Mass., and Josiah Churchill settled here. Throughout the Revolution
the settlers refrained from active hostilities. Apparently their
sympathies were with the struggling states, and it can well be imagined
that their feelings as well as pockets were much hurt when, in 1779,
American privateers came on shore and looted the town. The indignant
protest which the townsmen uttered and which is still to be found in
the archives of Massachusetts, is given in full:--
“Raged Islands, Sept. W. 25, 1779.
“These lines comes with my respect to you & to acquaint you of the
Robery done to this Harbour, there was a guard of men placed upon every
house and the houses stript, very surprising to us, they came here
early in the Morning on the 20th day of August last and said they were
from Penobscot and were tories bound for halifax, they come to my house
first and wanted some refreshments accordingly we let them have what
they wanted, and they then went away and stayed on an island till the
tide run so that they could Come at my Boat, then they came and took my
Boat and put a guard upon my house and went a Robing they took about
19 quintals of Codfish and Four Barrels of Salt, three Salmon Netts
60 lbs. of Butter, one Green Hyde, five dressed Skins and some Cheese
and a Great many other Things. The Boat cost me fifty pounds Halifax
Currency. Then they went to Mr. Matthews and there Robed him, then went
to Mr. Haydens, and Robed him, then went Mr. Locks and Robed him. These
things are very surprising that we in this Harbour that have done so
much for America, that have helped three or four hundred prisoners
up along to America and Given part of our living to them, and have
Concealed Privateers & prizes too from the British Cruisers in this
Harbour. All this done for America and if this be the way we are to be
paid I desire to see no more of you without you Come in Another Manner,
but I hope the America gentlemen that Grants out Commissions or are
Bondsmen would take these Notorious Rascalls in hand for this Robery.
Sir be so kind as to Inform some of the Council of the affair, that we
might have some restrictions, otherwise we shall not be able to help
the American prisoners any more. Sir, if you find out who these be, and
whether we are like to have anything, be pleased to write.
“Signed
“WILLIAM PORTERFIELD
“JOHN MATTHES
“THOMAS HAYDEN
“JONATHAN LOCK”
During the War of 1812 a hostile ship approached Lockport at a time
when the men were away, but the women and children formed themselves
in martial array with red coats and broomsticks, and lined up on the
bluff, while others marched up and down with a drum; still other
patriotic souls fired such available muskets and fowling pieces as
were to be had, and the local historian concludes his account with the
statement that “the enemy made good their escape.”
Lockport is a considerable fishing headquarters. Here the “cod flakes”
are set up wherever a vacant space occurs in the village. “Cod flakes”
are low racks on which the split cod are spread to dry in the sun. An
important adjunct to these is a sufficient number of boxes that look
like children’s toy houses with hip roofs, under which the cod are
collected in damp weather. Many of these were set up on the grassy
slope in front of the hotel. On my arrival the cod were housed from the
damp weather, and I did not suspect their presence until the following
morning when the boxes were lifted and their contents spread to catch
the heat of the recently emancipated sun.
One of the most beautiful bits of land and water encountered during
the trip was the southernmost point of Lockport (when I say “most
beautiful,” it is well to remember that I saw but a small part of the
coast line). The visit calls for a walk of a half mile across fields
and through a bit of gnarled, storm-beaten woods out over a rough
scrap of moorland, where the moss lies inches deep and the walking
is a delicious little experience, to a rocky point against which the
Atlantic sweeps without hindrance. A few timorous cows browsing among
the hillocks run as the stranger approaches, or, standing at a safe
distance, gaze on the intruder with a curious, uncertain attitude
strongly reminding one of Rosa Bonheur’s highland cattle, though
lacking something of the dignity of these. Close at hand the ocean
swells and breaks against the rocky point, while beyond lies the level
horizon line that is only broken by an occasional sail. For one who
would be alone with nature and the elements it is a choice spot.
The railroad only comes within four miles of Lockport, and a ferry
fills the gap. This crosses the bay to Hast Side for the accommodation
of those living in that remote neighborhood, and then recrosses to the
depot landing, affording a good opportunity to see the harbor. As one
ferry trip does duty for both east and west bound trains, and they
differ in their coming to the extent of an hour, there was abundant
opportunity to study the travelers, some on their way to Florida for
the winter and some bound for their daily bread in New England ports.
