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 small crew; just three men — the skipper and his two grown sons. Together they spent the summers 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.

Some years the fish were scarce, but this year had been a good one. The boat was full of cod and the men were on their way home, back to Fortune Bay much sooner than usual.

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

Before dark, they were socked in.

A thick mist shrouded the coastline, hiding the shoals and sunkers. The conditions were getting dangerous. To make matters worse, a low grumble of thunder was rolling across the water.

Faster than seemed possible, the storm surrounded them. It was as it had risen from right under the boat. The ocean swelled, tossing them violently. The heavy cargo meant the vessel was riding low in the water. The sea swept across the deck, washing from port to starboard as lightning streaked all around them.

Thunder seemed to knock at the ship’s timbers, as if it were trying to rip the boat apart. Never, in all his years at sea, had the skipper seen a storm so fierce, and never had he been so frightened.

If he hoped to survive — if he hoped to save his boys — he had to find a safe harbour, somewhere to weather out the storm. It was a dangerous prospect, too many sailor’s had died misjudging the coastline of southwestern Newfoundland.

The hope of finding a port through the darkness and fog was slim, and navigating to it through the storm would be a long shot.

Then, in a flash of lightning, he caught sight of it — the coastline! There was a break in the fog. It was as if someone had opened a door and through it, he could see 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, and the door swung shut but he’d seen all he needed to.

The skipper pulled hard on the wheel.

It was almost funny — all his life he’d fought to stay off the rocky coast but now, in a storm and blinding fog, he was trying to stay alive by 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.

There was nothing ahead but rock. The skipper was sure he’d seen the entrance to the bay. He swung the wheel furiously, he had to find it.

Again the lightning flashed, but still no sign of the bay.

The thunder continued its relentless pounding. If he wasn’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 could make out the steep 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

The skipper eased the boat forward.

The further into the bay he went, the calmer the sea became. The fog began to clear and the sound of the storm faded away.

The skipper happened upon an old wharf. He hadn’t been looking for a place to tie up but, given the opportunity, he seized it.

The ship seemed to drift effortlessly toward the wharf, where the soon tied up.

The men were exhausted and soon the younger two fell into a deep sleep. Despite the night’s exertion, the skipper couldn’t rest.

He returned to the deck.

In all the trips he’d taken, never had he felt such danger; he had been certain he was about to captain his boys 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. It made him sick.

He sighed and gazed ashore.

A short distance from the wharf the skipper spotted a light.

It was awfully late, he thought, for someone to be awake, let alone have a lamp lit. Perhaps something was wrong. Perhaps someone needed some help.

The Widow of La Poile

Through the darkness, he made his way down a narrow path. As he got closer he could see the light was, indeed, a lamp. It was illuminating the window of a small, roughly constructed house.

It seemed to be the only home for some distance. He walked toward it.

As he reached the door he paused — what was he doing? It was awfully late to disturb the people inside, even if they did still have a lamp burning.

Before he’d made up his mind, he felt his knuckles on the door. His knocking sounded more urgent, more forceful than he would ever have wanted.

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

Slowly, the skipper opened the door.

Inside, in the far corner of the kitchen, was an old woman. He’d never seen anyone look more distraught; her face was pale and drawn, her cheeks were wet with tears.

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.

Before the skipper could respond, the woman began to speak.

“Only a month ago my boys went to sea. They had to go, I know, but they left us here.”

“We used to fish together but, me and John, we’re too old for it now.”

“And yesterday,” she continued, “John took sick. We’ve been married nearly sixty years, 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. The nearest house is miles away. I couldn’t leave him.”

“All through the night I stayed beside him. I could see he was dying,” she sobbed, “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

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

“In his feverish state he seemed to think of our boys. Again and again he called out, telling them to mind the rocks, to find their way, to come back to us.”

“It was the last thing he said,” the widow sobbed. She turned 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.”

She shook her head, and continued.

“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 kind soul 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 opposite corner of the room, “but things were not as I left them.”

“I don’t understand it,” she paused, “but when I got back, John was looking at me. He was dead as ever, but he’d propped himself up on his elbow and seemed to be gazing toward the door, as if he was 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, but here 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 was another knock, louder and more urgent than before.”

“I knew I hadn’t imagined it, so I ran to the door. I was sure that this time there would be someone to help me, but again there was nothing. Somehow, I felt so much more alone than before.”

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

“I felt sure he must be alive… or maybe was alive again. I fancied that, perhaps, the knocking was that of his soul returning. I rushed to him. I called his name and touched his cheek but his flesh was colder than before.”

“I sat there on the bed,” she confided, “and wept as I never have in my life. I saw myself for what I was — a foolish, old widow. I took a deep breath and decided to face the truth. John was dead, and I needed to ready him for burial.”

“I’d barely set about it when, yet 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 look of such 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 him to the far corner of the room. There lay the body of her husband, just as she’d left him — dishevelled, but finally at rest.

Together, they prepared the body for burial.

Afterwards the widow made a pot of tea. They sat at the kitchen table and she spoke, not of the strange events of the evening, but of her life with John and her boys.

She was, the skipper thought, hardly recognizable as the woman he’d encountered an hour earlier.

Restless Corpses & Rescued Men

The old skipper knew the superstitions of the Newfoundland coast as well as anyone and he’d heard his fair share of ghost stories, but this was the first time he‘d lived one.

He scarcely knew what to make of his experience; it defied explanation. He couldn’t explain how he’d safely made it to the widow’s door. He felt an unseen hand must have guided his ship to La Poile Bay that night.

Had it been the widow’s husband?

Had he, from somewhere between this world and the next, ushered the boat to shore. Had the widow’s husband saved the lives of his sons?

And what about what the widow saw?

Maybe the restless corpse had been pulled, he thought, like a puppet on a string. Maybe it had been moved by a spirit, still tied to it, a spirit desperately reaching out — reaching out toward his boat, drawing it to safety.

He felt sure he owed the dead man a debt.

In the years that followed, the skipper thought often about the widow and the time they spent around her kitchen table. He remembered the comfort she seemed to find sharing the memories of her family.

Maybe, the skipper thought, the widow’s dead husband had done more than save his ship that night; maybe he’d been performing one last act of kindness for his wife, too.

If a debt was ever owed, perhaps it had already been paid in full, over a cup of tea in a tiny kitchen in La Poile.

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.