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About the Author

Stephen Kimber

Stephen Kimber, an award-winning writer, editor, and broadcaster, is the author of 10 books, including two novels and eight works of nonfiction. His most recent nonfiction book—What Lies Across the Water: The Real Story of the Cuban Five—was long-listed for the Canadian Booksellers Association's Libris Award as Nonfiction Book of the Year, won the 2014 Evelyn Richardson Award for Nonfiction, and the Cuban Institute of the Book's 2016 Reader's Choice Award. A journalist for 50 years, he is a professor in the School of Journalism at the University of King's College in Halifax and co-founder of the King's MFA in Creative Nonfiction program.

Books by this Author


Changing the Face of Canadian Politics
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Flight 111

Flight 111

A Year in the Life of a Tragedy
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A Century of Caring for Families
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Loyalists and Layabouts

Loyalists and Layabouts

The Rapid Rise and Faster Fall of Shelburne, Nova Scotia, 1783-1792
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I am not now, nor ever have been an historian. By training, I’m a journalist; by inclination, a storyteller.

I knew from the beginning of this project that trying to translate the usual fragmentary, sometimes contradictory, often dubious details of the lives of ordinary people, all of them long dead, into a narrative that captured not only the reality of their lives but also the larger truth of how and why a 225-year-old city rose and fell within the historic blink of an eye–and do all of that without playing fast and loose with the known facts–was going to be challenging, and probably frustrating.

And it was.

As a journalist, I’m accustomed to writing about recent events. When I do that, I have the luxury of interviewing flesh-and-blood human beings. Later, if I can’t make sense of some sequence of events, or simply want to know more about an interesting incident that I’d missed or that they’d casually passed over the first time we talked, I simply pick up the telephone, call, and ask them.

Unfortunately, it’s impossible to ask the dearly departed to clarify or elaborate when you discover something in their life-on-paper that puzzles or confuses. You’re stuck with what you know and–just as importantly–what you don’t.

I still don’t know enough about the women of Shelburne, for example. When I began my research, I had hoped to discover a strong female character whose story could become part of this book. There undoubtedly were many of them in Shelburne. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the time to write about their experiences because they were too busy living them, or if they did, those diaries and letters have largely long since been lost to history.

During the course of my research, I came tantalizingly close on a couple of occasions to finding the female character I was seeking. Margaret Cowper-Fletcher-Watson-Cutt, for example, could have made a fascinating central character. She certainly lived an extraordinary life. In the mid-1770s, she and her two young children followed her soldier-husband from London across the ocean to America, where she witnessed his death in a revolutionary battle. Then both of her sons died. A few years later, she married again, to a man who’d been her late husband’s cellmate while they were prisoners of war. Margaret had two more children by him. In 1783, she and her second family became part of the historic exodus of refugees who sailed from New York to Shelburne. They’d barely begun to settle into their new lives when husband number two died, probably of a heart attack, leaving Margaret to fend for herself once again. Which she did by marrying a third time. That husband died too. Margaret, having had so little luck with husbands, eventually became an innkeeper in Shelburne. There is undoubtedly the makings of a novel in her Perils-of-Pauline life. But there aren’t enough letters, diaries, and accounts to make a full-fledged non-fiction narrative out of all those fascinating facts. I know. I tried.

Just as I did with Mary Swords, who was the mother of two young Shelburne printers. For more than a decade after the war, Mary relentlessly pressed her seemingly reasonable claims for compensation for her wartime losses, which included a husband and another son, as well as valuable property. No one listened. Despite that, she continued to be the most resolute and steadfast of Loyalists. Until she wasn’t. In 1795, she had a sudden and unexplained–and now inexplicable–change of heart and swore an oath of allegiance to the new United States of America.

Hannah Booth, the too-delicate wife of a British soldier stationed in Shelburne, also seemed at one point to be a candidate for principal-character status. But all I could find out about her came from her husband’s diaries and letters, written from his perspective. There is no written record to explain what was going on in her mind when the fates–and her husband’s superiors–dispatched them both to Shelburne.

These women do make cameo appearances, but I would have preferred to focus more on their personal narratives–if only I’d been able to find the details I needed.

That, of course, is the difficulty of writing non-fiction. And the reward, too.

The writer’s joy comes in those occasional aha moments when he discovers something unexpected, or suddenly connects the dots between seemingly disconnected events or characters.

During the course of my research, I did discover some incredibly rich and tellingly detailed first-person accounts of eighteenth-century life in the diaries and letters of a number of people who had called Shelburne home: Benjamin Marston, an acerbic surveyor who chronicled the town’s founding and first tumultuous year; William Booth, a British army captain who spent two melancholy years in Shelburne during its precipitous decline; and perhaps most intriguing, David George and Boston King, two former slaves who were central to the development of both Shelburne and Birchtown, the black loyalist community on Shelburne’s fringes. Their “slave narratives” offer another, quite different window to the story of the rise and fall of a loyalist town, as well as to black life in North America in the 1700s.

