The Battle of Manila Bay, 1898, Spanish-American War, First Use of Concentration Camps

Manila Bay, the final grand naval clash of the 19th century, marked the dawn of a new era as steel warships thundered across the seas for the first time. The efficacy of American naval firepower not only secured control over the Philippines for the next fifty years but also forged America’s destiny as a dominant force in the heart of Asia, forever altering the balance of power in Asia's geopolitical affairs.

Manila Bay, Philippines. 1st of May, 1898.
American Forces: Asiatic Squadron of Five Cruisers and Two Gunboats
Spanish Forces: Manila Squadron of Nine Ships

Additional Reading and Resources:

• Millis, Walter. The Martial Spirit.
• Wrigley, Herbert. The Downfall of Spain: Naval History of the Spanish-American War.
• Dewey, George. Autobiography of George Dewey.
• Bailey, Thomas. A Diplomatic History of the American People

Transcript

Few among the observers of 1898 could have imagined that the first thunderous clash of the Spanish-American War would erupt on any soil but Cuba, where tensions had long been smoldering. Yet fate, as often in war, thrives on irony.

By 1895, Spain found itself ensnared once again in Cuba’s fiery grip, fighting yet another rebellion. But this uprising was different—grimmer, more ferocious—like a wounded beast gnashing its teeth in the night.

The Cuban rebels unleashed the kind of war that scorched not just the earth but the very lifeblood of the Spanish occupation. With savage brilliance, they decided that if the land was left smoldering and barren, its riches turned to ashes, Spain would have no choice but to abandon its prize.

Spanish General Victoriano Weyler, with the cold calculation of a commander who understood that rebellion feeds on popular support, introduced the infamous ‘reconcentrado’ policy. He aimed to choke the life out of the insurgency by severing its lifeline: the Cuban people themselves.

Determined to break the back of the resistance, Weyler corralled Cuba’s civilian population into barbed-wire cages that would come to be known as concentration camps—a grim invention that would echo through history as a method of war stripped of mercy.

In Weyler’s twisted logic, those outside his camps were no longer civilians but enemies of the state, their existence punishable by death. The land between those wires became a no-man’s-land where a gunshot was the only law.

Though the camps strangled the rebellion, they bred a new horror. Deprived of water, food, and basic humanity, the imprisoned Cubans withered away by the thousands. A staggering 250,000 souls were lost to starvation, disease, and neglect, and by the dawn of 1898, the revolution was on its last legs, gasping for breath in the shadows of these hellish enclosures.

Weyler’s draconian measures soon blazed across the front pages of America’s most powerful newspapers. William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer, locked in a fierce battle for readers, churned out ever more sensational headlines, whipping the American public into a frenzy of outrage and indignation.

With the American public beating the drums of intervention, President William McKinley found himself standing at a crossroads. A seasoned veteran of the Civil War, McKinley harbored no illusions about the costs of conflict. He had seen too many fields littered with the dead and was loath to send more young men to join them.

But destiny has little patience for caution. When the battle cruiser USS Maine was torn asunder by a violent explosion in Havana Harbor on February 15, the cries for war became impossible to ignore. The time for restraint had ended.

As U.S. and Spanish investigators bickered over the cause of the explosion, Hearst and Pulitzer seized the moment. They spun a tale of treachery so potent that the American people needed no further convincing—Spain, they were told, was the villain, and war was the only answer.

Despite the appearance that Spain might yield to his demands, McKinley knew that diplomacy was unraveling fast. By mid-April, he strode before Congress and requested the authority to unleash the might of the U.S. military, ending the bloodshed in Cuba by force.

Congress gave its blessing, and McKinley wasted no time. The U.S. Atlantic Fleet surged forward to blockade Cuba’s shores, a brazen move that forced Spain to raise the stakes, answering with its own declaration of war.

Not to be outdone, the U.S. Congress swiftly responded with its own declaration of war—cleverly backdated so that America, not Spain, could claim the righteous mantle of self-defense.

As was often the case in its early wars, the U.S. Army was modest in size, a mere shadow of what was needed. A call for volunteers rang out, summoning a tide of fresh recruits eager to answer the nation’s call.

The U.S. Navy, however, was a different beast. For two decades, the gospel of sea power had been preached by the likes of Alfred Thayer Mahan, whose seminal work The Influence of Sea Power on History had forged a new generation of naval strategists. To be a great nation, Mahan proclaimed, America would need a navy to rival the gods.

And so it was that the U.S. Navy, flush with funds and bristling with cutting-edge warships, stood ready for battle, while the Army, as usual, scraped by with meager resources.

By 1898, the United States commanded one of the largest, most formidable navies on the planet—a steel-clad leviathan that awaited only the signal to unleash its fury.

