“Admiral David Farragut – who knew a little something of heroism himself – later remarked that ‘young Cushing was the hero of the war.’”

By Jim Stempel

RAIN BEGAN falling in sheets as the small steamer, known as picket boat No. 1, puffed its way through the choppy surf toward the mouth of the river, now just minutes away. Directly astern, the boat tugged an open cutter full of sailors, all hand-picked, good with “revolvers, cutlasses and hand-grenades.”

The two boats had departed the Union warship USS Shamrock almost three hours earlier. Now, as the mouth of the river loomed ever-nearer, their previous sense of casual confidence gave way to grim determination. For they had all volunteered for a mission many senior officers in Washington considered suicidal.

It was Oct. 27, 1864, and the cold, rain-drenched men were slowly departing Albemarle Sound for the Roanoke River. They were still about ten miles from Plymouth, North Carolina, where their objective – the Confederate ironclad ram, CSS Albemarle – was berthed among an array of elaborate defensive measures.

Every man realized he was in for a long, dangerous night, and that many would not be returning. Their task was to either cut the ironclad out or, if that proved unfeasible, destroy the Albemarle in its berth by way of a spar torpedo: an explosive charge designed to be released below the hull of an enemy ship by way of a long, submerged boom.

Not one member of the expedition had the slightest notion that within days the New York Times would hail their mission as “one of the most daring and romantic naval feats of history.”

In April of that year the recently completed Albemarle had descended the Roanoke to surprise and drive-off a small Federal flotilla patrolling near Plymouth. The new ironclad spearheaded the Confederate recapture of the town.

Then in May, the Rebel ram appeared on the open waters of Albemarle Sound, bound for New Bern, North Carolina. She was promptly attacked by a flotilla of seven large and well-armed Federal gunboats. Together, the Union vessels had 60 guns against the Albemarle’s two Brooke rifles. For hours, the battle raged, the Federals surrounding the Confederate vessel as it bobbed about between them, blasting away at virtually point-blank range. When it was all over, the North had hurled 557 rounds at the ram, but accomplished little more than riddling its smokestack, shaking loose a few iron plates, and damaging the tube of one naval rifle. The Yankee flotilla had suffered severely, experiencing damage to every vessel, much of which would require months to repair. The Albemarle had fired only 27 shots.

Because of the Albemarle’s shallow draft, the powerful Federal monitors could not gain the sounds and challenge her on inland waters, creating in turn a serious problem. For if the Albemarle was allowed to dominate the sounds unhampered, it would open all of North Carolina again to blockade runners, thus reopening supply routes to Richmond, and extending the duration of the war. President Lincoln bristled at the thought of a lengthened conflict; something else, something drastic, had to be done.

So far, every attempt to sink or damage the Albemarle had failed. In sheer desperation the U.S. Navy finally turned to a 21-year-old lieutenant named William Barker Cushing. Having already established a long record of special operations-style hit-and-run raids along the South Atlantic coast, the Wisconsin native was becoming something of a legend in the Navy. But taking on the Albemarle seemed, to many at least, beyond even Cushing’s unique capabilities.

The enemy ironclad was robustly defended. The Rebels picketed the mouth of the Roanoke from Albemarle Sound, clear to Plymouth, and a heavily armed schooner along with an artillery piece established on a wreck in mid-channel awaited anyone who journeyed upriver. At Plymouth, a full brigade of infantry had been deployed to protect the ram, and a battery of artillery unlimbered at water’s edge to sweep all approaches. The ram’s two Brooke rifles were also reported to extend over the river, capable of blasting any unwelcome vessels to smithereens. Numerous illumination fires had been erected, and the picket posts had warning rockets at their disposal. A successful approach appeared impossible.

Despite the formidable defences, the ram still had to be destroyed. So now, on Oct. 27, Cushing and his party were puffing up the narrow channel in the pouring rain, the small steamer’s engine recently muffled to reduce noise. The men hunkered low, complete silence an absolute necessity. There were 15 men in the steamer, another 13 in the cutter, all shivering in the cold, driving rain.

