In her delightful book, Blomidon Rose, Esther Clark Wright devotes a chapter to the Kipawo, the little ferry that once plied the upper reaches of Minas Basin. Unlike others who wrote about the Kipawo, Wright resisted explaining the mundane origin of the ferry’s name; she comes close, however, when noting that the “sponsoring towns” of the ferry were Kingsport, Parrsboro and Wolfville.

Many people on hearing the ferry’s name believe it has some exotic or historical origin. Kipawo sounds like it might be of Mi’kmaq origin; say it along with some of our Mi’kmaq place names (Maccan, Cogmagun, Hectanooga, Ecum Secum, for example) and it does have a kind of native ring.

In fact, in one history book you’ll find it written that Kipawo is of Mi’kmaq origin. The writer-compiler of this history claims Kipawo was associated with the Glooscap of Mi’kmaq legends. The historian is W. C. Milner, the book is The Basin of Minas and It’s Early Settlers. With tongue in cheek and spoofing all the way, Milner gives us a sample of turn-of-the-20th-century humour

“The origin of the name ‘Kipawo’, the C.P.R. boat on the Basin, was in answer to my enquiry furnished by a fellow traveller who professed to know and declared he always told the truth.

“He said Kipawo was Glooscap’s dog; that the latter taught him to talk and run errands for him. The first thing in the mornings Kipawo would run to an elevation overlooking the pasture and bark to the cows – they would all start and run up the hill to be milked. As a truthful man, I would not… state that from (this) the D. A. R. learned to milk the public, but I have a suspicion.”

“Glooscap had other purposes for Kipawo’s bark. He used the bark to repair the leaking roof of his cabin. I heard this from my grandfather, who heard it from his father, who claimed to have been associated with Glooscap and swapped stories with him. He told my great-grandfather that Kipawo wanted Glooscap to change him into a man, but Glooscap refused.

“He told Kipawo that if he became a man he would want to be a lawyer and get elected to the Assembly at Halifax. ‘You are honest now, keep it that way …’ Glooscap offered to make a woman of him. This offer was refused by Kipawo. He said the boys on the corners would sing out after him ‘Old Cat,’ and he did not want to be mixed up with cats. Glooscap satisfied him by telling him he was going on a tour and would take him to Chicago to see the world.

“All this may be a traveller’s tale and is not recorded as actual history,” Milner concludes unnecessarily.

This is the only example of humour that I’ve found in Milner’s work which was published in 1918 or 1919. I had written here that Milner at one time was the provincial archivist but this is incorrect. In 1913 Milner was appointed Dominion Archivist for the Maritime Provinces with offices in Halifax and St. John. As well as a historical writer, Milner was a newspaper man and was a force in the establishment of the library system in the province.

In her history of the Dominion Atlantic Railway, Marguerite Woodworth notes that early in its existence there was a “series of derailments and minor accidents.” The management, Woodworth said, was kept in a “continued state of dread that some catastrophe would happen.”

When the railway line was constructed in this area of the Valley, “accidents of some sort began to occur with almost daily regularity.” Woodworth wrote that sparks from the locomotives set fires along the line, blundering trainmen met with minor injuries, and so on.

Luckily, Woodworth said, there were no major injuries. However, there was a near tragedy early in the railway’s construction period when a horse wandered onto the track; some 30 passengers nearly went over a high bluff in one of the cars when the locomotive struck the horse and was derailed.

The newspapers called this a “most providential escape” since only a few scrapes and bruises were suffered by the passengers. However, it wouldn’t be the last time that livestock on the tracks would derail the train; and some of those collisions would have tragic consequences.

On October 13, 1920, several Kings County residents were crewing a freight train running out of Truro to the Annapolis Valley. On board were firemen Clarence McCann, Frederick Yould, and driver Thomas Walsh, all of Kentville; the second driver was William Rawding of Waterville.

At 5:30 that morning the freight train, a “long double-header” with two locomotives and cars loaded to capacity with cement, coal and general merchandise was nearly two miles out of Truro when cows wandered onto the tracks; the resulting collision had tragic consequences.

