Joe Cracker of Herring Cove
The stories of sea wrecks, disasters, heroism and horror abound in Nova Scotia from the fifteenth century right up to today. One that leaves a lasting impression in my mind is the story of La Tribune, recounted by Archibald MacMechan in At the Harbour Mouth. This French ship had been captured by the British HMSUnicorn in 1797 and, now manned by a crew of British sailors, it was making its way to Halifax Harbour unescorted. The captain, a man by the name of Barker, was not all that well qualified as a leader or navigator, it would appear, for he chose the wrong man to steer them into the harbour on November 23. The ship could be seen from York Redoubtn cruising along just fine until she ran straight aground on the rocky ledges known as Thrum Cap off McNab’s Island. *
The captain was furious and blamed the man steering the ship, while, ashore, the soldiers at York Redoubt sent word for help. Barker had his men throw some cannons into the sea, hoping that the higher tide would float La Tribune free – but with no success. A barge was sent to help out, but Barker seemed insulted that it was an insignificant craft manned by a sailor of low rank. He refused to allow any of his men or his passengers to board the barge. (One writer reports that on board were women and children.) Meanwhile, the gale-force wind was growing steadily. All were nervous about the weather as well as the captain’s uncompromising attitude.
Night arrived, the storm grew worse and the pounding waves and rocky shelf conspired to rip the rudder from the ship. Now there would be no way to steer it even if they did float free. The captain, it appears, had been stalling on abandoning the ship in hopes that he could yet save his prize booty and his own reputation, which would surely be tarnished beyond repair if he lost this French vessel.
The ship was leaking badly when it finally lifted free of Thrum Cap at nine o’clock that night and began to drift steadily toward the granite rocks of Herring Cove in a rising southeast gale. The men worked the pumps and some attempt was made to rig the beleaguered sails to nose the ship in toward the calmer harbour waters, for they were still only at the harbour mouth. By nine-thirty they were just off the shores of Herring Cove when the ship sank, settling onto a rocky bottom. Many drowned but at least a hundred survivors – this included the men who had boarded from the barge – clung to the rigging that was above the water line. By midnight, the mainmast must have cracked and fallen and most of the crew and passengers were swept to their deaths. By morning, not many more than a dozen remained alive and the citizens of Herring Cove stood on the shores and prepared to watych them die. None of those ashore was willing to attempt a rescue in such dangerous stormy conditions.
There proved, however, to be at least one hero in the crowd along the shoreline. Joe Shortt was thirteen, a fisherman’s apprentice without a family, who was said to be “weak in the head.” While the whole community watched, Joe rowed his skiff out of the cove and fought the raging waves to make it to those men still clinging to the rigging. He succeeded in bringing one of them, John Galvin, ashore but couldn’t manage to get his boat back out past the breakers on a second attempt. Some of the Herring Cove men who were watching, however, were inspired by Joe’s lone heroic act and volunteered to put to sea in a jolly-boat. Eleven more were rescued. But thiat made for only a scant twelve survivors from a shipload of 250.
Joe Shortt, nicknamed Joe Cracker, became a Halifax celebrity, praised by the visiting Duke of York. When asked by the Duke what he wanted for his good deed, Joe replied that he only wanted a pair of corduroy pants. Unfortunately, he was given more than that – a position as a midshipmen on a flagship. He hated the job, was homesick and eventually found his way back to a simple life in the Herring Cove fishing village after having been “punished” with the reward of enduring life in the British Navy, the very same navy that had fostered the bull-headed, autocratic attitudes that had led to the sinking of La Tribune.
Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Warships and Brazen Rascals
Shortly after the turn of the century, Halifax had a population of more than 8,500 but there were only 1,000 established homes. Housing would often be a problem in this seaport town whose population exploded during wartime with the influx of the military. In 1801 fires had swept through Halifax, destroying many homes and buildings. The first fire companies were created as a result.
