C.H. DICKIE: OUT OF THE PAST (Part 1)
by An M.P.
The author of this enjoyable memoir, Charles Herbert Dickie, obviously had as much fund recounting his colourful adventures as he'd had living them. (Family photo)
You’re not likely to find Charles Herbert Dickie’s memoir, Out of the Past, “by an M.P.,” in a used book store—or even online.
Dedicated to the memory of carefree friends, it measures 3.5 inches by five, and 128 pages, it’s just 20,000 words in length, more comparable to an e-book than to a pocket book, and it’s stapled rather than bound. All in all, it’s pretty small and likely was printed on the cheap.
But make no mistake: It’s a great read and of particular interest to students of Cowichan Valley and British Columbia mining history.
A member of the B.C. Provincial Legislature for a single term, then a Member of Parliament for Nanaimo for 14 years, his background as a sheriff in Michigan, as a fireman with the Esquimalt & Nanaimo Railway, as a saloonkeeper in Duncan, as the principal owner of the Richard III copper mine on Mount Sicker, and as a fortune hunter in the Stewart River wilds of northern B.C., is a fascinating story...
CHAPTER 1
I went to seek on many roads
What was to be
True heart and strong with love to light
To bear me onward in the fight
To order, shun or wield or mould
My Destiny.
In the springtime of life I, in common with many Canadians, drifted into the State of Michigan, where owing to the flourishing condition of the lumbering industry better opportunities were afforded than in our native Canada.
I was only a few days in the State when I secured a position as book-keeper for a small lumber company, but notwithstanding my well-meant “single entry” efforts the company failed.
A little later I became a log scaler and still later on a lumber inspector and these occupations I followed fairly regularly for some years. While stationed at the little lumbering town of Ogemaw Springs I, being reasonably temperate and physically fit, was prevailed upon to become a Deputy Sheriff and in my capacity as such I obtained an insight into the rougher side of life at that time in that careless country that I would doubtless otherwise not have had.
In these tumultuous brutal days the northern part of the State swarmed with loggers and might was right. Each little hamlet or town had its “best man in town” almost invariably a big, brutal “rough and tumble” fighter to whom the mayor ranked second in importance.
Shortly after distinction had been conferred on my unworthy self, the “best man” in Ogemaw Springs, where I was located, started on the warpath, beat up his “woman” and set fire to her dance hall.
A warrant for his arrest was placed in my hands. I being ill at the time and he being a “hangover” from caveman days, with a reputation of having bitten off a man’s ear and nose, I offered up a silent prayer that he would leave town before I could make the arrest, for right down in my heart I feared him, as I had never felt enamoured of rolling about a bar-room floor with an opponent who was trying to gouge out an eye or bite off parts of my anatomy.
The big fellow had decided to stay and word reached me that he was “still gong strong” and as the United States of America, as does England, expects every man to do his duty, even at the expense of an ear or a nostril, I shoved a gun in my pocket feeling just a little ashamed of doing so, and started out to find my prey, praying not to find it.
As I passed through the swinging doors of a big saloon there sounded in my ears loud and clear—“Here comes the Boy Sheriff—watch me eat him up”.
The saloon was full, as were most of the occupants and I being, as General Grant characterized himself, “a moral coward,” I could not retreat, so I walked towards my man and he, willing to meet me more than halfway, started my way.
The next I remembered he had his hands in the air and I had him covered with my gun. The wonder is that in my fear I had not shot him. I had made my first arrest, and after succeeding in getting a Justice of the Peace sobered sufficiently to send the culprit up for trial, I called it a day. The last impressive words, addressed to me by the prisoner when after his trial he was starting for the State Prison to serve a five-year sentence, were, “When I get out you ..... I’ll eat you up!”
I never saw the cannibalistic gentleman again, much to my gratification, as I preferred to remain undigested.
In my official capacity I was summoned to West Branch, the Country Seat, to confer with the Sheriff, and he and I were sitting, and standing at regular and frequent and intervals in the big bar-room of the principal hotel of the little town.
As the door flew open a hush fell on the assemblage, a feeling as if “here comes the King” came over us as the “best man” of the town accompanied by his roystering [sic] satellites swaggered into the room.
His Turbulent Majesty was a big, impulsive, impatient man who scorned labour, and who was reputed to live from the wages of sin of fallen women, and from the pockets of inebriated loggers, many of whom thought it an honour to contribute to his requirements. As “best man in town” he was respected, feared and detested, according to the view of the mixed standard of citizenship in the town.
The autocrat and his sycophantic attendants lined up at the bar and the bartender, a quiet little fellow, received the royal command to set out the bottles, but he in a timid way hesitating[ly] imparted the information that his orders were “no money, no booze”. This amounted to practically “lese majeste” and the King reached over the counter to gather the little man in; the bartender, however, picked a big “44” from a convenient spot and shot the big fellow through the heart. The Sheriff sprang forward and caught him as he was falling.
