PETITE RIVIERE AND DUBLIN SHORE.
The Sperry House down by the water at Petite Riviere is another of those pleasant homes for wayfarers. Both the master and mistress can find time to be agreeable, and are kindly people. The situation of the house is such that the roar of the breakers on the outer bar is always to be heard, and their whitening tops can readily be seen from the upper windows as they are dashed to pieces upon the breakwater. It is one of those hotels that believes in deeds rather than words. There is no sign on house or grounds to indicate its object in life, though the building is almost out of sight from the road and the stranger would never suspect its calling.
A fog held the region in thrall at the time of my arrival and the two hours of daylight that remained did not produce much beyond a ground-glass effect, a shadowy foreground with the distance as blank as the mind of an ox.
The Sperry House is the first place where cream has been put on the table. The past summer was very dry, and the cows have not been giving much milk, and now that the rainy season has arrived most of the milk looks as though the cows were drinking over much.
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.