‘It’s some gammon these British scamps are up to,’ said the first speaker. ‘But Washington has got possession of the town, and they won’t get it again in a hurry, that’s very certain.’
‘That brig has seen service,’ said he with the glass to his eye. ‘Her spars and rigging are a good deal cut up. I should rather guess that the two sails with her were prizes; she’s a sort of man-o-war look about her—eh? what do you think neighbors?’
‘Ay, ay, somewhat sarsy, with that rake to her masts to be sure,’ said one.
‘Guess you’re right—guess you’re right,’ said another.
Still the three vessels—a brig, a barque, and a ship—stood on for Boston harbor.—The sharp, cold air seemed to impart a deeper tinge of blue to the sea, upon which at this moment the sun shone brightly and warmly, as if awakening from his long winter’s sleep. The little group who had first got sight of the strange sails, were now joined by half the hamlet, all rife with curiosity at the sight before them.
Among the rest there stood a singular looking female. She was of the ordinary height, well formed, and quite handsome in features, and about twenty-six years of age. Her dress bespoke the singularity of her fancy, and until you saw the purity of her handsome face you might have supposed her an Indian maid but partially civilized; her costume being a singular combination of the Indian dress of America and the gipsy of Europe. There was a vacuum in her mild hazel eye, so to speak, a thoughtlessness, an indifference in her manner, that indicated a degree of mental abstraction.—Her brow was already partially wrinkled with care, and altogether she was a most singular object.
Her story is soon told. She was of humble but honorable birth, and being at the gentle age of fifteen, of unrivalled beauty both of form and face, an English officer of high rank, but a profligate at heart, saw her and was enamored of her beauty.
He poured the poison of oily eloquence into her young and unsuspecting ear; he gained her confidence and heart, ruined her, and then forsook her! From that hour she became another being, she wandered from her home, and at length resorted in her half deranged state to fortune-telling, and through her shrewdness and peculiarities gained an ample and sufficient livelihoood.
This was the far famed Moll Pitcher, the fortune-teller of Lynn!
Her little cottage was hard by, and impelled by the same spirit that had drawn so many others hither, she sought the summit of the lofty rock, and mingled with the rest. Many a Boston belle of more modern times has listened to her strange and, of times, truthful stories of the times of which we now write, or has heard with trembling her predictions of weal or woe. The mariners more particularly, for many miles along the coast, paid willing tribute to the witch of Lynn, believing in their simplicity that in her good will they bought for themselves security and safety from the perils and dangers of the sea. During the siege of Boston, Moll Pitcher was of essential service on several occasions in obtaining information concerning the operations of the enemy, their purposes and plans, and then communicating it to Washington. To be sure, she was well paid in gold for the information thus obtained by personal hazard—but General Washington was often heard to say Moll would’nt work for British gold, though she did not refuse the pay of the Colonists in the secret service she rendered the American army. The after history and life of this singular woman are too well known among us to require farther comment.