our ships our navy can never be conquered. They will fight to the
uttermost and go down with their colors rather than strike them.

Thursday evening, the second of June, arrives, and the Merrimac is all
ready for her last voyage. The men are on board, waiting for the time
to start. Quietly and fearlessly they pass the night, but they do not
sleep, they cannot sleep. Behind the Merrimac, farther out at sea,
stand the faithful vessels of our fleet, huge, pale shadows in the
night. The full moon lights up the channel that the Merrimac will
enter after awhile when the moon is low. On both sides of the channel
rise the high cliffs with their forts. Morro Castle frowns upon the
scene. Beyond--far beyond, are the mountain tops.

A basket of food and a kettle of coffee had been sent on board by the
flagship, and after midnight the men sit down on deck to eat their
last meal on board the Merrimac.

A little before two o'clock, Friday morning, June 3d, the Merrimac
starts for the channel. Each man is at his post; each knows his duty
and intends to do it. The men are not wearing their naval uniforms,
but are clad only in woolen underclothes, woolen stockings, with no
shoes. Each man wears a life-preserver, and a belt with a revolver
fastened to it.

On, on goes the vessel, swiftly, surely, heading for the channel.
Suddenly shots begin to pour upon the Merrimac; the Spaniards in the
forts have seen her approach. Still she plunges on, not heeding the
fire from the forts. Lieutenant Hobson gives the signal to stop the
engine, to turn the vessel in the right way across the channel, to
fire the torpedoes, to drop the anchors. Shells from the forts are