Cape Breton Places & Foods

“Picture to yourself, M. le Gouverneur, our plight: without a guide in the heart of the wild, not daring to retrace our steps to Quebec, knowing nothing of what lay before us, our food and ammunition low. Besides, we feared the vengeance of the tribe, for the two men that we had slain. M. de Pardeithan had told us how Indians treated captives. He had witnessed scenes the account of which made our blood run cold.”

“But did you meet with no Indians on your journey down the river?” asked the governor.

“No. God is good. Not till we reached Saint John.”

“Did you not see Indians at Meductec?”

“No, your Excellency, and for this reason: Aeneas had spoken so often of this great village of his people that we were very wary. Late one afternoon we saw smoke in the sky far downstream. So we landed, laid the canoe up in the bushes and waited till night. When it was quite dark we set out again, keeping very close to the eastern bank, and so passed undetected in the darkness.”

“But you met with Indians in Saint John, you say. Did they not recognize the canoe and question you about the owner?”

“Your Excellency will remember that it was a new canoe, made for the journey and only finished just before we left Quebec. None but ourselves had seen it.”

“When did you reach Saint John?”

“About three weeks ago. We are unskillful with the paddle and unversed in the craft of the hunter and the woodman. Our progress was slow. We went in continual dread of the Indians. M. de Pardeithan, having great experience in America, was our mainstay. He shot the game and caught the fish and cooked the meals. At last we reached Saint John.

“Here we found Pere Gaulin of the Mission Entrangeres. To him we made our confession and received absolution. At the first opportunity we heard mass. He assisted us in every way and instructed us how to reach the French settlements further on, for we dared not remain in Saint John. A party of Indians was going to Beaubassin; he recommended us to their care. So they piloted us to the river of Beaubassin, where there is a prodigious tide. Here we dared not stay for fear of the tribe of Aeneas would discover his death and hunt us down. We learned that there was another French settlement, called Mines, about twenty-five leagues farther on, which could be reached by water. After the rest of two days, we set out again along the coast. We were much buffeted by the strong tide and currents which run like a mill-race. We reached a great meadow overlooked by a mighty cape. Here were many houses and orchards and cultivated fields, from which the harvest had been gathered. The watercourses were diked against the sea. So fair a prospect I had not looked on since I quitted France.

“Here at last, I thought, we had found a safe haven, but our hopes were dashed. No sooner had we disclosed the dreadful story to the elders of the village, then they manifested the greatest terror and ordered us to depart immediately. They would not suffer us to remain there another night. They assured us the Indians would track us down and destroy us with all the torments of hell. To afford us food or shelter might bring the savages to cut their throats. The only place of safety was with you, M. le Gouverneur, under your protection, here in your strong fort. So the elders assured us, but they would not harbour us another hour if they could help it. Nor would any village dare to act as our guide. So once more, we set forth along an unknown coast in this cold and snow. All our previous sufferings were nothing to what we have endured these last five days. We could make no headway against the adverse tides, but were forced to land and await the ebb. We slept on the bare ground under the canoe. Our last morsel of bread we shared yesterday at noon. We are men in the last extremity. Another twenty-four hours and we must have died of cold and hunger.

“We throw ourselves upon your Excellency’s mercy. If you turn us away, we must perish miserably from cold and hunger, or fall victim of the cruelty of the savages.”

There was a pause. The governor asked to see the minutes the secretary had taken down; and the big book was passed up to him. While he consulted the entries, there was silence in the room, except for the crackling of the fire. The prisoner never took his eyes off the governor’s face. The book was handed back to the secretary.

“Answer me one more question,” said the governor. “Are not you and your two friends deserters from the troops at Quebec?”

“On the faith of a Christian, your Excellency”-the prisoner laid his hand on his heart-”we are not. I scorn to deny that I myself hold the King’s commission in the Regiment Salis-Samade. I have already informed your Excellency I have served in Old France. But my friends were never in the army. I have greater acquaintance with M. de Babour than with M. de Pardeithan, for we were both prisoners in the Bastille together, and little better than prisoners again in Quebec. M. de Pardeithan I have known only some four months, since he came to Canada from the Mississippi. I-we-the-heat-”

The tall Frenchman swayed where he stood, and would have fallen forward with his face against the table, if Sergeant Danielson and one of the soldiers had not caught him in time and laid him on the floor. He was in a dead faint. The Council started from their seats. Mr. Skene ran to the Frenchman’s side and put a hand over his heart.

“Brandy!” he cried, “At once!”

Mr. Doucett opened a locker and produced a glass and a square bottle. The surgeon forced some of the liquid through the clenched teeth of the prostrate man.

“Far gone,” Mr. Skene muttered, as he felt in his pocket for his lancet; “ill nourished-vital forces weak.’ He opened a vein in the Frenchman’s arm and administered more brandy. Presently the prisoner revived suffiently to open his eyes, but he could not sit up, though he tried hard to do so. The soldiers propped him on his feet and half carried him back to the guardroom. At Mr. Skene’s suggestion, the governor ordered food for him.

