Blue Nose Master: The Memoirs of Captain Ernest K. Hartling

Chapter One

A Born Sailor

The house stood on a rise, its fan-lighted front door facing east to the water — a white-shingled, green-trimmed house, offering clear view of Spanish Ship Bay. Grandfather Isaac had chosen the site, knowing the importance of an easy access route to the Atlantic Ocean. That the road at the back of the house was virtually useless most of the year, closed by mud in the spring and fall and by snow in the winter, was of far less consequence. The ocean, after all, is life’s support to a seaman. Here, from this deep-water bay, he could moor his schooner and ply his coasting trade.

Down the lane, toward the road, was another smaller house. This is where Earnest Knight Hartling was born. The date was April 30, 1906. The place was Spanish Ship Bay, Guysborough County, Nova Scotia.

But it was at Grandfather’s house that Earnest spent most of his formative growing years. Here was the hub of nurture and activity for him. Grandfather’s house.

Bedrooms, parlour, sitting and dining rooms were in the main portion of the house. Each bedroom and the dining room had its own stove with smoke pipes running to a central chimney, while a fireplace provided warmth for the sitting room. The parlour was stiffly formal and was seldom used. At the side, along an ell, was the machinery of the house, the kitchen, pantry and scullery. A Waterloo stove heated the ell, its spindley legs propped up on four-by-four wooden runners to provide proper height for cooking as well. Nearby was the wood box to be kept full, a chore that fell to Ernest. But it was the scullery that held the most onerous chores for a growing boy — twelve pails to be filled with water from the well halfway to the road, and twenty-four kerosene lamps to be replenished and cleaned each morning.

Between chores, on long summer days, Ernest would search the horizon for sight of a sail, for the return of his father and Uncle Edward and Grandfather aboard the Iona, Grandfather’s schooner. Often, spying a sail, he would be bitterly disappointed as some other schooner continued on course along the coast. Then, on a day least expected, the Iona would sail into the bay. He would awaken one morning and there it would be, sails furled, lying at anchor.

Until the Iona became icebound, she was used to carry freight between Nova Scotia and the coastal States, hauling lumber and coal, sometimes fish, but gone for months at a time. She was a two-masted, sixty-ton vessel, built in the style of the Gloucester fishing schooner, called a toothpick.

One winter day at breakfast, the Iona safely moored, Grandfather announced he would be taking the horse to the blacksmith’s for shoes. Ernest ran for his jacket and mittens and muffler and trailed Grandfather to the barn. Once hitched to the sleigh, the black horse trotted obediently down the lane. But at the road, Grandfather whoaed and the horse was stopped.

Run on home, boy, he said. You can’t go with me this day. But when I come back, I’ll wait right here for you, and we’ll ride up to the barn together."

Bursting into the house, inconsolable with disappointment, Ernie pushed past his mother and ran to the window to watch the back of Grandfather and the rig making the turn out of the lane, disappearing down the road, gone.

All morning he held anxious, resolute watch at the window, and although the tears had dried, he could not be coaxed to play nor to take dinner at midday. But his jacket and mittens and muffler were laid nearby, ready. Shortly after noon, at last, he spotted movement along the road and he began to run down the lane, donning his outside clothing as he ran. And then he stopped. Standing in the snow, he stopped and watched. This was not Grandfather’s black horse, not Grandfather’s bobsled approaching. It was the merchant-delivery wagon from down at the crossroads. But no one was expecting a delivery here. Even more strange, as the rig slowly passed him, he saw a substance, a canvas-covered something, lying at the back of the sleigh bed. It was then that he saw the moccasins — moccasins on feet, extended just beyond the ill-fitting shroud. Grandfather!

The house began to fill with mourners, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. Grandfather was laid out in the unheated parlour, his waxen-white face looking grim and frightening to small Ernest, who was lost in the crowd of adults. Grandmother saw him, crossed the room to him. Without words, she comforted him, cradling his head tightly against her hip. He, too, was mute, but the lump at the back of his throat was eased and his grief was suddenly shared.

The snow began to melt under a growing sun. Father and Uncle Edward began to talk of getting under weigh for the summer months in the Iona. But for now, the schooner was still frozen in, surrounded by ice.

