Maritime Mysteries

by Bill Jessome

  Fishermen who sailed close to Sable Island at the time reported seeing a shadowy figure, with an outstretched hand, staring out to sea as if waiting for the return of something ... perhaps a finger and ring!

  Ashley’s Encounter

  T his incident occurred in a small community outside of Sheet Harbour, on Nova Scotia’s south shore. It came my way by the brother of the sister involved, and by the sister’s insistence, the names have been changed.

  It was a cold winter’s afternoon in the late 1930s when Ashley finished school for the day and headed for the safety and warmth of her home. The route she travelled never varied. Her only concern was passing the local graveyard. When the cemetery came in sight, her footsteps always quickened.

  On this particular day as Ashley reached the main gate of the cemetery, she was startled by a tall woman coming toward her from between the tombstones. Young Ashley was terror-stricken. She wanted to flee, but was unable to move. She could hear only the beating of her heart. There was snow on the ground, and as Ashley would later recall, the woman left no footprints in the snow, nor did she open the locked gate. She simply walked through it. The stranger took Ashley’s hand, and led her away from the cemetery.

  When Ashley opened the back door of her home and stepped in the kitchen, the smell of cooking filled her nostrils. Her mother greeted her with a smile, a cup of warm cocoa and hot tea biscuits.

  “So,” her mother asked, “how was school today?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Ashley replied. Then staring off as if her mind was elsewhere, she told her mother that she met a woman by the graveyard on the way home from school. “She walked a ways with me before leaving. She wanted to know my name and what grade I was in and which school I was attending. She also said that when she was a girl, she went to the same school.” Ashley’s mother was anxious to know the name of this stranger. “She knew you,” Ashley said, “she went to school with you. She said her name is Grace Forshaw.

  “No, Ashley,” her mother exclaimed, “the woman you met was not Grace Forshaw. Grace Forshaw died twenty-five years ago!”

  The Ghosts of Uniacke House

  W hy did Martha Uniacke return from the grave? And why did her daughter join her in eternal vigilance?

  Many people leave this world whimpering and afraid; afraid of death, the unknown, and the darkness. And most never return. The answers as to why this mother and daughter returned may lie in the mansion itself and in those who lived there.

  Mount Uniacke was built in 1813 as the country home of Richard John Uniacke, Attorney General of Nova Scotia. Uniacke named the estate after his ancestral home in Ireland, where his family were prominent and prosperous members of the landed gentry. Uniacke was born in 1753 at Castletown, Ireland.

  Following a bitter quarrel with his father, he set sail for the new world to seek his fortune.

  He arrived in Philadelphia in 1774, where he met Moses Delesdernier, a Swiss resident of Nova Scotia who was in Philadelphia seeking residents to settle in Nova Scotia. Delesdernier liked Uniacke and convinced him to come to Nova Scotia and work for him. Uniacke agreed, and the following year at age 21, he married the not yet 13-year-old Martha Delesdernier, daughter of his employer.

  On my first visit to Mount Uniacke, I was overcome by a feeling that time was suspended; that the people who once lived there, and died there are still there, in spirit. As I got closer to the mansion, I had an uneasy sense that I was being watched from behind musty smelling drapes. Once inside, I was certain of it. I was also aware of a sadness. The imposing portrait of Richard John Uniacke, the master of the house, hangs on the hall wall and those piercing eyes of his never leave you.

  Martha Delesdernier, who bore Uniacke twelve children, died at age forty. It wasn’t long after she passed away that strange things began happening. Field workers and house staff noticed Martha wasn’t where she was supposed to be—in her grave. What happened in that mansion to bring her back from the graveyard? And why did the spirit of Lady Mary Mitchell, Martha’s eldest daughter, also return from the dead? Both Uniacke women are sometimes seen arm in arm strolling down by the lake. Other times they are seen inside the home, and at times, Lady Mitchell sits at the piano while her mother sits and listens. They do not appear to be upset, nor do they attempt to convey a message to the living.

