The Revolution II E-Book

Debra Ann Pawlak

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Secret Heroines
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 409

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Moll Pitcher, the Psychic of Lynn, advisor, and spy, worked tirelessly as the Colonial Army's secret weapon. From Marblehead to Lynn to world-wide renown, her story is sure to enthrall any patriot or sea-loving mariner who dares to make a difference.

The tale unfolds against the dramatic backdrop of the Revolutionary War and focuses on the life of the legendary Moll Pitcher, a world-renowned seer who was often referred to as the Psychic of Lynn.

Seafaring men consulted her before embarking on their journeys while British officers often visited her home in Lynn, Massachusetts asking about their fate in upcoming battles.

Pitcher portrays herself as a Loyalist when she was really a spy for General Washington, reporting back to the Sons of Liberty any information these Redcoats disclosed. A favorite of Lady Martha Washington, she warned about the battles at Lexington and Concord, as well as Bunker Hill.

Pitcher also hid munitions seized by the privateers, retrieving them when needed by the Continental Army and worked closely with her contemporaries such as General John Glover, along with her friends Fanny Campbell and William Lovell.

The excitement grows with each and every amazing prediction and thrilling sea battle!

Leseprobe

THE REVOLUTION II

Seer, spy, heroine

Written by Debra Ann Pawlakand Cheryl Bartlam du Bois

A Place In Time.Press • Beverly Hills, CA

Copyright © 2023 by

Debra Ann Pawlakand Cheryl Bartlam du Bois

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher/author, except in case of brief excerpts for critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to A Place In Time.Press 8594 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 1020, Beverly Hills, Ca 90211 310 428-1090 or [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental.

A Place in Time.Press

8549 Wilshire Blvd. Ste. 1020,

Beverly Hills, CA 90211

310 613-8872

e-mail:[email protected]

Website: aplaceintime.press

Cover Design & Layout: Christopher Staser, brandweaver.tv

Map Design & Illustration: Steve Luchsinger

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is

available on file.

Print ISBN: 979-8-9893814-0-1

Ebook: ISBN: 979-8-9893814-1-8

HISTORICAL FICTION

Printed in the United States of America

Our books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the publisher: aplaceintime.press

First U.S. Edition 2023

Copyrighted Material © 2023

This book is dedicated to all the brave patriots who fought for their freedom and, in the process, created a great nation. Had the statesmen, soldiers, sailors, spies, and civilians, who sacrificed so much to form a newand democratic union, not given their all to the cause, we would surely be a continent comprised of English and French colonies today.

AUTHOR’S NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

DEBRA ANN PAWLAK

History has long been a fascinating subject for me. The men and women who came before us are often forgotten from one generation to the next and that is a sad state of affairs. Everything has a beginning and a brave soul who dared to take that first step. As a writer, I like bringing these historical people to life and putting them front and center for my readers. While I feel a book should entertain, I also think it should teach you something. I sincerely hope that I have reached that goal whether it be a book, short story, or magazine article.

The research can be daunting, and somewhat overwhelming but in the end, when I find that ‘lost’ piece of information, I can’t wait to share it. We should never stop learning and we should always shine a light on those who came before us whether they be explorers, inventors, or rabble rousers. Most surprising are the individuals whose lives you delve into who turn out to be the most colorful characters. For me, while writing this book, I discovered Brigadier General John Glover—a true hero of the Revolution who is little known today. Without him and his integrated troop of Marbleheaders, the war would have surely been lost. I am happy that we had the chance to let his light shine again. He deserves it. Maybe some of our readers will be inspired to do a little research of their own. A writer couldn’t ask for more!

On a personal note, I would like to thank my writing partner, Cheryl Bartlam du Bois, for being, not only someone easy to work with, but also a dear friend. I can always count on a good time when we get together—even when we are surrounded by piles and piles of paper. Our research trips have been energizing—especially when emus give chase. Another thank you goes to Leigh Carter who always gets it and makes it better with her editing skills! Then there is my personal support squad: my BFF, Linda Wells, who listens to it all with a patient ear and, my cheerleader, Alberta Asmar, who always tells me that I can do it. I must also thank my husband, Michael, for putting up with the many hours I spend writing and researching. I also owe a very loud shout-out to my grown children, Rachel, her husband Jon, along with my son, Jonathan, and his wife, Stacey! No ship has a better crew. Last, but not least, I must thank my little people for always making me smile—Madeline, Olivia, Michael, and Lucas. I love you all to the moon and back!

CHERYL BARTLAM DU BOIS

In 1979, just after I graduated college, I moved to Florida to start a sailing charter company with my boyfriend. I had been on the water for years with my family and had enough experience to study for and take the United States Coast Guard Merchant Marine test for my six-pack Captain’s license. I went to Jacksonville and took the written test, acing it and completing all qualifications to obtain my license. When it came time for my oral interview with the Commander, Lieutenant Lewis, in charge of licensing that day, I suddenly realized the mistake I’d made. Trying to look nice, I’d worn my best dress making me look quite feminine and young ––I was all of 105 pounds. It seemed he took one look at me and made the determination that I wasn’t qualified to drive a boat for hire. It also seemed that the only woman to precede me on the east coast had been involved in a terrible accident, through no fault of her own, in which a passenger was killed. So, it seemed I was to potentially be the second woman to ever receive my license on the east coast of the U.S.