Their personal stories–and others, too–are the threads that interweave to tell the larger story of Shelburne. In many ways, the history of any place is the sum of the flesh-and-blood stories of those who lived it. During the period I’m writing about, Shelburne went through tumultuous, turbulent times. People came and went, oblivious to my narrative needs and desires. Benjamin Marston, who is such a central character in Shelburne’s founding and early days, for example, departs its stage forever after little more than a year, while William Booth, whose own diaries chronicle the town’s eventual demise, doesn’t begin his Shelburne sojourn until more than three years after the arrival of the first Loyalists.

Since I’ve chosen to tell the stories of these central characters as much as possible in narrative form, and usually from the point of view of the characters themselves, it’s certainly fair to ask whether I’m making anything up, or at least imposing my own notions of what these people must have been thinking at any particular time.

The short answer is no.

Charlotte Gray, one of Canada’s most respected writers of historical narrative non-fiction, put it this way in attempting to explain how she wrote Sisters in the Wilderness, her brilliant, bestselling account of the lives of two nineteenth-century English sisters in backwoods Ontario: “I don’t invent. But I take known facts, and imagine. . . . From the relatively little documentation available, I tried to read between the lines of those of their letters that have survived. I used my judgment in what to include and what to omit; what to emphasize and what to ignore; how to distill an untidy, sprawling mass of facts into a tidy package.”

Me too. Or at least that is my aim.

You can find at the beginning of the Endnotes an example of how I have developed my source material into a narrative. To maintain the narrative flow, I’ve consigned to those Endnotes most of the details of my sources. Through that section and the Bibliography, any reader should easily be able to discover the factual underpinning of what I’ve written. (Throughout the text, Roman numerals refer the reader to an endnote, while Arabic numerals refer to a footnote.)

Part of the fun of writing a book like this is in the occasionally rewarding “detective” work of trying to fill in the gaps in knowledge, or find the missing piece that will solve some puzzle or another. But there are still many gaps and puzzles, such as whatever happened to the mysterious Eliza, Benjamin Marston’s love interest during his early days in Halifax? Freshly widowed but clearly smitten, Benjamin wrote love poems to her and once confided in his diary that “the pleasure of again seeing that dear girl has abundantly rewarded me for all the disagreeable feelings of a ¬six-¬months’ imprisonment.” And then, nothing . . . Eliza suddenly disappears from the pages of his diary and, so far as we can tell, from his life, too. Did they have a falling out? Did she move away? Take up with another lover?

In a novel, it would be a simple enough matter to tie up that loose end with a plot twist; in the messier world of non-fiction, however, we’re bound by what we know–and don’t. That’s what makes it non-fiction.

Stephen Kimber
Halifax, September 2007


First, you had to meet with Joseph Durfee at his home on Water Street so he, and perhaps a few of the others, could personally vet you.i Not everyone was eligible to join their exclusive club of “loyalists associated for the purposes of removing and settling at Port Roseway in Nova Scotia,” as their articles of association described them. You needed to be a true Loyalist. And a proper British citizen. Which meant you couldn’t be a Jew; British law didn’t allow Jews to own land, and land was what this organization was all about. No one needed to inquire whether membership was open to the thousands of freed black slaves who’d also ended up in New York because of this American Revolution; it wasn’t. British promises of freedom were fine during wartime, but the war was ending and many of the members of this group had slaves of their own. They certainly didn’t want them getting the wrong ideas.

Once you had passed muster with Durfee and obtained your prized letter of recommendation–the other key needed to enter this exclusive club–you were eligible to attend a meeting. Tonight’s was being held at New York city hall at the corner of Broad and Wall streets.

It was November 30, 1782, yet another millstone-milestone day in the tumultuous seven-year war between England and her estranged American colonies. In Paris that day, British negotiators at the peace talks had formally agreed to recognize American independence. Communication being what it was then, the news wouldn’t officially reach New York for close to four months, but no one in tonight’s jostling, anxious, milling crowd of several hundred needed official notice. They knew. Which is why there were now so many more applying to join them that they’d had to move tonight’s gathering to city hall and even post a doorman to make sure only those with letters of recommendation got inside.

Previously, they’d gathered at Charles Roubalet’s tavern, a smoky establishment on Cortland Street near the Paulus Hook ferry that had become a favoured loyalist gathering place during these last few years of war. The refugees would meet to forget their troubles. They’d watch entertainers like the famous magician Isaac Levy, whose handbills boasted that the “hand is quicker than the eye.” Or they’d enjoy an evening of music–usually a three-hour musicale followed by dancing–at one of Roubalet’s regular Tuesday night public concerts. Whatever the entertainment on offer, of course, the real purpose of the gatherings was to give the dispirited Loyalists the chance to drink a few pints; puff on what Rivington’s Gazette, the popular loyalist newspaper, characterized as some “monstrous good smoking tobacco”; and complain, commiserate, and contemplate.