  Martha and Lady Mitchell go about their mysterious ways even when tourists from many lands and cultures visit Uniacke House. Most visitors are unaware of the ghosts. But as Goldie Robertson, the Chief Heritage Interpreter, reminded me, there are those who have a special insight into these things—they feel a presence of something or someone from beyond. Such was the case with a family visiting from Lebanon. They were about to enter a bedroom on the first floor when the mother gasped and withdrew from the room. She quickly gathered her children around her and left, telling the guide the room was haunted by two women. The frightened visitor told the guide one spirit was sitting on the bed, while the older lady was seated in a rocking chair.

  There is little else to be said about why these two 18-century ladies who haunt Uniacke House; until and unless they somehow convey to the living why they are not at peace in their graves, it will remain a Maritime Mystery.

  Next time you visit Mount Uniacke, look beyond the obvious. You’ll never know what might be watching from the top of the stairs or staring back from behind the hemlock.

  The Man They Hanged Twice

  H e was taunted by relatives, and picked on by his friends. They told him that he had to get even with the man who took his woman. So, young Bennie Swim swapped his guitar for an old .38 Smith and Wesson and set off on a murderous journey in a place called Benton Ridge, New Brunswick.

  It was March 27, 1922, sometime around four o’clock in the afternoon when Bennie knocked on the back door of the farm house where his pregnant former girlfriend lived with her new husband. The husband answered the knock, and he was shot dead in his tracks. Bennie then turned the gun on his old girlfriend and shot her in the chest. When she tried to run, he shot her a second time in the back and she fell to the kitchen floor dead. Bennie then turned the gun on himself, but the bullet that lodged in his head did little damage and he survived to face the hangman’s noose.

  The first words out of his mouth when the sheriff caught up with him were, “Sheriff this is awful, I suppose I’ll hang for it.” And he would. Not once, but twice!

  Bennie’s last days were spent behind the bars in the Woodstock, New Brunswick, provincial jail. According to guards, Bennie was a model prisoner.

  During his preliminary hearing, a plea of insanity was entered by the defense. Many witnesses testified that young Bennie Swim was insane. A Government psychiatrist, however, found him mentally competent to stand trial for the double murder. When it was over, the jury found Bennie guilty of first degree murder and he was sentenced to hang on July 15, 1923.

  There were, according to reports, several volunteers wanting the hangman’s job. Some even came from the state of Maine, willing to do the job for a price. The sheriff who was responsible for hiring a professional hangman was having a difficult time getting an experienced one. Because of that, the hanging was postponed twice. The country’s top hangman, Arthur Ellis (not his real name) was otherwise engaged; no doubt hanging other Canadians. Finally, two Montreal hangmen were recommended—a poor recommendation for Bennie Swim. They were little more than amateurs who had gained their so-called experience hanging blacks in the southern United States.

  Seven months after the murders and at approximately 5:00 P.M. on Friday, October 6, 1923, Bennie Swim was led up the steps of the provincial jail in Woodstock to the gallows. While Bennie Swim prayed, a black hood was placed over his head and the noose placed tightly around his neck. Bennie was still praying when the trap door was sprung. A few short minutes later, an unconscious Bennie Swim was cut down. There were three physicians in attendance. To their surprise and horror, they found that Bennie was still alive! On further examination, they also discovered
that Bennie’s neck wasn’t broken in the fall—a sure sign of a bungled hanging. No one outside of that examination room will ever know if Bennie actually regained consciousness. According to those in attendance he never did.

  Bennie was carried back up to the gallows and hanged a second time. Bennie hung there for some twenty minutes before he was cut down and pronounced dead. His body, but not his spirit, was placed in a cold grave by relatives.

  An official investigation into the bungled hanging was held. Witnesses testified that the hangmen were drunk. No blame was placed on the local sheriff for selecting the two hangmen from Montreal, but it was recommended that future hangings should be carried out in a federal penitentiary by professionals. This was not the last that would be heard of the botched hanging of Bennie Swim.

  Sometime later, guards at the jail reported hearing shuffling footsteps and doors being slammed shut. Other times, and especially late at night, a voice was heard moaning as if in pain. Did the ghost of Bennie Swim return to the Woodstock Jail?