I looked at him and demanded he name the deficit in my qualifications which would prevent me from receiving my license. All he could come up with was that I was a woman. My response, “Well since I don’t plan to have a sex change anytime soon it seems to me that you are being very prejudiced and chauvinistic and I don’t think that will look very good for the Coast Guard.” He mulled that over for a bit, I’m sure considering how sexist that would look, and he finally whipped out the certificate to fill in my name. However, when he got to the part where it read, “This is to clarify that Cheryl Winifred Bartlam has given satisfactory evidence to the undersigned that ‘he’ can safely be entrusted with the duties and responsibilities of operator of…” He looked up at me quite dumbfounded, uncertain what to do with the word ‘he.’ I just said stick it in the typewriter, XX out ‘he’ and type in ‘she.’ Without another word he did just that and signed it, shrugged his shoulders and shoved it at me. “Here you go,” was his only comment. I thanked him and went on my way.

Now forty-four years later I hold my USCG Merchant Marine Master’s Document for driving one hundred-ton vessels with sail auxiliary and I have no intention of ever letting it go. In fact, I am in the process of upgrading my license to two hundred-ton after many months of crewing on and driving a three hundred-foot casino ship out of Port Canaveral. I fought for my right as a female to do a man’s job as I have done throughout my entire life in sailing, architecture, and film and I’m proud to have accomplished what I have as a woman, against all odds. When I look back on women such as Fanny Campbell and Sarah Emma Edmonds who found it necessary to disguise themselves as men in order to pursue their destiny, I can fully appreciate their reasoning and their struggle to accomplish more than most men can boast, as well as having more courage than any man I have ever known. Although Moll Pitcher did not don a masculine disguise, she did use her gifts of intuition and clever subterfuge to spy for our new burgeoning nation at great peril to herself and her family, for a cause she truly believed in and saw in the clouds to be our future nation.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

The Wizard

CHAPTER ONE

A Psychic Inheritance

CHAPTER TWO

Witchery

CHAPTER THREE

Washington’s Cruisers

CHAPTER FOUR

Life in Lynn

CHAPTER FIVE

A Wedding

CHAPTER SIX

From Dimond to Pitcher

CHAPTER SEVEN

Common Sense

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Acts

CHAPTER NINE

The Battle of Nassau

CHAPTER TEN

Anger and Rebellion

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Changing Gender Again

CHAPTER TWELVE

Breed’s Hill

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The First Salute

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Declaration

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Moll’s Predictions

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Privateers in the Windward Islands

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hurricane of Guadeloupe

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Visions, Spies, Salutes, and a Final Save

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Glover’s Second Thoughts

CHAPTER TWENTY

Turning Point

EPILOGUE

Thanksgiving Day

Final Notes

Whatever Happened To . . .

Things You Should Know. . .

“The New Englanders are fitting out light vessels of war, by which it is hoped we shall not only clear the seas and bays here of everything below the size of a ship of war, but that they will visit the coasts of Europe and distress the British trade in every part of the world. The adventurous genius and intrepidity of those people is amazing.”

--Thomas Jefferson, July 1775

PROLOGUE

The Wizard

(1 6 7 5 – marblehEAd, Massachusetts)

I

n early September of 1675, the wicked winds of a deadly hurricane wreaked havoc along the Atlantic coast and on Marblehead’s once-sturdy trees, their massive branches snapping and blowing away like fragile twigs. The torrential rains soaked the ground and beat upon the windows, daring anyone foolish enough to come outside. Edward Dimond, affectionately known by locals as ‘the Wizard,’ did his best to shut out the din of the storm, but he couldn’t ignore the faraway fishermen’s cries for help. Their shouts surged through his head as they battled raging seas. He also heard those sailors sitting nearby on anchor in the harbor––hammered by twenty-foot waves. Their frantic pleas rang inside his head.

“Help us, Wizard! We’ll surely die in this tempest without your help!”

“Please, if you can hear us, guide us back home to safety!”

“Don’t abandon us, Wizard! You are our only hope now!”

When he could take no more, the Wizard of Marblehead donned his long black oilskin cape, careful to cover his head, and stepped outside, tightly clutching his curlew-peewit whistle against his chest. The powerful storm seemed to grow even more furious as he made his way uphill to the old burial ground behind his home. Stepping over downed branches and dodging flying debris, he pushed the rickety gate aside, surprised it was still standing, and entered the cemetery disoriented from the dizzying storm. He stopped a moment to catch his breath and steady himself as he stared upward at the darkened sky. He had seen many storms before—even sailed in a few himself, but this was one of the worst he could recall. A chill passed through him as he put the black whistle to his lips and blew hard. Its shrill sound blasted through the darkness.

“Can you hear me, boys?” The Wizard shouted as loud as he could, calling upon the ancient mariners for council, then paused to listen as the rain hammered down without mercy. “Red Cap? Blue Cap?” he hollered again. “We need your help!”