A center of attraction was a freshly killed moose which had been shot
the day before about four miles from the station and brought in that
morning; as my knowledge of mooseology is limited, I do not know
whether his small horns indicated a young animal or not. The hunter was
much pleased at the thought of being photographed with his game, and
promptly unlashed the head from the bottom of the wagon and pulled it
around where it would show to better advantage.
It had been my original intention to take a train to Port Mouton
(pronounced _Ma-toon_) and walk from there to Liverpool, but the clouds
began to scowl and the walk was shortened by keeping on to Hunts Point
on the eastern shore of Mouton Bay.
Mouton is French for sheep. In 1604 the Sieur de Monts lost a sheep
here, which jumped overboard from his ship, and such an impression
did the loss of that precious mutton make that the name has survived
for more than three hundred years. As the train skirted the beach
a wonderful sandy crescent could be seen on which the waves were
charging with their white horses leaping high.
Hunts Point is a small fishing station with another curving sand beach,
but while some miles nearer the open ocean, in fact, almost directly
on it, the surf by no means equaled that at Port Mouton--it was rather
the gentle ripple of a summer sea. At the southern extremity of the
crescent is grouped a picture-compelling cluster of fish warehouses and
wharves that gives an unusual finish to the view. The camera considered
it for some minutes, but, strange to say, refused to even attempt it.
The place is well worth a visit though, under another lighting and a
different state of the tide it might be another picture altogether.
The seven miles to Liverpool was uneventful except for a beautiful
brook that dashes from the woods and all but pounces on the road.
Fortunately it drops into a stillwater and glides off at a right angle
just in time to save the highway. As to the remainder of the way,
it would no doubt have been more interesting had I traveled in the
direction of Western Head, and so along the shore of Liverpool Bay
through Black Point, but as it was the shades of night had been pulled
down before my destination was reached.
LIVERPOOL, PORT MEDWAY AND BEYOND.
At Lockport I met S. E. Mack of Lunenburg, who is in the Customs
Service, and who took a live interest in my method of seeing the
country. He suggested the Daniels House as a comfortable place to spend
Sunday, and while its management had changed hands since he knew it
last, I found it quite satisfactory. The Mersey House here is claimed
to be one of the best in Nova Scotia.
Charles Warman, a resident of Liverpool, has written much concerning
the town’s history and has tramped Nova Scotia from end to end in
search of local lore. I found him at work on the journal of Col. Simeon
Perkins, but he was quite ready to defer his own work and give me
attention. A walk about the town under his guidance resulted in much
that proved of interest.
In 1605 the Sieur de Monts was made Lieutenant-General of Nova Scotia
by Henry IV. A year before this he, in company with Champlain, sailed
along this coast. This locality he named Port Rossignal, after a
certain adventurous gentleman who was caught poaching on his preserves
here, and whose vessel he confiscated. Later the region was included in
La Tour’s grant known as La Héve; the settlements were small and not
permanent.
The present town of Liverpool was founded in 1759 by New England
pioneers. That they were an energetic lot is thought proven by the
fact that within a year they were building three vessels for the
fisheries to add to a fleet that already contained sixteen schooners.
One of their leaders was Capt. Sylvanus Cobb, who had been master and
owner of one of the vessels that removed the Acadians from Grand-Pré in
1755.
In 1779 American privateers were a constant source of annoyance
and damage, but “the thrifty Yankee of Liverpool concluded to make
hay while the sun shines. So in due time they had a fine fleet of
privateers harrying the New England waters for the spoils of war, and
the practice was returned, but these Nova Scotians got the better of
the game, and several families, who were very plain people before,
became persons of consequence on this money that had been taken from
their own flesh and blood”--so says a Nova Scotia historian.
Whether an acquaintance I made in Port Medway has a gentle little
grudge against Liverpool, or whether it is commendable local jealousy,
I am not quite clear, but he takes this view of it: “As a result of
this privateering certain of the people of Liverpool grew wealthy,
built a string of houses along the main street and held themselves up
as aristocrats, and some of their descendants still think they are made
of better clay than the average.”
