Chapter V: The War with Spain (2)

From sea to sea he ravaged far,
A scourge with flaming breath--
Where'er the Spaniard sailed his ships
Sailed Francis Drake and Death.

No port was safe against his ire,
Secure no furthest shore;
The fairest day oft sank in fire
Before the Dragon's roar.

He made th' Atlantic surges red
Round every Spanish keel;
Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead,
The noblest of Castile.

From Del Fuego's beetling coast
To sleety Hebrides,
He hounded down the Spanish host,
And swept the flaming seas.

He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes
'Mid orange bowers set,
La Mancha's daughters feared to sail
Lest they the Dragon met.

King Philip, of his raven reft,
As forfeit claimed his head.
The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn,
And knighted Drake instead.

And gave him ships and sent him forth
To clear the Spanish main
For England and for England's brood,
And sink the fleets of Spain.

And well he wrought his mighty work,
Till on that fatal day,
He met his only conqueror,
In Nombre Dios Bay.

There, in his shotted hammock swung,
Amid the surges' sweep,
He waits the lookouts' signal
Across the quiet deep.

And dreams of dark Ulloa's bay
And Spanish treachery;
And how he tracked Magellan far
Across the unknown sea.

But if Spain fires a single shot
Upon the Spanish main,
She'll come to deem the Dragon dead
Has waked to life again.

THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

[15] From "The Coast of Bohemia"; copyright 1888, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

THE SAILING OF THE FLEET

Two fleets have sailed from Spain. The one would seek
What lands uncharted ocean might conceal.
Despised, condemned, and pitifully weak,
It found a world for Leon and Castile.

The other, mighty, arrogant, and vain,
Sought to subdue a people who were free.
Ask of the storm-gods where its galleons be,--
Whelmed 'neath the billows of the northern main!

A third is threatened. On the westward track,
Once gloriously traced, its vessels speed,
With gold and crimson battle-flags unfurled.
On Colon's course, but to Sidonia's wrack,
Sure fated, if so need shall come to need,
For Sons of Drake are lords of Colon's world.

A portion of the American fleet started off to look for
the Spaniards, and the remainder engaged in various minor
operations off the Cuban coast. On May 11 a party rowed in and
cut the cables at Cienfuegos, under a heavy fire.

"CUT THE CABLES"

AN INCIDENT OF CIENFUEGOS

[May 11, 1898]

"Cut the cables!" the order read,
And the men were there; there was no delay.
The ships hove to in Cienfuegos Bay,--
The Windom, Nashville, Marblehead,--
Beautiful, grim, and alert were they,
It was midway, past in the morning gray.
"Cut the cables!" the order said--
Over the clouds of the dashing spray,
The guns were trained and ready for play;
Picked from the Nashville, Winslow led,--
Grim death waits ashore, they say;
"Lower the boats, Godspeed, give way."
Did "our untried navy lads" obey?
Away to their perilous work they sped.

Now, steady the keel, keep stroke the oar!
They must go in close, they must find the wires;
Grim death is alert on that watching shore,
That deadly shore of the "Hundred Fires."
In the lighthouse tower,--along the ledge,--
In the blockhouse, waiting,--the guns are there;
On the lowland, too, in the tall, dry sedge;
They are holding the word till the boats draw near.
One hundred feet from the water's edge,
Dazzling clear is the sunlit air;
Quick, my men,--the moments are dear!
Two hundred feet from the rifle-pit,
And our "untried" lads still show no fear--
When they open now they're sure to hit;
No question, even by sign, they ask,
In silence they bend to their dangerous task.

Quick now!--the shot from a smokeless gun
Cuts close and spatters the glistening brine;
Now follows the roar of the battle begun,
But the boys were bent in the blazing sun
Like peaceful fishermen, "wetting a line."
They searched the sea while a shrieking blast
Swept shoreward, swift as the lightning flies,--
While the fan-like storm of the shells went past
Like a death-wing clearing the hissing skies.
Like a sheltering wing,--for the hurricane came
From our own good guns, and the foe might tell
What wreck was wrought by their deadly aim;
For the foe went down where the hurricane fell.
It shattered the blockhouse, levelled the tower,
It ripped the face of the smoking hill,
It beat the battle back, hour by hour,
And then, for a little, our guns were still.
For a little, but that was the fatal breath,--
That moment's lull in the friendly crash,--
For the long pit blazed with a vicious flash,
And eight fell,--two of them done to death.

Once more the screen of the screaming shot
With its driving canopy covered the men,
While they dragged, and grappled, and, faltering not,
Still dragged, and searched, and grappled again.
And they stayed right there till the work was done,
The cables were found and severed, each one,
With an eighty-foot gap, and the "piece" hauled in,
And stowed in place,--then, under the din
Of that deafening storm, that had swept the air
For three long hours, they turned from shore
("Steady the keel" there; "stroke" the oar),
To the smoke-wreathed ships, and, under the guns,
They went up the side,--our "untried" ones.

Quiet, my brave boys; hats off, all!
They are here, our "untried" boys in blue.
Steady the block, now, all hands haul!
Slow on the line there!--look to that crew!
Six lads hurt!--and the colors there?
Wrap two of them?--hold! Ease back the bow!
Slow, now, on the line!--slack down with care!
Steady! they're back on their own deck now!
The cables are cut, sir, eighty-foot spread,
Six boys hurt, and--two of them dead.
Half-mast the colors! there's work to do!
There are two red marks on the starboard gun,
There is still some work that is not quite done,
For our "untried" boys that are tried and true.
It wasn't all play when they cut the wires,--
Well named is that bay of the "Hundred Fires."

ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

June 2, 1898.

A few days later, on May 24, 1898, the battleship Oregon
arrived at Jupiter Inlet, Florida, after one of the most
remarkable voyages in history. On March 9 the ship, then at San
Francisco, was ordered to circle South America and join the
Atlantic squadron, and the journey of nearly fifteen thousand
miles was accomplished without starting a rivet.

