him when they returned to Clare. On one of these visits, a young woman asked Jerome several questions about the early days and if he remembered her. When she begged him to speak, he raised his old head and simply said, âJe ne peu pas.â
When Digby Countyâs mystery man was found on Sandy Cove Beach he was around twenty-five years old. He lived in that area for over forty years and when he died in 1908, he carried to his grave his name, the name of his country, the reason for his legs having been amputated, and the answer to the mystery of his abandonment on that beach so long ago.
The Ghosts of Devilâs Island
L ocated at the mouth of Halifax Harbour is a barren and treeless piece of land called Devilâs Island. It lies there, desolate, with only the wind and ghostly voices of the past sweeping over it.
During World War II it served as a military lookout and blockade against Germanyâs U-Boats. Before, and in between the two world wars, it was home to a dozen families who were all fisher folk, and all highly superstitious. From its past come stories of hoofed strangers, forerunners, haunted houses and drowned fishermen.
If I was to do justice to this story I needed to get on the island; to feel for myself what it was like now and what it must have been like back then. Unfortunately, access isnât that simple. There are no wharves to ease your boat up against; you either swim from a boat anchored off shore, or use an inflated rubber boat, such as a zodiac, to run straight up on the rocky beach. As you move in from the beach, walking can be difficult in the knee-high grass. The island is a pot mark of deep holes; some call these holes rat nests. And watch where you step, the place is a graveyard for sea gulls.
Standing by itself on the island is what remains of an abandoned homeâgutted by time, weather, and people. Some say the last resident of this home was the islandâs caretaker. What happened to all the others homes? At its peak, there were over fifty people living there. Standing there in the middle of that desolate place one can imagine hearing above the wind the voices of children at play. Where are they now? And do they still remember the way it was? Do they remember stories the old people told of forerunners and ghostsâlike the story of Henry Henneberry? Am I standing where old Henry stood? Is his spirit still here? Perhaps in that abandoned house.
Henry was a young fishermen who went out on the sea at sunrise to cast his nets. His wife stood in the kitchen window overlooking the waters below, and saw her husband wave from his boat. What she didnât see was Henry taking a wrong step, falling overboard, and drowning. While this happened, Mrs. Henneberry was going about her housework upstairs. At the exact moment her husband fell into the ocean and drowned, Mrs. Henneberry heard footsteps in the kitchen. She thought it strange to be hearing the footsteps of her husband! Why was Henry back so soon, she wondered. When she went downstairs, however, there was no one there. But there were wet footprints left on the wooden kitchen floor. Henry, it is said, was no sooner in his watery grave, when he rose up and came home to his beloved wife.
When old Mrs. Henneberry passed on and her children moved away, another Henneberry family, who scoffed at such things as haunted houses, moved into the old Henneberry homestead. One evening, young Mrs. Henneberry was sitting in her rocking chair with her infant daughter, Henrietta, in her arms. The young wife and mother kept her gaze on the ocean watching for her husbandâs boat. But what came in from the sea that evening was not her husband, Dave, but an ill wind. Fishermen told her that her husband had stumbled and fallen overboard. His body was never recovered. During her short stay on Devilâs Island, the young widow heard the voice of her husband calling for her to join him. Not long after his tragic death, young Mrs.
When Digby Countyâs mystery man was found on Sandy Cove Beach he was around twenty-five years old. He lived in that area for over forty years and when he died in 1908, he carried to his grave his name, the name of his country, the reason for his legs having been amputated, and the answer to the mystery of his abandonment on that beach so long ago.
The Ghosts of Devilâs Island
L ocated at the mouth of Halifax Harbour is a barren and treeless piece of land called Devilâs Island. It lies there, desolate, with only the wind and ghostly voices of the past sweeping over it.
During World War II it served as a military lookout and blockade against Germanyâs U-Boats. Before, and in between the two world wars, it was home to a dozen families who were all fisher folk, and all highly superstitious. From its past come stories of hoofed strangers, forerunners, haunted houses and drowned fishermen.
If I was to do justice to this story I needed to get on the island; to feel for myself what it was like now and what it must have been like back then. Unfortunately, access isnât that simple. There are no wharves to ease your boat up against; you either swim from a boat anchored off shore, or use an inflated rubber boat, such as a zodiac, to run straight up on the rocky beach. As you move in from the beach, walking can be difficult in the knee-high grass. The island is a pot mark of deep holes; some call these holes rat nests. And watch where you step, the place is a graveyard for sea gulls.
Standing by itself on the island is what remains of an abandoned homeâgutted by time, weather, and people. Some say the last resident of this home was the islandâs caretaker. What happened to all the others homes? At its peak, there were over fifty people living there. Standing there in the middle of that desolate place one can imagine hearing above the wind the voices of children at play. Where are they now? And do they still remember the way it was? Do they remember stories the old people told of forerunners and ghostsâlike the story of Henry Henneberry? Am I standing where old Henry stood? Is his spirit still here? Perhaps in that abandoned house.
Henry was a young fishermen who went out on the sea at sunrise to cast his nets. His wife stood in the kitchen window overlooking the waters below, and saw her husband wave from his boat. What she didnât see was Henry taking a wrong step, falling overboard, and drowning. While this happened, Mrs. Henneberry was going about her housework upstairs. At the exact moment her husband fell into the ocean and drowned, Mrs. Henneberry heard footsteps in the kitchen. She thought it strange to be hearing the footsteps of her husband! Why was Henry back so soon, she wondered. When she went downstairs, however, there was no one there. But there were wet footprints left on the wooden kitchen floor. Henry, it is said, was no sooner in his watery grave, when he rose up and came home to his beloved wife.
When old Mrs. Henneberry passed on and her children moved away, another Henneberry family, who scoffed at such things as haunted houses, moved into the old Henneberry homestead. One evening, young Mrs. Henneberry was sitting in her rocking chair with her infant daughter, Henrietta, in her arms. The young wife and mother kept her gaze on the ocean watching for her husbandâs boat. But what came in from the sea that evening was not her husband, Dave, but an ill wind. Fishermen told her that her husband had stumbled and fallen overboard. His body was never recovered. During her short stay on Devilâs Island, the young widow heard the voice of her husband calling for her to join him. Not long after his tragic death, young Mrs.
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