of
adventure. We booked on the old _Yuen Sang_, a friend of former days,
and the skipper, Captain Percy Rolfe, handsome, cultured, and capable,
was still in command. He loves the China Sea and has steadfastly refused
to be lured away by offers of greater ships and more important commands.
When we engaged our passage the agent warned us that the vessel was
carrying a cargo of naphtha and kerosene and that we might not wish to
risk it; but we went. A Jap and a Chinaman were the only two other
passengers, and they were invisible during the sixty hours to cross.

We steamed out of Hongkong in a chilling wind and at once plunged into a
fog, but the next morning we ran into smooth seas and warm weather. A
full moon hung over the empty waste of waters and the nights were
gorgeous.

As we neared the coast of Luzon I became much excited, for in my memory
were those vivid, expectant days of old when our little American fleet
crossed this selfsame stretch of sea to find and destroy the Spanish
ships. I lived over again those boding days when the air was electric
with impending danger.

It was long before daylight when the _Yuen Sang_, at half-speed, arrived
at Corregidor. The captain wished to report his number to the signal
station, and we had to wait until light had come before the ship could
enter. So the engines were stopped and for an hour we drifted on under
the ship's momentum. The silencing of the engines on a ship is always
ominous, and just now, with the dim bulk of Corregidor looming grimly
before us, it seemed as if there was something particularly sinister
about our stealthy approach.

From five o'clock onward we stood on the bridge, our voices
unconsciously hushed as we spoke. Here was where the _Baltimore_ had
dropped a Greek fire life preserver and for a long time it had bobbed
about on the tumbling sea, weird and terrifying to those who didn't know
what it was. There was where the soot in the McCulloch's funnel had
suddenly blazed up like the chimney of a blast furnace. And over there
on the lower edge of the black bulk of the island was where a little
signal light had flared up and then died out, leaving every man on our
ships tense with expectant dread, and all about us here had reigned a
silence so penetrating that it in itself was harder to bear than the
thunder and flash of guns.

And still we drifted on, nearer and nearer to Boca Chica, the northern
passage into Manila Bay. Dawn and light came slowly.