FOREWORD
This is a midshipman's story of the ill-fated Maine. It was written on the Santiago Blockade during the Spanish-American War and only a few months after the ship's destruction. His record has come to light from the bottom of a chest of old papers and he wrote as he felt, while the scenes were yet fresh in his mind's eye. The good ship and her stalwart crew have never been forgotten in the navy even though the twentieth anniversary of that dread night is now at hand.
The North Atlantic fleet had arrived at anchor off Dry Tortugas on a delightful January evening, when the commanding officer of the battleship Maine received orders to proceed with his command to the city of Havana.
At last, after a month of false alarms and tiresome lingerings in southern waters, an American warship was starting for Cuba.
Some of us aboard considered it our good fortune, and others, while glad of the change, felt many misgivings within. We had been waiting since October, when, with hurry-up orders, we were sent to Port Royal, in South Carolina; then, after six weeks, a change of orders took us to the Norfolk Yard for Thanksgiving; and, finally, we hastened to Key West, there to remain until the fleet came South, whiling away the time in pursuit of filibusters and mosquitoes—both giving us much trouble.
Howbeit, January 25 dawned "clear and pleasant," and on the starboard bow stretched the deep blue line of the Cuban coast. Steaming very slowly, every preparation was made tor any possible emergency. The question was: Had or had not the consul-general asked for a warship?
The main and secondary batteries were supplied with ammunition, the guns themselves carefully examined and put in the best shape; rifles were brought from the armory, rifle belts filled with cartridges; the necessaries for a landing force gotten in readiness. When still well outside the Morro, we went to general quarters.
American vessels were not usually taken unawares. We approached from the westward, the pilot boarded us, and slowly the good ship Maine entered the narrow channel—the first naval vessel to do so since the outbreak of the prevailing struggle for Cuban freedom.
On the starboard hand. La Punta battery displayed its antique artillery, and beyond towered the Castillo de Principe. On the port hand was the Morro, imposing in its ancientness. built up from the jagged rock on whose extremity stands the lighthouse which marks the entrance. Far up on the battlements floated the yellow and red of Spain. On past the Morro, along the heights, stood the fortress of Cabanas, the lodgment of those Americans who had persisted in the art of filibustering and whose efforts had not met with success at Spanish hands. Just below Cabanas, on the hillside, was the laurel grove where doomed insurgents were shot; and further down, on the water's edge, was the town of the Casa Blanca. where colliers were being unloaded from piers.
Passing by the large German frigate Gneisenau, lying at anchor, the Maine arrived, without event, at the mooring buoy designated by the captain of the port. This was a government buoy—No. 3—placed just off the Machina de San Ferdinand, the naval station. At another one of the buoys, the next to the northward, lay the Alfonso XII , a cruiser, the flagship of Rear Admiral Manterola.
At 10, the port was saluted and Cabanas returned the salute. Then we saluted the Spanish admiral and the Alfonso answered. A boarding officer shortly afterwards made the usual visit to us. Crowds of people lined the wharves along the entire city front, house tops were full, and the boatmen were doing the best business of the season.
Spaniards and Cubans are not naturally quiet, and the noise of the jabbering—the term seems justifiable—was plainly heard on our quarter-deck. The harbor was crowded with vessels. Across the way, off Regla, were the liners taking cargo from lighters; up the harbor a bit were two or three small gunboats. Near Casa Blanca was moored the large dry-dock brought from England.
At the docks were the transports loading with troops for other points on the island.
No doubt the coming of the Maine had created a stir and set all the tongues of the populace going.
"So that's the best ship in the Yankee navy!" said one sneeringly.
"Why," remarked another of the loyal worthies on the docks, "put her on the quarter-deck of the Carlos V and you couldn't find her."
"If the Palayo ever got after her!" exclaimed a third. The Cubans, though, felt proud of the arrival of the Maine and took the meaning of it to themselves.
An officer was sent to call on General Lee reporting the arrival and, also, that the salutes had been exchanged and the official visits made.
I chanced to be the one sent to the consulate, and was put ashore at the Machina. At the gates to the street were throngs of people peering through at the American boat. Followed by a crowd of urchins and idlers I reached the Casa Nueva, in which are located both our own and the British consulates. The general received me and seemed much surprised at our early arrival. I could see that he did not expect a ship—at least, not just then.
"Was there any disturbance on your way in?" he asked. "None," said I. Again he looked surprised, and arranging the hour for Captain Sigsbee's visit I withdrew. With the same band of followers, augmented, perhaps, by a few more negroes, my cabriole soon reached the Machina where the boat awaited me.
