By the time he
returned the bugles were ordering the total abandonment of the vessel.
So the little group made their way, not to the deck, which was now
straight up and down, but to the starboard side of the hull, upon which
they could walk, the vessel then being practically on her beam ends.
Trapped at their stations on the port side were members of the 6-inch
port battery. One of them was seen by a comrade just before rising
waters shut him from view. The sinking man nodded and waved his hand.
"Good-by, Al," he said.
As the officer who had been in the fighting-top jumped clear into the
sea, the vessel began to go down, now by the head. Slowly the stern
rose, and as it did so, he says, the propellers came into view, and
perched on one of the blades was a devil-may-care American seaman,
waving his hat and shouting.
The vessel, the officer says, disappeared at 11.30 o'clock, fifteen
minutes after the explosion occurred. There was some suction as the _San
Diego_ disappeared, but not enough, according to the calculation of the
survivors with whom I talked, to draw men to their death.
In the course of another hour, Captain Christie had collected as many of
his officers as he could, and the work of apportioning the survivors to
the twelve boats and to pieces of flotsam was carried on with naval
precision. One man, clinging to a grating, called out that he had
cramps. A comrade in one of the boats thereupon said the sailor could
have his place. He leaped into the sea and the man with cramps was
assisted into the boat.
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