Eight Bells For The Fairy Queen - by Lorne C. Callbeck

Eight Bells For The Fairy Queen

Published in My Island, My People by  Lorne C. Callbeck[1]

Part I

It was Friday, the seventh day of October, 1853.

Captain Cross rose, as was his custom, from his bed early and dressed himself in preparation for the enjoyment of his regular before-breakfast canter in Charlottetown's Victoria Park.

A violent storm of wind and rain had roared across the Island during the night, and, as he emerged from his doorway, he observed that everything was dark, that trees were still swayed by a lusty wind, that the sky was overcast and lowering. It was anything but a pleasant morning, and a man with a lesser reason for leaving his house would have gone in again and shut the door behind him. Not so the valiant captain.

The horse he would ride this morning was a new one and his very own, having just arrived from his father's estate in Devonshire, and was stabled in the town at the Royal Oak. It was, therefore, with something more than his usual anticipation that Captain Cross hurried through Brighton, where the only moving things were the flying leaves and the only sound that of their rustling as his riding boots swept through them. All else was peaceful enough, but as he approached Black Sam's Bridge[2] the ringing of eight bells broke in upon his senses.

His natural reaction was to pause and look toward the harbour, it being reasonable to suppose that a ship was entering or leaving port. He saw none; but even as he stood scanning the dark grey waters the ominous sound reached him again. This time, it seemed to come, not from the harbour, but from the heart of the town.

He waited a few moments before shrugging the mystery from him and was about to resume his walk when the dull clanging was repeated: no given number, but a continual, dreary toll, like a fog-bell on a rockbound coast.

The captain's curiosity was aroused now, and he made his way along Government Pond to ascertain if some foreign ship was entering the harbour and, not knowing the channel, was calling for help lest it run aground.

He observed the harbour carefully but neither smoke nor sail was in sight; the Fairy Queen was still tied up at Pownal Wharf; and the only object he could make out was a canoe being paddled by three Indians from the encampment on Warren Farm toward the town. He noted that the wind was strong. It swept in from Northumberland Strait and Hillsborough Bay, making the water very choppy, and giving the Micmacs considerable difficulty in navigating their frail craft. Here he again heard the doleful bell, and again he placed the source in the town.

 By this time, the captain was so deeply interested that, forgetting all about his net mount in the stable behind the Royal Oak, he determined to get to the bottom of the strange phenomenon. He hurried across Christian's Bridge and made his way up Kent Street. When he reached the Pownal  Street corner, where the Charlottetown Hotel now stands, his ears were once more assailed by the dismal totalling of the bell coming, as he now reckoned, from the Kirk of St. James[3].

Accordingly, he turned north on Pownal Street, wondering, as he hastened along,  who would be ringing a church bell at such an early hour and for what purpose. No Presbyterian in his right senses would permit himself to be buried before breakfast. Queen Victoria was in good health, and no local dignitary that he knew of had given out that he proposed to pass away. Captain Cross was exceedingly puzzled.

As he drew near the Kirk he heard the bell ring eight times—no mistake about it. He scrutinized the belfry, but finding no solution at that altitude he lowered his eyes to the main door, at which time, if he were a Biblical scholar, he may have said: "What are these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they?" Far there, standing on the steps, were three women dressed in white raiment and having bare heads and feet.

The strange creatures seemed unmindful of the presence of the captain, and he eras considering the expediency of addressing them when another mournful clang of tie bell redirected his gaze upward. This time he was convinced that he saw the ringer through the belfry vents. It, too, was a woman clad in white apparel.

The mystery was by no means clarified when he lowered his head to study the trio on the steps, for all he saw was the church door closing behind them. The poor captain rubbed his eyes, but that exercise availing him nothing he ran up and pulled on the door handle. The door was locked!

Davy Nicholson, the Kirk sexton and a worthy character about town, was another citizen who was up and out early that morning, and hearing the bell of his church clanging in a dull and sporadic fashion he decided to find out what scoundrel had unlawfully usurped his place at the end of the rope. As he strode up Queen Street with this objective in mind, it occurred to him that the Rev. William Snodgrass, D.D.[4], might be able to explain the matter: in consequence of which notion he gave the bell some competition by applying his knuckles rather briskly to the manse door.

All Davy learned from his call was that he had lost some valuable minutes, and, leaving the reverend gentleman shaking his head in his doorway, he hurried off to the church, where he came upon the confounded Captain Cross staring wild-eyed at the front door.

The two men, after exchanging their reasons for being on the Kirk property at such an early hour, tried to enter the building but found that all the doors were securely fastened, which was one part of the mystery that the faithful sexton could understand. Next, they peered through the small windows at the sides of the main door and saw, to their utter astonishment, the form of a white-robed woman ascending the steps to the belfry. Davy wasted no time; and leaving the gallant captain on guard he dashed back, as fast as his legs would carry him, to Queen Street to fetch the minister and the keys.

