"A Bursting, Rending, and Crashing Roar of Immense Volume" ~ Captain Sigsbee's account of the destruction of the USS Maine

Painting of the USS Maine from the US Naval Academy Museum collection.

On February 15, 1898, the battleship USS Maine exploded in Havana Harbor, touching off the Spanish-American War shortly thereafter. Here is an account written by Charles D. Sigsbee, the captain of the Maine who survived the destruction of his ship and later went on to become an Admiral in the United States Navy.

About an hour before the explosion I had completed a report called for by Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary of the Navy, on the advisability of continuing to place torpedo-tubes on board cruisers and battleships. I then wrote a letter home, in which I struggled to apologize for having carried in my pocket for ten months a letter to my wife from one of her friends of longstanding. The cabin mess-attendant, James Pinckney, had brought me, about an hour before, a civilian's thin coat, because of the prevailing heat. I had taken off my blouse, and was wearing this coat for the only time during the cruise.

In the pocket I had found the unopened and undelivered letter. Pinckney, a light-hearted colored man, who spent much of his spare time in singing, playing the banjo, and dancing jigs, was for some reason in an especially happy frame of mind that night. Poor fellow! He was killed, as was also good old John R. Bell, the colored cabin steward, who had been in the navy, in various ratings, for twenty-seven years.

At taps ("turn in and keep quiet"), ten minutes after nine o'clock, I laid down my pen to listen to the notes of the bugle, which were singularly beautiful in the oppressive stillness of the night. The marine bugler, Newton, who was rather given to fanciful effects, was evidently doing his best. During his pauses the echoes floated back to the ship with singular distinctness, repeating the strains of the bugle fully and exactly. A half-hour later, Newton was dead.

I was inclosing my letter in its envelop when the explosion came. The impression made on different people on board the Maine varied somewhat. To me, in my position, well aft, and within the superstructure, it was a bursting, rending, and crashing sound or roar of immense volume, largely metallic in character. It was followed by a succession of heavy, ominous, metallic sounds, probably caused by the overturning of the central superstructure and by falling debris. There was a trembling and lurching motion of the vessel, a list to port, and a movement of subsidence. The electric lights, of which there were eight in the cabin where I was sitting, went out. Then there was intense blackness and smoke.

The USS Maine explodes in Havana Harbor in this period illustration.

The situation could not be mistaken: the Maine was blown up and sinking. For a moment the instinct of self-preservation took charge of me, but this was immediately dominated by the habit of command. I went up the inclined deck into the starboard cabin, toward the starboard air ports, which were faintly relieved against the background of the sky. The sashes were out, and the openings were large. My first intention was to escape through an air-port, but this was abandoned in favor of the more dignified way of making an exit through the passageway leading forward through the superstructure. I groped my way through the cabin into the passage, and along the passage to the outer door. The passage turned to the right, or starboard, near the forward part of the superstructure.

At the turning, someone ran into me violently. I asked who it was. It was Private William Anthony, the orderly at the cabin door. He said something apologetic, and reported that the ship had been blown up and was sinking. He was directed to go out on the quarter-deck, and I followed him. Anthony has been pictured as making an exceedingly formal salute on that occasion. The dramatic effect of a salute cannot add to his heroism. If he had made a salute it could not have been seen in the blackness of that compartment Anthony did his whole duty, at great personal risk, at a time when he might have evaded the danger without question, and deserved all the commendation that he received for his act. He hung near me with unflagging zeal and watchfulness that night until the ship was abandoned.

I stood for a moment on the starboard side of the main-deck, forward of the after-superstructure, looking toward the immense dark mass that loomed up amidships, but could see nothing distinctly. There I remained for a few seconds in an effort to grasp the situation, and then asked Anthony for the exact time. He replied: "The explosion took place at nine-forty, sir."

It was soon necessary to retire from the main-deck, for the after-part of the ship was sinking rapidly. I then went up on the poop-deck. By this time Lieutenant-Commander Wainwright and others were near me. Everybody was impressed by the solemnity of the disaster, but there was no excitement apparent; perfect discipline prevailed.

