Spanish intelligence also said that the American warship, the Chicago, had been sufficiently repaired to enable her to join the Atlanta in blockading Havana. If the remnants of the Spanish fleet were to escape, it had to be soon. Thus, he’d been given the extremely temporary rank of commodore and would lead a dozen armed merchantmen out in an attack designed to distract the Atlanta and other ships while the Spanish cruisers escaped to the high seas where they could commence terrorizing American merchant ships. As commerce raiders, it was believed that they could cause damage far beyond their size.
He wished for a cloudier night, but it wasn’t granted. There were gaps in the clouds where stars could be seen twinkling and providing visibility for the Americans. At least the moon wasn’t full. He hoped it was dark enough for him to succeed in his purpose. With his cruiser in the lead, the Spanish decoy fleet steamed out and, as soon as they were close enough to the Americans to be seen, they opened fire with their smaller guns. The Americans immediately went to battle stations while the decoys charged bravely towards them. Cisneros could only hope that the three lager cruisers, the Aragon, Castile, and Velasco, were escaping during the confusion he hoped he was creating. Some of his ships would die and he prayed that their deaths would not be in vain.
They were soon within range of the Americans and the enemy gunnery began to tell. One of the decoys was quickly set on fire and sinking, while another was dead in the water. An American gun fired a shell that landed within feet of the Duero, raising a geyser of water and splashing a torrent of spray and shell fragments on her deck. A couple of his men were down. Enough, Cisneros thought, and gave the order to withdraw. They’d had their moment of glory.
He smiled. Even if the Spanish warships hadn’t gotten away, it had been extremely pleasant to yank on Uncle Sam’s beard. Indeed, it looked like the American ships were all steaming west, doubtless chasing the Spanish squadron that they’d belatedly spotted. He hoped his compatriots got away. It was all in God’s hands.
Wait. There was a strange ship in view and approaching. It was almost within range. Better, it was not very large and, since he knew all of the Spanish warships, it had to be an American. They would not have to skulk back to Havana after only a pretense at battle.
A moment later and his three guns opened fire on the mystery ship.
* * *
Captain Blondell was aghast. The night was ablaze with cannon fire. It looked like he had taken the Dolphin into a major battle. Cannon were firing in all directions and it was clear that the Spanish fleet was trying to sortie from Havana.
As Custer had ordered, he’d brought the Dolphin towards the blockading Americans and without any attempt at subterfuge. Against his better judgment, ships lights were on and horns blared. When the battle began, he was only a mile or two away from the Atlanta and the others. When the firing began, he darkened the ship and prudently took it away. He did not want to be confused with a Spaniard. Even Custer, a man he was firmly convinced was a fool, concurred. In fact, he seemed shaken by the sudden turn of events.
Suddenly, the dark shape of another ship was visible only a couple of hundred yards away. Where the devil had that ship come from, he wondered. Before he could answer his own question, the other ship opened fire. A shell ripped into the forward hull of the Dolphin, filling the air with splinters that cut down several of his crew, leaving them as bloody ruins on the deck. A second shot again hulled her and she began to list almost immediately. The converted yacht didn’t stand a chance against her unknown and far stronger attacker. When a third shell ripped into her, Blondell screamed the order to abandon ship. He didn’t know who the mystery ship was or whether she was Spanish or American. He only knew that the ass of a President of the United States was about to get him and everyone else on the Dolphin killed if he didn’t act quickly.
Fires had begun on his first and doubtless only command. Blondell hoped that his tormenter could see that he was abandoning her and no longer represented a threat. If she ever had been, he thought angrily.
Blondell made sure everyone alive was off the ship before climbing down the short distance to a lifeboat. It was jammed with men and he sniffed when he saw that George Armstrong Custer was one of them. Idiot, he thought. Why the devil hadn’t he been among the dead?
“What now, Captain Blondell?’ Custer asked.
I think I’ll throw you overboard, that’s what’s now, Blondell thought. “What we are going to do, President Custer, is float around until dawn and then hope and pray that we are found by an American ship and not by a Spaniard.
* * *
With the sea largely illuminated by the false dawn, Cisneros was able to see that the American warships had departed. He concluded that they were doubtless chasing the Spanish cruisers that were trying desperately to escape. The Americans had positioned their ships to prevent an escape to the east, towards Matanzas, where they might bombard the army. This left an opportunity to race west and possibly escape by hiding in the many coves and inlets that nature had carved out of the Cuban shore.
The light also showed the wreckage of several of his ad hoc flotilla that hadn’t made it back to Havana. With the Yanks gone, Cisneros determined to search for survivors and rescue them before the sharks could assault them. He felt it was the least he could do for the brave souls he’d had the honor to lead.
Floating debris was plentiful, as were the pitiful remains of some of his little flotilla’s sailors. He was just about to return to Havana when a lookout spied what looked like two lifeboats lashed together and riding low in the water. They steamed slowly and carefully in that direction. They were farther from shore than Cisneros would have liked and, even though none of the American warships were currently in view, they could return at any time.
Fortune smiled on him and the men in the boats. Better, as he pulled the Duero alongside, he could see that the dozen men staring at him with expressions ranging between apathy, fear, and anger, were all Americans. He exulted. This meant that the fighting hadn’t been all one-sided. A scout ship from Havana told him he’d already been commended for his brave efforts in attacking the American fleet, and now he’d be bringing in a handful of American prisoners. Quite likely the Americans had come from that ship he had fired on during the night. Perhaps another commendation would be in order and, just perhaps, another promotion would no longer be such an impossibility.
The Americans were pulled out of their floundering boats and, while armed guards watched, their hands and feet were bound. He would take no chances on their trying to take over his ship. They would fail, of course, but some of his men might die in the attempt. He had to make haste. The Americans could return at any moment. His lookouts were scanning the horizon for any telltale signs of smoke.
As they approached the entrance to Havana’s harbor and safety, Cisneros asked if any of the prisoners was the captain.
“I am, or was,” responded a plump man. “I am Commander William Blondell, captain of the United States Navy Auxiliary Cruiser Dolphin. As we are your prisoners, I would like to remind you that you are required to treat us in accordance with the Geneva Convention.”