Assistant Secretary of the Navy Theodore Roosevelt, a man of boundless ambition and unbridled energy, eagerly seized his moment. With permission granted, he wired Commodore George Dewey in Hong Kong, where the U.S. Asiatic Squadron awaited its orders.

On April 24, 1898, Dewey’s orders came in like the crack of a whip: sail to Manila and crush the Spanish fleet. Without hesitation, he set his course, his engines roaring to life as he steamed toward destiny.

Dewey had been waiting in Hong Kong like a predator biding his time, stationed there since the previous summer by the Navy Department in anticipation of just such a moment. Every waking hour had been spent meticulously gathering intelligence on the Spanish fleet, scrutinizing their defenses with the precision of a master strategist. By the time he sailed for battle, Dewey was ready—more than ready—like a coiled spring set to unleash havoc.

Since February 16, Dewey had been on a knife's edge, poised for the declaration of war that seemed inevitable. His ships, once gleaming in peacetime white, were now cloaked in battle gray—the color of steel and determination. In the south of China, he prepared an emergency base, every move calculated, every detail a step closer to the coming storm.

The one specter haunting Dewey’s mind was not the Spanish fleet itself, but the question of supplies. He was far from home, and the vast expanse of the Pacific stood between him and American resupply. Meanwhile, the Spanish forts at Cavite and Olangapo bristled with massive stockpiles of munitions, ready to rain destruction on any foe reckless enough to challenge them.

Dewey’s strike force was lean but lethal—five cruisers and two gunboats, each one a weapon in his hands. At the helm of this flotilla was Dewey himself, aboard the USS Olympia, a 5,870-ton behemoth of a protected cruiser, one of the finest warships ever to fly the American flag. This was no ordinary squadron; this was a fist of iron aimed straight at the heart of the Spanish empire.

Flanking the mighty Olympia were the swift and deadly cruisers Baltimore, Boston, Concord, and Raleigh, each bristling with firepower. The nimble gunboat Petrel, cutter McCulloch, and a hastily acquired collier completed the squadron—a strike force that moved with the precision of a wolf pack closing in on its prey.

In his relentless drive toward battle, Dewey brushed aside the risk that the waters around Subic or Manila Bays could be laced with deadly mines. To him, hesitation was a greater threat than any unseen danger lurking beneath the waves.

When Subic Bay turned out to be a ghostly void on the night of April 30, Dewey did not pause. He drove his fleet onward, engines roaring, toward Manila—toward destiny.

Under the cloak of night, Dewey’s squadron slipped into Manila Bay like shadows on the water, gliding past the brooding fortress of Corregidor. Despite whispers of mines lurking at the harbor’s entrance, Olympia led the charge in single file, cutting through the wider southern channel at 11:30 p.m., every crew member braced for the unknown.

For a fleeting moment, the quiet was shattered as fire spewed from McCulloch's smoke-stacks, yet the guns of Corregidor remained eerily silent, as if fate itself had held them in check. Only a few shots from the smaller guns at Fort El Fraile broke the night, answered swiftly by the Americans, but the looming threat of cannon fire never materialized.

Twenty-three miles of treacherous water lay between the harbor’s mouth and the city of Manila, but as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the American warships had already arrived—like steel titans casting long shadows on the sleeping city.

The massive guns of Manila’s forts posed a threat that gnawed at Dewey’s mind, yet fortune smiled upon him that day. The Spanish commander, Rear Admiral Patricio Montojo y Pasarón, unwittingly played into Dewey’s hands with a move that would seal his fate.

Unwilling to see the grand city of Manila reduced to rubble in the crossfire, Montojo ordered his fleet to withdraw to the Cavite anchorage—a fateful decision. While this maneuver would spare the city, it left his ships exposed like lambs to the slaughter, with barely any protective guns to shield them.

As Dewey’s fleet cruised past Manila, Spanish guns roared to life, though their fire was wild and unfocused. A few shots splashed dangerously near Petrel, but the rest fell harmlessly into the sea, as if the gunners’ resolve had faltered.

By 4:50 a.m., the Spanish fleet lay in full view, illuminated by the rising sun like prey caught in the spotlight of an oncoming storm. Their fates were now sealed.

Seven Spanish ships lay at anchor, their flagship, the 3,520-ton cruiser Reina Christina, at the forefront. Flanked by the Don Juan de Austria, Don Antonio de Ulloa, Isla de Luzon, Castilla, Isla de Cuba, and Marques del Duero, they waited like sitting ducks, unaware of the storm about to descend upon them.

Hidden from view, the General Lezo and Velasco sat beyond the horizon, but they too were bound by the inescapable grip of fate.