The question of what destroyed the Maine — whether it was an external mine or sabotage by the Spanish, or a accidental internal explosion — has been a matter of debate for over a century with researchers reaching different conclusions. Here is Captain Sigsbee's view:

The question has been asked many times if I believed then that the Maine was blown up from the outside. My answer to this has been that my first order on reaching the deck was to post sentries about the ship. I knew that the Maine had been blown up, and believed that she had been blown up from the outside. Therefore I ordered a measure which was intended to guard against attack. There was no need for the order, but I am writing of first impressions. There was the sound of many voices from the shore, suggestive of cheers....

When trying to organize damage-control, Sigsbee soon understood that his ship was lost and that many of his men had perished in the blast:

...We then began to realize more clearly the full extent of the damage. One of the smoke-stacks was lying in the water on the starboard side. Although it was almost directly under me, I had not at first identified it. As my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, I could see, dimly, white forms on the water, and hear faint cries for help. Realizing that the white forms were our own men, boats were lowered at once and sent to the assistance of the injured and drowning men. Orders were given, but they were hardly necessary: the resourceful intelligence of the officers suggested correct measures in the emergency....

...Those of us who were left on board remained quietly on the poop-deck. Nothing further could be done; the ship was settling rapidly. There was one wounded man on the poop; he had been hauled from under a ventilator on the main-deck by Lieutenants Hood and Blandin just as the water was rising over him. Other boats, too, were rescuing the wounded and drowning men. Chief among them were the boats from the Alfonso XII, and from the steamer City of Washington. The visiting boats had arrived promptly, and were unsparing of effort in saving the wounded. The Spanish officers and crew did all that humanity and gallantry could compass.

A model of the USS Maine from the collection of the US Naval Academy Museum.

Realizing that nothing further could be done to save his stricken vessel, Captain Sigsbee reluctantly abandoned his ship.

It was a hard blow to be obliged to leave the Maine; none of us desired to leave while any part of her poop remained above water. We waited until satisfied that she was resting on the bottom of the harbor. Lieutenant-Commander Wainwright then whispered to me that he thought the forward ten-inch magazine had been thrown up into the burning material amidships and might explode at any time, with further disastrous effects. He was then directed to get everybody into the boats, which was done....I suggested the propriety of my being the last to leave, and requested them to precede me, which they did....

...The fine conduct of those who came under my observation that night was conspicuous and touching. The heroism of the wounded men I did not see at the time, but afterward good reports of their behavior were very common. The patient way in which they bore themselves left no doubt that they added new honors to the service when the Maine went down. [Taken from, The Maine: An Account of Her Destruction in Havana Harbor by Captain Charles D. Sigsbee, pages 62-73]

The destruction of the Maine was seized upon in the the American press as a cause célèbre provoking the nation toward a war with Spain. Signals soon went out to US forces overseas, encouraging them to be on high alert. Here is an excerpt from Three Years Behind the Guns, the memoir of John Tisdale, a sailor aboard USS Olympia, flagship of the US Asiatic Fleet. In it, Tisdale relates the reaction of the crew when news of the destruction of the Maine was received:

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What a change! Two weeks after writing the above, weary of waiting for the Baltimore, we were returning to Kau-lung to make ready for our home-going. No sooner were we sighted at Hong Kong than every flag in Victoria dropped to half-mast. A signal was given us and we read in consternation: ''United States Battleship 'Maine' was blown up in Havana Harbor on February 15, and 266 men killed."

Before we were at full anchor the American consul was aboard, and the general belief is that the destruction of the Maine was the result of Spanish treachery. Nothing authentic nor authoritative has been given out, but I noticed the governor of Hong Kong waived the salute, and that we are not doing any target practice; in other words, we appear to be husbanding our ammunition.

The little commodore [that is, George Dewey] has taken matters in hand; he has called all of our squadron to meet here in Hong-Kong. He has also bought two ships, which he has provisioned and coaled. As fast as they come in, our ships are run on to the docks and made ready. Should war be declared between the United States and Spain, England, China, and Japan will be neutral, which means we shall be without a berth, our nearest being San Francisco, unless we should go out and capture the Hawaiian Islands, a trick which even for our little Petrel would be "like taking candy from the baby."

Olympia would then sail for Manila Bay and into history. For accounts of what happened next, see:

• Prelude to the Battle of Manila Bay -- Late April, 1898
• "Open with all guns." The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

Prelude to the Battle of Manila Bay -- Late April, 1898

Dewey's flagship Olympia in Hong Kong, painted gray and ready for battle.

