the crowd was encircled. Then, not caring how much noise he made, the
owner went out to greet his visitors but they, becoming suddenly shy,
scattered or attempted to. Then it was that the heavy cod hooks caught
the clothing of certain among them, and three who were firmly hooked
remained to give him welcome. These he calmly inspected with a light
and, after giving them full instructions in the art of being good,
hastened their departure. For the remainder of the time those plums
were on the trees they were treated with the greatest respect.
The western side of Petite Riviere cove terminates in what is known
as Cape Lahave, and thereabout hangs a tale that I cannot vouch for,
owing to lack of time for careful investigation. From the earliest
times there have been traditions of buried money here, and many have
searched though few have found. However, if what follows is a correct
statement of the case, two men were successful up to a certain point.
What manner of bargain they struck with the Evil One my informant did
not know, and both of the adventurers being away on the Banks, nothing
of this could be learned, but the powers of darkness did permit them to
discover a chest buried in the sand. When the earth had been removed
and the coffer with great labor lifted from the hole, the lid was
raised and great store of treasure exposed: gold, silver and all manner
of precious stones.
In such a search as this, digging must not begin before the clock
strikes the hour of midnight and, if found, the treasure must be
safely housed before cockcrow, while during the entire period a
single word spoken breaks the spell and all is lost. The successful
treasure-hunters were greatly elated, and immediately started home
with their prize, but just as they reached the goal one unfortunately
stubbed his toe. It was a mighty stub and, forgetting all else, he made
a few emphatic and pointed remarks, when immediately the chest and
all it contained vanished in air. What his companion remarked is best
left unsaid; it was no balm to his feelings to know that the Devil,
repenting of his bargain, had deliberately placed a stone in the path
for the very purpose which the stubbed toe accomplished.
Both men returned the next night, but were unable to find the spot or
any evidence of digging, and never since then has the eye of mortal
been allowed to see that chest.
During the night I awoke occasionally to listen to the rain which came
down in great volume. The incessant roar of the surf on the bar, the
whistling of the wind and dashing of rain squalls against the side of
the house aroused thoughts of the morrow which were of a damnifying
sort, but when the morning had half gone the rain ceased, and I set
forth only, however, to become involved in a series of showers that
punctured the hours which followed until two o’clock was no more.
The jaunt from Petite Riviere was possibly the most captivating of the
entire trip. At first the roar of a heavy surf breaking within two to
five hundred feet of the road commanded the undivided attention, and
when the rush and clamor of the heavier breakers came the very air was
jarred and the noise was appalling, the more so because nothing was
visible beyond the dense fringe of spruce which bordered the road. So
heavy were the reverberations among the trees that I was tempted two or
three times to investigate, only to find that it was merely heavy surf
and nothing more, but back among the trees there was at times a crash
that almost made the heart stand still; it seemed as though the next
instant the waters would be upon one. What it may be like when the wild
old Atlantic is really worked up over some windy suspiration is beyond
comprehension.
Finally the woods fell away and Crescent Beach came into view, a long
curving sandbar thrown up by the sea with quiet water on one side and
the surf pounding on the other. This introduces the traveler to West
Dublin and Dublin Shore at the mouth of the Lahave River, a stretch of
some five miles.
At first the waters are quiet, owing to the protection of Crescent
Beach, the shore is a series of enchanting little coves and
promontories with rocks and small craggy trees distractingly
picturesque. Then the road dodges away from the shore for a half mile,
only to come back to it again where cod flakes line the way and little
storehouses, through whose open doors one can see men piling dried cod
as the farmer might fill his shed with the winter’s supply of firewood.
Then the bank becomes a bluff and the road ascends thirty to forty feet
above the water, while the waves, no longer restrained by Crescent
Beach, dash themselves on the rocks below, a beautiful, rugged bit of
coast. It is not possible to adequately describe this wonderful five
miles. All the way houses are grouped or dotted along one side of the
road; it is like a straggling village street; while on the other the
shore stirs one’s heart with its beauty or its rugged features or its
interesting evidences of the life of the fishing banks. It is seldom
that the traveler finds so much that is interesting and attractive in
one short stretch.