The investigation was not abandoned on account of this occurrence. The guard brought next M. de Pardeithan before the Council. He proved to be a thick-set, sad-eyed Breton. His thin delicate hands were calloused and chilblained, but on one grimy finger was a seal ring with his arms engraved upon it. This he showed to governor in proof of his gentle blood. His evidence confirmed the story of M. de Veillein in every particular. Of himself, he said that he had been transported to New Spain, for his share in a fatal duel in which he had seconded a friend. From New Spain, he had escaped to the French plantations at the mouth of the Mississippi, where he had obtained employment as secretary. After remaining in this post for three years, he had made his way up the great river to its affluent, the Ohio, and so by the lakes and the river of Canada to Quebec. He had traversed the continent from south to north. All he knew of the other prisoners was the account they gave of themselves, and that they were respected in Quebec as gentlemen.

The third prisoner M. Alexandre Poupart de Babour, a famished, blond Cupidon of twenty, in dirty rags, agreed in every respect with the other two. He did not know the real cause of his confinement in the Bastille, nor of his transportation to Canada, but he believed that it had been so ordered by some of his family, on account of amours, for he had been a very wild youth.

The prayer of the three adventurers was not refused. They were detained within the walls of Saint Anne for six months as prisoners on parole. The officers supplied them with clothing and welcomed them to their table. During the dull winter days and long winter evenings, the strangers learned to speak English. In a hundred agreeable ways they helped to pass the time, at cards or chess, or with stories, over the wine, of Old France.-campaigns, travels, duels, love affairs-of the wild countries of New Spain and Louisiana. The place had known no such winter since the Sieur de Champlain instituted the Order of Good Cheer in 1606, as related in the pages of Master Marc Lescarbot.

In the spring, Mr. William Winniett, trading up the bay made inquires at Mines, learned that the Frenchmen’s tale was true, and wrote to the Hon. John Doucett to tell him so. He and the Council then agreed that their guests were not spies, but gentlemen that had met with misfortune and ill usage. They further agreed that to detain them at Annapolis Royal until the Indians began to gather there would be more cruelty. So by the very earliest opportunity, they were shipped off to Boston, and the annals of Nova Scotia knew them no more.

What happened after their arrival in Boston-whether they ever saw France again and obtained that justice from Louis le Bien-aime which de Veillein was determined to sue for-remains a mystery.

Again the three men at the board head consulted in whispers.

“This is also very strange,” said the governor. “Why did you not sail to old France or to the government of Cape Breton?”

“It was not for want of effort,” said the Frenchman. “I approached the master of every vessel in the port of Quebec. I offered them gold and one or two jewels of some value which I still retained. It was in vain. Not one would receive me on board. You perceive, M. le Gouverneur, the plot of which I am the victim. I was to be banished to the wilderness forever. It must have been some Great One who could command the governor of Canada, for the governor plainly had his orders, and he controlled every shipmaster in the colony. The Great One having taken a dislike to me was resolved that I should never see France again.”

“But why,” said the governor, still suspicious, “did you presume to come to this or any English settlement without a passport?”

A faint tinge of answering blood rose in the prisoner’s thin cheeks, but his voice was unshaken.

As I have said, M. le Gouverneur, I come from a family of good repute in France. Mt father is of the noblesse, a chevalier of Blois. It is not for a man of my blood to submit tamely to such wrongs-to be imprisoned like a malefactor, to be banished from my country; and I was resolved to run all risks in order to reach France again and sue for justice. When I found that it was impossible to leave Quebec with the governor’s permission, I cast about for means to escape without it. One day at the Chateau Saint Louis, a baptized savage came to pay his respects to the governor. He had been educated in a mission and spoke French well. Some priest, remembering his Virgil, had christened him Aeneas. “Multum ille et terries jactatus et alto,” as we say at Saint Omer. He was an old, experienced warrior, who had often been on raids against the English. After the audience was ended, I sought him out. He was in a camp outside the lower town, by the riverside. I sounded him cautiously to find whether he would aid me to escape. He told me of a long way to other French plantations, a long way up and down various rivers, and through forests only inhabited by wild beasts and wild men. I then sought out the other two gentlemen, who have been arrested with me-M. Poupart de Babour and M. Saint Joli de Pardeithan-and they agreed eagerly to escape if possible. Among us we made up the sum Aeneas demanded for acting as guide. There was some delay after the bargain was completed, for Aeneas had to make a canoe large enough to carry five persons. He had to take his nephew, a young brave, along to aid him; he could not manage the canoe by himself.

