THE CURSED ISLES OF SHOALS

Smutty Nose is not an outcropping in the Atlantic Ocean. It's one of seven small islands collectively called the Isles of Shoals. Although they were once permanently inhabited by fishermen, the American Revolution hastened the decline of the fishing industry and these harsh, remote specks of land soon became places of mystery and violence-of fire and pestilence, of horrifying deaths, and of buried pirate treasure. Even today it is said that the ghosts of two pirates pummel each other in a church attic, fighting over the division of gold they'd left behind, or perhaps loot abandoned by some earlier buccaneers who once controlled the islands.

One of the most gruesome murders occured on Star Island. Years ago "guinea boats" used to put in at various harbors of the Shoals. These long, narrow, rather nondescript vessels were berthed in Boston and manned by Italian and Portuguese crews. After a long, hard day of fishing, the men would relax around a cask of wine and swap yarns. It was always a contest as to who could come up with the most improbable tale.

Then, early one evening a member of one of the crews got drunk and staggered ashore. In the yard of a cabin he accosted a fisherman's wife. When she spurned his advances, he threw her to the ground. She screamed and fought him until he plunged a knife into her breast. As she lay dying, he returned to his boat. His mates, suspecting what had happened, said nothing. In the morning they set sail for Boston.

Noiw the islanders, upon discovering the woman's crumpled body, were certain that her husband had killed her. The couple had never gotten along well. The husband was accused of murder and police officers arrived from Portsmouth. But a storm came up before they could return to the mainland with their prisoner, and they all remained in the house.

At midnight, at the height of the storm's fury, the accused man leaped through a window, ran to the beach and launched a dory. Neither he nor the boat was ever heard from again.

Months later, the same crew of guineamen returned to the fishing banks off the island. They knew of the murder, of course, but did not speak of it among themselves. Late one foggy night as their boat lay anchored in the harbor, terrifying screams arose from the bowels of the craft. The men rushed below to find one of their mates waving the bloody stump of his arm; it had been severed at the wrist. A sailor who had remained on deck said he'd heard the dip of oars and, through a break in the fog, had seen an indistinct figure in oilskins quickly rowing away in a dory.

From that time on no guinea boat was ever safe in a barbor of the Shoals. On every stormy night a crewman would be found mutilated in a hideous way. One had an ear lopped off; another an eye torn from its socket; and still another a foot chopped off at the ankle. And always on board the cursed vessel someone claimed to have seen a ghostly figure in dory.

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