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Title: Policing the colonial frontier : the theory and practice of coercive social and racial control in New Zealand, 1767-1867
Author: Hill, Richard S.
Published: Historical Publications Branch, Dept, of Internal Affairs ; Govt. Printer, Wellington, N.Z., 1986
NEW ZEALAND POLICE
MAXIMS FOR GENERAL GUIDANCE OF MEMBERS OF THE POLICE FORCE
1-—Constables are placed in authority to protect, not to oppress, the public.
2. —To do which effectually they must earnestly and systematically exert themselves to prevent crime.
3.—When a crime has been committed, no time should be lost nor exertions spared to discover and bring to justice the offenders.
4.—Obtain a knowledge of all reputed thieves, and idle and disorderly persons.
s.—Watch narrowly all persons having no visible means of subsistence, and repress vagrancy.
6.—Be impartial in the discharge of duties, discarding all political and sectarian prejudices.
7.—Be cool and intrepid in the discharge of duties in emergencies and unavoidable conflicts.
B.—Avoid altercations, and display perfect command of temper under insult and provocation, to which all Constables are occasionally liable.
9.—Never strike but in self-defence, nor treat a prisoner with more rigour than may be absolutely necessary to prevent escape.
10. —Practice the most complete sobriety; one instance of drunkenness will render a Constable liable to dismissal.
11.—Treat with the utmost civility all classes of the community, and cheerfully render assistance to all in need of it.
12. —Exhibit deference and respect to the Magistracy.
13.—Promptly and cheerfully obey all superior officers.
14,—Render faithful and speedy account of all moneys and property taken possession of in the execution of duty.
15.—8e perfectly neat and clean in person and attire.
16.—Never sit down in a publichouse, and avoid tippling.
17. —It is the interest of every man to devote some portion of his spare time to the practice of reading and writing, and the general improvement of his mind, for ignorance is an insuperable bar to promotion in the Police Service, as well as in all other services and walks of life.
The History of Policing in New Zealand, Volume One
The History of Policing in New Zealand, Volume One
Policing the Colonial Frontier
The Theory and Practice of Coercive Social
and Racial Control in New Zealand,
1767-1867
Part Two
RichardS Hill
Historical Publications Branch
Department of Internal Affairs
1986
V. R. WARD. GOVERNMENT PRINTER, WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND
© Crown Copyright Reserved 1986
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means, electronic, mechanical, electrostatic photocopying or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Government Priming Office.
ISBN for complete set of 3 volumes
0-477-01346-5
ISBN for Volume 1, Part 2, 0-477-01348-1
(ISBN for Volume 1, Part 1, 0-477-01347-3)
Book typeset in lOV2 on 12 point Century Roman. Display type in 11 point Geneva Light and 20 point Century Bold. Book printed on 85 gsm Mataura Cream Text Printing, and bound at the Government Printing Office, Mulgrave Street, Wellington.
To Aaron, Rosa and Emma
Contents
Page
List of Illustrations
List of Maps xiii
PART TWO
Provincial and ‘Official Runanga’ Policing Systems, 1853-67
Chapter VI ‘Peace and Good Order’ in the Provinces, 1853-61 413
Urban/Rural Dichotomy in the Major North Island Forces 414
The ‘Peculiarly Circumstanced Province’ of New Plymouth 448
Relative but Decreasing Quietude in Canterbury and Otago 468
Nelson: Devolved Response to Disruption of Tranquillity 503
North Island Policing at the Turn of the Decade 518
Chapter VII The Adaptation of Policing Methods to Goldrush Otago, 1861-7 536
Victorian-Style Response to Gold Fever 536
The Expansion of Goldfields and Policing 562
The Contraction of Goldfields and Policing 607
Chapter VIII The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force in the South Island 633
‘Virtues’ and ‘Vices’: the Impact of Otago Goldfields upon Canterbury Policing 633
The Challenge of the West Canterbury Goldfields 655
Problems and Retrenchment on both sides of the Alps 671
The Victorian System in Miniature: Southland Province 693
Chapter IX Indigenous Policing Developments in Central New Zealand 719
Nelson: Goldfield Intrusions upon Placidity, 1861-7 719
Marlborough, 1859-67: From Pastoral to Paramilitary 751 Agents of the Political Executive: Policing Wellington
Province, 1861-7 771
vii
Page
Chapter X Policing and the ‘Collision between the Races’ 801
‘Parties to their Own Submission’: the ‘Official Runanga’ Police 801
‘The Shadow Behind the Constable’: War, Pacification, and the Contraction of the ‘Official Runanga’ Policing System 847
Policing Both Races in ‘Distracted’ Taranaki and ‘Complicated’ Hawke’s Bay 864
War and Police in the ‘Unwieldy Province’ of Auckland 897
Postscript 940
Maps 944
References 961
Index 1099
viii
List of Illustrations
22.
Commissioner St John Branigan, Otago Provincial Police. Otago Early Settlers’ Museum.
Facing Page 588
23.
Chief Commissioner Charles MacMahon, Victoria Police. Shearman family, Tauranga.
24.
Captain J Fox, Richmond Police Camp, Melbourne Shearman family, Tauranga.
25.
Commissioner R C Shearman, Canterbury Provincial Police. Shearman family, Tauranga.
26.
John Bevin, Otago Provincial Police. Otago Early Settlers’ Museum.
Christchurch Police Station, 1863, centre. Canterbury Museum.
27.
28.
Volunteer Rifles going on picket duty, New Plymouth, 1860. Taranaki Museum.
29.
James Nimon, Inspector of Nuisances, Dunedin. Mrs R G Steel.
30.
John Emerson, Marlborough Provincial Police. New Zealand Police.
31.
Inspector Thomas Broham, West Canterbury Police. Shearman family, Tauranga.
32.
John Nash, Nelson Provincial Police. M G Remnant.
33.
J B Thomson, detective in charge, Southland and Otago Provincial Police Forces. New Zealand Police Museum.
34.
Ferrymead, near Christchurch, 1863, police station and lockup next to hotel. Canterbury Museum.
35.
The Battle of Rangiaowhia: a stylised depiction, including the fatal wounding of Inspector M G Nixon of the Colonial Defence Force. Alexander Turnbull Library.
36.
Kaitake Redoubt, Taranaki, 1863-4. Alexander Turnbull Library.
Oakura Redoubt, Taranaki, c!863. Alexander Turnbull Library.
37.
38.
Soldiers constructing the road through the forest from Drury to the Waikato, 1862. Auckland Institute and Museum.
39.
Potatau Te Wherowhero’s Ngaruawahia headquarters. Alexander Turnbull Library.
40.
Albert Barsham, Canterbury Provincial Police. New Zealand Police Museum.
Facing Page 748
ix
Inspector Thomas Scully, in charge of Hawke’s Bay Provincial Police. C H MacDonald/New Zealand Police.
41.
John Blackett, in charge of first Nelson South-West Goldfields Department police. Nelson Provincial Museum.
42.
T A S Kynnersley, in charge of Nelson South-West Goldfields Department police from late 1865. Nelson Provincial Museum.
43,
Inspector Peter Pender, Canterbury Provincial Police. South Canterbury Historical Museum.
44.
45.
District Constable George Walker, Nelson Province. Nelson Provincial Museum.
Maori Constable in Wellington Provincial Police Force. Alexander Turnbull Library.
46.
47.
Commissioner James Naughton, in charge of Auck land Provincial Police. Mrs J Tweedie.
NCOs, Taranaki Military Settlers, Pukearuhe. Taranaki Museum.
48,
49,
Richard Gamble, Auckland Provincial Police. W R Gamble.
Contemporary sketches of one of the Maungatapu murders, Nelson Province, 1866. Alexander Turnbull Library
50.
Maungatapu murderer Thomas Kelly. Nelson Provincial Museum.
51
52,
Maungatapu murderer Richard Burgess. Nelson Provincial Museum.
53,
Maungatapu murderer Joseph Sullivan, Nelson Provincial Museum.
54,
Maungatapu murderer Philip Levy. Nelson Provincial Museum.
Home of Taranaki Military Settler officer, Captain W B Messenger, Pukearuhe, 1866. Taranaki Museum.
55,
56.
No 9 Company, Taranaki Military Settlers, Pukearuhe. Taranaki Museum.
57.
The Otago Gold Escort leaves Clyde. Otago Early Settlers’ Museum.
Facing Page 908
58.
The Canterbury Gold Escort, 1865. Canterbury Museum.
59.
Inspector Robert Shallcrass, in charge of the Nelson Provincial Police. Shallcrass family, Nelson.
Francis McAnulty, Wellington Provincial Police. Ray Carter/New Zealand Police.
60.
X
61
Sergeant-Major Robert Strange, in charge of Coll ingwood Goldfields police. Murray Strange.
Robert Bullen, Otago Provincial Police. New Zealand Police Museum.
62.
Otago Punch mocks Branigan’s police, 1866. Otago Early Settlers’ Museum.
63.
Sergeant Walter Haddrell, Bealey. Canterbury Museum.
64.
65,
Canterbury Provincial Police Station, Bealey. Can terbury Museum.
66.
Brighton, Nelson South-West Goldfields. Alexander Turnbull Library.
67.
Stafford, West Canterbury Goldfields. Hokitika Library.
Hauhau prisoners aboard prison hulk, Wellington Harbour, early 1866. Alexander Turnbull Library.
68.
69.
Canterbury Provincial Police baton. New Zealand Police.
70.
Otago Provincial Police handcuffs and leg irons. H Hollander/New Zealand Police.
71.
Kaniere township, West Coast goldfields. The Hocken Library, Dunedin.
72.
Andrew Thompson, Otago Provincial Police. New Zealand Police Museum.
73.
Goldsborough, on the Waimea diggings. The Hocken Library, Dunedin.
74.
The future: the Armed Constabulary Depot, Wellington. New Zealand Police.
16
List of Maps
Page
Political Boundaries of New Zealand . . . , 944
North Island, 1840-53 . . . . , . 945
South Island, 1840-53 .. ~ . . 946
Auckland and Northland, 1840-53 . . . . 947
Wellington, 1840-53 .. . . , . 948
Northern Auckland Province 949
Central and Southern Auckland Province . . 950
Hawke’s Bay Province (from 1858) . , 952
New Plymouth/Taranaki Province . . . . 953
Wellington Province . . .. 954
Nelson and Marlborough Provinces . . . . 955
Nelson Province: Nelson Southwest Goldfields . . 956
Canterbury Province; East Canterbury . . . . 957
Canterbury Province: West Canterbury . . 958
ota g° 959
Southland Province (from 1861) . . , . 960
18
PART TWO
Provincial and ‘Official Runanga’ Policing Systems 1853-67
CHAPTER VI
‘Peace and Good Order’ in the Provinces, 1853-61
In 1853 much of the responsibility for ‘peace, order, and good government’ was devolved to regional organs of state. From 1 October the entire machinery of policing, its personnel, buildings and equipment, was transferred to the new provincial governments, which were quick to discover that the policing function was the greatest single financial drain upon the resources of their devolved state organisations. The New Zealand Governor retained ultimate control of the policing arm of state but delegated powers of ‘hiring and firing’, of deciding on the size of the forces, and of general regional policing policy to the provincial legislatures and the elected heads of each province, the Superintendents. Although constrained by their Provincial Councils’ control of the purse strings, the Superintendents quickly gained supremacy in provincial politics over their legislatures, and in some cases even worked from time to time with executives which had ceased to reflect the views of the majority of Councillors. It was at the Superintendency level, therefore, that for almost quarter of a century the key policy decisions with regard to policing were made.
Because the Superintendent and his executive often lacked ready access to the military, a streamlined regional coercive, reactive response system had of necessity to be shaped in order to cope with potential grave problems of order. The Armed Police Force corps within each provincial region, redesignated as provincial forces, assumed this role along with their other functions. Superintendents thereby gained a major decision-making function in policing as a matter of course right from the beginning of the new politicoadministrative system. Their intervention into the arena of coercive social control quickly increased, indeed often became endemic, partly because of the close physical proximity of the provincial administrations to their headquarters police detachments, which latter might well comprise half of the numbers of each provincial force. Superintendents, then, exercised a far more immediate and intimate—sometimes day to day—control over their police forces than has typically been the function of the political executive in
22
Policing the Colonial Frontier
post-1840 New Zealand history. Some at least of the relative autonomy which had been built up by local heads of police in the New Munster and New Ulster detachments was lost as soon as executive power was devolved to governments composed of representatives of those settlers able to meet the property qualifications of the franchise.
