U.S.S. SCORPION Will Be Offered Up For Sale.”
* As I read these words a flood of memories surges through me and carries me back twenty-nine years.
I first saw the Scorpion at the Navy Yard, New York, in April, 1898, just commissioned for war. On her staunch steel deck were mounted four five-inch guns, six six- pounders, and two Colts, and she looked every bit the name she was soon to earn— “The Fighting Scorpion.” The beauty of the lines of this thousand-ton gunboat and her smart trim caught the eye—here was adventure 1
At her gangway I hailed my old shipmate, Yank Holden. We parted in Havana shortly after the good ship in which we served was destroyed. Here he was, all ready for (lie fight, in a fine billet while I was still seeking a ship whose whereabouts nobody seemed to know or care about—an auxiliary which had been taken over somewhere and then renamed. The commandant of the yard had given me a week to find her. “Got any vacancies, Yank?”
"Sure,” he replied, “one.”
I dashed .aboard and saw the skipper. “Come ahead,” he said, and as I jumped ashore on my way to Washington I could hear him say, "Think of the prize money!” All next day I buzzed about the Bureau of Navigation trying to tell someone my story. A passed midshipman did not get much notice in those busy times, if ever. But, at last, I got the Commodore’s ear and the billet. And so off to the war I went with the Scorpion, both of us in our first commissions.
Off Hampton Roads, was the first duty assigned. Stopping everything in and out of the Capes all night long kept us on the jump. How the Bay boats swore as the little busybody ranged alongside and how scarce were Spanish merchantmen 1
Finally, we went south with the Flying Squadron to Key West, and then to make a reconnaissance at Cienfuegos where the Spanish Fleet had been reported.
“Scorpion take a look,” and we steamed bravely in. Not a thing did we see and on our way out to rejoin, we saw the torpedo- boat Dupont coming at full speed with orders for the squadron to proceed at once to Santiago—the enemy was there.
Again, "Scorpion take a look,” and we steamed away eastward making eighteen knots in those days. Upon arrival just before daylight, we sighted a big converted liner lying in front of the Morro. No reply was made to our recognition signal.
"After her,” said the skipper, and away we both went across the entrance of Santiago Harbor. We could not fire a gun to stop her as that would open up the whole works ashore and there would have been no story of the Scorpion to write. Suddenly, the liner stopped and we overtook her. It was the Harvard. "We thought you were a Spaniard,” said Cotten, of the Harvard.
“We knew you were the Normannia,’’ replied Marix of the Scorpion, “and a good prize.”
That big harmless liner had been lying off the port for nearly a week hoping that someone with guns would come along and be told that the Spanish Fleet was inside.
Back turned the Scorpion at full speed to bring the news to the Flying Squadron but, as luck would have it, a blow got us off Cape Cruz and hove us to while our squadron passed us, unseen in the night.
At Cienfuegos, the Marblehead gave us orders to return to Key West and we swore roundly.
Two days later, however, we found ourselves steaming along the north coast of Cuba in charge of an important convoy bound for the blockade at Santiago. The Supply, filled with provisions, and the Armeria, loaded down with ammunition, were in our charge and were told no matter what happened they were to maintain their course and position. These ships were good only for ten knots, they said, and begged their impatient escort to slow down. We went to general quarters at first sight of anything. We had an active crew, many Gloucester fishermen among them, and they needed occupation. Early one morning, to our consternation we sighted the familiar outline of the Oquendo inshore. No mistake. Had not Holden and I just seen her in Havana? After her went the Scorpion. Full speed, general quarters, decks sanded down, guns loaded. Nearer and nearer we came. Soon we made out the red in the flag at her gaff. We believed the next moment we would be blown out of the water. One salvo would do it. But not a sign of movement on that ship. We crossed her stern and as we rounded to, the morning breeze unfurled the English colors to our wide-eyed gaze. It was the Talbot. Gosh! Her watch officer, leaning languidly over the bridge rail, bid us, “Good Morning,” as the Scorpion, with full rudder, turned to rejoin her ten-knot convoy, already out of sight ahead.
“Well, we could a’ fixed her anyway,” said a voice in the fireroom ventilator.
The next night, we opened fire on a dark object on the port bow. In no other war in history were so many dark objects encountered. This one disappeared and we ceased firing for ten minutes when it was sighted again close aboard. On went our big searchlight and the fire was reopened. Preston, with the forward five-inch, went over; I let go a dozen six-pounder shots through her rigging and Holden, dropping his sights, misfired. Well he did. Almost simultaneously we recognized the Supply of our own convoy who escaped being sunk by one misfire. Evidently she had run amuck in our early firing, possibly our own variegated courses caused her some distress! Not a soul did we see on her deck. One head was stuck out of a forward port in response to our hail to her to take proper station. Our hearts had certainly sunk low on this initial engagement of ours.
Just as we had returned to normalcy, as they say now, we sighted a large vessel to starboard with all lights burning and bearing down upon us with a bone in her teeth. What next! For a moment we were sure she would cut us down forward and our crew, still fully armed, dashed aft. Then it was apparent that she would cut us down amidships and the crew parted neatly in the middle. Suddenly we shot around her bow in attempt to clear when she crashed into our stern, lifted us out of the water aft, and dropped us with a dismal thud, and disappeared into the night. When I picked myself up from under a gun where I was entangled with sword and pistol and life preserver, I noticed the Panther on our port quarter asking if we needed help. She had struck us square, cutting off our rakish fan- tail neatly just abaft the rudder and screws, but no serious harm was done. On board that ship were all the marines destined to make the first landing in the Island of Cuba on the morrow. She, too, had been looking for her escort, who was possibly shooting up “dark objects” elsewhere.
However, the marines did take Guantanamo Bay the next day "according to plan” and we did reach the blockade on time. There the Brooklyn hurriedly built a new rail across our stern before we took up our night vigil on the blockade. We rolled and pitched on the western end of that semicircle for a month, enfilading rifle fire between the Brooklyn and the shore by day and steaming back and forth across the blockade on the vidette line at night. Readily do I recall how we held our breath as we passed through the rays of the battleship searchlights trained on the harbor entrance every moment of every night. And how at daylight, as we fanned out from the close-in positions, the Spanish batteries opened up on us all. Now and then was a demonstration made against the batteries. The blockade eventually became most monotonous, we welcomed any change. Once we were sent to the eastward of the Morro to silence a blockhouse at Aquadores and to receive our baptism of fire. They opened first. Our first shot brought down the flag of Spain on that blockhouse and the proud pointer of that gun never got back to earth again during the war. I expect he still tells the story to his shipmates on George’s Bank.
Occasionally we were allowed to go to Daiquiri for drinking water. Honestly, that is what we went for. Of course, we learned of the delightful beverage concocted by the Englishmen superintending the iron mines there. But that is another story. Our men were pleading to go ashore at Santiago for a swim or to buy bananas or anything! They said that the Vixen did. Not even the nocturnal bombardments by the Vesuvius, with her gun-cotton shells, could keep us interested as we lay alongside of her to protect her as she fired.
Finally our chance came. "Go down,’’ said the Admiral, “to Manzanillo and shoot up two gunboats that are giving us trouble there. You will meet the Hist, the Hornet, and the Wampatuck off Cape Cruz. It ought to be a nice party.” Full speed to Cape Cruz and there we saw the Osceola, an armed tug.
“Where are the rest of them?” asked Marix.
“I haven’t seen anybody,” replied Purcell of the Osceola.
“Let’s go anyway,” said Marix, and that afternoon, ready for battle, we steamed rapidly in between the keys which made the harbor of Manzanillo, sounding as we went. The regular channel was mined.
Never have I beheld so peaceful a scene. Stretched before us was the water front crowded with merchant ships and not a sign of a gunboat. Nothing looked simpler, then, than to steam along the wharves, cut out the best looking Spanish steamers for the Osceola to tow, keep the town under our guns while doing it, and depart from that place towing our wealth behind us.
The Scorpion steamed past a small buoy close aboard when pandemonium descended upon us. The whole water front from the blockhouse to the northward across the Plaza to the southern blockhouse all opened fire, and behind us, riflemen on the keys joined in the party.
For twenty minutes we gave them all we had. So did they. Our side was peppered with small shot. Then several gunboats previously obscured steamed out to meet us, landing one shell square in our galley, breaking up housekeeping, and another on the forecastle where a reserve ensign, a newspaper man from Chicago, nearly had his hand burned off grasping a hot fragment for a souvenir. This was our only personnel casualty. Never had we heard such whistling as when the “highs” went over us. They were positively annoying.
“I have had enough,” sang out the Scorpion. “Same here,” said the Osceola.
“Turn 18” took 11s one second and we must have cleared those keys, outward bound, at twenty knots. Outside, we caught our breath. The first retreat of the war was over.
“Gee, those ain’t the same Spaniards we seen before,” said the philosopher down the fireroom ventilator.