The bartender surrendered, was tried and acquitted and complimented for his good work, but he afterwards informed me that the face of his victim was ever before him. It was not long before he also was laid away in the little burial ground over the hill, where lay big Tom Hayes, whom he had shot, in fear and trembling.
Boxing was a popular form of diversion in Ogemaw Spring, especially on Sunday afternoons. I enjoyed the exercise and was perhaps the leading exponent of that art in the little town, and perhaps I swaggered a little as I acquired an excess of pride that invariably goeth before a fall.
One day a medium-sized unassuming gentleman blew into town, ostensibly looking for a business opening, and he became an unobtrusive spectator of our boxing bouts.
At one of our Sunday seances I was distinguishing myself in a “small town way,” when a gentleman, whose occupation was that of selecting aces or other desirable cards from any part of the pack or elsewhere, when it was profitable to do so, sauntered into the hall and in a semi-intoxicated reckless way, offered to venture a few shimeleons that he could, with his eyes, shut, select from the select audience a man that would figuratively speaking “make me look like thirty cents”. I, in my unsophisticated way, took the other side of the argument, and we backed our opinions with fairly substantial wagers.
The nimble fingered gentleman selected the quiet gentleman who was looking for a business opening.
The visitor was hard to persuade, but finally donned the mittens in such a too awkward fashion that I began to see a great light and concluded that if ‘twere to be done ‘twere best to be done quickly, and after grasping hands as, if we were, or were to be, friends for life, I knocked him down, and that was my only proud contribution to the afternoon frolic. My opponent rose at the count of one and “found his opening” and during the balance of the entertainment on that lovely Sabbath day I kept hitting at a man who was elsewhere. I seemed surrounded by men—then the stars came out and I bade farewell—a long farewell—to all my dreams of pugilistic greatness.
I was disillusioned, deflated, defeated and the function was voted a great success.
The gentleman left on the first train, bearing with him my reputation and the satisfaction of having easily accomplished what he was paid for undertaking. I had taken another small stride toward worldly wisdom. Lest I should forget, my friends kindly arranged that for days thereafter I received many challenges to “put on the gloves” from ladies and school children.
Decades have gone by since the events I have chronicled, but in retrospective moments I frequently recall to memory the great, virile, resourceful, turbulent men I knew in Michigan; men who almost without exception had migrated from Canada. Tumultuous fellows, abysmal brutes some of them; men of a peculiar psychology who would kick a man when down or bite pieces off an opponent when in a belligerent mood and infuriated with drink and passion, but were a little child ill, they would, if needs be, swim the Hellespont, take a physician by the neck and swim back with him.
There could have been selected from those I knew in those careless years a couple of hundred men who would have scaled the walls of Troy before breakfast, tossed Hector and Paris into discard and sent Helen back to her Menelaus; this done and they having had a few more drinks, there would be a real fight—a fight worthwhile amongst themselves, and Homer’s delightful Iliad would have been shortened by many pages. Wonderful men with wonderful faults, great, brutal children.
My occupation was an easy, interesting and fairly lucrative one, but the wanderlust came over me and I informed my principal employer and patron, who had always taken a fatherly interest in me, that I was going West. He tried to dissuade me and finding his efforts futile he told me my fortune as it were viz: “I would go West and be disillusioned and when good and broke I would write to him for money—that he would gladly send and I would return a more sensible young man than when I left.”
The dear old fellow never knew how strongly I was tempted to do as he predicted, but for shame’s sake I would perhaps have done so.
While in Michigan I made at least two major errors. In 1881 I bet my savings, $600.00, that Paddy Ryan would beat Sullivan at New Orleans and I lost. I had counted on the amount in question defraying my expenses at Ann Arbor University. Later on, I went to Ann Arbor, but owing to limited capital and other reasons, I took a useless course at a Commercial College in that City. Many times have these errors caused me remorse, but, “What’s the use?”
It would be years and many an adventure before Charles Dickie came as close as ever he did to striking it rich. His Richard III Mine was situated just a bit higher up Mount Sicker than the fabulously rich Tyee Mine, shown here.
CHAPTER 2
“The toad beneath the harrow knows to just what depth the drag tooth goes.”
The early 80’s found me in New Orleans, San Antonio, Texas and finally in California, unfortunately for me, just at the time a boom had faded away. The Southern Pacific Railway Company had circularized the world to the effect that Southern California was a land of hope for those afflicted with tuberculosis. I was “consumptive” but not tuberculosis and it dawned on me that in order to consume I must get on a payroll. The State was swarming with unemployed and my advent into the Golden State, while seasoned with optimism and hope, was not devoid of perplexing features.
