Every ship was cleared for business.  On the vessels of the “Oregon” class nothing could be seen but the gray steel of turrets and superstructure.  The “New York” and the “Brooklyn” were similarly cleared.  On the bridges could be seen groups of officers, but the decks were empty.  Every man was at his gun.

The ships steamed in to within a short distance of the beach and then formed a semicircle, the heavier vessels taking the centre where they could directly face the forts.  The little “Dolphin” was on the extreme right of the line, with the “Yankee” next.

When within easy range of the guns ashore there ensued a wait.  No signal to fire came from the flagship, and there did not seem to be any move toward opening the battle by the forts.  We stood at our guns in silence, awaiting the word, until finally patience ceased to be a virtue.

“Seems to me they ought to do something,” murmured “Stump,” glancing shoreward rather discontentedly.  “Ain’t we fair targets?”

“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 passed 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 shore.  The word to “secure” was passed 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: