IT WAS may in 1898 and Admiral Dewey and his victorious fleet were waiting in Manila Bay, amid the shattered hulks of Spain’s beaten squadron, for the naval and military re-enforcements so urgently requested by the admiral.
However, because of the surprise of Dewey’s victory, the magnitude of its results, and the unreadiness of our national defense organization to meet such an emergency, it was three weeks after that eventful first of May, before the protected cruiser Charleston left San Francisco for Manila and even then she went without the sorely needed troops.
Three transports, the City of Pekin, City of Sydney, and Australia, finally cleared the same California port on May 25, carrying the First California and Second Oregon regiments of volunteer infantry, five companies of the Fourteenth United States Infantry, and a detachment of the First California Field Artillery—115 officers and 2,386 enlisted men, commanded by Brigadier General Thomas M. Anderson, U. S. Army.
The transports joined the Charleston at Honolulu, where she was waiting for them, and the convoy put to sea on June 4. Once clear of the land, Captain Henry Glass, of the cruiser, opened the sealed orders brought to him by the Pekin, and learned that he was to stop at the Ladrones on his voyage to Manila, and capture the island of Guam.
A course was set for this first bit of land seen by Magellan after his long wanderings over the Pacific, and at daylight of June 20, the ships sighted the island. They reconnoitered the port of Agana, the capital, found no vessels there, nor any sign of a Spanish garrison. They then proceeded to the other port of San Luis d’Apra, where, according to Honolulu rumors, they would find a Spanish gunboat and hostile troops.
When they reached this harbor, shut in by Apapa Island and the peninsula of Oroté, the Charleston suddenly disappeared from the vision of those on the troopships. She had plunged boldly in, following the deep, narrow, and tortuous channel hedged by coral reefs, and the lead-colored ship could not be made out in the intermittent rain squalls against the gray and green of the cliffs.
At last some white spots were sighted against the cliffs. They proved to be the boats on the superstructure of the Charleston and it was evident that the cruiser was going steadily into the harbor.
Presently those on the Charleston made out the spars of a vessel rising beyond Apapa, but, upon rounding the end of the island, the stranger proved to be a peaceful Japanese brigantine. Deprived of a fight, the cruiser’s disappointed crew eyed old Fort Santiago as the ship crept by, without the enemy revealing himself.
On again to face Fort Santa Cruz, at which the cruiser’s three-pounders barked challengingly. Twelve shots whistled over the fort without bringing a reply and so ended the only hostile act seen by Guam.
Well clear of the silent fort, which was later found to have been unoccupied, the Charleston dropped anchor, and soon boats put off from the shore, and the captain of the port, with other Spanish officers came on board. They hastened to apologize in their courtliest Spanish manner for their inability to return the American “salute,” due to lack of artillery.
“Make no mistake,” retorted Captain Glass, “I fired no salute. War exists between our countries, and those were hostile shots.” The Spaniards, stranded far away in the Pacific, had heard no news of war, and they were naturally stupefied to suddenly find themselves prisoners.
Captain Glass followed this astounding bit of news by a demand that the governor, who was at Agaña, present himself aboard the ship, and he paroled his suddenly acquired prisoners so that they could convey his message. This brought a pause in the operations; and signal was made to the transports to come in and anchor near the cruiser.
As evening approached, a note arrived from the governor, stating that the military regulations of Spain forbade his going aboard an enemy’s vessel, and that he would receive the American commander at his office. This pompous exhibition of childish inability to recognize facts made the American captain hesitate between anger and amusement, but sense of humor prevailed, and word was sent to the governor that an officer representing the American commander would call on the following day.
The next morning Lieutenant Braunersreuther went ashore with four sailors, but with two Oregon companies and fifty marines ready to follow at a moment’s notice. This force was not needed, however, for Braunersreuther put off from the shore in a very short time, with the Spanish governor and staff as prisoners in the whaleboat. Before leaving the shore, the dejected governor had sent an order to the commander of the garrison to bring his men down and surrender them—and then had penned a melancholy letter to his wife.
After the prisoners had been assigned to quarters, Captain Glass went ashore to inspect Fort Santa Cruz, and then, on the southeast corner of the terreplein, the flag was hoisted. As it climbed slowly to the top of the staff the national salute crashed out from the guns of the cruiser, and the hills echoed the national anthem played by the bands on the troopships.
This ceremony ended, the practical work which the flag symbolized was soon completed. At four o’clock the two companies, one of Spanish regular infantry and one of native Chamorros, came down to the water front, where Lieutenant Braunersreuther, backed by a party of bluejackets and forty marines, received the surrender. The regulars were taken on board the ships as prisoners, and the Chamorros, overjoyed at the overthrow of Spain, were left behind.
The little play, in which comedy and tragedy had mingled closely, was over. The moss-grown, picturesque old Spanish forts, the slender garrison, and the whole civil government of Spain had passed into the hands of the United States.
There were scenes which seemed to recall the fantastic conceptions of comic opera, and brought only laughter to the onlookers. Yet behind the absurdity was the pathos of the helpless Spaniards, and the stem, historic fact thalt the first possession in the Pacific which Magellan had given to the Spain that dominated and frightened all Europe, had passed away forever from the Spain which had ceased to rule.
On June 22, the Charleston put to sea again, followed by the transports, and in the early afternoon of June 28, they were off Cape Engaño where they were joined by the Baltimore which had been sent out to meet them. Two days more and they were running into Manila Bay. Support had come at last, and Dewey had a new cruiser and troops of the United States at his back.
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In the conduct of naval war all operations will be found to relate to two broad classes of object. The one is to obtain or dispute the command of the sea, and the other to exercise such control of communications as we have, whether the complete command has been secured or not.—Corbett.