THE RACE OF THE OREGON

Lights out! And a prow turned towards the South,
And a canvas hiding each cannon's mouth,
And a ship like a silent ghost released
Is seeking her sister ships in the East.

A rush of water, a foaming trail,
An ocean hound in a coat of mail,
A deck long-lined with the lines of fate,
She roars good-by at the Golden Gate.

On! On! Alone without gong or bell,
But a burning fire, like the fire of hell,
Till the lookout starts as his glasses show
The white cathedral of Callao.

A moment's halt 'neath the slender spire;
Food, food for the men, and food for the fire.
Then out to the sea to rest no more
Till her keel is grounded on Chili's shore.

South! South! God guard through the unknown wave,
Where chart nor compass may help or save,
Where the hissing wraiths of the sea abide
And few may pass through the stormy tide.

North! North! For a harbor far away,
For another breath in the burning day;
For a moment's shelter from speed and pain,
And a prow to the tropic sea again.

Home! Home! With the mother fleet to sleep
Till the call shall rise o'er the awful deep;
And the bell shall clang for the battle there,
And the voice of guns is the voice of prayer!

* * * * *

One more to the songs of the bold and free,
When your children gather about your knee;
When the Goths and Vandals come down in might
As they came to the walls of Rome one night;
When the lordly William of Deloraine
Shall ride by the Scottish lake again;
When the Hessian spectres shall flit in air
As Washington crosses the Delaware;
When the eyes of babes shall be closed in dread
As the story of Paul Revere is read;
When your boys shall ask what the guns are for,
Then tell them the tale of the Spanish war,
And the breathless millions that looked upon
The matchless race of the Oregon.

JOHN JAMES MEEHAN.

BATTLE-SONG OF THE OREGON

The billowy headlands swiftly fly
The crested path I keep,
My ribboned smoke stains many a sky,
My embers dye the deep;
A continent has hardly space--
Mid-ocean little more,
Wherein to trace my eager race
While clang the alarums of war.

_I come, the warship Oregon,
My wake a whitening world,
My cannon shotted, thundering on
With battle-flags unfurled.
My land knows no successful foe--
Behold, to sink or save,
From stoker's flame to gunner's aim
The race that rules the wave!_

A nation's prayers my bulwark are
Though ne'er so wild the sea;
Flow time or tide, come storm or star,
Throbs my machinery.
Lands Spain has lost forever peer
From every lengthening coast,
Till rings the cheer that proves me near
The flag of Columbia's host.

Defiantly I have held my way
From the vigorous shore where Drake
Dreamed a New Albion in the day
He left New Spain a-quake;
His shining course retraced, I fight
The self-same foe he fought,
All earth to light with signs of might
Which God our Captain wrought.

Made mad, from Santiago's mouth
Spain's ships-of-battle dart:
My bulk comes broadening from the south,
A hurricane at heart;
Its desperate armories blaze and boom,
Its ardent engines beat;
And fiery doom finds root and bloom
Aboard of the Spanish fleet....

The hundredweight of the Golden Hind
With me are ponderous tons,
The ordnance great her deck that lined
Would feed my ravening guns,
Her spacious reach in months and years
I've shrunk to nights and days;
Yet in my ears are ringing cheers
Sir Frank himself would raise:

For conquereth not mine engines' breath
Nor sides steel-clad and strong,
Nor bulk, nor rifles red with death:
To Spain, too, these belong;
What made that old Armada break
This newer victory won:
Jehovah spake by the sons of Drake
At each incessant gun.

_I come, the warship Oregon,
My wake a whitening world,
My cannon shotted, thundering on
With battle-flags unfurled.
My land knows no successful foe--
Behold, to sink or save,
From stoker's flame to gunner's aim
The race that rules the wave!_

WALLACE RICE.

A few days before, Sampson's fleet had bombarded San Juan,
Porto Rico, ineffectually, and then came word that the Spanish
squadron had slipped into the harbor of Santiago, Cuba, to coal
and refit. It was not until May 29 that its presence there was
discovered by the Americans, who proceeded at once to blockade
the harbor.

STRIKE THE BLOW

The four-way winds of the world have blown,
And the ships have ta'en the wave;
The legions march to the trumps' shrill call
'Neath the flag of the free and brave.
The hounds of the sea
Have trailed the foe,
They have trailed and tracked him down,--
Then wait no longer, but strike, O land,
With the dauntless strength of thy strong right hand,
Strike the blow!

The armored fleets, with their grinning guns,
Have the Spaniard in his lair;
They have tracked him down where the ramparts frown,
And they'll halt and hold him there.
They have steamed in his wake,
They have seen him go,
They have bottled and corked him up;
Then send him home to the under-foam,
Till the wide sea shakes to the far blue dome;
Strike the blow!

The Cuban dead and the dying call,
The children starved in the light
Of the aid that waits till the hero deed
Breaks broad on the tyrant's might.
The starved and the weak
In their hour of woe
Are calling, land, on thee;
Then why delay in thy dauntless sway?
On, on, to the charge of the freedom-way,
Strike the blow!

They have ta'en the winds of the Carib seas,
Thy fleets that know not fear;
Their ribs of steel have yearned to reel
In the dance of the cannoneer.
Thy sons of the blue
That wait to go
Would leap with a will to the charge,
Then send them the word so long deferred;
They have listened late, but they have not heard;
Strike the blow!

They have listened late in the desolate land,
They have looked through brimming eyes,
And starving women have held dead babes
To their heart with a thousand sighs.
On, on to the end,
O land, the foe
Beneath thy sword shall fall,
Thy ships of steel have tracked them home,
Ye are king of the land and king of the foam.
Strike the blow!

On June 1, 1898, a great portion of Sampson's fleet was off the
harbor, and it was decided to block the entrance by sinking the
collier Merrimac in the channel. The enterprise was intrusted
to Lieutenant Richmond Pearson Hobson, and a crew of eight
volunteers.

EIGHT VOLUNTEERS

Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!
Eight men! Who speaks?
Eight men to go where the cannon's hot breath
Burns black the cheeks.

