Pike & Cutlass: Hero Tales of Our Navy

by George Gibbs

By half-past two A.M., about a mile below Plymouth, where the “Albemarle” lay, they came upon the submerged “Southfield,” and could just make out the lines of the guard-schooner. The machinery of the launch was slowed, almost stopped, for Cushing had decided to get by her if he could without a fight. It was a moment of utmost anxiety, and every man was prepared for the attack. But there was no sign of discovery from the schooners, and in ten minutes the little expedition had passed up the river in safety.

But only the first danger of discovery was over. Between the “Southfield” and Plymouth the bank was guarded by a double line of sentries, and the men in the boats, now moving more quickly, could see the red glare of the smouldering fires reaching all the way to town. As they came to the point beyond which the ram was lying, they found, to their delight, that the fires which should have been brightly burning were smouldering in the rain. There was no sign of a man to be made out anywhere, and Cushing pushed on directly for the “Albemarle,” which he could now see plainly as she lay at the wharf, grim and menacing, but without a sign of life.

Suddenly from the shore there came the sharp bark of a dog. To the ears of Cushing and his men in the deep silence and anxiety of the moment it sounded like the report of a Dahlgren. There was a cry from a sentry and a challenge, followed by a musket-shot, and the bullet flew over the boats and struck the water fifty feet away with a vicious ping that sounded not less loud than the report itself. There was another challenge, and in a moment the cries came from everywhere. Other dogs began barking, and it seemed as though the whole town was aroused. The sentries on both sides of the stream threw inflammable material on the smouldering fires, and in a moment the river was as bright as day.

Realizing that further concealment was useless, Cushing himself cast off the towline of the cutter, and telling the men in her to row for their lives, gave the engineer the order, “Four bells, ahead full speed,” setting the nose of the launch directly for the ram. The sparks flew up from her stack, and the dark water churned up in masses of foam under her stern, as like a sentient thing she leaped forward on her deadly mission. It was then that Cushing discovered for the first time the line of torpedo booms which guarded the ram. In facing the musketry-fire and the great guns of their enormous adversary the task of getting close enough to reach her seemed impossible.

Cushing knew that if he was to get over the log booms he must strike them fair; then perhaps he could slide over within striking distance. He shifted his helm, and making a wide sweep out into the stream, gathered all the headway he could and came down into the very jaws of the great monster. A tremendous volley from the shot-guns and muskets of the sentries greeted them, and Paymaster Swan was wounded. Cushing received a charge of buckshot in the back of his coat and had the sole of his shoe torn off, but these were the only shots which took effect.

Cushing here shouted, in a loud voice, “Leave the ram; we’re going to blow you up!” hoping to create a panic. But the Confederates continued firing, and succeeded in getting in two howitzer-shots, one of which felled a man by Cushing’s side. At this moment, Gay, up forward in the launch, took careful aim with the howitzer, and sent a charge in the midst of the Confederate crew. Then with a slight jar the sled-like bow rose on the boom. She balanced a second, and slid over within the enclosure, half full of water, but within reaching distance.

One of the great guns of the “Albemarle,” a hundred-pounder, protruded from a broadside port directly in front of them, and they could see the gun-crew frantically training the gun and trying to depress the muzzle enough to bear on them. It was a matter of seconds now. Who would fire first? Cushing had lowered the torpedo-spar, and as soon as he had it well under the overhang he detached it, then waited until he heard the torpedo strike the hull, when he pulled the trigger-line. He was not a fraction of a second too soon, for the two concussions were almost simultaneous. There was a muffled roar from below the great vessel, and a column of water shot out from under her as she lifted on the wave. The shock of the hundred-pounder was terrific, and it seemed as if the frail launch had been blown to pieces. But Cushing had been too quick for them. The charge of canister passed a few feet over their heads and scattered in the river beyond.

The work of the gallant crew was done. Cushing had made a hole in the “Albemarle” large enough to have driven a wagon through. The great wave of the torpedo rose and went completely over the launch, swamping her alongside and throwing her men into the water. All of them got to the booms safely. Here Cushing paused a moment to throw off his outer clothing, while the Confederates on the banks were shouting to the men to surrender. Several of them, being unable to swim, did so; but Cushing, calling to the others to follow him, plunged boldly into the water and struck off down the stream. He was a powerful swimmer, but the night was cold, and he knew that he could not keep up very long. But he swam for half an hour, and he came upon Woodman in the middle of the stream, almost exhausted. Though almost entirely fagged out himself, he tried to help the mate towards the shore. Finding that he was being pulled down and unable to save the other, Cushing struggled on, and reached the shoal water more dead than alive. Here he lay among the reeds until dawn, when he learned from a negro how complete had been his success. At last, after almost twenty-four hours’ exposure, he succeeded in finding one of the enemy’s deserted picket-skiffs, and managed under cover of the second night to pull off to the Federal “Valley City,” which he reached at eleven o’clock at night, and was hauled aboard completely exhausted from his labor and exposure. Only one other of his crew reached a place of safety. Woodman and Samuel Higgins, the fireman, were drowned. The others went ashore and surrendered or were captured.

This service, because of the great benefit to the Union cause and the daring manner in which it had been performed, made Cushing the hero of the year. Congress passed a vote of thanks and promoted him to the rank of lieutenant-commander, which he held until 1872, when he became a commander.

He did not long enjoy his honors, for two years later he died of brain fever, in Washington, at the age of thirty-two. Had he lived he would have been but fifty-six years of age at the outbreak of the war with Spain, and would have been one of the ranking officers in active service of the new navy.