This week less 120 years, the protected cruiser USS Olympia was in Hong Kong. The crew was on tenterhooks waiting for word that war had been declared between the United States and Spain. Once that happened, England, China and Japan would become neutral, thus denying Olympia and her squadron a friendly port nearer than San Francisco.

As it happened, when war was declared, Olympia would sail for an unfriendly port -- Manila in the Philippines -- which for nearly 400 years had been a colony of Spain. While waiting in Hong Kong, Commodore Dewey wasted no time preparing his ships for the expected order to sail in battle array.

Following is an excerpt from the memoir Three Years Behind the Guns, which gives the sailor's point of view of the impending clash:

The little commodore has kept us jumping, and we are ready for whatever may come, and already the men are shouting, "Remember the Maine!"

One morning I saw the ship s painter come out from the commodore s cabin, carrying a long, three-inch wide board painted in various shades of neutral greens or grays. When I asked him what they were for, his answer was both unsatisfactory and inelegant, but the following morning at breakfast the uniform announced throughout the squadron was "old working clothes" and then the boatswain piped, "A-l-1 h-a-n-d-s paint ship."

That was on the morning of April 19. By noon ships, masts, boats, launches, guns, and everything, had been treated to a coat of "war paint," which, in the United States navy, is dark gray. Unless one has witnessed the painting of a man-of-war it is difficult to imagine how quickly it can be done. There are barrels of paint all mixed and ready before the order is given, and in ten minutes after, the ship is literally manned with painters. The last painting has transformed our beautiful squadron which had gathered together like a flock of white swans wearing red favors, into a flock of ugly ducklings sulking upon the water; everything save our spirits and our flags were the color of lead.

As soon as the Baltimore reaches Yokohama she will hear the news and hasten to us, and then?

She came in early one morning, was rushed through coaling and painting, and at the request of the governor of Hong-Kong, all hands together sailed away while the men on England's war-ships cheered us as we passed them.

We are cut off from everybody, aliens in a foreign country, but it can't last long. There is going to be something doing.

It was past noon on the twenty-seventh [of April] when our fleet, nine ships all in battle array, was sailing to sea under sealed orders, and with nine crews bursting with expectancy. At five o clock the Olympia's crew was piped to quarters, where we listened to the reading of the following:

COMMODORE DEWEY:

Proceed at once to Manila; engage and destroy the Spanish fleet, when and where you find them.

WM. McKINLEY, President, United States of America.

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We went mad with joy. The news was signaled from ship to ship, and before we turned in that night a new battle-flag was begun and finished. The placing of the stars proved that we had a representative from each State in the Union. I wrote California and my name on the back of one and sewed it on.

But there was more to do than just the making of flags. Next morning the order: "Clear for action" was given in earnest, and things we never thought we could exist without went over board.

From the Chinese-Japanese war we learned that more men were killed by splinters than by shell, and it was rumored the diddy-box must go, but the little Commodore, with the fate of a nation fluttering in his hand, came to our rescue. He said it would be an outrage to take from a man the only thing the Navy allowed him to hold sacred, and he asked that we be permitted to stow them below the protective decks so, here you go! Good-by, Diddy, until until we meet again.

What happened thereafter may be read here: "Open with all guns!" The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898. If you would prefer a reading of John Tisdale's account from Three Years Behind the Guns, check out this video:

USS Baltimore heading for home from Yokohama in 1895.

USS Baltimore flying the "Homeward Bounder" from the
foremast from Three Years Behind the Guns.

For Thanksgiving, here is an excerpt from the excellent memoir of US navy life near the turn of the 20th century, Three Years Behind the Guns. In this passage, we catch a glimpse of how landsman John B. Tisdale spent his first holidays abroad aboard USS Olympia. There is a tinge of melancholy to his words as he and his fellows watch the joyous departure of their companion, USS Baltimore, from Yokohama, flying the "homeward bounder." 

While reading, we should spare a prayer for our good and honorable service men who are spending this Thanksgiving encamped in hostile lands. May all of them be protected by the hand of Almighty God and brought safely home to their loved ones in America.