Eight men to man the old Merrimac's hulk;
Eight men to sink the old steamer's black bulk,
Blockade the channel where Spanish ships skulk,--
Eight men! Who speaks?
"Eight volunteers!" said the Admiral's flags!

Eight men! Who speaks?
Who will sail under El Morro's black crags?--
Sure death he seeks.
Who is there willing to offer his life?
Willing to march to this music of strife,--
Cannon for drum and torpedo for fife?
Eight men! Who speaks?

Eight volunteers! on an errand of death!
Eight men! Who speaks?
Was there a man who in fear held his breath?
With fear-paled cheeks?
From ev'ry war-ship ascended a cheer!
From ev'ry sailor's lips burst the word "Here!"
Four thousand heroes their lives volunteer!
Eight men! Who speaks?

LANSING C. BAILEY.

It was impossible to get the boat ready that night, but at
last, at 3:30 on the morning of June 2, she stood away for the
harbor. The Spaniards saw her as she entered and rained a storm
of fire upon her. A moment later, torn by her own torpedoes and
those of the enemy, she sank to the bottom. Hobson and his men
were taken prisoners by the Spaniards.

THE MEN OF THE MERRIMAC

[June 3, 1898]

_Hail to Hobson! Hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!
Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!
Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!
Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!_

Though the tale be worn with the telling, let the daring deed be sung!
Surely never brighter valor, since this wheeling world was young,
Thrilled men's souls to more than wonder, till praise leaped from every
tongue!

Trapped at last the Spanish sea-fox in the hill-locked harbor lay;
Spake the Admiral from his flagship, rocking off the hidden bay,
"We must close yon open portal lest he slip by night away!"

"Volunteers!" the signal lifted; rippling through the fleet it ran;
Was there ever deadlier venture? was there ever bolder plan?
Yet the gallant sailors answered, answered well-nigh to a man!

Ere the dawn's first rose-flush kindled, swiftly sped the chosen eight
Toward the batteries grimly frowning o'er the harbor's narrow gate;
Sooth, he holds his life but lightly who thus gives the dare to Fate.

They had passed the outer portal where the guns grinned, tier o'er tier,
When portentous Morro thundered, and Socapa echoed clear,
And Estrella joined the chorus pandemoniac to hear.

Heroes without hands to waver, heroes without hearts to quail,
There they sank the bulky collier 'mid the hurtling Spanish hail;
Long shall float our starry banner if such lads beneath it sail!

_Hail to Hobson! hail to Hobson! hail to all the valiant set!
Clausen, Kelly, Deignan, Phillips, Murphy, Montagu, Charette!
Howsoe'er we laud and laurel we shall be their debtors yet!
Shame upon us, shame upon us, should the nation e'er forget!_

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE VICTORY-WRECK[16]

[June 3, 1898]

O stealthily-creeping Merrimac,
Hush low your fiery breath;
You who gave life to ships of strife
Are sailing unto your death!--
"I am ready and dressed for burial,
Beneath the Cuban wave;
But still I can fight for God and right,
While resting in my grave!"

O men that are sailing the Merrimac,
Your hearts are beating high;
But send a prayer through the smoking air,
To your Captain in the sky!--
"We know there is death in every breath,
As we cling to the gunless deck;
And grand will be our voyage, if we
Can make of our ship a wreck!"

Now drop the bower of the Merrimac,
And swing her to the tide.
Now scuttle her, braves, and bid the waves
Sweep into her shattered side!--
"Through a flying hell of shot and shell,
We passed Death, with a sneer;
We wrenched our life from a novel strife,
And even our foemen cheer!"

WILL CARLETON.

Examination showed that the channel had not been blocked. The
Merrimac had gone too far in, and had sunk lengthwise of the
channel instead of across it. So the Spanish ships were not yet
"corked."

HOBSON AND HIS MEN

[June 3, 1898]

Hobson went towards death and hell,
Hobson and his men,
Unregarding shot and shell,
And the rain of fire that fell;
Calm, undaunted, fearless, bold,
Every heart a heart of gold,
Steadfast, daring, uncontrolled,--
Hobson and his men.

Hobson came from death and hell,
Hobson and his men,
Shout the tidings, ring the bell,
Let the pealing anthems swell;
Back from wreck and raft and wave,
From the shadow of the grave,
Every honor to the brave.--
Hobson and his men.

ROBERT LOVEMAN.

[16] From "Songs of Two Centuries," published by Harper & Brothers.

Meanwhile, nearer home, things were moving slowly enough, for
the War Department developed a startling unpreparedness and
inefficiency. Two hundred thousand volunteers were called
for, but, though every state responded instantly, the work of
mobilizing these troops was conducted in so bungling a fashion
that, by the beginning of June, only three regiments, in
addition to the regulars, had reached the rendezvous at Tampa,
Florida.

THE CALL TO THE COLORS

"Are you ready, O Virginia,
Alabama, Tennessee?
People of the Southland, answer!
For the land hath need of thee."
"Here!" from sandy Rio Grande,
Where the Texan horsemen ride;
"Here!" the hunters of Kentucky
Hail from Chatterawah's side;
Every toiler in the cotton,
Every rugged mountaineer,
Velvet-voiced and iron-handed,
Lifts his head to answer, "Here!
Some remain who charged with Pickett,
Some survive who followed Lee;
They shall lead their sons to battle
For the flag, if need there be."

"Are you ready, California,
Arizona, Idaho?
'Come, oh, come, unto the colors!'
Heard you not the bugle blow?"
Falls a hush in San Francisco
In the busy hives of trade;
In the vineyards of Sonoma
Fall the pruning knife and spade;
In the mines of Colorado
Pick and drill are thrown aside;
Idly in Seattle harbor
Swing the merchants to the tide;
And a million mighty voices
Throb responsive like a drum,
Rolling from the rough Sierras,
"You have called us, and we come."

O'er Missouri sounds the challenge--
O'er the great lakes and the plain;
"Are you ready, Minnesota?
Are you ready, men of Maine?"
From the woods of Ontonagon,
From the farms of Illinois,
From the looms of Massachusetts,
"We are ready, man and boy."
Axemen free, of Androscoggin,
Clerks who trudge the cities' paves,
Gloucester men who drag their plunder
From the sullen, hungry waves,
Big-boned Swede and large-limbed German,
Celt and Saxon swell the call,
And the Adirondacks echo:
"We are ready, one and all."

