Silently they proceeded, keeping to mid-stream,
so as to avoid alarming the sentinels on the banks. In this
success was attained; the eight miles were passed and the
front of the town reached without the Confederates having an
inkling of the disaster in store for them.
Reaching Plymouth, Lieutenant Cushing came to a quick
decision as to what had best be done. He knew the town well.
No alarm had been given. He might land a party and take the
Albemarle by surprise. He could land his men on the lower
wharf, lead them stealthily through the dark streets, leap
with them upon the iron-clad, surprise the officers and
crew, and capture the vessel at her moorings. It was an
enterprise of frightful risk, yet Cushing was just the man
for it, and his men would follow wherever he should lead. A
low order was given. The launch turned and glided almost
noiselessly towards the wharf. But she was now only a short
distance from the Albemarle, on whose deck the lookout was
wide-awake.
"What boat is that?" came a loud hail.
No reply. The launch glided on.
"What boat is that?" came the hail again, sharper than
before.
"Cast off!" said Cushing, in a low tone. The two boats were
loosened and drifted away. The plan of surprise was at an
end. The vigilance of the lookout had made it impossible.
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