The navy style of coaling is different from that customary in the merchant service. In the latter, the dirty work is done in the quickest, easiest way possible. The ship is taken to a coal wharf and the coal is slid down in chutes, or barges are run alongside and great buckets, hoisted by steam, swing the black lumps into the hold or bunker.

The navy style, as practised on the "Yankee," was quite different. The barges were brought alongside, the men divided into gangs--some to go in the hold of the barge, some to go on the platforms, some to carry on the ship herself. The barge gang shovelled the coal into bushel baskets; these were carried to the men on the stages; and the latter pa.s.sed them from one to the other, to the gun deck; finally, the gang on the vessel carried the baskets to the bunker holes, and dumped them. The ship was well provided with hoisting machines, but, for some reason, this help was not permitted us.

It was a long, inexpressibly dreary day's work, and though undertaken cheerfully and with less complaining than would have been believed possible, the drudgery of it was a thing not easily forgotten. Before the day had ended, all hope of getting ash.o.r.e was lost, for we were told that no liberty would be given.

The following day and half of our stay in New York harbor was spent in the same way--shovelling, lifting, and carrying coal. The eyes of many of us were gladdened by the sight of friends and relatives, who were allowed aboard when mess gear was piped, and put off when "turn to"

sounded. We were pleased to see our friends, but our friends, on the contrary, seemed shocked to see us. One dainty girl came aboard, and, as she came up the gangway, asked for a forecastle man. The word was pa.s.sed for him. He had just finished his stint of coaling, and was as black as a negro. In his haste to see his sister, he neglected to clean up, and appeared before her in his coal heaver's make-up.

"You, Will? I won't believe it! I won't, I won't, I won't!" And for a second she covered her face with her hands. Then she picked out the cleanest spot on his grimy countenance and kissed him there, while we looked on in envy.

The "Yankee" at last receiving orders to sail for the front, left Tompkinsville May 29th. We pa.s.sed out of the Narrows with a feeling of relief. The work we had just finished was the hardest we had ever experienced. It was particularly tantalizing because we were almost in sight of our homes, but could not visit them. A starving man suffers more from hunger if pleasant food is placed within sight, but beyond his reach.

However, we were to go to the front at last, and we rejoiced at the prospect of being really useful to our country.

The following day, Decoration Day, dawned pleasantly, both wind and weather being all that could be desired.

Directly after dinner we were sent to quarters for target practice. The target was dropped astern, and the ship steamed ahead to the required distance. Word was given to the marines manning the six-pounders to prove their skill.

The port forecastle six-pounder, using a sh.e.l.l containing cordite, a powerful English explosive, was in charge of a marine corporal named J.J. Murray, who acted as captain of the gun. After firing several rounds with marked success, Murray saw that the gun was loaded for another trial.

Standing at the breech, he steadied the gun with his left arm and shoulder, seized the pistol-grip, placed his finger on the trigger, and then slowly and carefully brought the target within the sighting line in readiness to fire.

The other members of the gun's crew were at their proper stations.

Numbers 2 and 3, respectively second captain and first loader and sh.e.l.lman, were directly behind the corporal. They saw him steady the piece again, take another careful aim, then noted that his finger gave a quick tug at the trigger.

The result was a dull click but no explosion.

The corporal stepped back from his place in vexation. He had succeeded in getting a fine "bead" just as the cartridge failed.

"Blast the English ammunition!" he exclaimed. "It's no good."

The other men at the gun nodded approval. Their experience bore out the corporal's a.s.sertion. They also knew that the cordite cartridges were not adapted to American guns, and should not have been used. But they were marines and they were accustomed to obey orders without comment.

Captain Brownson had noticed the incident and he sent word to delay opening the breechblock until all danger of explosion had pa.s.sed. After waiting some time, Corporal Murray proceeded to extract the sh.e.l.l. He took his place at the breech, while No. 2 unlocked the plug and swung it open.

"Now we'll see what is the matter," he began. "I guess it is another case of--"

He never finished the sentence. With a frightful roar the defective cartridge exploded, sending fragments of sh.e.l.l and parts of the breech-block into the corporal's face and chest. He was hurled with terrific force to the deck, where he lay motionless, mortally wounded.

Numbers 2 and 3 of the unfortunate gun's crew did not escape, the former being struck down with the hand lever, which penetrated his arm. The injured men received prompt attention from the surgeon and his a.s.sistants, but Corporal Murray was beyond mortal aid. He died ten minutes after the accident.

He was a good soldier, jolly and light-hearted, and a great favorite with the crew. The peculiar feeling of antagonism which is supposed to exist between the sailors and marines did not obtain in his case.

In the navy the hammock which serves the living as a bed by night is also their coffin and their shroud. It so served Corporal Murray.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WITH A FRIGHTFUL ROAR THE DEFECTIVE CARTRIDGE EXPLODED"]

Shortly after four bells (six o'clock) on the evening of the day on which the accident occurred, the boatswain's mate sent the shrill piping of his whistle echoing through the ship, following it with the words, doleful and long drawn out:

"All hands shift-ft-ft into clean-n-n blue and stand by to bury the dead-d-d!"

When the crew a.s.sembled on the gun deck in obedience to the call, the sun was just disappearing beyond the edge of the distant horizon. Its last rays entered the open port, showing to us the dead man's figure outlined under an American flag. The body had been placed upon a grating in front of an open port, and several men were stationed close by in readiness to launch it into the sea.

