Tuesday, 5th June, 1838

Up at first light this morning to find that it was still raining. 

After breakfast, inspected the area around Rapid Bay. There is a broad flat beach with a stream heading down from the hills. These are steep and hem in the flat land, such that there is probably room here for, at best, a small town. However, I believe that the place could be a reasonable port for a larger township situated on the land above the hills face. Still, having seen the location I do not share the enthusiasm Light seems to show for the place.   

At mid morning there came the sound of horses and credit where credit is due, Stevenson's whalers appeared in our midst. In fact, the rich, satisfying aroma of sweaty, unwashed men whose clothes were stiff with whale fat arrived amongst us first and the whalers followed some ten minutes later.

What a bunch! All of them filthy, dressed in near rags and all of them of an idea that four of your own teeth count as adequate to be going on with. Several of them eyed Mrs Hindmarsh with "a lean and hungry look", one of them telling me "You're a lucky man, Sir, having a fine strapping woman such as her to do for you". I was appalled, as was Mrs Hindmarsh, though perhaps for different reasons. It occurred to me that if the man stood too close he might do for me as well, such was the stench.

The Whalers having arrived, Lipson took his leave and set sail back to Port Adelaide, leaving us to the tender mercies of these cetacean gentlemen. They loaded our equipment and Mrs Hindmarsh onto the cart - "All your baggage, sir!" said one of them, thankfully out of earshot of my wife - and the rest of us rode some of the sorriest nags I have ever laid eyes on.

We set off, following the whalers as best we could as they rode on ahead with little thought for us. We managed to keep them in sight most often and when we could not, we just followed our noses.

And such rain! As steady and as copious as a donkey pissing, I have not seen rain like it since I was in Java. Of course we were soon soaked to the skin and even Mrs Hindmarsh, sitting on the cart with her umbrella firmly gripped above her head, was soon wet through.

The whalers were not so badly affected. I suspect that the layers of grease and tallow that had penetrated their pores over the years left them with similar water resistant properties to ducks. Their clothes, certainly, seemed to repel water in the same way that the whalers repelled us.

We spent much  of the day heading to Encounter Bay. The distance was not great, but the country was very hilly, with deep gullies and sudden obstacles. We kept to the ridges as best we could and worked our way across to the South Coast, where we had an easy and picturesque ride along cliff tops into Encounter Bay, reaching it by evening. 

The country seems rich and fertile, but it strikes me that unless a large flat plain or plateau can be found, then it is probably useless for further development of population, such are the ravines that are across the land. 

The whaling camp had set aside a couple of huts, especially for our use, telling us that they had been "cleaned out for us just this morning". Exactly what they had been cleaned out of and what understanding the whalers had of "clean" is a moot point. As we settled down for the night I suspected that the answers might be (1) something so deeply piscatorial that Isaak Walton himself might be set back on his heels (2) close enough is good enough.

Mrs Hindmarsh is taking her chances with her camp stretcher again, but, I gather, did spend some time before retiring making clear: her feelings about the rain; the whalers; and the splinters in the seat of the cart. I spent time nodding sympathetically, though at what exactly I am unsure, as I was barely listening. 

Monday, 4th June, 1838

I am sitting, in the rain, on the beach at Rapid Bay, in a tent that barely promises to provide any degree of shelter. Despite Stevenson's assurances, we were not met by whalers with horses or indeed, whalers without horses. We arrived just before sunset and while it was light, hope remained and we stood around in the rain, waiting on the beach until darkness fell. At that time we set up the tents and then sat around in the rain instead.

Stevenson's continuing assurances that the whalers will certainly be here at first light tomorrow sound increasingly hollow, but despite all he maintains a sublime and blissful confidence that come the dawn we shall hear, see and probably smell, whalers in our midst.

This is simply the icing on the cake of a most curious day. It began with Mrs Hindmarsh shilly shallying as usual. Despite having said that we would meet Captain Lipson and his ketch at Glenelg at nine in the morning, her preparations for our excursion stretched out so long that we eventually boarded the boat at nearly a half past the hour of ten, and did not get underway until eleven.

The result was that we had barely reached the mouth of the Onkaparinga River before the party declared that it was time for luncheon. Milner Stephen, who had suffered from mal de mer from almost the moment we hauled up the anchor, did not, I fancy, feel at all peckish, but the rest of the party drew up on the beach for a selection of Lucrezia Harvey's cold delights.

Whilst we were wondering what we should do with the large portion we had failed to stomach a group of natives appeared at the top of the dunes behind the beach. Suddenly one gave a great cry and began to run toward us. Stevenson and Milner Stephen seemed to think that their end had come, while Mrs Hindmarsh, with admirable fortitude, armed herself with a parasol. I, however, had noticed that the man was not shouting in anger, but was, in fact, laughing. 

