,
dropped under water. The launch was still gliding onward,
and carrying the spar forward. The second cord was pulled;
the torpedo dropped from the spar. At this moment a bullet
cut across the left palm of the gallant Cushing. As it did
so he pulled the third cord. The next instant a surging
column of water was raised, lifting the Albemarle as though
the great iron-clad were of feather weight. At the same
instant a cannon, its muzzle not fifteen feet away, sent its
charge rending through the timbers of the launch.

The Albemarle, lifted for a moment on the boiling surge,
settled down into the mud of her shallow anchorage, never
more to swim, with a great hole torn in her bottom. The
torpedo had done its work. Cushing had earned his fame.

"Surrender!" came a loud shout from Confederate lungs.

"Never!" shouted Cushing in reply. "Save yourselves!" he
said to his men.

In an instant he had thrown off coat, shoes, sword, and
pistols, and plunged into the waters that rolled darkly at
his feet, and in which he had just dug a grave for the
Albemarle. His men sprung beside him, and struck out boldly
for the farther shore.

All this had passed in far less time than it takes to tell
it. Little more than five minutes had passed since the
first hail, and already the Albemarle was a wreck, the
launch destroyed, her crew swimming for their lives, and
bullets from deck and shore pouring thickly across the dark
stream.

The incensed Confederates hastily manned boats and pushed
out into the stream. In a few minutes they had captured most
of the swimming crew. One sank and was drowned. One reached
the shore. The gallant commander of the launch they failed
to find. They called his name,--they had learned it from
their prisoners,--but no answer came, and the darkness
veiled him from view. Had he gone to the bottom? Such most
of the searchers deemed to be his fate.

In a few minutes the light of a blazing fire flashed across
the river from Plymouth wharf. It failed to reveal any
swimming forms. The impression became general that the
daring commander was drowned. After some further search most
of the boats returned, deeming their work at an end.

They had not sought far or fast enough. Cushing had reached
shore--on the Plymouth side--before the fire was kindled. He
was chilled and exhausted, but he dared not stop to rest.
Boats were still patrolling the stream; parties of search
might soon be scouring the river-banks; the mo