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The Marblehead, with McCalla, was there, also the New York, the Iowa and that hero of the battle, the Oregon. The Gloucester also was there. The greatest desire naturally possessed us to hear the details of the wonderful battle in which the Cape Verde fleet was destroyed. The Gloucester's story, though we had but a few moments, was most interesting so far as we have heard.
Since then but two decorative bills of an exceptionally meritorious nature, one in favor of Captain T. deWitt Wilcox, and one in favor of Admiral B. H. McCalla, have been enacted by Congress. I thoroughly disapprove of the practice, and wanted to put an effectual stop to it.
As we rounded the long, low point on the western side of the entrance and steamed slowly into the spacious bay, a small steam-launch came puffing out to meet us, and, as soon as she was within hailing distance, an officer in the white uniform of the navy rose in the stern-sheets, put his hands to his mouth, and shouted: "Captain McCalla presents his compliments to the captain of the State of Texas, and requests that you follow me and anchor between the Marblehead and the Haitian cable-steamer."
In reply to my question whether he had any orders for us, or any suggestions to make with regard to our movements, he said that, as there seemed to be nothing for the Red Cross to do in the vicinity of Santiago, he should advise us to go to Guantanamo Bay, where Captain McCalla had opened communications with the insurgents under General Perez, and where we should probably find Cuban refugees suffering for food.
"Who was that?" he asked. "His name is McCalla," she said. "I thought you didn't want to be bothered." "But how in thunder did you get rid of him?" he demanded. "Oh, I just wouldn't let him in," she replied demurely.
On the afternoon of Tuesday, June 28, one of the small vessels of the mosquito fleet arrived from Guantanamo Bay with a letter from Captain McCalla in which he said that General Perez had furnished a pack-train and an escort for the food that the Red Cross had promised to send to the Guantanamo refugees, and that he would like to have us return there as soon as possible and land five thousand rations.
Every man on the ship was devoted to McCalla, and every gunner on board was a crack shot, because they were kept shooting at something all the time. If they couldn't find a Spanish gunboat to shoot at, they fired at floating targets.
Many of them were grossly immoral, and hated the Bible for its hostility to their evil ways. After each lecture discussion followed. But the ability of my opponents was not equal to their zeal. They were often ignorant of both sides of the question, and injured the cause they sought to aid. These lectures led to a public discussion between me and Dr. McCalla, a Presbyterian clergyman.
Long before the Spanish fleet put into the harbor of Santiago, the Marblehead was along the southern coast of Cuba, poking her nose into every inlet, cutting cables, and communicating with the Cubans. McCalla had her stripped of everything but her guns and her steering gear, and everywhere she went she became a terror to the Spaniards. She dared to go anywhere and do anything.
As I entered, Captain McCalla was telling Captain Philip, with great glee, the story of his experience off the Cuban coast between Morro Castle and Aguadores, when his vessel, the Marblehead, was suddenly attacked one night by the whole blockading fleet. "They saw a railroad-train," he said, "running along the water's edge toward Siboney, and in the darkness mistook it for a Spanish torpedo-boat.
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