After delaying for a time in San Francisco, and up and down the Coast, I found myself stranded by San Diego, then a small town infested with stranded real estate sharks. At the adjacent mushroom “National City” it was first borne on me that the oriental question was a serious one. I had applied to the Superintendent of the California Southern Railway for employment and having satisfied that gentleman that I had clerical ability, was a telegraph operator, also ready for any class of work, I was requested to call that day, which I did only to learn that all positions were filled to overflowing; and as to pick and shovel work this was monopolized by Mexicans and Mongolians and I, young, strong, resourceful and willing was doomed to idleness.
It did not seem right but my opinion did not count and after paying a visit to an “uncle” who was not a relative, I abandoned San Diego to its fate and returned to Los Angeles and the throngs of unemployed, all too many of whom were emaciated, hopeless victims of the white plague [tuberculosis]. Each day could be seen a long queue of unfortunates at the small post office apparently hoping for registered mail or to be bought out by some busy person when they had neared the wicket.
This means of obtaining a livelihood not appealing to me and none other being in evidence, I sallied forth into the country one Sabbath morn in search of rural employment.
The day was pleasant and I wandered on at times meeting or more often overtaking professional tramps, hobos they were called. I had invitations to join my fortune with a number of these derelicts, but, although it may be that “misery loves company,” I, under the circumstances, preferred solitude.
Along about midday, I decided that I would eat, so I finally concluded that at the first hospitable looking house I would saunter up to the door and ask for the wherewithal to satisfy the pangs of hunger, a very simple proceeding I told myself. Home after home I passed but something at each did not seem to appeal to me. However, “needs must when the devil drives” and I rapped at the door of a homey looking little bungalow and a lady came with a babe in arms. Just then something seemed to go wrong with my articulatory organs, something seemed to rise in my throat. I, however, succeeded in asking for a glass of water, and then, lifting my hat, I thanked the lady and was again on my way with a feeling of shame that seemed to dispel any desire for food. Thus ended my first and last brazenly attempted appeal to charity. I did not eat—I did not ask.
The shades of evening were lengthening when I came across a friendly looking man repairing the harness of a horse he was driving. I asked if he knew where a big, stupid willing to work man could locate labour. After a little talk he insisted that I get in with him and go to his home, near Los Netas, for the night. This I did and in the evening a dear old lady and I talked of another home and another dear old mother. The next morning a promise was extorted from me that if I did not succeed in getting work I would come back and make that home mine until something turned up, and as the old lady tried to press some money into my hand at parting I had to turn brusquely away to hide the tears that came.
—After many years fortune having smiled on me, under happier conditions I returned to visit these people, but the face of the countryside had changed. What had been wild cactus covered mesa land had been brought under cultivation; and I, having forgotten the name of the family, was unable to find those whom I sought, so with a feeling of disappointment I abandoned the quest.—
The next day was nearly done when I noticed an old man splitting wood at the back of a somewhat pretentious house. I approached and asked him to allow me to give a demonstration with the axe, I being young and strong. The old man gave me an unwelcome look, spat and went on with his work. An old lady came out and gave me the “once over” and, having decided I was not Jesse James, asked the story of my life and then how much I would want to work for a month. I replied that I would work the period in question and leave to her generosity the stipend and ‘twas there I landed my first job in the Golden State.
My employers believing that I was respectable, I was given a room and a good bed in the house, for which I felt honoured, as the hired men of California were usually expected to sleep in the barn or anywhere on the ranch except the house.
As we were about to retire for the night the old man noticed a couple of hobos climb over his fence and lie down beside a fire of grapevine prunings. I was asked to go and show them off the premises. I could not see that they were doing any harm but I hied forth with the old man following and when I informed the knights of the road that they were trespassing, the smaller and elder of the two informed me that he was not stuck on the place and would leave as in case anything happened to him in the night he would hate to be found dead on the property of as mean a man as I, which flattered me, as he doubtless thought I owned the land. He climbed over the fence and telling me where I could go, went his way.
His companion was different, he was young, he was big and he was insolent and I was weary and wary; and as my employer was regarding me with a “sic ‘em, Tiger” look I felt that I was on trial. I looked the tramp over and regretted that it was not he that had left and the smaller older man remained. The big fellow calmly informed us that he was resting easily and proposed to stay until dawn, although those were not the words he used; hobos express their thoughts in other language.
I leaned over him and whispered “Get out! And come back when we are gone and save both of us trouble.” He understood and complied and my reputation remained untarnished. Before retiring I sauntered out and saw two recumbent forms slumbering peacefully and I did not disturb their slumbers.
One week-end the son of my employer, for whom I worked sixteen hours a day, and I went hunting wild geese on what was known as the Bixby range. In order to stalk our game we had an old cow skin, which we got inside of when we sighted the geese. We were proceeding cautiously, my partner being in the front end and pretending to browse at times while I, in the rear, would occasionally give the tail a twist.