Urban/Rural Dichotomy in the Major North Island Forces
In 1853 New Ulster was split into New Plymouth and Auckland Provinces, with the southern boundary of the latter moving northwards to the 39th parallel. That October New Ulster’s Armed Police Force, minus the New Plymouth policemen, was redesignated the Auckland Province Armed Police Force, totalling 30 men and NCOs. The loss of territory to Wellington Province had little meaning in policing terms at this stage, as the affected territory had been barely settled by the pakeha. Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Wynyard, elected as the first Superintendent of Auckland Province, had been Lieutenant-Governor in the terminal period of New Ulster and in that capacity had acted as Governor Grey’s ‘eyes and ears’ in the upper three-quarters of the North Island, particularly during the latter’s absences from the capital. Following Grey’s departure from the colony at the end of 1853 Wynyard became acting Governor of New Zealand as well as Superintendent of Auckland Province, abandoning the latter position early in 1855 only when ordered to do so by the Colonial Office on the grounds that it was incompatible with his primary function of command of the imperial forces in New Zealand.
The only avowed believer in centralised government amongst the Superintendents, Wynyard found it convenient to retain Resident Magistrate Beckham—who as such was a central government official —as Commissioner of Police in overall charge of policing in Auckland Province. But in the unsettled conditions of the transition the Superintendent did not —unusually, as matters turned out during the provincial period—entirely get his own way. Wynyard submitted to the first Provincial Council that since Commissioner Beckham’s magisterial duties occupied all his daytime hours he was ‘naturally unable to give that watchful Superintendance over the Force during the night that its thorough efficiency may require’. The Superintendent therefore ‘strongly recommended that an Assistant Commissioner or Sub-Inspector’ be appointed to take
414
The Provinces, 1853-61
effective charge of the Auckland city police. But when interrogated by the Provincial Officers’ Committee established by the Councillors to investigate the appropriate manning requirements for the regional apparatus of the state Beckham, no doubt keenly recalling his power struggle with Atkyns, claimed that he was in no need of a commissioned officer at the capital. Indeed he submitted that the duties of Resident Magistrate and head of police were so complementary that they were best combined, omitting to mention the enormous power which accrued to him as a result of his dual role. Although Wynyard’s proposal was based on observation of the workings of the Auckland police at close hand for a lengthy period, the Councillors in November chose to favour Beckham’s viewpoint, partly on grounds of finance since—as the Superintendent himself acknowledged—policing expenditure was already very high. To place the Police Commissioner firmly in the service of and ‘under the more immediate control’ of the provincial executive, however, the majority of the Councillors, on the recommendation of their committee, voted Beckham £lOO annual remuneration (additional to the large income he received from the General Government) for his policing functions.'
The new province was divided into two police districts. The northern district, from the Bay of Islands northwards, remained under the control of the only commissioned officer in Beckham’s force, Sub-Inspector W B White of Mangonui. Like Beckham, White also had General Government duties including those of Resident Magistrate, the chief state official in the area. But there were few constables in the north, where the tribal leaders continued to police their own followers and the pakeha population remained comparatively thin. Most of the APF were stationed at headquarters in the capital, or in the satellite military pensioner towns clustered around Auckland. This latter deployment was of political importance for Wynyard, since the great majority of those Fencibles who had stayed on were desirous of a state of order in their area and he owed his election as Superintendent to their votes. Indeed the expensive retention of a mounted orderly—the only permanent mounted police position in the colony at that time—at the Police Barracks at Onehunga was the subject of a special plea to the Provincial Councillors by the Superintendent. The politicians accepted this, particularly as it was backed by Beckham’s assessment that the post—later returned to headquarters —was essential, although they did not concede Wynyard’s recommendation for the creation of a second such position. There was also pressure from growing suburbs for a police presence:
415
Policing the Colonial Frontier
Parnell residents, for example, had agitated for a ‘patrol in this neighbourhood’ to deter thefts by ‘desperate men’ who hid in the surrounding domain and scrubland. 2
The Auckland provincial APF, then, like its predecessor operating essentially over the same terrain, remained centralised on the Auckland city area, a reserve force available for rapid deployment elsewhere in the sprawling province, most of which had not yet been regularly settled by the pakeha. Thomas Beckham’s evaluation that it was impossible to reduce the established size of his force was accepted by the politicians, but this did not in itself eliminate problems of manpower. A fortnight before the formal establishment of the provincial corps the Commissioner pointed out to Wynyard that his policemen, as a result of the ‘price of provisions and other necessaries of life.., cannot subsist upon their present rate of pay’ of 3s 6d daily at a time when day labourers were earning 5s 6d and 6s. Already, he noted, ‘several of the best men have left and I am unable to fill their vacancies’. He recommended that the base pay rate be 5s per diem, with 5s 6d for the four corporals, 6s 3d for the two sergeants and 7s for the Sergeant-Major. In light of Beckham’s advice that these increases were crucial for the ‘maintenance of peace and good order’ the Superintendent provisionally approved them despite his feeling that the amounts ‘appear rather high’.
Before the Officers’ Committee Beckham went even further: good policemen should earn more than labourers’ wages, and thus the new pay rates should actually be increased for men who had given long and efficient service. It was seemingly so that he could offer a quid pro quo for this radical departure from fixed pay for each rank that Beckham told the politicians that, despite Wynyard’s recommendation, there was no need for a second mounted policeman. The Committee accepted the argument for discretionary pay increases—but the larger gathering of Councillors did not. All the same the Council’s general acceptance of the estimates presented by Wynyard—despite exceptions and the cutting of SubInspector White’s salary from £204 15s to £lOO (a move which prompted the General Government to increase his Resident Magistracy remuneration from £25 to £lso)—meant that the Auckland provincial force was the most expensive in the colony. It cost in excess of £3500 per annum, more than one-eighth of the provincial budget; in its first three months of operation it absorbed more than thrice the sum provided by Otago Province for its first full year of policing. 3
Beckham’s dual function as General and provincial government official was not unusual, but his filling the role of police chief in the
416
The Provinces, 1853-61
town that was the capital of both the colony and one of its provinces emphasised that the policing function was merely one delegated to the provincial governments rather than theirs as of right. Auckland’s APF had, by order of first the acting Governor and then of later Governors, ceremonial and security duties connected with central government, duties which were to pass to Wellington’s head of police and his force when the New Zealand capital moved south in 1865. Not that the delegating of policing to provincial governments was in any way a sham; poor communications between the settlements demanded meaningful regional devolution, the ratification of that which had evolved to a degree by 1853 in any case.’
The disparaging attitude of the Auckland provincial regime to Maori police indicated the strong degree of autonomy afforded the regional state apparatus in policing matters. Although by 1853 most Maoris in the various police forces had been taken on merely because they were the only applicants for the 3s 6d per day job, Grey had never entirely abandoned hopes that his ‘civilising mission’ would be spearheaded by Maori policemen. Yet even before the Governor left the colony on the last day of 1853 the Auckland provincial legislature had resolved that police vacancies were to be filled by pakehas only, with the aim of making the force ‘consist exclusively of Europeans, when such can be obtained’. Although rationalised by testimony from Beckham that his seven Maori police were less efficient than pakeha constables, the vote was essentially an accurate reflection of the feeling of an electorate whose ethnocentrism found the disciplining of pakehas by ‘savages’ to be intolerable. The central government, in the person of Grey’s trusted deputy Wynyard, did not protest against what was inevitable; there was more fertile Maori land awaiting alienation in Auckland Province than in any other, and there was impatience with subtle Greyite methods of achieving it. Even ‘friendly’ Maoris were regarded as not to be trusted. Pakeha recruits to the police force would be found by confirming the pay increase provisionally extracted by a desperate Beckham in the final days of the New Ulster police regime. The transfusion was uneven and prolonged, but by 1861 the last Maori policeman in Auckland city. Private George, had disappeared from the roll. 5
Policing by the newly constituted force operated much as in preprovincial days, with the Sergeant-Major in the capital continuing to act as effective head of police most of the time, albeit now burdened with the extra role of Inspector of Nuisances. In late 1854, when stock was taken of the operations of the Auckland APF during the province’s first year, the key problem of police wages
417
Policing the Colonial Frontier
lagging behind general rates of pay remained. To boost the recruitment of suitable pakehas, therefore, the pay rates rose once more, to 6s per day for privates and up to a ceiling of 8s 6d, the SergeantMajor’s income. Moreover, the incongruity of the police management system became increasingly apparent: most of Beckham’s £7OO salary was remuneration for performance of his General Government duties, those of Resident Magistrate and to a lesser extent Sheriff, rather than for his policing functions, which he had of necessity to conduct mainly in the evenings and entirely from his desk. He was beginning to lose his grip upon the force, and a number of complaints about police inefficiency had greeted the Provincial Councillors when they convened for their second session late in October.
These matters were in general terms actually beyond the Commissioner’s control: because of shortage of recruits, for example, there had been insufficient city men available to effectively guard convicts employed on public works, and the military refused to undertake the ‘performance of duties which should properly be discharged by the Police. It is only in cases of emergency when the peace or safety of the community is concerned that the Queen’s Troops are employed as guards over Civil Prisoners and then only in support of the Civil Power.’ A petition from residents of Kororareka, supported by Resident Magistrate Clendon, applied for a ‘due number of Police to patrol the town in rotation every night, and otherwise assist in securing the safety of the town and its inhabitants’. Although this was prompted by an incendiarist’s activities, the problem was longstanding: with policing focused on the capital, the Bay of Islands detachment consisted of only a corporal and a private. In the chain of command that detachment fell under the control of Sub-Inspector White of Mangonui, and it was he who was therefore to be held responsible for the situation alleged by Clendon; ‘the Police of Kororareka was never so inefficient as at the present time, the Corporal (over whom the Police Regulations do not appear to give me any control) considering himself the Officer in Charge, seldom, unless the day is remarkably fine, makes his appearance, in fact his pay is a useless expenditure.’ Whatever the degree of culpability for such matters which rested on Beckham’s head, a higher level of professionalism in the Auckland provincial police was widely perceived to be essential. It was decided to abolish the post of Commissioner at the end of the year, and from 1 January 1855 a commissioned police officer would replace Beckham as head of the Armed Police Force.”
Wynyard had left most Auckland provincial business to his executive but, mindful of its significance in the exercise of power, had
418
The Provinces, 1853-61
always kept close supervision over policing. Before stepping down from the Superintendency he chose as the new provincial head of police a man who had served in the imperial forces for 22 years (including a stint in the colony between 1845 and 1853) but who had ended up as an official in the Post Office. At once the new Police Inspector, James Naughton, set out to reintroduce the strict paramilitary organisational methods and discipline which had fallen somewhat into desuetude during Beckham’s part-time overlordship. Additionally, just prior to the election of new Superintendent William Brown, in February the executive’s Dr Daniel Pollen appointed Edward Mayne, a man frequently called upon to fill various official positions, as a temporary Commissioner of Police. This however was a position quite different from that which Beckham had held, being created to relieve Naughton’s burdens by superintending the imposition of the City Councils Ordinance, thereby allowing the new Inspector time and energy to retrain his men and attract suitable new recruits. 7
The policing arrangement for the northern district had also been reviewed prior to Naughton’s appointment, a result of the submissions by Resident Magistrate Clendon at Russell. Sub-Inspector White’s operations from Mangonui had never satisfactorily covered the Bay of Islands because of communications problems—an incident such as that when a policeman had lost all the mail, and almost his life, crossing a swollen stream on the ‘Mangonui Road’ was but one of a number. Moreover the Sub-Inspector’s ‘headquarters’ detachment had shrunk to consist of Corporal Joseph Reilly and Private Koi Koi. From towards the end of 1854 White, Superintendent Wynyard having arranged for his already reduced provincial policing pay to be stopped, received full pay for the first time in his capacity as the General Government’s Resident Magistrate at Mangonui. But since his local two-man force required daily control that was impossible from Auckland White had been created from 1 January 1855 a provincial Inspector of Police, an honorary rank which, carrying no emolument, was subordinate to Naughton’s Inspectorial position in the capital. Thus the hierarchical chain of command was in theory preserved. In practice the policing operations in Mangonui continued much as before, except that the territorial area under the purview of the detachment was now truncated by the formation at the same time of a new Bay of Islands police district out of its southern sector. Resident Magistrate Clendon was placed at the head of this third provincial police district as the second unpaid Inspector in the province, taking control from White of Russell’s Corporal Henry Syms and what was now a staff of two privates. This was the chance that Clendon
419
Policing the Colonial Frontier
had been waiting for and he quickly tightened police discipline at the Bay, to be rewarded with a provincial salary (which was however kept below that of Naughton).