“One man was killed and three others seriously injured when a Dominion Atlantic… special freight train which left here (Truro) at 5:30 o’clock this morning for Windsor was derailed ” the Morning Chronicle reported in its October 13 issue. “Fireman Fred Yould of Kentville was killed and those seriously injured were Drivers Wm. Rawding of Waterville, Kings Co., and Thomas Walsh of Kentville, who were badly scalded and otherwise injured. Fireman Clarence McCann, of Kentville, was severely scalded.”

The Morning Chronicle reported that “two cows were responsible for the derailment.” Upon striking the cows both engines left the rail and rolled down an embankment, carrying the trainmen with them. “There was so much damage done to both engines that only a succession of miracles seem to have prevented the death of all the men comprising the engine crews,” the Morning Chronicle said.

The death of Frederick Yould at age 20 united the town of Kentville in mourning. Yould was the son of Benjamin Yould, a Dominion Atlantic Railway engineer. Most of Kentville turned out for the funeral and the entire town was shut down.

There would be other tragic accidents on the railway but none would strike as closely to home in the railway hub of Kentville as the death of Frederick Yould.

The 1874 document, the topic of last week’s column, solved what to me were a couple of minor word mysteries. As explained, the document is a leasing arrangement of Wellington Dyke land between Charles Henry Borden and the Parish of St. John.

As for the mysteries, let’s start with that once viable, long abandoned port on the Habitant River below Canning and the reference Watson Kirkconnell makes in his 1971 booklet, Place-Names in Kings County: “At the eastern end of Washington (Saxon) Street,” Kirkconnell wrote, “is the ghost port of ‘Pickett’s Wharf,’ reduced today to a few weathered pilings.”

The obvious conclusion from Kirkconnell’s spelling of Pickett is that the wharf was named in honour of some worthy individual; this may not be the case and Kirkconnell probably was following local usage.

In her book Canard Street, Elizabeth Rand uses the same spelling as Kirkconnell. However, Rand speculates that perhaps the old wharf wasn’t named after “an eminent figure,” but came from a picket fence that marked its road. Rand’s source re the picket fence was Freeman Eaton, a former wharfinger or wharf keeper in this area.

From the 1874 Borden document I believe we can conclude that the mini-mystery surrounding the origin of the wharf’s name is solved, and that Freeman Eaton was right; Pickett’s Wharf should henceforth be referred to as the picket wharf, or simply picket wharf, with or without capital letters. While the document used capital letters in reference to the wharf, the way it was used (“the Picket Wharf”) seems to confirm it wasn’t named after a person.

There’s also a question of when the picket wharf was constructed. Government sessional records indicate the wharf was built in 1845. However, Alpine’s Gazette, the 1804 edition, has a “Picket’s Wharf” listed as existing in Kings County.

Now to another mini-mystery, the meaning of “rick,” a word in common use three or four generations ago but rarely heard today.

I remember hearing my grandfather use the word and I thought he was referring to a feature of the landscape; two of my hunting companions refer to ricks frequently when we’re afield. To them, a rick is a hedgerow or a low, narrow line of trees or bushes, which they say was how their Irish Canadian ancestors used the word on the farm.

We’ve had many a friendly discussion on the correct use of rick; I argued that it wasn’t any sort of hedgerow or line of bushes since as I vaguely remember it, my grandfather used rick in reference to pieces of open land.

Anyway, the 1874 leasing agreement uses the word rick and also ricks in a couple of places; one such reference refers to the “center of the rick,” another to a piece of dykeland as being comprised of “five ricks or dales.”

I asked Jim Borden what rick referred to in the document and he said it is dykeland fields that lie between parallel ditches; rick and dale mean the same thing, Borden said. Apparently when applied to dykeland fields this old word has the same meaning today as it did in Charles Henry Borden’s time. The Canadian Oxford Dictionary has an entirely different definition for rick but does say that it’s an old word of unknown origin.

John Borden was among the original Planter grantees who received land in Cornwallis in 1764. Eaton’s Kings County history mentions John as possibly being an uncle of another Horton grantee; this was Perry Borden, from whom Sir Frederick Borden and the Hon. Robert Laird Borden are descended.

Since John Borden received his grant, six generations of his descendants have farmed in the Canard area. In 1874, John’s great-grandson, Charles Henry Borden, 1825-1913, entered into an agreement with the Parish of St. John to lease a 14-acre lot on the Wellington Dyke for five years. A document spelling out the leasing terms was duly drawn up. The document has been preserved by the Borden family and is currently held by Charles’ great-grandson, James (Jim) E. Borden, Lower Canard.