Truce to feud and peace to faction!
All forgot is party zeal
When the war-ships clear for action,
When the blue battalions wheel.
Europe boasts her standing armies,--
Serfs who blindly fight by trade;
We have seven million soldiers,
And a soul guides every blade.
Laborers with arm and mattock,
Laborers with brain and pen,
Railroad prince and railroad brakeman
Build our line of fighting men.
Flag of righteous wars! close mustered
Gleam the bayonets, row on row,
Where thy stars are sternly clustered,
With their daggers towards the foe!

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

ESSEX REGIMENT MARCH

WRITTEN FOR THE EIGHTH MASSACHUSETTS UNITED STATES VOLUNTEER
INFANTRY IN THE SPANISH WAR

Once more the Flower of Essex is marching to the wars;
We are up to serve the Country wherever fly her Stars;
Ashore, afloat, or far or near, to her who bore us true,
We will do a freeman's duty as we were born to do.
Lead the van, and may we lead it,
God of armies, till the wrong shall cease;
Speed the war, and may we speed it
To the sweet home-coming, God of peace!

Our fathers fought their battles, and conquered for the right,
Three hundred years victorious from every stubborn fight;
And still the Flower of Essex from the ancient stock puts forth,
Where the bracing blue sea-water strings the sinews of the North.

The foe on field, the foe on deck to us is all the same;
With both the Flower of Essex has played a winning game;
We threw them on the village green, we cowed them in Algiers,
And ship to ship we shocked them in our first great naval years.

We rowed the Great Commander o'er the ice-bound Delaware,
When the Christmas snow was falling in the dark and wintry air;
And still the Flower of Essex, like the heroes gone before,
Where the tide of danger surges shall take the laboring oar.

The Flower that first lay bleeding along by Bloody Brook
Full oft hath Death upgathered in war's red reaping-hook;
Its home is on our headlands; 'tis sweeter than the rose;
But sweetest in the battle's breath the Flower of Essex blows.

At the best a dear home-coming, at the worst a soldier's grave,
Beating the tropic jungle, ploughing the dark blue wave;
But while the Flower of Essex from the granite rock shall come,
None but the dead shall cease to fight till all go marching home.

March onward to the leaguer wherever it may lie;
The Colors make the Country whatever be the sky;
Where round the Flag of Glory the storm terrific blows,
We march, we sail, whoever fail, the Flower of Essex goes.

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY.

THE GATHERING

We are coming, Cuba,--coming; our starry banner shines
Above the swarming legions, sweeping downward to the sea.
From Northern hill, and Western plain, and towering Southern pines
The serried hosts are gathering,--and Cuba shall be free.

We are coming, Cuba,--coming. Thy sturdy patriots brave,
Who fight as fought our fathers in the old time long ago,
Shall see the Spanish squadrons sink beneath the whelming wave,
And plant their own loved banner on the ramparts of their foe.

We are coming, Cuba,--coming. Across the billow's foam
Our gallant ships are bearing our bravest down to thee,
While earnest prayers are rising from every freeman's home
That freedom's God may lead them on, and Cuba shall be free.

HERBERT B. SWETT.

It was evident that an army was badly needed to support the
fleet at Santiago, and on June 7, 1898, the force at Tampa was
ordered to embark for that place, under command of General
William Shafter. Everything was confusion, and it was not until
June 14 that the transports finally made their way down the bay.

COMRADES

Now from their slumber waking,--
The long sleep men thought death--
The War Gods rise, inhaling deep
The cannon's fiery breath!
Their mighty arms uplifted,
Their gleaming eyes aglow
With the steadfast light of battle,
As it blazed long years ago!

Now from the clouds they summon
The Captains of the Past,
Still sailing in their astral ships
The star-lit spaces vast;
And from Valhalla's peaceful plains
The Great Commanders come,
And marshal again their armies
To the beat of the muffled drum.

His phantom sails unfurling
McDonough sweeps amain
Where once his Yankee sailors fought
The battle of Champlain!
And over Erie's waters,
Again his flagship sweeps,
While Perry on the quarter-deck
His endless vigil keeps.

Silent as mists that hover
When twilight shadows fall,
The ghosts of the royal armies
Foregather at the call;
And their glorious chiefs are with them,
From conflicts lost or won,
As they gather round one mighty shade,
The shade of Washington!

* * * * *

Side by side with the warships
That sail for the hostile fleet,
The ships of the Past are sailing
And the dauntless comrades meet;
And standing shoulder to shoulder,
The armèd spirits come,
And march with our own battalions
To the beat of the muffled drum!

HENRY R. DORR.

The fleet reached Santiago June 20, and Shafter decided to move
directly upon the city. But the army had lost or forgotten its
lighters and launches, so the task of disembarking it fell upon
the navy and was admirably performed. Next morning, General
Joseph Wheeler, with four squadrons of dismounted cavalry, was
ordered forward. Two of these squadrons were composed of the
"Rough Riders," under command of Leonard Wood and Theodore
Roosevelt.

WHEELER'S BRIGADE AT SANTIAGO

Beneath the blistering tropical sun
The column is standing ready,
Awaiting the fateful command of one
Whose word will ring out
To an answering shout
To prove it alert and steady.
And a stirring chorus all of them sung
With singleness of endeavor,
Though some to "The Bonny Blue Flag" had swung
And some to "The Union For Ever."

The order came sharp through the desperate air
And the long ranks rose to follow,
Till their dancing banners shone more fair
Than the brightest ray
Of the Cuban day
On the hill and jungled hollow;
And to "Maryland" some in the days gone by
Had fought through the combat's rumble,
And some for "Freedom's Battle-Cry"
Had seen the broad earth crumble.

