Maritime Mysteries

by Bill Jessome

  Some believe the ship is the Fairie Queen that sunk in a violent storm in 1853.

  Who really knows for sure. What we do know is that the phantom ship of the Northumberland Strait will remain, until proven otherwise, one of the Maritime Mysteries of all time.

  The Woman in White

  M any Maritimers are familiar with the story of the phantom ship that burns while sailing over the waters of the Northumberland Strait, but what about the woman in white who is seen standing on wind-swept cliffs of Nova Scotia’s Pictou Island? Is there a connection?

  Those who have seen the burning ship have also reported seeing the woman in white at the same time. They say that her arms are outstretched as if reaching for some lost soul aboard the doomed ship. Some believe that she is the lost soul.

  Pictou Island is about five miles long and two miles wide. There is only one road on it and it runs the length of the island. The island itself is some ten miles from the mainland of Nova Scotia. At one time, there were about thirty families living on Pictou Island, who made their living by way of the sea and land. Most of the young people are gone; they left for mainland opportunities. Today, there are but a handful of people left and they are mostly elderly.

  While visiting the island a few years back, I sat in Ernie Rankin’s kitchen and listened to his stories of long ago; stories of his youth and of the only time he saw the burning ship of Northumberland Strait. His eyes sparkled and a slow smile spread across his broad and friendly face when I asked if he had ever seen the woman in white. “No,” he said, “but I know of a young man who did. I won’t tell you his name because of what happened to him—it would embarrass the lad. It was dark when this young man was walking home one night along that lonely road. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the woman in white appeared before him. The young man, half scared out of his wits, ran. When he got home he collapsed.” That encounter sent the young man to the hospital in Dartmouth with what Ernie Rankin described as a complete mental breakdown.

  There are also fishermen who claim to have seen this spectre of the night. While sailing by the island, some claim to have seen her in her flowing white dress with outstretched arms, standing on those high cliffs. Other fishermen tell a more compelling story of their encounter with the apparition. While tending their nets on the shore, they saw a tall, young woman in an ankle-length white dress coming toward them. They stood silently watching as she walked past them and into the Northumberland Strait and before the men could reach her, she disappeared beneath the water. The fishermen stood there dumbfounded, when suddenly, a bright light appeared over the water where the woman had vanished.

  As if hypnotized, the fishermen then watched as a great and flaming ship rose up out of the turbulent waters and sailed in an easterly direction. As quickly as it appeared, the ship sank below the waves.

  The Maritime Mystery question to ponder: Does the woman in white have anything to do with the burning ship? I asked Ernie Rankin that question. He sat there, rocking in his favorite chair, looked at me, and smiled. Then he turned his head toward the waters of Northumberland Strait. Waiting, watching, and smiling.

  The Ghost of Petpeswick

  T his is a spirited tale of a British soldier who wanted to go home in the worst way. Unfortunately for him his posting was Halifax, Nova Scotia. In the summer of 1835, a convoy of British troop ships en route to Halifax was caught in a violent storm. Most of the ships were driven off course. One waited out the storm in Petpeswick Harbour. The homesick soldier who stood in the late afternoon shadows of the vessel slipped over the side and began the long swim to shore. It was not to be. He was spotted and was ordered to return to the ship. When he refused, the young deserter was shot. A boat was lowered and four soldiers rowed to where the body was floating. On orders from their superiors, they buried the body in an unmarked grave. That evening, the troopship pulled anchor for Halifax.

  Many years later, the Young family decided to build their home on land overlooking Petpeswick Harbour, where the body of the British soldier was buried in an unmarked grave. Unknown to the family was the fact that the property, the woods behind their home and the waters of Petpeswick Harbour were haunted by the spirit of the young British soldier.

  Not long after the home was finished, and the family had settled in, they became aware that things were not normal. Doors were being opened and closed on their own, and heavy booted sounds could be heard coming in the backdoor, going through the hall, and out the front door. What the family didn’t realize was that the ghost of the young British soldier was walking through the house from his unmarked grave to the waters of Petpeswick Harbour.