Around 2:30 a.m. they approached the wreck and schooner in mid-river; every man cautiously reached for their weapons. Suddenly, the schooner emerged from the mist like a phantom. It appeared so abruptly that Cushing had little choice but to try and slide by on the shore side. Amazingly, both Union boats slipped past undetected, so near the schooner that the conversations of the Confederate sailors on-board were clearly audible. Cushing and his party breathed easier and pressed on.

Ten minutes later as the boats rounded the next bend, the party neared Plymouth where the ironclad’s silhouette was spotted against the southern bank. Cushing, still hoping to cut the ram out, headed toward a small wharf where his raiding party might disembark. That’s when things began to unravel.

 “Who goes there?” a voice from the Albemarle suddenly called out. Cushing’s party had been spotted!

 “Who goes there?” the voice again demanded.

With a surprise boarding action suddenly impossible, Cushing opted to destroy the Albemarle rather than capture it. The lieutenant dropped the line to the cutter, ordering those men to go back and take-out the schooner they’d passed downriver. He then noticed something bobbing in the water nearby: a segment of  log apron – a floating barrier that prevented craft from approaching the ironclad. Shots began to ring-out, slapping the water. Illumination fires leaped to life along the water’s edge, turning night into day. A siren sounded. More guards appeared running, shouting, shooting. The back of Cushing’s coat was blown-away by a shotgun blast, the sole of one shoe shot-off.

Despite the fusillade, Cushing steered the picket boat towards the objective, recalculating his attack on the fly. Accelerating, he intended to gain enough speed to jump the log apron, then slip into the water near the ram. If successful, he would extend the spar torpedo from his cutter and blow a hole in the Albemarle below the waterline before the guards could respond. If successful, however, he and his men would have no avenue of escape. But for Cushing, escape was no longer a consideration.

With bullets ricocheting off the steamer and roiling the water around them, the boat struck the log apron at full speed, bouncing into the air, then tilting forward into the pen with the Albemarle. There was no time to lose. One of Cushing’s officers pushed the spar deep into the water, but detonating the charge below the waterline would be tricky. Cushing had to wait for the torpedo to be moved into position below the target. Once in place, he had to tug a release line, allowing the explosive (something akin to a modern sea mine) to float towards the enemy hull before finally pulling a trigger line. If the entire sequence, which took about 10 seconds, were not executed precisely, the torpedo would not detonate and the mission would fail.

As musket volleys raked Cushing’s launch, Albemarle trained one of its enormous Brooke rifles directly into the Union launch. The lieutenant could hear the commands of the Confederate gun crew inside as they cranked the barrel lower. He had only seconds before the gun fired, atomizing him in an instant.

 A bullet creased his neck. Four more ripped through his coat. Cushing, refusing to budge, worked calmly and finally released the torpedo. He counted off the seconds coolly as the torpedo floated up under the ram. A fifth round sliced his hand; another tore away his collar. Inside the ram, the Confederates were preparing to fire the Brooke. At the tenth second, Cushing tugged the trigger cord. Then all hell broke loose.

The steamer dipped momentarily as a gigantic plume of water rose high above the ram, then collapsed, swamping Cushing, his men and the steamer. The torpedo and the Brooke rifle had gone off virtually simultaneously, the shell from the naval gun passing just over Cushing’s head. For a moment everything was still, both sides numbed by the violent detonations. Then the Rebels began firing again. 

“Save yourselves,” Cushing called to his men as he tossed his coat, sword and shoes aside, diving off the stern into the churning waves. The sudden cold stunned him awake, and he swam for his life as bullets stabbed the surface. Rebel search boats swarmed the area, their lanterns illuminating the water. Cushing dove each time they neared, holding his breath to avoid them.

