LOCKPORT AND THE WAY TO LIVERPOOL.
At Lockport I put up at Mrs. Mack’s “New Hillcrest,” from which it is but “two minutes’ walk to the celebrated Lockport beach,” a pebbly, crescent shaped stretch, where the waves break well out, owing to the shoal water.
Mrs. Mack is a large success from the point of view of the traveler. Here I had the best supper of the entire trip, oyster stew and roast chicken, each in perfection, and was told by one who had spent three weeks under her hospitable roof that it was always the same. On entering the house there is a pleasant home air that is charming. That her place is full all summer, and that she rooms large numbers outside, is the logical result of her methods.
The day was very dull and the light none too good for the camera, but after leaving my excess baggage with my hostess, I soon found the way to the cold storage dock where fishermen were preparing signals and buoys for an expedition to the Banks. The slip was well filled with small vessels; fishermen, judging from the dories and trawl tubs nested on their decks, and the activity was interesting to a layman, but owing to weather conditions the camera did not enthuse much.
One hundred and fifty years ago Dr. Jonathan Lock of Chilmark, 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.