He stopped directly in front of me and addressed me with a great grin on his face. It was then that I saw that he had a cord slung across his shoulder and that the cord included strips of blue woollen blanket. I realised that this must be one of the men who had come to our camp at the Paddy Will Linger Lagoon in January last year, when Stuart and Alford went hunting for lost horses and that, clearly, he had recognised me.

I shook him by the hand and he showed me the blanket strips that he had used to make the cord. I can take a hint as well as the next man and led him down to the boat, where I had another blanket stowed. I gave it to him and he seemed as pleased as Punch, heading back into the sand hills with it, no doubt to show it to his fellows.

Shortly after this encounter we made to head on our way, leaving the remains of Widow Harvey's lunch for the gulls, several of whom were eyeing it doubtfully. Just as we were about to launch the boat there was a shout and three natives appeared and gave us a dozen fish, clearly in return for the blanket.

As I have said we arrived at Rapid Bay just on sunset and so have had little opportunity to inspect the site. We were expecting to find whalers and an established campsite, but of course were disappointed. If the whalers disappointed us, the Native's gift of fish did not and we ate with much satisfaction after Lipson built us a fire. 

I then had the rare experience of watching Mrs Hindmarsh attempting to get into a camp stretcher to sleep for the night. She displayed a level of apprehension, awkwardness and incomprehension at her situation such that she gave an impression of nothing other than a sheep called upon to perform on a tightrope. She is currently lying stock still upon the thing, convinced that the slightest movement will either see her tumble out of the thing or have it collapse beneath her.

As yet I have managed to not laugh or even snigger, but it is a near run thing and the slightest slip will, I feel sure, bring the most terrible consequences. Mrs Hindmarsh has already made mention of the blanket I gave to the Onkaparinga man and has made it clear that I gave away my blanket and not hers.

Well, for the cost of a blanket I feel I have done something to advance the good relations between the natives and ourselves. The friendliness with which we were met seems to me to be a vindication of my thoughts on those we have found here already.

I am surrounded by people keen to attempt "to deal with the Native Problem". It is my opinion that if we spent a bit less time treating them as "a problem to be solved" and rather more time treating them as fellows and neighbours we might all achieve something. But I fear my view is the minority one and, if I am recalled to London, that minority will drop from "One Vote" to "None at all".

And I cannot help think, having seen some of the problem solvers, that the solution may not be an equitable one.   

Sunday, 3rd June, 1838

So, tomorrow I leave Adelaide behind me.

Not, I should add, because I am heading back to London, although that happy release seems to draw ever closer, but because I am bound on an excursion to Encounter Bay and Kingscote. It seems a fine idea to leave the cares of the town behind me and travel on a Vice-Regal inspection of the outlying areas of the Province.

In complete honesty the thing is a holiday, but if I can pass it off as "the burden of office" then all well and good.

The plan is to go by boat to Rapid Bay, to inspect Light's suggested site for a future township; then overland to Encounter Bay (Stevenson, who is organising this jaunt, assures me that we will be met at Rapid Bay by a party from the Whaling Station with horses. I cannot help but feel that relying on whalers amounts to being ruled by the heart and not the head. But Stevenson, in an act of faith that might give pause to a medieval Saint, assures me "all will be well".) and finally by ship to Kingscote, before returning to Adelaide.

This delightful itinerary is marred only by those who have announced they will accompany me. Stevenson and Strangways I do not object to. Stevenson can be good company and even Strangways is harmless enough. But Milner Stephen has announced he will be coming along, as if I do not get enough of him already. And Milner Stephens is like "Gentleman's Relish" - a little goes a long way. To complete my delight, Mrs Hindmarsh has decided to grace me with her presence and let the girls take their chances at home with Widow Harvey.  Fortunately, my sister Anne will also be home with them, so at least there will be one person of irreproachable character and good sense to attend to them.

People are very keen for me to see the harbours at Nepean Bay and Encounter Bay, telling me much of their excellence and quality. They forget two things: (1) That whatever the quality of Nepean Bay it is attached to the drunken orgy that is Kingscote and hence will be chiefly used for the importation of spiritous liquors. Is this entirely desirable? (2) Encounter Bay may or may not be a fine harbour. What is certain is that it is the harbour where my only son and heir and scion of the Hindmarshes nearly drowned in a shipwreck and hence might not be one I look upon in an entirely unbiased fashion. Still, I shall endeavour to maintain an open mind.

Monday's theatrical performance exceeded my expectations, but only in as far as it was even worse than I thought it would be. I am by no means a follower of Thespis and have never worn the tragic buskin nor the comic sock, yet even I understand that the first undertaking of the actor is to commit the words of the play to memory. It seems that this was not entirely understood by the actors the other night. It is also my understanding that there is a person behind the scenery with a copy of the play whose task it is to remind the actors of any forgotten words. It seems that such an officer was not present, leaving the actors to stand about giggling and toying with their fans and fob watches whenever memory came up blank, as it frequently did.

I might also have expected songs labelled as "comic" to contain at least a smile. They did not. 

