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.