There was a short interlude of peace for Halifax, but hostilities, which were growing again between the British and Americans, would lead to all-out war. Even though the United States had claimed neutrality during the Napoleonic Wars, the British had searched American ships. And when press gangs couldn’t find enough men on the streets of Halifax to force into military duty, they boldly advanced ashore into American ports and hauled off unwary Americans to serve aboard British ships. To make things worse, the British warship Leopard attacked the American Chesapeake in 1807 and seized four crew members, two of whom were British citizens trying to avoid military service. One of the two was flogged to death and the other was hanged.
The naval intrusions helped push the Americans to the point of going to war, but war sentiments were also escalated by the “War Hawks” in the U.S. Congress, who wanted to expand American territory. When the U.S. finally declared war on England on June 18, 1812, Halifax was once again to become the military base for much of the activity on the British side. By now Halifax was a town of some 10,000 citizens, most of whom were staunchly loyal to the British government and confident that the British could not possibly be defeated by the upstart Yankees.
Most of the actual fighting took place near the American borders of Upper and Lower Canada. Here was territory that the Americans hoped to capture for expansion purposes, land considered to be more valuable than Nova Scotia. Although Nova Scotia was located far from the main activity of the war, there was, however, some glory for Halifax when the Shannon captured the Chesapeake and towed her into the harbour to the cheers of onlookers.
Naturally, privateer raids continued on both sides. War was always a good excuse to escalate raids and get away with whatever theft you could. Privateers became more and more brazen. The rascals aboard an American vessel called the Young Teazer at one point had nearly all the British fleet from Halifax trying to track them down. The privateer would lay off Sambro Light, beyond the mouth of Halifax Harbour, and attack British merchant ships when they were vulnerable. Ultimately, though, a British warship spotted the Young Teazer and chased her into Lunenburg Harbour.
The privateer captain failed to find a safe exodus to the high seas and the crew rowed with oars in an attempt to hide the ship between two islands. As the British ships drew closer, someone on board the Teazer accidentally set off the gunpowder stores and the ship blew up in a tremendous explosion. Only eight of the crew survived to tell the tale.
Today people around the area say you can still sometimes see a strange light moving over Mahone Bay at night, a ghost version of the doomed vessel. The light moves along the water and then disappears in a bright burst . Whatever the true cause of this eerie phenomenon, it is called the “Teazer Light,” and is believed by many to be some inexplicable re-enactment of the events leading up to the explosion that took place that night.
A Question of Property
The British Navy was overworked and relied on its own privateers to pester and pillage the Americans. About a third of all the American ships captured during the War of 1812 were hauled in by privateers. The privateers wreaked such havoc on New England during these times that, Nova Scotian historian Phyllis Blakeley reports, “grass grew on many of the wharves of New England.” Trade in many ports was at a standstill. h
In 1814, British ships sailed from Halifax to Castine, Maine, and took over the docks there, collecting customs money on anything coming into that port. In 1818, these funds would be earmarked for starting Dalhousie College and so this war would prove provident for the emergence of higher learning in Nova Scotia.
The war also brought about another wave of Black immigrants, this time from t
he Chesapeake Bay area where British ships from Halifax had set up a blockade. While there, the British offered freedom to any Black slave willing to go north with them. This was certainly not entirely an altruistic move, as the British hoped to deprive the Americans of their workforce and at the same time enlist the former slaves into the British military to fight. It was an enticing proposition anyway and many slaves bought their freedom this way.
After the war, 1,200 Black men, women and children were brought to Nova Scotia and settled in Halifax, Dartmouth and Preston, but put in a position where they, like the Maroons before them, were dependent upon the state for survival. Most ended up in poverty. After the Treaty of Ghent in 1814, Americans were demanding the return of their property, including Black slaves who had escaped to some semblance of freedom in Canada. The British nobly refused to recognize the new Nova Scotians as “property” and thus the Blacks stayed on.
