Such was the close of this running fight. At the front, the four big warships were still trying to push on, with the _Brooklyn_, _Oregon_, _Iowa_, _Texas_, and _Indiana_ in the chase. With a full head of steam the n.o.ble _Oregon_ reached a position between Commodore Schley's flagship and the _Texas_, and every vessel in the line belched forth its messengers of death and destruction.

Presently a cry echoed throughout the squadron regarding the _Oquendo_.

"She is on fire! See, she is burning in three places!"

The report was true. A sh.e.l.l had burst near the quarterdeck of the warship, and now high to the sky arose a column of yellowish red smoke.

Then the flames burst out of her bow. In vain the Spaniards tried to man their fire-hose. A shower of projectiles from the fighting-tops of our own ships a.s.sailed them and drove them to shelter, while the big guns continued to "pump up" shot and sh.e.l.l as never before.

But the _Oquendo_ was no worse off than the _Maria Teresa_, if as badly.

She staggered on, and a few minutes later pa.s.sed her sister ship as if looking for aid, when aid could not be given.

"The _Maria Teresa_ is on fire!" was the next cry, but a few minutes later. "Down goes Cervera's flag! Hurrah, boys, we've got em 'on the run! Give it to 'em hot!"

Yes, the admiral's flag was down, and so was the mast that had held it.

Would the Spanish emblem go up again? All watched anxiously, and meanwhile the _Brooklyn_ continued to pour in her hottest fire.

"She's going ash.o.r.e!" rang through the American flagship. "She's burning up!" and then came a heavy shot from the _Brooklyn_, another from the _Texas_, and staggering like a thing of life, the _Maria Teresa_ ran for the beach, a ma.s.s of seething and roaring flames. Admiral Cervera's doom was sealed. Five minutes later the _Oquendo_ was also cast on the sh.o.r.e.

Four of the enemy's ships had been laid low, but the great fight was by no means over. Shot and sh.e.l.l were flying around the _Vizcaya_ and _Cristobal Colon_, but both warships kept on their way, the _Colon_ slowly but surely forging to the front. Both Spanish ships were returning the Americans' hot fire, and many a shot hit the _Brooklyn_ and many a sh.e.l.l burst over her deck. But as yet no serious damage had been inflicted.

But a calamity was at hand, as rapid in its execution as it was appalling. Near the forward eight-inch turret George Ellis was standing, watching the struggle of the enemy's ships to escape.

"Ellis, give us the range again!" shouted Captain Cook.

"I'll have it in a moment, captain," answered the chief yeoman, and took up his stadiometer. Making his calculation, he turned to Commodore Schley, who was but a short distance away. "It is fourteen hundred yards to the _Vizcaya_, sir," he said.

These were the last words he ever uttered, for an instant after there was the whistling of a sh.e.l.l, and those standing around were horrified to see Ellis's headless body drop to the deck below. The poor fellow had been killed instantly, in the very midst of his duties. What a shock this was to those about him I will leave my readers to imagine. Never until now had they realized what this awful war meant. "Poor Ellis, he was such a fine man!" murmured one comrade as he turned away. And then his face grew even more sober. "But he's the first on board of this ship. What of those poor Dons yonder, who are going down by the wholesale?" And though they were enemies, his heart beat in sympathy for the poor wretches who were struggling madly amid shot, sh.e.l.l, fire, and water for their lives. Fortunately the _Iowa_ was already coming to the succor of the defeated ones.

"We're going to catch it now, lad," remarked Caleb to Walter, as he pointed through a rift in the cloud of smoke hanging over the gun.

"There are two of the enemy's ships, and they are both going to pound us. Where in the world are our other vessels?"

"The _Oregon_ is coming up!" came from the after-deck, a minute later.

"And the _Texas_ isn't far behind."

Around the gun it was suffocating, and every hand was ready to drop.

Indeed, fainting fits were frequent, but the most that could be done for a sufferer was to either throw some water over his head or yell out to the surgeons' helpers to carry the men to the ward room for treatment.

As the _Brooklyn_ was struck here and there, splinters began to fly, and a number were injured, although no one seriously.

The _Texas_ had done wonderful work on the _Maria Teresa_ and the _Oquendo_, and now did her best to keep to the front of the chase. But the speed was too great for her, and gradually she dropped behind, although still continuing to throw shot and sh.e.l.l after the _Vizcaya_ that had dropped some distance behind the _Colon_. It was now apparent to all that if any vessel was going to get away it was to be the _Colon_, for her speed was greater than the _Vizcaya_ and as yet she had hardly been touched.

"The _Vizcaya_, boys, the _Vizcaya_!" came the cry from the quarterdeck.

"Don't let her screen the _Colon_!"