Inspector White was no doubt relieved to have relinquished control of the southern portions of his district, for although the northernmost tribes had in general been ‘most obedient to the law where Europeans are concerned’ there was a significant amount of intraMaori disputation which now threatened to erupt into warfare. Moreover the Whangaroa Maoris were ‘much less disposed to submit to the “White Man’s Law” than the other natives of the district’, he reported in April 1855, ‘and I anticipate much difficulty with them’. The Mangonui chief of police was provided with no interpreter, and had to use ‘friendly’ chiefs as informal policemen in tribal disputes because of the smallness of his police force. By the time of his report of anti-pakeha actions at Whangaroa the five year old Mangonui lockup—‘merely a wooden box’ measuring six by eight feet—was in such a dilapidated state that the current five prisoners had been ‘placed in a small room in a house hired by the Police as a Barrack, and which is in no way more secure than rooms ordinarily seen in houses in the country.’ The northernmost police post remained an isolated affair, a traveller reporting of Mangonui in the latter half of 1857 that it comprised ‘a resident magistrate, a custom house officer, 2 stores, a sergeant and a policeman, one or two settlers, and a public house...
White’s problem of lack of resources was a microcosm of that experienced throughout the colony, including by Naughton at the capital, who estimated that he would require 20 duty privates if day and night patrolling were to be conducted satisfactorily. To be sure, that number of privates appeared on the official figures for his establishment and its environs, but three of these were at the satellite towns: one-man stations at Howick and Otahuhu, and one private operating with a sergeant at Onehunga. Of the 17 others, on a typical day in August 1855 one guarded the lockup, another was the mounted orderly, and yet another the Native Secretary’s orderly; additionally, two waited in daily attendance upon Resident Magistrate Beckham’s court and another was currently in the country serving jury summonses. The Inspector had ‘often found the Night Patrol especially very insufficient for efficient performance of the duties which at the same moment, may be required of them in several parts of the town.’ Moreover he and the SergeantMajor were not able fully to superintend the beat police 24 hours a day, at a time when this was more than ever needed: overwork and underpay meant that morale was rapidly falling and this in turn led to inefficient performance of duty. Thus it was that Naughton
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The Provinces, 1853-61
secured as the first step of several reforms the appointment of an extra commissioned officer for the city, Auckland JP and businessman David George Smale. Appointed as Sub-Inspector on 21 August 1855, Smale was chosen partly because his military background was believed to give him skills of a disciplinary nature. 9
Now Naughton set about to tackle the grievances of the Auckland police. The constables were forced, he noted, to pay half the cost of a uniform which he considered to be ‘both useless and expensive and I know that it is so regarded by the men themselves. It can scarcely ever be worn on actual duty as it might be destroyed in a single day.’ Naughton suggested a more durable uniform and, since it would cost 10s per suit extra, he felt that the government might well consider a subsidy of substantial size, perhaps even a free issue. But the grievance over the uniform was only a symptom of the root cause of disaffection: once again police pay rates had lagged behind rapid increases in the price of food, rent and ‘all the necessaries of life’ so that the men’s pay was ‘wholly inadequate to their support’. All 25 privates and NCOs in the vicinity of the capital had in July petitioned the Provincial Council for an increase. They reiterated the case put some three years before by the Wellington and Canterbury men by pointing out that not only did they earn less than labourers but also that their job was more demanding, involving as it did being ‘on duty more or less day and night’, and entailed more personal expense since ‘they must at all times appear clean and decent in their apparel (which is at all times likely to be destroyed) whilst this with the working man is but a secondary consideration’.
The signatories, headed by Charles Brown, included three Maori constables; the ‘X’ marked by one of the pakeha constables indicated the very real considerations behind Inspector Naughton’s endorsement of their claims. ‘Quality’ of personnel would suffer even further if his men did not receive more pay, he submitted, and it would not be possible to fill those vacancies that would occur with suitable recruits. The politicians were alarmed at the spectre of rampant ‘lawlessness’ and accepted the pay scales suggested by the head of police, a big boost to 7s 6d daily for privates through to 10s for the Sergeant-Major (while the Inspector’s pay went up proportionately to £3OO, the amount envisaged by Wynyard in the first place). They accepted too Naughton’s application for a new style of uniform, and that November the successful tenderer agreed to supply 30 ‘Beaver coats’, pairs of ‘Pilot cloth trousers’ and ‘caps of fine blue cloth’. Finally they endorsed Naughton’s submission that policing numbers were inadequate, and also accepted his argument that too many pakehas were selling firearms to Maoris and
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
that, therefore, a ‘trustworthy native’ should be enrolled as a private to undertake detection work in this field: the colony thereby got its first official, full-time ‘Detective Policeman’. In one year the new chief of provincial police had occasioned more than a doubling in annual police expenditure to around £7000.“
With these reforms in motion, and a provincial power struggle resolved with the resignation of Superintendent Brown (who had been faced with an intransigent Council) and the election in his place of his business partner John Logan Campbell, Naughton was able to turn more of his attention to affairs beyond the capital of the province. After a period of analysis there resulted the elevation of the Bay of Islands once more as the key police station in the north, and a decision to take firmer provincial control of policing activities in that area by removing the task from Resident Magistrate Clendon, a move which was seen by some as politically motivated against the incumbent. On 8 January 1856 influential local settler William Bartley was appointed Inspector in his place. On a part-time salary of £l5O (about the full-time remuneration of Syms), Bartley would spend more time on policing activity than had Clendon. It was planned to revive the still-flagging area, beginning with the removal of the principal settlement from Russell (which for most settlers had to be reached by boat) to the western side of the Bay. But nothing eventuated, for the eyes of most of the Province’s decision-makers and of the constituency which motivated their decisions were by now inexorably turned to the fertile lands south of the capital. Moreover the increase in intraMaori disputation in the north was so great that by late 1857 the Provincial Council was investigating the possibility of stationing a hundred troops in the Bay."
At the time of the Naughton reforms white settlement had gone little beyond the Auckland isthmus and certain points north, but pakehas were gradually moving into the perimeters of areas as yet unpenetrated by their fellow countrymen, fuming in particular at continued Maori control of much of the province’s best land. In defiance of the reasonably cautious approach of the General Government, and in the face of repeated statements by Naughton and other authorities that protection could not be guaranteed for Europeans in Maori areas, they sold liquor and took up land. As was common at the racial interface chiefly authority could be adversely affected by any sizeable European presence, bringing extra elements of turbulence. A positive Maori response to this challenge to indigenous order had been taking shape, particularly on the much coveted lands of the Waikato to the south of the Auckland hinterland. Chiefs sought by mediation to regulate the
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encroachment, particularly in conjuction with their advisory-cum-governing bodies, the village runanga; and the pakeha state continued its past policy of utilising existing Maori authority in ‘preserving the peace’. When ‘outrages’ against settlers were committed, usually by way of formalised plundering to compensate for offences against Maori custom, the pakeha authorities complained to the chiefs who would in most cases ensure that restitution was made. In this way authorities on both sides had managed to avoid extremes of generalised disorder. But pressure to alienate Maori land was growing with the wresting by the provinces from the General Government of full control of land disposition from 31 August 1856, especially given the onset of relative depression in Auckland Province in 1856-7 followed by a stepping-up of European immigration for several years. 12
By 1857, however, Maori resistance had accordingly intensified and the tendency of the runanga to borrow elements of pakeha custom, complete with at least part-time agencies of coercion, had become by its replication on much larger scale than in the past a key mode of resistance. Most importantly, a number of tribes, centred on the Waikato but with widespread support elsewhere in the North Island, had coalesced to agitate for a separate Maori state headed by a Maori King. Such ideas had grown from Maori willingness to adapt European ideas and institutions to their own purposes. Since 1854 large intertribal meetings, consciously paralleling aspects of pakeha political institutions, had been convened from time to time. This created for the state a problem which transcended provincial borders; its regional ramifications had of necessity to be controlled at the level of the colony’s central executive, where Maori affairs were handled by an uneasy alliance between Governor and colonial settler politicians.
In March 1857 lawyer Francis Dart Fenton, recently Native Secretary, proposed from the Waikato that the pakeha state cut the ground out from under the feet of ‘Kingism’ by encouraging the growth of the runanga but utilising them as organs of dual power, officially endorsing their powers of legislation and coercion over their own areas. Giving them legal standing was in effect a revival of the Greyite idea of providing Maori authorities with an increasing share of state power, and an institutionalisation of the informal use of chiefly power to keep order in ‘native areas’. The scheme would be guided by Resident Magistrates who would periodically visit the various runanga and generally oversee the activities of Assessors (who would be elected by the runanga, not appointed by the pakeha as in the past) and of ‘wardens’, or policemen. 13
Meeting with the Kingites, Grey’s successor as Governor,
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Thomas Gore Browne, assessed that the growth of Kingism might indeed be halted by the fusion on pakeha terms of the state and chiefly/runanga authority. That May Fenton was appointed Resident Magistrate for the Waikato and Waipa in order to experimentally implement his suggested scheme. He was to make clear that all local Maori laws needed ratification by the central government and to be endorsed by the General Assembly before becoming binding—on local pakehas as well as Maoris. From July Fenton began regularising Waikato runanga; salaries and uniforms for the ‘Maori magistrates’ (Assessors) had been sanctioned by the Governor, and batons for their ‘occasional police’. Pakeha involvement in legalised tribal coercion was not considered: if impossible at village runanga level, enforcement of Assessors’ decisions was to be at the level of district runanga, which was to be attended by the Assessors of each village. ‘My idea has always been to throw upon the natives the entire onus of enforcing this obedience’, Fenton wrote in August 1857: ‘I look upon this council of magistrates of a district as the anchor which terminates the chain of justice which holds the ship of prosperity from drifting’. 11
But these official district runanga were never convened, for in the event only a handful of runanga gave their allegiance at this time to the pakeha state. Moreover, as Fenton’s later successor in the Waikato John Gorst wrote, the loyalty of his predecessor’s chiefly followers was far more a quest for prospective gifts and salaries than for what the pakeha saw as ‘law and order’: they were ‘talking of nothing but being made magistrates, wardens, or jurymen, under which designations they all looked forward to some lucrative employment under Government’. Salaries for collaborationist runanga officials never eventuated, all runanga appointees being considered probationers by a settler ministry more interested in direct imposition of pakeha aspirations upon the Maori than in the gradualist approach of institutionalising the Greyite ‘civilising mission’. Even when a Maori arrestee was sent by Fenton ‘in charge of native police to Auckland gaol’, the two Maori policemen/magistrates (there was often no differentiation between the two functions) who had captured and escorted him were denied confirmation of office. In any case Kingism had continued to spread, most Waikato Maoris having recognised that state sanctioning of the runanga system was merely an auxiliary stratagem for pakeha alienation of Maori land. Officials handling ‘native affairs’, particularly now that the Native Department was headed by Chief Land Purchase Commissioner Donald McLean, had all along sympathised more with the politicians’ direct approach to subjecting the Maori than with ‘indirect’ runanga rule and policing;
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in 1858 the Department secured the removal from the Waikato of Resident Magistrate Fenton, whose grafting of pakeha modes and aims of policing on to tribal institutions had polarised the Kingites and had not progressed very far even amongst loyalist tribes and hapu. 15
Before withdrawing, Fenton had heard rumours that the ‘King party’ were organising their own policemen and soldiers to repress what they considered to be disorder. As he left, elderly chief Te Wherowhero —hitherto the informal chiefly policeman of New Ulster Province —moved into the Waikato from Mangere and in early June 1858 was elected as Maori King Potatau, to preside at the Kingite capital of Ngaruawahia. A federal policing system was discussed and ‘Kingmaker’ Wiremu Tamihana, using concepts of the Europeans, summed up the result: ‘Policemen were appointed to keep order; the Superintendent of Police was Aihipene Kaihau’ of Awhitu, one of the principal South Auckland chiefs. The coercive infrastructure of a Maori state, aspects of pakeha institutions grafted upon runanga, was complete upon this establishment of Kingite policing—pirihimanatanga—and the participants ‘determined that the kingship should be abiding’. The legal and police establishments created by Potatau I and endorsed by his executive, were formal, centralised versions of less formal policing at village runanga level. They were to survive many tribulations, including the defection of the Kingite founding Superintendent of Police to the pakeha government side. 16
Whereas the partially implemented Fenton plan of ‘indirect rule’ had failed to head off Kingism in the Waikato, in the even less pakeha-penetrated East Cape/Poverty Bay region—the ‘East Coast’—a more successful if more informal version of indirect pakeha control of the Maori had been implemented. Since 1846 Resident Magistrates had been sent to act as the ‘eyes and ears’ of the state in semi-penetrated areas. In the absence of any possibility of immediate recourse to state coercion they relied for the preservation of order on chiefly authority (or, sometimes, what remained of it), upon runanga legislation and policing, and upon their authority to appoint individual Maoris as agents of the state in the capacity of Assessors. By 1855 white settlement and trading operations—and, concomitantly, Maori access to liquor—in the East Coast, one of the most geographically isolated regions in the province, had spread sufficiently far to require a mediator at the racial interface. Although its pakehas were as yet few, the generation of any race friction would clearly have repercussions affecting the entire province.