  We do know that new guards are told by their superiors how to cope with that restless spirit during the midnight hour: keep busy, read a book, or listen to the radio.

  All the guards agreed that whatever the ghost did, he did twice. A coincidence?

  The Jailhouse Mystery

  B uilt in 1840, the Charlotte County Jail in St. Andrews, New Brunswick, was operational up until the 1970s, when it was turned into a museum of sorts. What makes this old jail different is that it has a resident spirit—a ghost that is.

  In the nineteenth century, the prison population was made up mostly of petty thieves, the homeless, alcoholics, and debtors. There were, however, a few hardened criminals who passed through its steel doors, including a few unfortunates, such as Thomas Dowd and Eliza Ann Ward of New River, New Brunswick.

  It was in the fall of 1878 when Dowd and Mrs. Ward were transferred from New River to St. Andrews, where their murder trial would be heard. The good folk of St. Andrews went about their business until the trial started. Once it got underway, it was standing room only.

  Dowd was convicted of the axe murder of Eliza Ann Ward’s husband, Thomas Ward. Mrs. Ward was convicted as an accomplice, but as she was pregnant at the time, was spared the gallows and was sentenced to seven years in prison instead. Some believed the child she carried was Tommy Dowd’s. Dowd maintained his innocence throughout the trial, but in a later confession wrote, “I killed Ward in the valley where he was found. I killed him with McCarthy’s narrow axe. Ward was on his way home with an axe and pitchfork. When we met we had some words. He made at me with the fork. I clinched the axe and killed him. I then took him by the legs and dragged him to where his body was found. Mrs. Ward never saw him after he left the house; till she saw him dead in the woods, nor anyone else but myself.” This confession, some say, was prompted by Mrs. Ward’s condition. Apparently, he wasn’t aware at the time the court had spared her life.

  While awaiting the hangman’s noose, Dowd returned to his faith and spent most of his waking hours praying.

  On the morning of January 14, 1879, with a priest and guards on either side, Dowd was taken from his cell and lead to the awaiting gallows. Mrs. Ward was allowed to watch the hanging from a jail window. Witnesses reported that she was weeping when taken back to her cell.

  According to records, Mrs. Eliza Ann Ward died shortly after serving her sentence. Found in her personal belongings was a letter. In it she confessed to the murder of her husband!

  In time, St. Andrews returned to normal. However, things at the jail were anything but. Guards reported strange sounds during the night and a mysterious beam of light would appear on the wall along which Dowd had been held. Guards reported that it was as if an invisible hand was trying to write a message. Another guard said it was Dowd’s ghostly hand that scrawled the words, “I’m innocent!” that appeared there.

  The Ghost of Kelly’s Mountain

  I n the cool morning air a lone loon is heard as it skims over the water of the Bras d’Or lakes. The mist rises from the forest floor and sweeps over the mountain, but the peace and serenity is broken by a voice that is hurled back down the mountain, “Ye keep that bloody stuff off my mountain, ya hear!”

  It’s the voice of a spirit that’s filled with Irish fury; it belongs to Patty Kelly, a crotchety old Irishman who claimed the mountain as his and his alone.

  Kelly was a true mountain man living in isolation. Old Patty had good reason for keeping the curious out; it’s said that he made his own whiskey and moonshine, and didn’t want anyone discovering where his stills and booze were hidden.

  Even in death, Kelly swore he’d return to guard his mountain against anyone attempting to trespass on or deface it. When old barley corn finally caught up with him, he passed away, but not his spirit—it stayed on the mountain to watch over what was his.

  When workers on the new Trans-Canada highway reached the mountain, it was obvious to everyone that what was happening was being done in the name of progress—everyone that is except Patty Kelly. His antics frustrated workers, who couldn’t figure out why their heavy equipment was constantly breaking down. Others complained of a strange old man who suddenly appeared out of nowhere, forcing their vehicles off the road. And when workers came on shift in the morning, their tools were strewn all over the place. In the end, some suggested the mountain was haunted. Ultimately, however, progress won out. The Trans-Canada Highway over the mountain was finally completed.

