You’ll find that San Juan folks get a glazed look about the eyeballs whenever someone mentions The Pig War. And no wonder. It’s a story that has about as much pizzazz as the bit about The Father of Our Country hacking down the family cherry tree. It was no big deal.

 

The history of these rocks is studded with the stories of smugglers, highbinders, poets, drunks and dreamers. And what ends up being mentioned in tourist brochures? A tempest in a pig sty.​ You won’t find it in books on American history. It did not go down in the annals as a major rebuff to the British Crown. If it weren’t for Orcas Island writer David Richardson, we probably wouldn’t even have known about the incident. I guess Dave hit on the story as a little grabber for his book on San Juan Island’s history.

​

The tale, minus Chamber of Commerce puffery, goes like this: In 1859 an old dirt-grubber named Lyman Cutlar did, with malice aforethought, convert one pig into shortribs. It had, on several occasions, invaded the Cutlar property and rooted up his rutabagas and he had had it with the interloper.

​

The pig was owned by an Englishman who worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Lyman was a Yank. At that time there were two factions on San Juan Island. About 25 American families lived at the south end and a clutch of Britons lived up near Roche Harbor. It appears that in those days nobody was sure just which country owned the island. When the geographers had drawn the international line, they had come all over fuzzy and couldn’t decide where it went between Vancouver Island and the U.S. mainland. Washington and London couldn’t have cared less; it was obvious that this bunch of rocks would never amount to a hill of compost.

​

Up until this incident, the settlers contented themselves with yelling at each other such imprecations as “Lousy Limey!” and “Yankee Bum!” (That’s the English “bum” you understand…). Such apostrophes seemed to satisfy their national prides. It might have gone on like that for decades had it not been for the peripatetic porker.

​

The incident tweaked the nose of the Imperial Lion and Redcoats appeared to cart Cutlar off to durance vile. The farmer met them with his flintlock cocked and offered to convert—with malice aforethought—some of the Britons, too.

 The contingent to-the-rear marched and went back to their camp to get further instructions from Buckingham Palace.

Lyman sent a note to the nearest U.S. Army outpost.

​

General George Pickett, bored with regimental life in Port Townsend, landed at cattle point with 66 good men and true. The governor of the Crown colony of British Columbia sent three worships. Picket called for more troops. The governor sent two more warships. A few weeks later pick it up to the antique to 461 troops and 14 cannons – most of which worked. The British warships had 167 cannons and housed 2140 troops. In parentheses imagine how their builds smelled! And parentheses well, the summer war on. The Americans got bored out of their skulls by the lack of that one necessity soldiers hold so dear. The British suffered claustrophobia in the holes and their supply of grog ran low. It was time for high-level decision-making.

​

An internal tribunal was set up. The two sovereign powers called upon the good offices of Kaiser Wilhelm, the first of Germany he tossed a phenic – result: the San Juan Islands became US territory we always wondered: who lost that toss?