“On the night of the 28th of August, there being no moon, we met Aeneas when the tide served at his camp outside the lower town. I had got pistols and a musket; M. de Pardeithan, had is hanger only, while M. de Babour bought a fowling-piece. We took with us also three blankets, some pork and biscuits, and a small case bottle of brandy. Our powder horns and shot pouches were filled before starting, and we carried a small reserve of powder in a water-tight canister. Before embarking, Aeneas insisted on payment of the thirty pistoles agreed upon, and I told them into his hand. He bit each piece and then put it into a belt round his middle. The ebb aiding us, we paddled down the river about ten leagues to the mouth of a river on the south bank, called the riviere du Sud, which we reached before daylight. We lay in the woods all that day, rested, ate, and slept. The following night we traveled up this stream for perhaps ten leagues more. Here we carried the canoe and our belongings three leagues through the woods over a well-worn Indian trail, and launched on a river called by Aeneas, Woolstock, but a priest we met in the village called it riviere Saint Jean.”

“At first all went well. The weather was divine. There were no midges or noxious insects. Our progress was ever downstream. There were few rapids and, consequently, few portages. Aeneas and his nephew caught eels and sea trout and shot partridges and ducks for the pot-a-feu. They knew where to halt foe the night at the good camping places, near springs of water. Monsieur has seen the riviere Saint Jean?”

The governor shook his head.

“In my campaigns,” the prisoner continued. I have seen the rivers of France and I have seen the Rhine, but I have never beheld the equal of this stream. I have talked with M. de Pardeithan, who has traversed the Mississippi, the Ohio, and the River of Canada, also in canoe. He had never seen anything so beautiful, though in the River of Canada there is a great lake with many islands-a thousand, he said-which is enchanting. Figure to yourself, monsieur, long, smooth reaches broadening into placid lakes, now flat terraces near the mouths of the tributary streams, some twenty-five toises in height. The river banks and the distant hills on either hand were like fires of yellow and crimson, for, as you know, autumn in this country turns the leaves to marvelous hues. And the skies-of such height! Such blueness! Only the nights were cold and grew even colder.

“The Indians talked much of a great village and fort on this river, called Meductec, which were continually approaching. We had reached a camping ground about fifty leagues above this settlement on the 10th of September. For some days, we had noticed a change in the demeanour of the two Indians; they were growing careless and insolent, slow to answer if one of us spoke to them, and always consulting together in their own tongue. From some words M. de Pardeithan overheard, it appeared that they had formed the design of stealing away in the canoe and abandoning us in the wilderness, where, without such guides, we must have perished with hunger. They were weary of convoying us and acting as our servants; they had received their payment. That afternoon, when we halted to camp and the Indians were fishing, we became convinced of their treachery, and we resolved to seize the canoe at dawn.

“That night we slept little. Each of us watched in turn while pretending to sleep, and waked the others so quietly that the Indians did not observe our stratagem. Just as the first light broke in the east, I roused my two comrades cautiously. We had scarcely risen to our feet when the Indians sprang up also, perceiving our design. There was a scuffle. The young brave, being the most nimble, leaped on M. de Pardeithan and bore him to the ground. Aeneas dropped one knee and leveled his piece. I fired my pistol at him as he pulled the trigger. I felt his bullet whistle past my ear, but he fell face downward. M. de Babour, seeing the other Indian about to stab our friend clapped the fowling-piece to his ear and shot him dead.

“It was all over in a few moments of time. Aeneas lay groaning on the ground, but beyond seeing or feeling. The young braves head was a blackened mass of blood and brains and smoldering hair. M. de Pardeithan rose to his feet slowly, and we three stood there, speechless, breathing heavily, in the dim morning light beside the dead campfire, with the bodies of our enemies at our feet.

“That M. le Gouverneur is the truth concerning this slaying, on the faith of a Christian.”

“What did you do then?”

“In a few minutes the groans of Aeneas ceased, but we remained where we stood, without moving, in the midst of a great silence. Then someone laughed loud and long, like an overwrought woman, who will presently weep and shriek. It was M. de Babour, who is a mere boy. He was staring like a madman at the young brave’s head-one eye had been blown out of its socket, and lay by itself on the grass-and he was laughing, laughing. It was an hour before we could quiet him.

“As soon as we recovered our wits, we put all the gear of the dead Indians in the canoe and stripped them mother naked. This shirt belonged to Aeneas; this hole was made by my bullet. Then we carried the bodies in to the forest about two hundred yards, and scraped a shallow trench with our knives and our hands. I made a little cross of twigs to lie on the breast of each, for, though savages, they were christened men. Then we covered them over with earth and concealed with leaves and brushwood as well as we could. It would not, we knew, mislead any Indian who followed in our track, but we could not leave the corpses where they fell. The sun was at noon before we had finished our task and had left, I hope forever, that accursed spot.

The governor frowned.

“Who and what are you?” he demanded, “and what is the reason of your coming to this place?” As the governor said this, he stared hard at the man.

Me. Adams translated the question into French. Mr. Shirreff, stood at the foot of the table with standish, sand-box, quills, and various documents spread out before him, entered the governor’s words in the very vellum-bound minute book to be seen still in the Province House in Halifax. This was the procedure throughout the examination.