All night long, unceasingly, in feathery flakes the snow had fallen. At daybreak I should have thought the magic of the night had transplanted us to the Arctic, only there was the undeniable outline of the sacred mountain. It seemed that the old volcano had belched in the night, for the white of his crest had run down over his sides even to the water edge, while on the shore not a red tile remained. The steps of the hettabas and the roofs of our turrets were alike upholstered in ermine. From sky to sea it was one great undulating drift of snow. Specks of emerald breaking through told where the dwarf pines were buried, while streaks of crimson and gold pricked out the outline of temple and towers. I had never thought to realize the beauty of Bret Harte's snow picture in "The Outcasts of Poker Flat"—I cannot write about it; but I have seen snow.

The crisp air is invigorating, but the shoveling of snow from the decks has a tendency to take the poetry out of things, and I am bothered about the poor naked devils who live on the water. How is a handful of charcoal burning in a tea cup going to keep them from freezing to death?  

"When Music, heavenly maid, was young," she took no more joy into early Greece than the brass band that came with other belongings of a flagship, to us from the Baltimore. It plays twice a day, and in the evening it is a full orchestra, to whose strains we while away the dog watch in waltz, hornpipe, or cake walk, as the tune invites.

Last Thursday, November 28, was Thanksgiving. We had turkey on board and behaved like the Americans that we are.  

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Yesterday, the Baltimore signaled to us for permission to get under way. Granted the bo's'n piped, "A-l-l  h-a-n-d-s on deck to cheer ship!" From the captain and the bandmaster, down we came. The Jackies on both ships stood on the rails or went into the rigging. From the main truck of the Baltimore streamed a "homeward bounder." It is a pennant two hundred and fifty feet long. At its tip a bladder is attached to keep it afloat when it dips to the sea. The homeward bounder has its superstitions too sacred to write, but it is the talisman that will carry the ship through wind and storm until "Safe, safe, at last, the harbor passed," she will anchor in San Francisco Bay. 

I do not quite retain the picture, for "Auld Lang Syne" from the quarter deck sounded so startlingly new to me that everything else became subdued to my wondering where and when I had ever heard it before. But my memory could muster nothing but my first night in a little white alcove, where I cried myself to sleep after mother had left me at Tyler Hall, and when the last note of the blessed song climbed the masts and the Baltimore rode alongside, the band struck up "Home Sweet Home." It was a signal for every man on the Baltimore. Their cheering drowned every other sound, while, from excess of joy, they swung their caps and threw them overboard. It was said that the bay was blue with them. I do not know. There was a mist came in just then, that made everything uncertain except that the men of the Baltimore were going home, while we are anchored here for three long, long years.

If you enjoy antique seafaring lore with a sense of humor, order a copy of Three Years Behind the Guns. It's a fun, entertaining read for powder monkeys and old sea dogs alike.

Three Years Behind the Guns of USFS Olympia

I am happy to present the preface for a brand new edition of the classic Three Years Behind the Guns. Originally published in 1908, this book is a gritty, rambunctious memoir describing a young sailor's life aboard USFS Olympia from 1895 through 1898, including his first-hand account of the battle of Manila Bay.

The book is a treasure, and anyone with an interest in naval history in general, or the museum ship Olympia in particular, should read it. The publisher is donating part of the proceeds to the upkeep of the ship.

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Click here for more info. 

May 1, 1898 is often cited as the exact date when the United States of America transformed from a relatively minor regional power, to a bona fide player on the world stage. On that day, the U.S. Asiatic Squadron under Commodore George Dewey in his flagship Olympia, utterly crushed the fleet of the fast-fading Spanish empire at Manila Bay in the Philippines.

Though it was penned during these heady days, Three Years Behind the Guns is not so much a chronicle of this turning point in history, as it is the unique perspective of one young sailor on the events leading up to it. It is a pithy memoir of life aboard a man-o’-war as the age of “wooden ships and iron men” was giving way to the era of big guns, heavy steel, and high speed. Of these new ships, the protected cruiser Olympia was both a prototype and an outstanding example. Though our author is the main character of this memoir, U.S.F.S. Olympia is the leading lady.

Little is known about the author of Three Years Behind the Guns. On the earliest editions of the book, he is listed cryptically as “L. G. T.” In later editions, he is identified as “Lieu Tisdale.” A check of Olympia’s crew roster at Manila Bay, however, reveals no one of that precise name. Instead, there is a listing for “John B. Tisdale, Landsman.” This is probably our fellow, given that within the book itself, he is addressed on numerous occasions as “Jack” by his shipmates, a Japanese girl, and even by himself while soliloquizing. The reason he chose to publish the book anonymously is unknown. [Olympia's crew roster at Manila Bay may be found here.]

