Of all the doomed spirits haunting North Carolina, few inspire
heartsick tears more than Boss the tugboat captain’s dog – devoted
canine, dockside hero, fearless pooch who died for love.
She
trotted at the heels of Capt. William Ellerbrock, tagging along for
pints of ale or jaunts on the Cape Fear River, lending comfort to the
rough-handed skipper. They made boon companions, ashore and afloat – a
pair whose friendship endures in Wilmington folklore.
Then one
night in 1880, she darted into a burning building after her beloved
master, perishing beside him in the flames, a torn piece of his coat in
her charred muzzle. To this day, her whine can be heard along the
waterfront, especially, it’s said, to those being careless with fire.
So
sacred is Boss’ memory to the Port City, so hallowed her bravery, that
her image appears chiseled on Capt. Ellerbrock’s grave, the only North
Carolina dog so honored, as far as I know.
To this day, when
guides lead tourists on the ghost walk down Front Street, they weep
through the telling of Boss’ story, stricken more than a century later.
“It
doesn’t have a lot of ghostly occurrences,” said John Hirchak, lead
guide and author of “Ghosts of Old Wilmington,” “but it’s just such a
tragic and moving story that it’s hard to resist. I’m bawling my eyes
out every time I work on it.”
Young William Ellerbrock fled
Germany in upheaval and landed in the 19th-century South, a culture
where he never exactly fit. Knowing no one, fumbling with the language,
he sought shelter with an uncle who taught him the tugboat trade.
He
missed the old country and his friends, assimilating poorly, until one
day his uncle gave him a present: the dog he named Boss.
Stories
differ on Boss’ breed, a Newfoundland or a plain mutt. But history
agrees that the two never parted, especially that April night when the
alarm bells rang out over the waterfront. One account states that
Ellerbrock handed Boss over to a bystander before he rushed in to help
the victims, and that his dog broke free and chased after him. But
Hirchak suspects that Boss wouldn’t have parted from Ellerbrock even for
a second.
However it happened, the pair weren’t discovered until
the next morning, the captain face down in the ashes and pinned under a
collapsed wall. When crews lifted them from the wreckage, a woman in the
crowd called out, “There’s something in the dog’s mouth!”
When
they inspected, they found the pup’s teeth still clenched around her
master’s sleeve, torn off as she tried to drag him to safety.
“This
was big news when it happened,” Hirchak said. “It’s like the little
girl falling down the well. Everybody felt like they had something
invested in it.”
Capt. Ellerbrock and Boss rest in a corner of
Oakdale Cemetery, a green and wooded graveyard hung with Spanish moss.
They’re not far from 367 unknown Confederate soldiers and hundreds more
victims of yellow fever. Newscaster David Brinkley’s grave is within
shouting range.
By all accounts they do not appear in the burial
ground, choosing instead to bob peacefully on some celestial riverboat.
But Hirchak tells this story:
Long after their death, the fire
largely forgotten, a merchant running a new business near the spot had
an electrician do some work in an old upstairs corner. While he was
poking around, he and his crewmen heard a dog whining nearby, and after
searching around, they couldn’t find the animal anywhere.
But once
he’d taken a good look, the electrician came back downstairs and
advised against the work. Too risky, he said. A fire hazard.
He’d
never heard the story of Boss the valiant, Boss who charged into an
inferno. But he must have heard a phantom canine growling across the
decades, a warning from trusty, long-eared protector.
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