  There were other incidents in days to come that would convince the family that their home was haunted. If tools were not locked away, they would disappear. And then, one day, a new sound was heard. The Young family and neighbours were awakened by chopping sounds in the woods. When they investigated, no one was found, but they did hear heavy breathing and the familiar sounds of a tree being felled.

  As suddenly as the ghostly activities started, they just as suddenly stopped. The family were relieved, but couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the ghost. When the Youngs turned to their wise old grandmother, she smiled and said, “He’s gone back to England. That’s why the haunting and the chopping in the woods stopped.” When they asked what she meant by that, she said, “Don’t you see, the chopping stopped because he finished building his ghost ship. He’s sailing home, back to England.”

  A Seagoing Mystery

  W hile spending a vacation on Cape Breton Island, I spent some time travelling up north. One day, while enjoying a coffee and sandwich at a local eatery, an elderly gentleman introduced himself and apologized for the intrusion. “That’s okay,” I told him. He then proceeded to tell me about his adventures sailing around the world and wanted me to know that ships like houses are also haunted. I agreed. Was I interested in hearing a tale?

  Of course.

  “Well, then,” he said, “I’ll tell you one—one you’ve never heard before.”He was wrong, I had heard it before; I heard it the first time while on Big Tancook Island and again in a fisherman’s shack at Three Fathom Harbour. The story is also included in Helen Creighton’s Bluenose Ghosts.

  As it’s impolite to tell someone you’ve heard the joke or story before, I listened as this salty old salt proceeded to tell me one of his favourite sea-faring tales.

  “There was this Captain George Hatfield, out of Fox River, Nova Scotia, and this happened well over a hundred years ago. Anyway he sailed out of Cuba bound for New York and ran into a bad storm. Well, sir, after riding out the storm for near two days and two nights he was exhausted and needed to get some sleep. So, after giving orders to his first mate, he went below to catch forty winks. No sooner was he asleep, when somebody was trying to wake him up, and the capt’n heard a voice whispering, ‘Keep her off half a point.’ Well, sir, this kinda set the captain off a bit so he went topside to tell the mate off. But the mate told him it wasn’t him. Anyway, ol’ Capt’n Hatfield went back to his bed wondering if a dream could be that real. Well, he fell asleep again and damn if it didn’t happen again. There it was. Someone tapping him on the shoulder and telling him, ‘Keep her off half a point.’ Up to the bridge straight away went a really mad capt’n. And again the mate told him no one went below and that he must be dreaming. Back to his bed goes Capt’n Hatfield and sure enough no sooner was he asleep when again someone was nudging his shoulder. This time it was not a whisper he heard, but a command to keep her off a half point. When he opened his eyes, there was this stranger leaving the captain’s cabin. Capt’n Hatfield noticed the clothes he wore were different from what he and his crew wore. Back on topside he asked the mate and crew if anyone saw a stranger leaving his cabin. They told him they saw no one. Then he remembered the voice in his sleep, so he told the mate to keep the ship off half a point. He then went below and slept the rest of the night. Next mornin’, ol’ Capt’n Hatfield told his crew to keep a sharp
lookout. It didn’t surprise Capt’n Hatfield when they came on a vessel in trouble. Now this other captain was a fellow named Amesbury. And his ship was named the D. Talbot. On board were Amesbury’s wife and two children. They were brought safely aboard Hatfield’s vessel just before the D. Talbot sank.

  The survivors told Capt’n Hatfield it must have been a miracle he was in the same waters as they were. Well, sir, Capt’n Hatfield thought about that for awhile and then told them about the voice in his dream telling him to alter course and keep her off half a point. When he described the stranger leaving his cabin, Captain Amesbury’s wife, nearly fainted away. When she got her breath back, she told capt’n Hatfield the man he described was her father who had died ten years ago!”

  When the gentleman finished his story, he smiled and said, “Well, how about that.”