Since the days of Ulysses, sailors have been known for their tall-tales, and our Jack is no exception. His numerous anecdotes sparkle with wit and verve, even when they sound suspiciously apocryphal. The reader will find literal fish-stories here—such as when Jack captures a two-foot-long flying fish on the deck or when a shipmate nearly loses a toe while doing some illicit angling. But there are also descriptions of more somber events that are easily verified by outside sources, such as the death Coxswain John Johnson who was killed during gunnery practice, and the wreck of the steamer On-Wo with the loss of 255 passengers and crew. Jack and his Olympian crewmates pulled 38 survivors from the water and were commended for their efforts.

Olympia in a typhoon.

Perhaps the most impressive thumbs-up for the memoir’s authenticity comes from none other than Admiral Dewey himself, the hero of Manila Bay. In an antique advertisement, the admiral provides a generous endorsement of the book, saying: “Many of my friends and I have read it with the greatest interest. I can vouch for many of the facts; and the description of the Battle of Manila Bay is one of the best I have ever seen published. The type and active life of our American seamen is well and interestingly portrayed, and the book is well worth the attention of both young and old.”

When originally published in 1908—ten years after the battle—Jack’s anonymous memoir met with critical acclaim. The New York Times called it: “An intimate record of life aboard an American man-of-war, and is written with such detail, vivacity, and the knack for vivid expression that it keeps one turning pages until the last one is reached. This Jackie has keen eyes and quick ears, and can put the things he saw and thought about into particularly vigorous English.”

The New York Observer added: “Though sufficiently simple and direct in style to hold the interest of the young reader, this book will be found by grown-ups to be absorbing as a novel.”

When first published, the book was billed as a behind-the-scenes look at life aboard a modern American warship at a time when the U.S. was building giant dreadnought battleships by the dozen and recruiting thousands of young fellows to man them. But time and technology were flying by and within another decade, the catastrophe of the Great War had thrown into eclipse the comparatively minor incident of the Spanish-American War. The subsequent epic struggle of World War II with its colossal ships, ocean-spanning battles and city-shattering weaponry made Dewey’s victory at Manila Bay seem as ancient and obscure as Trafalgar or Salamis.

I believe that the modern reader, particularly the student of history, will find Three Years Behind the Guns even more captivating than the reader of 110 years ago. For young readers of today whose grandparents were born during the 1950s, reading about life aboard a warship from the 1890s is like a visit to an old Victorian mansion. If you’ve toured Dewey’s Olympia in Philadelphia where she exists to this day, you know that is a literal truth. The lovely dark wood paneling and antique furniture in the officers’ quarters contrasts sharply with the painted steel and spartan decks of the crew areas, and the grime and oppressive atmosphere of the engineering spaces. This is the scene where the authentic “steam punk” of Tisdale’s story plays out, complete with coming-of-age hijinks, grinding machinery, clouds of black smoke and moments of sad contemplation.

Like Olympia herself, Three Years Behind the Guns is a hybrid—part solid fact, part work of art. Both ship and book are unique historical artifacts of a bygone era, which is one of the reasons why a portion of the sales of this book will be donated to the continuing upkeep of U.S.F.S. Olympia and her steward, the Independence Seaport Museum in Philadelphia. Such beautiful mementos deserve to be maintained if for no other reason than as concrete reminders of how we got here.

A sailor on board Olympia.

This new edition of this classic work will be published in a format that is easily accessible for modern readers. The text is practically untouched from the original. Jack’s unique voice and witty observations come through loud and clear as they did over a century before. His vivid account breathes life into Olympia which he knew not as a retired museum ship, but as the powerful, hardy seahawk that she was in her prime. “The flag-ship is a thing alive,” he wrote. “It has parts and being. We have heard it breathe, and who will question that in Captain Reed, it has both brain and soul?” 

Tisdale originally dedicated Three Years Behind the Guns to “every man who has walked the decks of a man-of-war.” This new edition should be dedicated in particular to the repose of the soul of John B. Tisdale. He was a man who not only walked the decks, but who recorded his impressions with such trenchant good humor and eloquent detail, that people a century and more afterwards might feel as if they are walking along right beside him.

