Nova Scotia stretches 500 kilometres on a southwest-northeast axis from Cape Sable to Cape North, the shape of the province is often compared to that native delicacy, the lobster, with Cape Breton Island representing the outstretched claws, preparing to nip unsuspecting Newfoundland across the Cabot Strait.
The coastline of the uplands region is deeply indented, forming many good harbours, some of which are considered outstanding. Hundreds of islands dot the landscape along the entire Atlantic coast, most notably at St. Margarets Bay and Mahone Bay. Reefs and shoals abound, accounting for the many lighthouses erected along this coast. In many ways the Atlantic uplands coast epitomizes the North Atlantic coastline with its bare granite sheets plunging headlong into the raging surf to produce an awesome cataclysm between land and sea. When people think of Nova Scotia, they usually envisage the rocky granite shores of the uplands. The Slaying of Aeneas
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.