run up the stream at night, and assail the
iron-clad where she lay in fancied security. From the bow of
the launch protruded a long spar, loaded at its end with a
100-pound dynamite cartridge. The spar could be lowered by
pulling one rope, the cartridge detached by pulling another,
and the dynamite exploded by pulling a third.

The proposed exploit was a highly perilous one. The
Albemarle lay eight miles up the river. Plymouth was
garrisoned by several thousand soldiers, and the banks of
the stream were patrolled by sentinels all the way down to
the bay. It was more than likely that none of the
adventurers would live to return. Yet Cushing and the crew
of seven daring men whom he selected were willing to take
the risk, and the naval commanders, to whom success in such
an enterprise promised the most valuable results, agreed to
let them go.

It was a dark night in which the expedition set out,--that
of October 27, 1864. Up the stream headed the little launch,
with her crew of seven, and towing two boats, each
containing ten men, armed with cutlasses, grenades, and
revolvers. Silently they proceeded, keeping to mid-stream,
so as to avoid alarming the sentinels on the banks. In this
success was attained; the eight miles were passed and the
front of the town reached without the Confederates having an
inkling of the disaster in store for them.

Reaching Plymouth, Lieutenant Cushing came to a quick
decision as to what had best be done. He knew the town well.
No alarm had been given. He might land a party and take the
Albemarle by surprise. He could land his men on the lower
wharf, lead them stealthily through the dark streets, leap
with them upon the iron-clad, surprise the officers and
crew, and capture the vessel at her moorings. It was an
enterprise of frightful risk, yet Cushing was just the man
for it, and his men would follow wherever he should lead. A
low order was given. The launch turned and glided almost
noiselessly towards the wharf. But she was now only a short
distance from the Albemarle, on whose deck the lookout was
wide-awake.

"What boat is that?" came a loud hail.

No reply. The launch glided on.

"What boat is that?" came the hail again, sharper than
before.

"Cast off!" said Cushing, in a low tone. The two boats were
loosened and drifted away. The plan of surprise was at an
end. The vigilance of the lookout had made it impossible.
That of destruction remained. The launch was turned again,
a