from
T H E “ M A I N
E ” : A N A C C O U N T O F
H E R D E S T R
U C T I O N
1
8 9 8
––––––––––––––––– Captain Charles D. Sigsbee
–––––––––––––––––
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 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
airports, 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, some one 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 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.
I stood on the starboard side-rail of the poop and
held on to the main-rigging
in order to see over the poop-awning, which was bagged
and covered with
debris. I was still trying to take in the situation
more completely. The officers
were near me and showing a courteous recognition of my
authority and
responsibility. Directions were given in a low tone to
Executive Officer
Wainwright, who himself gave orders quietly and
directed operations. Fire
broke out in the mass amidships. Orders were given to
flood the forward
magazine, but the forward part of the ship was found
to be under water. Inquiry
as to the after-magazines and the guncotton magazine
in the after-part of the
ship showed a like condition of those compartments, as
reported by those who
had escaped from the ward-room and junior officers’
quarters. In the captain’s
spare pantry in the after-superstructure there was
spare ammunition. It was
seen that this would soon be submerged, and that
precautions in respect to the
magazines were unnecessary.
The great loss of life was not then fully realized.
Our eyes were not yet
accustomed to the darkness. Most of us had come from
the glare of the electric
lights. The flames increased in the central
superstructure, and I directed
Lieutenant-Commander Wainwright to make an effort to
play streams on the
fire if practicable. He went forward on the poop-awning,
accompanied by
Lieutenant Hood and Naval Cadets Boyd and Cluverius,
making a gallant
inspection in the region of the fire, but was soon
obliged to report that nothing
could be done. The fire-mains and all other facilities
were destroyed, and men
were not available for the service.
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. Only three of our fifteen boats were
available—the barge, the
captain’s gig, and the whale-boat. The barge was badly
injured. Two of these
were manned by officers and men jointly. How long they
were gone from the
ship I cannot recall, but probably fifteen minutes.
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
crews did all that
humanity and gallantry could compass. During the
absence of our boats the fire
in the wreck of the central superstructure became
fiercer. The spare
ammunition that had been stowed in the pilot-house or
thrown up from the
magazines below was exploding in detail. It continued
to explode at intervals
until nearly two o’clock in the morning.
At night it was the custom on board the Maine to
close all water-tight
compartments except the few needed to afford
passageway for the crew. They
had been reported closed as usual that night. Down the
cabin skylights the air
could be heard whistling through the seams of the
doors and hatches, indicating
that even the after-bulkheads had been so strained as
to admit the water into the
compartments. Presently Lieutenant-Commander
Wainwright came to me and
reported that our boats had returned alongside the
ship at the stern, and that all
the wounded that could be found had been gathered in
and sent to the Spanish
cruiser and the City of Washington and
elsewhere. The after-part of the poopdeck
of the Maine, the highest intact point above
water, was then level with the
gig’s gunwale, while that boat was in the water
alongside. We had done
everything that could be done, so far as could be
seen.
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 teninch
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. It
was an easy operation; one
had only to step directly from the deck into the boat.
There was still some delay
to make sure that the ship’s stern had grounded, and
still more because of the
extreme politeness of the officers, who considerately
offered me a steadying
hand to step into the boat. Lieutenant-Commander
Wainwright stood on one
side and Lieutenant Holman on the other; each offered
me a hand. I suggested
the propriety of my being the last to leave, and
requested them to precede me,
which they did. There was favorable comment later in
the press because I left
last. It is a fact that I was the last to leave, which
was only proper; that is to say,
it would have been improper otherwise; but virtually
all left last. 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.
Source: The “Maine”: An Account of Her Destruction
in Havana Harbor by
Captain Charles D. Sigsbee (New York: The Century Co.,
1899), pp. 63–73.