Kennedy led the Rangers towards El Morro, creeping through the thick wood with its near-impenetrable undergrowth. With the sun filtering through the leaves, everything appeared as a green haze, in which swarms of insects hung, constantly moving, whining black dots that swooped to bite and sting any exposed flesh.
“This woodland is a defence all of its own,” Kennedy said. “I thought it might conceal our attack, but it will hamper any advance.”
“Like the Highlanders at Ticonderoga,” MacKim agreed.1
They moved closer, alert for any roving pickets of Cuban militia, careful not to be seen by sentries on the walls above.
“That parapet isn’t as strong as it looks,” Kennedy said. “It’s old; older than Quebec or Montreal, I think.”
MacKim nodded. “Maybe from the early days of the Spanish settl
