A Gunner Aboard the "Yankee" Part 12

"Why don't the admiral tell us to sail in?" queried the first captain in the same tone. "The day is fine and the range is good. There's the beggars plain enough with their measly old forts. What more is wanted?"

"Wish they would pipe down and light the smoking lamp," said the second loader. "It would be a great deal more fun than standing here like a dummy."

The sun had pa.s.sed beyond the top of the hills, but the light was sufficiently strong to bring out in plain relief the batteries guarding the entrance to Santiago. Grim Morro Castle appeared almost deserted.

The red and yellow banner of Spain flaunted lazily from the ramparts, but only here and there could be distinguished the little black dots representing the soldiers on guard. The earthworks and smaller forts were equally idle.

"We won't get anything out of them to-day," remarked "Stump" decisively.

"It must be one of their eternal feast days when they won't even fight."

"There goes a signal on the flagship," exclaimed the first loader, pointing out the port. "I'll bet a dollar it's--"

"The signal to pull out again," groaned "Stump." "Didn't I say so?"

"The admiral intends to postpone the bombardment for some reason," I ventured. "Perhaps it's too late in the day."

Whatever the cause, it was now plain that we would not engage the forts.

In obedience to the signals on the "New York," which were repeated by the "Brooklyn," the whole fleet returned to the former station several miles from sh.o.r.e. The word to "secure" was pa.s.sed and presently the "Yankee" had resumed its former condition of armed watchfulness.

That evening after supper there was a gathering of the choice spirits of the crew in the vicinity of the after wheel-house. "Dye," the chief member of the "Yankee's" choir, started one of "Steve's" little songs, which, although rendered very quietly in deference to the rules observed on blockade, was greatly enjoyed. The air was "Tommy Atkins," and the words ran as follows:

"They made us sign our papers for a year, And dressed us in a natty sailor's suit; They taught us how to heave the lead and steer, And how to handle guns and how to shoot.

We fancied we'd be leaving right away To capture prizes on the Spanish Main, And be raising merry hades With the dusky Spanish laddies, And within a month come steaming home again.

CHORUS.

"But instead we ran a ferry All along the Jersey sh.o.r.e, And our turns were empty very, And our hands were awful sore.

We would give our bottom dollar Just to see a cable car, Just to hear a newsboy holler, Just to smoke a good cigar.

"In times of peace we do not have to sweep Or carry coal or stand on watch all night; We do not have to scrub down decks or keep Our toothbrush chained, or bra.s.swork shining bright.

We never washed our faces in a pail, We never heard the fog-horn's awful shriek, We never ate salt horse, We combed our hair, of course, And we never wore our stockings for a week."

CHORUS.

"Suppose you 'heroes' pipe down there," came from the darkness just then. "What do you think this is, a concert hall?"

"It's 'Cutlets,'" muttered "Stump." "He would like to make the ship a funeral barge."

We sat in silence for a while, watching the retreating form of the navigator pa.s.sing forward; then Tom Le Valley, a zealous member of Number Nine gun's crew, spoke up.

"Do you see those two lights twinkling over there about where the 'Dolphin' should be, fellows?" he asked.

Some one yawned and nodded.

"Reminds you of a story, eh?" asked "Bill," who was leaning against the rail. "Well, come to think of it I remember a--"

"Several years ago I happened to be a patient in a hospital over in Brooklyn," continued Tom. "I was almost well and about to leave the place when a man in the upper ward--"

"I had a cousin once who used to travel a great deal," interrupted "Bill," taking a seat on the deck with his back against a bitt. "One time he happened to be in a small town just outside of Dublin, Ireland.

The inn was crowded and he had to take up his quarters with a family who occasionally rented out rooms. A circus and menagerie was giving exhibitions in the city, and one night the biggest monkey escaped from its cage and skipped out. They inst.i.tuted a search at once, but the animal could not be found. Well, it happened that the family with whom my cousin was stopping consisted of father and mother and one son about ten years old. The boy, whose name was Mike, was a regular limb. Always in mischief and----"

"As I was saying," broke in Tom at this juncture, "when I was about to leave the hospital, a man in the upper ward concluded to depart this world for a better one. It happened about eight o'clock in the evening, and, as was usual in such cases, the nurse on watch was supposed to get several convalescent patients and a stretcher and carry the body down to a little wooden house a hundred yards from the main building. The nurse, with whom I was on friendly terms, had an important case to attend to just then and he asked me if I wouldn't take charge of the stretcher party. Well, we started down the yard, I leading the way with a lantern, and we finally reached the little house. We entered and----"

"Some people think they are the only story tellers in the group,"

remarked "Bill" with mild sarcasm at that interesting point. "To tell a good story with a point to it is an art. Now, as I was saying, this boy Mike would rather get into mischief than eat a--what's the Irish for potato?"

"Spud," suggested "Hod."

