The second cord was pulled;
the torpedo dropped from the spar. At this moment a bullet
cut across the left palm of the gallant Cushing. As it did
so he pulled the third cord. The next instant a surging
column of water was raised, lifting the Albemarle as though
the great iron-clad were of feather weight. At the same
instant a cannon, its muzzle not fifteen feet away, sent its
charge rending through the timbers of the launch.
The Albemarle, lifted for a moment on the boiling surge,
settled down into the mud of her shallow anchorage, never
more to swim, with a great hole torn in her bottom. The
torpedo had done its work. Cushing had earned his fame.
"Surrender!" came a loud shout from Confederate lungs.
"Never!" shouted Cushing in reply. "Save yourselves!" he
said to his men.
In an instant he had thrown off coat, shoes, sword, and
pistols, and plunged into the waters that rolled darkly at
his feet, and in which he had just dug a grave for the
Albemarle. His men sprung beside him, and struck out boldly
for the farther shore.
All this had passed in far less time than it takes to tell
it. Little more than five minutes had passed since the
first hail, and already the Albemarle was a wreck, the
launch destroyed, her crew swimming for their lives, and
bullets from deck and shore pouring thickly across the dark
stream.
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