In the
night the British Mediterranean fleet, cruising down from Malta, had
come into the roadstead, and at the signal from the flagship had
maneuvered and dropped anchor, forming a long line of gigantic
battleships, swift cruisers, torpedo-boat destroyers, torpedo-boats,
despatch-boats, and other craft extending for several miles along the
coast.
In the bright morning sunlight the sight was both picturesque and
imposing, for from every vessel flags were flying, and ever and anon the
great battleship of the Admiral made signals which were repeated by all
the other vessels, each in turn. Lying still on those calm blue waters
was a force which one day might cause nations to totter, the
overwhelming force which upheld Britain's right in that oft-disputed
sea.
A couple of thousand British sailors were ashore on leave, their white
caps conspicuous in the streets everywhere as they walked orderly in
threes and fours to inspect the town. In the square outside the
Consulate a squad from the flagship were setting up a temporary
band-stand, where the ship's band was to play when evening fell, while
Hutcheson, perspiring in his uniform, drove with the Admiral to make the
calls of courtesy upon the authorities which international etiquette
demanded.
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