“Aye we’re here!” A lone voice rang out from a great distance.

“We’re ready to help bring the boys home!” A second voice answered even fainter than the first.

“Let them hear me!” the Wizard ordered and then listened as the wind howled in defiance.

“Help!” Their anxious cries continued, distant at first. “Help us, Wizard! We’re being pummeled by the storm! Please, save us! You’re our only hope!”

“Listen to me!” The Wizard paced back and forth in between the gravestones, totally unaware that his long cape was being whipped to tatters by the wind and that his skin stung from the pelting rain.

“Tell us what to do!” The panic in their voices echoed their fear.

“Pull up your anchors, mates!” the Wizard commanded as he strode through the boneyard. “Pull up your anchors and sail east!”

“But the swells are too high!”

“If you want to survive this night, do as I say!” his voice boomed. “Sail away from the storm! When you reach calmer seas, wait there for two nights before you return home. The storm will be gone by then and you will be safe.”

“But Wizard—"

The Wizard blew his whistle in angry response. How dare they doubt him when he had protected them so many times before? Now would be no different if they would only listen. “Sail to the east, I say!” he screamed above the din. “Do it quickly before the seas crush you on the shore or send you down to meet Davey Jones!”

“We’ll do our best, Wizard…say a prayer for us!”

“Godspeed!” the Wizard whispered once again, cradling his whistle over his heart. He fell to his knees in the middle of the burial ground and murmured a prayer to St. Elmo for the sailors who were at his mercy. He had done what he could to help them, but their lives were in God’s hands now.

By the next morning, the rainfall had significantly diminished, but a forceful wind still blew, making it difficult for Catherine Biddlestone to walk along the road that led to the Old Brig. Climbing across fallen trees and stepping over large branches, she frowned at the mud that was caked on her black shoes and coated the hem of her long gray cape. Her blonde hair blew freely about her head and shoulders since she hadn’t taken the time to comb it that morning. After donning her wrap, she had left her small home in Marblehead in a hurry to consult with the man whom everyone knew could work miracles. She was worried about her husband and only the Wizard could ease her mind.

Before long, Catherine could see the Old Brig that stood at the junction of Pond and Orne Streets, directly downhill of Old Burial Hill. A large willow tree graced the front yard and the woman was relieved to see that no damage had been done to it by the terrible storm. She took it as a positive sign. Catherine let out a loud sigh as she stepped up to the front door, crossed herself to keep away demons, and then knocked.

Dark-haired Rebecca Dimond answered the door with an infant girl on her hip. “Catherine!” she said, smiling. “What brings you out after such a terrible night?”

“I need to see the Wizard,” Catherine said, wringing her hands. “I need to know about Daniel.”

“Did Daniel not come home before the storm?” Rebecca asked as the little girl began to squirm in her arms.

“No…he didn’t.” Catherine’s eyes welled up. “I’m worried sick and I was hoping that the Wizard might know if he’s safe.”

“Come in. Come in.” Rebecca stepped aside and let the trembling woman enter. “Edward! Edward! Catherine Biddlestone is here to see you.”

The tall, reedy man with rumpled salt-and-pepper hair emerged from the back of the house looking as if he hadn’t slept all night. “Are you here about Daniel?” he asked his frightened visitor as the baby in Rebecca’s arms reached for him.

“Yes, Wizard.” Catherine gave a little curtsy. “I was hoping you’d know if he is safe.”

Edward Dimond took the wriggling infant from his wife and nestled her in his arms. “Your husband is alive and in two days’ time, he will sail into the harbor at Marblehead. His vessel will be damaged, but the men aboard will all come home.”

“Oh, thank you, Wizard! Thank you!” Catherine burst into tears. “I am so relieved. I don’t know what I would do if I was widowed…especially now with a baby coming next year.”

“It’s all right, Catherine.” Rebecca touched the woman’s arm. “If Edward says that Daniel will come home, then he will. I am sure of it.”

“Thank you for giving me some peace of mind.” Catherine drew her cloak around her. “I’ll be going now. I won’t bother you any further.”

Just as she pulled open the front door, Edward Dimond’s voice caused her to turn back. “Catherine!”

“Yes, Wizard?”

“Take care of yourself so the boys aren’t born too early.”

“I will try, sir.” She managed a smile, but as she stepped outside, she paused a moment. “Boys?!” she whispered out loud, but then shrugged. “I must have misunderstood.”

Two days later, the Wizard rose early and walked towards the harbor in Marblehead. He squinted in the bright sunlight as he surveyed the destruction caused by the storm. Crops were damaged and strewn across the fields; many large trees had fallen and any that were left standing were missing hefty limbs. Several homes were all but destroyed, their unlucky residents picking through the rubble hoping to rescue anything of value. The New England coastline had taken a beating by one of the worst hurricanes to make landfall in recent memory. The Wizard wondered how the city of Boston and its harbor had fared. So many small towns like Marblehead had been hit hard by what later came to be known as The New England Hurricane of 1675, but people would rebuild and go on because that is what they did.

