The Evacuation
Spain formally released Puerto Rico from her sovereignty at twelve o'clock on Tuesday, October 18, 1898, by the withdrawal of her troops from the capital city of San Juan.
From: 1898 C.E. To: 1898 C.E.
Location: San Juan, Puerto Rico
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
“The Evacuation” from Puerto Rico; Its Conditions and Possibilities by William Dinwiddie, 1899.
Spain formally released Puerto Rico from her sovereignty at twelve o'clock on Tuesday, October 18, 1898, by the withdrawal of her troops from the capital city of San Juan. It was the breaking of the last tie which has bound the easternmost fertile isle of the western hemisphere to a galling yoke of tyranny and taxation for nearly four hundred years.
The dawn of this memorable day in Puerto Rican history came clear, colorless, and hot; not a cloud dotted the sky, and, as the sun rose toward the zenith, the narrow, brick-paved streets of San Juan quivered with moist heat, and, in the breathless air, the surging crowds elbowed one another for positions of vantage within the narrow shadows of noonday.
Raising the flag over San Juan, October 18, 1898. Images from text.
Two days before the ceremony, every hotel in the town was crowded to its utmost capacity, and, on the night before the evacuation, strangers slept three and four together in the tiny, dark rooms, whose only source of light was the stained-glass doors opening into a central rotunda, suffering all night long from an infestation of humming, insatiable mosquitoes.
In the harbor lay a Spanish transport, ready to carry home the soldiers, while outside, on a calm ocean, lay our ships loaded with blue-uniformed men, waiting for the moment when the booming of the midday gun was to sound the death-knell of Spanish supremacy and give Puerto Rico to the American government.
Spanish Soldiers at San Cristobal Barracks.
At daylight on Tuesday, the last callings of the Spanish bugles rang through the town from the quartels of San Cristobal and Morro, and sixteen hundred Spanish soldiers prepared to march through the massive-walled portals, down the narrow streets of the town, and out to the westward suburban town of Santurce, where they were to camp temporarily until the arrival of a second Spanish steamer; but, through the courtesy of General John R. Brooke, commanding our forces, they were granted permission to remain in their barracks until all the Spanish transports arrived.
A surrender of the conquered to the conqueror is a sad function from its very nature, but in this instance it was far more than sad; it was the acme of human misery, arising, however, not from the hurt done to martial spirit, but from the annihilation of happy homes. The Spanish soldiers and Guardia Civil have married largely among Puerto Rican women, and have become factors in the domestic life of the island. The evacuation program did not provide for a condition like this, so the Spaniard went back to his own country—though only for a time, perhaps—and his wife and children must weep and go hungry until his return.
San Juan Harbor, vessels decorated in honor of the day.
As if in answer to the shrill blasts of Spanish bugles, came the deeper notes of our own, echoing back from without the city limits, and soon the steady, sturdy tramp of our own stalwart men resounded between the low walls of the city streets. We were going to cheer our country's flag and glory in our new possessions; they—well, no one knows what the Spanish soldiers felt ; a mixture, perhaps, of pleasure in going back to their hillside vineyards, of heartache at leaving their loved ones, and of well-masked hatred for those who had broken Spain's arrogant power.
As the hour of twelve drew near, American soldiers stood before the white front of the balconied home of past Spanish Governor-Generals, and in the Plaza before the Chamber of Deputies and the City Hall, and again at the gates of the castles of Morro and San Cristobal, patiently awaiting the coming of the hour. Around them, at all these places, were gathered queer, interesting, and withal motley crowds of American tourists and newspapermen, of well-dressed Spanish and Puerto Rican merchants and landholders, and of the dark-colored, ragged, and tattered natives. Little talk was indulged in, and enthusiasm, if there was any, was withheld from active expression. The minutes were passed in hushed waiting, a straining of eyes toward the bare flag-poles, and a nervous consultation of watches.
Now it was coming, and a long-drawn breath sighed through the packed crowds, followed by the first uneasy shuffling of feet. The cry of "Attention!" caused every soldier to straighten rigidly on his heels, except a few poor fellows who had dropped, weak and sweltering, under the fierce heat of the sun, and lay uncaring beneath the shaded walls. The newsmen craned their necks in eager expectancy, and the click of adjusted camera shutters could be heard from every point of elevation.
