| |
| INTO the night she steamed away, | |
| While an awful silence fell; | |
| Straight for the monsters dark and grim, | |
| Glutted with shot and shell. | |
| |
| Sombre and swift and silent, | 5 |
| Scarcely a whispered breath; | |
| On, on towards Santiago, | |
| On to success or—death. | |
| |
| Grim headlands rose in the distance, | |
| Old Morro guarding the bay; | 10 |
| Waiting with limbered Hontorias, | |
| Waiting for a hated prey. | |
| |
| They sleep! Then apast the entrance | |
| Leaving a tell-tale track, | |
| Into the sharp curved channel | 15 |
| Swept the bold Merrimac. | |
| |
| “What’s that? The enemy’s picket? | |
| A launch—they see us—’tis bad! | |
| A shot—three pounder—they’re fighting, | |
| God, is the tiny thing mad?” | 20 |
| |
| Then a light flashed over the darkness, | |
| The enemy sprang to their arms; | |
| The fleet and the forts awakened, | |
| The night was rent with alarms. | |
| |
| They tried to swing her crosswise, | 25 |
| Her helm she would not obey; | |
| For the nosing, pursuing picket | |
| Had shot her rudder away! | |
| |
| Shot and shell from the fleet at anchor, | |
| Shot and shell from shore and shore; | 30 |
| Torpedoes and mines upheaving, | |
| A deafening, hellish roar; | |
| |
| A storm of iron hail shrieking, | |
| Closer the missles fell; | |
| Guns flashed, and the darkness opened | 35 |
| Like gaps in a roaring hell | |
| |
| Till it seemed as if ship and heroes | |
| Must be ground beneath the tide, | |
| But the God of War directed, | |
| And the angry shots flew wide. | 40 |
| |
| Fearlessly they worked and quickly, | |
| Teeth set and brave to a man; | |
| “On deck!” rang the clear, sharp order, | |
| “Cut loose the catamaran!” | |
| |
| And then the gallant commander, | 45 |
| When all was well with his crew, | |
| Accomplished in one hurried moment | |
| What the enemy failed to do. | |
| |
| He touched the explosives, and straightway | |
| With a hot, spasmodic breath, | 50 |
| The Merrimac heaved in the middle | |
| And sank to her glorious death. | |
| |
| A cheer went up from the Spaniards, | |
| And the firing died away; | |
| And they found eight floating heroes | 55 |
| On a raft at break of day. | |
| |
| Not a soul was harmed among them, | |
| For the God of War had planned, | |
| And the Prince of the Spanish navy | |
| Bore them in safety to land. | 60 |
| |
| Great deeds have been done in battle, | |
| Of valor there is no lack; | |
| But none have been greater, braver, | |
| Than the dash of the Merrimac. | |
| |