Full many a widow weeps in the night
Who had been a man's wife in the morning;
For the banners we loved we bore to the height
Where the enemy stood
As a hero should,
His valor his country adorning;
But drops of pride with your tears of grief,
Ye American women, mix ye!
For the North and South, with a Southron chief,
Kept time to the tune of "Dixie."

WALLACE RICE.

After great confusion and several days' delay, the remainder
of the army came up, and on the afternoon of June 30 a general
advance was ordered. By dawn of July 1 the troops were in
position and the attack began.

DEEDS OF VALOR AT SANTIAGO

[July 1, 1898]

Who cries that the days of daring are those that are faded far,
That never a light burns planet-bright to be hailed as the hero's star?
Let the deeds of the dead be laurelled, the brave of the elder years,
But a song, we say, for the men of to-day, who have proved themselves
their peers!

High in the vault of the tropic sky is the garish eye of the sun,
And down with its crown of guns afrown looks the hilltop to be won;
There is the trench where the Spaniard lurks, his hold and his
hiding-place,
And he who would cross the space between must meet death face to face.

The black mouths belch and thunder, and the shrapnel shrieks and flies;
Where are the fain and the fearless, the lads with the dauntless eyes?
Will the moment find them wanting! Nay, but with valor stirred!
Like the leashed hound on the coursing-ground they wait but the warning
word.

"Charge!" and the line moves forward, moves with a shout and a swing,
While sharper far than the cactus-thorn is the spiteful bullet's sting.
Now they are out in the open, and now they are breasting the slope,
While into the eyes of death they gaze as into the eyes of hope.

Never they wait nor waver, but on they clamber and on,
With "Up with the flag of the Stripes and Stars, and down with the flag
of the Don!"
What should they bear through the shot-rent air but rout to the ranks of
Spain,
For the blood that throbs in their hearts is the blood of the boys of
Anthony Wayne!

See, they have taken the trenches! Where are the foemen? Gone!
And now "Old Glory" waves in the breeze from the heights of San Juan!
And so, while the dead are laurelled, the brave of the elder years,
A song, we say, for the men of to-day who have proved themselves their
peers.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The morning was consumed in blundering about under the Spanish
fire, trying vainly to carry out the orders of a general
lying in a hammock far in the rear. Finally, the subordinate
commanders acted for themselves; Lawton, Ludlow, and Chaffee
took the fort of El Caney, and the Rough Riders charged San
Juan.

THE CHARGE AT SANTIAGO

[July 1, 1898]

With shot and shell, like a loosened hell,
Smiting them left and right,
They rise or fall on the sloping wall
Of beetling bush and height!
They do not shrink at the awful brink
Of the rifle's hurtling breath,
But onward press, as their ranks grow less,
To the open arms of death!

Through a storm of lead, o'er maimed and dead,
Onward and up they go,
Till hand to hand the unflinching band
Grapple the stubborn foe.
O'er men that reel, 'mid glint of steel,
Bellow or boom of gun,
They leap and shout over each redoubt
Till the final trench is won!

O charge sublime! Over dust and grime
Each hero hurls his name
In shot or shell, like a molten hell,
To the topmost heights of fame!
And prone or stiff, under bush and cliff,
Wounded or dead men lie,
While the tropic sun on a grand deed done
Looks with his piercing eye!

WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNE.

PRIVATE BLAIR OF THE REGULARS

[July 1, 1898]

It was Private Blair, of the regulars, before dread El Caney,
Who felt with every throb of his wound the life-tide ebb away;
And as he dwelt in a fevered dream on the home of his youthful years,
He heard near by the moan and sigh of two of the volunteers.

He raised him up and gazed at them, and likely lads they were,
But when he bade them pluck up heart he found they could not stir.
Then a bullet ploughed the sodden loam, and his fearless face grew dark,
For he saw through the blur a sharpshooter who made the twain his mark.

And his strength leaped into his limbs again, and his fading eye burned
bright;
And he gripped his gun with a steady hand and glanced along the sight;
Then another voice in that choir of fire outspake with a deadly stress,
And in the trench at El Caney there lurked a Spaniard less.

But still the moans of the volunteers went up through the murky air,
And there kindled the light of a noble thought in the brain of Private
Blair.
The flask at his side, he had drained it dry in the blistering scorch and
shine,
So, unappalled, he crept and crawled in the face of the firing line.

The whirring bullets sped o'erhead, and the great shells burst with a
roar,
And the shrapnel tore the ground around like the tusks of the grisly
boar;
But on he went, with his high intent, till he covered the space between,
And came to the place where the Spaniard lay and clutched his full
canteen.

Then he writhed him back o'er the bloody track, while Death drummed loud
in his ears,
And pressed the draught he would fain have quaffed to the lips of the
volunteers.
_Drink!_ cried he; _don't think of me, for I'm only a regular,
While you have homes in the mother-land where your waiting loved ones
are_.

Then his soul was sped to the peace of the dead. All praise to the men
who dare,
And honor be from sea to sea to the deed of Private Blair!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The fort on San Juan was carried and held all the next day,
despite Spanish attacks. But Shafter was alarmed and considered
withdrawing the army, though strongly opposed by General
Wheeler, who had been in the thick of the fighting from the
very first.

WHEELER AT SANTIAGO

Into the thick of the fight he went, pallid and sick and wan,
Borne in an ambulance to the front, a ghostly wisp of a man;
But the fighting soul of a fighting man, approved in the long ago,
Went to the front in that ambulance, and the body of Fighting Joe.

Out from the front they were coming back, smitten of Spanish shells--
Wounded boys from the Vermont hills and the Alabama dells;
"Put them into this ambulance; I'll ride to the front," he said,
And he climbed to the saddle and rode right on, that little old
ex-Confed.

From end to end of the long blue ranks rose up the ringing cheers,
And many a powder-blackened face was furrowed with sudden tears,
As with flashing eyes and gleaming sword, and hair and beard of snow,
Into the hell of shot and shell rode little old Fighting Joe!

Sick with fever and racked with pain, he could not stay away,
For he heard the song of the yester-year in the deep-mouthed cannon's
bay--
He heard in the calling song of the guns there was work for him to do,
Where his country's best blood splashed and flowed 'round the old Red,
White and Blue.

