the prow of each boat. Your naval man raises his flag amidships, but these were landsmen. They were inordinately proud and satisfied with their small armada as it strung out in the inlet, headed for Hurricane Island. The hour was about four o'clock in the afternoon of a day in late July. A vivid beauty lay upon land and water. Life seemed playful and happy.
They shouted to each other from boat to boat; they protested loudly their contempt for Bolsheviks, homeborn or foreign-born. They threatened this lone and obstinate insurgent Siwash with many bullets; nervously they worked the mechanism of their shotguns, or rifles or revolvers; yet sneeringly they assured themselves and each other, that an Indian would never think of resisting when he saw himself borne down upon by such numbers. Therefore, it was the strategy of Admiral Hogan to keep his armada massed, a demonstration in force. As the string of boats emerged from the channel and approached the island, by dint of much motioning and shouting, their commander got them into an abreast formation and at reduced speed they drew in toward the little landing.
There was no sign of life on the island. It was as still as if its defender had fled. And yet Sheriff Hogan, mindful of that ricocheting bullet, was awed and cautious. Intuitively, his posse fell into the same mood; voices were lowered, oaths muffled. The silence, the unmoving silence of that green-bushed island seemed somehow ominous. A hundred sharpshooters might lie concealed in any one of its leafy headlands. A realization that from a military point of view their position was highly exposed—they could be seen, but they could not see—made for subdued enthusiasm.
