooklyn had stopped a quarter mile away and were already sending armed boat crews to take possession of the ship and custody of the prisoners.
“The wounded are ashore by now, so let’s go.”
I wanted to get off that ship and go home to my Navy. I led the way to a Jacob’s ladder, passing through clusters of still stunned Spanish sailors on the deck. None showed us anger, but their officers, especially the junior ones, gave us cold looks. We shouldered our way past them and descended the ladder to a raft loaded with the last of the wounded. Once ashore, we stood at the water’s edge and waited for the American boats, ignoring the stares of the Spaniards around us. Another ten minutes and it was over. The U.S. Navy in all its triumphant glory arrived and took control. A half dozen launches and cutters landed a hundred men in blue on the beach, with more coming.
Within seconds the beach was a chaotic scene. American officers took over the prisoners, now guarded by armed yanqui sailors uneasy in their new role. The Spanish sailors had been mustered by division and remained there dolefully on the sand, waiting for orders from someone. Several other launches clustered alongside Colón. I saw a tall Spanish officer on her main deck speaking with the American officers clustered around him. It was Emilio Díaz-Moreu. He followed them down a ladder to a boat.
Looking farther east, I saw New York a few miles away, charging in our direction. Sampson was coming. I wondered what he was thinking at the sight of the entire Spanish fleet destroyed.
Nearby, an American lieutenant commander explained through pantomime to several senior officers from Colón that they would be taken to the admiral’s flagship when she arrived. They finally nodded their understanding and calmly awaited their fate as the American went to another group.
American petty officers began organizing boatloads of enlisted prisoners to be ferried out to Brooklyn and Oregon, eventually to be transferred to one of the transports. Farther up the beach at the makeshift Spanish aid station, U.S. Navy surgeons and their assistants helped
their Spanish counterparts ready the wounded for the long trip to the hospital ship at Siboney.
In all this bustle no one particularly noticed the three of us. I realized they didn’t recognize us as Americans, which was understandable. Unshaven and disheveled, we looked like ragged Cubans dressed in cast-off uniforms.
Needing to report in to Admiral Sampson right away, I began looking for a way to get out to New York when she arrived. I was about to intrude upon the lieutenant commander when Rork banged my shoulder and gestured toward a group of men down the beach.
“Well lookee there, sir. Is that not a sight to make two tired old men glad?” He gazed up toward the heavens, his right hand outstretched. “Thank you, Jaysus!”
52
Reunion and Defiance
Turquino Beach, Santiago de Cuba, Cuba
Sunday, 3 July 1898
COLÓN’S JUNIOR OFFICERS were being assembled by an American lieutenant who spoke Spanish passably. His back was to me, but I had no difficulty recognizing his voice. I walked over to him.
“Sean …” Overcome with emotion, I could say nothing more.
He turned around, his face draining of color. “Dad?”
My heart swelled with pride as I hugged him. It was all I could do not to blubber like a fool. He was taller and stronger than me now. He held me by the shoulders and looked me over. I felt old and frail. “Dad, your face is hurt. You look terrible. And how did you ever get here?”
Rork walked up and embraced him as well. “Oh, laddie, you’re one hell’uva welcome sight for me sorry ol’ eyes! Been a wee bit dicey lately for your dad an’ me.”
My son looked questioningly at me. “I thought you were a staff officer with General García someplace near Siboney.”
Rork laughed. “Well, now, Captain Wake, why don’t you go right ahead an’ tell the lad what his ol’ man’s been up to—an’ dragged my sorry ol’ arse into as well!”
Honoring the Enemy Page 29