Six great
ships of war, stretching out over a league of sea, stood
blackly out against the red background, rolling and rising,
and leaping forward, flinging back smoke and burning sparks up
into the air behind them, and throbbing and panting like
living creatures in their race for revenge. From the south
came a three-decked vessel, a great island of floating steel,
with a flag as red as the angry sky behind it, snapping in the
wind. To the south of it plunged two long low-lying
torpedo-boats, flying the French tri-color, and still farther
to the north towered three magnificent hulls of the White
Squadron. Vengeance was written on every curve and line, on
each straining engine-rod, and on each polished gun-muzzle.
And in front of these, a clumsy fishing-boat rose and fell on
each passing wave. Two sailors sat in the stern, holding the
rope and tiller, and in the bow, with their backs turned forever
toward Opeki, stood two young boys, their faces lit by the glow
of the setting sun and stirred by the sight of the great engines
of war plunging past them on their errand of vengeance.
"Stedman," said the elder boy, in an awe-struck whisper,
and with a wave of his hand, "we have not lived in vain.
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