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.
Behind him stood Watson, Gates, McKinley, and Brownell, watching the
progress of the monitors. The calmness of the scene was sublime. Only
an occasional order to the tacklemen, given in a quiet voice by the
gun-captains, showed the deadly work ahead.
As the “Hartford” drew into range, the admiral walked over to the main
rigging and clambered up into the shrouds; and his men below him at the
batteries lovingly watched their “old man” as step by step he mounted
to get a clearer view. They knew him for a gallant old sea-dog. They had
seen him steam past the batteries at Vicksburg and Port Hudson, and they
smiled at his sternness at the capture of New Orleans, for they loved
him. But at Mobile they learned that he feared nothing above the ocean
or under it, if it stood in the way of the cause of his country. At this
point Farragut stood a few feet above Jouett, on the wheel-house of the
“Metacomet” alongside, and could hail the top above him, where Freeman,
his trusty pilot, gave him his soundings and bearings.
At length the battle opened. A great puff of white smoke rolled along
the water from the turret of the “Tecumseh,” and a yellow cloud of dust
above the water-batteries marked where the shot had struck. Fort Morgan
immediately replied, and, as the gunners got the range, the angry splash
of the shots as they skipped across the water came clearly to the crew
of the “Hartford,” who stood at their guns silent and motionless. As
the shots rained about them and great white splinters were torn from the
nettings and flew across the decks, they only looked up at their admiral,
who, leaning slightly forward, was slowly scanning the breastworks. In his
face there was no impatience, no irritation, no sign of anxiety, and while
he could calmly wait, they could. The courage of the leader was reflected
in his men. It was the very perfection of human discipline.
Would the order to fire never come? Already a fragment of shell had struck
a gun-captain in the breast, and they saw him carried past them, moaning
piteously. A shot had struck the foremast, and a jagged splinter from the
mainmast flew up and lodged in the rigging below where the admiral stood.
They saw him take the glass from his eyes, and, turning towards Captain
Drayton, hold up his hand.
The guns, already trained, belched forth their iron greeting to the
gunboats, and the battle was on in earnest. Calm before, the men were
calmer now, and they went about their work as though at target practice.
The powder-boys flew like sprites, and the gunners sponged and loaded with
rapidity. It was as if each gun and its crew were parts of one mechanism.
“Steady, boys, steady. Left tackle a little. So! so!”
And then came another broadside, followed by an eager cheer as the enemy
were driven away from their water-battery.
[Illustration: THE ADMIRAL LASHED TO THE RIGGING]
As the smoke from the broadsides increased and obscured his view, the
admiral, ratline by ratline, ascended the rigging until he found himself
partly above the futtock bands and holding on to the futtock shrouds.
The watchful eye of Drayton saw him perched high up, all unconscious of
himself, thinking only of the great movements about him. A shock, and
he would be thrown into the sea. The captain gave an order to Knowles,
the quartermaster, who lay aloft briskly with a piece of lead-line. The
admiral did not even see him, and only when Knowles passed the line around
him did Farragut take his glasses down. “Never mind,” said he, with a
smile, “I’m all right.” But the quartermaster lashed him, nevertheless,
and lay below.
Then from his lofty position the admiral saw a magnificent but terrible
thing. The monitor “Tecumseh” was up well with the fort, and drawing
slowly on, when, without a warning, a great column of water shot up under
her starboard bow. She heeled over to port and went down with every soul
on board. She had struck a torpedo. Captain Craven, in his eagerness to
engage the “Tennessee” in battle, had passed to the west of the fatal
buoy.
This disaster was not immediately realized by the men. Some supposed the
“Tennessee” had been sunk, and cheer after cheer was taken up and echoed
along the line.
But the admiral knew the danger that was coming. His anxiety was not
decreased when the “Brooklyn,” just ahead of him, suddenly stopped. The
frown on his brows deepened, and loudly he hailed his pilot, Freeman, in
the top, a few feet above him,--
“What’s the matter with the Brooklyn?” he shouted. “She must have plenty
of water there.”
Freeman’s head appeared promptly at the lubber’s hole.
“Plenty and to spare, admiral,” he answered.
Then the admiral knew. Captain Alden had seen the “Tecumseh” go down,
and the heavy line of torpedoes across the channel made him pause. The
backing screw churned up the water, and the “Hartford” every moment was
bearing down on her. The vessels in the rear, pressing on those in the
van, created a terrible confusion, and in the uncertainty the batteries
of Farragut’s ships ceased fire, while the whole of Mobile Point was a
living flame. Disaster was imminent.
But not a second did Farragut pause. A harsh voice from the “Hartford”
broke the brief but ominous silence.
“What’s the trouble?”