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.