The corps de ballet, who, it seems, represented Mountain Sylphs, were a lumpen lot who could have caused an avalanche as they thundered about the stage. 

The only positives that I could see were that many of the actors did not know how to project their voices, which meant that for much of the evening one could sit in blissful silence. And the forty year old actor who played the heroic young lover had the good taste to wear a bow tie, which matched his bow legs.

Mrs Hindmarsh declared the performance "a triumph" and "worthy of the London stage", (which suggests that standards in London must have slipped mightily) and has said that she cannot wait to see their next performance. With any luck that recall to London will come before then.

My daughter's Drawing Lessons continue apace. She has certainly taken to Lee's Coffee Shop, where artists gather. I was sent by Mrs Hindmarsh this week to Lee's to collect her in the carriage, as Milner Stephen, her ostensible chaperon, was unable to deliver her to the house due to pressing business. It appears that I embarrassed her by entering the place and "showing her up" in front of her friends. "What would they think of her? The people she associated with?" she said, as though I was some street urchin or pickpocket dragging her back to some den of vice.

I pointed out that not every girl in the colony has the Queen's Representative wait on them in the Vice Regal carriage, but I was told, not for the first time, that "You just don't understand!" Indeed not.

One young man I did notice while I was in the shop, though I did not catch his name, was a languid youth of a sickly pallor that contrasted with his jet black hair and his black clothes. He sat glowering at all and sundry and especially me. He said not one word save a muttered "Later...." as Mary and I left.

I asked Mary about him and it seems that he goes by the name of "Endymion", having recently declared that he would no longer answer to the name his parents gave him, which is, I suspect, something mundane like "Fred Jones" or "Berty Smith".

Mary assures me that Endymion (or Berty) is "a deep thinker" and has "terrific ideas". If I am any judge of young men of twenty summers I think I can guess pretty closely what those "terrific ideas" might be, especially where unchaperoned young girls might be involved. Deep thinker, my arse! 

Sunday, 27th May. 1838

Great excitement all week here at the Vice-Regal Palace as my wife and daughters work themselves into a frenzy of expectation over the Theatre Opening tomorrow night.

As if it were not bad enough that I am expected to attend the damned thing, I am also, it seems, expected to  be thrilled by the thought.

We have been assigned a box on the side of the stage where we can be viewed, like monkeys in a cage, by the entire assembled throng. This is fortunate, as it means I can position myself so that my bad eye is facing the stage and at least I will not have to watch the show. There seems to be little I can do about hearing the show, comic songs and all.

The negotiations for the land by the Port Road are pretty much complete. The plan is this: a consortium of tradesmen have clubbed together with the plan of assisting their fellows of the working classes by obtaining land for them to live upon. Prices for land in the Township have become extortionately high and so these chaps have come up with a plan to buy a conveniently located country section, divide it into half acre lots and make them available for sale at a reasonable cost.

Since my land at the corner of the River, the Park Land and the Port Road is about as conveniently located as it is possible to be it is this that they have set their hearts upon.

The fellows are:  Morgan Richards; George Manton; Johnny Adams; Thos. Orsmond; Georgie Roberts; Ed Howard; "Piggy" Bill Bacon and Samuel Chapman. They hope to sell two hundred blocks of land and recoup their costs almost immediately.

Their original offer was £800. I countered with £1250 and after some dealing we shook hands at £1000 even.

I scored quite happily in this. Just as the fellows and I were making our agreements, in burst Light, Finniss and a few others of Fisher's party, who had clearly hot footed it to Government House to try and get there before any final deal was struck.

Without so much as a greeting Finniss told me "Whatever they have offered I am authorised to offer £100 more!"

Authorised by whom, I wonder?  Clearly Fisher, Hack and probably Morphett had been doing their sums and had seen that dividing land was a ready way to riches.

I looked the man up and down and told him that the other party had agreed already to £1000. This set him back on his heels, as he clearly had thought that I might have settled with the consortium for considerably less.

"Then I will offer you £1100," he said.

I smiled. The tradesmen looked apprehensive, as £1100 was clearly outside of their ability to pay.

"Tell whoever it might be who has authorised you," I said, "that I would rather lose £100 and do a service to the poor workers, than take your money and make rich men richer." 

And it was with considerable satisfaction that I dismissed them and asked the workmen to attend me later that day, once I had arranged for Strangways to draw up an agreement for us to sign.

At the time of the recent killing of Enoch Peglar by some natives visiting the area, there was a degree of outrage at my insistence the there be no reprisals carried out against the Aboriginal population. It was felt by many that the natives needed a lesson taught to them and one swift strike now would lay down the law and avoid many a problem later.

Well, I was having none of that. One only need look at the other colonies to see where that policy leads. New South Wales has failed utterly to effect the civilisation of the natives and we are fortunate that South Australia is at a sufficient distance from Sydney Cove to allow the natives of Adelaide to remain ignorant of what has taken place there.

