Will she go over it? is the agonizing thought of the brave youth who stands in the very bosom of the deadly tempest.
The head of the boat rears itself on the air until the water is splashing into the stern-sheets aft; then, without checking her mad rush, she clears the barrier like a steeple-chaser and hurls herself forward.
Another volley greets them, and the engineer and one more of the sailors go down; but Lieutenant Cushing springs from the wheel, grasps the torpedo-spar, and as the bow of the launch strikes the rebel ram he thrusts it against her side just as a thick storm of missiles from the howitzers crashes into his boat and shatters it to pieces.
But the doom of the Albemarle is written. An awful rumbling is heard, accompanied by the sound of splintering timbers, followed by a towering volume of torn and maddened waters that for a moment hide the scene from friend and foe, and under cover of which Lieutenant Cushing regains the river beyond the floating logs.
Mingled shouts of command and cries of rage are heard by the swimmer when he comes to the surface after his plunge under the barrier. A number of bullets whistle above his head and patter into the water around him. It is evident that he is yet within the range of vision of the sharp-shooters, so he draws a long breath and sinks below the level again, striking out strong, and swimming until forced to regain the air.
The confusion of voices is yet audible, but when he turns his eyes in the direction of the clamor nothing is visible save the indistinct outline of the shore; then he knows that he no longer affords a mark for the soldiers on the dock.
But another cause of alarm is quickly manifest, for he catches the sound of the thud of oars as they pound against the rowlocks, telling him that the enemy have manned a boat and are seeking him. Before he can decide as to the direction in which to swim in order to get out of the track of the on-coming craft, it looms up only a few yards from him.
There is only one course to pursue, so, catching a quick breath, he quietly sinks, and the boat passes over the spot where the bubbles on the water mark his disappearance.
Until he experiences a sense of suffocation he remains under, swimming off at right angles to the path of his seekers, so that his head may not be in line with the eyes of the rowers when he regains the surface.
When he again casts his anxious eyes around, nothing is seen, so he throws himself on his back and floats while recovering his strength, and shortly after strikes out for the opposite bank of the river, which he reaches after a weary trial, then creeps into the underbrush, and sleeps from exhaustion.