Drayton walked to the port.
“About west-sou’west, sir, I should say.”
The admiral smiled.
“A good omen. Our smoke will blow over their batteries.”
He raised his cup, drained it, and set it back on its saucer. Then he rose to his feet and walked slowly up and down the cabin, looking first at his watch and then out through the starboard gallery, where the fleet lay. He turned, his genial face all aglow in the cool light of the morning, and reached to the table for his side-arms.
The moment had arrived.
“Well, Drayton,” he said, “we might as well get under weigh.”
Drayton knew, and Farragut knew, that the momentous day before them would decide the fate of the West Gulf and of the nation in the South. It was the supreme moment in the admiral’s career. But as he clasped his sword-belt his hands were as firm as though on inspection.
With a cheery “Aye, aye, sir,” Drayton went out of the door and up the companion, and soon the deck above resounded with the nimble feet as the men sprang joyfully to quarters. Old Knowles, the quartermaster, deftly sent his little ball of bunting, ready for an hour, to the yard-arm, and in a moment the row of multi-colored flags, tipped with the glow of the brightened east, fluttered proudly out into the morning breeze.
Then the bright answering pennants flew up from all the vessels of the fleet, and the black smoke poured from their dusky funnels as the white water churned up behind them on their way into line.