When he arrived at Marblehead harbor, workers were already carting away debris and trying to salvage what they could. The sea itself was calm and gave no hint of the recent tempest, but an unusually large number of women gathered at the docks that morning waiting for their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons to come home. Catherine Biddlestone was among them, her blond hair now swept up in a neat bun atop her head. Edward waved to her and she nodded in response, but the two did not have time to speak for in the distance a fishing vessel, listing to starboard, could be seen making its way toward them, its pace slow but steady. The noise in the harbor suddenly came to a halt as everyone waited and watched in revered silence.

When the wooden ship grew closer, it became obvious that its rigging was badly damaged, but the men aboard waved and shouted, excited to make landfall safe at home. Once the boat was secured to what was left of one of the damaged docks, the ladies rushed to greet their men with tears and shouts of relief. Daniel Biddlestone, a handsome, strapping fellow, disembarked. He had a long gash on his forehead but was otherwise unharmed. The Wizard watched with a smile as Daniel picked Catherine up and swung her around and around.

“Stop, Daniel!” she said, laughing. “Put me down! You know I must be careful now.”

“I know,” he winked, his blue eyes filled with mischief. “We are soon to be three.”

“Four,” said the Wizard as he walked by with a quick nod of his head.

“What did he say?” Daniel blinked.

“I don’t know,” Catherine smiled. “The only thing I care about today is that you have come back to me.”

“It was the Wizard,” Daniel told her. “He and his whistle brought us home safe and sound.”

“Do you think he works for the devil?” Catherine looked up at her husband as this new thought struck her.

“No, my girl,” Daniel sighed. “The devil would have had us at the bottom of the sea and I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.”

“Then God bless Wizard Dimond.” Catherine snuggled against Daniel. “He truly has a gift and I will be forever grateful for his magical powers.”

“I believe you are just one of many who owes the Wizard a debt of thanks.” Daniel held her tightly. “He has saved many a man from the drink and we are lucky to call him our neighbor. One day soon, I must find a way to properly thank him.”

The following March, after a long and bitter winter, Catherine Biddlestone went into labor. Despite the piercing pains, her delivery was uneventful—except for the fact that she brought into the world not one, but two fine sons. She named them Daniel and Edward. The Wizard sent a basket of dried fruit, a bottle of ale, and two small curlew-peewit whistles that he had fashioned himself.

One Hundred Years Later

CHAPTER ONE

A Psychic Inheritance

(1 7 7 5 – Lynn, Massachusetts)

I

t had been a long, unforgiving summer for the people of Boston and its surrounding areas. The British siege began that spring and redcoats dominated the streets. Residents were forced to give up their arms and many patriots fled the city in fear. Loyalists then moved in, with some even enlisting in the king’s army. The isolation of the city and the blockade of the harbor caused a food shortage for the populace and a lack of hay for the horses. Businesses were shuttered and the colonists lived in constant fear for their very lives as the British soldiers plundered their homes and shops, helping themselves to whatever they wanted.

In early June of 1775, a group of colonists stormed the British-held Little Brewster Island, where a strategic lighthouse overlooked Boston’s outer harbor. They removed the lamps and oil before setting the structure on fire to render the lighthouse useless to English ships. Caught off-guard, the redcoats immediately went to work repairing the damage.

On July 31, 1775, General George Washington sent Major Benjamin Tupper and about three hundred defiant Americans to Little Brewster Island with orders to attack and stop the lighthouse repairs. The raid was successful with only one casualty suffered under Tupper. Several lobsterbacks, however, were killed and many others taken prisoner, unnerving those still faithful to the king. Patriot or loyalist, everyone was on edge and wondering what would come next.

Moll Pitcher was a patriot known as the psychic or fortune teller of Lynn, Massachusetts. She came by her intuitive abilities and world-renowned reputation through her lineage as the granddaughter of Edward Dimond, the great Wizard of Marblehead. Thanks to the respect he had garnered due to his accurate predictions, the psychic of Lynn became a trusted source for even the British military, who sought her out hoping to learn about their future fate in battle, as well as their place in history.

As such, Moll was fully aware of the struggles and hardships to come. She was also mindful of Fanny Campbell’s every step, or perhaps it’s better to say, of Captain Bartholomew Channing’s every conquest. Moll felt responsible for Fanny’s situation as she was the one who had sent Fanny to the West Indies disguised as the male Barbadian sailor named Channing. Moll’s visions of Fanny had started when the girl was just a child. When the time came to save William Lovell, Fanny’s fiancé, from certain death, Moll found Fanny to be a willing and dedicated student, able to step up to the most dangerous tasks at hand.

Although Fanny had been gone for months, Moll knew exactly when she had overthrown the Constance, a British vessel, and as Captain, made it an American brig bound for Cuba. She also knew when Fanny won her second British ship, the George. In addition, Moll had seen Fanny’s daring rescue of William Lovell and Samuel Breed from Cuba’s notorious La Cabana prison, as well as the taking of Fanny’s last prize, the Wellington. She also saw the sinking of the Crimson Blade, a notorious pirate ship. Her visions appeared both in her dreams and in her tea leaves, giving her unwavering confidence that Fanny, as Captain Channing, would soon return to Lynn triumphant.