On 10 November a wealthy young gentleman of 25 newly arrived
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in the colony, Herbert Samuel Wardell, was appointed Resident Magistrate for the entire East Coast region. With chiefly authority largely intact because of the area’s isolation, Wardell was able to utilise it by giving positions in the machinery of state to key chiefs. Insofar as a state of order generally acceptable to the pakeha state prevailed, on one level the experiment worked: chiefs who would have minimised disorder in any case now did so with modifications acceptable to white authority. But in terms of any ‘civilising mission’ results the ‘success’ of his ‘indirect’ rule in the East Coast was chimerical, for his primitive state machinery was utilised only when it suited the rangatira and runanga to do so. As Wardell himself noted, East Coast Maoris ‘did not recognise the authority of the law, and yielded obedience or refused it as it suited their purposes’. Their normal method of social control remained their non-statified runanga headed by their chiefly leaders. Moreover just as the Waikato Maoris had borrowed some pakeha organisational forms in the process of creating a pan-tribal ‘Kingdom’, so too did East Coast runanga borrow and coalesce in response to the presence of the pakeha, forming a loose regional authority with general control over order and regularity. It was a similar, if lesser, regional response to a similar, if lesser, regional challenge. 11
Pakeha police seldom penetrated the huge area and settlers, mainly concentrated in the Poverty Bay area, agitated for a police detachment. They were enraged at the ‘native movement’, particularly when it prevented land sales or insisted on minimum prices below which Maori produce could not fall. They lobbied against the General Government’s ‘temporising policy’, arguing that it was ‘a farce—a most unmitigated humbug to place a paid magistrate anywhere without power to enforce his decisions.’ If runanga law clashed with European legal judgment, the Maori usually chose the former. When some cattle were (wrongly) distrained by the state in the course of a complicated interracial legal wrangle, aggrieved Maoris helped themselves to cattle belonging to the Resident Magistrate in compensation. ‘I have no hesitation in saying we managed the natives better when left to ourselves’, wrote a correspondent in 1858; ‘We had then the government to hold towards them in terrorem. That has now shared the fate of all scarecrows by being openly laughed at and defied by all parties’. But, particularly with the onset of recessionary times in the province, there was no chance of a provincial police detachment being stationed in so far distant an Auckland Province outpost. 18
Meanwhile, closer to the capital tensions grew constantly in
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response to Kingism and other rejectionist tendencies in Maoridom. As early as 1856 provincial and central governments at Auckland were discussing tentative plans to revive military pensioner settlement schemes, for ‘the presence of such a body as a permanent armed force available in time of war would be of eminent service’. In 1858, the year in which the Auckland police barracks began to stockpile firearms ordered some time before by the Governor for military use, the legislative basis for widespread machinery of ‘indirect rule’ was laid by the General Assembly’s Native Districts Regulation Act and Native Circuit Courts Act. But whereas the institutions envisaged were familiar—Resident Magistrates superintending chiefs designated as salaried Assessors, the Governor endorsing runanga-initiated laws—they were, as Fenton’s fate illustrated, already anachronistic and were to be kept mostly in abeyance. Governor Browne was being increasingly influenced by the settler politicians, and a sign of the times was the confirming on that 27 August of the hard-line Taranaki settler C W Richmond in the new position of Minister for Native Affairs, political overlordship of which subject he had held since McLean’s appointment as top official in Maori matters. Another event which did not go unnoticed by the Maori epitomised the underlying reason for all the various governmental devices under experiment: the appearance of a Native Territorial Rights Bill, drawn up with the aim of individualising the traditionally communal tenure of Maori land. The subsequent enactment, had it not been vetoed by the Crown, would have made alienation of land a much faster process.
The divisions between the races grew with the decade, paralleling the deliberate and related phasing out of Maoris from the provincial police. A book published in London in 1857 giving an account —much publicised ever since—of both Auckland and Wellington having 20-man forces ‘composed chiefly of young natives, who make excellent constables’ was already with regard to Auckland quite outdated in its information, based as it was on a visit by Charles Hursthouse in 1854. Maori fear of European designs upon the land was mirrored by pakeha fear that any given interracial incident might be the signal for organised Maori insurrection. Gorst reported of the later 1850s—albeit with a degree of exaggeration, his information being at second-hand—that ‘in the streets of Auckland itself the natives have generally been able to defy the majesty of the law. No native could be imprisoned for drunkenness or rioting without the risk of war; and with our unarmed men, women, and children, hostages in native districts, it was a risk the Government dared not run’. 19
In actuality, however, the city force had to deal largely with
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pakeha offenders, including and in particular the imperial troops headquartered at the capital as protection against Maori insurgency. In the ‘purlieus which usually encompass any large military encampment’ there were drunken fracas, assaults, robberies and the occasional killing. After the Naughton reforms the provincial police were able to cope without too much difficulty, numbers and morale being relatively high. The upward spiral of prices, peaking in late 1855, had prompted yet another rise in the pay of the 25 city privates in the force—but not of its NCOs —by 6d per day to Bs. In the Russell and Mangonui Police detachments, however, only the Inspectors gained, the officer at the former station getting a £5O increase to £2OO as befitting the revamped importance of its force and the Inspector at the latter receiving a provincial stipend, for the first time since the late 1854 reorganisation, of £25. The four privates now posted under the Bay of Islands corporal (one of them for a six-month period only) and the sole private at the Mangonui post remained on 7s 6d per diem; Mangonui’s corporal was able to hire occasional assistance up to a total cost of £2O per annum. But by October 1856, when John Williamson (a radical printer who had become an immensely wealthy newspaper proprietor) was elected to the Superintendency, with European expansion in the province stymied and trade with the Australian goldfields having fallen off depression had set in and major economising was decreed for the police as well as for other departments of state. All commissioned
officer positions except Naughton’s were disestablished, so that the northern detachments reverted to direct control from the capital, several privates were dismissed from the police establishment, and wages plunged drastically.”
Privates’ pay now fell from the equivalent of £146 per annum to a salary of £lOO, or 5s 6d per day. The four corporals and the two sergeants also took huge salary cuts, and the Sergeant-Major dropped from £lB2 10s to a sum less than that previously earned by his privates. Even the Inspector in charge took a salary cut to £250, although recovering half of the differential the following year (with the Sergeant-Major going up to £150) while the rest of the pay rates remained static. Fewer men—there were now but 25 privates in the entire provincial force —were now doing more work for less pay, a difficult situation which was to be exacerbated both by their having to enforce Auckland municipal police offences legislation passed in March 1858 and by a large influx of assisted immigrants from that year onwards. Elsewhere urban policemen could frequently ignore the more swingeing provisions of municipal disciplinary legislation, but the Auckland Provincial Councillors appointed Edmund Powell (at a wage of £1 10s per week) to ‘make
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& lodge complaints and informations’ pertaining to the measure, a decision which was to require constant police liaison with this special inspector at all levels of municipal control from surveillance through to conviction of ofltenders. One of the constables later recalled bouts of duty lasting for 24 hours at a time. 21
When in 1858 then a politician described the Auckland provincial police as ‘more of a Municipal force’ than a body designed to impose order upon a hostile countryside there was a great measure of truth in his remark, even though this was the year of the formalisation of the King movement; and when in 1859 the number of privates was briefly raised to 30 it was essentially to cope with the problems of urban disorder. Few doubted that war would come, yet Naughton and Superintendent Williamson spent inordinate amounts of time on urban matters —including the investigation of charges and countercharges of rudeness and immorality which passed incessantly between Provincial Surgeon Thomas McGauran and Gaol officials and which resulted in the enforced resignation of the former. With the Maori dominant in the areas of coveted countryside Inspector Naughton’s urban orientation was a reflection of a realistic appraisal of circumstances: with the resources available, which still included a mounted division of only one man, it was impossible to provide continuous protection for those scattered settlers who were making inroads into hitherto purely Maori areas. Given that the pakehas looked towards seizure of such areas by conquest, that the Maoris knew this, and that the outsettlers tended to be aggressive whenever backed by any show of state force, the centralisation of policing in the Auckland urban environment (and to a lesser degree in the two northern settlements) was the best way to prevent unplanned interracial warfare whilst retaining the capacity to intervene with a show of force in an emergency. 22
Of course constables would be seconded from time to time to rural JPs for special reasons, and both general and specific patrol and other duties would take city police upon visits into the countryside. But many prominent rural settlers, particularly those who were magistrates, pressed complaints, especially about the lack of a permanent state coercive presence both in settled areas where there was no Resident Magistracy machinery to control the ramifications of interracial encounters and in areas where the new immigrants were moving on to hitherto unpenetrated areas of settlement. But the state of the provincial Treasury did not permit even one-man stations in the countryside, particularly as it seemed possible that the government might need to yield to internal police agitation to again raise the basic police pay of 5s fid. In early 1859
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the possibility of organising military settler communities was once more being investigated as the solution to the problems of countryside security in a period of heightening tension: in order that ‘protection from any possible native outrage may be secured to the numerous settlements which are likely to be spread over the Province at too great a distance from the Military Garrisons to obtain from the regular troops, such prompt aid as might be required.’ But when this proved impracticable, colonists had to be content with reiterations of the APF principle that the urban barracks represented a mobile reserve of men ready for swift policing reaction, in conjunction if necessary with the military reserves, to any serious problem anywhere in the province. 23
By 1860, centripetal policing tendencies had ensured that most Auckland provincial police were based in the capital itself, where Inspector Naughton, Sergeant-Major Henry Syms, Sergeants William Evers and James Foster, and Corporals William Smith and John Scott, presided over the privates. To at least partially fill the rural vacuum the expedient of the ‘district constable’ which was in general use elsewhere in the colony was adopted that year: six were appointed at salaries of £3O, their numbers thereafter to fluctuate according to the state both of the provincial economy and of order in the countryside. Indeed by 1863, with the military exercising control throughout large areas of the southern provincial countryside during war and its aftermath, district constable numbers were to fall to a low point of three, although JPs were voted a sum of money from which to employ police assistance when required."
