The ship carried eight eight-inch guns which sounded impressive, but they were not in good shape and he wondered if they would even fire. No one seemed to know when they were last used. It came as no surprise to find that the ammunition was of poor quality as well.
At just over three thousand tons, the Aragon was the largest Spanish ship in the small squadron. As a result, she was the flagship. She was half the size of the larger American warships and totally outgunned. A battle would result in a slaughter. Even so, the newly appointed captain had just finished haranguing the crew on the virtues of dying well. At least that’s what Torres thought of the speech. He said they would fight the Yankees for the glory of Spain. The previous captain had claimed he was too ill to make the escape from Havana. Torres thought their flight at night from Havana was cowardly and stupid. They had no place to go and were short on food and water as well as fuel and ammunition.
Nor could they scuttle their ships and try to make it on foot to somewhere safe. There was no safe haven. Scores of rebels were visible on the shore. He could hear their jeers and curses. They would chop to pieces anyone who came ashore.
They were doomed.
The captain waved his sword. When he stopped, Torres noticed flecks of rust on the blade. “For Spain, for King Alfonso, and for Holy Mother Church. Let us go and fight and, if need be, die as heroes.”
A burly sailor stepped forward. “I do not wish to die and I certainly do not wish to die in a foolish battle that we cannot win. Today I refuse to fight.”
Several junior officers moved towards the man to arrest him, but he was quickly surrounded by a several dozen other sailors who protected and cheered him. “Surrender, surrender,” they chanted.
In seconds, the rest of the crew was chanting as well. The captain looked stricken. “We must fight for our honor. Look, the enemy is almost upon us.”
Torres looked in the direction of the approaching Americans. They were indeed much closer and forming up to run parallel to the Spanish squadron. There was a puff of smoke from the lead warship and the shell splashed well short of the Aragon. It was a literal shot across their bows. The in a very short while the Americans would commence firing for real and the slaughter would begin.
“Fuck our honor,” yelled the sailor who was the ringleader. “Take the officers.”
It happened so quickly Torres realized it must have been planned. He was grabbed and his arms pinned to his side. They took his sword and pistol.
Torres turned to the ringleader. “If you want to surrender, then someone must tell the Americans. Otherwise they will start shelling us.”
“Will you do it?” asked the ringleader, suddenly concerned that the battle might start despite his fervent wishes.
Torres shook off his captors. “You may keep the pistol, but give me back my sword. It was a gift from my mother and, besides, I may have to pretend to surrender it to the Americans.”
“Bastard, traitor,” said the captain as Torres’ sword was returned. The other officers looked away.
“He needs a swim,” laughed the ringleader. Other mutineers grabbed the captain and threw him overboard. Several other officers followed.
“Don’t let them drown,” said Torres. “We’re doing this to stop any killing.”
The sailors growled, then laughed as they pulled their bedraggled skipper and the others from the drink.
Torres gave orders to the crew to lower the colors and turn the guns either down or away from the Americans. He realized that his fate had just been decided for him. He would never be able to return to Spain. He wondered if some other Spanish speaking country in the New World could use a good naval officer.
* * *
“The Orion does not belong in a line of battle,” Janson said. “She is not a battleship. Hell, she isn’t even a real cruiser, despite what her papers say. So here we are, ready to go and fight the remnants of the Spanish navy.”
The Orion was the seventh in the line of American warships. Ahead of her were the heavy cruisers Atlanta and Chicago and four Civil War vintage steam sloops. The Atlanta was the flagship and Admiral Porter was on board her. The steam sloops were followed by a dozen auxiliary cruisers of all shapes and sizes. They were en route to the small Cuban port of Playa Colorada to the west and south of Havana. Credible intelligence said that the mere handful of Spanish ships remaining in Cuban waters were riding there at anchor. That the Spanish hadn’t steamed farther away was explained by the fact that they couldn’t get additional coal, or even wood to burn as fuel. To make matters worse, the friendly port of Santiago was out of their limited range. Playa Colorada was a day’s worth of steaming from Havana. The Spanish squadron had gone as far as it could. The dash from Havana was over.
The Spanish ships were the cruisers Aragon and Navarra and the light cruiser Velasco. Two small and useless monitors were also with the cruisers. The Spanish were heavily outgunned and outnumbered. It was rumored by some that Admiral Porter wanted to destroy them in one last and glorious fleet action, while others felt that he wanted to overawe them into surrendering. Janson and Prentice hoped that inducing them to give up was the goal. Both men had both seen enough death and destruction to last a lifetime.
“Spanish honor might demand a battle,” mused Janson, “even if it means useless bloodshed. People can get killed even in a symbolic battle.”
There would be no secret arrival for the American fleet. Black smoke from burning coal poured from their stacks, signaling their presence for many miles. The two men wondered if the Spaniards would still be at Playa Colorada or if they would have fled as far as their limited supply of fuel would take them.
Signal flags flew from the Atlanta-enemy in sight. The crew of the Orion cheered. Soon the Spanish squadron-they refused to call it a fleet-was visible. At first the enemy ships looked grim and dangerous, but Prentice and Janson quickly changed their minds. The Spanish vessels were small and as they drew closer, rust could be seen on their hulls. A sailor commented that it looked like either American capital ship could swallow the Spanish ones.
“My God,” said Prentice. “Is this the end of the Spanish Empire in North America, a handful of small and obsolete warships? Is this pitiful remnant of a navy what is left of the nation that conquered half the world and launched the Armada against England?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Janson.
As they drew closer, they could see that the ships were anchored against the Cuban shoreline. More signal from the Atlanta said the American ships were to stop and hold position just out of the range of the Spanish guns. The Atlanta fired one gun and the shell fell well short. The miss was intentional, they realized.
“What the hell is happening?” wondered Prentice. There appeared to be fighting on board the Spanish ships and they could hear small arms fire.
Janson peered through his telescope. “It looks like the crew is trying to overpower the officers. I think what we are watching is an old fashioned mutiny. If so, I’ll bet that the crew doesn’t want any more fighting, not even something symbolic.”
They continued to watch as several men were thrown overboard. “Officers, I’ll bet,” said Janson. “I hope they can swim.”