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. The launch was fast inside the boom, and the wave from her torpedo was rushing over her, carrying her down. "Surrender," came a voice from above. "Never! Swim for your lives, men," cried Cushing, and he sprang into the flowing stream. Two or three bullets had gone through his clothing, but he was unhurt, and swam swiftly away, his men after him. Only Cushing and one of the men got away. The others were captured, except one who was drowned. Boats were quickly out, a fire of logs was made on the wharf, which threw its light far out over the stream, but he reached the shore unseen, chilled to the bone and completely worn out. A sentry was pacing on the wall of a fort over his head, men passed looking for him, but he managed to creep to the swamp nearby and hide in the mud and reeds. There he lay till the break of day. Then he crawled on till he got into a cornfield nearby. Now for the first time he could stand up and walk. But just as he got to the other side of the field he came face to face with a man. Cushing was not afraid. It was a black face. In those days no Union soldier was afraid of a black face. The slaves would do anything for "Massa Linkums' sojers." The young lieutenant was almost as black as the slave after his long crawl through the mud. Cushing told him who he was, and sent him into the town for news, waiting in the cornfield for his return. After an hour the messenger came back. His face was smiling with delight. "Good news, Massa," he said. "De big iron ship's gone to de bottom suah. Folks dar say she'll neber git up agin." "Mighty good," said Cushing. "Now, old man, tell me how I can get back to the ships."