The trench, higher than his crown and wider than he was tall, led obliquely toward the dunes. To have cut such a trench must have been a prodigious job—and the queer part was, that from Vera Cruz the work had not been seen.
Judging by deep wheel tracks the cannon had been dragged through the trench, to the front.
For a little way he met nobody. Now the shells from the city and castle were bursting all around him, well-nigh deafening him; and from a distance the American guns were replying. Next, he came to a squad of sailors, sitting in a side gallery and eating breakfast. They hailed him.
"Ahoy! Where bound, young 'un?"
"Nowhere," Jerry answered.
"Heave to, then, and come aboard with your papers. Where you from?"
"Vera Cruz."
"Lay alongside." So Jerry turned in. "What's your colors? Speak sharp. Report to the admiral."
"Red, white and blue," asserted Jerry.
"Blow me, but he is American, by the cut of his jib," one of them exclaimed. "Where's your convoy, young sloop-o'-war?"
"Nowhere. I ran away last night."
"Homeward bound in ballast. Can't you see he's floating clean above loading mark?" said another. "He's empty to his keel. Fall to, my hearty. Line your lockers."
They were a jovial party, grimy with sand and sweat, their blue sailor shirts open, their faces red and their big hands tarry and scarred. They passed him hard biscuit and meat and a cup of coffee—and
