They are now within a hundred and fifty feet of the Turtle and they see the magazine that he has detached.
“Some horrible Yankee trick!” cries a British soldier. “Beware!” And they do beware by turning and rowing with all speed for the island whence they came.
Poor Lee looks out with amazement to see them go. He is well-nigh exhausted, and the magazine, with its dreadful clock-work going on within it, and its hundred and fifty pounds of powder, ready to go off at a given moment, is floating on behind him, borne by the tide.
He strains every muscle to near New York. He signals the shore.
Since daylight Putnam has been there keeping watch. David Bushnell has paced up and down all night, in keen anxiety.
The friendly whale-boats put out to meet him.
Meanwhile, slowly borne by the coming tide, the magazine floats into the East River.
“It will blow up in five minutes now,” says Bushnell, looking at his watch, and he goes to welcome Ezra Lee.
The five minutes go by.