Rough Passage to London(2)

“Pull hard, men! Pull hard! Almost there. Soon we’ll give these Yankees a taste of their own medicine.”

The dim shape of four heavy rowing barges filled with men and weapons and two smaller rowing vessels slowly emerged from the darkness down river as they came near the shore. To the horror of the boys, a man with a black tricorn hat gave orders for the small flotilla to pull into shore, just fifty yards from where they were hiding. The six rowing boats slid in among the reeds, one of them landing with a muffled thud just feet from where they’d hidden their boat.

“Take a rest here, men. We are close. Our target lies just across the river, less than a quarter of a mile from here.”

He then turned to the man next to him.

“Mr. Stryker, give the men another tot of rum each, for tonight their labors have just begun, and light that lantern. No one will see us on this island.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

With the glow of the lantern, the two boys could just make out the shadowy faces of the huddled men, and the dull gleam of the bayonets on the rifles. These weren’t the blue-coated Connecticut militia. These men were English redcoats, the enemy, and there was no question what the purpose of their trip was, a raid on the town of Potapoug. Ely felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine as he looked at all of these armed men. There were so many. There were scores of redcoats, all clutching their rifles. The ones who were manning the oars wore no uniforms, but they all had knives, axes, and pistols. He supposed they were the sailors. He gulped, and struggled to take a deep breath. He watched wide-eyed and petrified as the officer with his high black boots stepped ashore and addressed both the sailors and armed marines clumped together in the barges.

“Men, all ships we find are to be torched. That’s our main objective here. Every ship in the harbor must be destroyed. I will land with the marines to seize and commandeer the town. Once the town has been secured, we will burn their ships, even those being built on the yards. Sailors, prepare your hooks and your torches!”

The men, who had been resting on their oars, looked up at their commanding officer with a mixture of fear and patriotic fervor in their eyes, and then responded with a muffled chant, calling out, “God bless the King! God bless England!” like devout members of a church congregation. Ely Morgan looked over at his brother in desperation. He couldn’t make out Abraham’s expression in the darkness, but he knew they must stay absolutely quiet.

The British officer then turned to the sailors in his own boat and the young midshipman who was acting as coxswain.

“Mr. Stryker, you will stay here with your pinnace. You are to make sure that no boats come by here. If one does, you will shoot to kill. We want no informants.”

On hearing that order, Ely hugged the tree where he was hiding more tightly. The British officer then began to chuckle to himself.

“And Mr. Stryker, when you see the harbor lit up like two dozen torches, you’ll know we are celebrating Guy Fawkes early this year. Then you must come and join us.”

“Aye, sir,” Stryker responded, a wide, careless grin breaking out across his clean-shaven face.

With those firm orders, the five other rowing boats pulled away into the night. The darkness momentarily revealed the wake of the small fleet in the open river, but the ripples from the oars soon faded, and the water’s surface returned to glass. The man called Stryker and his men watched silently from the shore. He ordered the marines to take up scouting positions at the tip of the marshy island. Ely held his breath as two of the British redcoats, their rifles ready, walked directly underneath the tree where they were hiding before disappearing into the bush. Two other shadowy figures moved slowly toward them, and sat down almost directly under their tree. They lit a small lantern and placed it on the ground between them. Ely could just make out their faces. He was surprised at how young they seemed, maybe just a few years older than Abraham, he thought to himself. He could barely hear them. One of them whose name was Bill had a bushy head of hair. The other had curly red hair. They both spoke with an English accent that Ely found hard to understand.

Just then the smudgy gray of predawn was pierced by the loud thud of cannons and peppery musket fire. It was much closer than Ely had expected. There was a flickering of lights across the river like tiny jack-o’-lanterns followed by faint shouts and shrieks.

“Abraham,” whispered Ely. “What should we do?”

“Hush up and stay quiet,” Abraham breathed out in a hoarse whisper. “There ain’t nothin’ we can do.”

“I don’t hear a call to arms, Abraham. No bells. You suppose they killed everybody?”