With so large a concentrated force in Auckland and its immediate environs there had been for some time in the later 1850s some possibility of a career structure —at least to senior NCO level —for the able private who was willing to stay, a factor which had helped to head off serious disaffection among the men over their low rates of pay. Nevertheless the road to the (relative) top could be long and hard. Corporal Smith, for example, had served in ‘Heke’s war’ before becoming a founding member of Atkyns’ Armed Police Force; under the New Ulster regime he had been in charge of the problem-ridden Onehunga station, and was eventually to become Naughton’s Sergeant-Major of Police. Meanwhile however opportunities for advancement were now to become even more restricted than hitherto, for the Auckland APF was on the brink of wholesale reductions. By 1861 annual expenditure on the force had plummeted to £3200, less than 50 percent of that of some half a dozen years ago. For all these vicissitudes, the force under Naughton remained by nature firmly that of a disciplined, paramilitary Armed Police Force, as the men were reminded by their Inspector
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early in 1860 after a constable had voted in an election at a pensioner settlement: in future, he warned, any policeman violating regulation 25, forbidding the men ‘to meddle in politics’, would be dismissed immediately. 25
The early development of the Wellington provincial Armed Police Force was not dissimilar to Auckland’s despite the fact that, because Wellington’s settlements did not have the same degree of fear of attack from vast areas hardly penetrated, its personnel was smaller. Police estimates for the first year of its existence totalled half those of Auckland. Following the crushing of Maori resistance in the southern North Island even the relatively small (except in that strip transferred from New Ulster) unpenetrated areas remained quiescent, permitting in normal circumstances a still more town-orientated provincial police than Auckland’s. This was appropriate insofar as half the population lived in urban areas, with the provincial capital dominating the demographic pattern, while non labour-intensive wool production had become the staple in the countryside. The clustering of most policemen at barracks in Wellington, ready for deployment as required to the farthest corners of the province—right through to northern Hawke’s Bay in the north-east —by and large suited even those powerful pastoralists who had moved on to grasslands far from the capital. The first Superintendent, Dr Isaac Featherston, who was to retain the position for most of the period of provincial government, was elected with their support. With his ‘Constitutionalist’ party dominating the Provincial Council until 1857, he operated openly and blatantly on behalf of himself and his fellow elite of the ‘squattocracy’ and their merchant allies. It suited the pastoralists to concentrate the localised means of coercion in their own hands, calling in the forces of the state only in emergencies; they preferred to be the policemen rather than the policed. 26
So confident was the pastoralist interest that the ‘reserve force’ concept provided perfectly adequate policing for the province that it at once cut the former North Island portion of the New Munster force by three men, and planned to phase out another three during the first year; policing as the pastoralist politicians and their allies planned it needed to consume only a tenth of their state budgetary expenditure. This left a provincial police totalling 17, itself a figure carped at by cost-minded critics —sufficiently effectively to cause replacement late in 1853 of a regular private with the cheaper alternative of employing a Maori civilian to convey the weekly mail from the provincial capital to Wanganui. In Wellington, a semi-
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rural and straggling town where ‘large and savage’ hunting dogs prowled and fought, the Sub-Inspector in charge of the police (soon called Inspector) Richard Baker personally headed the municipal section of the APF and thereby directly superintended the bulk of his men. There was also a ‘line of policemen stationed on the North West road’ at solitary posts, ‘the influence of which on the natives was necessarily beneficial’. The only sizeable police station outside southern Wellington Province was that at Wanganui, whose detachment was of the same strength as it had been when the town had a population of only half its 1853 size. 27
Baker was never reconciled to the reduction in the size of his force, but within that limitation he ensured continuity with the modernised beat measures that he had introduced in the past, until his ‘lamented demise’ just before Christmas 1854 at the age of 44. Meanwhile there had been growing opposition to the annual expenditure of £2OO on a commissioned officer to head such a small force, and this opinion now prevailed with the elevation from 1 January 1855 of Baker’s faithful Sergeant Samuel Stafford Styles to the position of Sergeant-Major in charge of the Wellington APF. This was a dramatic breakthrough in New Zealand policing history, for Styles was the first policeman to rise from humble constable to head of a police force; interpretation of the ‘promotion clause’ in the 1852 regulations had now to encompass this possibility occurring elsewhere in the colony. It is true that on paper a more profound development had already occurred with the 1853 promotion of New Plymouth’s Henry Halse to Sub-Inspector and founding head of that province’s police force, but Halse had begun policing life at NCO level and was moreover a member of the Taranaki socio-political elite. Styles, working class in origin, had undertaken various occupations in 1840s Nelson, including that of carter and boatman, before joining the police and learning the job on the streets. He was a man, it was recorded, whose ‘appearance alone is calculated to strike terror into the hearts of evil-doers’. The breakthrough, motivated as it was by financial considerations, was not a conscious victory for egalitarianism, but its symbolic importance as a precedent cannot be overestimated. 28
Styles took over a force which, because its resources were insufficient to cover Wellington fully with its system of beats and since it lacked specialised knowledge in detection, had come under considerable criticism from prominent residents in the provincial capital, particularly businessmen, some of whom employed nightwatchmen from time to time when police protection for their property was deemed inadequate. The shortfalls of the APF as a reserve emergency force were also illustrated three weeks after Styles’ ele-
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vation when, as had happened in 1848, a severe earthquake struck and created social as well as material havoc. There was, however, as in Auckland, an ethnocentric element in the general criticism of the police. At transition to provincial status Wellington’s force had been one quarter Maori in composition, and many people looked forward to Dr Featherston’s regime removing the uniformed Maori from the streets of the capital, it being here too regarded as an affront to pakeha dignity to see ‘savages’ laying their hands upon Europeans. It was the design to recruit whites which more than any other factor had prompted the new provincial government to raise police pay from a basic 3s 6d per day to 4s 3d. Yet in 1854 this revised rate was insufficient to lure pakeha recruits who were even remotely suitable, and thus by the time that Styles replaced Baker half of the APF’s 14 privates were Maori. The new Sergeant-Major was not on record as being one of the detested ‘philo-Maoris’, and indeed had married the widow of the Interpreter on the Wairau expedition who had been executed by Rangihaeata, but he was unable to do anything else but maintain the status quo on the employment of non-white constables. The campaign of abuse against Maori police therefore continued, a not untypical comment being that a ‘dozen lamp posts would be cheap and efficient substitutes for half-a-dozen Maori policemen’. 28
Scrutiny and criticism of the operations of the Wellington city police were to climax during 1856. In February a magistrate who was also a Provincial Councillor alleged that Maori constables were so brutal in dragging drunks to the lockup that, as with the police of the early 1840s, their very actions themselves threatened the peace. The charge however reflected the concern of a section of city dwellers, and with a pastoralist-dominated Council nothing resulted from it. Indeed the politicians were so appreciative of Styles’ policing regime that his salary was increased by £25 to £175, and so unconcerned about the sensitivities of people in the capital that by mid year all one dozen privates in Wellington were Maoris. But criticism escalated; Maori police allegedly lurked outside ‘pubs’ waiting to pounce on and maltreat pakehas, drunk and sober alike, locking them all up without discrimination. A newcomer expressed horror at the sight of Styles superintending his ‘band of semibarbarians’ as they dragged off ‘with all possible violence’ men—even, he was horrified to observe, women!—who were only slightly intoxicated. Some critics suggested minor remedies such as the provision of identification numbers to privates; many requested total removal of Maori police. 30
The Featherstonite government, beginning to lose political ground as groups of businessmen broke away from their junior
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partnership with the pastoralists and raised their voices in a political reform campaign, was now able to grant a concession to the policing critics: a reduction in labouring wages allowed it to find several suitable pakeha recruits to fill current police vacancies. But this was insufficient to stave off continuing pressure, particularly that led by ‘respectable’ men of influence who had at some time been ensnared in the police net and felt humiliated at being detained by Maori constables. Even the strongest defenders of Maori police, such as a citizen who felt that they were doing a good job ridding the streets of drunks (who were in his eyes even ‘lower’ than Maoris), saw brownskinned constables as a stopgap measure pending the creation of a fully pakeha force. 31
The issue surfaced at a public meeting at the Athenaeum, called to discuss the establishment of a professional fire brigade after the Government Buildings had burnt down. The chief influential opponent of Maori police, Charles R Carter, attacked them for their ‘inefficient’ showing when attending fires. Some pointed out the unfairness of the criticism: police were few, fires many. The existence of a professional fire brigade, it was said, would release police to carry out duties which would prevent fires, such as the monitoring of dangerous chimneys. Support for the Maori police came from former antagonist of Otago police, E J Wakefield, a new Wellington Provincial Councillor around whom discontent with the Featherston regime’s broken promises was coalescing. With public works only just beginning, urban business stagnating, land hunger prevalent amongst those of small means, and the promised supply of immigrants not having arrived, only the large pastoralist runholders rejoiced at —or at least acquiesced in—the current state of affairs. Wakefield related how at the scene of the big fire a Maori policeman had relieved a man of a dirk that he was brandishing, thereby averting panic. Although probably motivated simply by opposition to the government, which had accepted in principle that Maori police were undesirable, this testimony avowing their worth was sufficient to ensure that Carter’s motion that half the Wellington police be pakeha was ruled out of order. It also helped to bring about a waning in the intensity of the racist campaign, since urban businessmen, among others, were beginning to look to Wakefield’s ‘Radical Reform’ brand of politics to rescue them from the effects of large-scale merchant-pastoralist oriented Featherstonism, 32
Carter, a self-made businessman, retaliated by gathering together a meeting at the same venue on 24 June where, to rapturous applause, he castigated Wellington’s police and presented a racist Gresham’s Law: bad, brown police drive out good, white police. Moreover his attack had moved by now to the policing system per
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se: at the Te Aro end of town, where the poor lived, and stole coal and timber to keep themselves warm and dry, there should be stationed a pakeha Sub-Inspector to ‘make fire and theft less frequent’; at the Thorndon end, he claimed in a careful formulation that avoided characterising upper-class drunks as such (even though he was himself an abstainer), Maori police did nothing more than promenade along the strip of beach between police station and the bank, ‘watching and pouncing upon those staggering individuals who at times cannot be termed sober members of the community’. Instead, police should be property protectors: a beat should be formed on The Terrace, for example, to keep an eye on the rear of premises of the shops and commercial houses situated on the fiat below. 33
In complaining that Maori privates did not comprehend British customs, traditions and feelings, that only four of them could speak sufficient broken English to make themselves understood, Carter widened his range. He tapped matters which were of concern even to the Maoriphile supporters of Grey’s purpose in founding a mixed-race Armed Police as a mechanism for transforming the ‘rude savage into the dutiful subject and the happy man’. In order to gain this wider following he had cleverly called the second meeting around his 50:50 formula, which was originally merely a tactical move in a more far-reaching campaign. Now even those who defended the policemen’s efficiency, who pointed out that there had been no serious disturbances in Wellington for years, swung in behind the motion on the grounds that Maoris were being used as cheap labour for policing, rather than policing being used as a ‘civilising’ medium. An equal ethnic police membership would symbolise the Greyite goal of amalgamation of the races (on European terms, of course) and augur well for the ‘brotherhood of man’. Featherston thus became the recipient of a unanimous resolution from the meeting. 34
Yet if Hursthouse’s description of Maorified city policing was greatly outdated for Auckland, it was to remain basically true for Wellington, although total numbers now fell short of 20. Even the white corporals tended not to stay beyond their year’s contract, as they could earn more than their police pay of 4s 6d per day by labouring, and there were no possibilities of easy replacement for them let alone of replacing Maori constables with pakehas throughout the force. Therefore Styles was sometimes forced in desperation to violate the 1852 regulations on obedience to superiors by ignoring the Superintendent’s instructions that he fill vacancies exclusively with pakeha police. Maori police were continually sniped at—they were too harsh on drunks, they were not harsh
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enough on drunks—with a pause only for a while, after one was stabbed on duty. By and large, publicly articulate Wellingtonians envied Auckland’s rapid divestment of its Maori police. Carter’s successful campaign for a seat on the Provincial Council in 1857 had as one of its planks the remodelling of the Armed Police; it was a topic he would return to again and again, with particular reference to the question of Maori constables, and in 1858 he managed to secure an all-party investigation into the force.”