Fevered body and hero heart! this Union's heart to you
Beats out in love and reverence--and to each dear boy in blue
Who stood or fell 'mid the shot and shell, and cheered in the face of the
foe,
As, wan and white, to the heart of the fight rode little old Fighting
Joe!

JAMES LINDSAY GORDON.

Then, suddenly, sorrow gave place to joy, and discouragement
to enthusiasm for a great victory won. At nine o'clock on the
morning of Sunday, July 3, 1898, the Spanish fleet came rushing
out of the harbor in a mad effort to escape. The American ships
closed in, and a battle to the death began, which ended in the
total destruction of the Spanish fleet.

SPAIN'S LAST ARMADA

[July 3, 1898]

They fling their flags upon the morn,
Their safety's held a thing for scorn,
As to the fray the Spaniards on the wings of war are borne;
Their sullen smoke-clouds writhe and reel,
And sullen are their ships of steel,
All ready, cannon, lanyards, from the fighting-tops to keel.

They cast upon the golden air
One glancing, helpless, hopeless prayer,
To ask that swift and thorough be the victory falling there;
Then giants with a cheer and sigh
Burst forth to battle and to die
Beneath the walls of Morro on that morning in July.

The Teresa heads the haughty train
To bear the Admiral of Spain,
She rushes, hurtling, whitening, like the summer hurricane;
El Morro glowers in his might;
Socapa crimsons with the fight,
The Oquendo's lunging lightning blazes through her sombre night.

In desperate and eager dash
The Vizcaya hurls her vivid flash,
As wild upon the waters her enormous batteries crash;
Like spindrift scuds the fleet Colon,
And, on her bubbling wake bestrown,
Lurch, hungry for the slaughter, El Furor and El Pluton.

Round Santiago's armored crest,
Serene, in their gray valor dressed,
Our behemoths lie quiet, watching well from south and west;
Their keen eyes spy the harbor-reek;
The signals dance, the signals speak;
Then breaks the blasting riot as our broadsides storm and shriek!

Quick, poising on her eagle-wings,
The Brooklyn into battle swings;
The wide sea falls and wonders as the titan Texas springs;
The Iowa in monster-leaps
Goes bellowing above the deeps;
The Indiana thunders as her terror onward sweeps.

And, hovering near and hovering low
Until the moment strikes to go,
In gallantry the Gloucester swoops down on her double foe;
She volleys--the Furor falls lame;
Again--and the Pluton's aflame,
Hurrah, on high she's tossed her! Gone the grim destroyers' fame!

And louder yet and louder roar
The Oregon's black cannon o'er
The clangor and the booming all along the Cuban shore.
She's swifting down her valkyr-path,
Her sword sharp for the aftermath,
With levin in her glooming, like Jehovah in His wrath.

Great ensigns snap and shine in air
Above the furious onslaught where
Our sailors cheer the battle, danger but a thing to dare;
Our gunners speed, as oft they've sped,
Their hail of shrilling, shattering lead,
Swift-sure our rifles rattle, and the foeman's decks are red.

Like baying bloodhounds lope our ships,
Adrip with fire their cannons' lips;
We scourge the fleeing Spanish, whistling weals from scorpion-whips;
Till, livid in the ghastly glare,
They tremble on in dread despair,
And thoughts of victory vanish in the carnage they must bear.

Where Cuban coasts in beauty bloom,
Where Cuban breakers swirl and boom,
The Teresa's onset slackens in a scarlet spray of doom;
Near Nimanima's greening hill
The streaming flames cry down her will,
Her vast hull blows and blackens, prey to every mortal ill.

On Juan Gonzales' foaming strand
The Oquendo plunges 'neath our hand,
Her armaments all strangled, and her hope a showering brand;
She strikes and grinds upon the reef,
And, shuddering there in utter grief,
In misery and mangled, wastes away beside her chief.

The Vizcaya nevermore shall ride
From out Aserradero's tide,
With hate upon her forehead ne'er again she'll pass in pride;
Beneath our fearful battle-spell
She moaned and struggled, flared and fell,
To lie a-gleam and horrid, while the piling fires swell.

Thence from the wreck of Spain alone
Tears on the terrified Colon,
In bitter anguish crying, like a storm-bird forth she's flown;
Her throbbing engines creak and thrum;
She sees abeam the Brooklyn come,
For life she's gasping, flying; for the combat is she dumb.

Till then the man behind the gun
Had wrought whatever must be done--
Here, now, beside our boilers is the fight fought out and won;
Where great machines pulse on and beat,
A-swelter in the humming heat
The Nation's nameless toilers make her mastery complete.

The Cape o' the Cross casts out a stone
Against the course of the Colon,
Despairing and inglorious on the wind her white flag's thrown;
Spain's last Armada, lost and wan,
Lies where Tarquino's stream rolls on,
As round the world, victorious, looms the dreadnaught Oregon.

The sparkling daybeams softly flow
To glint the twilight afterglow,
The banner sinks in splendor that in battle ne'er was low;
The music of our country's hymn
Rings out like songs of seraphim,
Fond memories and tender fill the evening fair and dim;

Our huge ships ride in majesty
Unchallenged o'er the glittering sea,
Above them white stars cluster, mighty emblem of the free;
And all a-down the long sea-lane
The fitful bale-fires wax and wane
To shed their lurid lustre on the empire that was Spain.

WALLACE RICE.

SANTIAGO

[July 3, 1898]

_In the stagnant pride of an outworn race
The Spaniard sail'd the sea:
Till we haled him up to God's judgment-place--
And smashed him by God's decree!_

Out from the harbor, belching smoke,
Came dashing seaward the Spanish ships--
And from all our decks a great shout broke,
Then our hearts came up and set us a-choke
For joy that we had them at last at grips!

No need for signals to get us away--
We were off at score, with our screws a-gleam!
Through the blistering weeks we'd watched the bay
And our captains had need not a word to say--
Save to bellow and curse down the pipes for steam!