The recent events at the Swan River, where it came to be seen as sport to fire muskets near the Native camps and frighten the women, make a perfect illustration. The inevitable happened and a native was killed. There followed reprisals, with a large body of Native men, led by a bold and fearless chief, making severe inroads against the Colony.  

This ought to operate as a caution to the colonists of South Australia, to avoid the least appearance of enmity against the natives. A policy of kindness, patience and understanding will, I believe, be a productive and beneficial one.

By the passing of the Act of Parliament establishing the new province of South Australia, we have made the aborigines our fellow-subjects; under the protection of the same laws; entitled to the same privileges, both civil and religious.

Without a special regard to their welfare, it would be a crying act of injustice to seize upon their territory, deprive them of their kangaroos, and drive them back upon the walks of other tribes already reduced to the greatest extremities. No; I have determined that such would not be the case with South Australia. Their kangaroos would meet with protection on the main land as well as their own persons; and instead of reducing their means of subsistence, every attempt would be made to supply them ‘with seed and to instruct them in the art of raising food from the bosom of the earth. 

That destroyer of the human race, distilled spirits have been carefully withheld from them; and I have used every exertion in my power to discourage the use, if not the
introduction, too, of ardent spirits to the Natives.

When Peglar was killed there was a deal of flap-doodle on the part of the ninnies in the colony about "feeling unsafe" and being "murdered in our beds". I pointed out, at considerable length, that Pegler had been a damned fool, treated the Natives with contempt and probably got what he deserved, but the flap-doodling ninnies were having none of it.

And so they sprang into action and did what every Englishman does best in a crisis - they formed a committee. This had a view to "dealing with the Native problem". After a series of interminable meetings the "Native Problem Committee" has achieved a series of decisions. They are:

1st.—That this Committee do meet once in every two weeks on the Monday evening at seven o'clock.   

2nd—That upon any emergency a Special Meeting of this Committee shall be called by a Requisition from any one of the Committee, addressed to the Secretary, who, on the receipt of such a Requisition, shall convene such a Meeting, specifying the subject to be discussed.

3rd—That all questions shall be decided by a majority of votes, and that in cases where, with the Chairman's vote, the votes become equal, the Chairman shall have the casting vote.

4th—That not less than five of the members of the Committee shall form a quorum.

5th—That when only five of the Committee are present, no question be considered as decided unless four members assent.

6th—That the General Meetings of this Committee be open to the public, but that upon the motion of any member, strangers be required to withdraw.

7th—That on all occasions when two or more of the members rise to speak, the Chairman shall name the member to whom the right of precedence shall appear to him to belong.

8th—That the decision of this Committee be communicated to the Government by the Protector of the Natives, or when deemed expedient, by an express deputation.

9th—That all subjects previously notified for discussion, shall have priority of hearing, according to the order in which they stand upon the Secretary's book.

I suppose it is obvious to any who read this, that all a series of long and tedious committee meetings has achieved is to decide how the committee will operate. The notion of a "Committee to deal with the Native Problem" making decisions that do, in fact, make some impact upon  the Native Population seems to have passed them by.

I predict that, whilst it may have been my Policy to treat the Aboriginals with a degree of decency, a committee filled with the committee minded might be more interested in efficiency and order. 

Now, my experience of the Natives is that efficiency and order is not high on their list of priorities. Indeed, I have yet to witness any of them form a committee with a proper regard to Meeting Procedure. I foresee much trouble ahead.

Mary's art lessons with Milner Stephens have begun. They seem to come in three parts. In the first: Stephens and Mary sit sketching pots of flowers or bowls of vegetables with pencils and paper. Stephens looks over her shoulder and offers advice and hints. To his disappointment, I imagine, they are not left alone at all. Mrs Hindmarsh sits in the room with them as chaperon and glares at them with her glittering eye  each time they come within three feet of each other.

 The second part of the programme is a series of excursions with a group of local artists to paint watercolours "en plein aire" as I believe the French term is. While I have reservations about a daughter of mine involving herself in an activity of French origin, the presence of Milner Stephen, Fred Nixon, John Skipper, Mrs Stevenson and even, on occasion, William Light, adds at least a veneer of superficial respectability to what could so easily devolve into bohemian laxity.

They have already painted views of Government House and I believe their next project is the Bank Building on North Terrace.

The third part of the lessons appears to be retiring to Lee's Coffee House and drinking strong coffee while discussing the problems of the world. Fortunately, they are equipped with all the wisdom and experience of the young and so it seems apparent that the problems of the world will soon all be solved. And what will they do then, eh?

Sunday, 20th May, 1838

Well, well.

A report has arrived from London informing us that at the start of the year a meeting was held, expressing the need to recall me back to England and appoint a new Governor here in my place.

I gather that reports received in London portray me as a vile tyrant, part Herod, part Tamurlaine, part Nero, with naught but contempt for the rule of law and decency. (Fisher, I dare say, will be cast in the role of Law and Decency)

It seems that I spend much of my time reclining on a divan whilst eunuchs fan me with ostrich feathers and slave girls cater to my merest whim.