In the meantime the issue had expanded well beyond just that of the desirability or otherwise of Maori constables. Carter, speaking directly on behalf of small-farm and contracting interests in the Wairarapa, had branded the police distribution pattern too as defective. By 1856 there were 14 police based in the environs of the provincial capital, including Styles and a constable stationed at court; there was also a corporal at the Hutt and three privates who took the mail northwards. In a decade in which the provincial population was to double, and at a time when the balance of population was beginning to swing in favour of rural dwellers, there were as yet a mere four police elsewhere in the province: three at Wanganui and one at Ahuriri in distant Hawke’s Bay. But this concern with inadequate countryside distribution was not widely shared by the pastoralist majority within the Constitutionalist party, the absence of local coercive agents of state having given these powerful individuals a free hand on their vast quasi-autonomous estates. Although Featherston had allowed police resources to dwindle, they were secure in the knowledge that the presence of a paramilitary force in the capital gave the Superintendent the wherewithal to respond in appropriate fashion to disturbances anywhere in the province, whether the challenge to order were from Maori or pakeha. This, and the theory that the mobile Wellington police could in the event of insurrectionary emergency act as the nucleus of a locally-gathered armed force, was sufficient to ensure that the pastoralist lobby in general supported only the anti-Maori component of Carter’s views on policing. As one of them had stated, there could be no return to the era of the ‘Dogberries’ of ‘Merrie England’, of the idiotic parish constable. On cue the pro-Feather-ston Independent quickly stopped querying why ‘free Englishmen’ should be policed by armed privates.”
As the 1857 elections for the Provincial Council approached it became clear that it was the Radical Reform group which had appropriated the demand for fundamental remodelling of the police. There were two components of the police reform movement: first, the Small Farms Association. This had established settlements in the Wairarapa—at Greytown and Masterton —in 1854
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and had been strengthened by the 1857 opening to wheeled traffic of the road from Upper Hutt across the Rimutakas, an event which led to further small-farm settlement at Featherston and Carterton. Unlike the runholding squattocracy which had preceded them, the small farmers wanted an official police presence to provide security whilst they broke in their farms. Secondly, the Radical Reformers’ policing lobby, headed by George Hunter, a self-proclaimed ‘independent runholder’ who was also a Wellington businessman, had the intention of professionalising the urban police: instead of an ever changing complement of men regarded as ‘soldiers’, pay and conditions should be such as to attract and retain ‘proper’ constables. At the same time the policing image should be enhanced: paramilitarism would be retained, with Styles at the top as a commissioned officer, but the urban police would be more propertyorientated than before. This would be possible because with increased numbers of police there would be more opportunity to protect, in particular, business properties against those disposed to theft. With ideas of change in the air, some took their enthusiasm far beyond that desired by the Radical Reformers, whose orientation was essentially towards property protection; an ex-private, for example, spoke of pensions for men disabled on duty or who had served for 15 or 20 years. 37
At the polls for the Provincial Council the Radical Reformers won overwhelmingly, but Featherston refused to call upon their leaders to constitute his executive, retaining his previous team even though half of its members had been defeated at the election. When he was forced into convening the Council in March 1858, wrangling led to a Superintendency election. Although there was only a narrow win by Dr Featherston over the Wakefieldite candidate, former Police Magistrate Henry St Hill, Featherston considered this to be sufficient mandate to allow him to defy the will of the Council over the composition of the provincial executive and over government policies; denied supply in retaliation, he instead found public moneys first by using up existing loans and then by selling off public lands. In the process the public works programme assisting the Wairarapa small-farming communities stopped in 1859, a development which was to lead to considerable distress.
It was not until the working people of Greytown and Carterton, organised by an ex-Chartist, seemed in response to be threatening ‘anarchy’ that the provincial government seriously considered what the small-farm settlements had for some years been advocating, a police presence in the Wairarapa. Yet all the while the Superintendent vetoed the Reformers’ policies, and by the end of 1860 he had by a process of attrition destroyed the faction as a political force:
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that December he gained sufficient votes from Councillors for the legislature to accede to his longstanding demand that it dissolve itself. During Featherston’s long period of ‘dictatorship’, denial of supply by the Councillors had ‘reduced public expenditure to a trickle, and the embryonic public service had almost atrophied’. The Superintendent’s powerful merchant and pastoralist allies had finally triumphed, and in the process among the sufferers had been policemen, burdened by long hours and low pay of uncertain arrival date. 14
It had become clear by the end of the 1840s that the New Zealand Company, to meet its longstanding commitments, needed to buy as much land again as it had already obtained; and high policemen, among others, had been seeking to alienate vast tracts of land for pakeha settlement. The preference of the Wairarapa Maori was as yet to do no more than lease their land to pastoralists, and the Manawatu reconciliation to the presence of the pakeha had not extended to selling him land. Northwards of the Manawatu however the ‘vacant’ Rangitikei was purchased, its lowlands to become an extension of the agricultural-mixed farming economy of Wanganui, and in the mid 1850s its farmers too began to request a policing presence. Here the Superintendent was inclined to listen since, being better-off than the Wairarapa’s small farmers, they were a potentially supportive constituency for him. By early 1857 Featherston had decided to bypass both Provincial Council and Armed Police Force to appoint a one-man civil police presence in the Rangitikei. In this area of rising electoral importance the Superintendent had resolved the ‘civil versus militarised police’ argument in favour of the former, albeit for his own political reasons. After investigation he had found a ‘settler’ both willing to do the job and holding the support of the men of influence in the region, Charles A Tylee, and appointed him to the position.
The new ‘force’ was cheap, for Tylee was merely a district (‘special’) constable. He lay entirely beyond the scrutiny of the Provincial Council, since the small amount of money required was transferred by the Superintendent from sums originally voted for various general purposes. As opposed to previous Wellington district constables, who were at least nominally under the control of provincial police forces, from the beginning Featherston had decided that in Rangitikei the Akaroa method of total and de jure control by the magistracy could be used—but this time by the collective magistracy. Tylee was a policeman who, although paid for by the Province, was in theory under General Government
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The Provinces, 1853-61
control insofar as he reported to magistrates only. But the members of the rural magistracy were supporters of Featherston, and hence the placing of police under the control of the bench of JPs was a way of ensuring direct control by the Superintendent of the techniques of surveillance and coercion. Tylee’s methods had been learnt at the feet of the proprietor of Scott’s Ferry, a former APF constable; when they had proved by later 1859 to be too abrasive for some of the Rangitikei gentry, the district constable was dismissed by Featherston, for whom he was of use only as a tool of a pliant magistracy. 39
Meanwhile the Superintendent had not been slow to appreciate that with his initial idea for the Rangitikei experiment he had gained a weapon of state which had ramifications far beyond its local usage. He was aware that the Greyite centralised policing system could backfire on a would-be regional dictator, for lying embedded in the concept of a province-wide paramilitary police force rested an implicit challenge to his own aspirations for untrammelled power. He would therefore now apply, albeit rather cautiously, ‘divide and rule’ tactics to his institutions of policing. Moreover, whereas Akaroa civil police had reported to a single stipendiary magistrate and Nelson district constables to their nearest individual JP, Featherston’s device of placing the area bench of magistrates in charge provided even greater potential for the head of the provincial state. If one or two local JPs were to go over to ‘the opposition’, they could be outvoted on policing matters by proFeatherston elements on the bench. In late February 1857 the Superintendent therefore decided to formally remove the Wanganui police detachment from Wellington APF control, handing it to the Wanganui bench of magistrates headed by Resident Magistrate David Stark Durie, the ex-inspector of Armed Police. On 18 May 1857, as a result, the third autonomous police force in Wellington Province, a three-man force effectively headed by Corporal John Dunleavy (sent there as a private in 1852) was created. Durie, drawing upon his policing experience as state mediator between the races in the most sensitive area in the southern North Island, appreciated Featherston’s role as the champion of ‘peace’—as, in other words, propounder of the view that it was better to alienate Maori land by gradual, non-violent means than by more direct and faster methods likely to cause interracial conflagration. Wanganui was to remain the area of staunchest Featherston support throughout the period, particularly as Kingism took root in various factions along the River through 1859."’
The Superintendent granted the benches power to choose their own constables, the Rangitikei JPs selecting Frederick M Deighton
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to succeed Tylee as their district constable. But the Superintendent and his executive from time to time reminded the province’s northwestern magistrates that they were heads of the ‘rural’ and Wanganui police not as central Government magistrates per se but by delegation from the provincial government. As working heads of police in an important town, for example, those NCOs chosen by the JPs to fill vacancies as effective head of the Wanganui force— Dennis Moore in 1858 and ex-65th Regiment soldier David Atkinson in 1861 —required executive sanction by the provincial authorities. When the Wanganui bench pleaded for the reinstatement of a constable sacked by the government, the Superintendent noted that while he would always consult the magistracy, his remained the final word. Indeed, he castigated the JPs for having in the first place given the appointment to a man who could neither read nor write.”
The device of placing rural police under de facto —if not, as in this case, de jure —control of the collective judiciary of an area had actually predated the Rangitikei appointment. It was a development which had resulted from problems of order specific to the most isolated part of the Province, Hawke’s Bay, long the refuge for escaped convicts and the scene of endemic drunkenness centred on busy whaling stations (more than 400 people were employed at the Mahia station alone). After the pioneering squatters of the Wairarapa established the New Zealand wool industry the quest for pastoral land moved north-east to Hawke’s Bay, and there runholding men of capital had by the end of the 1840s moved vast flocks on to land leased illegally from the Maori. In an effort to regularise settlement expansion—whilst at the same time establishing himself as a pastoralist magnate—New Ulster’s Inspector McLean, fresh from the preliminaries of the Rangitikei purchase, began from October 1850 to negotiate for state purchase of the area. Just over a year later he completed the most extensive purchase to date in the North Island, 700,000 Ahuriri acres, and occupation began as purchasing spread both northwards and southwards from the block. Since land purchase remained in General Government hands, the imposing of the preconditions for continued purchase and occupation was of vital concern for central government in these early days of settlement in the region. Thus although Hawke’s Bay fell within Wellington Province’s jurisdiction, the onus of satisfying settler demand for suppression of the endemic disorder traditional amongst the area’s pakehas fell largely upon the central executive, despite the occasional foray into the area by members of the Wellington APF.
After Grey’s recall from New Zealand the Wynyard interregnum
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resisted pressure to take permanent measures for control of order in the Ahuriri area, leaving this up to McLean, now Chief Land Purchase Commissioner, and his sub-commissioner G S Cooper, another ex-inspector of the Taranaki Armed Police Force. Then Alfred Domett, who as former New Munster Colonial Secretary had acquired an extensive knowledge of policing, arrived at the principal settlement of Ahuriri (named by him Napier) in February 1854 as general agent of the central state, with the actual designation of Resident Magistrate and Commissioner of Crown Lands. Here, with no permanent constables nearer than the Hutt Valley, he could do little but consider ‘the law’ as ‘almost inoperative’ and at once asked the provincial government for at least two locallybased constables. ‘As a slight instance of the necessity of some provision for the security of property, I may mention that during my absence up the country, my home at the port was entered and an iron strong box belonging to Government was beaten in by main force and so battered as to be utterly worthless.’ When authorised by the Superintendent, in response, to draw upon provincial funds to employ a suitable man as policeman for the region, Domett was unable to find any such recruit. In pleading to Wellington at the end of the year that it was ‘most imperative’ that he be given constables and funds for a police residence and lockup, he reasserted that ‘without any physical force, or the means of placing offenders under any physical restraint, the law cannot be carried out.’
In its stead the powerful local squatters preserved their own notion of order in the vicinity of their runs by methods somewhat lacking in nicety. They were far less enthusiastic about locally providing the means of coercion than were fellow runholders elsewhere in the province who were comfortingly closer to the coercive state forces at Wanganui or Wellington. Pressure from the Hawke’s Bay pastoralists’ representative on the Provincial Council led to Private Henry Groom being ordered from Wellington to Napier in 1855. The arrival of a police presence was not, however, an unmixed blessing for the Hawke’s Bay squattocracy, control over whose blatantly illegal runholding activities the Government was under increasing pressure to implement. When the central political leaders did begin to move, slowly and reluctantly, the policeman was placed in the difficult position of mediating between two sets of powerful elites. Squatter—and later political—leader J D Ormond was, in his own words, prepared to ‘defy the law and let it do its worst’ in order to retain the runholding empire which he had carved out for himself.