This is a unique document and is historically valuable for its insight into farming techniques in the 19th century. Normally a legal document makes dry, boring reading and is of little interest, especially if it is over a century old. However, when Charles Henry Borden leased “all that well known lot of dyke land on the Wellington Dyke called the School Lot,” he agreed to certain conditions on maintaining the land; these conditions are spelled out in detail, and these details tell us a bit about dykeland farming practices generations ago.

The agreement bound Borden to “plough and ditch all the unimproved portion of the lot, being the eastern side thereof and comprising five ricks or dales.” Borden was required to plough the lot “three years consecutively” and to “cart the ditch banks into the low spots and center of the ricks and level off the same.”

Why this maintenance and improvements should be part of a leasing agreement is puzzling but this isn’t the interesting part. Borden was also required to “provide and sow Timothy and Clover seed… at the rate of not less than one peck of Timothy and six pounds of clover per acre,” the same to be applied “in workmanlike manner.”

Some of us may think of lime application to the land as a modern agricultural practice, but this is not so! The agreement spells out that Borden is to lime the land he’s leasing, the lime to be supplied by the Church, and to “haul and apply (it) to such parts of the lot as shall need it the most.”

Interestingly, the agreement goes on to spell out exactly how much lime is to be applied to the acreage: “The first mentioned part of the lot is to have in all ten casks per acre… and the remaining portions requiring lime to have from five to ten casks per acre according to the quality of the land.”

I also find it interesting that the lessors built in some business by stipulating that they must be the sole providers of the said lime. Inserted in the agreement is a clause reading that the lessors are to furnish the lime from shipping ports in Kings County. (Mention of one of these ports in the document solves a mini-mystery of which I’ll have more next week).

Charles Henry Borden eventually purchased the 14-acre lot on Wellington Dyke and it has been in the Borden family now for four generations.

Marine historian Dan Conlin mentioned her briefly in his recent talk on shipwrecks before the Kings Historical Society. And you’ll find her on Conlin’s map of shipwreck sites on the Minas Basin side of Kings County.

A few people remember the ship, marine buffs mostly, and a couple of artefacts from her wreck site can be found in the Kings County Museum. But other than these things, little else remains of a vessel that broke up during a hurricane on the Medford shore in 1927.

However, this vessel has a special place in the shipwreck lore of this region. The schooner Hattie McKay has the distinction of being the first registered shipwreck in Kings County; she is one of only two registered wrecks in Kings, the second the schooner discovered in Wolfville harbour two years ago.

Built in Parrsboro in 1896 for Captain James H. Card, the Hattie McKay was registered as a 74 ton, two-masted schooner with a 10 h.p. auxiliary gas engine. There was little that was romantic about her. While her sister ships of sail were trading in far off, exotic ports, the Hattie McKay spent much of her relatively short lifespan carrying coal, most of her runs confined to the Minas Basin and the Bay of Fundy.

Numerous ship accidents occurred on this side of Minas Basin during the grand age of sail; but other than brief mentions in local histories and in compilations of marine disasters, few records of them exist.

A lot is known about the Hattie McKay, however. Thanks to marine history buff Leon Barron, who first saw her as a wreck on Medford beach, the story of the schooner is on record for posterity. Barron has a copy of the schooner’s original ownership or registry papers, for example, and after digging through records, old newspapers and talking with old-timers, he knows more than anyone about the Hattie McKay.

When I talked with Barron recently about the Hattie McKay, I got the impression she was a ship that attracted misfortune. In 1900 the Hattie McKay ran aground on Isle Haute in the Bay of Fundy, was written off as a total loss and her certificate of registry cancelled; her value at the time was set at $2,500. James Card salvaged the ship and by 1901 had her back in service. Before Card sold the ship in 1920 to J. D. Harris, a Wolfville merchant and coal dealer, the Hattie McKay ran aground several times in the Minas Basin and Bay of Fundy.

J. D. Harris appointed Alex Carey of Medford as the new captain of the Hattie McKay and for seven years she hauled coal into Wolfville. Barron tells me that when her runs were finished, Card would anchor the schooner at Medford beach and walk home. In 1927, Barron says, “an August gale, what they called a hurricane in those days, caught the schooner at anchor, drove her across the creek and broke her in two.”

