Part 4

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.

In due time the pans signaled “S.O.S.,” and with a pull on the cod line 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.