“Ay, ay, sir, we understand,” comes the answer from the handful of heroes. The little wheel under the stern of the launch turns over slowly and noiselessly as eager, anxious eyes peer ahead into the night. Suddenly a huge blot is made out a little on the port bow, and a moment later it shapes itself into the outlines of a dock with a great vessel lying alongside. Out of the gloom rings the challenge, “Boat ahoy!” While the echo of the last word trembles, Cushing orders, fiercely: “Give it to her! Steady, boys!” The engineer opens wide the valve, and throws the wild pressure of a full head of steam into the cylinder. The launch jumps forward in time to escape a shower of iron hail that ploughs into her white wake. Before the guns can be pointed anew a long, narrow barrier washing level with the water shows a few feet ahead. A sheet of flame from the rifle-barrels on the dock and ship, so close to the open boat that it scorches the air in the faces of the crew, makes vivid for an instant the onrushing destroyer. One of the blue-jackets throws his arms up, and falls face downward in the cockpit just as the stem of the launch strikes the log. 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.