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.