Leading the pack in its frightened flight
The Colon went foaming away to the west--
Her tall iron bulwarks, black as night,
And her great black funnels, sharp in sight
'Gainst the green-clad hills in their peace and rest.

Her big Hontaria blazed away
At the Indiana, our first in line.
The short-ranged shot drenched our decks with spray--
While our thirteen-inchers, in answering play,
Ripped straight through her frame to her very spine!

* * * * *

Straight to its end went our winning fight
With the thunder of guns in a mighty roar.
Our hail of iron, casting withering blight,
Turning the Spanish ships in their flight
To a shorter death on the rock-bound shore.

The Colon, making her reckless race
With the Brooklyn and Oregon close a-beam,
Went dashing landward--and stopped the chase
By grinding her way to her dying-place
In a raging outburst of flame and steam.

So the others, facing their desperate luck,
Drove headlong on to their rock-dealt death--
The Vizcaya, yielding before she struck,
The riddled destroyers, a huddled ruck,
Sinking, and gasping for drowning breath.

So that flying battle surged down the coast,
With its echoing roar from the Cuban land;
So the dying war-ships gave up the ghost;
So we shattered and mangled the Philistine host--
So the fight was won that our Sampson planned!

THOMAS A. JANVIER.

The American battleships were practically uninjured, and the
fleet had lost only two men, one killed and one injured, both
on the Brooklyn. The Spanish loss was 350 killed or drowned,
160 wounded, and 1774 taken prisoners.

THE FLEET AT SANTIAGO

[July 3, 1898]

The heart leaps with the pride of their story.
Predestinate lords of the sea!
They are heirs of the flag and its glory,
They are sons of the soil it keeps free;
For their deeds the serene exaltation
Of a cause that was stained with no shame,
For their dead the proud tears of a nation,
Their fame shall endure with its fame.

The fervor that grim, unrelenting,
The founders in homespun had fired,
With blood the free compact cementing,
Was the flame that their souls had inspired.
They were sons of the dark tribulations,
Of the perilous days of the birth
Of a nation sprung free among nations,
A new hope to the children of earth!

They were nerved by the old deeds of daring,
Every tale of Decatur they knew,
Every ship that, the bright banner bearing,
Shot to keep it afloat in the blue;
They were spurred by the splendor undying
Of Somer's fierce fling in the bay,
And the Watchword that Lawrence died crying,
And of Cushing's calm courage were they.

By the echo of guns at whose thunder
Old monarchies crumbled and fell,
When the warships were shattered asunder
And their pennants went down in the swell;
By the strength of the race that, unfearing,
Faces death till the death of the last,
Or has sunk with the fierce Saxon cheering,
Its colors still nailed to the mast--

So they fought--and the stern race immortal
Of Cromwell and Hampton and Penn
Has thrown open another closed portal,
Stricken chains from a new race of men.
So they fought, so they won, so above them
Blazed the light of a consecrate aim;
Empty words! Who may tell how we love them,
How we thrill with the joy of their fame!

CHARLES E. RUSSELL.

Particularly gallant was the part played by the Gloucester,
a converted yacht with no armor, under Commander Wainwright.
She was lying inshore near the harbor mouth, and opened with
her little rapid-fire guns on the great battleships as they
swept past; then, the moment the Spanish destroyers, Furor and
Pluton, appeared, she rushed straight upon them with absolute
disregard of the shore batteries. Within twenty minutes, the
Pluton went down in deep water and the Furor was beached and
sunk.

THE DESTROYER OF DESTROYERS

[July 3, 1898]

From Santiago, spurning the morrow,
Spain's ships come steaming, big with black sorrow:
Over the ocean, first on our roster,
Runs Richard Wainwright, glad on the Gloucester.
Boast him, and toast him!
Wainwright! The Gloucester!

Great ships and gaunt ships, steel-clad and sable,
Roll on resplendent, monsters of fable:
Crash all our cannon, quick Maxims rattle.
Red death and ruin rush through the battle;
Red death and dread death
Ravage and rattle.

Speed on Spain's cruisers, towers of thunder:
Calm rides the Gloucester, though the waves wonder;
Morro roars at her, enemies looming
On their wakes heave her, vast through the glooming;
Thunders and wonders
Speak from the glooming.

Sped are Spain's cruisers; then 'mid the clangor
Dart her destroyers, lurid with anger;
Shouts Richard Wainwright, quivers the Gloucester:
Where the Furor goes Wainwright has crossed her.
Boast him, and toast him!
Wainwright! The Gloucester!

Wide to the westward El Furor flutters;
Hid in bright vapors there Wainwright mutters;
Under Socapa races the faster,
Smiles at Spain's gunners, laughs at disaster;
Aiming and flaming
Faster and faster.

Wide to the westward El Pluton plunges;
At her with rapiers now Wainwright lunges!
Swords of fierce scarlet, blades blue as lightning;
Rapid guns snapping, little guns brightening;
Four-pounders, six-pounders,
Lunging like lightning.

Done the destroyers, blazing and bursting;
Berserker Wainwright rides to their worsting;
Seethe the Pluton's sides, soon to exhaust her;
Flames the Furor's deck, doomed by the Gloucester.
Boast him, and toast him!
Wainwright! The Gloucester!

Where the Pluton lies lifts the red leven--
Fire-clouds prodigious dash against Heaven;
Where the Pluton lay void swells the ocean;
Shattered and sunken, spent her devotion;
Waves where wet graves were,
Deep in the ocean.

Shrieking toward Cuba, agonized, broken,
El Furor's hasting, her fate bespoken;
There in the shallows 'mid the white surges
Her guns, deserted, moan out their dirges;
Swelling and knelling
Through the white surges.

Wainwright in mercy does his endeavor:
Some he shall rescue; more rest for ever--
Say a prayer for them, one kindly _Ave_.
Spain weeps her wounded, wails a lost navy;
Fails them, bewails them,
Says them an _Ave_.

Off Santiago, when from beleaguer
Rushed forth Cervera, daring and eager,
Who stood Spain's onset? Who met and tossed her?
Wainwright, the Maine's man, glad on the Gloucester!
Boast him, and toast him!
Wainwright! The Gloucester!

