It was Friday, the 5th of August, 1864. The first violet streaks of dawn stole through the purple clouds that the wind had tossed up during the night. Admiral Farragut sat in his cabin, quietly sipping his tea, his fleet-captain, Drayton, by his side. Through the open ports they could see the dim masses of the ships of the fleet as, lashed two and two, they stretched in a long line to seaward. The wind no longer blew, and the shrill pipes and the creaking of the blocks as the light yards came down echoed clearly across the silent water. “How is the wind, Drayton?” said the admiral, at last. 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. The admiral, on the quarter-deck, glass in hand, saw the black turrets of the monitors, with their grim, shiny muzzles, drift slowly inland towards the batteries, not a ripple showing behind them as they moved on their deadly mission towards the frowning battlements of Fort Morgan. Ahead of the “Hartford” was the broad stern of the “Brooklyn,” as she churned her way slowly onward, her smoke drifting in great clouds over her starboard bow towards the water-batteries. Beside the admiral, one hand on the rail, was Drayton, cool as though on a practice drill, and as he looked over the swarthy backs that shone bare in the morning sun he knew well that the flagship would give a good account of herself.