  I smiled and said, “Yeah, how about that.” We said our goodbyes and before he left, he said he’d send me some more mysteries of the sea and some landlubber ones as well. I’m still waiting.

  The Ghost of Chebucto Light

  A young girl walks her dog along a path at Chebucto Head Light. The animal cowers, sinks low to the ground and growls. His black eyes focus on something moving over the high cliffs. The girl also sees it. Her body stiffens, fear sweeps over her. What is in the distance is not whole, it takes no definite shape; it is transparent, floating over the rocks like a ghost. A large bonnet covers most of the face—if there is one. It wears a grey dress, cinched in at the waist, and flowing outward and down to the ground. And there is a rope tied around the thing’s waist. As suddenly as it appears, it vanishes. The child quickly returns to the safety of her home. Her parents listen to her story, but laugh it off, telling her there’s no such thing as a ghost.

  The young girl’s name is Pat Flemming. Today her married name is Helpard and she is an educator. Chebucto Head Light is located at the entrance to Halifax Harbour. When all this happened, Pat’s father was the lighthouse keeper.

  For all of her teen years, Pat felt there was someone or something trying to make contact with her. Most nights, while waiting for sleep, there was always a strong, unexplained presence in her room. She now believes it was the ghost she saw on the cliff who was trying to communicate with her, and that the rope tied around the ghost’s waist indicated only one thing—she was the victim of a shipwreck. Perhaps during a violent storm the woman’s husband had lashed her to the ship’s mast to keep her from being swept overboard, but in the end, she drowned, and her ghost is wandering the cliffs of Chebucto Head in search of loved ones.

  Pat’s father was a firm believer in the here and now and nothing in the hereafter. That is until one evening, while in his boat, a stranger appeared above the high cliffs. “What in the hell is that?” he whispered. Stan Flemming saw a tall woman wearing an ankle-length dress floating down the side of the cliff. In disbelief, he watched it float past his boat and over the water until it disappeared. Whatever it was, Stan knew it wasn’t human. That’s when he became a believer.

  When the lighthouse was eventually automated, the Flemmings were forced to move. For a long time, the home remained abandoned.

  One day a radar technician knocked on the Flemmings’ door. He had a story to tell. He told them that one evening during a winter storm, he was forced to stay overnight in the empty house at Chebucto Head. Sometime during the night, he was abruptly awakened when his portable cot was overturned and his alarm clock was smashed against the far wall. He left, fighting the storm, rather than facing the unknown.

  Teazer

  A mong those many islands in Mahone Bay there are, from time to time (but not recently) reports of a flaming ship that sails over the waters, then dips it bow and disappears beneath the sea. Is it the phantom ship Teazer, or merely the imagination of those who wish to believe. Perhaps it’s a combination of moon reflection, fog banks, and island shadows, and bored fishermen wanting to tell a tall sea tale. Regardless, there have been many sightings and those who have come forward stand by what they have seen.

  History tells us that during the war of 1812, the United States navy commissioned many privately owned ships to harass their bitter enemy, the British. One such vessel was the Teazer. She was caught and burned by the Brits in 1812. A gentleman’s agreement was reached between the British and the Teazer’s officers: they would win their freedom if they promised not to engage in further attacks on British merchant ships. Naturally, the officers of the Teazer, including a Lieutenant Frederick Johnson, agreed. But promises are made to be broken, even by gentlemen. In time, the original Teazer was replaced by young Teazer, and who do you think proudly walked her deck? Lieutenant Frederick Johnson, himself, who had promised the British he would never again attack one of their ships. The day of reckoning came when young Teazer was being chased by two British warships. Rather than being caught and hanged, Lieutenant Johnson threw a flaming torch into the ship’s powder magazine. In an instant, young Teazer reached skyward in a million pieces. The explosion was heard in the kitchens of Tancook and other islands in Mahone Bay.

  It’s been a long time since anyone has reported seeing this phantom of the sea. But she has been there, seen by fisherman who were so close to her that they said they could see men in her fiery riggings.

