The Witch’s Fleet

I am thrilled to announce the latest addition to our Historic Mysteries – THE WITCH’S FLEET!

This new novel’s mission is to take you back in time and experience an actual dramatic adventure. In researching the historic occurrences that transpired along the shores of Lake Erie in 1812-13, I discovered a number of instances of bizarre coincidences. These include; the appearance of a mysterious plague and its sudden abatement at just the right moment, the curious appearance of two ships found stuck in the ice ten miles from shore that provided frantic ship builders with just enough materials to allow them to continue at their task, the onset of historic rainfalls without which the fleet could not have been launched in time …

The list goes on!

Was it the work of Providence? Or something else?

“In 1807, a young, Philadelphia woman of special gifts is accused by the religious authorities of practicing the black arts. Although the investigators can find no evidence that she has ever used her talents to harm anyone, they proceed to attempt to apprehend her to stand trial.

She anticipates them – which is her way – and flees to the frontier which, in 1807, is the sleepy fishing village of Erie, Pennsylvania.

It is now five years later. 1812. The sleepy fishing village of 400 souls finds itself on the front lines of a war against the British Empire. Among them walks a young woman of special gifts. The Brits have no idea what they are up against!”

THE WITCH’S FLEET – August 2022

IT IS UNAVOIDABLE that we look back at historical events from the platform of the present. Subsequently, we study some pivotal moment in the past with the luxury of knowing how it all worked out. 

That is why, for some, history is just a dry, passionless reciting of dates, places and names – a laborious litany of Kings, Chiefs, Generals and Presidents. There is no drama. No intrigue. Yet, to the people who lived those dramas and survived those intrigues -- there was plenty of both!

In writing THE WITCH’S FLEET as well as THE STORYTELLERS, I wanted to place my readers at the scene. I wanted to take them back in time to walk the dirt streets of 1812 Erie, Pennsylvania or taste the waters of the 1876 Little Bighorn River. 

I wanted to open the doors of Erie’s Duncan’s Tavern & Inn and have the reader sit before the stone fireplace enjoying the crackling warmth and a cool tankard of ale while they eavesdrop as the locals learn that their country has declared war on the British Empire, and they are now at war with the folks on the other side of Lake Erie!

I wanted the reader to witness the resulting drama and get caught up in the intrigues that swirled around them. I wanted to put them on the gundeck of an 19th Century man-of-war. I wanted them to struggle at loading the canons and then quake as those guns thunder in anger. I wanted to put the reader in “the tops” struggling to set the sails while hanging on for dear life! 

I think I’ve succeeded.

Taken from Chapter 13 of THE WITCH'S FLEET. This passage features the skills of Dr. Usher Parsons whose diary served as one of my core sources ...

“... They struggled through the well tracked snow, frosted breath 

puffing from their open mouths. Dobbins soon joined them with two lit lanterns and led them into the shed. The bench was quickly cleared, and the body thumped down upon it. Dr. Parsons went quick to work unbuttoning the hooded coat and freeing the lifeless arms.

   Noah positioned the two lanterns on either side of the head while Dobbins lowered two other lanterns from wall hooks and proceeded to put the match to them. Soon the small shed was flooded with light.

   “I’ve never seen her before,” Dobbins proclaimed. “She must be one of the strangers in town. There are hundreds of them.”

   “You say you found her in the road?” Parsons asked as he studied 

the flesh of the arms and neck.

   Noah nodded. “She was lying there as if she’d lay down to take a 

nap and died right there in the middle of the road.”

   Parsons held a lamp up as he parted her jaw and examined the 

interior of her mouth. “Well, she didn’t die there, Mr. Brown. She died somewhere else and was transported there by someone who wanted her quickly found. How was she lying?”

   “Like I said, like taking a nap. On her left side. Left hand up under 

the side of her head, knees together and pulled up.”

   “The fetal position,” Parsons mumbled. “On a night like this, she 

may have frozen to death. She may have had too much to drink and passed out while exposed to the elements. Or just simply died in her sleep from some ailment. She has already passed through rigor mortis, and it has fully released. The grassy sod that has been frost frozen to the left side of her coat, the side pressed against the ground, would not be common on a road surface but suggests she lay down on a grassy surface and died.”

   “What is that around her neck?” Noah wondered.

   Dr. Parsons straightened it and laid it out across her chest. “That, 

gentlemen, is a most curious accessory. It is not a necklace one casually wears about the neck. It is serious in both its construction—and intent.”

   “Intent?” Dobbins questioned.

   “Yes, intent. I would think it was intentionally donned for some 

occasion—or ritual. The two pentacle stars suggest the occult.”

   “Witchcraft?” Noah Brown asked in a low voice weighted with 

worry.

   “Yes,” Parsons replied nonchalantly while he took his time studying her black hair with its shock of white at the left temple and her shuttered eyes. 

   “Well, that is rather unique,” he commented almost to himself as he pried up the lids of both eyes simultaneously. “She has one brown eye and one blue.” He then reopened the mouth and sniffed. “Does the village have a priest, Daniel?”

   “Yes. Father Egan.”

   “Well then, I suggest someone send for Father Egan.”

* * *