All the afternoon they swept along the coast, which was exceedingly lonely and barren. Only a few cattle grazers’ huts could be seen as a sign of human habitation, and the rugged, stark mountains that formed the background only enhanced the sterile, wretched look of the grim coast.
One noteworthy sight was theirs when they passed Guantanamo Bay, the rendezvous of Uncle Sam’s fighting ships for battle practice every winter.
“Well, they could shoot at that shore every day and not hurt anything,” commented Jack.
Night had fallen when Mr. Chadwick declared that they were in the vicinity of Sonora. The chart showed plenty of water close into the coast, and they crept in as near as they dared. The mountains here towered precipitously up from the sea. At their feet were many caves formed by the ceaseless wash of the waves in the basal formations.
These caves exist all along that coast of Cuba, and some of them are known to run many miles underground. But nobody has ever fully explored them.
Anxiety and suspense grew keen as they neared Sonora. The cliffs rose blackly and forbiddingly against the star-spattered sky, but as yet there was no sign of a light ashore. Suddenly, from the base of one of the cliffs, the expected signal came. But it was not the white light that they had hoped for,—the light that would have meant that all was well.
Like two drops of blood on a black velvet curtain, two scarlet lamps flamed out against the dark background of the cliffs.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Chadwick, “that means the worst. Jameson is not a man who would get alarmed unnecessarily. Jupe, get a red lamp from below and swing it to and fro twice.”
“Y-y-y-yes, sah,” stuttered Jupe, who had no great stomach for fighting. To him the mysterious proceedings of the night seemed fraught with direness also.
“H-h-h-ere you am, sah,” he stammered, coming on deck and handing the lantern to Mr. Chadwick.