Fort Point is situated at the outlet of the Lahave River on its Western
bank. I presume that it is included in the village of Dublin Shore,
but, as these villages run one into the other in a most promiscuous
fashion, it may come within the confines of Getsans Point. In 1755 an
Acadian village stood here, nothing of which now remains but a few
almost obliterated depressions that were once the cellars of the French
homes.
Immediately back of the little lighthouse lies a pond in which,
according to local tradition, the Acadians placed the church bell and
silver service at the time of the expulsion. These are still believed
to lie deep in the mud. This mud, I was told, is from ten to twenty
feet deep. Some attempts have been made to probe it with long poles,
but without results.
I found two men working in a field nearby, who were quite ready to
act as guides, and they, with the lightkeeper, took me over the
locality and helped find in the brush near the pond the foundations of
the chapel and priest’s house and the well close by. These are such
slight elevations and so overgrown that the stranger might easily not
recognize his discovery when made.
The fort which gives name to the point stood on its south side, which
is elevated fifteen feet above the water. The land here has been washed
away within the memory of my guides, until the remains of the fort have
entirely disappeared. A few thin, crudely made bricks were picked up on
the beach, which may have been used to line a fireplace, but other than
this no remnant of the fort is to be found.
In times past will-o’-the-wisp lights have been seen to come and go
on the opposite shore of the river below Riverport, but what they
portended or why they are not seen in these degenerate days, my new
found friends did not know. It has occurred to me that possibly these
may be the returned spirits of moose and bear endeavoring to wreak a
last revenge on the intruding white man. If the legend which follows is
true, this is at least a plausible explanation:--
The earliest French settlement here was in 1613. There is an Indian
legend which relates that when these white men landed the bears and
moose held a grand conclave around the headwaters of the Lahave River,
some fifty miles in the interior, where they entered into an alliance
against the paleface. It was determined that the moose should wage
war against all cornfields planted by the intruders, while the bears
attacked their cattle and sheep, but no person was to be eaten by them
unless he bore a gun which made a great noise and carried confusion
among the peaceable denizens of the wood.
The place of this meeting was known as “Ponhook,” which is said to mean
“outlet”--presumably of some lake--but exactly where it was is not now
known, though it is still guarded by two bears and two moose which
are invulnerable, and not subject to the ills which beset their less
favored brethren when the hunting season is on. Since this treaty no
bear has been known to attack a moose, however young and defenseless
it may be. It is said the Indians now believe that it would have been
better for them if they too had entered the alliance, as the white man
has made laws which at least protect the moose.
A brief note in one of the histories states that in 1632 Chevalier
Isaac de Razilly, acting as agent for a French company which had been
organized by Cardinal Richelieu to exploit the fisheries of Acadie,
came across the seas with forty families, which were settled at what
is now known as Fort Point, at the mouth of the Lahave River (more
properly _La Héve_).
About 1654 Emmanuel le Borgne, a merchant of Rochelle, came to Acadie
and, after the gentle manner of the times, some of his men set fire
to all the buildings at La Héve, not even sparing the chapel. The loss
was estimated at 100,000 francs. Some time later the son of Le Borgne
entered the harbor and constructed a fort of timber, whereupon the
English undertook to dislodge the French. Le Borgne promptly sought
the cover of the woods with some of his men, but a trader who was with
him, one Gilbaut, defended the place with such vigor that many of the
English were killed and the remainder driven off. They were preparing
to attack again when Gilbaut, who had no interest except in his goods,
proposed to surrender on condition that he and his men should be
allowed to retain their possessions. This was readily agreed to, and
the fort fell without further bloodshed. Le Borgne, who was quickly
starved out, desired to be included in the surrender and granted the
same terms, but as he had run away before the fight began, the English
failed to see the force of his claims, and carried him off a prisoner.
In 1684 M. Perrot, the Governor of Acadie, proposed to fortify and
settle La Héve under certain conditions, but apparently nothing was
done in the matter.