The Spanish fleet lay anchored, their guns fixed, their crews hoping that a stationary position would give them an edge in accuracy. But Dewey’s ships, like a pack of predators on the hunt, steamed forward in perfect formation—moving, firing, and unleashing volleys of thunderous destruction with each pass.

The Spanish guns erupted first at 5:15 a.m., spewing fire and smoke into the sky, but Dewey, ever the master of calm in the storm of battle, held his fire. He bided his time, closing the distance until his ships were a mere 5,500 yards away—within striking distance. And then, with steely resolve, he issued the command that would echo through the annals of naval history: “You may fire when ready, Gridley.” It was the signal to unleash hell.

Like avenging angels of the sea, the American ships weaved back and forth across the bay, raining down fire upon the hapless Spanish fleet. Five merciless passes they made, first unleashing their port batteries as they swept down a 2.5-mile path, then switching to their starboard guns on the return, each barrage more devastating than the last. The Spanish fire, by contrast, was feeble—scattered and largely impotent against the steel-clad fury they faced.

With each pass, Dewey’s ships inched closer, their intent unmistakable and relentless. By the time they made their final approach, the U.S. gunners were firing from a brutal range of just one mile, their shells ripping through Spanish hulls with deadly precision.

At 7:30 a.m., a report reached Dewey that ammunition supplies were running dangerously low. Without missing a beat, he ordered the fleet to pull back into the safety of the harbor, well out of range of Spanish shore batteries. But in a move that epitomized his cool under pressure, Dewey gave an even more extraordinary command—serve breakfast. After all, his men had only had coffee and hardtack at 4 a.m., and even in battle, warriors need their strength.

By 11:00 a.m., with the ammunition scare proven false, Dewey’s fleet surged back into the fray, rejuvenated and ready to finish what they had begun. The battle was far from over, but the end was in sight—and Dewey intended to claim it.

The Baltimore barreled toward Sangley Point, where the Spanish fort stood as Cavite’s last bastion of defense. With methodical precision, its guns opened fire, and in no time, the fort crumbled under the relentless assault, its garrison waving the white flag in desperate surrender.

The nimble Petrel, with its shallower draft, slipped past the larger cruisers and rounded the point, gliding into the cove like a hawk descending on prey. A few well-placed shots from its guns rang out, but the Spanish had nothing left to give. By 12:20 p.m., the white flag fluttered in the breeze, signaling their total capitulation.

The American ships emerged from the battle with barely a scratch, their damage laughably minimal. Not a single sailor was lost, and only eight men bore wounds—an astonishing outcome in a battle that could have seen far worse.

It was, by any measure, one of the most lopsided naval victories ever recorded—an obliteration so complete that it would go down in legend, as though the gods themselves had guided Dewey’s hand.

As one historian would later immortalize, Dewey had "sailed boldly into Manila harbor and blew out of the water the collection of antiquated craft that passed for the Spanish fleet" (Bailey, A Diplomatic History of the American People, p. 468)—an act of naval dominance that left no doubt as to who controlled the Pacific.

For Spain, the cost was catastrophic. Every single one of their ships was lost, and of their 1,200 men, 381 lay dead in the waters of Manila Bay—testament to the utter destruction rained upon them.

Yet, for all its overwhelming triumph, the victory brought an ironic limitation. Dewey commanded just 2,000 men—hardly enough to occupy Manila, let alone seize control of the entire archipelago. The city remained beyond his grasp, and so Dewey, despite his dominance at sea, could do little but bide his time, waiting for reinforcements to sail from the shores of America.

Ever the shrewd negotiator, Dewey demanded that the Spanish authorities in Manila refrain from firing on his fleet, grant him access to the port facilities, and let him use the vital telegraph cable to Hong Kong. They caved on the first demand but resisted the rest, so Dewey turned his sights on Cavite, where he swiftly occupied the Spanish arsenal—securing his foothold in the Philippines.

Dewey’s veiled threat to reduce Manila to rubble if attacked kept the Spanish garrison trembling behind their walls. They dared not fire on his fleet, but neither did they surrender the city or the islands. So Dewey, victorious but patient, waited until June 30 for U.S. troops to arrive—his steel-clad fleet standing as a silent reminder of American power.

As Dewey awaited reinforcements, he struck a bold partnership with Emilio Aguinaldo, a fiery Filipino revolutionary who had once led an uprising against Spanish rule in 1894 before being exiled. Aguinaldo, living in Hong Kong when Dewey set sail for Manila, was about to re-enter the fray—this time, under a very different set of circumstances.

Aguinaldo sailed back to the Philippines alongside the Americans, and during the voyage, he and Dewey conspired on the future of the islands. With his deep ties to the local insurgency, Aguinaldo was the perfect candidate to rally the Filipino forces. Dewey, recognizing the opportunity, proposed that Aguinaldo be put ashore to ignite a rebellion that would control the countryside while the Americans dominated the seas.