No less than Durward Kingston is to be thanked for this nonsense. I understood that the little sneak had been sent back to England on some flimsy pretext in order that Light and the Surveying Party could be rid of the nuisance he provided.

Instead, it appears that he was tasked by none other than Fisher to spread rumours and calumny about me, no doubt aided by letters from Gouger, Morphett and Brown.

I hear that he is shortly to return to our shores where he will, I do not doubt, be made to feel as welcome as a rat turd in a cheesewright's.

I have surprised even myself with the equanimity with which I have received this report. At first I was disappointed and even angry, but on reflection I have experienced a degree of relief.

When they brought me the news of the Magee hanging, and described the man dangling at the end of a rope while thousands looked on as he tried to save himself, while the life was being choked out of him, my first thought was "Well, I know how he felt." The last eighteen months have been, truth to tell, most trying and if I am to be called home then perhaps I am well out of it.

I note that it is reported that I have been in dispute with "the respectable Colonists of South Australia", a charge I reject entirely. I have been in dispute with Fisher and his party, none of whom are in the least respectable or even respected.

And, as if to prove how little respected he is, Mr Fisher has found himself back in court as Complainant in a Lawsuit for a Libel: Fisher v Thomas and Stevenson. Much innocent pleasure has been had about the town as the details and the proceedings of the case have been circulated. 

The question on everyone's lips is simple. "When will Fisher realise that by repeatedly going to court to defend himself against allegations of sharp dealing, he is only bringing closer the point when people begin meditating upon the relationship between fire and smoke and the possibility of one without the other, and start to surmise that perhaps Mr Fisher is, after all, really a sharp dealer?" 

Or, as Mrs Hindmarsh said, with admirable clarity, "He keeps going to the courts because people are throwing mud. He punishes the people, but the mud still sticks."

Part of the fun, of course, is to witness the performance of Charles Mann, appearing for Mr Fisher. Mann has given it his all, chewing the scenery as he portrays Fisher as a moral family man, sacrificing all for the good of the Colony. The weight of the responsibility he carries, the awesome decisions he must make every day. And he yet still manages to be at home to dandle one or other of his children on his knee (presumably on a roster basis) and sing them a lullaby with a suitable Christian moral every night.

All through this overwrought farrago, Fisher has sat trying to give every appearance of piety, but also to appear terribly let down and disappointed. The result has been that he has achieved the look of an early Christian Martyr, who has just read the programme and realised that he is not to receive Star billing, but instead is Second Act before Interval, meaning that he will be eaten, not by the big names he was hoping for, but by a third-rate, provincial troupe of touring lions. 

The whole case has been brought about because some months ago The Register published letters from a person signing themselves "A COLONIST". These letters outlined clearly, and in words all the Colony could understand, exactly what a mountebank Mr Fisher was in his business dealings.

Fisher, despite frantic efforts, was unable to ascertain with certainty who "A COLONIST" was, which meant that (a) he was unable to take legal action against his accuser and (b) that he was left with the suspicion that, since "A COLONIST", who was against him, could have been anyone, then perhaps everyone was against him. Uneasy fiddle the fingers that fiddle ledger books.

Since Fisher was unable to have his legal revenge on The Register over A COLONIST's letters, he has been watching the paper like a hawk and as soon as he saw Stevenson publish some pretty frank and fulsome opinions on Fisher's conduct in the land survey, he swooped upon them and landed them before the courts.

More fun has been had by all, of course, as the proceedings of the case have required the complete litany of Mr Fisher's dealings in the Colony as recorded in The Register to be read out in court. And so we have all been reminded of his selling of the barrels of salt pork, his cheats with the imported bullocks, his Timor ponies, his pauper labourers and their tree felling and, of course,  his 100,000 acres of surveyed land and the resultant injunction against him.

And all the while, however much this stung, poor old Fisher had to sit and keep giving his best impression of a Saint. At one point, I am assured by one in the court, steam was seen rushing out of his ears, giving him the look of a sanctimonious tea kettle.

Of course, Stevenson has been found guilty, but I fancy that if Jickling imposes a too hefty penalty upon him there will be plenty in town who will gladly throw a few pounds into a hat to assist him as thanks for the entertainment he has provided.

At the start of the week I took possession of two of my Country Sections of land. Numbers 353 and 476.

Section 353 is a triangular piece of ground to the immediate North West of the township with frontages to both the river and to the main Port Road. Section 476 also sits on the river, but to the East of the town.

Already I have been approached by a party offering me £800 for 353, which seems a reasonable return on the £73 I laid out for it. I believe I shall ask for £1250 and see where we land up.

Poor Walter Bromley has died. His body was found by the river where it appears he had gone to collect drinking water for the day. (A bucket was found next to him.) The medical opinion is that he knelt down to fill his bucket, his heart gave out and he simply never rose to his feet.