The War of 1812 proved another blessing to the freebooters, as did that
between England, France and Spain.
Smuggling was another popular fad, and anyone who interfered was
more than apt to get himself disliked. In 1782 a certain citizen had
the reputation of being an informer, and about the time that this
reputation became firmly established, or shortly thereafter, the
Provisional Government was offering a reward for the conviction of the
person or persons who cut off the ears of the said citizen. It does not
appear to be a matter of record that the reward was ever collected, the
informer business having become extremely unpopular.
A fort which is now a public park that adorns the southern end of
the town does not appear to have been much more useful in the early
days, as we are told that in 1780 it was captured by an unexpected
night attack led by a Yankee named Benjamin Cole. With their fort in
the hands of the enemy and the place commanded by the guns of the
privateer, the situation looked hopeless to the townsmen--all but Col.
Simeon Perkins. Getting out of difficulties appears to have been one of
the Colonel’s chief delights, and he proceeded to make arrangements for
the capture of the invading Cole while on his way through the town. The
attempt was successful, and with him safely in hand, Colonel Perkins
“was enabled to dictate to the enemy most favorable terms of redress,
capitulation and retreat. So ended the Siege of Liverpool.”
One of the interesting items Mr. Warman had just transcribed from the
journal of Simeon Perkins was dated October 3, 1774. It reads: “John
Thomas who took three hundred pounds of tea from here lost the whole
lot by the Sons of Liberty at Plymouth destroying it on deck.” This
piece of news had been brought from Plymouth by Joshua Battle, who came
to Liverpool for “boards.” Mr. Warman states that it is a fact not
generally known that two of the vessels raided for tea in Boston harbor
were from this port.
Another interesting item dated August 3, 1776, is the recording of a
rumor to the effect that General Washington had been made a prisoner.
The home of Simeon Perkins, erected by him in 1766, still stands
back from the main street in a fine state of preservation. Another
interesting old home is that of Capt. Bartlett Bradford, which is
situated well out toward the fort. The Captain was a privateer of note
and a prominent man in the community. This house was the first custom
house (1790), Joshua Newton occupying it for that purpose.
A story which Mr. Warman has never used because he has not been able to
verify it, has to do with the apparition of a Capt. Nathaniel Freeman.
The Captain’s wife called on Simeon Perkins one day and said she had
seen her husband during the night, when he appeared before her in
his uniform with a bloody spot on his breast; she feared he had been
killed. Two months later the news was brought to Liverpool that he
had been killed in some fight at the very hour that his wife had seen
him. Ghosts no doubt have their use and are intended for some good and
wise purpose, but here was one whose only object appears to have been
trouble; the two months must have been a trying time. Suppose the widow
had just purchased a new scarlet petticoat, what a state of mind she
must have been in. The call was neither nice nor necessary.
Here is the story of Gerb Doggett of Liverpool, as I gathered it from a
fellow-traveler between Shelburne and Lockport. Gerb Doggett was a bad
man--very bad. Gerb was a canner of lobsters. Whether canning lobsters
deteriorates the morals of one so engaged has not been determined; he
may have been naturally wicked and have utilized his solitary trips
up and down the coast, when purchasing lobsters, for the thinking out
of schemes whereby he could excel in evil deeds. Be this as it may,
Gerb gave up the canning business and took a correspondence course in
smuggling.
Having learned well the best methods employed in his new trade, he did
not invest any of his own money in a vessel, but chartered a schooner
and went buccaneering for whisky to the French settlement of Saint
Pierre, off Newfoundland. The first effort was highly successful. The
whisky was run in under cover of a dark night and quickly disposed of,
but some meddlesome little bird whispered to the revenue officials that
there were queer doings along-shore, and they kept a weather eye out,
so to speak. Gerb, all unconscious of impending evil, secured a second
cargo by which he hoped to put away a certain portion of this world’s
goods for that rainy day that we all fear, and which was somewhat
nearer at hand than he anticipated.
