By this time, the skipper was an old man.

He’d been sailing from Fortune Bay to the fishing grounds north of Cape St. George for longer than he could remember.

His little ship had a crew of just three men — the skipper himself, and his two grown sons. Together they spent the summer hauling cod.

It was exhausting work. They started well before dawn and continued past sunset; if they hoped to eat in the depths of winter, they had to forego sleep in the summer.

This year, their hard work payed off. The ship was weighed down with cod, ready to be off-loaded and dried back in Fortune Bay.

The skipper had already guided the boat around Cape Ray, and past the treacherous rocks of Isles aux Morts. It had been good sailing but now, in the late evening sun, he could see a fog bank ahead.

Before dark, they were shrouded in a thick mist. To make matters worse, there was a storm coming on. In the distance he could hear the low grumble of thunder.

Then, impossibly quickly, the sky was black.

It was as if the storm had risen from right under the boat. The ocean swelled, throwing them in all directions.

Lightning streaked all around them, illuminating the fog. The men couldn’t see anything; the ship might as well have been wrapped in cotton.

The thunder seemed to knock at the timbers of the boat and even the drumming of the skipper’s heart, which seemed to be rapping in his ears, was lost to the roar.

Never, in all his years at sea, had he been so frightened.

If he hoped to survive — if he hoped to save his sons — he had to find a safe harbour. It was a dangerous prospect, too many sailor’s had died misjudging the coastline of southwestern Newfoundland. He didn’t need to add to that tally.

In a flash of lightning he caught sight of it — a break in the fog and, through it, the entrance to La Poile Bay. It was unmistakable; he’d seen it a thousand times before. The shelter of La Poile was their best bet for making it through the storm.

The fog closed in again, but he swung the wheel hard.

All his life he’d willed his ship to stay off the rocky coast but now, in a storm and blinding fog he was steering right toward it. It was insanity. He prayed the embrace of La Poile Bay was just ahead but it was too foggy to be certain of anything.

Then there was another flash of lightning.

Ahead, through the fog he could see nothing but rock. The skipper was sure he’d seen the entrance to the bay. It had to be right there. He pulled the wheel. He had to make the ship move or they’d all be dead.

Again the lightning flashed, but still no sign of La Poile Bay. As the thunder knocked against the timbers of the boat, he turned the wheel again.

Blindly he guided the vessel forward. He willed the ship to find the bay. If they weren’t on course now, he was running out of time to correct. There would be no time turn away from the rocks; they’d be as good as dead.

Suddenly, the ocean calmed.

In the lightning the skipper made out the shores of La Poile Bay rising out of the sea around them. The third time was the charm, as if guided by an unseen hand the ship found shelter.

A Strange Light

As the vessel crawled forward the fog thinned. Ahead the skipper spied an old wharf. He steered the ship toward it and tied up. The men were exhausted. The skipper’s sons found their bunks and fell into a deep sleep.

Despite the ordeal, despite his exhaustion, the skipper couldn’t rest. In all the trips he’d taken, never had he felt such danger; he had been certain he was about to captain his sons to their death. He couldn’t bear closing his eyes, the image of the ship on the rocks and the bodies of his sons being pulled beneath the waves played out before him, again and again.

He sighed and gazed ashore.

It was the middle of the night but a short distance from the wharf the skipper could make out a light. It was awfully late for someone to be awake, let alone have a lamp lit.

He decided to investigate; perhaps someone was in need of help.

The Widow of La Poile

Through the darkness, he made his way to the light. As he got closer he could see it was, indeed, a lamp. It was glowing through the window of a small, roughly constructed house. It seemed to be the only home for some distance.

He walked toward it, pausing at the door — what was he doing?

It seemed awfully late to disturb the inhabitants, but what had he come ashore for if not to offer his help. He decided to knock.

“In the name of God, whoever you are, come in and mock me no longer!” came a exasperated voice from inside.

The skipper opened the door and before him, in the corner of the kitchen, was an old woman. He’d never seen anyone look more grief-stricken. The woman’s face was drawn and tear-stained.

Upon seeing the skipper, she left her chair and walked toward him.

Tentatively, she took his hand and squeezed it.

“You are an angel,” she whispered.

“Only a month ago my two sons went to sea, leaving me and their father here, alone.”