Barron say the Hattie McKay could be seen on the beach when he was a boy and “his mother would often take him to the wreck site.” Then the schooner disappeared and for decades “nothing could be seen of her.” In 1997 the tides and shifting sands of Minas Basin uncovered what remained of the Hattie McKay, spurring the research that resulted in her being registered as the areas first official wreck site.

In the past 50 years I’ve played the bagpipe at countless weddings and only on the rare occasion were alcoholic beverages served at the receptions. I can say the same about the great number of funerals at which I’ve piped. At these weddings and funerals it was usually tea, coffee and non-alcoholic punch.

I mention this to point out how times have changed. Four or five generations ago the serving of copious amounts of spirits at weddings and funerals not only was commonplace, it appeared to be mandatory. Witness what W. C. Milner had to say about rum’s dominance at weddings and funerals in the Minas Basin history he compiled about 90 years ago.

Commenting on funerals in the early 19th century, Milner wrote that the only time a Christian became jolly and enjoyed himself was while attending one. The reason? At funerals, the “imbibing of spirits (rum) was… sanctioned, which mellowed the austerity of the mourners.” And, Milner adds, “old time probate records show liquor at funerals was a legitimate charge against the estate.” The deceased, in other words, was paying for free rum.

After a wedding, or as Milner puts it, “the frolic that followed,” there was an old fashioned breakdown “to which all the neighbours came on foot or horseback, including a fiddler.” At these receptions the black rum flowed freely.

“Gallons of rum were laid in and it was strange if some present before morning were not laid out. Rum took an important part in all the functions. A wedding or funeral was not complete without it.”

Rum lubricated other events as well, Milner noted. “A barn raising, a chopping frolic with a country dance afterwards on the barn floor, a court sessions, a general muster were all inspired by John Barleycorn.”

One reason for the general imbibing was simply that rum was cheap. “A gallon of rum as late as 50 years ago (Milner was writing around 1918) costs less than half a bottle now. One could get drunk for 3d. and dead drunk for 6d. Dr. Styles, writing from Halifax a century ago, said the business of one half of the people was to sell rum and the other half to drink it.”

I like the quaint description Milner gives of the courtship period leading up to the rum-soaked wedding receptions. “A visitor – a youth – comes on a Saturday night under the thin disguise of trading oxen or talking about spring plowing or another mission. There are sly exchanges of intelligence and as the evening wears on, the family drops off one by one, leaving him seated on one end of the fireplace with his fair vis-a-vis on the other. There were no long courtships… and if during the course of three such visits he could not get his chair close to hers, he used not to come again.”

School Records Sought

The Kings Historical Society is looking for school records from the late 1800s to 1965. If you have records from this period you would like to either donate or permit the Society to photocopy, contact them at 902-678-6237.

Several years ago the Kings Historical Society considered hosting a historical essay contest an anonymous sponsor offered to finance with substantial cash prizes. If I recall correctly, there would have been six to eight historical categories, among them science, communications and agriculture.

This was an excellent idea since it would have resulted in some good papers on various aspects of local history. Unfortunately, the contest never happened. Shortly after, another historical group announced an essay contest, with the topic to be the history of Canning. Since the announcement, however, I haven’t seen a single word on the contest; I assume there were no essay entrants and the idea was quietly dropped.

This was too bad in a way. Canning has a long, interesting history and a better story to tell than, say, nearby Kentville or Berwick. It was at one time a major port and a major shipbuilding centre and even had its own newspaper. In its heyday, Canning dwarfed other county villages and towns.

Getting back to the essay contest, there probably wasn’t any need to hold it. An excellent mini-history of Canning has already been written.

Around 1918 the Wolfville Acadian published a history of the early settlers of the Minas Basin as a serial. The history was later bound in a paperback book and about 500 copies were printed. The author/compiler was provincial archivist W. C. Milner.

Since Milner had access to the historical papers stored in provincial archives, the book is a goldmine of information. Milner wrote about shipbuilding, the Acadians, old times in various towns and villages of the area; he profiled leading families, such as the Eatons and DeWolfes, and included excerpts from other historical works.

