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.