The scene was picturesque in the extreme.
The gray of early dawn was just giving way before the first rays of a tropical sun.

Almost hidden in the mist hovering about the coast were a number of vague spots seemingly arranged in a semicircle, the base of which was the green-covered tableland fronting Santiago.

The spots were tossing idly upon a restless sea, and, as the sun rose higher, each gradually assumed the shape of a marine engine of war.

Beyond them was a stretch of sandy, surf-beaten coast, and directly fronting the centre ship could be seen a narrow cleft in the hill--the gateway leading to the ancient city of Santiago de Cuba.
As we steamed in closer to the fleet we saw indications that something of importance had occurred or was about to occur.

Steam launches and torpedo boats were dashing about between the ships, strings of parti-colored bunting flaunted from the signal halliards of the flagship "New York," and nearer shore could be seen one of the smaller cruisers evidently making a reconnaissance.
"We are just in time, Russ," exclaimed "Stump," jubilantly.