  On the east side of the mountain toward Seal Island Bridge, there is a treacherous curve in the road—a favourite place for the Kelly ghost to suddenly jump out in front of cars, nearly sending driver and automobile over the mountain and into the lake.

  One day, a driver and his passengers, who were on their way home from a Ceilidh, witnessed an old man in overalls and a plaid shirt doing a jig on top of the mountain. If it was Kelly, he must have been sampling his barley corn. One motorist even reported seeing a man in the middle of the highway who ran toward his car and passed right through it! These stories reached nearly every home on the island, including that of Charlie MacKinnon, who immortalized Patty Kelly and his mountain in a popular folk song.

  So, an Irish fable? Maybe, yet when I drive over Kelly’s Mountain, I feel like I’m being watched. Next time you’re driving over it, keep your eyes open, because you never know who’s watching, or running alongside your car—and keeping up!

  The Hitchhiker Ghost

  T his story was told to me in a check-out at a local grocery store by a young woman who said it was one of her father’s favourite ghost stories.

  I later came across a similar story in Janet and Colin Bord’s Unexplained Mysteries. Either version raises the hair on the back of your neck. If you’re ready, lets put the Harley in gear and see what’s over the next rise.

  The night sky was an explosion of stars when the young biker said goodbye to his girlfriend and headed down the highway. He lived by a fast rule—never stop for a hitchhiker unless it was an emergency. So why did he stop for the young woman who seemed to appear out of nowhere? It’s as if he didn’t have a choice. He waited until she strapped on the extra helmet before heading back down the highway. Some miles later, he felt her release his waist. When he pulled over to check, the young woman was gone. However, the helmet was strapped securely to the seat.

  When he arrived at the next town, he told several waitresses in a fast food restaurant what had happened. They listened politely, and when he had finished his story, they told him that what he had experienced was nothing new; that other drivers had had similar experiences.

  One such driver was a middle-aged man, who stopped his car for a young woman one night, and after driving some fifteen minutes, turned to speak to her but she was gone! He reported what had happened to the police, and his story was reported in the press. That story was read by a man who claimed his girlfriend was run over and killed in the same location. When the driver of the car was shown a picture of the young woman, he
confirmed she was the one he had given a ride to.

  So, next time you and your Harley are out for a pleasant drive and you feel as if someone has just put their arms around your waist, well…have a nice ride!

  The Roundhouse Ghost

  T his story is by way of Leo Evens of Sydney, Nova Scotia, a retired Sydney and Louisburg railroader, and somewhat amateur historian of the Whitney Pier area of Sydney. In my teens, I too worked for the now defunct S&L.

  We’re told you can never go back. You can, of course, but nothing remains the same. Your favourite corner store where you bought those juicy honeymoon candies when you were a child was probably torn down to make way for a strip mall. People grow up, leave the old neighbourhood or die. It all changes eventually.

  The only things left of the Sydney & Louisburg Railway are memories and ghosts. The buildings are gone, nothing left but rusting rails and grass that has gone to seed.

  It was in 1942 and the height of the war, when I was offered a job on the railroad. Most of the able-bodied men had gone into the service. At the time, my father was an engineer there, which is probably why I was hired.

  I remember my first day on the job. I was nervous, and wanted very much to make a good impression. I even remember the foreman’s name: Joe R. Macdonald. We would eventually become good friends. My shift was midnight until 8:00 A.M. Joe R. explained to me and another worker what our duties were. Just before he left for home, he said, “Oh, by the way, ignore the ghost. He won’t bother you.” We thought at the time he was joking. He wasn’t.

  From that moment on, and whenever I was at work, I kept looking over my shoulder and dreaded the times I was alone. If I was, indeed, alone.

  There were many theories about why the ghost was haunting the place, but no one ever found out. As one railroader put it, “When you come face to face with a ghost, you just stand there with your mouth wide open. You want to scream, but nothing comes out.”