LUNENBURG AND MAHONE BAY.
After a brief search I found a ferryman who would set me across the
Lahave to Riverport. The ferryboat was a dory, and this was the first
time that I had seen a dory without centerboard sailed to windward. The
boatman stood or sat forward of midships, passing the sheet through
an after tholepin hole and holding the end of it in one hand, while
with the other he manipulated an oar on the lee side of the boat so
that it was both rudder and sideboard, and thus the boat sailed fairly
well into the wind without sliding off to too great an extent. Later
I learned that this is the manner of sailing a dory employed by the
fishermen on the Banks when looking after their trawls.
By this time the storm was breaking and the sun was dodging the flying
clouds, the wind was in the west and there was such life and vigor
in the atmosphere as had not been present before at any time during
the trip. Here I saw the process of cleaning drying cod. During damp
weather the cod accumulate a shine that must be removed, and men
go over each fish with a scrubbing brush and fresh water, a very
considerable task and one which the fishermen do not like.
The road from Riverport to Lunenburg passes through the usual spruce
forest and shortly comes out on an arm of Lunenburg Bay, after which it
was a bit of woods or a bit of water until First South was reached.
First South and its suburbs consist of a scattering line of houses at
least two miles long, with the road winding in and out along the edge
of the beach. Much cod was spread for the rays of the newly found sun,
and here and there the dried fish had been piled by the road side with
a wealth of salt, ready to be stored or shipped. The entire stretch was
picturesque to a degree.
Lunenburg was settled by Hanoverian immigrants in 1751, and is still
largely German in character. It is the important fishing station of
Nova Scotia and has grown so great that it is known as “the Gloucester
of Canada,” and claims to send out more fishing vessels even than the
mother of fishermen.
The place had its troubles during the American War for Independence,
as did other towns along this coast. On July 1, 1782, a privateer from
Boston sailed into the bay and landed ninety men and some guns for an
attack. They were fired on from the block house, but this does not
appear to have delayed their progress to any alarming extent, for they
soon captured the guns, which were promptly spiked, after which they
proceeded to plunder the town of all that seemed good to them. After
they were satisfied that there was nothing more to take they threatened
to burn the houses unless a ransom was paid. There was, of course, no
money, but they were given a document which purported to be a note for
£1,000. The entire loss to the town was placed at £10,000.
Mr. Mack searched me out shortly after my arrival, and announced that
he had intended to devote some part of the morrow to my enlightenment
on local matters, but the fates had decreed otherwise. The customs
collector at the village of Mahone Bay was no more, and it devolved
on my friend to keep the wheels running until a new inspector could
be selected. He must drive up, nine miles, the first thing on the
following morning, and would be glad to have me go with him. In the
meantime he would walk about the town with me in the evening, and again
by the early morning light.
I had a note to the effect that the old rectory here was formerly a
tavern and that occasionally the spirit of a woman appears to its
inmates. This is said to have happened to people who had never heard
of the story and whose imagination could not have been prepared in
advance. The origin is supposed to lie in some murder long ago, but of
this nothing is known. It was my intent to ask somewhat of this but,
strange to say, I neglected to do so.
The present-day interest of Lunenburg centers about its wharves and
shipping. The town lies on such a steep hillside that the parallel
streets are only one hundred and twenty feet apart, and everywhere
one looks down on the harbor. At this particular time a large fleet
of fishermen was lying at anchor in the quiet waters, waiting for the
weather to straighten itself out. Across the bay could be seen the
“Ovens,” curious caverns which are said to run well back into the hill.
Considerable gold has been washed out of the sand here in the past.
If it were not for friend Mack I should be tempted to say mean things
about the hotel in his town, where the kitchen service is of a most
exasperating character, greatly accentuated by waitresses who have
little of the Nova Scotian spirit in their make-up. However, any hotel
is but an incident, and its discomforts are soon forgotten.
