A Gunner Aboard the "Yankee" Part 17

"Why, they claim that the pen is mightier than the sword, don't they?"

After the laugh had subsided, "Morrie," one of the Rochester detail, who acted as a sh.e.l.lman in the crew of Number Eight, said seriously:

"I am a great admirer of the press representatives down here, fellows.

They are capable, good writers, and there is not a branch of the whole outfit that has been more faithful to duty. They were sent here to get the news, and they get it every time. There has never been a war more ably reported than this, and, although the correspondents have to hustle day and night, they still find time to keep us informed, and to give us an occasional paper from home. They are good fellows all."

"Amen!" said "Hay."

After a time, the press boat sheered off, and we continued on our course. Later in the morning another steamer was sighted. The "Yankee"

was sent after her at full speed. The chase crowded on all steam, but she was soon overhauled, and found to be a Norwegian trader. After a satisfactory explanation she was permitted to go. Three hours later the "Yankee" dropped anchor off Mole St. Nicholas, a Haytian seaport brought into some prominence through the location of a cable station.

Mole St. Nicholas is a little collection of tropical-looking houses set among palm trees at the foot of a large hill, which in places aspires to the dignity of a mountain. The town itself is rather picturesquely situated, the foliage-covered background and beautiful inlet of pure clear water giving it a natural setting very attractive to our eyes.

After we had been anch.o.r.ed an hour or so, a b.u.mboat came out, manned by a crew of two coal-black negroes who spoke a French patois, intermingled with comical English. The boat itself was a queer, stubby craft propelled by home-made oars. Before the morning was well advanced the s.h.i.+p was surrounded by boats carrying sh.e.l.ls, limes, p.r.i.c.kly pears, green cocoanuts, bananas, fish, and "water monkeys." The latter were jugs made of a porous clay, and they were eagerly purchased. The "water monkey" is a natural cooler, and when placed in a draught of air will keep water at a temperature delightful in a warm lat.i.tude.

We parted with our mysterious pa.s.senger, the army officer, and weighed anchor just as the sun was setting. Lookouts were posted early, and special instruction given by the captain to maintain a vigilant watch.

The fact that we were in the very theatre of war, and that several Spanish cruisers, including the Spanish torpedo boat "Terror," were reported as being in the vicinity, kept a number of us on deck.

"It is one thing lying off a port with a lot of other s.h.i.+ps and bombarding a few measly earthworks, and another to be sneaking about in the darkness like this, not knowing when you will run your nose against an enemy twice as large," said Flagg, as several of Number Eight's crew met on the forecastle. "I tell you, it feels like war."

"Reminds me of a story I heard once," put in "Stump," lazily. He was lounging over the rail with his back to us and his words came faintly.

The deck was shrouded in gloom, and the vague outlines of the pilot-house, only a dozen feet away, was the length of our vision aft. A soft, purling sound came from over the side where the waves lapped against the steel hull. A shovel grated stridently now and then in the fire room, and occasionally a block rattled or a halliard flapped against the foremast overhead. The surroundings and the strange, weird "feel" of the darkness were peculiarly impressive.

"I don't know whether we care to hear any story," observed "Hay."

"Better keep it until later, 'Stump.' The night's too wonderful to do anything except lounge around and think. Whew! isn't it dark?"

"This story I was going to tell you requires a setting like this,"

replied "Stump." "It is about a s.h.i.+p that started from England years and years ago. She had as pa.s.sengers a lot of lunatics who were to be experimented upon by a doctor about as crazy as they. He bought the s.h.i.+p, fitted it up with a number of little iron cages, and set forth with his queer cargo. Ten days out, the lunatics broke from their quarters and captured the vessel. One of them, who had been a sea captain in his time, took charge, and proceeded to carry out a little idea of his own, which was to make sane people crazy."

"That was turning the tables with a vengeance," drawled "Dye," from his perch on an upturned pail. "I wonder if he was any relation to 'Cutlets'?"

"A lineal ancestor, I'll bet a biscuit," chimed in "Hay." "Don't you remember the quotation, 'By these acts you will know their forefathers,'

or something like that?"

"Well," resumed "Stump," "the crazy captain put the doctor and the crew in the cages and began to feed them hardtack and berth-deck scouse and salt-horse and--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE SEARCHLIGHT "SWEEPING BACK AND FORTH ACROSS THE BLACK OF THE HORIZON"]

"Must have been a Government naval contractor in his time," murmured "Morrie."

"I bet I know the rest," exclaimed the "Kid," coming up in time to grasp the situation. "The captain set his prisoners to carrying coal from the after hold forward and then back again, didn't he?"