 While the sexton was absent on his errand, Captain Cross continued to investigate the premises, and to explore his mind for some theory that might explain how ladies could walk straight through a solid oak door with no injury to either flesh or wood. His eyes having deceived him, he decided to test his ears, but the wind, which fell about the building in savage gusts, created such a confusion of noises that he could scarcely detect the fall of the footsteps and the murmur of the voices of the four females within. However, he was given little time to devote to the difficult task of sifting out the jumble of sounds, the sexton soon returning with the keys in his hand and the Rev. Dr. Snodgrass in tow.

The door was quickly unlocked, the three men hastened to the foot of the tower, and Davy and the captain ascended the steps to the landing, from which they climbed the ladder that led up to the belfry. As they climbed up, they thought they heard the muffled toll of the bell above the roar of the wind that made the 'cry tower creak and quiver. Dr. Snodgrass, who had remained in the porch, failed to hear it.

The sexton threw up the hatch and clambered in, the captain following close on his heels. Once inside, it was necessary to shut the hatch in order for both men to stand under the bell, which they found to be still vibrating from the last stroke of the tongue. No trace of the four women was found, and Davy even thrust his head oat through some of the apertures in the belfry walls, as if he expected to see them perched on top of the tower or floating away over the treetops.

Descending to the porch below, where Dr. Snodgrass awaited them, the captain narrated the bizarre adventures that had befallen him since he heard eight bells at Black Sam's Bridge. But his arguments, despite the force of his personal convictions on the strange circumstances, failed to convince the clergyman, who, though acceding that the bell might have rung, strongly ridiculed the grotesque idea any women, either real or ethereal, had any connection with the mystery.

 The reasoning of the minister made such an impression of his sexton that he wall moved to repudiate his claim of seeing a white-clad female ascending the tower stairs, and he now offered the view that the strong wind had set the bell in motion. The captain, however, who may have been a bachelor, remained adamant in his story, maintaining that "There was a woman in it somewhere."

 The church was locked up again, the minister and the sexton left for their homes and Captain Cross proceeded on his tardy way to the Royal Oak. Although Dr. Snodgrass gave no credence to the wild tale of the two laymen, a subsequent event was to bring the strange happenings of that morning back to the thoughts of this doubting Thomas and he came to ponder over them a great deal. It is known that he called at several houses in the neighbourhood and learned that Dr. Mackieson's  housekeeper, as well as certain other veracious residents, had heard  the familiar bell of the Kirk of St. James at the same hour as that reported by the captain and the sexton.

Part II

It was Friday, the seventh day of October, 1853.

Captain Bulye rose, as was his custom, from his bunk early and dressed preparation for his regular bi-weekly run to Pictou with mails and passengers.

When he came on deck he observed that the weather was bad, and a survey of the sky showed that little improvement could be expected for some hours. He saw that a strong gusty wind snatched the smoke from the stack of the Fairy Queen, scattering it crazily up the river; that the waves leaped against the wharf, stretching long, foamy fingers up the piles as if they would pull them down if they could; that the boat rocked restlessly at her mooring, making her hull screech against the wharf stringer.

The Fairy Queen was scheduled to sail at six o'clock and the passengers, dividing their attentions between bearing luggage up and holding hats down, were already coming down Pownal Wharf. All were aboard before the appointed time, but the captain passed the word around that he would delay the sailing until the wind showed signs of abating.

As the morning grew older, the wind began to lose its ferocity and the harbour waters became less turbulent, but, notwithstanding these apparent improvements, the captain withdrew the order to sail when he learned from three Indians, who had landed at the wharf, that from their encampment at Rocky Point they had seen heavy seas running in the bay.

If he were a superstitious man, Captain Bulye might have hesitated on that account as well: for it was Friday; the Fairy Queen's complement, from himself down to the cabin boy, was thirteen; and thirteen passengers had come aboard. It was eleven o'clock in the morning when Captain Bulye gave the order to cast off the hawsers and sail.

Other than an unpleasant rolling and shaking, the little steamer experienced no great difficulty in Charlottetown's protected harbour; but when she got out into Hillsborough Bay savage waves pounded against her hull, making her toss and pitch to violently that it was soon realized that she would have a very rough crossing.

Off Pictou Island the tiller rope broke, the vessel became unmanageable, and a leak developed in some undiscovered place. When it was found that she could make no headway, the anchor was let go over the bow in order to bring her head into the wind. This manoeuvre, however, made little change in the Fairy Queen's peril and she pitched about helplessly in the wild seas, the waves battering her sides and breaking over her deck. She began to take water at an increasing rate and by 5:30 o'clock in the afternoon it had risen to such a height that the boiler fires went out. Crew and passengers alike were set to work at the buckets, and although they toiled until they were exhausted the leak defied all efforts to keep the ship afloat.