We’ll cut a lane through the ice, Uncle Edward said. We can soon have her out.

I guess the ‘Old Man’ wanted to make sure we worked our passage, laughed Father, who had now become captain.

Grandmother talked of plans for setting out a flower bed, planting a vegetable garden, and canning and haying. Listening to the many plans, Ernest was strangely content. Even without Grandfather, his life held substance and continuity.

But one ominous-sounding note often inserted itself into the conversation. Then come fall, Grandmother would say, it’ll be off to school for you. Earnest accepted the news in ignorant silence. His knowledge of school was only the location of the schoolhouse itself.

Johnny was hired that summer to help in the garden and the fields. Since he was a fisherman, he came in the afternoons. His mornings were spent fishing, cleaning and salting his catch. Ernest was often allowed to meet Johnny’s boat in the bay and to help him spread the fish onto the flake for drying. They were busily unloading the fish one morning when Mrs. Wilks suddenly appeared beside them.

I’ve come for fish, she said. She was one of those Grandmother called summer people, who came down to the Bay from Halifax to spend the summer months.

Yes, ma’am, Johnny smiled. He flipped a haddock onto the splitting table, made a few flourishes with his sharp knife, and handed the clean, gutted fish to her.

How much? Mrs. Wilks asked suspiciously.

Looks to be about three pounds, Johnny answered. Make a fine meal. Call it fifteen cents.

Outrageous! Mrs. Wilks shrilled.

Johnny drew himself stiffly erect. Then take it, ma’am, he growled. No charge.

Unabashed, Mrs. Wilks left with both the fish and the fifteen cents.

Spanish Ship Bay, or Spanish’o Bay as the natives called it, was a small community and proudly clannish. Strangers were to be tolerated at best, more often ignored. Warm and sharing among themselves, the Bay people were wary and cautious with outsiders.

Micmac Indians, once the largest and greatest of the Indian tribes occupying Canada’s eastern Maritime Provinces (Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island), were seasonally nomadic and often intruded onto private domain. It was that summer that Aunt Tillie, who had stayed on after the funeral to keep Grandmother company, had her surprise encounter with the Micmacs.

Ernest was out waiting for Johnny’s boat when he heard a terrible screech from Aunt Tillie, standing at the kitchen door. Beside her were two Indians and a knife stuck in the casing of the doorway. As he watched, Grandmother, disturbed from her afternoon’s nap, appeared behind Aunt Tillie with a piece of firewood in her hand. Calmly, she pulled the knife from the casing and threw it back at the feet of the Indians.

Now go, she said. And to reinforce her ultimatum, she reached for the shotgun above the door.

The Indians left, retreating hastily toward the woods. Grandmother turned to Aunt Tillie and said, Don’t ever be scared of trash like that and never never upset my nap again because of those varmint Indians. Grandmother’s harsh words seemed unaccountably sad to Ernest. These were not the Indian braves pictured in his story books, the same lordly Indians who had witnessed the landing of John Cabot hundreds of years ago. He felt sorry and ashamed for these Indians. Yet he was glad they were gone.

Often, gypsies came to the clearing in the woods. Grandmother gave reluctant permission for them to camp, to rest their people and freshen their stock, if they behaved and made no trouble.

Ernest was not allowed to visit the camp site. After Grandmother warned him that gypsies steal babies and little boys, he was not in the least tempted to visit. But he could see the fires at night and could hear the music and singing.

Johnny, however, spent an inordinate amount of time with the gypsies, and Ernest was vaguely aware that he brought one of the girls back to the barn. But the gypsies soon broke camp after Grandmother, again disturbing her nap, made a surprise visit to the barn. Johnny seemed considerably shaken and was sheepishly silent around Grandmother for days after the encounter.

As Grandmother was filling the big wooden tubs with water for washing one fine morning, the new young preacher arrived. He would live in Grandmother’s house until fall, when the schoolteacher would take up residence.

Ernest was entranced with the preacher’s long-legged bay horse and new rig. The wagon had rubber tires and was painted red. The buggy top, the tonneau, that folded behind the seat and could be raised in inclement weather, was a glistening black. All in all, he thought, this was just like the spanking-new buggy that Grandfather had promised to buy one day for Grandmother.

