[Illustration:  Sinking of the Albemarle.]

All this did not disconcert the intrepid commander of the launch.  His main concern at that moment was an unexpected obstacle he had discovered, and which threatened to defeat his enterprise.  A raft of logs had been placed around the iron-clad to protect her from any such attack.  There she lay, not fifty feet away; but this seemingly insuperable obstacle intervened.

What was to be done?  In emergencies like that men think quickly and to the point.  The raft must be passed, or all was at an end.  The logs had been long in the water, and doubtless were slippery with river slime.  The launch might be run upon and over them.  Once inside the raft, it could never return.  No matter for that.  He was there to sink the Albemarle.  The smaller contingency of losing his own life was a matter to be left for an after-thought.

This decision was reached in a moment’s thought.  The noise above them increased.  Men were running and shouting, lights flashing, landsmen, startled by the noise, hurrying to the river-bank.  Without an instant’s delay the launch was wheeled round, steamed rapidly into the stream until a good offing was gained, turned again, and now drove straight forward for the Albemarle with all the power of her engines.  As she came near bullets poured like hail across her decks.  One tore off the sole of Cushing’s shoe; another went through the back of his coat; it was perilously close and hot work.  The hail came again: 

“What boat is that?”

This time Lieutenant Cushing replied.  His reply was not in words, however, but in a howitzer load of canister which drove across the Albemarle’s deck.  The next minute the bow of the launch struck the logs.  As had been expected, the light craft slid up on their slippery surfaces, forcing them down into the water.  The end of the spar almost touched the iron hull of the destined victim.

The first rope was loosened.  The spar, with its load, 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.