In the event the squattocracy prevailed, indicating the existence
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of at least two levels of law-breaking: that by the runholder magnates, and that by the rest of the population, many of whom Ormond and his allies policed as informal agents of order-impos-ition. With his minimal resources, in the end Groom had no choice but to police in conjunction with, rather than to police, the squattocracy; by early 1856 the Wellington provincial government had provided the one-man police organisation with no more coercive force than a pair of handcuffs, and the lockup had yet to be completed. The private was doughty enough, having been a senior NCO on active service with the imperial army, but was aged well over 50 and unable by himself to ‘preserve order & enforce the Law’. Domett reminded the provincial government of his longstanding request for a force of at least two policemen: to be sure, Groom was a ‘tolerably decent man’ but could not be ‘active enough to encounter the vigorous ruffians that create disturbances during their drunken debauches at this port. There shd be 2 or 3 strong & determined men permanently stationed here’ or else ‘it will not be surprising if some serious crime be committed by the drunken vagabonds who roam about such thinly peopled parts of the colony as this District. Already their unbridled licentiousness has resulted in the manslaughter of a native’ and race tension would escalate should such activities continue. Threatening to resign, Domett was granted a second policeman, John Murray, but he still had cause to characterise the state of his force as ‘wretchedly inadequate’."
The Napier police remained, officially, regular members of Styles’ APF. However this was no more than nominal from the time of their arrival at Ahuriri, for on a day to day basis they were at first at the beck and call of Domett. Moreover Featherston regarded them as his own ‘eyes and ears’ in a very important area, and corresponded directly with them; frequently he would give the Hawke’s Bay policemen orders without even bothering to do so by the proper channels, via the Sergeant-Major’s office. In 1857, for example, following an attempted robbery of the Napier customhouse, they were ordered by the Superintendent to undertake as first priority the ‘special duty’ of placing a 24-hour guard on government funds in the town. Normally policemen in so isolated an area would have continued to remain seconded to operate exclusively under the orders of the Resident Magistrate, but when the knowledgeable Domett was transferred from the area in 1856 Featherston placed the Ahuriri police for all routine matters under the collective control of the Hawke’s Bay bench. It was from this development that he conceived the idea of bench forces in Rangitikei and Wanganui, and in turn in 1857 he decided to regularise this de facto situation in Hawke’s Bay by designating Groom’s unit
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the fourth de jure police force in the Province. On 8 September, therefore, Captain John Curling, runholder, chairman of the bench and Domett’s successor as Resident Magistrate, was handed on behalf of the collectivity of Hawke’s Bay JPs formal control of the tiny Napier force, with ‘full power to suspend or dismiss any members of the Force and to fill up any vacancies that may occur’. During Curling’s absences at the Legislative Council, where he led the successful agitation for separation from Wellington, W Ogilvy JP acted as Resident Magistrate and principal controller of local police."
The beginning of the newly autonomous force was not auspicious. Freed from the constraints of APF requirements to serve out their current contract, both men of the Hawke’s Bay force at once applied to resign in order to chance their luck on the Nelson gold diggings. Curling persuaded Groom, whom he characterised as ‘active and zealous’ despite his age, to stay only by promising promotion. At the same time settlers feared becoming embroiled in a recent and ongoing outbreak of warfare amongst the Ngatikahungunu, between Te Moananui’s anti-landselling forces (inspired by Kingism) and the collaborationist hapu led by Te Hapuku, centred in the Whakatu area. George Cooper called for troops, or ‘an efficient force of active disciplined, well armed and well mounted police’, in order to enforce government decisions upon local chiefs and give at least moral support to the landselling factions in the warfare, even though Te Hapuku was renowned for his propensity to ‘sell’ anyone’s land. The call for troops was strongly taken up, including by the first issue of the Hawke’s Bay Herald on 29 September 1857, but it was by no means universally supported. When a public meeting was called to discuss the ‘Disturbed State of the District’, a number of residents headed by missionary William Colenso feared that troops would exacerbate the problems by encouraging ‘turbulent’ Europeans to take aggressive action against the Maori which would provoke retaliation upon all pakehas. By only a narrow majority then, the call was made to the General Government for a militarised police ‘or such other means as the Government may think proper’.**
The politicians in both Auckland and Wellington equivocated, and tensions increased, particularly in the Clive area where Curling complained of the ‘drunkenness and the consequent disorderly scenes that are of such frequent occurrence in the public houses.. . and which assume a worse character from the circumstance that Moananui’s pah is close by, and the natives, to whom the publicans illegally supply liquor, are either parties in the drunken scenes, or suffer effront and illusage from the Europeans,
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which make it always to be feared that something serious may one of these days result, that may be followed by unpleasant complications.’ In desperation, the Resident Magistrate in early March 1858 called upon the Superintendent of Wellington Province for a further two regular policemen and unilaterally appointed, as a stopgap measure, local resident George Harrington as a ‘special constable’ on daily pay of ss.
But it was the General Government which, by now, had acted to prevent the substantive threat to the ‘peace and security’ of Hawke’s Bay, that of interracial conflagration. After continued tribal warfare and defiance of the pakeha, and—for Governor Browne—a useful precedent established by the preparedness of the settlers to contribute to the cost of a garrison, several hundred imperial troops had been sent to Hawke’s Bay from February 1858. Napier was to remain a garrison town for more than a decade. Although the military detachment had its own internal policing mechanisms, the increase in disorder which invariably resulted from the presence of soldiers heaped further burdens upon the tiny police force. Nevertheless, despite soldiers as individuals being treated with contempt by the Hawke’s Bay gentry, few settlers would have dissented from the local newspaper’s characterisation of the introduction of troops as ‘at once ensuring the peace and advancing the prosperity of the District’: the ‘turbulent natives will now see that the British law must be respected’.
In reality relative peace was restored in March by a definitive victory by the anti-landselling forces over Te Hapuku; the collaborationist chief then fled the disputed area on the urging of McLean, who wanted him to be able to rebuild his credibility and so continue to be useful in further purchases. But the net effect of the bout of warfare was that with the arrival of troops Hawke’s Bay Maoris were put under stricter control —forbidden by the Resident Magistrate, for example, from entering Napier carrying arms. Although technically peace prevailed, there was tension in the air: in response to the arms ban proclamation local Maoris decreed that ‘all soldiers trespassing with arms upon native land will be similarly deprived of their weapons’. There was alarm when Te Moananui increased ties with the King movement in the Waikato, and a Kingite delegation had success in gaining Hawke’s Bay adherents the following year. 45
Promise of a third regular constable to be placed at the new town of Clive, closer to the potential Maori insurgents, could do little to alleviate settler fears. Moreover by 1858 a small accretion in the district’s police resources had not, in general perception, produced greater effectiveness. Although elevated to corporal in recognition
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of his pivotal social control role in Hawke’s Bay, Groom had been worn down by the demands placed upon him and could not properly supervise his staff; in August Ogilvy asked that he be replaced. Meanwhile Featherston’s financial problems in Wellington had prevented him from being able to devote sufficient attention or resources to his furthermost district, whose pastoralist voters would in normal circumstances have been his natural constituents; on the contrary, he had been forced by his estrangement from his Councillors to utilise land sales revenues from Hawke’s Bay for expenditure in and near the provincial capital. An Ahuriri separatist movement which had begun at the end of 1856 and in which Resident Magistrate Curling played a prominent role had grown swiftly, one of its planks being the inadequacy of measures to police the Maori. On 1 November 1858 the Hawke’s Bay area became the first to take advantage of the New Provinces Act, which its own agitation had helped inspire, and formed the colony’s seventh province. This was seen to be viable particularly because of the September declaration of peace between the two major warring factions of the Ngatikahungunu, and because of General Government intentions to leave some 160 soldiers in the area. The Resident Magistrate’s police, now constituting the Hawke’s Bay Provincial Police Force, retained as its effective head Corporal Henry Groom.* 6
By the time of this hiving off of what had been the fourth Wellington police force, increasing settlement in rural areas was creating difficulties for that Province’s government. Tylee’s original duties in the Rangitikei had amounted to little more than travelling from settler to settler, conveying mail and intelligence, and generally remaining available for whatever the demands of ‘order’ might require. By mid 1859 pockets of semi-urban disorder were growing in the Rangitikei, to such a degree that the district constable was given a small armoury of muskets, bayonets and handcuffs, a very unusual issue for a part-time policeman; indeed in 1861 a decision was taken to replace Deighton by a full-time constable. Meanwhile, with the breakaway of the Napier government the northernmost constable on the road from Wellington city to the Hawke’s Bay border was stationed only a few miles north of the capital, even though the small-farm settlements on the expansive Wairarapa Plains had been attracting clusters of population to complement the emptiness of the large pastoral runs. Along the road came travellers, some unwelcome to the powerful pastoralists, others anathema to the tradesmen establishing themselves in the incipient townships.* 7
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From 1859 came organised agitation by Wairarapa workers against the localised recession prompted by a cessation of provincial government works in the area. The elite settlers put pressure on both central and provincial governments for a coercive response, particularly as there were also now indications that Kingism was gaining influence locally. When Featherston complained to Governor Browne that control over the supply of arms to Maoris was inadequate, the Governor retorted that this was hardly the fault of central government ‘for the police and all means of prevention are in the hands of the Superintendent’. But given the minimal provincial resources being put into policing, the first to respond to calls for ‘authority’ in the Wairarapa was the wealthier General Government, which in 1860 transferred East Coast Resident Magistrate H S Wardell to Wellington Province with, inter alia, jurisdiction over the Wairarapa. Wardell required a resident means of enforcing order in that region and extending a police presence through to the border with Hawke’s Bay when necesary. Thus Featherston, cutting only slightly into his desperately low Treasury reserves, applied the ‘Rangitikei precedent’. He appointed Henry Byrn as a district constable, the man’s qualifications being his service as an NCO with the imperial troops and his ability to speak Maori fluently. Based at the main settlement on the plains, Greytown, Byrn reported to Wardell—and in his absence, to local JPs.* 8
By the end of the 1850s Sergeant-Major Styles’ police had lurched from crisis to crisis for years. Politico-economic doldrums had meant a constant starving of funds for policing—even suggestions, when the Radical Reformers initially denied Featherston permission to expend public moneys, that the force be disbanded. This was of course merely a political ploy by the Constitutionalists to play upon people’s fears that their ‘property and persons’ would be ‘left without protection’, but it added more uncertainty and confusion to that already existing inside the force. The state of the economy also created an increasing number of urban poor forced to steal to survive; a complement of Hunter’s policing policy had been the establishment of a ‘poor law’.*'
The police in the capital and its environs were overworked and dispirited. A typical duty roster in 1856 comprised a first watch of two corporals and three men (with the Sergeant-Major superintending) patrolling town from 8 pm to midnight, 8 am to 1 pm, and 6 pm to 8 pm; a second watch of a corporal and four men on the beat from midnight to 4 am, 1 pm to 6 pm, and then taking over the next 8 pm to midnight duty; and the third watch, consisting of two privates, worked the 4 am to 8 am duty, one of them
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carrying out other tasks as well during the day. By a system of rotation, and by attempting to give one of the third watch privates a whole day off duty after 8 am, in theory the constables had one day off in every nine. Yet even on days off, and whilst between beat duties within a watch or transferring between watches, constables were at all items on standby for contingencies which might well involve, say, long journeys into the countryside. Despite their long hours and low pay they had at all times to be smartly turned out, a point checked upon daily by Sergeant-Major Styles as he paraded the men in the late afternoon period of transfer between first and second watches.