There was a pause. Before answering, the prisoner considered with himself. Then, throwing back his head, he spoke with great deliberation.

“My name is Paul Francois Dupont de Veillein, as it appears in the paper before M. le Secretaire. I come of a family of good report in France”-he smiled faintly and spread out his hands in a graceful gesture-”well known in the ancient city of Blois. I was educated at Saint Omer, for my parents designed me for the Church, but when I arrived at the age of seventeen, I exchanged the soutane for the King’s uniform, and entered the Regiment Salis-Samade as gentleman cadet. In a few months, my family became reconciled and procured me a commission. I served for three years in Flanders, on the eastern frontier, and in Italy, not, I may say, without distinction. During the month of September, 1722, I was on furlough in Paris, devoting myself to the pleasures of the capitol.”

He smiled again and then sighed.

“On the first day of October towards dusk, I was sitting in a café near the Palais Royal; I received a billet from, as I thought, a lady of my acquaintance, making an immediate appointment at our usual rendezvous. When I reached her door, I noticed a hackney-couch before it, waiting in the street. As I turned to knock, I felt my arms clutched from behind by two pairs of hands, and, in spite of my resistance, I was dragged into the couch by two men who appeared to be lackeys of some great house. I still strove to tear myself loose while the carriage was rattling over the cobblestones, as fast as the horses could go, but I could not draw my sword. That night I dined in the Bastille.”

“The Bastille!” echoed the governor, and his face grew harsh, “You are a criminal then. What was your offence?”

Veillein’s black brows gathered.

“I do not know. I was never told. Your Excellency understands what is a letter de cachet? You become obnoxious to some great person who has the ear of the King’s minister, or the King’s mistress. Perhaps some lady finds your society more agreeable of that of a more powerful admirer. Perhaps you have made an epigram or have scribbled some verses about a person of influence which are taken amiss. Perhaps in your cups, you have mentioned names too freely. Pouf! A little piece of parchment with the sign-manual, and La Bastille closes her jaws upon you. Men grow grey there, men die, and never a hint of accusation or accuser. But I am resolved”-he raised his voice-”to know the reason for my arrest. I will sue for justice at the foot of the throne.”

“How long were you confined at the Bastille?”

“From October, 1722, to August, 1724, two years all but two months. Two years out of my life! When I was twenty! Picture to yourself, M. le Gouverneur! Two years of an innocent man’s life spent in prison! True, the imprisonment was not equally rigorous for all. Some of us were allowed to exercise ourselves in the square. It was there, at tennis that I met my friend, M. Alexandre Poupart de Babour, whom I found again at Quebec and who has accompanied me on this adventure.”

“How were you released?”

“One night I was awakened from my sleep by M. Bellamis, commissaire ordonnateur, who showed me an order for my instant removal. As soon as I could dress, I was again placed in a couch, with two soldiers for guard, and driven to the western gate of Paris. There I was met by two mounted men with a led horse. Under this escort I traveled day and night until we reached Havre. I was at once taken on board the Notre Dame de Rouen, supply ship, in the stream, and ready to sail for New France. Although we had to wait three days for a favourable wind, I was so closely watched that I had no opportunity of communicating with the shore, or of making my escape. After a voyage of five weeks, we reached the River of Canada-a truly magnificent river-and in four days more we anchored at Quebec. That is one of the strongest places in the world. In all my experience as a soldier, I never saw a town of such natural strength. Posted on a cliff, up which a goat could hardly find its way, with an impassible river on its left flank, it has a complete enceinte and a cavalier mounted on the highest point-Quebec can never be taken. But pardon me!” he bowed to the governor and the Council, “I forgot I am talking to English officers.”

“How long did you remain in Quebec, M. de Veillein?”

“About a twelvemonth! I was entertained like a gentleman for that time by the governor himself, M. de Vaudreuil. Why, I do not know. That also is to be explained, but I suppose it was upon private advice from someone who had known me in Old France. I have no certainty.”

At this point, the governor, Mr. Adams, and Mr. Skene put their heads together and whispered. The prisoner warmed his hands at the fire.

“This is very strange, M. de Veillein, or whatever your name is,” said the governor in a grating voice. “You were well entertained, you say, by the governor himself, and yet you left the place without his passport. You stole away like a vagabond, like a thief in the night.”

The prisoner bit his lip.

“M. de Vaudreuil is a very old man, near eighty, I should say, and hard to deal with. I tried more than once to obtain a passport, but he always refused it. At the same time he would say: “You may go if you choose, M. de Veillein, whenever you please. I will not stop you;” and his wrinkles would pucker into a smile. I then had recourse to the bishop, M. de Saint Vallier. He could not give me a passport, but you have seen his assurance that I and my two friends were good Catholics and have been regular in our duties.”