Smallpox took an extreme toll on the Black population on the Dartmouth side until it was brought under control with vaccinations in 1815. The Americans kept wrangling with the British for the return of their “property” until 1818 when the Czar of Russia acted as an arbitrator on the matter. The British, in the end, agreed to pay $1 million in compensation to the Americans for a total of 3,000 former slaves, who were allowed to remain in British North America. It would not be an easy life for the Southern Blacks who had arrived during and after the war. Nonetheless, they had achieved their freedom decades before other Blacks who remained as slaves in the South until the Civil War brought an end to slavery in America.
In Search of the Promised Land
Cape Breton had been sparsely inhabited right up until 1800. It had changed hands back and forth from French to British and appeared to be an unstable island from a political point of view. When Cape Breton was set up as a separate colony from Nova Scotia in 1784, land was granted for settlement. At first, it was not a popular destination for immigrants but that all changed in 1820 when it again became part of Nova Scotia and a new wave of Scottish Highlanders began to arrive. At least 25,000 would sail the Atlantic and settle permanently there by 1850. The earliest settlers were given free lots of land if they agreed to homestead upon the properties.
One of the Scottish immigrants who did not make Cape Breton a permanent home was the Reverend Norman McLeod, but he has an interesting tale nonetheless. Along with a band of his devoted religious followers from Scotland , he first arrived in Pictou in 1817 but found it an undesirable place. McLeod was anxious to find his version of the true “promised land,” a place untainted by the decadence of civilization. Obviously, he had not heard the stories about Halifax or he would not have wanted his people anywhere in the same province. But even Pictou, rural as it was, seemed tainted. So in 1820, along with 200 followers, he set sail again, this time to head south to another port and then to travel inland to Ohio. Bad weather forced his ship ashore at St. Ann’s in Cape Breton, and finding this place to his liking, McLeod decreed that his followers should stay put. o
A land grant was easily attained from the government. The families built houses and barns and planted potatoes, barley and oats. Even a grist mill was put into operation. McLeod, a fiery charismatic man, lived in a formidable three-storey house, and convinced his followers to farm for him in return for his labours as minister. He preached on Sundays in both English and Gaelic. McLeod must have been a persuasive man with a dominant control of his community, for he taught school as well and convinced his followers to build boats from the plentiful timber nearby. The first vessels were small, but soon McLeod had encouraged his men to construct larger sailing ships. In 1840, his son Donald sailed one to Glasgow, Scotland, and then went on all the way to Australia, where he wrote to his father saying that he had found a wonderful place to live.
McLeod grew anxious about the encroachment of civilization on his own settlement at St. Ann’s and was afraid that his followers might lose their purity and be tainted by North American life, even here in this remote community. The preacher, now seventy, prayed and God told him to move on to the new continent. His dutiful followers built a ship and prepared for the voyage. It took a full year. On October 28, 1851, McLeod moved his people yet again – at least 136 of them followed the holy man who couldn’t seem to find the perfect earthly paradise.
Nineteen thousand kilometres away, they reached Adelaide, Australia, only to find that Donald had packed up and moved to Melbourne. Yet when they arrived, they found that Donald had moved on again, this time to New Zealand. Reverend McLeod was tired of chasing his son and tried to settle into Melbourne but found it wanting. When another of his Cape Breton ships, the Highland Lass, arrived with 188 more of his people, he boarded ship and directed the captain to sail for New Zealand. When the minister and his followers arrived at Waipu in 1853, they were granted a generous 30,000 acres of land and began a community much as they had done in Cape Breton years before. The settlement thrived and many people there today trace their roots to families that had once lived on Cape Breton Island. Fortunately for those who had arrived in New Zealand, McLeod was getting on in years and his wanderlust was no longer strong enough to uproot them yet again.
Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Sun, Sea and Ships Afloat
About sixteen years ago I taught myself to sail a four-metre sailboat with a single sail on the salty waters of Lawrencetown Lake. I proved myself a lousy sailor but I did eventually learn the basics, essentially that in order to get from point A to point B, you usually had to point your craft toward some imaginary point C and then change directions. I liked the feel of the wind in my hair and I liked leaning far over the side to keep the boat in trim as I hung onto the rope (or “sheet,” as it is called) that controlled my sail. I revelled in staring down into the cool, clear waters as I raced along, oblivious to the concerns of the modern world.
Lawrencetown Lake is fairly shallow and sooner or later I’d drive my little sailboat into a sandy shoal. Here I would hoist the centreboard and wrestle the wind-snarled sail until I had realigned my ship and prepared myself to launch again. My shipwrecks were usually minor, the worst being the time I got my foot tangled in the main sheet and the wind whipped up hard to flip my little fibreglass boat on its side. My youngest daughter was with me at the time and I grabbed her as we went flying through the air, splashing down in the rather chilly March waters of the lake. I walked my daughter ashore and then struggled to bring my cursed craft back to home port.
It was all pretty unhappy and uncomfortable and I realized, like a myriad of sailing men before me, I had learned sailing was a thing that made you oscillate between love and hate, pleasure and pain. Above all, I grew to respect this principle of sailing: you are never totally in control. The wind and waters are full of variables. Nothing is to be completely trusted – wind, sea or wave. You have to always be on your guard. You wi*ll continually be forced to conjure up solutions and variations to get you from point A to point B. Therein lies the adventure and therein lies the danger.
Periodically, Halifax Harbour is visited by “tall ships” and the shopping malls empty as the citizenry lines the harbour shorelines by Alderney Drive in Dartmouth and at Privateers’ Wharf in Halifax. Nova Scotians stand in awe as they watch the display of restored historic sailing vessels that come from around the world. After the parade of sail, one or two of the big schooners will leave the harbour and turn east.
It will be a cool, decently blue morning without waves when I find myself writing at my computer before a slightly salt-stained plate-glass window. I look up and away, beyond the boring stare of my computer monitor. Not so far out in the blue Atlantic I see the blossom of white sails as a ship navigates past Lawrencetown Beach on its way perhaps to Louisbourg or Sydney. I pull out my binoculars and get a better peek at her, convince myhself that this indeed is theBluenose II.
A little over a hundred years ago, it would have been quite common to see such ships plowing the seas beyond Lawrencetown, headed east or west, to
or from Halifax. Ships from around the world would have had their sails billowing on the horizon here, just beyond my doorstep.
Nova Scotians rooted in their past will often remind me of the fact that there was a time when no one would have called us a have-not province. It was a prosperous time, sometimes referred to as the Golden Age of Sail, roughly between 1830 and 1880. Sailing ships were being built in a hundred inlets and harbours from Hell Bay to Hawbolt Cove. Historian Phyllis Blakeley speaks of these ships as “the finest sailing vessels afloat,” and of the sailing men reared in Nova Scotia during these times as “the best sailors in the world.” It was an age that is spoken of with hyperbole.
The Captain’s World
Shipbuilding was a formidable industry by the mid-nineteenth century. First a “designer” would create a model or half-model of the ship he would like to build, perhaps carving all the pieces with a very sharp whittling knife. Then real timber was cut from the forest and, along a level stretch of shore, the keel was laid down on blocks not too far from the water’s edge. There were usually no sketched-out plans, but instead the carved model would be used as a guide. Careful workmanship went into fitting the keel, the veritable backbone of the ship to be. Frames had to be bent with steam and fastened with hardwood pegs to the keel. Every board had to be fitted as perfectly as possible and then “corked” with oakum to make the ship watertight. Water was pumped into the hull and leaks were marked with chalk for repair. If she could hold her water tight, then maybe she could keep afloat once out sailing in the sea.
Then the deckhouses were built and the masts mounted into place. The ship was painted to perfection and a rudder hung in place. When she was ready, she would be launched with some form of celebration for her maiden voyage.
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