The Curse of the Jamieson Brothers

I’ve long joked that I’ve sunk more ships than Lord Nelson—in print.

And I owe that dubious claim, in part, to a lady who, long ago, did me a small favour. Or so it seemed at the time.

In fact, she firmly set me on my course as a writer/historian and I owe her to this day.

Miss Fawcett—that’s all I knew her by, no Christian name or initials—lived next door to my high school chum Bruce, in Saanich. As we did all “old maids” or spinsters, we teenagers thought she was crabby and viewed her with disdain and just a teensy measure of respect—or fear, really, as she sure could express herself and make her presence known to us.

But, no big deal: she quietly lived her life next door to and as a friend of Bruce’s mom. One day, I’m assuming, Mrs. Broadfoot, knowing that Miss Fawcett was the daughter of Edgar Fawcett, author of the highly collectible Some Reminiscences of Old Victoria, mentioned to her my interest in writing and history.

Next I knew, she’d offered to let me read—not borrow—her father’s book. So it was arranged that I could read a few chapters at a time at Bruce’s house.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

One of the first chapters I read was on the wreck of the pioneer steamship Cariboo in Victoria Harbour. I was enthralled. All the drama and excitement of a boiler explosion and death, not in the faraway B.C. Interior or even more distant U.S., but almost in my own backyard, Victoria!

Such was my introduction to the ill-fated Jamieson brothers, all of whom became steamboat captains and engineers, all of whom died young and tragically. What a story!

To this day I’m indebted to Miss Fawcett for seeing past the brashness of my teen-hood and trusting me with her only copy of her father’s book which I’ve since acquired at considerable cost.

Next week, the incredible story of the ill-fated Jamieson brothers.

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