At each flagstaff a shoulder-strapped man stood grasping the flag-halyards, trying them now and again in fear lest they might fail at the critical moment, and, from their high-perched positions, they watched the clocktowers or looked seaward toward the bold, rugged, fortified castles for the first flash of fire and smoke from the great black guns.
Ding! and the little, sweet-toned bell of a near-by cathedral sang the first stroke of twelve; it was overpowered in its first vibrations by the deep-bellowing clang of the great bell on the City Hall. They answered each other in rhythmic chime, the ponderous and the weak, one after another, until the last echoing thrill of twelve made Puerto Rico ours.
The stars and stripes rose gently over every building, and were wafted by a new-born breeze, as if in sympathy with the rousing cheers of the surging Americans beneath, and as if in salutation to the roaring guns which belched their smoke far to seaward, as they boomed out the twenty-one shots of honor and of freedom.
It was a deeply impressive ceremony—done without ostentatious display, done without gold-laced uniforms or martial panoply, but well done. The very simplicity of the celebration appeals to American hearts. Our attitude was not that of the dictator, but of the protector. No bombastic speeches wounded the still sensitive Spanish pride, no great military pomp caused the teeth of a vanquished enemy to grind in hidden rage; we raised our flag softly, proudly, if you like, but we raised it with an outstretched hand of friendship.
With the floating of our flag over Spain's provincial capital of San Juan, the United States became, not only the master of a veritable Garden of Eden, but the possessor of a vast amount of government property. In the cities of the whole island permanent structures have been erected, in the nature of buildings for officials, barracks for soldiers, many hospitals, and, on the seacoast, massive stone forts.
In San Juan, itself, our prizes include two wonderful stone forts, whose grey, moss-covered walls tell a story of antiquated defenses, which would, however, even now offer a very material protection against modern projectiles. On them were mounted fifty-six guns, new and old, twenty-eight of which are fairly modern, six-inch, breech-loading, rifled guns, and four modern mortars. In the magazines were stored immense quantities of powder and ammunition; in fact, shortly before war was declared, an entire shipload of the most approved projectiles was landed at San Juan, and now belongs to our government.
Again, in this city, we now own a five-storied infantry barracks, which has been constructed during the last five years and will hold 100,000 men. It was damaged badly, but not beyond repair, during the three hours' naval bombardment of the city, when it was believed that Cervera's fleet lay in hiding in the harbor. There are two other immense barracks, but they are of old Spanish architecture—the quartel San Cristobal and the Marine barracks. The United States also owns a new city hall and a great public building, the "Intendencia," both facing the plaza of the city.
United States troops taking possession of the armory of the First Spanish Infantry, San Juan
The value of our entire acquisitions ruris up into millions of money, which have been expended by Spain in furnishing homes for her soldiers and her officials, and in the vain attempt to protect and hold her colonial possessions, even though, in years gone by, she has valiantly and successfully repelled all assailants.
The American officers who had the honor of raising the flags at San Juan were Major J. T. Dean at the Governor's palace; Colonel Goethals, of the Engineer Corps, over the "Intendencia"; Major Carson, of the Quartermaster's Department, at the City Hall; and Major Day, in command of a battery of the Fifth Artillery, over Morro castle. Major Day also raised the first American flag floated at Ponce.
Few troops took active part in the ceremony: two battalions of the Eleventh Infantry at different points; troop A of the Sixth Cavalry at the palace, and the Fifth Heavy Artillery at Morro and San Cristobal. All the afternoon, however, the soldiers were marching from camps without the city's limits, until at nightfall several thousand men were scattered through the town. On Monday night at every street corner stood the Spanish Guardia Civil, the official tyrant of the island, while sentries of the Spanish army were posted near all government buildings; when Tuesday's sunset came, our armed soldiers paced back and forth over the selfsame posts, while the Spanish soldiers—without guns, though armed with bayonets—wandered through the town as aliens, or gathered in clusters, in animated discussion. It was a curious metamorphosis.
Almost at the moment that the brilliant planet Venus shone faintly in the waning light of evening, a great gun on Morro castle, manned by men in blue, belched forth a farewell salute to day. The long white curls of smoke were wafted eastward slowly out to sea, and, as its billows ascended high in the air, the sinking sun tinted their topmost crest with rosy light, an omen, it was said, that the black cloud of Spanish cruelty had passed away, and in its stead had dawned the pearl- and rose-colored promise of future happiness for Puerto Rico.
Dinwiddie, William. Puerto Rico: Its Conditions and Possibilities. Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1899
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