The current began drawing him south. He surfaced and swam and swam until cold and exhaustion at last overwhelmed him, and – physically overcome – he finally sank like a stone. Drifting downward, Cushing felt mud in his hand. Frantic, he pulled at the muck, yanking himself forward, discovering the riverbank. He clawed his way up. Utterly exhausted, he took a few steps forward, then collapsed unconscious.

At dawn, Cushing began to stir. He’d staggered blindly ashore directly under the nose of a Confederate palisade. Certain that he’d be discovered at any moment in the brightening sunlight, he began slowly sliding across the riverbank towards the thick vegetation of the Carolina swamp nearby.

Once hidden, he stumbled upon a slave whom he paid to go inspect the Albemarle. Minutes later the man was back reporting that the ram was resting on the bottom of the river. The torpedo had done its job; the mission was a success. The slave pointed the way south through the swamp. Cushing took off on foot, dodging search parties everywhere. For hours he beat his way through brush and creeks, tearing his feet to shreds on stickers and thorns, before finally stumbling upon a farm road. Getting his bearings, he headed south, tracking blood across the dirt, until he stumbled upon Confederate pickets who were just sitting down to eat dinner. 

Cushing spied a skiff tied up in a creek that emptied into the Roanoke. Dodging tree-to-tree towards the small craft, he slipped into the water undetected, untied the skiff and quietly pushed it out toward the channel. Soon darkness and mist enveloped him. Cushing fought exhaustion for hours as he paddled, finally gaining Albemarle Sound. He labored several more hours making his way out into the open water. Finally, he spotted the running lights of what appeared to be a Federal patrol boat. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he hollered with everything he had left: “Ship, ahoy!” Then he collapsed unconscious into the bottom of the skiff.

Fearing a Rebel attack, a cutter was sent out from the USS Valley City to carefully reconnoiter the surrounding waters. Finding Cushing alone in the small craft, they tossed him into the cutter and rowed back. With his uniform half-shot away, covered in mud, blood and reeds, no one aboard the Union warship had any idea what to make of the unconscious Cushing. He was tossed unceremoniously onto the deck of the Valley City as a crowd gathered round for a look. Fortunately, the Valley City’s skipper, J.A.J. Brooks, recognized Cushing, and fell to his knees for a closer inspection.

“My God, Cushing!” he cried, “Is this you?”

Cushing came-to, identified himself, and told Brooks of the Albemarle’s demise. The crew exploded in wild cheers. He was promptly bathed, attended to by the ship’s surgeon, then rowed to the Shamrock, the fleet’s flagship.

News of his success and epic ordeal soon spread throughout the fleet; the response was beyond jubilant. In a scene right out of a Hollywood movie, crews cheered, ship whistles peeled and rockets were thrown up like it was the Fourth of July. Cushing stood by the rail and drank it all in. It was an incredible end to an incredible mission.

William Barker Cushing would go on to post one of the most remarkable wartime records of daring and success ever achieved by any officer in the United States Navy. Admiral David Farragut – who knew a little something of heroism himself – later remarked that “young Cushing was the hero of the war.”

On Nov. 3, 1864 the New York Times wrote: “The destruction of the rebel ram Albemarle by Lieut. Cushing proves to be one of the most daring and romantic naval feats of history,” and today, some 156 years later, it has lost none of its lustre.

POSTSCRIPT: Only Cushing and one sailor escaped. Two of the steamer’s crew were killed, the other eleven taken prisoner. They were removed to Libby Prison in Richmond, later paroled on Feb. 21, 1865.

Jim Stempel is a speaker and author of nine books and numerous articles on American history, spirituality, and warfare. His newest book regarding the American Revolution – Valley Forge to Monmouth: Six Transformative Months of the American Revolution – is now available on Amazon and at virtually all online booksellers. For a full preview, pricing, and reviews, visit Amazon here. Or visit his website https://www.jimstempel.com for all his books, reviews, articles, biography and interviews.