to keep and what to reject, the denser seems the complexity, and the dimmer and more confused the picture. The historian writing calmly in the distant future will weave them into a full and dispassionate narrative; the antiquarian will write monographs on all incidents, small or large, with unwearying patience; the naval critic and expert will even now draw many technical and scientific lessons from everything that happened, and will debate and dispute about it, to the great advantage of himself and his profession. And yet these are not the things which appeal now, or will appeal in the days to come, to the hearts of men. The details, the number of shots, the ranges, the part taken by each ship, the positions of the fleet-all alike have begun to fade from recollection even now, and will grow still dimmer as the years recede. But out of the mist of events and the gathering darkness of passing time the great fact and the great deed stand forth for the American people and their children's children, as white and shining as the Santiago channel glaring under the search-lights through the Cuban night.

They remember, and will always remember, that hot summer morning, and the anxiety, only half whispered, which overspread the land. They see, and will always see, the American ships rolling lazily on the long seas, and the sailors just going to Sunday inspection. Then comes the long thin trail of smoke drawing nearer the harbor's mouth. The ships see it, and we can hear the cheers ring out, for the enemy is coming, and the American sailor rejoices mightily to know that the battle is set. There is no need of signals, no need of orders. The patient, long-watching admiral has

given direction for every chance that may befall. Every ship is in place; and they close in upon the advancing enemy, fiercely pouring shells from broadside and turret. There is the Gloucester firing her little shots at the great cruisers, and then driving down to grapple with the torpedo-boats. There are the Spanish ships, already mortally hurt, running along the shore, shattered and breaking under the fire of the Indiana, the Iowa, and the Texas; there is the Brooklyn racing by outside to head the fugitives, and the Oregon dealing death-strokes as she rushes forward, forging to the front, and leaving her mark everywhere she goes. It is a captain's fight, and they all fight as if they were one man with one ship. On they go, driving through the water, firing steadily and ever getting closer, and presently the Spanish cruisers, helpless, burning, twisted wrecks of iron, are piled along the shore, and we see the younger officers and men of the victorious ships periling their lives to save their beaten enemies. We see Wainwright on the Gloucester, as eager in rescue as he was swift in fight to avenge the Maine. We hear Philip cry out: "Don't cheer. The poor devils are dying." We watch Evans as he hands back the sword to the wounded Eulate, and then writes in his report: "I cannot express my admiration for my magnificent crew. So long as the enemy showed his flag, they fought like American seamen; but when the flag came down, they were as gentle and tender as American women." They all stand out to us, these gallant figures, from the silent admiral to the cheering seaman, with an intense human interest, fearless in fight, brave and merciful in the hour of victory.

And far away along the hot ridges of the San Juan heights lie the American soldiers, who have been fighting, and winning, and digging intrenchments for fortyeight hours, sleeping little and eating less. There they are under the tropic sun that Sunday morning, and presently the heavy sound of guns comes rolling up the bay, and is flung back with many echoes from the surrounding hills. It goes on and on, so fast, so deep and loud, that it is like continuous thunder filling all the air. A battle is on; they know that. Wild rumors begin to fly about, drifting up from the coast. They hear that the American fleet is coming into the harbor; then for an hour that it has been defeated and that the Spaniards have escaped; and then the truth begins to come, and before nightfall they know that the Spanish fleet is no more, and the American soldier cheers the American sailor, and is filled anew with the glow of victory, and the assurance that he and his comrades have not fought and suffered and died in vain.

The thought of the moment is of the present victory, but there are men there who recognize the deeper and more distant meanings of that Sunday's work, now sinking into the past. They are stirred by the knowledge that the sea power of Spain has perished, and that the Spanish West Indies, which Columbus gave to Leon and Castile, shall know Spain no more. They lift the veil of the historic past, and see that on that July morning a great empire met its end, and passed finally out of the New World, because it was unfit to rule and govern men. And they and all men see now, and ever more clearly will see, that in the fight off Santiago another great fact had reasserted itself for the consideration of

the world. For that fight had displayed once more the victorious sea spirit of a conquering race. It is the V spirit of the Jomsberg Viking who, alone and wounded, ringed round with foes, springs into the sea from his sinking boat with defiance on his lips. It comes down through Grenville and Drake and Howard and Blake, on to Perry and Macdonough and Hull and Decatur. Here on this summer Sunday it has been shown again to be as vital and as clear as ever, even as it was with Nelson dying at Trafalgar, and with Faragut and his men in the fights of bay and river more than thirty years before.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SURRENDER OF SANTIAGO

DESPITE the depressing despatch to Washington saying that he was considering withdrawal, General Shafter, at 10 o'clock on Sunday morning, sent to General Toral a demand for immediate surrender, threatening to shell the city, although he had no siege-guns and nothing but light artillery to carry out his threat in case his demand was not complied with. General Toral answered at once, declining to surrender, and saying that he would notify the foreign consuls and the inhabitants of the proposed bombardment. Thereupon the foreign consuls appeared at General Wheeler's headquarters, and asked that the bombardment be postponed until the 5th; that the non-combatants, women and children, and the foreign residents, be allowed to leave the town and pass into the American lines, to be there fed and cared for. General Shafter granted the respite until the 5th, provided that there was no firing from the Spanish lines. By the evening of the 3d it was known that Cervera's fleet had been completely destroyed, and the purpose of the expedition had been fully attained. But in effecting that purpose the army had been so far advanced toward Santiago that, although the purely military value of the place was next to nothing after what had happened, not to take it would have been a