Included in Milner’s book is the short history of Canning I referred to above. Milner borrowed from the work of Dr. Benjamin Rand for the Canning profile. Rand, a Harvard University professor and historical writer, was also quoted extensively by Eaton in his Kings County history. There are hints that Rand wrote much more on Canning than is quoted by Milner and Eaton; it may be worthwhile for the village of Canning to obtain a copy of his papers, which probably can be found at Harvard University.

As mentioned, Canning in its glory days boasted a newspaper. This was the Kings County gazette, published by H. A. Borden from 1864 to 1865 and by Major Theakston from 1865 to 1866. The great fire that practically destroyed Canning in 1866 may have been responsible for the village losing its newspaper. Eaton’s history lists the county newspapers and indicates that there was no publication in Canning after the 1866 fire. Theakston moved on to Wolfville where he started another newspaper, The Acadian, in 1866.

Milner’s book says that the fame of Canning rested on two foundations – “shipbuilding and ‘taters.” On the shipbuilding there’s one interesting tale of a Mr. Reid of Halifax who had a vessel built in Canning. Reid became “financially embarrassed” and died before he could repay his debt. “One of his creditors, indignant at Mr. Reid’s perverseness in dying, issued a writ of Respondendum and seized the body.”

It’s the summer of 1762 and Nova Scotia is in a turmoil. In the seven years since the expulsion, Acadians have been filtering back into the province and their numbers are increasing at an alarming rate; rumours abound that they are exhorting the Mi’kmaq to attack the Planter settlements. Nova Scotia’s Governor Belcher informs the British that the Acadians are “incessant in their endeavours” to break up the Indian peace treaties.

Aggravating the situation was the number of “French prisoners” remaining in the province. These Acadians had been used as a work force since the expulsion and many were roaming the province without supervision. Worried settlers petition the government to prevent the Acadians in the province “from carrying guns or going at large about the country.”

When the government was considering the petition, word came that the French had attacked Newfoundland and captured the capital city of St. Johns. This made it easy for the government to make a decision. There was no other recourse but to round up the Acadians remaining in the province and start a second expulsion.

Since it brought major social changes and was an unprecedented event in Canadian history, much has been written about the 1755 expulsion of the Acadians from Nova Scotia. But what’s generally unknown is that a second expulsion was attempted some seven years after the first; historians have been relatively quiet about this event which was prompted by the long-running war between the British and French.

The events leading to the second round up of Acadians is examined closely by James Martell in his paper on Planter settlements on the Minas Basin. Martell presents a detailed overview of the situation in the province seven years after the original expulsion and the Acadians appear to be a threat. In Kings County alone, for example, there were almost 200 Acadian men who had been retained as a labour force; men who at first had been treated like prisoners of war but later had been allowed to move about freely.

“In Kings County the numbers and attitude of the Acadians must have exceptionally menacing,” Martell writes. “It was reported… that in one of the townships there, 150 settlers had left and others were leaving through fear of the French.” When it was discovered that Acadians in Kings County had been collecting ammunition, the provincial authorities felt justified in ordering the removal of all Acadians remaining in the province.

A province-wide roundup of the Acadians began in the summer of 1762. “In the middle of August… transports loaded with exiled Acadians again left the shores of Nova Scotia,” Martell writes. “This time the destination was Boston. By the end of the month five vessels filled with Acadian prisoners were lying in that continental harbour.”

The second round up of Acadians probably should be called the expulsion that failed. To put it simply, the authorities in Boston refused to accept the Acadians. “The second expulsion of the Acadians was a dismal failure,” Martell writes. “Before a month had passed, they were back in Halifax.”

After the Uprising of 1745, the playing of the pipes was forbidden in Scotland.

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard and read this about the pipes. In fact, it’s one of the most prevalent legends about bagpipes – or bagpipe, which some say is more correct. A lot of mighty impressive scholars and historians have given credence to this legend and its a commonly accepted truth; even the Scots take it as gospel.

However, with St. Patrick’s Day upon us, I point out that the bagpipes were never, repeat never, banned in Scotland. Not after the uprising of 1745, not before the uprising and in fact, not ever. This is one of the myths about Scotland that has been perpetuated for centuries and it isn’t true in the least.

Now if you said the pipes were once banned in Ireland, you’d be speaking the truth; of which fact I’ve been reminded since we’re celebrating St. Patrick’s Day this month. But first, let’s look at the myth that pipes were banned in Scotland.