WALLACE RICE.

The evolutions of the Brooklyn, under Commodore Winfield Scott
Schley, have been the subject of bitter controversy. Schley,
finding himself too near the Spaniards, made a wide turn away
from them, wishing, he afterwards alleged, to preserve his
ship, which was the fastest of our squadron, to head off any of
the Spanish ships which might escape.

THE BROOKLYN AT SANTIAGO

[July 3, 1898]

'Twixt clouded heights Spain hurls to doom
Ships stanch and brave,
Majestic, forth they flash and boom
Upon the wave.

El Morro raises eyes of hate
Far out to sea,
And speeds Cervera to his fate
With cannonry.

The Brooklyn o'er the deep espies
His flame-wreathed side:
She sets her banners on the skies
In fearful pride.

On, to the harbor's mouth of fire,
Fierce for the fray,
She darts, an eagle from his eyre,
Upon her prey.

She meets the brave Teresa there--
Sigh, sigh for Spain!--
And beats her clanging armor bare
With glittering rain.

The bold Vizcaya's lightnings glance
Into the throng
Where loud the bannered Brooklyn chants
Her awful song.

Down swoops, in one tremendous curve,
Our Commodore;
His broadsides roll, the foemen swerve
Toward the shore.

In one great round his Brooklyn turns
And, girdling there
This side and that with glory, burns
Spain to despair.

Frightful in onslaught, fraught with fate
Her missiles hiss:
The Spaniard sees, when all too late,
A Nemesis.

The Oquendo's diapason swells;
Then, torn and lame,
Her portholes turn to yawning wells,
Geysers of flame.

Yet fierce and fiercer breaks and cries
Our rifles' dread:
The doomed Teresa shudders--lies
Stark with her dead.

How true the Brooklyn's battery speaks
Eulate knows,
As the Vizcaya staggers, shrieks
Her horrent woes.

Sideward she plunges: nevermore
Shall Biscay feel
Her heart throb for the ship that wore
Her name in steel.

The Oquendo's ports a moment shone,
As gloomed her knell;
She trembles, bursts--the ship is gone
Headlong to hell.

The fleet Colon in lonely flight--
Spain's hope, Spain's fear!--
Sees, and it lends her wings of fright,
Schley's pennant near.

The fleet Colon scuds on alone--
God, how she runs!--
And ever hears behind her moan
The Brooklyn's guns.

Our ruthless cannon o'er the flood
Roar and draw nigh;
Spain's ensign stained with gold and blood,
Falls from on high.

The world she gave the World has passed--
Gone, with her power--
Dead, 'neath the Brooklyn's thunder-blast,
In one great hour.

The bannered Brooklyn! gallant crew,
And gallant Schley!
Proud is the flag his sailors flew
Along the sky.

Proud is his country: for each star
Our Union wears,
The fighting Brooklyn shows a scar--
So much he dares.

God save us war upon the seas;
But, if it slip,
Send such a chief, with men like these,
On such a ship!

WALLACE RICE.

The Oregon, which had arrived from her fifteen-thousand-mile
voyage from San Francisco, also took a conspicuous part in the
battle, and did splendid service.

THE RUSH OF THE OREGON

They held her South to Magellan's mouth,
Then East they steered her, forth
Through the farther gate of the crafty strait,
And then they held her North.

Six thousand miles to the Indian Isles!
And the Oregon rushed home,
Her wake a swirl of jade and pearl,
Her bow a bend of foam.

And when at Rio the cable sang,
"There is war!--grim war with Spain!"
The swart crews grinned and stroked their guns
And thought on the mangled Maine.

In the glimmered gloom of the engine-room
There was joy to each grimy soul,
And fainting men sprang up again
And piled the blazing coal.

Good need was there to go with care:
But every sailor prayed
Or gun for gun, or six to one
To meet them, unafraid.

Her goal at last! With joyous blast
She hailed the welcoming roar
Of hungry sea-wolves curved along
The strong-hilled Cuban shore.

Long nights went by. Her beamèd eye,
Unwavering, searched the bay
Where trapped and penned for a certain end
The Spanish squadron lay.

Out of the harbor a curl of smoke--
A watchful gun rang clear.
Out of the channel the squadron broke
Like a bevy of frightened deer.

Then there was shouting for "steam, more steam!"
And fires glowed white and red;
And guns were manned, and ranges planned,
And the great ships leaped ahead.

Then there was roaring of chorusing guns,
Shatter of shell, and spray;
And who but the rushing Oregon
Was fiercest in chase and fray!

For her mighty wake was a seething snake;
Her bow was a billow of foam;
Like the mailèd fists of an angry wight
Her shot drove crashing home!

Pride of the Spanish navy, ho!
Flee like a hounded beast!
For the Ship of the Northwest strikes a blow
For the Ship of the far Northeast!

In quivering joy she surged ahead,
Aflame with flashing bars,
Till down sunk the Spaniard's gold and red
And up ran the Clustered Stars.

"Glory to share"? Aye, and to spare;
But the chiefest is hers by right
Of a rush of fourteen thousand miles
For the chance of a bitter fight!

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

The high quality of American marksmanship was never more
conclusively shown than in this battle. The Spanish ships were
literally blown to pieces. Here, as at Manila, the victory had
been won by "the men behind the guns."

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore's debt when the deeds of might are told!
They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck when the great shells
roar and screech--
And never they fear when the foe is near to practise what they preach:
But off with your hat and three times three for Columbia's true-blue
sons,
The men below who batter the foe--the men behind the guns!

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once
more,
When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for
their leave-o'-shore;
And you'd think, perhaps, that the blue-bloused chaps who loll along the
street
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat--
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys--the lads who serve the guns.

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,
Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank" and
"Don,"
Till over the deep the tempests sweep of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;
Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,
You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns!

Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud
of death,
And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten-incher saith!
The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great
recoil,
And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his
spoil--
But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,
Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!

JOHN JEROME ROONEY.