Although bands in many taverns, including Roubalet’s, still played “God Save the King” on the hour, and some among the Loyalists still optimistically toasted their shared dream of “a happy reinstatement of the loyal refugees,” most had finally become more realistic. The British had let them down, made a balls-up of the war strategy, ignored their advice and offers of help, and treated them . . . well, as if they were the enemy, too. And now they who had been so loyal had lost–or would soon lose–everything. Because they’d supported the wrong side, their homes, farms, land, businesses, careers, sometimes families, and, of course, country were gone.

Even those lucky enough to still have the resources to take care of themselves could no longer count on being able to buy what they needed in this teeming, overburdened city where what wasn’t in short supply was overpriced. Many once proud, successful, independent men had been reduced to subsisting on government largesse. By the time Sir Guy Carleton had arrived in the spring of 1782 to preside over this foregone conclusion, in fact, more than six thousand civilian men, women, and children were on the dole in New York.

New York was the last loyalist stronghold in the thirteen revolted colonies. After New York, what?

With the British army obviously preparing to depart and many former New Yorkers–rebels, patriots, winners to their losers–showing up to reclaim their abandoned homes and demand payments of past rent from the loyalist squatters, it was obvious they could not remain in New York much longer. Which invited the question, what was to become of them?

The Loyalists at Roubalet’s weren’t the only ones trying to answer that question. Loyalist societies had been spawned in taverns and pubs all over New York, their meetings often advertised in the newspapers with messages that hinted obliquely at “secret and important business [to] which all should attend.” Many of the gatherings were geographically based: Pennsylvania Loyalists, for example, gathered at Birkets Tavern near Maiden Lane, while those from Virginia met at the Queen’s Head, and Massachusetts refugees congregated at Hicks’ Tavern on Broadway. Some of these informal gatherings had evolved into associations, often the official successors to loyalist military organizations set up during the war. Others, including the group at Roubalet’s, had sprung up more recently and spontaneously, their members drawn from all of the rebellious colonies.

The Port Roseway Associates had had its beginnings the year before when a group oftwenty-¬six men–“chiefly of the number of those who, for their attachment to [the British] government and after numberless fatigues in support of the royal cause, have been obliged to quit their all and take refuge within the King’s lines”–met to launch a search for an “ideal Loyalist refugee township” where they could settle together after the war.

Their leader was Joseph Durfee, a former Newport sea captain and merchant who’d parlayed his valuable work piloting British vessels for General Clinton during the successful siege of Charles Town in May 1780–how long ago that seemed now!–into his current job as the director of vessels in New York Harbor. Others in the group came from almost all of the about-to-become United States: New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, Virginia, South Carolina, and Georgia. And though they represented the spectrum of professions, crafts, and trades–there were seven merchants, four farmers, two carpenters, two tailors, a hat maker, a printer, a bookbinder, a doctor, a grocer, and a mariner among their number–¬they were, by and large, the good burghers of a suddenly bygone colonial America. That was deliberate. Their goal was to create a new and better New York–more exclusive, more sophisticated, more loyal than the one they were leaving behind.

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Sailors, Slackers, and Blind Pigs

Chapter One: 1939

– Preparations, Expectations and the Phony War –

Eric Dennis stared hard at the dozens of men and women streaming off tonight’s Ocean Limited passenger train just arrived from Montreal, searching the platform for familiar faces, faces to which he could put names, names his readers might recognize. He knew he had to concentrate. But how could he? It had finally happened. After weeks of bluster and bluff, feint and fallback, incursion and indecision, war had really begun. He had awakened to the news this morning. British prime minister Neville Chamberlain had gone on the radio to announce officially that England had declared war on Germany. France, Australia and New Zealand followed almost instantly. How soon before Canada did too, Eric Dennis wondered? What would -- should -- he do then?

Eric was twenty-two, tall and thin, with a wispy moustache and thick glasses. He was a general assignment reporter for both the morning Halifax Herald and the afternoon Mail, the largest circulation daily newspapers in Nova Scotia, both of them owned by his legendary uncle, Senator William Dennis, who in turn was the son of the original, and even more legendary, Senator William Dennis, the Herald’s first reporter and the founder of the Mail. Newspapering flowed in the Dennis veins. But what of soldiering?