Just how it was my informant did not make clear, but in some way Gerb
learned that those in authority were on his wake, and he had only
time enough to land in some lonely cove along the Strait of Canso,
bury the casks in the sand and put to sea. The pursuit was kept up,
however, until the smuggler found it necessary to abandon his vessel
and drop out of sight, and he has not been known in these parts since.
The innocent owners lost their schooner, which was confiscated by an
unfeeling government, and thus was the wisdom of Gerb, whose own money
was not in the vessel, illustrated.
October 20th is the Nova Scotian Thanksgiving Day. The shipyard near
the eastern end of the bridge apparently had a hurry job, as work was
in full blast, but elsewhere the holiday was being observed.
A wet fog hurried in from the sea to prevent me from acquiring any
sort of a view of the surrounding waters, but the dim outline of the
Brooklyn breakwater with a few vessels sheltered back of it brought to
mind a statement made by Mr. Warman that here was the fishing station
of that unfortunate Captain Rossignol, who was caught by de Monts in
the act of catching fish that a king three thousand miles away had
given to his retainer. It was a rather empty return that the captor
made to name the bay after his victim.
After passing the turn for Millvillage I was cautioned twice to take
the left road at the next fork, and did so, to discover too late that I
had thereby missed the shore road. However, a hunter informed me that
three miles had been saved, and the fog was so dense that the shore
road would no doubt have been a mere aggravation, while among the trees
the mist afforded some beautiful effects. The camera eagerly grasped
at these, but mostly failed in its good intent. The more distant trees
were the ghosts of trees, while those at hand, a dark, somber mass of
green, stood strong against the misty background. An occasional tall
white birch with its crown of gold melted into the unreal atmosphere.
I started two partridges at one point, and at another a big, brown
bunny hopped across the road in a leisurely fashion that made it
perfectly evident he was aware that I had no gun. It being a holiday
the hunters were out. I passed several, and occasionally heard the boom
of a distant gun, suggesting that another partridge was on his way to
the roasting pan.
And thus passed pleasantly the ten miles to Port Medway.
Port Medway has my heart, as have also its girls--at least, two of
them. The traveler comes into the village quite suddenly, to find the
houses snuggled down close along little coves, each man his cove. As
the village is further penetrated it is to find that the waters have
worked long fingers up into the land until many houses back on the
water, as well as front on it. An artist might find more to do here in
a minute than would keep him busy for a year, it is all so sketchy.
Now for the girls: There are two of them, as plump and bright and
pleasant as one could ask. My heart went smash immediately, torn
between the two, even if one was married. They allowed me to come
out in the kitchen, hang my damp coat over a chair and eat in my
shirtsleeves. Both could talk and neither made any undue protestations
at being photographed.
If any one desires a choice spot for a vacation let him try the Kempton
House, Port Medway, Queens Co., N. S., and forever after be filled with
pleasant memories. The board is $5 per week. I asked if they fed all as
they were feeding me, and had a laugh and “yes” for answer.
When I began to ask questions concerning the locality Mr. J. N. Wilde
was called in to assist, Mr. Jason Kempton, fountain head of all
knowledge, being away from home.
My information is to the effect that Port Medway was settled about
one hundred and seventy-five years ago by immigrants from Cape Cod.
Why they came Mr. Historian does not know, but he surmises that they
were the unsuccessful ones at home and, having nothing to lose by the
change, could afford to make it. One of the early ones was a Cohoon,
whose seed multiplied in the land until about one hundred years ago the
family was numerous and prominent. The same is to be said of the Foster
and Morine families, but the last century has seen them dwindle until
few of these names are left.
I could not learn that the town had ever had any adventures; if it has
they have been carefully hidden from Mr. Wylde, who is a reasonably
free talker.
In passing I would record the fact that in Port Medway lies the first
stone wall or fence, such as is so common with us, that has come within
the compass of this walk.
From here I was to ferry to Voglers Cove. My ferryman had the face of a
poet with the blond, silky little beard that fits so well such a face,
but the hands were those of a hard worker. A soft voice; pleasant,
talkative and kindly, I was so sure that he must have at least one
baby tucked away at home that I tried to give him a quarter to get the
child a little present. But, alas! he had none.
