It is the night of October 27, 1864. A blockading fleet of Union vessels rides at anchor off the harbor of Plymouth, North Carolina. Alongside the flag-ship an open launch is secured, her after-part made visible to those on board the over-towering ship owing to the glow that comes from the open door of the little furnace. The light that streams forth also throws into relief the face and form of the engineer as he spreads a layer of “green” coals over the surface of the fire, and thrusts the slender brass spout of his oil-can into the various feed-cups of the machinery. Just abaft the cockpit, holding the stern of the launch to the frigate by means of a boat-hook, stands a blue-jacket, his naked feet showing as two white patches on the lead-colored planks. Another seaman is performing a similar office forward in the bow, while several more are gathered about a long, curious-looking spar carefully secured, with its cylinder-shaped head resting on a wad of cotton-waste; but these men are lost to view, owing to the gloom of their situation, which is deepened by contrast to the firelight aft. At the open gangway of the flag-ship two officers stand conversing. Beside them a gray-haired quartermaster is stationed, lantern in hand, to light the way down the ladder that leads to the launch. In the shoulder-straps of one of the officers glistens a single silver star, which denotes his Commodore’s rank, while the two gold bars that decorate the straps of the other show him to be a Lieutenant. As the latter is observed in the rays of the lantern, his smooth face and slender figure are suggestive rather of extreme youth than of a man qualified by years and experience to assume the office that his uniform represents. The gold bands around his coat sleeves have been nobly won, however, and the boy of nineteen, who entered the service three years previous as a master’s mate, has already commanded with singular and enviable distinction a gun-boat of the blockading squadron. There is a touch of fatherly tenderness and a depth of anxiety in the old Commodore’s voice as he speaks: “Cushing, my boy, you are going to almost certain death; the rebels have learned of your object, and are prepared for the attempt. The _Albemarle_, as you know, is surrounded with heavy floating timbers so arranged that you cannot get within thirty feet of her, and unless you can succeed in laying your boat alongside, how can you expect to explode the torpedo?” The lines of the Lieutenant’s thinly cut mouth deepen, and the brows draw ominously down over the flashing eyes.