Not until after all the official visits were made, were the officers allowed to go ashore. Captain Sigsbee and his aid, Midshipman Holden, called on the admiral at his residence in the Machina; then on the acting captain-general of the island. General Parrado. Blanco, at that time, was in the Province of Santa Clara attempting to buy over the Cuban leaders in the east.
General Parrado received the captain with much courtesy and promised to return the call next day. What with all these official obligations devolving upon Captain Sigsbee, it was some time before he found himself able to pay his respects to that august body of the Cuba-Espanola, the Autonomist Cabinet, whose dignity was considerably ruffled when the American naval officer failed to do homage the very first hour of his arrival!
The second day in port, during the forenoon, General Lee—jovial as always—came on board with a party of Americans and Cubans, and a cordial greeting followed. The next day. General Parrado and staff arrived alongside in the official launch. They were received by the captain and officers, and the marine guard was paraded. General Lee accompanied the party, his civilian clothing forming a great contrast to the gaudy array of the Spanish staff-officers. Not one single uniform matched another. Some wore red coats, light blue trousers with green stripes; some, blue coats, red trousers with black stripes; others wore green coats, red trousers with blue stripes—for all the world like the "soldiers-so-brave" in the comic opera of the period.
The acting captain-general, seemingly a very able man, inspected the ship from top to bottom. Some of his officers looked rather dubious, when, at the entrance of the long armor-passage, we desired them to pass through.
There was no telling what those Americans would not do.
Parrado was much pleased with the Maine and expressed his satisfaction the following day by presenting the officers' messes with the best sherry his cellars contained.
Soon the visiting populace began to pour in upon us, from the early forenoon until dark every day. Large parties of Cubans—pretty girls, enthusiastic young men, scolding duennas, and crying children—crowded aboard. And all the while Spanish boatmen, struggling for the gangway, made such a hubbub, that the sentry's order to "move off" or "get out of that" was not heeded. These fellows would hang on to the boats at the booms, to the pendants, to the ash-chute, to ring-bolts anywhere to be able to keep from pulling one whit more than absolutely necessary. The bluejackets enjoyed it all hugely, and, as only one or two spoke Spanish, those acting as guides used the sign language mingled with sea-going terms and strong English expressions. A party would gather around one as he opened the breech of a six-inch gun. He would go through the acts of loading, training, and aiming, then the meaning would dawn on the audience and a "Si! Si! Si!" was passed around, and the entire party would put on a broad smile of admiration as the demonstrator took a fresh chew.
No visitors were allowed below the main-deck unless accompanied by one of the crew detailed by the officer of the deck. This rule was strictly enforced at all times. The chief master-at-arms, with his assistants and the marine sentries kept a constant patrol on the berth-deck and below. Now and then a Spanish officer was seen amongst the visitors, and sometimes a group of soldiers appeared; but they, poor unfortunates, did not know a turret from a capstan.
From time to time we saw the big transatlantic transports come in laden with raw troops, most of them mere boys. Then the city went wild, rockets fired, flags flying, ferry-boats leaving their route and circling around the steamers for hours, with brass bands hammering out "Cadiz" over and over, and the passengers yelling themselves hoarse with cries of "Viva Cuba-Espanola!—Viva La Autonomiste!" Later on the troops would be removed, some sent to the front at once, some to Cabanas, and others to the arsenal up the harbor.
Another German vessel arrived—the Charlotte—and anchored near by. Soon the French flagship Dubordieu came in and anchored near us, making a very pleasant neighbor.
Shore leave was granted the officers a few days after our arrival and we were ordered to wear civilians' dress ashore at all times. Popular feeling, we soon found, was decidedly against us and against the maintenance of an American warship in the harbor of Havana. The Cubans, whose acquaintance we had made on board, extended hospitalities, and regretted very much their inability to entertain us as they wished, through fear of the annoyances and friction this would cause with the authorities. In other words, to be seen publicly with an officer of the American navy, meant to be marked as an insurgent sympathizer.
Of course, we met many Cuban-Americans. The majority were delightful, polished persons. Others were American in name only, and had but little contact with our own people and our own customs. The greater bulk of the populace were Cubans. The Spanish troops—a very transient portion of the inhabitants—in and about the city were numbered by the thousands. There were officers everywhere.
The cabmen, the boatmen, the public servants, the hotel employees, and above all, the shopmen, were Spaniards. The Cubans we met were for the most part property owners, and, before the war. maintained their large sugar estates, so lived in a certain amount of luxury. The effects of the war on their interests were, first, to compel them to pay a heavier tax to the Spanish Government: and, besides, to make a like compensation to the insurgents to be allowed to grind their own cane. Finally, the Cuban estates were closed entirely, many of them burned, so that the only plantations doing a profitable business in the Island of Cuba were those controlled by American interests.