  The Sea Ghost of Sable Island

  T his is one of my favorite Edith Mosher mysteries. It’s from her book, Haunted.

  It was in September 1856, when the American brigantine Alma, outward bound from New York and heading to St. John’s, Newfoundland, was stranded about half a mile offshore on the treacherous shoals of Sable Island. A life-saving crew from the island station set off in a boat but ran into seas so heavy that the sturdy boat capsized before it could reach the stranded craft. The bow oarsman was thrown overboard and drowned. His body was never recovered.

  On December 7 of that same year, another vessel, the schooner Eliza Ross from Sydney, got into trouble off Sable Island. The lifeboat crew, using the same lifeboat, again set out to attempt a rescue. As they rowed toward the distressed schooner, the men saw something that looked like the head of a man swimming. It was just about at the place where they had had the accident on their other mission. As they rowed closer they saw it was a man, but with eyes they had never before seen; vacant, staring eyes that seemed fixed on the distant horizon. Whatever it was seized the side of the boat and climbed aboard. Dripping, it sat on the vacant seat, grasped the oars and helped to row to the stranded vessel. This time the crew had better luck and were able to save the sailors on the doomed schooner. They pulled for shore, with the strange wild-eyed figure doing his share of rowing along with the others.

  When they reached the place where he had boarded their boat, he dropped the oars, slid over the side, and vanished beneath the waves. The last thing the startled crew saw were the staring eyes as the waves swirled over the strange creature’s head.

  This ghost supposedly appeared several times to that same lifesaving crew, but never attempted to enter the boat after a new man took the place of the drowned oarsman. Some said they had seen it, others denied that there was anything there to be seen. But all admitted to the feeling of their drowned friend in the boat with them.

  A Fisherman’s Shack

  T his story takes place in a fisherman’s shack in a remote Nova Scotia village, where agonizing screams in the night kept all but the bravest behind locked doors. At one time, the shack in question, like so many others, was a warm and safe place for weary fishermen waiting for the out-going tide. But not any more; not since those terrible screams were indeed heard coming from inside the shack. The fishermen who went to investigate came away trembling and mumbling that the screams were coming from inside, but when they looked through the window, the place was empty!

  Not long after the screams were first heard, a Cape Islander, not far offshore, floundered in a violent storm. Because of the raging seas, the local fishermen could only watch helplessly from the shore the sinking of the vessel. The villagers who stood on the
banks could hear above the wind the screams of the fishermen aboard the sinking vessel. When the storm ended, the bodies of the fishermen who were washed up on shore were temporarily placed in a fisherman’s shack—the same shack where the mysterious screams are heard. It was then the people of this remote fishing community understood the mystery surrounding those terrible screams. What they heard was a forerunner; a warning of an impending disaster, like that of the drowned fishermen who were washed up on their shores.

  The fishing shack where this unholy story began is now gone. It is said a whale-oil lamp was thrown through a window late one night and burnt it to the ground. Still, some say that when they pass the spot where the shack once stood, they can still hear screams above the wind.

  Chapter Four

  Love and War

  Millie’s Last Ride

  I t was a hot and dry Saturday afternoon when I stopped at a sidewalk cafe for something to quench my thirst. As I sat there sipping my drink, I noticed in the middle of the street the forming of a dust devil. Strange, I thought, very strange indeed, because there was on that unbearably hot afternoon absolutely no wind at all. But there it was beginning to take shape. Then it began to move snakelike toward me. Cars ran over it, but didn’t crush it or break it into harmless tiny dust-devil pieces. I became hypnotized by it. It was upright, swaying its shapeless head from side to side as if searching out its prey. Then, what looked like one monstrous eye in the centre of this shapeless mass saw me and the dust devil bolted straight up. It moved slowly back and forth, gauging the distance, and then with lightening speed it came at me. But just before it reached me, it got caught up in a woman’s skirt and disappeared.

  As I finished my drink, the image of that dust devil took me back to a time I hadn’t thought of since I was a child growing up in the Whitney Pier area of Sydney, where this story took place.