On the 9th of December, 1725, the monotony of garrison life at Annapolis Royal was broken by an unusual event. Early that morning, a shivering sentry in his watch-coat on the snowy ramparts of Fort Anne had observed a black speck far down the Basin, creeping along the northern shore. When it could clearly be made out as a canoe with three figures in it coming up with the tide, he reported the occurrence to his sergeant. The canoe made for the Queen’s wharf, directly under the guns of the fort, and the sergeant carried the news to the Hon. John Doucett, the lieutenant governor, major of Phillip’s Regiment of Foot. It was soon ascertained that the strangers could speak only French that they were not Acadians, and that by their own account they had traveled all the way from Quebec. Other rumors flew about, that they had killed Indians and were flying from savage vengeance. All the circumstances were so suspicious that the governor ordered Sergeant Danielson to take a file of men, arrest the strangers, and lodge them in the guardroom in Fort Anne. The three ragged, famished scarecrows offered no objections to their arrest. They even seemed to welcome it. They were stiff from paddling, pinched with cold, and weak with hunger. They were barely able to walk, and could have made no effectual resistance even had they desired to use the arms they carried.

As soon as possible, the governor convened a meeting of the Council in his house within the walls near the old Bastion de Bourgogne. Only Mr. Adams, the senior member, Mr. Skene, the surgeon, and Mr. Shirreff, the secretary were available. Major Armstrong was in England on his private affairs, and Captain Mascarene was also on leave, arranging a treaty with the Indians in Boston. As soon as the members had taken their places round the board in order of precedence, Mr. Adams at the right hand of the governor, Mr. Skene at his left, he told them of his suspicions.

These Frenchmen were plainly not Acadians, nor traders, nor trappers. By their own story they had come from Quebec, but they had no passports from the governor of Canada. The only papers found on them were certificates from Bishop Saint Vallier of Quebec, to the effect that they had duly received the sacrament. As far as could be made out, they had pretended to have escaped from Quebec, but they really belonged to Old France, and they had killed two Indians on their way to this place. It was a strange tale with which his Honour acquainted the Council.

“It is my belief,” he ended, “that they are spies sent out to discover the state of the town and garrison, or else to entice our troops to desert. What is your advice in regard to them, gentlemen?”

“With submission, your Honour,” replied Mr. Adams, “in my view, they should be immediately put in ward and examined separately as to the truth of their allegations.”

“They are already in custody,” replied the governor. “Is it your pleasure that they should be interrogated?”

A murmur of ascent ran round the board. The governor rang a small hand-bell. Sergeant Danielson appeared in the doorway.

“Bring in the prisoner who seems the oldest, the tall man with the black hair.”

It was only a step from the governor’s house to the guardroom. The door had hardly closed when it opened again to admit the sergeant and file with their prisoner. He was a tall, thin man with a military carriage; his head nearly touched the low ceiling; his face, tanned by the sun and the wind, was lined with want of sleep and purple with cold; a four-days beard covered his cheeks; his long hair, undressed and not even tied, fell to his shoulder. His air was haggard, as of a man pursued. His dress was a medley of the European and the savage. Over what remained over a long skirted coat of fine cloth he wore a fringed buckskin hunting shirt. His velvet breeches were in tatters. His legs were bare, but he had moccasins on his feet. Wrapped about him was a red-bordered Indian blanket as protection from the cold; and he edged as near as possible to the crackling birch logs in the great open fireplace. The two soldiers in full uniform who stood at either side with fixed bayonets in their firelocks looked sleek and neat by comparison, although neither rations nor clothing were ever plentiful at Fort Anne.

These true tales are drawn from the romantic past of Nova Scotia, and have been studied from authentic documents. In each case, the reader is referred to the original authority. Pains have been taken to verify details. For example, in preparing the narrative of the loss of the Tribune, I went along the Thrum Cap shoals in a tug and had soundings taken.
The various episodes here gathered together illustrate the history of Nova Scotia. They are arranged in order of their occurrence.

The escape of the three French gentlemen from Quebec in 1725, shows how ancient the practice of sending family black-sheep to the colonies. Their experience of Indian treachery, their flight from the fear of Indian vengeance, opens the chapter of the white man’s relations with the red. Indian warfare was the nightmare of early settlers in America.

The experience of Marie Payzant and her family is the fullest ever recorded in any Canadian document telling of white captives’ life among the savages. Witherspoon’s narrative is based on a transcript of his journal kept during his imprisonment at Miramichi and Quebec; it was written in tobacco juice when ink failed. Both Nova Scotians were in Quebec when it fell in 1759. Fragments of their stories have been handed down, but many other early settlers suffered as they did, and died, and left no sign.

William Greenwood’s efforts to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds reveal aspects of the American Revolutionary War not generally known. A natural pendant to the non-combatant’s hardships is the tale of Tonga’s two spirited fights in the coastal waters of Cape Breton.

