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.