What was he to do? Should he land at the wharf and take his men on board, and try to capture her where she lay?
Before he had time to think it was too late for that. A sentry on board saw the launch and called out:
"Boat ahoy!" There was no answer.
"What boat is that?" Still no answer.
Then came a musket shot, and then a rattle of musketry from the river bank. A minute after lights flashed out and men came running down the wharf. The ship's crew tumbled up from below. All was haste and confusion.
Almost any man would have given it up for lost and run for safety. But Cushing was not of that kind. It did not take him a second to decide. He ran the launch out into the stream, turned her round, and dashed at full speed straight for the boom.
A storm of bullets came from the deck of the Albemarle, but he heeded them no more than if they had been snowflakes. In a minute the bow of the launch struck the logs.
They were slippery with river slime and the light boat climbed up on them, driving them down under the water. Over she went, and slid into the water inside the boom.
Cushing stood in the bow, with the trigger-string in his hand. He lowered the torpedo under the hull of the iron-clad, lifted it till he felt it touch her bottom, and then pulled the string.
There came two loud reports. A hundred-pounder gun was being fired from the ship's side right over his head. Along with it came a dull roar from under the water. The dynamite torpedo had gone off, tearing a great hole in the wooden bottom. In a minute the ill-fated Albemarle began to sink.