Indeed, if you every find yourself aboard Olympia, go and look for him. You may glimpse his shade still standing faithfully at his post—behind the guns.

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To pre-order Three Years Behind the Guns on Amazon.com (due to publish, July 28, 2017), click here.

What's new is old again ~ The USS Olympia in black and white

Last Friday, I took the family on a tour of the cruiser USS Olympia, Dewey's famous flagship from Manila Bay, which is now a museum ship at the Independence Seaport Museum in Philadelphia. While there, I assigned my 11 year-old son the duties of official trip photographer. Well, the kid's got a bit of an artistic bone, so I was surprised (but at the same time, not surprised) to find out that he took nearly all of the photos in black and white. Here are the results:

(Click any of the photos to enlarge.)

Inside Olympia's wheel house on the bridge deck. Beautifully restored.

A view of one of Olympia's vertical triple expansion coal-fired steam engines.
State-of-the-art for 1893 and authentic steam-punk.

Olympia's bell, behind the forward funnel. 

One of Olympia's Hotchkiss 6-pounders. With the casemates open, you get
a nice view of the battleship USS New Jersey across the Delaware River.

View over the bow from Olympia's bridge deck. This is approximately the view
Dewey would have had while commanding the US Asiatic fleet at Manila Bay
on May 1, 1898. Ahead may be seen the Moshulu, a floating restaurant. Directly
below is the armored conning tower, and forward of that are the mocked-up
8-inch main guns. The original guns were removed in 1916 and replaced
with open gun platforms. The mock-ups were put into place when Olympia
was made into a museum.

An older photo from my collection showing the Olympia as she looked in 2011,
turned black and white to match the rest. The bow of the submarine USS Becuna
is also visible at left.

If you've never visited Olympia, I highly recommend it. The tour is a bit like visiting a floating Victorian mansion with heavy guns. For the price of admission, you also get access to the submarine USS Becuna, and the rest of the Independence Seaport Museum as well. This is an amazing lesson in US maritime history and is well worth the trip and the price of admission. My kids have gone multiple times and find something new every time. Come on down and check it out!

"Open with all guns." The Battle of Manila Bay, May 1, 1898

USS Olympia leading the way at Manila Bay.

Almost completely forgotten by average Americans today, Commodore Dewey's smashing victory at the Battle of Manila Bay was, for a short time, a sensation which commanded the attention of the entire nation. It transformed Dewey from an unknown naval officer into one of the all-time American heroes, elevating to legendary status his famous command, "You may fire when ready, Gridley."

In another previous post, we looked at some of the events leading up to the battle from a sailor's point of view aboard the USS Olympia taken from the classic memoir, Three Years Behind the Guns by John Tisdale. Now, on the anniversary of this first battle of the Spanish-American War, I offer the following account from an unnamed eye-witness which was cabled to America about a week after the action. Though modern historians are quick to dismiss the Battle of Manila Bay as a very one-sided, almost pre-determined affair, it is well to remember that Dewey could very easily have lost the day if his handling of the fleet had been less than expert or if luck had not been with him...

Not one Spanish flag flies in Manila Bay to-day. Not one Spanish war-ship floats as our prize.

More than two hundred Spanish dead and five hundred to seven hundred wounded attest to the accuracy of the American fire. 

Commodore Dewey attacked the Spanish position at Cavite this morning. He swept five times along the line and scored one of the most brilliant successes in modern warfare.

That our loss is trifling adds to the pleasure of victory without detracting from its value. The number of hits our vessels received proved how brave and stubborn was the defense made by the Spanish forces. 

Miraculous as it may appear, not one of our men was killed, and only eight were wounded. Those who were wounded suffered only slight injuries.

Commodore Dewey arrived off Manila Bay last night and decided to enter the bay at once. With all its lights out the squadron steamed into Boca Grande, with crews at the guns. This was the order of the squadron, which was kept during the whole time of the first battle: — The flagship Olympia, Baltimore, Raleigh, Petrel, Concord, Boston. 

The flagship passed Corregidor Island without a sign being given that the Spaniards were aware of its approach. Not until the flagship was a mile beyond the Corregidor was a gun tired. Then one heavy shot went screaming over the Raleigh and the Olympia, followed by a second, which fell further astern. The Raleigh, the Concord, and the Boston replied, the Concord's shells exploding apparently exactly inside the shore battery, which fired no more. 