The drive to the village of Mahone Bay was interesting in itself, and
particularly so as my guide knew every foot of the way. We passed a
new venture for these parts, a fox farm. Black foxes are worth $40,000
per pair, so I am told, and it requires some capital to start such an
enterprise, but the promised profits are so enormous that the necessary
funds are readily obtainable. The raising of foxes for their fur has
been carried on in Prince Edward Island with great success for some
years, and there seems no reason why it cannot be duplicated here.
Had I been dawdling along on foot, there were several spots that could
have tempted the camera from its seclusion. But when the village of
Mahone Bay was reached it was unable to resist longer, for here the
waters were so quiet that even such a sober individual as myself saw
double, the village church was standing on its head in a fashion quite
apart from one’s notion of village church etiquette.
As I started up the hill with my back set toward Mahone Bay there
came another little experience of the courteous spirit so frequently
commented on. I was on the wrong side of the road when one driving an
ox team came toward me. He promptly “geed” the animals across the way
in order to give me an abundance of room, and did it in such a matter
of course fashion as to clearly show that such was his habit. Even the
dogs so seldom run at the passer-by that, when one does, it is a matter
for comment. I saw one well pounded merely because he dared bark at me.
The day was perfect Indian summer weather, soft and kindly, cloudy
during the early morning hours, as seems the fashion here, but by ten
o’clock the clouds had vanished and a gentle breeze from the west come
to dull the edge of the shafts with which a warm sun was assailing all
creeping things in this part of the globe. Later the clouds began to
assemble again, but merely for decorative purposes.
From the village of Mahone Bay the road crosses the country to another
cove of Mahone Bay through beautiful, dark green woods or burned
stretches where none but dead trees kept watch and ward, through the
villages of Martins River, where I invested in apples and soda crackers
for lunch, and Martins Point, which put me in touch with the water
again, to Western Shore. My instructions were to proceed to Gold River
and there find some one to ferry me across to Chester, but my fortunate
habit of asking questions led to the discovery that Oak Island was in
sight; indeed, had already been passed, and I was immediately consumed
with a desire to ferry from Western Shore.
James K. Manuel offered his boat and services, and we immediately
struck a bargain. The usual charge for the three and one-quarter miles
is seventy-five cents, but on my suggestion it was made a dollar and
we were to go by way of Oak Island, the great mystery of Nova Scotia.
Mahone Bay is said to have been a one-time resort for pirates and
other gentle freebooters, who found its islands convenient places
behind which to hide their vessels; indeed, the estimable Captain Kidd
himself was a visitor here, so it is claimed, and it is generally
supposed that he used Oak Island as a sub-treasury. Some gentleman with
a turn for figures has estimated that Captain Kidd’s treasure unearthed
so far amounts to $354,523,188.03. Just how he arrives at these figures
is of small moment, but they must be exact, as he includes the cents.
A few of the still undiscovered millions are firmly believed to lie
buried here.
Seekers after this easy money have digged pits all over the place.
Some of these have gone down one hundred and fifty-six feet through
layers of cut stone, and at a depth of one hundred feet have found
hewn oak timbers, strange grasses from the tropics, charcoal, putty
and carefully joined planks. But while much capital has been expended
no treasure has been brought forth nor anything that might solve the
mystery. At the lower depths great stone drains communicating with the
sea were discovered. These admitted the salt water more rapidly than
it could be pumped out; then divers were used, but all to no purpose.
However, as hope springs eternal, so one set of discouraged seekers is
replaced by a new lot of enthusiasts, who must be convinced with their
own convintion, and so it goes.
As is my habit I began right early to ask questions of my ferryman, and
among others, as to whether he had ever heard of the _Teazer_. To this
he promptly replied: “I have seen it.” I gently reminded him that the
privateer was blown up during the War of 1812, and he then told the
following story:--
When a lad, some fifty years ago, he and his father were night-fishing
off Peggys Cove on the southeastern shore of St. Margarets Bay. About
ten o’clock he saw coming toward them from Mahone Bay a full rigged
ship on fire. Much frightened, he spoke to his father, who said it
was nothing but the moon rising. He was old enough, however, to know
that the moon did not rise in the northwest. “I was scared, but
father didn’t mind it because he’d see it lots of times.” The vessel
approached within five hundred feet of their small boat, and he could
distinctly see men on her deck and flames rising from all parts.