It was a masterstroke of strategy: with Dewey’s fleet choking off the waters around the archipelago, the Spanish army would be trapped, bottled up in their strongholds, helpless to move beyond a few key cities. This would keep hostilities contained, buying precious time until U.S. ground forces could arrive to deliver the final blow.

The plan unfolded just as envisioned. However, the outcome Aguinaldo had hoped for was not to be. When the Treaty of Paris was signed, ending the Spanish-American War, the Philippines were handed over to the United States for a sum of $20 million, a cold transaction that dashed any hope for immediate independence.

Aguinaldo, incensed and betrayed, claimed that Dewey had promised him freedom for the Philippines. He pointed to the Teller Amendment—passed by the U.S. Congress before the war—which explicitly renounced any intention of annexing Cuba. To Aguinaldo, this promise should have applied to his homeland as well.

Aguinaldo reasoned that if Cuba could be spared imperial conquest, then surely the Philippines deserved the same treatment. He insisted that Dewey had personally vowed that freedom was the goal. But Dewey denied making any such promise, and with no records to confirm their private discussions, the truth slipped into the fog of war.

Whether Dewey had pledged Philippine independence or not, the reality was that such promises were beyond his power to give. He was a naval commander, not a diplomat, and the final fate of the Philippines lay in the hands of men far removed from the battlefields.

Enraged by the bitter irony that his people had merely traded one colonial master for another, Aguinaldo retreated into the hills and jungles, determined to fight once more—this time against the very Americans who had once seemed like liberators. The guerrilla war that followed would be a bloody and brutal struggle, stretching on for years.

As the Filipino resistance raged on, the United States promised grand reforms and modern infrastructure for the islands, all the while employing harsh military tactics to quell the rebellion. Echoing the brutal methods used by the Spanish in Cuba, the U.S. Army began herding Filipino civilians into concentration camps—stifling the insurgency by crushing its base of support.

These camps, like their Cuban counterparts, became breeding grounds for disease, starvation, and suffering. In the dark grip of American control, another 250,000 Filipinos perished—a devastating toll paid in the name of empire and power.

This, then, was the price of American dominance—a victory soaked in blood, its cost measured in human lives, as the Philippines were pulled into the orbit of a rising imperial force.

The Spanish-American War catapulted the United States onto the world stage as a force to be reckoned with. With the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Guam, and Hawaii now under its flag, America had crossed a fateful threshold, stepping boldly into the realm of empires.

For the better part of a decade, the United States had been inching its way into the sphere of global affairs, eyeing the lucrative Asian markets with ambition. Now, with the Philippines secured as a naval base, those distant markets were no longer a dream—they were within reach, and America’s influence in the East would soon follow.

With Hawaii and Guam providing critical fueling stations, the United States carved a path across the Pacific, ensuring that its warships and merchant fleets could traverse the vast ocean to reach Manila and beyond. The Pacific had become an American highway, linking the homeland to its new empire.

In less than a year, Secretary of State John Hay, emboldened by America’s newfound power, put forth the audacious Open Door Policy to the European powers. It was a bold declaration that America would not be shut out of China—the largest and most tantalizing market of them all.

Militarily, the Battle of Manila Bay was nothing short of revolutionary. For the first time in history, two fleets of iron and steel, devoid of wooden relics from the past, clashed in a titanic struggle. The age of wooden navies had sunk, and in its place rose the era of steel giants.

Though steel warships had been under construction since the post-Civil War years, Manila Bay marked their true baptism by fire. It was the first time such vessels—other than the ironclads of the past—had roared into combat, forever changing the face of naval warfare.

Yet, even as Dewey’s fleet basked in the glory of victory, it was already on the cusp of obsolescence. A new breed of warship—the dreadnought—was preparing to launch in Britain, a steel leviathan whose massive guns would soon dominate the seas and render all others second-rate.

The Spanish fleet had been woefully outclassed on that fateful day in May 1898, but it wouldn’t be long before the U.S. Navy, in turn, found itself in a similar position. Naval warfare was evolving rapidly, and those who did not adapt would be left in the wake of progress.

In the years leading up to the First World War, the global arms race shifted into overdrive. The construction of massive dreadnought-class battleships dominated naval strategy, their colossal guns ruling the seas with unmatched firepower. But, like all things in the relentless march of warfare, even these steel behemoths would meet their match, as the age of the aircraft carrier loomed on the horizon during World War II.

Thus, the Battle of Manila Bay not only secured American dominance in the Pacific but also marked the beginning of a new era in naval warfare—an era in which steel and innovation would reign supreme, and empires would rise and fall on the shifting tides of modern technology.