This
ghost story is a tale of tragical love and, like all good ghost stories,
untimely death. The setting was the
town Devonport, Tasmania, the former then was named Formby. Ship building was
conducted on the shores of the Mersey River in the late 1800’s.
The launch of the Lizzie Taylor, East Devonport Inlet 1891.Shifting Sands, Faye Gardam
One day a shipbuilder’s son fell in love with a beautiful girl. Their eyes met at the
Regatta in 1898.
Mersey Regatta. Shifting Sands, Faye Gardam
She was wearing a gown of Chantilly lace, she had a pretty
face and a ponytail hanging down and a blood red rose with a blue ribbon pinned
to her gown. They spent the afternoon together and vowed their undying love
that night as a pale moon rose over the water and the celebratory fireworks
exploded over their heads. She gave him the rose as they parted.
But
alas, their love was ill-fated from the start. The young lass’ name was Jessie
Drake and she came from the wrong side of the river. She was from Torquay (East
Devonport) and the young man was from Formby (West Devonport) and back then a
girl from the Downs of Pardoe would not be at all suitable match for a man of
Victoria Parade . Jessie Drake was 16, only 16, oh but he loved her so and from
then on the lad would row his little boat
over the river when he could, to spend precious moments together.
Formby looking east to Torquay, Shifting Sands, Faye Gardam
When
the lad’s father heard of these dalliances he was not happy. One evening after
a meeting of the town’s founding fathers, he told of his serious concerns to Mr
Oldaker. Mr McFie and Mr Fenton were listening on.
“Don’t
worry old chap” interjected Mr Gunn, “leave it to me, I shall attend to the
matter”
Mr
Gunn was hoping for a marital pairing of his daughter with the shipbuilder’s
son, but as she was a chunky, robust girl with several facial moles, this was
never going to happen….as the shipbuilder’s son was gushingly gorgeous and
psychological studies have proven overwhelmingly that similarly rated hotness
always marries hotness of equal rating.
Pintrest: Hot Vintage Men. The Handsome Victorian Gent
The
next day Mr Gunn “announced” the
engagement of his daughter to the shipbuilder’s son within earshot of Mr Drake,
Jessie’s father. Thinking nothing of it, Mr Drake retold the local news at his
family dinner table that evening. Jessie went pale. Tears welled up and she
felt ill, so excused herself quickly from the table.
Jessie
went to bed and cried all night.
Before
dawn she, beside herself with grief, ran down to the river bank. She called her
sweetheart’s name, knowing he slept in the attic bedroom at the front of the
house with the window open. The water was wide and she couldn’t cross o’er, if
only he would come with his boat. But the lad slept soundly, hearing her voice
weave its way into his dreams but not awakening. The tide was low and the pale
moon illuminated a pathway across the river, but alas, as the sea mists rolled
in, that pathway lured Jessie into its depths.
The
next day news of Jessie’s death spread through the town. When the young man heard,
grief stricken he went to the water’s edge, there at his feet he found a blood
red rose and a blue ribbon.
The
lad never recovered from losing Jessie, and certainly never married Mr. Gunn’s
daughter. He put all his efforts into building a beautiful timber boat, which
he named the Jessie Drake. He sailed it to Melbourne, where he bought one
hundred blood-red rose bushes. That night he sailed home, and the weather was
terrible. He was warned not to sail. He fought all night with the wild Bass
Strait tempests, but finally when the wind was a torrent of darkness and the
pale moon was a ghostly galleon, within knots of Port Frederick all was lost
and the Jessie Drake went down.
The
next morning dozens of blood red roses bushes were scattered on the shore.
And
over the years, in the early hours of the morning when the sea mist rolls in
and a pale moon shines a pathway over the waters, many have told of a ghostly
ship sailing into Port Frederick with the ghost of a young man aboard calling
his lost lover’s name, and, many an East Devonport residence has attested to
hearing, as the fog thickens, the voice of a girl calling a name the same as
was the young ship builder’s sons.
So as you walk through the streets of old Formby Town, if
you see any blood red roses growing on old gnarled bushes, chances are they are
from the young man’s cargo, as the locals salvaged them, and, as they were bare
rooted and it was late August, they survived, because as any keen gardener
knows its dashed near impossible to kill a rose, and they planted them in their
gardens, and some still flower today.
This story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but the characters involved are wholly imaginary.