All went well until I heard an alarming sound behind and looking back from the cow’s tail I saw a band of cattle making for us.
We threw the hide in the air and the cattle turned tail, while the geese went in an opposite direction. We decided that the hide was not a success. It had been mild cured and with the mercury at 95 [F] the slaughter house atmosphere was not conducive to pleasurable hunting.
In those days the cactus covered mesa land harboured myriads of quail. The rancher’s son was a crack shot and shooting from the hip usually brought down birds with both barrels. One Sunday I sallied forth in quest of birds accompanied by the young man’s well-trained dog. The dog gave me a funny look and then trotted back home and I was ashamed.
Later on [in] San Francisco “the city of love” [and] again on the rocks, my next industrial diversion was driving a horse and cart, hauling clay from the hills of Marin County to be used in brick-making.
My associates were a sprinkling of down and out Irishmen with Dennis Kearney (a California labour leader who strongly opposed Asian immigrants—TWP) ideals, many Portuguese and several hundred of Chinamen [sic]. Each Saturday evening the boss Chinaman would pass my cabin with two sacks of specie, pay for his men, and as I watched him I wondered if it were possible to obtain the lucre, which was easy, and get away with it, which was a harder problem. The country was not wooded and San Quentin prison was adjacent and then there were thoughts of home and due to all or either of these reasons, with lack of nerve added, the Chinaman was unmolested.
Lonely evenings I would sit on the shore of San Francisco Bay watching the pleasure craft go by, listening to music and laughter, or climbing a hill gaze on the Pacific Ocean dreaming dreams and wondering, “How long, Oh Lord, how long?” would my purgatorial period last, but I had youth, wonderful youth, and I felt that I would in time rise buoyantly above [these] surroundings.
The first horse and cart in the clay pit was the first to finish work in the afternoon and it was my cart that usually was first for it was a relief to leave my flea-ridden cabin in the morning. The Portugese [sic] turned sullen and one morning the climax came. I had backed my cart into the pit when a big Lusitanian took my horse by the head and leading him forward backed his cart in place of mine. I hesitated for a moment and then knocked him down; two or three of his companions started for me and sliding the handle out of a pick I stroked the first one over the head; the others hesitated.
I turned on my heel and strode down the hill leaving my horse and cart with blood in my eye and the pick handle in my hand, I requested my pay from the manager.
That gentleman protested but only momentarily as I convinced him in a few words that I had reached the breaking point and again I was on my way to Frisco.
Some weeks later I was working in a sawmill in Mendocino County but it seemed that turbulence was forced on me. My job was to take away slabs and lumber from a circular saw and shove it along rollers to a man who put the lumber through an edger. I had assisting me a faithful little Chinaman, who was continually abused by the big edgerman and it dawned on me that it was only a matter of time when I would lock horns with that disagreeable individual. The time came—the little Chinaman in shoving some boards pinched the big fellow’s fingers and was immediately seized, thrown down and kicked in the face. I saw red and the next thing I remembered was the edgerman being assisted out of the mill.
The foreman took me aside and thanked me for what I had done but informed me that the edgerman came from a bad family and it would be the part of wisdom if I changed my abode. I took his advice and left on the coast stage that evening and the incident was closed.
Having decided to go to Eureka in Humboldt County, I was on my way to the boat when a decent looking fellow overtook me and said, “Hello, McDonald.” I not being entirely unsophisticated said “My name is Jones.” He walked nearly to the boat with me while informing me that I was the very counterpart of his friend McDonald, then he also said that he had been robbed while on his way from the East to visit his brother, who was a banker in Eureka, where he felt sure I was going. He said his trunks were being held at the Palace Hotel for a $25.00 hotel bill and if I would oblige him, but I stopped him right there. When the boat was pulling out I noticed two young men anxiously scanning the gang plank and overheard one to say—”I don’t see our friend with his trunks.”
When I returned from Eureka I, one day, was looking in a shop window on Kearney Street when a soft voice said, “Do you want to buy a good watch cheap and ask me no questions?” It was our friend of the trunks and I asked him what there was about me that led him to think I was an “easy mark”. He gave a sly smile and seeing an approaching policeman he slunk off the other way.
When I had reached Eureka I found great excitement prevailing. An Alderman had been hit and killed by a stray shot in a battle between two Chinamen. Every Chinaman in the city was driven on board the boat I came on and for years after the yellow men [sic] were not allowed to land at Eureka.
As for the City “I had found it” as its name implied but it, as was the case with other California towns, was filled with men so again I packed up my attenuated grip for the “Golden Gate.”
(To be Continued)
Have a question, comment or suggestion for TW? Use our Contact Page.