Just before midnight on the eve of September 3, 1775, Moll’s thoughts of Fanny were replaced by a more immediate danger—a terrible storm that would be remembered as one of the worst ever to hit the East Coast. It first hit Martinique, which was very low in the West Indies and an unusual place for such a violent tropical storm. Two days after leaving Martinique, the hurricane hit Santo Domingo, causing major damage.

From there it had plenty of ocean over which to strengthen, but no one in America realized that they were in the path of such a formidable storm until it slammed into the North Carolina coast at New Bern. Residents of the Outer Banks were totally unprepared for the danger they faced when the rains started shortly after midnight. By the next afternoon, the storm had grown to hurricane proportion. More than two hundred people were killed, trees were uprooted, corn and tobacco fields were laid flat, and warehouses were filled with goods destroyed as angry waves crashed upon the shore and rivers overflowed their banks. A thirty-foot storm surge sunk ships as they lay at anchor in the many coastal harbors, while huge swells at sea forced vessels to the bottom of the Atlantic. The mountainous surfs and fierce winds continued northward to Norfolk and by that night, Virginia and Maryland also felt the brunt of the hurricane. When the tempest reached Boston, the seas still rampaged like a herd of mad stallions, pummeling the coastline and wreaking havoc not only with the ships at sea, but also with those unlucky enough to be caught in the unprotected harbors that dotted the coastline.

Moll knew that the Constance, the George, and the Wellington, along with every other ship out there, were all in trouble. Like her grandfather before her, she felt duty-bound to try to save them. Taking her warmest cloak, she covered her head and stepped outside looking skyward as the rain beat down around her. No one in their right mind was out on such a night, but lives were at stake. The powerful storm grew even more furious as she slowly made her way up the hill to the cliff at High Rock, dodging blowing branches and debris with every step. The small-framed woman was barely able to stand in the relentless winds as she clung to the outcropping of rock, clutching her grandfather’s curlew-peewit whistle against her chest. When she finally reached the top, she called on the Wizard’s powers, then put the black whistle to her lips and blew as hard as she could, but the screeching winds drowned out the sound. With everything she had, she blew it again. “Do you hear me, Fanny?! Run with the wind…stay offshore and you will be safe!”

Moll sheltered behind the rock, waiting for an answer. She must reach not only Fanny, but the other seamen whose lives now lay in the hands of Mother Ocean. She blew the whistle again and again. Suddenly, the howling winds grew silent, the pelting rain slowed and the cloud-filled sky started to clear. It was the sign she had been waiting for. Moll put the whistle to her lips and blew as long and hard as she could one more time. She knew the tranquil moment wouldn’t last as it was only the eye of the storm. Moll closed her eyes and listened.

“I hear you, Moll,” came Fanny’s answer, faint at first. “We will run for our lives as you said.”

“Beware of a friend turned foe!” Moll called back as loudly as she could. “And remember, he has given you the very tools you will need to outwit him at his own game!”

“Yes, Moll, and I promise you he will not win.” Fanny’s voice was now strong and self-assured. “I will be ready for him!”

Relieved, Moll looked up just as the first quarter moon broke through an eagle-shaped cloud. It was a message from the heavens telling her that her friends would be safe from the storm, as well from as their enemies. She then closed her eyes, remembering the other sailors unlucky enough to be at sea on such a terrible night, and quickly whispered a prayer to St. Elmo asking for their safe return. Moll knew in her heart that was exactly what the Wizard would have done.

The damp night air sent a shiver right through her despite her heavy cloak, which was now soaked through from the rain. There was nothing more she could do, but just as she began her descent down High Rock, a disturbance over in Lynn Harbor caught her eye. A large waterspout had formed just offshore, churning near the docks. She watched as it tossed aside everything in its path like matchsticks.

“Amen and Godspeed,” Moll gasped with a shudder before returning to the safety of her cottage. Once inside, she bolted the door, struggling against the increasingly powerful wind as the storm’s eye passed. Her worried husband, Robert, waited inside, pacing in front of the hearth.

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND WOMAN?!” he bellowed as fear and relief intermingled inside him.

“How long have you known me, Mr. Pitcher?” Moll scolded him with a smile as she removed her dripping cloak.

“Too long, I think.” He frowned, taking the wet garment from his wife.

“Then by now you should know that I had to guide the sailors to safety and ask St. Elmo to save them.”

“And did St. Elmo hear you?” He hung her wrap on a hook near the fire.

“I did what I could, but I left them all in the divine hands of our saint, although even he may need to call upon his holy helpers tonight.”

“You’re a funny girl, Moll Pitcher.” Robert pulled her in front of the fire.

“But you married me anyway,” she said with a grin.

“That I did,” Robert sighed. “And by now, I should know better than to argue with the famed psychic of Lynn.”

As the next morning dawned, much of the wind subsided, but a drizzle of rain endured, and the angry waves still crashed against the rocks near the harbor. It wasn’t often that Moll was surprised by events, but when she answered a knock at her door, shortly after sunrise, the unexpected visitor shocked her. There on her doorstep stood Fanny Campbell’s mother, Agnes, wet to the bone, bedraggled, and nervously wringing her hands.

