They were still a mile below Plymouth when the shadowy outlines of the wrecked Southfield loomed dimly to view.  The Confederates had raised her so that her hurricane deck was above the surface.  Within a few yards of the wreck a schooner was anchored containing a guard of twenty men with a field piece and rocket, provided for precisely such danger as now drew near.  But on this night, of all others, the sentinels were dozing, for had they been vigilant they must have seen the little craft whose crew saw theirs and were on the qui vive to board on the instant of discovery.

The good fortune encouraged all hands, and as the schooner and wreck melted into the darkness the launch swept around a bend in the river and caught the glimmer of the camp fires along the banks, partly extinguished by the falling rain.  Still creeping cautiously on, the outlines of the prodigious ram gradually assumed form in the gloom.  It looked as if the surprise would be complete, when a dog, more watchful than his masters, began barking.  He had discovered the approaching danger, and the startled sentinels challenged, but no reply was made.  A second challenge bringing no response, several muskets flashed in the night.  Other dogs joined in barking, alarm rattles were sprung and wood flung upon the fires, which, flaring up, threw their illumination out on the river and revealed the launch and cutter.  The hoarse commands of officers rang out, and the soldiers, springing from sleep, caught up their guns and rushed to quarters.

Amid the fearful din and peril Cushing cut the tow line and ordered the cutter to hasten down the river and capture the guard near the Southfield.  At the same moment he directed the launch to go ahead at full speed.  He had changed his plan.  Instead of landing he determined to blow up the ram.  When close to it he learned for the first time of the cordon of logs which surrounded the Albemarle, but, believing they were slippery enough from remaining long in the water to be passed, he sheered off, made a sweep of a hundred yards and again charged under full steam for the obstruction.

As he drew near the guards fired a volley which riddled Cushing’s coat and tore off the sole of his shoe.

At the same moment he heard the vicious snapping of the primers of the huge guns, which showed they had missed fire.

“Leave the ram!” he shouted.  “We’re going to blow you up!”

The Confederates, however, did not follow the advice and the launch fired her howitzer.  Then she glided over the slimy logs and paused in front of the muzzle of a loaded cannon which could be almost reached with the outstretched hand.  Still cool and self-possessed amid the horrible perils, Cushing stood erect, lowered the torpedo spar, shoved it under the overhang, waited a moment for it to rise until he felt it touch the bottom of the ram, when he gave a quick, strong pull on the trigger line.  A muffled, thunderous explosion followed, an immense column of water rose in the air and the tremendous tipping of the Albemarle showed she had received a mortal hurt.