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 moments were precious, he must hasten on.

He found himself near the walls of a fort.  On its parapet, towering gloomily above him, a sentinel could be seen, pacing steadily to and fro.  The fugitive lay almost under his eyes.  A bushy swamp lay not far beyond, but to reach its shelter he must cross an open space forty feet wide in full view of this man.  The sentinel walks away.  Cushing makes a dash for life.  But not half the space is traversed when his backward glancing eye sees the sentinel about to turn.  Down he goes on his back in the rushes, trusting to their friendly shelter and the gloom of the night to keep him from sight.

As he lies there, slowly gaining breath after his excited effort, four men—­two of them officers—­pass so close that they almost tread on his extended form, seeking him, but failing to see what lies nearly under their feet.  They pass on, talking of the night’s startling event.  Cushing dares not rise again.  Yet the swamp must be gained, and speedily.  Still flat on his back, he digs his heels into the soft earth, and pushes himself inch by inch through the rushes, until, with a warm heart-throb of hope, he feels the welcome dampness of the swamp.

It proves to be no pleasant refuge.  The mire is too deep to walk in, while above it grow tangled briers and thorny shrubs, through which he is able to pass only as before, by lying on his back, and pushing and pulling himself onward.

The hours of the night passed.  Day dawned.  He had made some progress, and was now at a safe distance from the fort, but found himself still in the midst of peril.  Near where he lay a party of soldiers were at work, engaged in planting obstructions in the river, lest the Union fleet should follow its daring pioneers to Plymouth, now that the Albemarle was sunk, and the chief naval defence of the place gone.