We were driven out of Manzanillo on July 1. The Osceola was sent to Santiago for help, for we didn’t intended to give up the job. The Scorpion established a blockade of the port and a merry time was had guarding the entrances and chasing all craft that appeared from any direction. Our first capture was a refugee schooner bound for Jamaica and netted us a score of men, women, and children, and a copy of the local newspaper. From the latter we read that the day before our entry, the gunboats we had expected to find at Cape Cruz, having decided not to wait for us, entered the port and had an hilarious time. Naturally, the Spaniards were ready for us. Our two little ships were described as large Yankee cruisers. From another prize we learned of the escape of Admiral Cervera from Santiago and we hoped that the Osceola hadn’t been run over by the fleeing Spaniards.
We made so many captures that it became necessary to establish a base. This we did at the deserted village of Guaybal, a few miles south of Manzanillo. The prizes were anchored and the passengers were quartered ashore in what soon became a model town presided over by our militant surgeon. The only objection that he had was that it took him from what he considered his paramount duty: that of captain of our sharp shooting riflemen who lined the rail in every engagement ! Every day we had cutting-out expeditions to chase craft which tried to escape over the shoals. Before long, every one of the ship’s boats was armed to the guards.
On the evening of July 17, reenforcements arrived and a conference of war was held on board the gunboat Wilmington flying the broad pennant of the Senior Officer Present. The force consisted of the Wilmington, Helena, Hist, Hornet, Wampatuck and Osceola. This array, together with the Scorpion, gave every indication of a big time in store.
Promptly at daylight on July 18 we proceeded to the attack of Manzanillo. The two larger ships entered the northern channel, three others from the south, and, as before, the Scorpion and the Osceola stood in between the keys. Fire was opened simultaneously on the blockhouses, on the trenches across the Plaza, and on five Spanish gunboats which advanced toward us. For nearly four hours the battle raged and at the end of that time there wasn’t enough left of the enemy’s material of which to make a walking stick. We heard later that the Wilmington had the signal to cease fire flying for an hour before any of us saw it. Our casualties were slight, no one even wounded, but the enemy did not fare so well. If my memory serves me right, we all of us received the equivalent of one month’s pay as head money for that day’s work. That is, so much for every member of the crews of the Spanish gunboats. Alas, the rules have since been changed.
As soon as this party was over, the force was scattered and the Scorpion, with her consort, towed the Spanish prizes she had collected before the battle, to Guantanamo Bay. I think we acquired another month’s pay when their value was appraised. The most important of all, at least to us, was an immense crate of fresh, live chickens we had captured on a lighter. Among the merchant vessels destroyed at Manzanillo was the Purissima Conception which had succeeded in evading all the American ships and had reached Manzanillo with the pay roll of the Spanish garrison and its defenses a few days before any of us had arrived.
The Scorpion later assisted the Army to land in Cuba and the echo of her five-inch shells resounding against the rocky hills of Daiquiri is still in my ears. It was a big frolic and there was gaiety and laughter on ali sides. Many boats filled with the troops had been lowered from the transports without any oars in them. Naval craft were scurrying around the harbor picking them up and towing them in. Above all, was the song of the Ninth Cavalry as these dark troops went merrily by singing, “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” After Santiago surrendered and hostilities ceased, the Scorpion was engaged for a month or more in assisting in the salvaging of the Spanish cruiser Maria Theresa, which had grounded on the day of the battle shortly after emerging from the harbor. This ship was floated and the Scorpion joined in the triumphal convoy to Guantanamo Bay where the work of making her tight proceeded. Due to the insistent demands from the States she started north around Cape Maysi on her long tow northward. This was the last we were to see of her as that expedition failed when the Maria Theresa, cut adrift in a spell of weather, was later stranded in the Bahamas. The Scorpion then went to Havana in connection with the Evacuation Commission, flying the flag of Admiral Sampson, a member. We are always a generous enemy and plans were being made to send the Spanish troops home from Cuba at our expense. The Scorpion’s duty was to convey the Army engineers to possible locations for building wharves to receive the transports.
We were getting tired of it all by this time. The fleet had gone home months before and we were left to wipe up, as it were. The Army people, however, were delighted, they said, to have our help and intended using us indefinitely. Very few trips through the ground swells on that north coast of Cuba convinced the engineers that they needed a more stable platform if they wanted to keep their minds on their work. Our five-inch battery frequently rolled the decks under and our guests partook of both work and food very lightly.
In early December, we hailed with delight the arrival of our relief, the cruiser Topeka, and the Scorpion lost no time minting her nose northward across the Straits of Florida.
