It was hardly that. But Mahan was becoming quite a cult figure when it came to projecting naval power. Many a junior officer would eagerly devour his assessment that “the result of this engagement plainly indicates that a cool-headed commander who gets into the fight first and proceeds to business has the best of the battle from the start.”¹⁷

Things would not be quite so easy when the Oregon encountered the Spanish fleet off Cuba. Four cruisers and three torpedo-boat destroyers had indeed sailed from Spain and were now anchored in the harbor at Santiago, on the island’s southeastern shore. Oregon joined the battleships of the North Atlantic Squadron at Key West on May 26, having steamed more than fourteen thousand miles in sixty-nine days since leaving San Francisco.

To some, transferring a battleship from one coast to the other in that short of a time was a remarkable achievement. To others, the Oregon’s circuitous race around South America was taken as strong evidence for the need to build the Panama Canal. To no one’s surprise, Theodore Roosevelt was among those standing in the forefront arguing for the canal’s construction and its firm military control by the United States. Determined to get into the fray personally, he had just resigned as assistant secretary of the navy in order to recruit a regiment of volunteers and join the war.¹⁸

After taking on coal at Key West, the Oregon proceeded with the principal ships of the North Atlantic Squadron, as well as those of the roving Flying Squadron, and took up blockade positions off Santiago. Leahy’s post was in the fore 13-inch gun turret. Acting Rear Admiral William T. Sampson was in overall command, with Commodore Winfield Scott Schley in command of the Flying Squadron. Neither was destined to be much remembered, let alone accorded undisputed fame. On the navy side of the war, George Dewey seems to have had a monopoly on that. And this would not be Manila Bay. Admiral Don Pascual Cervera y Topete knew that he was badly outnumbered and outgunned, but when ordered to do so, he would fight. His four cruisers displaced about seven thousand tons each and had 11- and 10-inch guns. One-on-one, they were no match for the Oregon or its sister Indiana, but Cervera hoped that in the confusion of battle, at least a couple of his ships might escape.

On the morning of July 3, 1898, with the Caribbean weather looking bright and fair, Admiral Sampson was momentarily absent, having taken his flagship, the battleship New York, to confer with army forces that had been landing on the island. Aboard the remaining ships, a month’s boredom had set in. It was a quiet Sunday morning. Leahy and most of the junior officers on the Oregon were in their quarters getting their badly laundered white uniforms ready for inspection. Suddenly the battle gong rang, much to everyone’s surprise and displeasure “at the idea of a battle stations drill on Sunday.” One of Leahy’s fellow officers declared that “he would not move an inch until the idiot who set off the alarm had the recall sounded.” But then came the rattle of drums beating to quarters, and one of Leahy’s messmates ran down the quarterdeck shouting, “We have them now for sure, the fleet is coming out.”¹⁹

Cervera’s flagship, the black-hulled Infanta Maria Teresa, led the way with his admiral’s pennant flying. Leahy later claimed that the Oregon fired the first shot at the flagship as it cleared the harbor and made a run to the west, followed by the rest of the Spanish fleet. The American ships steamed toward the coast to pin the Spaniards against the shore. Oregon was instrumental in forcing Maria Teresa to run aground as it began to burn. Texas and Iowa took hits from the remaining Spanish ships but successfully fought off the Spanish torpedo-boat destroyers. Meanwhile, the Cristóbal Colón, arguably the fastest ship on either side, spied an opening to escape west and surged past Oregon as Leahy’s ship finished off the Maria Teresa.

Oregon and Commodore Schley’s cruiser, Brooklyn, quickly gave chase, and with thick black smoke pouring from their stacks, the three ships churned westward. After several hours and some sixty miles, two shells from Leahy’s forward turret neatly straddled the Cristóbal Colón. Its captain turned toward shore, ran his ship aground, and struck his flag. By the time Admiral Sampson arrived off Santiago in the New York, the battle was over. The Spanish fleet had been destroyed with only two American casualties, one man killed and one wounded. At least six hundred Spanish sailors perished.²⁰

In his typical fashion, Leahy described the Battle of Santiago in his journal in crisp, factual language—almost as though he had been a detached observer. Others painted a far different picture of Leahy “standing by his turret, jumping up and down, slapping his leg with his cap, and yelling his head off.”²¹ Quiet, reserved Bill Leahy was human after all. What’s more, even though he would spend the next forty years championing the might of battleships, he had just fought his one and only naval battle.