Friday, 29th June, 1838

I took great pleasure, last night, in sitting with the Stevensons and Strangways and drafting a letter reprimanding Tom Gilbert for his actions over the business with the mails.


The man struts about the town with his chest blown out like the cock o' the walk, insisting he be referred to - and, indeed, deferred to - as "Postmaster General", a title from which he clearly derives much satisfaction. First in line with his hand out for his £100 a year, yet first to scuttle off to a public meeting the moment his pride is wounded. And, what is more, happy to take the letter I sent him explaining the business on board the Pelorus - official Government correspondence - without my permission and hand it over to Fisher to use against me. 

Well, that rooster is about to find himself plucked!

It was Mrs Stevenson, bless her heart, who pointed out that he was not, in point of fact, ever appointed "Postmaster General".  If you view the original Gazetting of his appointment it was as "Postmaster for the Colony". The appellation "General", that he sets such store by, was entirely his own addition and of his own devising. Clearly the man is set fair to be taken down a peg or two. Two dozen if needed.

We spent a delightfully malicious evening, telling him that we would have dealt with the matter earlier, but had more important matters to deal with; that I have let slide the matter of his calling himself "Postmaster General" since it seemed so important to him; and that if the Government wishes someone to explain their actions they would prefer to choose a person who was reliable. Along the way we managed a few swipes at Fisher, saying that we understood that Gilbert had improperly followed the Resident Commissioner's sinister advice. A proper broadside, strong and hot.

Strangways - ever the nervous ninny - counselled caution,  saying that it would not do to put people off side. But Margaret Stevenson, for whom God be thanked, had a word to say here. "They have already had you recalled," she said. "Short of hiring assassins to murder you in your bed what more can they do?" 

And of course she was right. They have done their worst and have nothing left in their armoury. Or as Mrs Stevenson put it, rather prettily, I thought, "If you have no buttons left on the table to bet, then you are no longer obliged to play the game." She gave a smile and patted me on the hand. "Freedom, your Excellency, is just another word for having nothing left to lose."

The result is that not only will Tom Gilbert be handed a copy of the letter for his very own, but tomorrow it will be published in the newspaper for the entire town to read. And that will be a parting shot for them to remember me by.