Standing in the middle of the echoing tumult of this cavernous barn of a railway station as arriving passengers met their loved ones, grabbed their bags and hurried off into the cool late summer night, Eric couldn’t help but recall a sweltering June day less than three months before. King George and Queen Elizabeth had arrived at this very station aboard a specially decorated royal blue and silver, twelve-coach train for the final stop of what had turned into a triumphant seven-week royal tour of Canada. Although the possibility of war had hung like a storm cloud over planning for the visit -- it was very nearly cancelled in the tense aftermath of the Nazi invasion of Czechoslovakia in March -- you wouldn’t have guessed it by the adoring crowds who gathered inside and outside the station that festive day.

Eric had been one of the reporters assigned to cover the visit. He tagged along as the King, in his Admiral of the Fleet uniform, and the Queen, in her favourite powder blue outfit, toured Halifax’s freshly spiffed streets in an open motor car. When, at the end of the day, the royal couple stood on the deck of the Empress of Britain proffering their practised royal waves in yet another farewell to yet another adoring crowd, Eric was so caught up in the moment that he waved back.

Who would have believed war was already so close at hand? It was only now that Eric finally began to understand the significance of the visit. Britain’s unspoken purpose was to stir up imperialist fervour among Canadians so they would pressure their government to commit to the defence of the mother country should it ultimately come to that. The ploy had worked: everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Prime Minister Mackenzie King officially announced Canada was in the war too.

Dennis initially assumed that war, if there was to be one at all, would be confined to a few little nations on the continent. But in March the Germans had gobbled up Czechoslovakia. In May, Hitler signed his Pact of Steel with Mussolini’s Italy. And then, less than two weeks ago, on August 23, 1939, the German leader reached a surprise non-aggression pact with Stalin’s Soviet Union that raised fears of a great power showdown. Ever since the German-Soviet deal, in fact, the Herald’s daily drumbeat of headlines had created a feeling that a much wider war was inevitable: EMPIRE STANDS WITH BRITAIN, his paper had declared the day after the announcement of the alliance. The next day it was FATE OF WORLD IN BALANCE, followed by a slightly more optimistic DRIFT TO DISASTER IS DELAYED, then a crushing HITLER REFUSES DIRECT TALKS WITH POLAND. By Tuesday, August 29, it had come down to PEACE OR WAR: HITLER HAS HIS CHOICE. The following morning’s BRITAIN’S FIRM STAND BRINGS NEW PROPOSALS FROM HITLER seemed encouraging, but was followed by the ominous ARMIES’ MIGHT IS INCREASED AS SECRET CRISIS NOTES EXCHANGED, and then -- on September 1, the day the Herald published its first extra of the conflict -- a chilling POLISH BORDER VIOLATED AT 4 POINTS. On Saturday of the Labour Day holiday weekend, the Herald’s headline read: HITLER IS GIVEN LAST WARNING.

Tonight, back in the newsroom, Edgar Kelley, the Herald’s editor-in-chief, and Bob Rankin, the managing editor, had already settled on tomorrow’s main-edition headline: EMPIRE AT WAR, set in the largest type yet. But events were unfolding so quickly that the paper’s editors had already had to make room above the Herald’s nameplate for another headline, nearly as large: LINER ATHENIA IS TORPEDOED AND SUNK.

War had really begun. Should he -- “

Eric Dennis stopped himself, tried to focus on the job at hand. He looked around at the departing passengers. The other regulars were here too, of course, including his opposite number from the Chronicle. Like Dennis, he was scouring the faces in the crowd. Like Dennis, he showed no indication he recognized anyone. A good sign?

Germaine Pelletier and her boyfriend were at their usual posts near the baggage counter. Pelletier operated the city’s most popular brothel, in a red brick building opposite the lieutenant-governor’s official residence a couple of blocks north of the station, on Hollis Street. Each evening, she would walk down to the station to meet the arriving trains in order to discreetly advertise the existence of her establishment and determine if any of the passengers might wish to partake of the services her girls had to offer. War, Eric thought, would probably be good for her business.

The railway station was part of Eric Dennis’s regular beat. He stopped by each day to see who was who among the arriving passengers. His job was to find out if any of them were interesting enough to write about for the paper’s “Yesterday I Saw . . .” photo feature. During his five years at the paper he’d befriended everyone from the baggage handlers, who would alert him to expensive-looking luggage, to the conductors and porters, who often knew their most prominent passengers by name. But these days he was much more careful to check and recheck every snippet of information they provided. Three years earlier, “Yesterday I Saw . . .” almost cost him his job. He’d been told the mayor of Shelburne, a small town on the province’s south shore, was visiting Halifax. Since the paper already had a photo of the mayor on file, Dennis, who hadn’t been able to track him down to talk to him personally, wrote it up anyway. “Yesterday, I saw the Mayor of Shelburne,” the caption under the photo began.

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What Lies Across the Water

What Lies Across the Water

The Real Story of the Cuban Five
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