The run across to Voglers Cove, which is possibly a matter of four
miles, was made in a motor boat whose cranky engine balked, as is the
habit of these descendants of the mule. It was interesting to see what
patience and perseverance could do with such a loose-jointed affair.
On the outskirts of Voglers Cove I came on Jason Conrad and his ox
cart, and as the background seemed propitious, the camera proceeded to
its duty. Jason being of an inquiring turn of mind, hauled up to see
what it was all about and, having learned, proceeded to give me his
life history, which I unfortunately did not attempt to record until
only a few fragments remained to be gathered up.
He had been to sea some sixty years and three times thought the good
Lord had him, but each time managed to escape. His old woman has
stomach trouble very bad, like heartburn right here (illustrating);
doctors could do nothing for her, but he had some very fine old Jamaica
rum which cured her. After that she had the trouble so frequently that
the rum was soon exhausted, and he has not been able to get any more
as good. Used to drink himself some in his earlier days. “You know how
it is with sailors.” Like his namesake of long ago, he appears to have
sown his share of dragons’ teeth. New York is a damn fine town. Halifax
is a--well, it would hardly do for polite ears to hear what he thought
of Halifax. I finally edged around my new found friend and left him
standing in the middle of the road still telling of his adventures. He
was one of the most willing talkers I have met in some time.
The way to Petite Riviere, which was possibly seven or eight miles,
does not seem to have left any impression. It was probably a wood road,
and much like other wood roads that had gone before.
PETITE RIVIERE AND DUBLIN SHORE.
The Sperry House down by the water at Petite Riviere is another of
those pleasant homes for wayfarers. Both the master and mistress can
find time to be agreeable, and are kindly people. The situation of the
house is such that the roar of the breakers on the outer bar is always
to be heard, and their whitening tops can readily be seen from the
upper windows as they are dashed to pieces upon the breakwater. It is
one of those hotels that believes in deeds rather than words. There is
no sign on house or grounds to indicate its object in life, though the
building is almost out of sight from the road and the stranger would
never suspect its calling.
A fog held the region in thrall at the time of my arrival and the
two hours of daylight that remained did not produce much beyond a
ground-glass effect, a shadowy foreground with the distance as blank as
the mind of an ox.
The Sperry House is the first place where cream has been put on the
table. The past summer was very dry, and the cows have not been giving
much milk, and now that the rainy season has arrived most of the milk
looks as though the cows were drinking over much.
In the days when eyes were less stigmatic and people saw things as they
really were, those outward bound from Petite Riviere would, in the fall
of the year, sometimes see a full rigged bark sail in on Crescent
Beach, some two or three miles to the eastward, pass over the beach and
continue on among the Lahave Islands, where it was lost to view. No one
ever discovered its exact destination, though it was presumed to be the
ghost of some pirate ship returning for buried gold.
It may possibly have been bound for Fort Point at the mouth of the
Lahave River, where many have dug for buried treasure in times past.
Why the vessel always came across the beach and never took the channel
does not appear, but it may be that in the early days there was an
opening in the sand near its western end and the ghost, being a
creature of habit, merely followed the old routine.
Once there was a lily pond in Petite Riviere in which it was generally
supposed gold had been deposited for safe keeping, as the headless
ghost of a woman was seen frequently patrolling its banks. But one
day the pond was drained, and though no money was found the ghost was
satisfied, as she has not been known to appear in the neighborhood
since; possibly it was fairy gold and, with the weight of the water
removed, the ghost was herself able to make away with it.
The boys of Petite Riviere appear to be much like boys of other parts,
not particularly bad nor yet altogether given over to Sunday-school
work. My host in going over the annals of the town dwelt at some length
on certain plum trees that did particularly well by him last year. It
seems that the boys of this neighborhood have a taste for plums and, as
stolen fruit is much the sweeter, determined to raid the orchard. In
some mysterious way the owner learned of the intended foray and, being
a man of resource, proceeded to set a trap for the invaders. First some
pans were arranged on the top of a summer house with a string attached
that would give warning of any visit, and next a long cod trawl line,
to which he added extra hooks, was laid in the grass entirely around
the orchard. This was arranged so that a strong pull would elevate it
about twenty inches above the ground.