But the preacher seemed skittish around the horse and, more often than not, he asked Johnny to do the harnessing and unharnessing.

Huh, Grandmother snorted. Reckon he’s scared. I’ll have to show him.

So Grandmother led Preacher to the barn. Now harness your horse, she ordered.

The preacher grabbed the back pad and the breeching and stepped timidly into the stall to stand at the horse’s side. The horse, young and naturally frisky, began to sidestep.

Easy, easy, the preacher pleaded and fled the stall.

Speak up, man. Grandmother said. Show him who’s boss.

Gesturing weakly, the preacher looked first at the horse and then at Grandmother. She took the armful of harness from him and strode into the stall. She slapped the horse on the rump. Hup, she said firmly. Stand over.

In moments the horse was harnessed, strapped and buckled. Moving to its head, she rubbed the bay’s nose. Now we understand each other, she said, looking meaningfully at the preacher.

Privately to Aunt Tillie, Grandmother allowed as how the preacher might have a mite of trouble making a congregation listen if he can’t handle his own horse.

And it happened one Sunday that Grandmother gave another lesson of grit and fire to the preacher before he left. The rest of the family with Father, unexpectedly home in the Iona, sailed across the bay to church service, leaving Grandmother and Preacher to drive around the headland.

Grandmother sat primly beside Preacher, keeping close watch on both him and his driving skill, when Old Lew, in an ancient buggy pulled by a lively mare, appeared behind them. Old Lew operated the saw mill up on Willy River and, having worked hard all week, made use of Sunday for other than attending service. Mostly in liquor, Grandmother confided.

Now Lew wanted to pass and he held his mare tight to the rear of the preacher’s wagon, generally making a nuisance of himself.

Old fool. I’ll show him what for, Grandmother murmured. Leaning over, she snatched the reins from the preacher’s hands and, shifting them into one of her own, she reached again for the whip. With one smart snap, she laid the whip along the length of the unsuspecting bay who sprang ahead at full gallop. Lew followed gleefully behind, whooping and hollering. A thoroughly nonplussed preacher clung to his seat.

Nearing the church ground, Grandmother slowed the horse to a sedate walk. Once stopped, she stepped down and patted the horse’s heaving flanks. Briskly, she straightened her skirts, adjusted her hat, and marched into church, coolly ignoring the amused titters of some parishioners and shocked tut-tuts from others.

Eastern Shore, Guysborough County. Ernest Hartling was born in this part of Nova Scotia and spent his early boyhood there.

(Courtesy the Nova Scotia Government Information Service)

School was the subject of conversation again. Mother had bought Ernest a pair of new shoes, and he was grumpily wearing them around the house to break them in. They felt clumsy and awkward on his feet after a full summer of barefoot freedom.

The teacher from inland arrived to board at Grandmother’s house. Ernest was shy with her, not certain that he liked her at all.

Ernest was late arriving on the first day at school. He had dawdled and delayed, longing for a sight of the returning Iona. He entered the schoolroom and saw all the other children in their seats, hands decorously folded on their desk tops. Confused and somewhat shamed, he decided boldness was his salvation. Remembering a phrase that his Father often used to ease a situation and provoke laughter, he said, You didn’t have to bother waiting for me.

The silence was deadly. Unamused, the teacher pointed to his seat and sternly lectured him on the sin of tardiness.

Halfway through the interminable day, Ernest spotted the schooner moving into the wind of the bay, sails coming down and, finally, the anchor dropping, and Father and Uncle Edward rowing toward shore in the dinghy. He had to be there! With a yelp, he was up and out of his seat and running towards the door. But the teacher was swifter. Collared, he was led back to his seat, again with stern admonishment, and he sat, chafing at his confinement.

All in all, it had been a bad day for Ernest — with more to follow! At dinner that night, the teacher told of his misdeeds, beginning with his initial faux pas and ending with his attempt to run away from school. No one was amused. He thought he hated the teacher and he knew he hated school!

As school became more bearable, caught up in the routine, young Ernest found a bosom friend, Pete, grandson of Old Lew. Pete and his family lived in Willy Cove near the mill and two miles through the woods from Ernest’s home. Ernest often walked the distance to visit his friend, unconcerned, unimpeded. But one time, having overstayed his