Where were we bound?  Were we to join the Havana blockading fleet?  Were we destined for despatch and scout duty?  Or were we to take part in actual conflict?

It was while we were settling these questions to our own satisfaction on the morning of June 2d, that a hail came from the lookout at the masthead forward.

“Land O!” he shouted, waving his cap.  “Hurray! it’s Cuba!”

The navigator, whose rightful surname had been converted by the facetious Naval Reserves into “Cutlets,” for reasons of their own, lost no time in rebuking the too enthusiastic lookout.

“Aloft, there, you measly lubber!  What in thunder do you mean?  Have you sighted land?”

“Ye-es, sir-r,” quavered the lookout.

“Then why don’t you say so without adding any conjectures of your own?” commented the irascible Lieutenant “Cutlets,” severely.

The rest of the crew were too deeply interested in the vague streak of color on the horizon to pay any attention to the “wigging” of the man at the masthead.  We knew that the dun-hued streak rising from the blue shadows of the ocean was Cuba, and we could think or talk of nothing else.

Somewhere beyond that towering mountain was Santiago, the port in which the flea-like squadron of Admiral Cervera was bottled up, and there was a deadly fear in our hearts that the wily Spaniard would sally forth to battle before we could join our fleet.

We pictured to ourselves the gray mountain massed high about the narrow entrance of Santiago Bay, the picturesque Morro Castle, squatting like a grim giant above the strait, and outside, tossing and bobbing upon the swell of a restless sea, the mighty semicircle of drab ships waiting, yearning for the outcoming of the Dons.  We of the “Yankee,” I repeat, were in an agony of dread that we would arrive too late.

Cape Maysi, the scene of many an adventurous filibustering expedition, was passed at high noon, and at eight bells in the evening the anchor was dropped off Mole St. Nicholas, a convenient port in the island of Hayti.  As we steamed into the harbor we passed close to the auxiliary cruiser “St. Louis.”

The anchor was scarcely on the bottom when the gig was called away.  We awaited the return of Captain Brownson with impatience.  The news he brought was reassuring, however.  Nothing of moment had occurred since our departure from New York.  Within an hour we were again out at sea, this time en route to Santiago.

There was little sleep on board that night, and when morning dawned, every man who could escape from below was on deck watching, waiting for the first glimpse of Admiral Sampson’s fleet.  Shortly after daylight, the squadron was sighted.  The scene was picturesque in the extreme.

The gray of early dawn was just giving way before the first rays of a tropical sun.  Almost hidden in the mist hovering about the coast were a number of vague spots seemingly arranged in a semicircle, the base of which was the green-covered tableland fronting Santiago.  The spots were tossing idly upon a restless sea, and, as the sun rose higher, each gradually assumed the shape of a marine engine of war.  Beyond them was a stretch of sandy, surf-beaten coast, and directly fronting the centre ship could be seen a narrow cleft in the hill—­the gateway leading to the ancient city of Santiago de Cuba.