Fever.

That’s what it’s been called. Gold fever. A sickness. Something that corrupts the healthy, weakens the body, the mind, and turns it into something unrecognizable. Illness that leaves grief in its wake, that poisons the lives of the afflicted, leaves all those around them victims to its whims.

How does someone overcome an illness like this? One that isn’t born of blood and festering wounds, but of something more cruel. Of something as inherently human as a man’s greed. They say a simple chance of seeing that sun-kissed metal will turn brother against brother, husband against wife, man against himself. Yet, how can we blame them? Travelling hundreds of days, leaving everything one knows behind. Many of these miners speak a different tongue, and can only communicate within their circles. The breeding of animosity, whether that be race, language, wealth or newfound fortune, is inevitable. This illness kills, not in a way of self-succumbing, but in murder.

My name is Matthew Baillie Begbie, and I play God. I was born to no land of my own, on a ship under the Crown’s name while it sailed the ocean. I grew with education at my fingers, Scottish might and egalitarianism in my blood. I pursued law, the study of justice and trial, and navigated my way through a freshly colonial British Columbia. I have done right by many different people, and I have also done wrong. I set precedents.

I have been called cruel.

I have been called cutthroat.

When I die and my legacy gains legs, I will garner the title, ‘The Hanging Judge.’ That name is not in any way misleading. My word has been the finality in many men’s lives, and that is not something that weighs on a person lightly. It is a hard thing to do, to actualize playing God with the people that live on this land. It is not something I decide easily, to define someone’s death by the crimes they have committed. Despite this, being a judge is my life, and not many cases have haunted me, followed me throughout my every waking moment and fundamentally changed me.

The murder of Charles Morgan Blessing, however, was an exception.

I remember the witness’s description. The hollowed look in his eyes of dissociation. How he described the decaying body, the separated, bullet pierced skull. I remember the next witnesses, reinforcing their accounts of one James Barry being responsible.

Mr. Barry insisted on his innocence, with a stare that went through you and a chin that pointed up in the self assurance of only one who believed himself impenetrable. I remember his arrogance, and how it wormed under my skin and caused a tick in my jaw. I remember going to look over the evidence brought forth for nights on end, deliberating with my council. I remember listening to the defending lawyer, and losing faith in my fellow man word by word.

I lay awake at night, pondering if it was worth it to Mr. James Barry. To shoot a fellow neighbour in the head for that hunk of metal. Did Blessing’s final breath lay heavy on his consciousness as James revelled in his newfound wealth? Did he stop and pause in the action of loading his gun, or was it already loaded, any semblance of redemption long gone? Were James Barry and I really that different, both playing God with the lives of others? Sure, my word was my weapon, ordained to me by a higher education and a pledge for justice, and his was merely a simple gun. And yet, was this not the same? There was no doubt in my mind that James Barry was guilty, all evidence and witness testimony pointed to it.

But I still wondered.

The results for the trial come swift. I adorn my robes, black as night, and a powdered wig that I feel holds no other meaning than to show my elevated position. I take my stand and meet Barry’s eyes for the first time.

James Barry had shot Charles Morgan Blessing through the back of his head. James Barry did not look Charles Morgan Blessing in the eyes when he played his hand at being God. He stole a life, then stole the gold. His fever overtook him in a violent upheaval, and because of the sickness of greed a man lay buried. Cold in the ground.

Me and James Barry are not the same.

I have made mistakes in my life. I am by far not a perfect judge. I have sent men to the hanging block, and made errors in judgement over the long years I have been serving under this country. But I condemn with the hope of preserving the safety of others. That is the difference between James Barry and I.

So when it comes to showing my cards, when it comes to throwing my hand at playing God, I meet James Barry’s eyes. I grant him the comfort that he could not grant Charles Morgan Blessing.

Because when I play God, I play fair.

– Sophie Turton

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