Violent death—accidental or otherwise—has always played a grim role in our past. Time and again, newspaper headlines have heralded tragedy.
Certainly one of the saddest cases on record is that of the ‘Westminster Horror.’
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Today’s so-called ‘war on drugs’ has an interesting parallel in history. In 1917, after a contested and controversial referendum, Prohibition was declared and, overnight, Canada Dry became more than a popular soft drink.
Officially, at any rate. In practice it was more a case of business as usual, despite the efforts of police.
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International borders, it seems, are an invitation to smugglers of humans and goods. You know, build it and they will come.
Certainly, the international waters between Victoria and Washington State, primarily those of the San Juan and Gulf islands, have been the arenas of illicit activities almost since the arrival of the first Whites.
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In 50 years before the bench, from prime minister's drawing room to frontier jail cell, he never turned down a case. He was a legend in his own lifetime, celebrated from the Maritimes to the Klondike as the greatest criminal lawyer of his age: Stewart William Henderson.
His death, aged 81, made the front page of the New York Times.
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Vancouver Island was in a state of emergency, 156 years ago.
While members of the Volunteer Rifle Corps and special constables patrolled Victoria streets, British men-of-war stood at the alert in Esquimalt Harbour and cruised Juan de Fuca Strait.
This is the little-known chapter of Vancouver Island's exciting history when it was feared to be the intended invasion target of the outlawed Irish nationalist society, the Fenian Brotherhood.
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In last week’s Chronicle, based upon my first interview as an aspiring young journalist, the late Charles Taylor recounted some of the Alberni Valley’s colourful, often tragic history.
This week, we cut out the middleman and go straight to the horse’s mouth, so to speak...
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Conclusion
As we’ve seen, to Joseph Camille Claus of Nanoose Bay goes the dubious honour of committing “the first cold-blooded premeditated murder...in the frozen north,” in this case the Stikine River country.
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Part 2
As we’ve seen, to Joseph Camille Claus goes the dubious honour of committing “the first cold-blooded premeditated murder...in the frozen north”.
According to the Victoria Colonist, anyway. Claus, it should be noted, had yet to face trial let alone be convicted by a jury of his peers.
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Part 1
If it seems to be a long way from remote northwestern British Columbia’s Stikine River and the Yukon-Alaska border to Nanaimo, mid-Vancouver Island, it is.
But no greater than the fabled long arm of the law, as was amply shown in June 1898 when 12 good citizens took their places in the jury box in a Nanaimo courtroom.
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(Conclusion)
Last week’s Part 1 of A Tale of Two Soldiers was to be a doubleheader, the stories of both Gunner Ratcliffe, the villain, and Private Michael James O’Rourke, VC, MM—war hero, labour activist and, by all measures, an outstanding man.
The demolition, several years ago, of the 1890 Officers’ Mess and Quarters at Work Point, Victoria, inspired a letter to the editor of the Times Colonist warning against disturbing its two resident ghosts.
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(Conclusion)
So: who dun it? Readers may have drawn some conclusions of their own from the few facts ascertained by Victoria police and private parties acting unofficially as detectives in the fatal shooting of the young clerk, October 28, 1885.
(Part 1)
Police surmised that his attackers ‘dogged’ him for hours, awaiting their chance.
Her only known photo is fascinating in itself. She’s young (23), fair skinned with a clear complexion, plainish bordering on attractive, without makeup and neatly coiffed. She isn’t looking into the camera but slightly upward to her right, as if at something across the room. You can’t read anything in her expression other than that she shows no visible emotion.
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Genealogists have a field day with Vital Statistics; they’re a treasure chest for family researchers and historians alike. But, of course, they really don’t tell you much beyond the barest of bones.
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I’ve often wondered why some people seem hyper-sensitive to their family histories; sometimes to the point of burning old papers, photos and other memorabilia that should have been passed on to future generations.
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When, many years ago, I was interviewed by a radio announcer about my newest book, Outlaws of the Canadian West, he expressed amazement that we had ‘outlaws’ in British Columbia. In the American Southwest, yes, but north of the 49th parallel? He could hardly believe it.
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As we’ve seen, Volcanic Brown had to make some momentous decisions in his lifelong career as a prospector, such as the day he amputated his own gangrenous toes with a pocketknife.
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Of all the stories of lost treasure in British Columbia the legendary Lost Creek Mine has the most personal meaning for me. It helped to set me on the path to becoming a lifelong writer/historian. All thanks to my growing up in Victoria in the 1950s on a diet of, first, American comic books, then American magazines, movies and TV.
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When we left off last week, California badman ‘Judge’ Ned McGowan had barely escaped a vigilante neck-tie for his alleged role in planning the murder of crusading San Francisco newspaper editor James King.
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