“Agnes, what on earth are you doing out in this weather?” Moll reached for the woman’s arm and tried to pull her inside. Despite the rain and her disheveled condition, Agnes resisted as if she were entering a witch’s lair.

“Please, come in,” Moll tried again. “And tell me what’s brought you out here on such a terrible day. Is it our Fanny?”

“MY Fanny,” Agnes corrected as she reluctantly stepped inside. “She’s MY Fanny and I need to know if she’s safe!”

“Come and warm yourself by the fire.” Moll led Agnes toward the hearth, where the gaunt woman broke down, distraught and sobbing.

“I can’t take any more! Not knowing where she is and if I’ll ever see her again! Day after day, month after month! Mrs. Pitcher, can you please help a poor mother who is worried sick about her only child?”

Moll was stunned. Before today, this trembling woman had never once entered her cottage at High Rock. Agnes had always made it quite clear that she didn’t believe in Moll’s prophesies even if she did occasionally buy an herbal potion or two from Lynn’s well-known mystic. Agnes fell just short of thinking that Moll consorted with the devil himself.

Moll winked at Agnes. “By the grace of God! I never expected you to come here and seek council from me, a real witch!”

“Oh please, Mrs. Pitcher! I am at my wit’s end with worry. It’s bad enough that my Fanny is gone, but knowing she is out there somewhere in this storm is more than I can bear.”

“I know, my dear.” Moll took Agnes’s hand in a sympathetic gesture. “I’m a mother, too, and I’m very fond of Fanny. So, from one mother to another, please call me Moll.”

“Can you ever forgive me for having such evil thoughts about you?” Agnes shivered and her voice shook. “I know you have done many good things for others and that you’re a God-fearing woman.”

“That I am, Agnes.” Moll put an arm around her and offered her a seat at the small Queen Anne table she used for her readings. “Sit down and join me in a hot cup of tea. We can talk and I will try to put your mind at ease.”

Agnes took a seat, watching as Moll opened the top drawer of a large wooden chest and retrieved a thick blue shawl.

“Becky, come here with some tea,” she called as she carefully placed the woolen wrap around the anguished woman before sitting directly across from her.

Moll’s daughter, Becky, appeared and took two small blue-rimmed cups from over the fireplace and placed them on the table.

“You remember my girl, Becky?”

The young, dark-haired girl smiled shyly at Agnes as she set out the cups and prepared the tea.

“Yes, of course I remember her.” Agnes smiled, feeling slightly relaxed for the first time since she arrived. “Thank you, child. I’m sorry if I seem abrupt, I’m just beside myself with worry. How old are you now?”

“I’m ten, ma’am.” Becky smiled warmly. “But you mustn’t apologize. I know you are worried about Fanny.”

“That I am.” Agnes sighed as she watched Becky pour. “But I shouldn’t take it out on you. You and your older sister, Ruth, are always so pleasantly polite.”

“If only the younger two were as good.” Moll grinned. “Lydia and John are much more of a handful. I’m afraid they are spoiled by the older girls…especially John, being the only boy and all.” Moll sipped her tea, encouraging Agnes to do the same. “Drink up…the lavender will help calm your nerves.”

Agnes tried to steady her trembling hands as they gripped the warm teacup. She found the heat soothing and for the first time felt hopeful as she looked around the unfamiliar room and noticed Moll’s black cat, Percy, sleeping in one corner. The room itself was small, but the walls were lined with shelves filled with jars, marked with various herbs and potions. She breathed in the steam from the tea before taking a sip and speaking. “Please, Moll, can you just tell me if my daughter is safe and whether I will live to see her again?”

“I can assure you that Fanny is safe,” Moll smiled. “I went up to High Rock last night to guide her myself.”

“You went out in that storm last night for my Fanny?!” Agnes slumped in her chair feeling even worse about the many terrible things she’d said about Moll in the past.

“Of course, I did and I called upon St. Elmo and his helpers to bring them all home.” Moll patted Agnes’s arm. “Now finish your tea.”

Agnes took a deep breath before lifting her cup and taking another sip. For the first time since the storm began, she felt a sense of calm slip over her.

“Please tell me what you know. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. I can pay you for your trouble.”

“I’ll not take money from a friend, Agnes.” Moll too sipped her tea then set the cup down. She paused for a moment, thinking.

“Tell me what you see, Moll.” Agnes held her breath, waiting for an answer.

“Well…William has been rescued from the prison and they are very close to home now, but I see they are onboard different ships.” Moll closed her eyes focusing on what was to come. “I suspect you will find William at your door before another day passes.”

“But what about my Fanny? When will I see her?”

“It may take a bit longer for Fanny to find her way home, but have no worries. You will see your daughter within a fortnight.”

“But why aren’t they together?”

“It’s a long story, Agnes…one that should be told by no one, except Fanny herself and I can assure you that she will come home safe and sound with adventures of a lifetime to tell you and your grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren?!” Agnes echoed. “Are you saying that Fanny and William will marry and have children?”

“Yes, they will marry soon after their homecoming, but children will wait until the fight for independence is over.”