As kind and Christian a man as ever we had and a true friend to the Aboriginal population, I suspect he will not be the first to have his heart broken trying to reconcile black and white in this Colony.

On a brighter note this has appeared in the Register:

THEATRE ROYAL, ADELAIDE.

Stage and Acting Manager, Mr. BONNAR.

Leader of the Orchestra, Mr. LEE.

Scenery by Mr. LANGCAKE.

Properties by Messrs MARSHALL & RADFORD

The Public is respectfully informed that a small, unique, and commodious Theatre has been fitted up above the Adelaide Tavern, Franklin-street, the audience part of which comprises nine dress boxes and a comfortable pit, and will open on Monday Evening, May 28th.

The evening's entertainment will commence with the national anthem of God Save the Queen! by the whole company.

An Opening Address, written by a gentleman expressly for the occasion, delivered by Mr. Bonnar in the character of a Strolling Manager.

After which will be presented the admired play called

T H E   M O U N T A I N E E R S, 

or, 

Love and Madness.

Comic Song—Mr. Bailes.

"The British Oak' — Mr. Bonnar. 

Song, "Logie O'Buchan"— Mr. Elphinstone.

The whole will conclude with the laughable farce of 

T H E  L A N C E R S.

Doors open at half-past six—Curtain to rise exactly at seven.

Boxes, 5s. Pit, 2s.

Tickets and places for the Boxes may be taken at the Theatre every day from ten till twelve, and from one to three o'clock; of Mr. Portbury, Hindley-street; and at Messrs. Coltman and Co's Stores, Hindley-street, where plans of the Boxes may be seen.

Tickets for the Pit may be had at the Theatre; at Messrs. Coltman and Co's Stores; at Mr. Portbury's, Hindley-street; at Mr. Fordham's, Franklin -street; at Mr. Rainsford's, baker, back of Forbes-square; at Mr. Lines', opposite Hindley-street; and at Mr. Paris's, North Adelaide.

Comic songs; a laughable farce; Love and Madness: the whole thing sounds perfectly foul. If the thought of Mr Elphinstone singing "Logie O'Buchan"  does not fill you with revulsion then you are simply dead inside and a loss to decent society.

And, it need hardly be said, Mrs Hindmarsh and my daughters are already planning what clothing they will be wearing.

Sunday, 13th May, 1838

I had mail from England this week, including a letter from Sir Pultney Malcolm who writes

"You have had a bad set to deal with. Had I been aware of the powers of the Commissioners, I would not have advised you to accept the Government. You are considered an ill-used man and when your case is known, will have the sympathy of all good men."

which, let's be honest, is all well and good, but damn all use to me now.

Ned Stephens is cutting up rough and accusing the Government of not paying Company bills.

Last year I ordered the company whaling boat to Boston Bay with a view to warning new arrivals to proceed to Nepean Bay, as there was sod all to be doing at Port Lincoln. Fisher, in his usual manner, countermanded my order and made other arrangements. I have since been informed that no-one ever so much as lifted a finger to prepare to sail for Port Lincoln and there was never any intention to do so. And yet I was presented with an account, which I refused to pay, for the chartering of the boat and the cost of the crew to the Company. 

I also have to hand an account for the loss of a mare, borrowed from the Company by Tom Cotter, Government Surgeon, to go and visit a patient, probably to make the man drink senna pod tea. He returned the horse to the Company yard where two days later it gave birth prematurely to a foal and promptly died.

Stephens, naturally, blamed Cotter and presented me with a bill for the dead animal. Yet when I referred the account to Gilles, he discovered that the day before Cotter rode it, it was borrowed by David McLaren, a man who rides a horse as well as you might expect a Scottish Baptist to ride - that is: badly. Gilles advised the Company that responsibility for the death of the mare was disputed as it could easily have been McLaren's lack of equestrian prowess that brought on the birth.

Now Stephens is using my "non-payment" to try and have me over a barrel. A group of Cornish miners arrived in the Colony and I set them to work digging for water at Port Adelaide. With the exception of Methodist hymns, there is nothing a Cornishman likes so much as digging a hole and the lot of them set to with a will, drilling for water. 

But before they managed to proceed too far they ran out of pipe and, having had their hole in the ground taken away from them, sat around looking even more glum and miserable than Cornishmen do normally. 

To cheer them up I ordered more materials from the Company stores, only to be told that there'd be no more supplies "on tick" while there were outstanding accounts to be paid.

So now I'll be needing to bring supplies in from Sydney or Hobart, with increased expense and fingers smacked by the misers in the Colonial Office in London. Damnation! 

Here at Government House we continue to be beset with George Milner Stephen blighting our lives. It occurred to me to set baits or lay traps in order to rid ourselves of him, but Mrs. Hindmarsh and the girls have taken quite the shine to the man and his easy charm.