"We'll pound 'em both!" was the answer. "Remember the _Maine_! Remember Manila Bay!"

And then the mighty guns of the _Brooklyn_ and _Oregon_ roared out swifter than ever, and the _Vizcaya_, doing her best to sink one or the other of the American warships, was raked as if pa.s.sing through a blizzard of fire, until her men were forced again and again from their posts, and at last the guns were abandoned. Then fire caught the craft in its awful embrace, and rolling from side to side, she, too, sought for a harbor of refuge, but found none. Down came her colors, and at the same instant she struck with a crash on the rocks. The fight had started at quarter to ten. Now it was but quarter past eleven,--just an hour and a half,--and all the Spanish ships but one had been destroyed. Such is the appalling swiftness of modern naval warfare. Where in olden days jack tars had fought for hours, they now fought for minutes.

But the destruction of the _Vizcaya_ had taken time, and the _Colon_ was forging onward, panting and throbbing like a thing of life trying to escape from unspeakable terrors. Down in the bowels of the warship the furnaces were at a white heat, and the engineers had long since pushed their engines far past the danger point. "Faster! faster!" came the cry from the deck and tower. "It will be better to blow up than to allow the Yankee pigs to sink us. We must save at least one ship!" And the engines pounded and quivered, threatening each instant to blow into a million pieces. For once Don Quixote was making the run of his life.

Unable to stand the heat, Walter had obtained permission to lay off for a few minutes and get some fresh air. A look from the spar deck had showed him the _Colon_ dashing far ahead, enveloped in a thin line of smoke. Every few seconds a flash of fire would come from her stern guns, but the marksmanship was poor and no serious damage was done to the _Brooklyn_.

The boy returned to his gun to find Caleb and the others in deep perplexity. Something was wrong with a sh.e.l.l, and it had become wedged in the gun and could not be pushed forward to its proper place or hauled back. "We can't use Polly any more!" groaned Caleb.

"I'll fix her!" cried Si Doring, and caught up a rammer. In a moment the brave Yankee lad was crawling out over the smoking piece toward the muzzle. But he had scarcely reached the outward end of the gun than the _Brooklyn_ gave a lurch and down he slipped over the side and into s.p.a.ce!

CHAPTER x.x.x

FINAL SCENES OF THE GREAT FIGHT

"Si has fallen overboard!"

The cry came from half a dozen throats at once, and Walter's heart almost stopped beating, so attached had he become to the Yankee lad.

"If he's overboard, he'll be sucked under and drowned," he groaned. "I wonder if I can see anything of him."

Without a second thought he leaped on the gun and began to crawl out, on hands and knees, as perilous a thing to do, with the vessel going at full speed, as one would care to undertake.

"Come back!" roared Caleb, trying to detain him. "You'll go overboard, too."

At that moment came a cry from below, and looking down the steel side of the _Brooklyn_, Walter beheld Si clinging to a rope ladder, one of several flung over, to be used in case of emergency. "Si, are you all right?" he called loudly.

"I--reckon--I--I am," came with a pant.

"But I had an awful tumble and the wind is about knocked out o' me." And then Si began to climb up to the deck.

"He's on the ladder and he's all right," shouted Walter, to those still behind the gun. Then a sudden idea struck him. "Hand me another rammer, Stuben."

"Mine cracious! don't you try dot," cried the hose-man. "You vos fall ofer chust like Si."

"Yes, come in here," put in Caleb, and Paul also called upon him to return.

"I'm all right," was the boy's reply. "Give it to me, Stuben." And catching the rammer from the hose-man, Steve Colton pa.s.sed it forward.

"In war we have got to take some risks," he reasoned, as Caleb gave him a severe look.

"Then why didn't you get out on the gun, Steve?" was the old gunner's dry response; and the second gun captain said no more.

Rammer in hand, Walter edged closer and closer to the muzzle of the Polly. The _Brooklyn_ was moving up and down over the long green waves, sending the spray flying on both sides of the bow. He gave one look down, felt himself growing dizzy, and then kept his eyes on the gun.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RAMMER IN HAND, WALTER EDGED CLOSE TO THE MUZZLE.]

At last the muzzle was gained, and not without difficulty the rammer was inserted. The projectile had not been very tightly wedged, and a firm pressure sent it backward, so that Caleb could catch it and pull it out through the breech. Then throwing the rammer aboard, Walter lost no time in coming in again. He had been exposed to the direct fire of the enemy, but no shot had come near him.

"Boy, you're too plucky," exclaimed Caleb, catching him by the shoulder.

"You ought to be flogged for your daring. Let me see your hands. Ah, just as I thought; both of 'em blistered. Go and put some sweet oil on 'em, and a bit of flour. I'll bet the end of Polly is red-hot."