The ceaseless swaying of the ship in the trough of the sea, the engines having been stopped, set the lines of blue uniformed men swinging and nodding, and, as the surgeon, Dr. McGowan, read the Episcopal service, it seemed in the half light as if every man were keeping time with the cadence.

The words of the service, beautiful and impressive under such novel circ.u.mstances, echoed and whispered along the deck, and at the sentence, "We commit this body to the deep," the grating was raised gently and, with a peculiar _swish_, the body, heavily weighted, slid down to the water's edge and plunged sullenly into the sea. A moment more and the service was finished, the bugler sounding "pipe down." A salute, three times repeated, was fired by sixteen men of the marine guard.

The voyage down the coast was utilized in making good men-o'-war's men of the "Yankee's" crew. Captain Brownson believes thoroughly in the efficacy of drill, and he lost no time in living up to his belief. When all the circ.u.mstances are taken into consideration, the task allotted to the captain of the "Yankee" by the fortunes of war, was both peculiar and difficult.

On his return from Europe, where he had been sent to select vessels for the improvised navy, he was ordered by the Navy Department at Washington to take command of the auxiliary cruiser "Yankee." This meant that he was to a.s.sume charge of a ship hastily converted from an ordinary merchant steamer, and to fight the battles of his country with a crew composed of youths and men whose whole life and training had hitherto followed totally different lines.

It was a "licking of raw material into shape" with a vengeance.

When the "Chesapeake" sailed forth to fight her disastrous battle with the British ship "Shannon," her crew was made up of men untrained in the art of war. The result was the most humiliating naval defeat in the history of the United States. The same fate threatened Captain Brownson.

There was this difference in the cases, however. The "Chesapeake" had little time for drilling, while the "Yankee" was fully six weeks in commission before her first shot was fired in action. Every minute of those six weeks was utilized.

During the trip down the coast from New York general quarters were held each day, and target practice whenever the weather permitted. In addition to these drills the crew was exercised in man and arm boats, abandon ship, fire drill, infantry drill, and the many exercises provided by the naval regulations. Before the "Yankee" had been in the Gulf Stream two days, the various guns' crews were almost letter-perfect at battery work. As it happened, the value of good drilling was soon to be demonstrated.

As we neared Cuba, the theatre of our hopes and expectations, we were scarcely able to control ourselves. The bare possibility of seeing real war within a few days made every man the victim of a consuming impatience. Rumors of every description were rife, and the many weird and impossible tales invented by the ship's cook and the captain's steward--the men-o'-war oracles--would have put even Baron Munchausen to the blush.

The Rumor Committee, otherwise known as the "Scuttle-b.u.t.t Navigators,"

to which every man on board was elected a life member the moment he promulgated a rumor, was soon actively engaged, and it was definitely settled that the "Yankee" was to become the flagship of the whole fleet, our captain made Lord High Admiral, and the whole Spanish nation swept off the face of the globe, in about thirteen and a half seconds by the chronometer.

CHAPTER VII.

WE ENTER THE "THEATRE OF WAR."

The shrill pipe of the bosun's whistle, followed by the order "All hands to muster," reached our ears a day or two out from New York. We were enjoying an hour of well-earned leisure, so it was with reluctance that we obeyed and went aft on the gun deck. All hands are seldom called to muster, so we knew that something of importance was in the wind.

After the three-sided hollow square had been formed, the captain appeared. The small men stood on tip-toe, and the tall men craned their necks.

"We are about to enter the theatre of war," said the captain, in his sharp, decisive way, "and I expect every man to do his duty, to redouble his efforts to preserve discipline, to perfect drills. Drills will, of a necessity, be frequent and hard. I would have you understand that our best protection is the fire from our own guns. The more rapid and accurate our fire, the safer we shall be. Pipe down."

After we had been dismissed, the men formed little groups and discussed the captain's speech.

"I like the 'old man's' talk," said the "Kid," condescendingly; "it's to the point and short. But how in the name of common sense are we going to find time to drill with more frequency? Three times a day and once or more at night, allows us just about time enough to eat and do the necessary routine work, to say nothing about sleeping. Clear ship, general quarters, and fire drill during the day, and general quarters after ten last night. That's already somewhat frequent, methinks," he concluded, suppressing a yawn.

"Well, if we are to have any sc.r.a.ps," said "Bill," "we certainly must know how to work the ship and the guns. For, as the skipper said, 'our own fire is our best protection.'"

We bowled along at a good fifteen-knot gait, day after day and night after night. The weather was magnificent and the climate delightful. It was full moon, and such a moon as few of us had seen before--so bright that letters could be and were written by her silvery light.

Though drills of all sorts were of constant occurrence, there were times after mess when we could "caulk off" and enjoy the glorious weather.

Our experience of bad weather along the coast of New Jersey and Long Island had given us keen zest for the good conditions we were now enjoying. We were sailing along in the warm waters of the Gulf Stream--the Gulf weed peculiar to that current slipping by as we forged through it. "Stump," "Dye," of Number Eight's gun crew, a witty chap and a good singer, "Hay," and I were leaning over the taffrail, looking into the swirling water made by the propeller's thrust, when "Dye" remarked: "This is the queerest water I ever saw in all my days; it looks like the bluing water our laundress used to make, with the suds mixed in."

The smooth sea was dark and clear as could be, but where churned by the propeller it turned to the color of turquoise.