Thursday passed; Friday came; the Kearsarge waited in the channel with ports down; guns pivoted to starboard; the whole battery loaded; and shell, grape, and canister ready to use in any method of attack or defence,—but no Alabama appeared. A French pilot-boat drifted near, and the black-eyed skipper cried out,
“You fellers look out for ze Alabama. She take in much coal. Whew! She take much of ze captured stuff ashore. Whew! She scrub ze deck. Whew! She put ze sailors to ze business of sharpening ze cutlass and ze dirk. Whew! You look out for ze great privateer! Whew!”
Captain Winslow only smiled.
“Zey have ze big feast,” continued the Frenchman. “Zey dr-e-e-nk ze wine. Zey stan’ on ze chairs and zey say, ‘We will seenk ze Yankee dog.’ Ta donc! Zey call you ze dog!”
And still Captain Winslow smiled. But, next day, his smile turned to a frown.
It was Sunday, the nineteenth day of June. The weather was beautiful; the atmosphere was somewhat hazy; the wind was light; and there was little sea. At ten o’clock the Kearsarge was drifting near a buoy about three miles eastward from the entrance of Cherbourg break-water. Her decks had been newly holy-stoned; the brass work had been cleaned; the guns polished, and the crew had on their Sunday clothes. They had been inspected, and dismissed—in order to attend divine service.
At 1.20 a cry rang out:
“She comes!”
The bell was tolling for prayers.
“The Alabama! The Alabama! She’s moving, and heading straight for us!”