The man cheats at cards. It has been my habit of an evening to spend time with Mrs Hindmarsh and the girls playing a harmless game of Five Card Loo, playing for buttons. Once Stephen started playing it was "shall we make it more interesting?" and we were playing for pennies. And damn me if he didn't win the lot. We caught him several times peeking at Miss and just as many times playing a low trump when he had a higher, which he clearly was "saving for later". At the time I took his reminders to "hold your cards up Governor. I can see every last one you have!" to be friendly advice, but later realised that I was sitting in front of the mantle mirror and holding my cards up just gave him a better view. 

Mary assures me that with his talent at musical instruments, his singing, his painting, his poetry writing and his interests in Science he could be described, as she puts it, as a "Renaissance Man".

Sadly, what he could not be described as is "a lawyer", a deficit that might seem fatal in a man occupying one of the chief law offices in the Province. Still, charm outweighs talent I gather and such seems to be the principle Milner Stephen operates under.

Mary tells me that he has offered to take her on as a student of drawing and water colours, which I find suspicious. I spoke to him about it and he tells me that he hopes to "expand her aptitude", which I find doubly suspicious. I don't know about aptitude, but Mr Stephen may well find that I "expand his arse" with my military boot doing the expansion.

A terrible thought struck me during the week. There is still much speculation about the town as to the identity of the Hangman in the Magee execution. The rumours seem to favour the notion that the Cook of the South Australia Company was co-opted into performing the deed. The Cook, however, denies all knowledge of the matter and has produced an alibi for the time of the hanging. However, all seem to agree that "a cook" was involved.

So it seems we are looking for a heftily built cook, incapable of any degree of competence. And for that description there can be only one candidate: The Mad Poisoner herself, Hangman Harvey!   

Sunday, 6th May, 1838

What is wrong with this town that nothing can possibly happen without some damned fool of a jackanapes turning it into a circus? Can we do nothing without it descending into the sort of farce that would be jeered from the stage in the lowest theatre in London?

On Wednesday last it was time for Michael Magee to meet the awful eternal judgement that awaited him in the life to come.

During the past week I have heard many a Colonist tell me that the sentence of death might have been the law, but it was too severe for the nature of the crime. "He took a shot at Sam Smart and missed, Governor. Why should he die for that?" A fair question and one I could not really answer with anything other than "The law must be seen to be done."

It being a Wednesday a crowd of people who had, it seems, nothing better to do had made their way to the execution spot, just down from Strangways Terrace, on the side of the hill by the River. I did not attend, but plenty of witnesses have informed me of what transpired. There are - what? - four or five thousand people in the township and there must have been at least a thousand of them there. Men and women, families, all of them with blankets to sit on and baskets of food, all of them there to see the show. And about nine hundred and ninety-five of them have waylaid me in the streets since to give me the benefit of their opinion regarding the matter.

Naturally the question at the forefront of all 1000 minds was the same. "Who would be the hangman?" No-one had heard if anyone had put their hand up for the £10 on offer and many thought that there was ever the possibility that the whole thing was for naught and they would all go home at the end of the day with no hanging and Magee's sentence commuted. The suggestion also circulated that Bushranger Morgan would be called on to do the deed as a condition of his own death sentence being commuted. The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that it would be in the poorest taste for Sam Smart to act as hangman. I heard the phrase "conflict of interest" bandied about freely.

Well, at around nine o'clock all was clear, as a procession was seen coming through the trees towards the hanging location. At the head, our 10 mounted police rode in double file, sabres drawn. Behind them, freshly sobered up and with uniforms as spotless as could reasonably be hoped for, came the Marines.

Remarkably, they had bayonets fixed, which seemed a risk to all present, but they had complained about the police sabres "and how will it make us look Governor if the police are armed and we're not?" with the result that compassion over-ruled common sense and they were given permission to fix bayonets on the grounds of "sauce for the goose".

Behind them walked Charlie Howard, decked out in full kit and behind him came a wagon, pulled by two of Mr. Fisher's £500 ponies. And in the wagon was Magee, accompanied by as demonic a figure as has ever been seen in this Colony. 

The hangman.

The fellow had clearly decided that anonymity was the watchword for the day and had done all he could to ensure that none could identify him. He wore a black mask, seemingly fashioned from a cotton sack and painted with grotesque markings below the eye holes, suggestive of a nose and grinning mouth. He wore a shirt, belted, and trousers tied around the waist and ankles, both several sizes too big, but stuffed with, I imagine, straw, so that he had the appearance of a hunchback.

When the cart stopped it was seen that this Mr. Punch had been sitting on the coffin packed on board for the disposal of Magee's body, which seemed macabre enough, but even more so was the sight of Magee himself being forced, by lack of space, to sit next to his own executioner, atop his own coffin, which seemed not merely grotesque, but worse, in the poorest of taste.