The man was evidently sincere in his belief that he had seen the
ghost ship; said she had been seen since by other people, and always
sailing out of the bay, never in. I had heard the story before, it is
common along this coast, and it would seem probable that there is some
occasional phenomenon which, combined with a reasonably satisfactory
imagination, keeps it alive.
Passing out beyond Oak Island we saw in the distance a “nubble” island
which is struggling along without any name. It was just beyond this I
was informed that the _Teazer_ was blown up.
During the War of 1812 an American Privateer, the _Young Teazer_, which
had done much damage along this coast, fled to the head of Mahone Bay
in an effort to escape a British cruiser, but being cornered she made
a gallant though losing fight, and was about to surrender when a
deserter from the British, who was among her crew, fired the powder
magazine, choosing to sacrifice all those on board rather than meet the
punishment which was surely his if captured. The circumstances were so
dramatic that they made a lasting impression on the little communities
of the locality.
The day was so ideally perfect that my ferryman was compelled to row
the entire distance, though his small leg-of-mutton helped some. He was
a nice, garrulous party who does anything, from helping his son-in-law
kill his pig to fishing on the Grand Banks; when nothing else occupies
his attention and the ferry business is dull he gathers kelp and eel
grass for fertilizer.
We poked along, passing island after island, several of them already
owned by “Americans,” as those of the United States are called here,
and I not caring how much time was consumed, asked very particularly
after exact locations, got out my pocket map in order to be certain
that I understood and in all ways interrupted the rowing as much as
possible. Had time been of no moment I should have bargained with my
boatman for a period of hours, and drifted over the waters for the
remainder of the pleasant spell of weather, in spite of the fact that
son-in-law upset in this same boat the other day and ruined a perfectly
good thirty dollar watch. But as all things pass away, even so did this
Indian summer afternoon drift off into the regions of memory.
If any reader ever arrives at Western Shore with intent to be
transported over the waters to Chester, he should insist on James
Manuel for a ferryman, not mind how dirty his boat may be, ask enough
questions to keep the talk going and look as though he believes every
word he hears. And if he does not have one of the times of his life, he
should never be permitted to travel other than in the soft embraces of
a Pullman car.
Chester is a summer resort, beautifully situated and all that, but
I have a grudge against Chester and shall say no good word for it.
My lunch consisted of a few crackers and apples procured at Martins
River, a sawmill growth; the train for Halifax left Chester at 5:35
o’clock, arriving about 8 p. m. I dropped into the Lovett House about
4:30 o’clock for a bite to eat. The proprietor was not to be found,
only a crabbed suffragette sort of woman who did not propose to take
any trouble for strangers, and with the statement that the waitress was
out, she refused to move a hand herself, though the tables were set and
the labor involved but trifling.
HALIFAX AND THE EVANGELINE COUNTRY.
The walking is over; in order to spend a day in the Evangeline country
the railroad must do the speeding hereafter and I must omit St.
Margarets Bay and all the interesting country to Halifax. I should
prefer to remain a night at Peggys Cove in the hope that I too might
see the ghost of the _Teazer_, and there is Sambro, often mentioned in
the history of early times, and Ketch Harbor sounds attractive, as does
many another spot that holds out invitation to the wanderer.
It can be taken as an axiom that anything different from that which
one is used to is singular; hence, when I pass through a country that
is everywhere riddled with glacial boulders of all sizes and, in a
distance of nearly two hundred miles, see only one stone fence, and
that but a short piece, it seems odd to me, used to such things, that
at least the smaller stones are not so disposed of. Another singular
matter is the lack of stone farm houses: not one did I see in all my
journeyings, when frequently all the stone required could be gathered
within a hundred yards of its site. Had the Dutch settled in these
parts it would have been quite different.