Our squadron slowed down to barely steerage way and the men were allowed to sleep alongside their guns. Commodore Dewey had timed our arrival so that we were within five miles of the city of Manila at daybreak. 

We then sighted the Spanish squadron, Rear-Admiral Montojo commanding, off Cavite. Here the Spaniards had a well-equipped navy yard called Cavite Arsenal. Admiral Montojo's flag was flying on the 3,500-ton protected cruiser Reina Christina. The protected Castilia, of 3,200 tons, was moored ahead, and astern to the port battery, and to seaward were the cruisers Don Juan de Austria, Don Antonio de Ulloa, Isla de Cuba, Isla de Luzon, El Correo, Marques del Duero, and General Lezo. These ships and the flagship remained under way during most of the action.

 
Click here for a short video of another eyewitness account of the battle.

With the United States flag flying at all their mastheads, our ships moved to the attack in line ahead, with the speed of eight knots, first passing in front of Manila, where the action was begun by three batteries mounting guns powerful enough to send a shell over us at a distance of five miles. The Concord's guns boomed out a reply to these batteries with two shots. No more were fired, because Commodore Dewey could not engage with these batteries without sending death and destruction into the crowded city. 

As we neared Cavite two very powerful submarine mines were exploded ahead of the flagship. This was at six minutes past five o'clock. The Spaniards evidently had misjudged our position. Immense volumes of water were thrown high in the air by these destroyers, but no harm was done to our ships. Commodore Dewey had fought with Farragut at New Orleans and Mobile Bay, where he had his first experience with torpedoes. Not knowing how many more mines there might be ahead, he still kept on without faltering. No other mines exploded, however, and it is believed that the Spaniards had only these two in place.

Only a few minutes later the shore battery at Cavite Point sent over the flagship a shot that nearly hit the battery in Manila, but soon the guns got a better range, and the shells began to strike near us or burst close aboard from both the batteries and the Spanish vessels. The heat was intense. Men stripped off all clothing except their trousers. 

As the Olympia drew nearer all was silent on board as if the ship had been empty, except for the whirr of blowers and the throb of engines. Suddenly a shell burst directly over us. From the boatswain's mate at the after 5-inch gun came a hoarse cry. "Remember The Maine!" arose from the throats of five hundred men at the guns. This watchword, was caught up in turrets and firerooms, wherever seaman or fireman stood at his post. "Remember the Maine!" had rung out for defiance and revenge. Its utterance seemed unpremeditated, but was evidently in every man's mind, and now that the moment had come to make adequate reply to the murder of the Maine's crew, every man shouted what was in his heart.

Olympia cleared for action at Manila Bay.
From the Independence Seaport Museum's archives. 

The Olympia was now ready to begin the fight. Commodore Dewey, his chief of staff, Commander Lamberton, an aid and myself, with Executive Officer Lieutenant Rees and Navigator Lieutenant Calkins, who conned ship most admirably, were on the forward bridge. Captain Gridley was in the conning tower, as it was thought unsafe to risk losing all the senior oflicers by one shell.

"You may fire when ready. Gridley," said the Commodore, and at nineteen minutes of six o'clock, at a distance of 5,500 yards, the starboard 8-inch gun in the forward turret roared forth a compliment to the Spanish forts. 

Presently similar guns from the Baltimore and the Boston sent 250-pound shells hurtling toward the Castilla, and the Reina Christina. 

The Spaniards seemed encouraged to fire faster, knowing exactly our distance, while we had to guess theirs. Their ships and shore guns were making things hot for us. The piercing scream of shot was varied often by the bursting of time fuse shells, fragments of which would lash the water like shrapnel or cut our hull and rigging. One large shell that was coming straight at the Olympia's forward bridge fortunately fell within less than one hundred feet away. One fragment cut the rigging exactly over the heads of Lamberton, Rees, and myself. Another struck the bridge gratings in line with it. A third passed just under Commodore Dewey and gouged a hole in the deck. Incidents like these were plentiful. 

John Tisdale's classic account of life
aboard USS Olympia before, during
and after the Battle of Manila Bay.