Many a tall ship has left her bones along the iron coast of Nova Scotia. Many a wreck and many a rescue are briefly noted in the annals of the province. The tragedy of the Tribune impressed the community by completeness, and by the fact that young officers in the Duke of Kent’s regiment lost their lives by going to the assistance of the stranded frigate. Few more determined efforts to save life at all hazards to the rescuer are on record than the two trips of “Joe Cracker” to the half-submerged masts of the Tribune. Little more than a child himself, he saved the lives of two men; and his heroic example shamed the men of the Cove into saving the six survivors. His exploit ranks with Grace Darling’s; and he had no one to help him.

How the Shannon fought the Chesapeake is an oft-told tale; but the part which the good old city of Halifax had in it is not so well known.

The saga of the blood stained Saladin, like the murders on board the Lennie and the Caswell, reminds the landsmen hoe often deed of violence were done on the high seas. Nova Scotians remember the Saladin; the ballads made about the murders are still extant. One is to be found in MacOdrum’s MS collection of Nova Scotia ballads preserved in Dalhousie College. In the case of both the Saladin and Lennie, Nemesis followed both on the heels of crime. Stevensonian touches occur in the tale of the Saladin. Like Long John Silver, the villain has a wooden leg. Like the murderous captain in Kidnapped, Fielding reprobated Sandy’s cursing and swearing. The murderers taking their Bible oath “to be brotherly together” resembles the incident of conscience-stricken homicides repeating the Lord’s Prayer in unison on the deck of the Flying Scud. The ring-leader in the murders on the Caswell made one sailor kneel in the blood of the slain captain and swear fealty to the mutineers. The Bible on which Captain Fielding swore his red-handed accomplices is preserved in the Dalhousie College, the grimiest relic, save one, of this sordid tragedy.

Privateering began in Nova Scotia in 1756, when the hundred-ton schooner Lawrence sailed to the southward on a six month cruise against the enemies of George the Second. Part of her adventures is related in The Log of Halifax Privateer, Nova Scotia Chap-books, No. 6. In three great wars, Nova Scotia privateers scoured the seas, made prizes, fought and won, or fought and lost. Such battles as the action between Observer and the Jack, and between the tiny Revenge and three rebel privateers are known only in outline, and must be typical of many a sea-duel recorded briefly in long lost log-books. Godfrey’s exploits in the Rover show the mettle of the old seafaring men. His victory over his tour opponents is a classic, and wins the admiration of professional sailors for his cool courage, discipline, and seamanship.

Heroism is not confined to action under stress of war. The courage, skill, endurance and resource of Nova Scotia’s merchant sailors are hard to parallel. Before the era of railways, Nova Scotia was in reality an island; communication with the outer world and by different parts of the province was by sea. These conditions bred a sea-faring race. Whole families followed the sea from generation to generation. Nova Scotia shipmasters took their wives and families with them on voyages around the world. Children were born on shipboard, literally in the midst of storms. The deeds of Cook and Coward, of the two Churchills herein recorded are typical. Chance has preserved their stories; but many others just as splendid have been lost for lack of a chronicler.

“Rendering assistance” is instinctive and habitual with sailors, by land as well as by sea. To those practical seamen, who open freely to me their stories of professional knowledge and who gave me the benefit of their friendly criticism my grateful thanks are due; and especially to Captain W. G. S. de Carteret, Captain Fred Ladd, Captain Charles Doty, Captain H. St. G Lindsay, Captain Neil Hall, and Mr. Adams MacDougall. Without their assistance my “navigation” must have been very faulty. My thanks are also due to Mr. J Murray Lawson, the historian of Yarmouth, for much personal aid. His records of Yarmouth shipping and the files of his paper The Yarmouth Herald are veritable store-houses of information.

It was Saturday, May 1, 1908, and two small New Ross, Lunenburg County, boys had just finished eating dinner. The boys were brothers, Fred, seven and a half years old, and Ira, nine years old, sons of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Meister. The day was dark and rather cold, but it did not dampen the spirits of the two youngsters who had visions of a pleasant walk through the spruce-scented woods to their Uncle John’s house on the farm less than a mile away.

Lois Meister, the boys’ mother, an attractive young woman of thirty-three, was busily engaged in washing the dinner dishes and nodded in the affirmative when the two boys asked permission to go over to their Uncle John’s farm. Then, as an afterthought, or perhaps, with a premonition of danger, she asked the boys to promise not to go fishing. The brooks and rivers were swelled with water from the spring rains and melting snow, and she knew too well the dangers which they presented to the daring young boys, too innocent to realize the full meaning of their surging power.

They promised.

The boys followed the woods road to the home of John Meister, pausing occasionally to study the prints of their tiny larrikins disappearing in the salt-like snow whose patches still lingered where the trees shaded the road from the sun. The rabbit offered amusement, too, as the boys tossed their caps toward them, then watched the rabbits bolt for their burrows with the dreaded thought that a hawk would swoop down to end their existence.

Uncle John was busy at his job of ploughing the land to prepare it for the planting season, and the bubbling brooks, and chirping of the squirrels beckoned the boys to the woodland.

Despite the promise they had made to their mother, the boys decided to go fishing.