"Murphy," said "Stump."

"Well, it's immaterial. Anyway the boy was full of mischief. The night the monk got away he had been sent to bed early because of some trick he had played. He slept in a little room at the head of the stairs leading to the second story. His window opened on a lean-to shed, and, as it was a warm evening, the sash was raised. Shortly after the youngster got to bed, something slipped over the back fence, and after prowling about the yard for a moment, climbed upon the shed and through the window into the room where Mike was just in the act of falling asleep. The thing, which was about the youngster's size, crept over the floor toward the bed, and then with a spring, landed squarely upon----"

"Some people use more wind in telling a story than would fill a maintop-sail," drawled Tom. "There's nothing like getting at your subject. Now, when we reached the little wooden house we entered, and after accomplishing our errand, started back to the main building. While on the way it suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten to close the door between the two rooms of which the house was composed. There was an open window in the front room, and there was no telling what might get in. I told the fellows to go on and I tasked back to the little house. I still carried the lantern, but just as I reached the door, it went out.

I tell you, I felt like letting the whole thing go, but I didn't want to get the nurse into trouble. So I unlocked the front door, opened it, and, Great Scott! I saw----"

"There's everything in choosing a subject when you want to tell a good story," calmly interrupted Bill. "This story I am trying to tell has a laugh in it. You don't have to keep your hair down with both hands and feel the cold chills playing tag up and down your spinal column, like you have to do when some people are trying to yarn. Well, when the thing that had crept through the window landed on the bed, Mike let out a yell that could have been heard in Dublin. 'Ow-w-w!' he whooped, scrambling to the floor. He caught one sight of the visitor, and then made a dash for the window and slid clear to the ground, leaving pieces of shirt and his epidermis on every nail on the shed roof. The noise he made roused the father and mother below, and the latter started for the stairs. 'That b'ye 'll be the death av me yet,' she complained. 'I'll go up and give him a slap.' She lost no time in reaching the little room, and when she entered she saw the bed with what she thought was Mike under the clothes. 'Mike, ye rascal,' she exclaimed, 'turn down the sheet this minute. It's mesilf as'll tache ye to raise a noise at this time o' night. For shame, ye spalpane! What, ye won't obey your own mother? I'll show ye. Take that!' She brought her hand down upon the figure outlined under the sheet with a resounding whack. The next second the thing leaped from the bed squarely into her arms. 'Wow! Murther!

Mike, what have ye been doing?' she howled, adding at the top of her voice, 'Patrick, Patrick, come quick! The b'ye has got hold of your hair restorer. He's all covered with hair and he's gone daft. Murther!' With that the father made for the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. Just as he got to the top--"

"The sight I saw when I opened the outer door of the little house almost knocked me silly," broke in Tom, rather excitedly. "There in the other room gleamed--"

"When Patrick reached the second floor," interrupted Bill, raising his voice, "he felt something strike him full in the chest; then two hairy arms clasped him about the throat and--"

"In the other room gleamed two--"

"Oh, give a fellow a chance, will you?" cried Bill. "You want the whole floor. What do you think--"

"Sh-h-h! here comes the executive officer," hastily whispered "Stump."

"We've made too much racket. Let's go into the after wheel-house."

"We must be quiet about it," spoke up the "Kid," warningly. "'Cutlets'

is chasing around to-night, and if he catches us in there he'll raise Cain."

"All right," replied Bill. "And I'll finish that story if I have to stay up all night."

"Same here," retorted Tom, with evident determination. "Come on."

And we all followed the twain.

CHAPTER X.

WE BOMBARD SANTIAGO DE CUBA.

The after wheel-house on board the "Yankee" was a round structure of steel built on the spar deck directly over the counter. It contained a steering wheel to be used in case the wheel in the pilot-house should be disabled. When the chill winds of May and early June were blowing off the northern coast during the "Yankee's" period of cruising in that vicinity, the after wheel-house formed a snug and comfortable retreat for the men of the watch.

It was freely used for that purpose until the navigator chanced to discover the fact. He forthwith issued orders forbidding any person to enter the house, except on duty. His order, like many others, received respectful consideration--when he happened to be looking. In the present case we were so eager to hear the conclusion of the stories being related by the rival yarn-spinners, that we were fain to brave "Cutlets'" displeasure. Led by Bill and Tom, we piled inside.

"What I was trying to say," spoke up the former, getting the first opening, "was that when Patrick reached the top of the stairs, something struck him full in the chest, and two hairy arms were thrown about his neck. The sudden shock sent him tumbling backward, and he fell kerflop!

down the steps. Up above, his wife was howling to beat the band, 'Mike, Mike, ye spalpane! You do be killing your poor father. Och! why did I live to see this day?' In the meantime the real Mike--for the one inside was the escaped monk from the menagerie--had scooted for the police.

They came, a half dozen of them, and as they entered the front door--"