President Polk by a number of very important days.

These were bright May days, and during all of them there were other
things going on which had a direct relation to the cannon-firing and the
siege. For instance, all the commerce between Mexico and the rest of the
world was deeply interested, and so were all the warships of the United
States, which were prepared to interfere with that commerce pretty soon,
and shut it off. There were merchant vessels at sea to whose captains
and owners it was a serious question whether or not cruisers carrying
the Stars and Stripes would permit them to reach their intended port
and deliver their cargoes. Whatever may have been the case with all the
rest of these vessels, one of them in particular appeared to be rushing
along in a great hurry at the very hour when Lieutenant Grant woke up so
suddenly and walked out of his tent.

She carried an American flag, somewhat tattered, and she was spreading
quite as much canvas as a prudent skipper might have considered safe
under the strong gale that was blowing. She was bark-rigged, of about
four hundred tons burden, and was headed westward in the Nicholas
Channel, off the northerly coast of the Island of Cuba. There was a high
sea running, but the ship stood up well, and the few men who were on
deck could get about easily. Even a boy of apparently not over
seventeen, who came to a halt near the mainmast, managed to keep his
balance with some help from a rope. That he did so was a credit to him,
and it helped to give him a sailor-like and jaunty air. So did his blue
trousers, blue flannel shirt with a wide collar, and the sidewise pitch
of his tarpaulin hat. He might as well have remarked aloud that he was
one of those boys who are up to almost anything, and who think small
potatoes of a mere storm at sea. Near him, however, stood a pair of men,
either of whom might have felt as much at home under another flag than
the one which was now fluttering its damaged bunting above them. The
shorter of the two was a very dark-faced gentleman of perhaps forty,
with piercing black eyes. In spite of his civilian dress, he wore an
expression that was decidedly warlike, or soldierly.

"Captain Kemp," he said to his companion, "will you be good enough to
tell me why we are in the Nicholas Channel?"

"No, Senor Zuroaga," growled the large-framed, roughly rigged and
grim-looking sailor. "I'm cap'n o' this ship, and I don't give
explanations. We've had gale