“What does that mean, Moll?” Agnes asked.

“There are dark years ahead,” Moll offered. “But we will triumph and become a great nation of power and might. In the meantime, rejoice in your daughter’s homecoming. Be glad that she will find her way back to you.”

Agnes finally stopped trembling. She couldn’t decide whether it was the hot tea or Moll’s comforting words, but she felt her body relax and even started to enjoy her drink, as well as Moll’s company. The psychic of Lynn had given her hope and restored her faith in Fanny’s return. There was nothing wicked about this woman and there were no signs of the devil inside her home. Moll Pitcher had proved herself to be a kind and compassionate person—not a witch at all. She had been totally wrong about Moll and felt very embarrassed by her wicked thoughts.

Due to the Second Continental Congress’s ban on trade with Great Britain, which was to take effect on September 10, there had been a flurry of activity in every port along the eastern seaboard, Lynn included. Merchants and sailors alike all tried making one last shipment from places like Pamlico Sound, Charleston, Norfolk, Philadelphia, New York, Rhode Island, and Boston. As a result, before the storm warehouses on the wharfs overflowed with tobacco, lumber, naval stores, corn, salt, molasses, rum, sugar, and other staples. Now, most of these stockpiled goods were ruined, or gone altogether. The once-filled structures had collapsed in place, cluttering the shoreline and much of the valuable goods they once held floated out to sea.

After Agnes’s visit, Moll walked to the docks of Lynn where she viewed the destruction. Much had been lost as splintered fishing boats crashed upon the shore, while debris and flotsam littered the harbor. Moll shook her head, overwhelmed by the loss, but as she looked up at the sky, she saw an eagle-shaped cloud pointing toward Beverly Harbor. She realized then that Fanny and William would soon bring their ships to safety there. Moll also knew that just before the storm hit, General Washington, under strict secrecy, had acquired a wharf at that very harbor where his newly formed American Navy would launch. Despite the devastation, the seer of Lynn smiled to herself. All was as it should be. The fallout from the storm would serve as a good distraction while Fanny and William brought their ships home right under the very noses of the British.

Not everyone, however, was as fortunate as Fanny Campbell and William Lovell. In the aftermath of the hurricane and as the storm surge subsided, bodies washed ashore amongst the ship wreckage. The huge swells lasted for days while fishermen, lucky enough to survive, brought in pieces of flotsam and bloated bodies, along with their catch. The massive damage prompted the Provincial Congress to help with disaster relief, but there was no funding for lost ships or rebuilding along the waterfront. Due to an ‘Act of God’, the Revolutionary Assembly granted an extension to those merchants attempting to ship goods in advance of the September 10boycott. By the time the great storm finally blew itself out in Newfoundland, many English and Irish ships were lost or damaged. Between America and Canada, more than four thousand lives were snuffed out and this ‘Act of God’ would come to be known as the Hurricane of Independence.

Just as Moll promised, William came home after leaving his ships with Colonel John Glover in Beverly Harbor, but it took Fanny a while longer. After heading a mutiny, she rescued William and Samuel from La Cabana, the deadly Cuban prison, captured three British ships, and took on a bevy of cutthroat pirates, all while dressed as Captain Bartholomew Channing. On the sail back to Lynn, however, the three ships were attacked by the Dolphin, a British royal cutter captained by Fanny’s old suitor, Ralph Burnett. He took Fanny prisoner aboard his ship. Angry at her refusal to be his wife, Burnett assaulted her, causing Fanny to stab him in order to escape, and escape she did. As Fanny found her way to her parents’ doorstep, the ocean was still churning up its dead.

Now that Fanny and her ships filled with weaponry were home, Moll Pitcher had serious work to do. It was imperative that these invaluable supplies, weapons, and gunpowder not fall back into British hands. Some of the captured booty from Channing’s three ships was easily disguised as stores and cargo at Glover’s wharf warehouse. The weapons and gunpowder had to be hidden as quickly as possible in order to keep them from the British. It would be nearly a week before the crew could safely unload the ships, but it gave the men in charge time to make transportation arrangements. Elbridge Gerry, elected to the Massachusetts Provincial Congress, and John Glover, both men of Marblehead, hired freight wagons to carry the munitions to Lynn where Moll’s neighboring brothers, Rupert Burchstead, and Elmore Burchstead, helped her. They could always be counted on when Moll called. She and her little crew would hide the goods inside the wolf pits of Lynn Woods and other places such as the old Western Burial Ground.

The two wolf pits lay about twenty feet apart and were located deep in Lynn Woods on the north side of Walden Pond. They measured approximately two feet across and five feet long. One was seven feet deep and the other almost five. Their origins remained murky. Were they really built to trap wolves? Were there even wolves in Lynn Woods at one time? Or were they part of another structure that was long gone? None of this mattered to Moll when she used them to conceal the pilfered weaponry.

Before turning their attention to the task of repairing their damaged cities and wharfs, residents along the Atlantic Coast began their recovery by burying their dead. The increased number of graves being dug provided a perfect cover for hiding weapons in plain view of the enemy until General Washington and his Continental Army needed them.