The Fairy Queen carried two lifeboats—one with a capacity of ten and the other twenty-four persons—and the captain ordered them lowered as soon as it became apparent that the steamer was in danger of foundering. They were kept astern by a long painter. Just before eleven o'clock, the mate and eight other officers and crewmen pulled them alongside and clambered in, and the captain, who should be the last man to abandon a doomed vessel, swung himself in after them. Later, at his trial in Pictou, he testified that he did this in order to direct the loading of the passengers.

The frantic passengers lined the rail, crying to be saved, but the mate sprang for-ward and cut the rope, unheedful of the screams that fell about him and drowned out the very howl of the wind. The lifeboats drifted clear and their inhuman occupants pulled for the shore of Nova Scotia, leaving the thirteen passengers, a, fireman, a seaman, and the cabin boy to their fate.

After being subjected to a series of heavy seas, the Fairy Queen capsized at midnight and all on board were precipitated into the boiling Strait. Fortunately, the upper deck, abaft the funnel, was torn away, and nine of the sixteen people managed no save themselves by means of this floating piece of wreckage. They drifted ashore on the north side of Merigomish Island after eight hours exposure to the storm and cold.

The next morning a tugboat was sent out from Pictou to search for the wreck and to pick up any survivors who still might be clinging to bits of wreckage. She discovered the Fairy Queen about three miles from Pictou Harbour, bottom up, broken in two and the bow anchored. There was no trace of the four women and three men who perished.

The story of the phantom bell-ringers and its strange coincidence with the wreck of the Fairy Queen is a cherished legend of the people of the Kirk of St. James in Charlottetown, and to this day the weird experience of Captain Cross, Davy Nicholson, and Dr. Snodgrass is accepted for what it is worth by the members of the congregation. You will find people who are willing to talk about it, but no one who will try to explain it.

 A new generation of worshippers responds to the musical summons of the bell Sunday mornings and comes to sit in the pews of the modern Kirk, a gothic edifice erected in 1878 on the site of the wooden church of Davy's time. They have their little day too, and when one of them is carried from the church by friends the bell is heard to toll slowly and solemnly. But all who hear it above discordant din of the city traffic know that the current successor of Davy Nicholson is in the belfry.

On the wall of the alcove in the northwest corner of the sanctuary hangs a large, white marble tablet. Whenever the eyes of a churchgoer turn in its direction he is reminded of the legend. He remembers, then, that three members of the old congregation went down with the Fairy Queen.

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[1] Eight Bells for the Fairy Queen was originally published in The Atlantic Advocate, April, 1963.

[2] From Spring Park, in the present area of Royalty Mall, flowed a stream which ran under Black Sam's Bridge on Brighton Road, then spread out into Government Pond, and finally passed under Christian's Bridge by Government house and into the harbour.

[3] Among the memorial tablets on the walls of the present church is one to Reverend William Snodgrass, D.D.

[4] Dr. John Mackieson was born in the parish of Campsie, in Stirlingshire, Scotland, on October 16, 1795. He came out to Prince Edward Island on the brig Relief, arriving in Charlottetown on November 15, 1821. He married Matilda Brecken, youngest daughter of the Hon. Ralph Brecken. They had a family of six children. He died on August 27, 1885. He was an active member of the Kirk of St. James. His house, number 238 Pownal Street, still stands. Many reports on his cases may be read in History of the Practice of Medicine In Prince Edward Island by Dr. R.G. Lea.

Blog Editor's Note:

I have been asked to retell this story on television, radio, and to people visiting the province. I indicate to them that in fact the bells have never stopped ringing at the Kirk - and they never have - only the location of those bells has changed as the ones that now ring are attached to devices like telephones which bring questions from The Space Channel, Australian Broadcasting Corporation, and many others wishing to know more about the famous story.

Among folklorists this story would be classified under the typical experience of the Forerunner, which is a well known part of many folk traditions including Scottish culture, as well as a very real part of the visions and dreams of individuals past and present. Within Christianity, John the Baptist is seen as serving as a forerunner or harbinger, heralding an arrival that fit within the prophetic traditions as well as the messianic dreams of Judaism. While the modern mind may dismiss the foretelling of future events, individuals who have personally experienced events as they occurred some distance away, or prior to them actually happening, indicate that the experience or premonition was very real for them.

Perhaps Sir Walter Scott should have the last word:

I cannot tell how the truth may be;

I say the tale as 'twas said to me.