At this critical juncture Lieutenant William B. Cushing, a very young but a very bold officer, proposed a daring plan; no less a one than to attack the Albemarle at her wharf, explode a torpedo under her hull, and send her, if possible, to the bottom of the Roanoke.  He proposed to use a swift steam-launch, 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, and moved once more towards the Albemarle.

They were quickly so close that the hull of the iron-clad loomed darkly above them.  Upon that vessel all was commotion.  The unanswered hail was followed by the springing of rattles, ringing of bells, running of men, and shouting of orders.  Muskets were fired at random at the dimly seen black object.  Bullets whizzed past the devoted crew.  Lights began to flash here and there.  A minute before all had been rest and silence; now all was noise, alarm, and commotion.