"If you fellows think you can tell the story better than I can, go ahead," retorted "Stump," in disgust. "You are like a lot of old maids at a sewing circle. I give--"

"What was that?" suddenly cried "Hay," springing to his feet. "If it wasn't a flash of light I'll eat my--"

A figure hastily emerged from the gloom aft.

"Go to your stations at once, you men," called out a voice. "General quarters!"

As we scurried toward the hatch a great shaft of light appeared off the port beam, and began sweeping back and forth across the black of the horizon.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed "Hay," "it's a searchlight on some man-of-war.

We're in for it now!"

CHAPTER XIII.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

The finger of light sweeping the heavens above the distant horizon meant to us the presence either of friend or foe, and the question was one we had little desire to solve at that moment. Rumors of Spanish wars.h.i.+ps lurking in the waters adjacent to Cuba were rife, and it had even been stated that another squadron inferior only to Cervera's fleet was somewhere in the neighborhood.

We of the "Yankee" were willing, and I may say, without undue boasting, eager to meet any vessel of equal size or even larger, but to give battle to a whole fleet was a little too much. Nevertheless, when the word was pa.s.sed to go to "general quarters," there was no sulking nor hesitancy.

The battery was ready in record time.

Our gun was placed in trim, ammunition hatches opened, cartridges whipped on deck, and the piece prepared for instant use so rapidly that the officer of the division, Lieutenant Greene, gave us warm praise.

Then we waited.

It is difficult for a layman--a citizen who has not experienced the test of action and danger in battle--to understand or appreciate our feelings that night. It is hard to describe them, to paint with mere words the intense seriousness and gravity of the situation. You can imagine a dark night at sea--a night so black that the senses feel oppressed. You can add to these a thrill of impending danger and a vision of capture by a cruel enemy and the thought that the very next second will sound the signal for an uproar and outbreak of combat, but your impressions will fall far short of the reality--that must be experienced to be appreciated.

As we stood at our stations surrounding Number Eight gun, I tried to read the faces of my companions, to see if I could find in them traces of worry or anxiety, or of fear. The situation warranted even the latter emotion. The dim light cast by the nickering battle lanterns sent fantastic shadows dancing over deck and bulkhead, and caused the men at the guns to resemble, in their stained white working clothes, so many gaunt spectres.

But they were spectres with a grim purpose in view, and as the officer of the division strode back and forth, alert and watchful, they followed his movements with their eyes, eager for the word that would set them in action. They were not veterans, and their experience in war could have been measured by days, but they were honestly ready to fight and to shed the last drop of their blood for the flag waving over the taffrail.

It was a ticklish situation. Even the "Kid," with his careless, happy-go-lucky mind, would have admitted that; but as time pa.s.sed without bringing a break in the monotony of waiting, we began to feel restless. The tension was still great, but the first sense of apprehension was gone.

"I do wish something would happen," muttered "Hay," after a while. "Can you see anything from that port, 'Morrie'?"

"A wall of blackness, that's all," replied the Rochester man.

"We've changed our course several times," spoke up Flagg. "I think the 'old man' is scooting for cover."

"Fool if he didn't," growled Tommy. "They have a pretty habit of court-martialling naval officers when they risk their s.h.i.+p unnecessarily. If Captain Brownson should fail to do all in his power to escape from what his judgment tells him is overwhelming odds, he'd find himself in trouble. Discretion is the better part of valor, even in the navy."

Suddenly we began to notice a peculiar glow tinging the darkness, and reflecting from the polished parts of the gun. It came suddenly and with a spurt of ruddy light unmistakable.

"It's a fire somewhere," exclaimed Flagg. "Look! it's getting brighter."

"It comes from this s.h.i.+p," cried "Stump," edging toward the port. "Is it possible the old hooker is on fire?"

We waited for the ringing of the alarm bell, or the call to "fire quarters," but the minutes slipped by without the summons. Outside, the ruddy glare tinged the surface of the sea, sparkling from foam-crested waves, and forming a circle of dancing light through which the "Yankee"

speeded on in her flight for safety.

Our curiosity increased apace, and we watched eagerly for pa.s.sing messengers or for some stray word that would explain the peculiar phenomenon. It was Kennedy who finally solved the mystery--Kennedy the luckless, he whom we dubbed "Lucky Bag," because of his propensity to allow his wearing apparel to find its way into the clutches of "Jimmy Legs." Kennedy had slipped near the port and was trying to perform the difficult feat of scanning the upper deck from the opening.

"Come back here and stop that 'rubber-necking,' No. 7," called out Tommy. "Do you want to get on the report?"