It may be remembered by some old timers that the winter of 1898-99 was a serious proposition. No sooner had we reached the latitude of Jupiter Inlet, homeward bound rejoicing, than a norther descended upon us. We rode it out and after a few weary days shaped our course directly across the wide expanse of water for Hatteras. Soon another gale caught us and left us with just enough fuel to limp in to Port Royal Sound. There we filled our bunkers and started off again with hopes still buoyant.
In all the succeeding years I have disliked Frying Pan Shoals most intensely for it was in this vicinity that the Scorpion caught it again and no mistake.
We had been home for three days doing fairly well, huddled together topside, if wet clothes and cold seas can be called doing well. As for food, we lived on bread and jam. I will never forgive the caterer for the amount of Dundee jam he had laid in before we went to the war. I never want to look the plaid label of those jars in the face again. In fact, we dumped nearly a hundred of them overboard with our first glimpse of Sandy Hook.
Without warning, off those shoals, a heavy cross sea struck us with such impact that a turnbuckle in the steam steering gear carried away, the improvised stern which the Brooklyn had built was destroyed, and hand steering wheel went by the board, and that sea swept everything before it.
Like a flash the ship fell off into the trough, and a sea went over her pouring down her ventilators and flooding the fire rooms. One more would put the fires out. The engines were rung ahead full speed, which, if literally carried out would have wrecked them. The sea anchor was then let go forward. I dashed to the fire room hatch begging the men to stand fast. Holden, with great presence of mind, called for volunteers. He forged his way aft through the water which filled both gangways, snatched the halliards from the flagstaff as it was driven past him in the flood and, further aft, dragged out two iron jacking bars from beneath a gun mount. With his men he finally reached the wreck of the hand steering wheel whose bronze hub was still intact. Quickly the jacking bars were lashed with the halliards to the hub and two Gloucester fishermen, seizing them, put the helm down. Like a top, the Scorpion came up head to sea and thwarted the sinister purposes of a huge wave about to break over us.
For twenty-four long hours we steered from aft with men lashed on top of the deck house to pass the word from us on the bridge to those men at the wheel. Just as dark was descending the next day, a sea came over forward and the word was passed to me from aft that the ship couldn’t be steered. The sea that had come aboard had crashed through the fore hatch and filled the hold. Down went her head and up went the rudder nearly out of the Water. The engine room was ordered to start the pumps. Nothing doing. We discovered that the lead suction piping through the coal bunkers had been consumed by the bunker fires which had menaced us throughout the cruise. All hands, officers and men, frantically bailed the fore hold with buckets all night long. With sunrise came release. The gale was surely blowing itself out and, by afternoon, we were able to drag our way back into Port Royal Sound where the steering gear was hurriedly repaired and we were able to borrow some dry clothing and get some fresh food. Our quarters and everything below had been afloat for many days.
Again, undaunted, we started north. Surely all was well now. But fog—cold and damp— was waiting for us at the lightship outside. For one long week, we felt our way along the coast. Never will I forget the cheers of our men when pilot vessel Scotland Lightship No. 8 appeared out of the fog. We knew that our journey was ended.
When we reached an anchorage at Staten Island, the fog had lifted. With the anchor we dropped in our tracks—all in. But wait —only for a minute this respite! The flagship New York appeared at the Narrows, five days from Havana, with signal flying— “Scorpion, get out of our berth.”
In January, 1899, we bid the Scorpion goodbye at the Navy Yard, New York, as several of us transshipped eastward through Suez to take our part in the Philippine game.
Two years later I saw the Scorpion again, smarter than ever. She was then the dispatch boat of the Atlantic Fleet and always ready for a call. Still later she was on survey duty and, in 1908, went to the Mediterranean, where this splendid little ship has operated continuously in all waters of Europe. The story of her service before and after the Great War, flying the flag of Rear Admiral Bristol, who was in effect an international ambassador to Turkey, should certainly be told. Interned and harassed at Constantinople, she continued on the job. The outstanding work of an American flag officer in the interests of humanity in the Near East will long be remembered and the Scorpion bore his flag honorably.
Now her day is at an end and, if she can weather the Atlantic, she is coming home. Secretly I hope that not a bid will be received if this faithful old gunboat is placed on sale. She deserves a better fate than conversion into a scow.
“They say this here old hulk was a war boat once,” observed the longshoreman.
“’Er? Don’t believe it, so help me,” replied the night watchman as he spat on the deck where man-o’-war’s men have proudly trod in their country’s service.
Well, I would a little rather you didn’t get home than that, old timer. Anyhow, you did your trick. We’ll all go soon and be forgotten. But not your record, Scorpion, and not your one long commission which proudly I began with you that April day away back in ninety-eight.