Lore: 1670–1720

Long before I was called Cape Mills, I sat along the inlet, quietly observing the sometimes playful, sometimes dangerous and mysterious goings-on within my sight and hearing. Back in those days, things were mostly peaceful. The dolphins have always played and sung their songs within my hearing... and the birds... the gulls, herons, and egrets... their antics were always worth watching. The thing is, I remember so many moments that the people have forgotten. The generations of retellings have become thin and the nuances of the stories lost. In the beginning, when they were first told, the stories were rich and filled with the details of the life and death that accompanied those years.

Once in a while, some coastal tribes would spend time along my shores, fishing and drying their catch for the winter months. During those times there was always the smell of fish being smoked over low fires. It has a unique, never-to-be-forgotten aroma. Because the weather was so warm during those months, the main fires were used, never for warmth, but for roasting their well-earned food. I enjoyed watching as they shared it together like a family, with laughter and respect. But sometimes... well, sometimes there were other people and things I observed with a more watchful eye.

Near the end of a long period of pirate activity, those swashbuckling thieves came and went on a fairly regular basis. I quietly observed it all. They often waited in the hidden coves of the coastal estuaries for merchant ships sailing north. It was often just before dusk, and sometimes at early dawn, that they would attack. I could often hear their cannons roaring, and if they were especially close, I could sometimes hear swords clashing and men shouting, their voices having an almost cornered-animal quality.

Now and then a ship would succumb to attack and disappear into the local waters. Even now, especially on those nights when the fog is so thick there is nothing to be seen, the sounds of bells and clashing metal, muffled though they be, are there for those who might be listening. That is where the facts stop and the legends and lore begin to mingle.

One such vessel, according to the telling and retelling of the story, carried a famous pirate who had sworn he would not die until he had acquired the gold of one particular Spanish galleon. The ships under his command continued to attack in the shadows of dusk or dawn, but they never succeeded in capturing that coveted Spanish ship. Seems she remained elusive and kept her wealth to herself.

From that day on, and even into current times, fishermen... and sometimes people on land... have sworn they have seen signal lights flashing in the  estuaries, most often along the coast here, near me. Some laugh it off as moonlight reflecting on the water. Sometimes, well... sometimes there is no moonlight.

No large pieces of wreckage have ever washed up on the beaches near me, but now and then there are stories of coins found glinting in the sand, or corroded pieces of old iron rolling in with the surf. Sometimes, those who linger on the beach late at night swear they can hear the clanging of a ship’s bell. So they say.

I am always listening, and sometimes I wonder. Because I still hear things... and still see things... mostly when the town is fast asleep. But no one ever asks me, so I keep what I know to myself.