Rough Passage to London(3)
“Quiet, Ely. You’ll get us caught.”
Then there was silence from across the river. Moments later, the boys watched as the first of the ships in the harbor went up in flames. Soon this was followed by another ship exploding, and crackling in the gray light. The tightly furled sails on the yards ignited first followed by the masts, which were swallowed up in a ball of yellow fire like giant torches. White smoke billowed upward, and with each new fireball the harbor and the village houses were lit up more brightly. Ely’s heart was pounding and beating so fast he thought for sure the British sailors below would notice, but their faces, dimly lit by the flames, remained firmly locked on this fiery inferno across the river. He looked over at his brother, whose face was frozen in shock.
Ely could see the silhouette of the British barges moving from ship to ship, the nimble sailors clambering aboard with their grappling hooks and lines and then moments later, another explosion of flames. The crackle of wood and the crash of timbers filled the air along with the sooty smell of burning ships. The noisy spectacle was so dramatic Ely momentarily lost his grip and almost fell out of the tree, catching himself at the last minute, his gasp snapping Abraham out of his trance.
“We’ve got to make a run for it. Daylight’s coming soon and they’ll spot us up here.”
To the southeast, the sky was already a lighter shade of gray. Ely noticed that the redcoated marines were now walking back to their barge. The two sailors beneath them stood upright, looked to the right and left, and then swept their gaze out to the river. The diffused light revealed the wooden stock of a gun and the handle of a pistol. As soon as the pinnace filled with marines and sailors pulled out from shore, Abraham and Ely slid down from the tree and crawled over to where their rowing boat was hidden. Carefully, they pushed it out from behind the reeds and bushes into the current and gave it a shove, pulling themselves on board at the same time. By now the British pinnace was working its way toward the burning ships, the oarsmen pulling hard into the current. In the faint dawn, Ely could now see their faces more clearly. Both boys began to row furiously upstream to round the northern tip of Nott Island and head east into the safety of the marshes near Lord’s Cove on the other side of the river.
“They’ve spotted us!” Ely yelled.
He could see commotion in the pinnace, arms pointing and men yelling.
In a desperate panic, the two boys rowed unevenly, their oars wildly slapping and splashing the surface of the water. Their small boat soon ran aground in a shallow, muddy area. Abraham jumped up, grabbed the pole, and began frantically pushing the small flat-bottom boat forward.
“You keep rowing, Ely. Let me know when they stand up to fire,” yelled Abraham, “or if they turn around and come at us, hammer and tongs.”
Shots rang out, but Ely was too intent with his rowing to pay any attention to how good the marksmanship was. Then there were more shots. This time Ely could see the bullets hit the water around them.
“Get down, Abraham!” he yelled as he threw himself into the bottom of the boat. Ely hugged the wet floor planks, anticipating that he would soon be shot. He was imagining the painful sensation of a lead bullet tearing through his skin when a spectacular burst of sunshine rose over the surrounding marshes. The blinding early morning sun sent sparkles across the surface of the water like a scattering of tiny diamonds. Ely peeked over the side of the boat, and he could now clearly see the Englishmen with their rifles, the vibrant red of their coats glistening in the brilliant sunlight. Strangely, they had put their rifles down. They were cupping their hands over their eyes, and were looking due east, directly at them. Ely was confused, but Abraham understood what had happened.
“Row, Ely! Row! They can’t see us anymore!”
The low-lying sun was shining directly into the eyes of the British riflemen, allowing the boys to grab their oars and begin rowing away. As they put their backs into the rowing, Ely looked across the river to the west and sighed with relief as he saw the British pinnace splashing its way in the other direction, toward the harbor. Their flat-bottom boat soon slipped into the marshes along the muddy banks of the river, and they jumped out and pulled it into the reeds. Ely wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he realized how narrow their escape had been. Across the river less than half a mile away, he could see flames from burning boats and black smoke billowing high above the harbor. He wondered if the British were torching the village as well as the ships.
2
1822
A lone figure carrying a canvas bag walked down the dark wharf toward a small schooner tied up at the pier. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled down tightly over his head, his step, deliberate. It was six o’clock in the morning, and the air was cold for October. Roosters were already crowing, telling the Lyme townspeople it was time to wake up. Some wharf rats clad in dark overcoats were loading the small sailing ship with barrels of newly picked golden sweets and crates filled with the famed Connecticut peaches and pipes of freshly squeezed cider.