At this point, as though the scene was not dreary enough, the Reverend came to life with the Service for the Dead. On hearing about ashes and dust and the resurrection, all rose to their feet. Partly from respect and partly to be ready to make a run for it if Howard went on to "make a few remarks". The only one present who seemed to take Charlie seriously was the Catholic Magee, who listened to the Reverend for a time, then fell to his knees in fervent prayer, probably thinking he could do better himself.

Charlie did not get to make any remarks, however, as, to the relief of all, he was interrupted by a clatter and a degree of swearing as Mr. Punch attempted to get down from the cart. It seems that he could not see properly through the holes in the mask and was unable to find how to descend.

Magee's hands had been tied tightly behind him, but in order that he could assist the hangman in the descent from the conveyance, his bonds were loosened to allow him use of his hands.

Magee then stood and addressed the crowd with a surprising degree of eloquence and, the which we are unused to, brevity.

He admitted his guilt and the justice of the sentence, but denied vehemently that he was an escapee and "on the run". He had never, he insisted, been in trouble with the law.

To be asserting this when standing on a scaffold with the expectation of a noose at any moment certainly suggests a degree of boldness of character that can only be admired and it was clear that the assembled crowd found themselves warming to the man.

While this was happening our hangman was clearly having second thoughts, the nature of the deed sinking in. As he greased the rope and swung from the end of it, the hunchback was heard to say "How it haunts me!"

The hanging being scheduled for ten, Sam Smart had set the alarm on his watch to sound, which it now did, as did several others scattered through the crowd. "The bells! The bells!" cried the Hunchback, who lurched toward the prisoner.

Using a ladder against the tree he climbed up onto the cart, Magee offering him a helping hand, and placed a bag over the prisoner's head and then the noose about his neck. 

He then partly climbed and partly fell down the ladder and whipped up the horses.

Mr Skipper's sketch of the Execution

It was at this point that the thing became less "the law must be seen to be done" and more "the law must be seen to be believed".

In an ideal world the horses would have set off at a canter, Magee would have dropped sharply, allowing the noose to snap his neck and all could have gone home knowing that they had enjoyed a grand day out and that all was right with the world.

Instead, Mr. Fisher's small and sickly ponies walked forward so slowly that Magee simply slid gently off the back of the cart and hung there by the neck, still alive.

Mr. Punch, clearly deciding that he had performed all that £10 could buy, jumped onto the back of a nearby horse and high tailed it as fast as he could.

Meanwhile, it became obvious that the buffoon had put the noose on wrongly, meaning that the knot, instead of tightening and killing the prisoner, was positioned under Magee's chin, both supporting the head and digging in to his windpipe.

Then, because Magee's hands had been loosened, he was able to reach up, grab the rope and lift himself up to ease the pressure on his throat. And, being able to breathe, he began to scream out, "Christ have Mercy! Save me someone!" as he slowly twisted in the wind like a joint before the fire.

So distressing was the scene that the crowd began to call out, demanding that something be done. There were cries of "Cut him him down!" and demands of the Marines to render the coup de grace and shoot him.  (I may add that it speaks well of the trusting nature of the people of Adelaide, bless them, that, all evidence to the contrary, they still believe the Marines to be capable of aiming and hitting a moving target.)

FInally someone had the bright idea of bringing back the hangman and one of the Police Troopers set off on horseback, riding like the devil himself. And all the while there came the screams of "Jesus, help me!" from Magee as he pulled himself up by the rope.

Sam Smart came forward and tried to address the crowd, telling them to remain calm, but the people were in no mood for placation and the whole scene threatened to become most ugly.

Then the Hangman was seen being escorted back by the Police Trooper. I say "escorted", but it seemed far more like he was being forced back at sabre point! When he arrived at the gallows he stood back and surveyed the situation for a moment and then, obviously deciding on a course of action, suddenly leapt up at Magee, grabbing at his legs and swinging from them.

 Magee, unable to support the weight of two by holding the rope, was forced to let go and the two men hung there while Magee slowly choked to death. It is said that it took nearly a quarter of an hour for the man to succumb and that during that time, even when all thought he had breathed his last, the body would twitch and low murmers were heard from beneath the sack covering his face.

And all the while Mr Punch hung from Magee's legs, while the angry crowd called out "Murderer!".

Is it worth pointing out that Magee's offence was only "attempted murder"? It seems to me that when the hangman is so incompetent that, in the course of his duties he is accused of a worse crime than the prisoner he is hanging, then we really do need to ask if we chose the right man for the job.

As it was the crowd was so incensed that, when Jack Ketch the Hunchback finally finished using the Prisoner as a Fairground Swing, he only managed to get away from the scene under Police Escort. Then, rendered sombre and dismal by the whole sorry business, the crowd slowly dispersed, few even waiting for Magee's body to be cut down and placed in his coffin. As one witness said to me, "We were there for a nice family outing to the execution. We thought that, in years to come, the children would appreciate being able to say that they had been present at the first public hanging in the Colony. And instead we had to watch barbaric horrors!"

They were quite upset by the whole incident. But not quite as upset, I imagine, as MIchael Magee.