Although the Disarming Act of 1746 clearly bans “arms and warlike weapons” as well as any clan plaid, the bagpipe is never specifically mentioned. The Nova Scotian historian, John G. Gibson, makes this clear in his book on the history of piping, Traditional Gaelic Bagpiping, 1745-1945. Gibson gives the entire text of the Disarming Act and supports his claim with well-documented evidence. From his documentation, Gibson also proves that piping and dancing continued in Scottish culture throughout the 18th century and beyond.

The Irish, on the other hand, can claim with some justification that the bagpipe was banned in their country by the British. For centuries the bagpipe was used as an instrument of war in Ireland. Aware of the pipe’s ability to rouse men, the British banned its use in 1366 by the Statues of Kilkenny.

In the piping manual of the Royal Irish Rangers, the introduction reads that the Kilkenny Statues made it a “penal offence to have, play or entertain pipers in Ireland on the plea that they acted as ‘Irish agents or spies on the English, whereby great evils have often resulted’.” Thanks to the miracle of the Internet, I found the entire text of the Statues of Kilkenny and as well as banning the playing of pipes, it also bans “story-tellers, bablers, rimers (and) mowers.

It seems fitting to quote here another line from the Royal Irish Rangers piping manual: “The bagpipe is usually associated with Scotland, but in fact the instrument came originally from Ireland.”

True or not – how can it ever be proven? – the pipes are thought of today as being Scottish and not Irish. It was the hardy Highlanders who rebelled against the English who carried the bagpipe to the far reaches of the earth.

But again being reminded of the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, I must point out that while the Scots popularised the bagpipe and claim it as their own, many of the traditional pipe tunes are Irish in origin. Countless pipe tunes thought to be of Scottish origin can found in old collections of Irish music.

Josh Hazel passed away some 45 years ago but he’s still remembered.

Hazel was a treasure hunter; he spent much of his life following up the legends about pirate gold on the Bay of Fundy, and it appears he may have been one of only two or three people who actually found any.

Last week’s regional magazine carried my story on the treasure hunter who lived most of his life at Black Hole on the Bay of Fundy. In the article, I noted that Mr. Hazel made at least two finds of gold coins; while they weren’t big finds, Hazel apparently discovered enough coins to finance more searching and to purchase several motor vehicles.

While Mr. Hazel was secretive about his finds, people noticed his sudden wealth and started to talk. Hazel was soon part of local folklore as the man who found buried treasure. Even today, nearly half a century after he died, people still talk about Hazel and his find of pirate gold.

While researching the Hazel story, I was given the name of another man said to have found treasure on the North Mountain. Like Hazel, this man suddenly was wealthy. He moved off the North Mountain after his find and purchased a large farm. I’m still looking into this; to date, I’ve been unable to find anyone acquainted with this successful treasure hunter.

In the Hazel article, I mentioned that Josh concentrated his search for a time around Black Hole. There was a good reason for this.

One of the persistent rumours on the Bay of Fundy is that pirates of Norwegian origin used Black Hole as a base and an area to bury their loot. This seems unlikely since Black Hole is a long way from the shipping lanes. But oddly enough, the coins Josh Hazel found were of Norwegian origin; this was confirmed by his son, Lewis Hazel, whom I interviewed for the story. Lewis Hazel examined the coins his father found and was able to give me the dates on them.

One item I didn’t mention in my article is the treasure story on the Mysteries of Canada website. This story, “The Treasure of Black Hole Harbour, is rather far-fetched but in essence, it says that Norwegian pirates used the area as a bank to hide their gold. The story describes various unusual markings on stones and a strange mound near tidewater.

The story was written by a man who apparently visited Black Hole. However, natives of the area scoff at his description of Black Hole and say that some of the geographical features he describes simply don’t exist.

True or not, I’ve been told that the website story has attracted the interest of a Japanese firm that makes television documentaries on mysteries. The word I have is that the firm will be visiting Black Hole this summer to investigate the treasure story and make a documentary.

Getting back to Lewis Hazel, he’s hoping to produce a book on his father’s life of treasuring hunting. Mr. Hazel tells me his father was investigating other possible treasure hoards in this area of the Valley. Josh Hazel had read and researched intensively, Lewis says, and found clues pointing to other possible treasure sites.