The representative Cubans—I mean those upon whom the duties of governing free Cuba ought by right devolve—directly and indirectly helped the insurgent cause. There were members of the best families in arms throughout the island. Yet, I have heard many Cubans say—some of their best minds too—that annexation to the United States would be the only solution of the problem, the only means of securing the permanent welfare of the people at large.
These, our friends, while they rejoiced to see the Maine at anchor off the city, often told us that they were not entirely at ease as regards our safety in those waters. Spanish treachery to them was an every-day affair. They saw it in the every act of the Spaniard, and naturally apprehensions for our well-being arose.
The greatest element of disturbance in Havana society was the Spanish soldier. Should you chance to join that great throng of promenaders in the Parque Central, as the band played about the base of the statue of Isabella La Catolica, your first, thought would be—Where did all those Spanish officers come from? They outnumbered the civilians, and, in their comfortable colonial uniform, took possession of the promenade. One rarely saw a Cuban girl in these gatherings at that time.
The Spanish naval officer was more or less countenanced by the Cubans and was often received in their homes. Those I met were bright, courteous people. Yet even as the officers of the army were not obliged to remain with their troops in the various garrisons about the city, no more were the officers of the navy compelled to live altogether aboard ship. Their naval academy training profited them little, it seems, especially on the Cuban station. Drills and maneuvers were unknown; target practice, something they read of. Their vessels deteriorated because the funds for repairs never got as far as the ships themselves. In fact, the Alfonso XII, the flagship, had not been able to move under her own steam for one year before the Maine came, because almost every boiler-tube had gone—rusted and useless.
Then the troops, a miserable lot of recruits they were, landed from a transport one day, sent to the front the next, marching back and forth, through swamps and morasses, living in filth, one meal a day out of a common trough, fallen upon suddenly by insurgent bands, finally brought back, burning up with fever, to hospitals, which the majority of them never left again. And yet few deserted to the enemy. Unquestionably, the Spanish soldier who fought the insurgents in Cuba deserves this much credit, that he remained loyal, despite unceasing cruelty and suffering which few would have endured.
There were several thousand volunteer troops in the city consisting of the shop-keepers, clerks, waiters, and loyal Cubans. Certain battalions were inspected each morning on the Prado. They carried their rifles as farmers would hay-rakes. An imposing spectacle they presented at dress-parade. The authorities had tried repeatedly to send them to the front. But they declared emphatically, one and all, that, primarily, they were the home guard. I noticed that their posts were principally in charge of the soup-houses for the reconcentrados: so, no doubt, they had a strong political pull.
The military police in the city were picked troops, and, as a rule, were very fair specimens of the soldier. There were also the civil police, with whom every cabman and street vender had the privilege of discussing any orders given them.
In all, then, Havana was in a state of unquiet when the Maine arrived on the scene. The government was doing all it could to draw the minds of the people from the war. Mazzantini—the greatest living matador—was engaged for seven corridas at the Plaza de Toro, across the harbor in Regla. He was paid $30,000 for his endeavors to divert the distracted thoughts of the Havanese. Anonymous posters and incendiary circulars were scattered broadcast throughout the city. Some said the Autonomists were responsible for them. Several reached the Maine. One of them denounced the Yankee pigs in strongest terms; another upbraided the loyal citizens for tolerating the presence of an American warship in their beloved waters—could this be called Spain with honor?
The crowds returning on the ferry-boats from the bull fights would shout "Viva Espana," as they passed the Maine. In fact, one brave boat load went so far as to cry out "Down with the Americans!"
The days went by rapidly. General Blanco returned to the city and Captain Sigsbee called—the call was not returned. We made excursions in and about the city, saw the troops coming and going, took bicycle tours through the suburban towns, down to Mariano Beach, out to the ball games at Vedado. Yet, we never felt exactly at home. At the hotels, the Spanish and French officers were always shown preference. Often the cabmen would refuse to accept an American "fare." The French officers were tendered a large reception and ball; we were not invited. The greatest attention we received was shown us by the professional beggars and the reconcentrados—the latter fast developing into the former. In January, 29 of these unfortunates, driven into the city by both Spaniard and insurgent, died of starvation in the streets. That was the smallest number recorded in any one month. Since the outbreak of the war, the population of Cuba had been reduced 400,000—killed, died, or disappeared.