Our men naturally chafed at being exposed without returning fire from all our guns, but laughed at danger and chatted good-humoredly. A few nervous fellows could not help dodging mechanically when shells would burst right over them or close board, or would strike the water and pass overhead, with the peculiar spluttering roar made by a tumbling rifled projectile. Still the flagship steered for the center of the Spanish line, and, as our other ships were astern, the Olympia received most of the Spaniards' attention. 

"Open with all guns," said Dewey, and the ship brought her port broadside bearing. The roar of all the flagship's 5-inch rapid firers was followed by the deep diapason of her after-turret 8-inchers. Soon other vessels were equally hard at work, and we could see that our shells were making Cavite harbor hotter for the Spaniards than they had made the approach for us. 

Protected by their shore batteries and made safe from close attack by shallow water, the Spaniards were in a strong position. They put up a gallant fight. The Spanish ships were sailing back and forth behind the Castilla, and their fire, too, was hot. One shot struck the Baltimore and passed clean through her, fortunately hitting no one. Another ripped up her main deck, disabled a 6-inch gun, and exploded a box of 3-pounder ammunition, wounding eight men.

The Olympia was struck abreast the gun in the wardroom by a shell which burst outside, doing little damage. The signal halyards were cut from Lieutenant Brumby's hand on the after bridge. 

A shell entered the Boston's port quarter and burst in Ensign Dodridge's stateroom, starting a hot fire, and fire was also caused by a shell which burst in the port hammock netting. Both these fires were quickly put out. Another shell passed through the Boston's foremast just in front of Captain Wildes, on the bridge.

After having made four runs along the Spanish line, finding the chart incorrect, Lieutenant Calkins, the Olympia's navigator, told the Commodore he believed he could take the ship nearer the enemy, with lead going to watch the depth of water. The flagship started over the course for the fifth time, running within two thousand yards of the Spanish vessels. At this range even 6-pounders were effective, and the storm of shells poured upon the unfortunate Spanish began to show marked results. 

Three of the enemy's vessels were seen burning and their fire slackened. On finishing this run Commodore Dewey decided to give the men breakfast, as they had been at the guns two hours with only one cup of coffee to sustain them. Action ceased temporarily at twenty-five minutes of eight o'clock, the other ships passing the flagship and the men cheering lustily. 

Our ships remained beyond range of the enemy's guns until ten minutes of eleven o'clock, when the signal for close action again went up. The Baltimore had the place of honor in the lead, with the flagship following and the other ships as before. The Baltimore began firing at the Spanish ships and batteries at sixteen minutes past eleven o'clock, making a series of hits as if at target practice. 

The Spaniards replied very slowly, and the Commodore signaled the Raleigh, the Boston, the Concord, and the Petrel to go into the inner harbor and destroy all the enemy's ships. By her light draught the little Petrel was enabled to move within one thousand yards. Here, firing swiftly, but accurately, she commanded everything still flying the Spanish flag. Other ships were also doing their whole duty, and soon not one red and yellow ensign remained aloft, except on a battery up the coast. 

The Spanish flagship and the Castilla had long been burning fiercely, and the last vessel to be abandoned was the Don Antonio de Ulloa, which lurched over and sank. Then the Spanish flag on the arsenal staff was hauled down, and at half-past twelve o'clock a white flag was hoisted there. 

Signal was made to the Petrel to destroy all the vessels in the inner harbor, and Lieutenant Hughes, with an armed boat's crew, set fire to the Don Juan de Austria, Marques del Duero, the Isla de Cuba, and the El Correo. The large transport Manila and many tug boats and small craft fell into our hands.

"Capture or destroy Spanish squadron," were Dewey's orders. Never were instructions more effectually carried out. Within seven hours after arriving on the scene of action nothing remained to be done. 

Taken from The Life and Letters of Admiral Dewey, 1899.

Following the battle and the triumphant end of the war a mere three months later, the country was in the mood to celebrate its newfound status as a world power. On September 29, 1899, Dewey and his flagship, Olympia, were fêted in New York along with other heavy units of the fleet. Here is some amazing very early motion picture footage of the event, showing Olympia sailing up the Hudson River, firing salutes as she goes.

We are fortunate that Dewey's flagship Olympia is still around and available for tours at the Independence Seaport Museum in Philadelphia. If you've never visited, it's well worth the trip and will be a learning experience to boot. She's a beautiful old ship and he only survivor of America's first steel navy.

USS Olympia as she appears today in Philadelphia.