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.