During the first week of February, Aranguren, a dashing insurgent leader, was betrayed, and a hundred Spanish troops were sent to take him. So they did—dead. From the consequent celebration and general jollification one would think that the insurrection had been quelled.
A few days later, a rumor was rife aboard ship that the Maine was to attend the carnival at New Orleans. The next day, we found that there were no orders to that effect. On the 12th, the Duhordieu left for the carnival, the Germans having sailed some time before. On the 13th, Sunday, a report was made of the rough drawing which had been discovered on the wall of a house in the city depicting the destruction of a battleship.
It has been mentioned above that the Maine was constantly prepared. The ordinary anchor-watch at night was supplemented by a regular quarter-watch, ready to jump to the guns at a moment's notice. Additional sentries were posted forward and aft, and, no boat, whether passing or coming alongside, escaped the challenge from our decks.
Tuesday, February 15, the last day of our good ship's life, arrived. It was a beautiful day, with a gentle northeast breeze blowing and the harbor full of craft. The coasting steamers at the docks, I remember, were getting cavalry troops on board, and as they were loaded, hauled out in the stream. I had the watch from four to eight in the evening. Nothing of event occurred. I noticed that the wind had shifted to the northward, and the ship swung to that point; for we always rode head to wind there. Only once during our three weeks' stay had we headed in that direction.
At eight Lieutenant Blandin relieved me, as midshipmen stood the day watches only. The customary eight o'clock reports were made as usual; the night watch was mustered, ready to go on at nine o'clock. The men were dancing in the starboard gangway to an accordion's music. One of the gunners' mates was playing a mandolin in the after turret. We were accustomed to turning in early, and by nine o'clock when "pipe-down" went, several of the officers were already asleep. Many of us in the junior officers' quarters were getting letters ready for the morrow's mail. At three bells I was still writing, with but little clothing on—for it was very warm between decks.
The letter finished I was sealing it, when suddenly a report the firing of a gun it seemed—startled me, followed at once as it was, by an indescribable roar, a terrific crash, intense darkness, and the deck giving away beneath. Out in the mess room, I groped my way, and found Bronson, a class-mate. "Come on," said he, "we'll make it," and in the passageway where the water was now ankle deep, we felt a draft of air from the forward end where once ship had been was now open to the sea. We made for the junior officers' hatch. We found it blocked by wreckage. One exit closed, though several near us were attempting to get up that way. Around the engine-room hatch, down which the water poured, we two picked our way aft, up what had been the ladder of the ward-room hatch, out through the cabin passageway and climbing the outside of the after superstructure found ourselves on the poop, safe. All the officers (save two) and a few of the men on watch, fortunately aft, had reached this, the only place of safety. The poor wretches, pinned down and drowning, mangled and torn, screamed in agony. A crew of officers and men jumped into the only boat left—the captain's gig—and pulled forward. The Alfonso's boats arrived, then came those from the Ward liner City of Washington, which had just come in from New York. The fire in the up-heaved mass began to burn fiercely. Officers climbed forward on the debris, over the quarterdeck to lend assistance; they could do nothing there, everything had gone. The work of rescuing was progressing rapidly. One Spanish boat alone saved two-score men.
"Captain, we had better leave her," said Lieutenant Commander Wainwright, the executive officer, as the water washed the poop and the wreck sank deeper in the harbor ooze.
"Get into the boats, gentlemen," Captain Sigsbee said to us, quietly and sadly.
A muster of the survivors was made about a quarter after ten. Lieutenant Jenkins and Ensign Merritt were missing and more than 200 of the crew. Subsequent musters from the hospitals, from the vessels in the harbor, and from private houses throughout the city, up to the last recovery of a body, the latter part of March, showed that 260 lives had been sacrificed in a crew of 328 all told. Our wounded were given the best wards in the hospitals. Everything possible was done for them. Some lingered a few days in great suffering, many died the next morning.
The Spanish authorities took charge of the wreck at once, allowing no one near it. In the morning the Mangrove came in, followed by the Fern, two fleet tenders. That afternoon, the steamer Olivette, of the Plant line, took the survivors to Key West, with the exception of a few of the officers, detailed for duty with the wreck, who were to remain with Captain Sigsbee. We had contrived to get some clothing, for many of us had none. We then went to the Hotel Inglaterra, in which we made our quarters.
