When the quartermaster on duty came off watch he joined us in the gangway, and reported that we were steering a straight course to the southward.

“If we keep it up we’ll land somewhere near the Antarctic Ocean,” remarked Kennedy, doubtfully.  “I wonder—­”

“I know, I know,” broke in the “Kid,” eagerly.  “We’re going for ice.”

The burning question was solved at daybreak.  The morning sun brought into view a stretch of highland which proved to be Cuba.  We had steamed out to sea on scouting duty, and had doubled on our tracks, as it were.  The port we found to be Guantanamo, a small place some forty miles to the eastward of Santiago.

The town itself lies on a bay connected with the sea by a tortuous and winding channel.  The entrance is protected by a fort and several blockhouses, and when we steamed inshore we espied the “St. Louis” and “Marblehead” laying to, waiting for us outside.

The “Marblehead” preceding us, we entered the harbor, and the two ships began a lively bombardment, while the “St. Louis” lay outside.  Shortly after the firing began, a Spanish gunboat was seen steaming out past the fort.  A few shots in her direction sent her scurrying back again, and that was the last seen of her during the fight.  After the battle of the previous day, this affair seemed insignificant, and aroused little interest.

The blockhouses were destroyed and the fort silenced after a short period of firing, and the “St. Louis” proceeded with the duty which evidently had caused our visit.  It was the cutting of a cable connecting Guantanamo with the outer world.

Our little fleet steamed to sea in the afternoon, returning just before dark.  The fort, showing signs of reanimation, was treated to another bombardment, which effectually settled it.  A small fishing hamlet composed of a dozen flimsy huts of bamboo was set on fire and burned to the ground.  When we left Guantanamo shortly after dark, bound back for Santiago, we had the satisfaction of knowing that one more blow had been struck against Spanish rule in the fair isle of Cuba.

At dawn the following day, Santiago was sighted.  The fleet was still lying off the entrance like a group of huge gray cats watching a mouse hole.  As we passed in, the flagship began signalling, and it soon became noised about the ship that we had received orders to leave for Mole St. Nicholas after dark.

“It looks as if the ‘Yankee’ will come in handy as a messenger boy,” said “Stump.”  “When the admiral wants ‘any old thing’ he tells his flag officer to send the Naval Reserve ship.”

“It’s a good thing to be appreciated,” grinned “Dye.”  “To tell the truth, though, I’d rather be on the move than lying here watching the land.”

“We don’t want to be away when Cervera comes out,” remarked Flagg.

“When he comes out,” retorted “Stump,” emphasizing the first word meaningly.  “The old gentleman knows when he is well off and he’ll stay inside.”