“The _Oregon_ and the _Brooklyn_ had hurled a relentless fire at the flying Spaniards, and it had told on the _Almirante Oquendo_ with increasing effect. “For the _Oregon_ was fair on the _Oquendo’s_ beam, and there was not enough armour on any Spanish ship to stop the massive 13-inch projectiles the ship from the Pacific was driving into her with unerring aim. “At ten o’clock sharp the _Oquendo_ was apparently still fore and aft, but within five minutes she wavered and lagged, and a little later, flag-ship though she was, she put her helm to port, as her consorts had done, and fled for life to the beach. “The _Texas_ was coming with unflagging speed astern, and off to the east could be seen the flag-ship of Admiral Sampson racing as never before to get a shot in at the finish. An auxiliary had been sent by Commodore Schley to call her, and it had met her coming at the call of the guns of the Spanish fleet. She had overhauled and passed the _Indiana_ long since, and was well-nigh abreast of the _Texas_. So the _Oregon_, in order to vie with the _New York_ in the last of the mighty race, abandoned the _Oquendo_ to her fate and stretched away after the _Cristobal Colon_. “Some of the crew who looked back saw the _Texas_ bring to near the _Oquendo_, and then the sea trembled under the impulse of a tremendous explosion on board the doomed Spaniard, while a vast volume of smoke filled with splintered wreck rose in the air. Had they been near enough they would have heard the crew of the _Texas_ start in to cheer, and have heard as well the voice of Captain Philip say, as he raised his hand to check it: “‘Don’t cheer; the poor devils are dying.’ “Only a man fit to command could have had that thought. “The battle was well-nigh over. But one ship of the Spanish squadron remained, and she was now in the last desperate struggle, the flurry of a monster of the deep. Her officers peered with frowning brows through gilded glasses at the _Brooklyn_ forging ahead far off their port bow; at the _Oregon_ within range off the port quarter; at the _New York_ just getting the range with her beautiful 8-inch rifles astern. They shivered in unison with the quivering hulk as shot after shot struck home. They screamed at their crews and stamped and fumed. At the guns their crews worked with drunken desperation, but down in the stoke-hole the firemen plied their shovels with a will and a skill that formed the most surprising feature of the Spanish side of the battle. Because of them this was a race worthy of the American mettle, for it put to the full test the powers of the men of the three ships in chase.