On Thursday, there was the public funeral of the bodies recovered at that time—only seventeen. It was a beautiful spectacle. First the marines, then the seaman battalion from the Alfonso. Behind them came the military, naval, and civil authorities; then, the long line of richly draped hearses. Following these, rode the officers of the Maine in carriages. Behind us marched the fire department in full force; then the civilians on foot; while hundreds of carriages brought up the rear. A sorrowful band we were, following our dead shipmates to their graves in foreign soil. For the Spaniards, however, it seemed, somehow, more of a gala-day festival. The streets were lined with spectators, and the police attended to duty so poorly, that the thoroughfares were often blocked.
The cemetery of Cristobal Colon is a beautiful spot outside the city, and there more than a hundred of the crew lie peaceful and undisturbed.
Our thoughts turned again to the wreck and next morning, Friday, Captain Sigsbee in one of the Fern's boats attempted to approach it; but the patrol boats would not allow this, as they had other orders. This caused the delay of a day until we could be furnished with passes—the seal of the Alfonso XII. Permission was granted to hoist the American colors on the wreck; but as the order was not sent from headquarters, this also was not allowed by the officer in charge. Several hours were consumed in obtaining the order. The authorities would do anything for us—manana.
The navy divers arrived from Key West and were idle at first. They must be accompanied in their work by Spanish divers, so said the authorities. Captain Sigsbee would not accede to this and an appeal to Washington changed the Spanish mind.
The next order that came from the palace stated that at least one Spanish diver must be present on the wreck when operations were going on, and that in no case was an American diver to go outside the ship. The claim of its being American territory was made at once. "Inside, yes, but not outside," replied the Spaniards. It took some time to have this changed from Washington and, finally, our divers went where they pleased.
Meanwhile, the wrecking outfit arrived. First came the Right Arm, then the Merritt with the big barge Sharp, and, finally, the derrick Chief. The work of rescuing bodies was the first consideration, and, as they were recovered, our devoted Chaplain Chidwick took charge of them. The court of inquiry arrived on the Mangrove and began its first session. The Montgomery came in and Captain Sigsbee took up his quarters on board. The Bache made frequent trips with the convalescent and took several bodies home for burial.
One morning when we reached the water-front, we found every craft in sight covered with flags and banners, and later, amid deafening noises of bands and bombs and the cheers from the thousands, the Spanish cruiser Viscaya entered the harbor from New York. She was followed, the next day, by her sister ship, the Almirante Oquendo. Rumors of war began to come in, yet the wrecking operations still went on. The court of inquiry left for Key West for a session and once more returned. After a time, Spanish authorities bethought them of a similar court, and very politely asked if their divers could go down. This was allowed them by the consul-general with the stipulation that they remain outside the wreck; for inside, they were informed, was American territory. There it stood. Nor did they ever go down within the wreck, and very little Spanish diving went on when the officer in charge of it was not about. A large number of unexploded shell were recovered, several six pounders, and four of the 6-inch guns. There was not much else. The forward turret was never located; the after turret was on the bottom, still intact. The wrecking master and the dynamite expert showed that dynamite was absolutely necessary to recover the after 10-inch guns. The authorities were consulted. They were asked to allow the importation of 200 pounds of the explosive to be stored in their own keeping. This was not granted, the Spaniards claiming that their court of inquiry was not nearly through its work; and it was intimated that Captain Sigsbee wished to change the face of the wreck, and so destroy the evidences of an internal explosion. All knew what the conclusion of the Spanish court would be.
Internal explosion, indeed, when every sign, from the external pressure on exploded powder tanks to the double-bottom framing thrown up to the surface of the water, plainly indicated, that, whatever the cause had been, it was certainly foreign to the ship. Finally, our court completed its work and went home, while we awaited results.
The Vizcaya and the Oquendo sailed with secret orders. The Austrian cruiser Donau came in from New Orleans, and the Italian Amerigo Vespucci soon followed.
The newspaper men were getting nervous, rumor was rife, the Spaniards were uneasy. So were we. When would war be declared? was the question now.
"Of course we want war," said a Spanish army officer. "We know the result, still how can we lose Cuba more honorably?"
Americans were going home. Every outbound steamer was crowded. Cubans as well were leaving. Finally, a dispatch ordered every officer home except Lieutenant Commander Wainwright. This was the 25th of March. Happy were we indeed—and I know Captain Sigsbee was glad to go, too, when the Olivette steamed out from the Morro and turned her nose northward across the Straits. How delicious was our first breath of fresh sea air after having been pent up so long in those filthy waters.
On April 6, the wrecking operations ceased and all concerned went home. The sequel is a well-known story, and as one contemplates the glorious victories of the American arms, ashore and afloat, one must surely feel that the lives of those seamen lost in Havana Harbor were not lost in vain.