Cutting some alder sticks, and using the “poor boys” line (white string), they soon were geared for the trip and followed the woods road to the river.

The fishing was poor, however, and soon the boys tired of trying and started for home.

On the way out they met their cousin, Terry Meister, a kind-hearted lad of seventeen who was on his way to the Larder River. Terry liked the youngsters, especially Freddy, the younger. With a warm grin, he took the lad by the back of the red sweater which he had wore and said, “You better come fishing with me.” Freddy agreed and turned back with his friend, Terry, while Ira continued on to his uncle’s home to await their return.

Even with the experience of the older boy, Terry, their luck was bad and after some time Freddy complained of being cold and hungry. He wanted to go home. The time was late afternoon.

Terry Meister took the lad by the hand and set him on the road for home, after satisfying himself that Freddy knew the way and would go straight along the road and not take the turn at the forks which led across the Ross March, making a round-about journey home.

Freddy was never seen again and in the many years since, no trace of his clothing, or the little body which it covered has ever been found!

That night, when he failed to return with Terry, Harry Meister, Freddy’s father, organized a search party that combed the wilderness by lantern light in a fierce thunder and lightening storm. Their shouts fell against the teeming rain and only the roaring thunder answered.

The only trace they found of the boy, were seven small tracks of his larrikins in a patch of snow. The tracks indicated that the boy was alone and headed toward home-then vanished! All further trace of him disappeared as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him.

Freddy couldn’t have gotten outside the ring of searchers (some two hundred), that scanned the woods from all points that night and the following day. He could not have drowned and drifted down the river, because the river was staffed with drivers who were engaged in moving a drive of logs some fifteen miles downstream for the McKean Lumber Company of Gold River. All brooks, rivers, and creeks were thoroughly searched and dragged. The red sweater that he wore would have shone brightly in the dull spring brush, had he been killed by some animal such as a bear, and his remains left among the trees.

Foul play was dismissed by the simple statement of the boy’s father, “None of my neighbors could be guilty of such evil.” And, indeed, everyone else felt the same, for the people of the community were a good-living, Christian people incapable of such an act.

Even if Freddy had met up with some strangers who had taken his life, it is most improbable that his body could have been hidden to elude the sharp eyes of the New Ross woodsmen who have searched every inch of the territory for long years after his disappearance.

Less than twenty years ago a suspicious looking mound of ground was opened, and the dirt sifted in a vain attempt to find some trace of bone, buttons, etc.

Harry Meister and his good wife became the targets of many hoaxters such as “fortune tellers” who claimed to know of their son’s whereabouts. In fact, it was said that they actually paid money to one female “fortune teller” who professed to know where the boy was. She knew no more than the others.

Another time word came that the distraught parents’ son had been kidnapped and held prisoner in a house miles away. A search warrant was procured and the house searched to no avail.

It has been sixty-nine years since Freddy Meister disappeared without leaving a trace except seven tiny footprints in the snow, and the residents of New Ross still ask, “What happened to Freddy Meister?”

Until her death, Mrs. Meister relived the tragic day of May 1, 1908, when she lost her “Little Freddy” and wept in silence.

In 1959 she told me, “It was hard to lose my Freddy, but it would be easier if I only knew what happened to him.”

Today I feel that she and Freddy are happily together again.

Halifax, the ancient and picturesque capitol of Nova Scotia, is visited every summer by thousands of American tourists. They enjoy their escape from the torrid heat of August at home, to the cool sea air, the clear blue days, and the peaceful sleep-filled nights, and they find no little interest in the bowery public gardens, the mazes of the sea-grit park, the royal prospects from the star-shaped citadel, and the many monuments that record the history of this old garrison. As long ago as the eighteenth century, during the American Revolution, hundreds of American citizens used to visit the place, but they did not come willingly; they were singularly blind to its scenic charm and they took the earliest possible opportunity of returning to their native land. They were, in fact, prisoners of war gathered up by His Britannic Majesty’s cruisers and land forces. They were confined in jails and prison-ships and barracks, and they lived on prisoner’s fare. Their lot was hard and they gave the city of their captivity a bad name which it was slow to shake off. Sooner or later, they were sent home by cartel, in exchange for British prisoners gathered up by the Continentals; but the more impatient broke out by force or stratagem, and the sympathizing Nova Scotians helped them “up along to the westward” on their way to freedom. The rape of the Flying Fish is a case in point, and the story shows how peaceful men suffer in time of war.

On the evening of April 7, 1780, a little ten ton schooner with this poetic name lay at a wharf in Halifax, probably Fairbanks’ near the foot of Blower Street. With the help of a single other hand, William Greenwood brought her up from Barrington, a small fishing village at the butt-end of the province, to the capitol with a load of potatoes. He had sold his cargo, possibly to the commissariat department, for Halifax had a huge garrison to feed at the time; and he had received his money. He had also his clearance from the Customs and he was ready to sail. Between eight and nine o’clock he was in the tiny cabin with the other man, the two forming the entire crew; he may have been getting ready to turn in for the night, or he may have been reckoning up the profits of the trip, or considering how soon he could get back to Barrington and begin the spring fishing. He had on board nets and other gear, and he knew where he could procure a sufficiency of salt; he may have been thinking of the Banks. Or he may have been meditating on the varied experience of the past five years, since the Thirteen Colonies had declared their independence of the mother country.

