Lighthouse Harry and Colonel Beamish screw a heavy tripod to the
deck and balance above it a quick-firing one-pounder. They worked
very slowly, and to David, watching them from the lee scupper,
they appeared extremely unintelligent.

"I don't believe either of those thugs put an automatic gun
together in his life," he whispered to Carr. "I never did,
either, but I've put hundreds of automatic punches together, and
I bet that gun won't work."

"What's wrong with it?" said Carr.

Before David could summon sufficient energy to answer, the
attention of all on board was diverted, and by a single word.

Whether the word is whispered apologetically by the smoking-room
steward to those deep in bridge, or shrieked from the tops of a
sinking ship it never quite fails of its effect. A sweating
stoker from the engine-room saw it first.

"Land!" he hailed.

The sea-sick Cubans raised themselves and swung their hats; their
voices rose in a fierce chorus.

"Cuba libre!" they yelled.

The sun piercing the morning mists had uncovered a coast-line
broken with bays and inlets. Above it towered green hills, the
peak of each topped by a squat blockhouse; in the valleys and