CHAPTER TWO

Witchery

(1 6 3 8 – Marblehead, Massachusetts)

B

y the time John Dimond sailed across the Atlantic from London to the colonies in 1638, Marblehead, Massachusetts was home to a handful of fishermen. The young man had left his family at St. Dunstan and All Saints in Middlesex, England dreaming of a fresh start. He wanted a place where he could work, maybe even marry, and raise children—a place that was just beginning to blossom. The New England colonies seemed just right for launching a brand-new life and Marblehead, with its burgeoning reputation for fine fishing, appealed to John. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was a fisherman by trade.

Marblehead, at the time, was still within the limits of Salem, which was run by strict Puritans of the Calvinist Church. However, those who preferred a more liberal lifestyle had relocated to the tiny fishing village, where a community was forming—without the benefit of organized religion. Upon his arrival, John found lodging and work with Jeremiah Grant who owned a small fishing vessel that he kept moored in the harbor. Grant lived in a quaint frame house near the shoreline with his wife, Lydia, and two daughters, Johanna and Abigail. He had always felt a certain disappointment concerning his lack of sons, but Grant was fond of his girls and rarely refused them anything—much to his wife’s dismay. The sisters worked hard, helping their busy mother, who not only cleaned and dried the fish her husband caught, but also kept a large garden and a pen full of pigs. In addition, Lydia took in sewing to earn a few extra dollars, making her one of the most industrious wives in the village.

Johanna, the eldest girl, was of marrying age, while Abigail was ten years younger; Lydia had lost four children in between them, which accounted for their difference in age. Johanna’s azure eyes and thick dark curls assured her no shortage of suitors, but none of the local gents piqued her interest. At least not until this stranger from England entered the Grant household. John was tall and lanky—a bit on the awkward side and Johanna found his shyness endearing. Abigail liked him immediately and after dinner often sat on his lap while he told stories of England and his passage across the Atlantic.

“John, please tell us about the night of the great storm,” Abigail said to him one evening.

“But I’ve already told you about it.” John grinned at the child. “Dozens of times!”

“But it’s so exciting!” Abigail jumped on his lap as they sat in front of the warm hearth.

“You might as well tell it again, John,” Lydia said, sighing. “I’m afraid she won’t leave you alone until you do.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He shrugged and then turned to give the little girl his undivided attention. “Well…it was darker than dark outside the ship that night with not a star visible in the sky and the wind was howling like a pack of wild dogs. The seas were so rough that the waves quickly grew to be at least twenty feet tall—”

“But the last time you said that the waves were only fifteen feet high,” Abigail interrupted to remind him.

“Well, I’ve had more time to think about it,” he answered with a wink toward Johanna, who blushed at his attention. “And now I am sure they were at least twenty feet.”

And so the story would go on with John embellishing and Abigail squealing with delight as he told the tale of the harrowing storm and the escape they’d made—an escape that seemed to get narrower with each retelling.

At the end of the story, Abigail always made the same request. “Can I please blow your whistle, John?”

“Which one?”

“You know…the curlew-peewit your father gave you.”

“Not in the house…the sound is too shrill,” Lydia always said, frowning. “If you must blow it, child, please do it outside.”

“Mind your mother.” John reached into his pocket and pulled out the black whistle and handed it to Abigail. “But once you’re outside, give it a good hard blow. My father always said that the sailors could hear it no matter how far out to sea they might be.”

When he wasn’t fishing with Jeremiah or telling tall tales to Abigail, John focused on Johanna. He liked the way she laughed and the kindness she always showed to friends and strangers alike. Before long and to Johanna’s delight, he asked Jeremiah for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Thrilled to finally have a son, Jeremiah gave a grand party to celebrate the union of John Dimond and Johanna Grant. As a wedding gift, he made John a full partner in his fishing business and together the two men reaped the benefits of the sea.

The newlywed couple remained living in the Grant household and, in 1641, celebrated the birth of their first-born—a green-eyed boy they named Edward. Two years later, they welcomed a second son, William, but sadly, that was a difficult birth and afterward Johanna could have no more children. It was probably just as well because even as an infant, Edward proved to be different and demanded much of her attention. Whenever he cried, only the sight of the sea would console him, so Johanna was often seen down by the shore, carrying her firstborn son. It seemed that dipping his toes into the cool salt water was the only way to appease him. Days before a severe storm struck, the child would grow restless as if he sensed trouble in the air. He often paled and refused to eat whenever a fishing vessel was lost in the Atlantic. Johanna thought her son had a sixth sense when it came to the elements and the men who earned a living on the water, and she soon began paying attention to the signs he gave her.

John refused to believe his wife at first until he remembered a story told by his own father about an old uncle who could predict shipwrecks and storms. It was said that the townsfolk often came to him asking whether they should go to sea. If he warned against it, they refused to set sail. Was it possible that little Edward inherited a power that no one could explain? The close-knit family kept what they knew to themselves in an effort to protect the boy, but in 1648, when he was but seven years old, Edward shocked everyone.

“Father is leaving us.” Edward announced one bright afternoon as he and his mother walked hand-in-hand to the harbor where the men were due in after a long day of fishing.