The war had been a hard trial for poor men like William Greenwood. Only ten years before it broke out, he had left his native state of Massachusetts for Nova Scotia and had settled at Barrington for greater convenience to the rich fisheries of the North Atlantic. He was a British subject. He had simply transferred himself and his belongings from one British colony to another, and now, for no fault of his, by the ironic accident of mere residence, he found himself an enemy to his old friends and the kindred he had left behind. How could he bear arms against them? How could he help sympathizing with the “rebels,” against whom the governor and Assembly of Nova Scotia fulminated in menacing Acts and proclamations? It was a cruel situation for a poor man, especially after Congress had declared that the thirteen colonies would have no trade or commerce with the two erring sisters to the north, which refused to join the union. The fishermen of Barrington and Yarmouth soon felt the pinch of want. Fishing was their sole source of livelihood; to move back to Massachusetts meant ruin; to remain in Nova Scotia exposed them to the American privateers and shut them out from their natural market.

Still, men are not as harsh as their laws; even in the worst year of the war, commerce between Nova Scotia and Massachusetts did not wholly cease. In October, 1776, the Barrington men loaded the schooner Hope with fish and liver oil and sent her to Salem with a piteous request that they might be allowed to barter the cargo for provisions, to keep them through the long winter approaching. It is impossible, they said, to get provisions elsewhere. The homely petition breaks into an irrepressible cry of distress-God only knows what will become of us.” To resist such an appeal was not easy. The House of Representatives allowed the agent of the Hope, Heman Kinney, to dispose of his cargo, and to purchase two hundred and fifty bushels of corn, thirty barrels of pork, two hogsheads of molasses, two hogsheads of rum [a necessity of life], and two hundred pounds of coffee. With these rations, rather plentiful and luxurious compared to what they purchased in later years, the community of Barrington managed somehow or other to get through the long winter.

Exactly a year later, Greenwood had been able to render an important service to the new republic by returning to it no fewer than twenty-five of its fighting men. Captain Littlefield Libby had the misfortune to lose his privateer. She was driven on shore by one of H.B.M.’s cutters. Her crew set her on fire and took to the woods. After a toilsome journey of seventeen leagues through the primeval forest, they reached Barrington and bought a boat with what money they had, eked out with their shoe buckles and thirty small-arms. But ill luck still fowled them. They were wrecked and lost their dear bought boat… Once more they were forced back on the limited hospitality of the fishing hamlet at the east passage of Cape Sable Island. In this crisis, Greenwood undertook to ferry them over to his forty-five ton schooner, the Sally, which may have been named after his wife. In addition to Libby’s crew, he brought one of Captain Fullerby’s men and three others who had escaped from Halifax and made their way to the end of the province nearest their own home. The plan of the previous year was repeated. On Captain Libby’s advice, the Sally was loaded with a few quintals of fish, the result of the labor of many families, some bushels of salt, and some fish oil to be exchanged for corn or wheaten flour, for the indispensable daily bread. By October 27, 1777, the Sally with her cargo and her returning privateers was safe at Salem, and four days later, Greenwood’s petition for leave to buy food was granted.

For the return trip, Greenwood had shipped a new hand, one John Caldwell, a young fisherman, whose artless tale illustrates the sufferings of the innocent noncombatants in time of war. He lived in Nova Scotia, not far from Barrington, where the visionary Colonel Alexander McNutt projected his marvelous city of New Jerusalem. Caldwell was the only support of his widowed mother and his sisters. The fishery had been ruined by the depredations of the merciless small privateers, so he made a voyage in a merchantman from Nova Scotia to the West Indies. On his return, he avers that he was “strongly important” to go on another voyage to Quebec; so he must have been a likely lad. On his way thither, his vessel was snapped up by the privateer Dolphin out of Salem, and he himself was mage prisoner of war. Now he petitioned for release, and the Council of Massachusetts were not without bowels. They considered his motives, his youth, and his peculiar circumstances, as he requested, and they gave him leave to return in the Sally to his own place. The next October saw Greenwood again in Boston with his annual cargo of escaping prisoners on board the Sally, and his annual petition for leave to buy food. His passenger list included Amos Green of Salem, Ichabod Mattocks of Mount Desert, and Mr. John Long, late quartermaster of the Continental ship Hancock. She had been captured by that very active officer Sir George Collier of the Rainbow in a sea-duel, like that between the Chesapeake and the Shannon, and taken to Halifax. The local jail must have been a curious place. The jailor was infirm and delegated his duties to