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.