A Gunner Aboard the "Yankee" Part 28

"She's not a warship," said "Long Tommy," who was lucky enough to possess a pair of gla.s.ses. "I wonder if we're going to get a prize at last?"

"You forget the fishing sloops. 'Remember the fish,'" laughed "Hay."

The two vessels came nearer and nearer, till finally they were within hailing distance.

"What ship is that?" called out Captain Brownson, through the megaphone. "And where are you bound?"

The answer came faintly over the tossing waves: "The 'Burton,' with coal for Santiago from Guadeloupe."

"Ah, ha!" said Tommy, "we get a prize at last."

"Wait a minute," said "Stump," "he is saying something else."

A gust of wind came at that moment and carried most of the sound away, but we gathered that our hoped-for prize had papers from our consul allowing her free pa.s.sage.

There was a universal groan of disappointment, and when the order was given to "secure," the hose was pulled up with unnecessary violence, hatches were lowered, and gun closets closed with no gentle hands. Such keen disappointment must somehow find a vent.

There was great excitement the following afternoon when the word was pa.s.sed for all hands to get out their leggings and to wear shoes to midday quarters. And when we were arranged into companies, and had haversacks, canteens, and knapsacks doled out to us, we concluded that a landing party would be made up for Porto Rico.

"The 'old man' is going to show the 'Spinache' that the 'Yankee' boys can fight on land as well as on sea," said Tommy, as he yanked at an obstinate haversack strap.

We marched round and round the spar deck to the music of bugle and drum till we got well into the swing of it, and felt very martial and formidable indeed.

The "Dixie" hove in sight at this juncture, and after a long megaphone conversation, we learned that the "Ma.s.sachusetts," for which we had some ammunition, was on her way to Guantanamo, so we reluctantly turned around and retraced our way, the "Dixie" leading. Porto Rico was not for us. Alas!

We felt like

"The King of France and his hundred thousand men Drew their swords and put them up again."

The next morning we hove-to a Norwegian steamer, the "Marie," and before we realized what was being done, we found that we had a prize at last. A snug little steamer she was, well loaded down with coal for Cervera's fleet.

"Cutlets" went over in a whaleboat, with a prize crew of six men.

"Well, well! this is almost too good to be true," said an after guard.

"This _is_ great luck. We capture a prize and get rid of 'Cutlets' at the same time."

To which we all said, Amen.

We separated from the "Marie," and, as the "Yankee" was much the faster, she was soon lost to sight.

The anchor had no sooner been dropped in Guantanamo Bay than our captain went over to the "New York," and then signals began to be displayed, and soon after all hands were hauling on the "cat falls."

The skipper returned; the gig was pulled up to its place, and very soon we were ploughing the water in the open. As we went out, our prize came in.

It seems the encounter with the "Burton" was told to the admiral, and he at once ordered us to go out and get her.

We headed straight out. The black smoke poured out of the funnels; the ship shook with the pounding of the strained engines. The land faded from view.

About two o'clock we sighted the object of our chase, and it only required a blank shot from the forward six-pounder to bring her to.

The prize crew, consisting of six seamen, some firemen and engineers, and officered by Lieutenant Duncan, went over and took possession of our second prize in one day.

Captor and captive then turned and headed for Guantanamo.

The men were in high spirits. Speculation was rife as to the amount of prize money each would secure, and some even went so far as to plan the spending of it.

Every one felt very gay, and as if something should be done to celebrate our good fortune. We would have liked to spend some money for an entertainment, but that was impossible.

"d.i.c.k," however, was impressed into service to furnish some amus.e.m.e.nt.

"d.i.c.k," a forecastle man, is a born story-teller, and we knew if we could get him started, some fun would be a.s.sured.

After some pressure he acquiesced, and began the following yarn:

"One day a certain Irishman, Mike Dooley by name, departed this life. He was much respected, and his death caused no little sorrow to his friends and neighbors. His wife and children were simply inconsolable. The widow wished to have a handsome funeral in his honor and spent her savings in furtherance of that plan. She had enough money for everything, except the silver inscription plate. But that difficulty was easily overcome, for 'What's the matter wid Pat Molloy painting it nately in white paint?' she said.

"Pat, being approached on the subject, expressed his entire willingness, and soon after called for the casket and took it away. He was told to letter the following, in neat, white letters: 'Michael Dooley departed this life in his prime, at the age of twenty-eight.'

"Pat was a bricklayer by trade, and painting was only a 'side line' with him.

"He started to put the inscription on the casket, and got along bravely till he came to 'age of twenty-eight.' Then he realized that he could not make the figures. He puzzled over it a long while, for he did not like to ask and thus show up his ignorance.

"Finally a bright idea struck him. Four sevens make twenty-eight--why not put down four sevens--that was easy!

"The job was finished just in time.

"The relatives and friends were gathered round to pay their last respects. One friend was asked to get up and make a few remarks. He did so and began as follows:

"'I am glad to be able to say a few words on this sad occasion, a few words of praise for our beloved friend; for other words than praise could not be said of him. I am proud to have known him and to have been numbered among his friends. His virtues need hardly be repeated. You knew him well. His generosity, his friendliness, and all the rest he possessed. I knew him from his youth up, and I am well aware of his goodness, as are you. He was a good husband, a good father, and a good friend. It is hard to give him up, but it must be. He died at the age of----'

"Here the speaker glanced at the casket beside which he stood, and read the following:

MICHAEL DOOLEY

DEPARTED THIS LIFE IN HIS PRIME, AT THE AGE OF 7777.

"'Yis, my bereaved friends,' he continued, 'he was a good father, husband, and friend, and none knows that better than I. He was cut off in the pride of manhood, you might say--in his prime, at the age of----'

"He glanced at the inscription again, then, after a painful pause, blurted forth: 'Well, how the divil did he escape the flood?'"

The sound of "tattoo" interrupted our laughter at this point, and all Hands tumbled below.

The following day we got rid of the last of the ammunition to the "Ma.s.sachusetts." A sigh of relief and thankfulness went up as the last charge of powder was taken over the side.

The same day we saw some of our prize money vanish into thin air. The "Burton" was released, and steamed out of the harbor.

It was about this time that a well-authenticated rumor went the rounds to the effect that we were to go with a formidable fleet to Spain, hara.s.s her coasts, and do up Camara's fleet. This rumor was so well founded that many of us believed it, and, consequently, much time was spent in writing farewell letters.

The prospect of soon seeing the "land of the free and the home of the brave" was not very bright. The consensus of opinion at this time was that we would see our year out in Uncle Sam's service.