Channing gave a sigh of admiration.
"Don't tell me they move," he said. "They're not ships, they're
fortresses!"
On the shore there was no sign of human life nor of human habitation.
Except for the Spanish flag floating over the streaked walls of
Morro, and the tiny blockhouse on every mountain-top, the squadron
might have been anchored off a deserted coast. The hills rose from
the water's edge like a wall, their peaks green and glaring in the
sun, their valleys dark with shadows. Nothing moved upon the white
beach at their feet, no smoke rose from their ridges, not even a palm
stirred. The great range slept in a blue haze of heat. But only a few
miles distant, masked by its frowning front, lay a gayly colored,
red-roofed city, besieged by encircling regiments, a broad bay
holding a squadron of great war-ships, and gliding cat-like through
its choked undergrowth and crouched among the fronds of its
motionless palms were the ragged patriots of the Cuban army, silent,
watchful, waiting. But the great range gave no sign. It frowned in
the sunlight, grim and impenetrable.
"It's Sunday," exclaimed the captain. He pointed with his finger at
the decks of the battleships, where hundreds of snow-white figures
had gone to quarters.
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