“Yesterday,” she continued, “my husband, John, took sick. We’ve been married nearly sixty years and I have never known him to be ill. I tried to nurse him, but nothing worked. I wanted to go for help but I couldn’t leave him. The nearest house is miles away and I couldn’t leave him. I could see he was dying. I could let him be alone.”

She looked at the skipper, her face wet with tears.

“A storm came up,” she said. “It was an awful storm, the worst I can remember. With each peal of thunder my poor husband writhed. He swore he wouldn’t leave me, but I knew his time was short.

“In his agony he called out to our sons, over and over he told them to mind the rocks, to find their way back home. Then there was a sound from the back of his throat. His breath came quickly then it stopped.

The widow sobbed, turning away from the skipper as if to compose herself.

“Though I knew he was going to die, I could hardly credit it. It didn’t seem as if it could be true; just two days ago we were so happy. I don’t know how I will get through this alone.

“I hadn’t collected my thoughts before there was a noise. It sounded like a knock at the door. I rushed across the room to open it, I was sure God had sent someone, some stranger to help me in my despair. I threw the door open but… there was no one.

“I tried to convince myself that I’d imagined the knocking. I closed the door and returned to John,” she gestured toward the far corner of the room, “but things were not as I left them.

“I don’t understand it, but John was looking at me. He was dead as ever, but he had propped himself up on one elbow and seemed to be gazing toward the door. It was as if he’d been trying to see outside.”

The widow shook her head, “I sat beside him and guided his head back to the pillow. I listened for a heartbeat, I felt for breath. There was nothing. After a few minutes, I convinced myself that my grief was deceiving me, that I was losing my mind.

“I said a quick prayer and set about dressing his body. I had barely started when there came another knock, louder and more urgent than before.

“I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I ran to the door again, sure this time there would be someone to help me, but again there was nothing. So, I returned to my despair, feeling more alone than before.

“Imagine my shock,” the widows eyes widened, “when I returned and John was sitting bolt upright. Again, he was looking toward the door.

“I felt sure he must be alive. I rushed to him. I called his name and touched his cheek, but his flesh was as cold and lifeless as before. There was nothing to do but return John to a resting position and continue to prepare his body.”

“I’d barely set about it when, again, there came a knock,” she shook her head, “I knew to expect nothing outside, still I played my part in the charade. I went to the door, opened it, found nothing, and slammed it shut.

“When I went back to John,” the widow paused, “the bed was empty.”

“He was standing beside it, as if frozen mid-step. His corpse was reaching out, pointing toward the door. His teeth were bared and there was a grim look of determination on his face.

“I felt sick, as if God were mocking me. I pushed his corpse back down on the bed. I’d no sooner done it than the terrible knocking came again.”

She looked at the skipper, “And that was you.”

The widow wrapped her arms around the skipper and began to cry.

After a long moment, she guided the skipper to a small bed, beside the fireplace in the far corner of the room.

There lay the body of her husband, just as she’d left him; dishevelled but finally at rest.

At the widow’s request, together they arranged the body.

After which, they kept a quiet vigil in the kitchen.

Restless Corpses & Rescued Men

The old skipper knew the superstitions of the Newfoundland coast as well as anyone. He’d heard his fair share of ghost stories too, but never had he lived one.

He scarcely knew what to make of his experience; it defied explanation. He was sure the widow’s husband had, from somewhere between this world and the next, guided his boat to safety and saved the lives of his sons.

The restless corpse had been pulled, like a puppet on a string, by a spirit desperately reaching out.

He felt sure he owed the dead man a debt.

In the years that followed, the skipper thought less of the storm and more of his time with the grieving, heart-broken widow and the comfort his presence seemed to bring to that lonely part of the coast.

He came to understand that, maybe, the debt had already been paid in full.

Origin of the Tale

This is my re-telling of ‘The Widow of La Poyle: A Newfoundland Tale’ from an 1831 edition of the Public Ledger. The original author was credited as R.

While the writer indicates the story was relayed to them by the skipper in the tale, I imagine it is wholly the creation of the author. If the story existed as a folktale prior to its appearance in the Public Ledger, I don’t know anything about it. If you do, I’d love to hear about it.

The comments are always open.