Duties had further expanded that year when a water police boat was purchased; as immigration increased (the provincial population doubled in the 1850s) and still the economy did not flourish, there were major problems in preventing immigrants imported by the Wellington government from leaving the province without repaying their fares and expenses, and from now on all ships leaving harbour had to be searched after weighing anchor. Additionally, disillusioned and jobless migrants meant greater problems of order in the streets. Yet through it all Sergeant-Major Styles could provide little personal supervision himself in the streets; denied the services of a clerk, he was frequently confined to his office carrying out the numerous clerical duties devolving on a provincial head of police. Even after his force’s normal sphere of operations became essentially localised to the city, the Hutt and the south-western coastal areas from late 1857, he was in theory still responsible for order throughout the province, and his men were obliged to travel into the areas of other autonomous forces from time to time and also be ready to act as a mobile provincial emergency force whenever necessary. 50
Criticisms that ignored the various constraints upon the police rose to the surface periodically. When in mid 1859 eight prisoners escaped from the gaol the ensuing debate encompassed Styles’ men: the Independent, for example, compared them unfavourably with the ‘new police’ forces of England ‘where thanks to Detectives, Telegraphs and railways detection almost invariably follows crime’. The editor reiterated the classical Benthamite reformist stance of ‘certain detection’ as being integral to prevention: ‘Let it once be established that detection is certain, and almost all calculated and premeditated crime would cease.’ Yet the development of specialised techniques of detection among even the beat privates, quite apart from the appointment of a detective —as had occurred in Auckland, although for specialist arms control purposes—would require extra money and personnel that the Featherston regime
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would not provide. The editor unwittingly reflected this fundamental contradiction by concluding that ‘we hope the day is far distant in which any large additional outlay on a police force shall become indispensable’. 51
Styles, subjected to such pressures and to the sometimes conflicting orders of executive members as well as those of Featherston, was by 1859 in ill health. The provincial government later admitted that disorder and ‘seriously impaired’ police efficiency prevailed in Wellington at the end of the decade, blaming this entirely on the Sergeant-Major’s health, although his illness was clearly exacerbated by worries resulting from his depleted police resources. Declining discipline in the force gave the ambitious and abrasive Corporal Frederick Atchison an opening to press various charges against Styles. Although the results of an ensuing investigation were insufficient to require dismissal of the head of police, he was reprimanded for a minor financial indiscretion some years before and for his unhappy relationship with Atchison. Later in the year he survived with only a censure the ‘highly discreditable’ behaviour of getting drunk in a public house, but was warned that repetition would mean removal. The ailing Sergeant-Major Styles managed to stay on as chief of police for another year before dying on 24 November 1860 aged 43. Corporal M Finucane, a ‘career’ policeman since 1850, took temporary charge of the thoroughly demoralised force. The province containing the town that within a few years was to become the colony’s capital had a police force headed by the lowest rank of NCO.”
The ‘Peculiarly Circumstanced Province’ of New Plymouth
Governor Grey had originally considered that to grant the isolated New Plymouth settlers the status of constituting a separate province was not a viable option, but he was overriden by the Secretary of State for the Colonies. The beleaguered province of New Plymouth (hereinafter referred to as Taranaki, its official name from 1 January 1859, to avoid confusion between the province and its capital, New Plymouth) therefore struggled into existence. It inherited in the process Inspector George S Cooper’s regional detachment of the New Ulster police force, which consisted of SergeantMajor Henry Raise and seven privates, of whom four were pakeha and three Maori. Businessman Charles Brown, who had been elected Superintendent in competition with Halse’s brother Wil-
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liam. was conscious of the significance of the mixed-race composition of the small force. Whereas the ‘native problem’ was in Auckland Province mainly to be handled—except in the capital and to a lesser degree in the far north—by the General Government beyond the framework of the provincial police, the situation in the compact Taranaki province was quite different from that prevailing in its sprawling neighbour.
There was, certainly, replicated (though on a much smaller scale) a basic division between policing areas of predominantly settler and Maori ownership respectively; nonetheless there was a considerably greater and more continuous degree of intermingling of the races in that small area of Taranaki which was settled than in Auckland. Maoris filled the streets of New Plymouth, settlers came and went in the marginal areas between the European farms and the communally held ‘native’ territories. The races were as economically interdependent in Auckland as they were in Taranaki, but in the vast northern province there was far less need for sustained intimacy of socio-racial intercourse. Superimposed upon this born-of-necessity Taranaki intermingling, however, the constricted land opportunities facing the province’s pakehas (compared even with their counterparts in Auckland, themselves frustrated) had led, inevitably, to a greater overall tension between the races, the one determinedly exerting pressure, the other equally determinedly resisting it. Even before the formation of the Province the Ngatiruanui of its southern areas had begun to ally with neighbouring tribes to oppose the alienation of Maori land. The APF had in close cooperation with the dozen ‘native assessors’ in the region developed considerable skills in regulating race relations by means of conciliation. Superintendent Brown therefore intended, after the handover of policing functions on 1 October 1853, to retain Inspector Cooper’s force intact as one of the crucial safeguards against race conflagration in what was the most vulnerable province in the colony. 53
There were however to be important modifications of Brown’s plan. The ethnocentrism of many settlers precluded any appreciation of the realities of the balance of racial power in the area and they had for long complained that local officials were being too conciliatory towards the Maori, the police too ‘soft’ in enforcing European norms of behaviour. Settler representatives in the new Provincial Council had no practical way of enforcing these views upon Resident Magistrate Josiah Flight and his fellow General Government functionaries on the bench, but with their hands on the police purse-strings they had the opportunity to make their
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misgivings felt about the general direction of police policy. They realised that they could ill afford to dispense with the experienced rank and file policemen, but it was upon investigating the whole matter that they had noted that the nominal head of the regional police had not only been a faithful bearer of the General Government’s policies but had also little to do with policing. Thus it was that a select committee on estimates had targeted Cooper for redundancy, a symbolic indication of settler frustration with old New Ulster officialdom as well as a declaration of intent to procure a head of police who would saturate the provincial APF with their own ethos. Additionally there was a good financial reason for getting rid of the Inspector. The Province’s resources were so slim that his salary consumed more than a quarter of the £BOO per annum able to be spared for the police budget even though the ‘Police Department’ in reality took up only a ‘small proportion’ of the duties performed by Cooper. Since early in McLean’s time the office of Inspector had in practice been principally that of ‘negotiator with the Natives for the purchase of land’, and because this remained a General Government responsibility it was the central state which should —decreed the Taranaki politicians—look after Cooper’s remuneration. This argument was so compelling that even Cooper’s somewhat equivocal patron Grey, conscious of the economic shakiness of the small province, was to accept it without demur.
On 7 November 1853 therefore the Provincial Councillors had decided that Cooper should become the only Taranaki official of standing to be made redundant by the new provincial government, with dismissal made retrospective to handover date. Despite Cooper’s initial bitterness at the unilateral nature of the provincial government’s action the arrangement worked out well for him, since it was at this point that Grey appointed him (with effect from 1 October) as a land purchase sub-commissioner under Chief Land Purchase Commissioner McLean, at the same salary as before; no compensation was given to a private declared redundant at the same time. The founding provincial force, therefore, now consisted of Henry Halse, elevated to the position of Sub-Inspector from the 1 October inaugural date of the renamed force, and six privates. Since privates’ salaries were held at 3s 6d per day, the cost of the force was estimated at a mere £5BO per annum. With a local settler, as opposed to an outsider with close links to the central Government, in control of the New Plymouth APF the pakehas of wealth and power had reason to believe that they now had one of their own to wield the means of coercion on behalf of themselves and their interests. 5 *
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At £l5O per annum pay and allowances, the Sub-Inspector’s status as the third most highly paid official in the provincial government reflected his social standing in the community, and the confidence which the top politicians reposed in him to carry out their wishes was indicated by his further elevation to Inspector in December 1854. The provincial government secured this promotion, which was backdated to 1 October, by arguing that since the 1846 Constabulary Ordinance did not encompass a Sub-Inspector rank Halse had not therefore been legally entitled to suspend or dismiss his privates. Such legal niceties had not mattered in the past, but they now became an excuse to increase his salary by a third, at a time when privates were desperately petitioning for a small increase in their meagre pay. Halse, before the promotion as well as after, exercised the full powers which he had inherited from McLean and Cooper, for example total (if de facto ) control over hiring and firing’.“
There was another facet to Halse’s elevation to the Inspectorate in that now Taranaki’s head of provincial police became of equal status with the man who presided over the General Government’s Maori policing policies in the region—his former boss, Cooper. The pervasive racial intermingling in Taranaki had produced not only the most biracial police force of the later Crown Colony period but also—in direct reaction to the anti-landselling movement —a more intense application by McLean and Cooper of Greyite ‘indirect’ policing methods. As elsewhere in the colony ‘friendly’ chiefs were paid between £lO and £5O per annum to act as Assessors, but in Taranaki the undercurrent of racial tension had hitherto required that the region’s chief of police undertake general supervision of the Assessor mechanism of policing the Maori. With the abolition of Cooper’s Inspectorship in late 1853, and the control of policing affairs separated from that of judicial and Maori affairs, the Assessors became again responsible only to the local agents of General Government, the Resident Magistrates and, to a lesser extent, the subordinate magistracy. The Assessor system had long been resented by settlers as part of an alleged state conspiracy to favour the Maori in interracial mediation. A sum accepted by the Omata magistracy as compensation for European cattle destroying Maori crops was for example that recommended by Assessor Thomas Williams (minor Taranaki chief Tamati Wiremu) —and said by settlers to be far too high. There were ‘great complaints’ about Williams specifying the maximum number of hours which his people could work for the pakeha, as well as the minimum pay they were to receive in order to ensure that Maori produce fetched a fair price from white buyers. With the dozen Assessors now completely
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out of the purview of the police—and therefore of the provincial government—criticisms of them would have even less effect. 56
Thus, immediately upon transition, the only Maori official target vulnerable to attack by the settlers and their representatives was the indigenous component of Halse’s provincial police. Under heavy pressure to quash the situation whereby Maori policed pakeha, Superintendent Brown worked out a means of retaining the experienced Maori constables but ensuring that they policed only Maoris —or at most only mediated should interracial disputes of a ‘public order’ nature occur. In late August 1853 Grey had suggested that from its ‘native affairs’ funds the General Government should establish ‘Native Police’; this would give the Resident Magistrate-Assessor system more coercive bite, more ability to penetrate even further into frontier areas and beyond, taking with it the pakeha Weltanschauung. Brown now proposed to the Governor that Taranaki’s three Maori privates be hived off from Halse’s force to become the first of the Native Police units. Unlike the localised Assessors, they would be a mobile, disciplined force available for service anywhere in the province, a reactive as well as proactive force. Grey agreed, but with the stipulation that since the provincial authorities as well as the Resident Magistracy would have need of their services, the New Plymouth government, ‘so as to have some claim over their services as Policemen’, should pay 10s per month towards the salary of each ‘native constable’.* 7
This hybrid provincial-General government force was intended to be a prototype, but no other Native Police forces of such ilk were formed until the establishment of the Opunake Native Police in 1871: the problems of Taranaki were qualitatively different from those elsewhere in the colony. General Government predominance in the funding of the force required that its formal head be an official responsible to Auckland. George Cooper, although receiving no remuneration beyond that which he already drew as a land purchase official, was appointed a General Government Inspector of Police for that purpose, thereby retaining a link with paramilitary policing which was to stand his career in good stead; he would become, inter alia, Under-Secretary for the New Zealand Armed Constabulary in 1870. Yet the Maori police were in essence units in the total strategy of a provincial government hopeful for the impending ‘alienation by the natives of the whole of their common rights in this Province’, and hence came mostly under the de facto control of Henry Halse. The latter’s 1854 elevation to a rank equivalent to Cooper’s removed what might have appeared to be an anomaly. Between them Halse—who had learnt by his greater length of policing experience to be the more conciliatory—and
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Cooper were respectively instruments of regional and central state working for large-scale sales of land in Taranaki. Superintendent Brown, coordinator of the strategy in the province, had no compunction in predicting quick ‘beneficial effects’ for the pakeha from the Taranaki Native Police. The ‘incalculable’ value to be provided by the new force was however seen by the settlers and their local representatives as requiring little effort or expenditure on their part. The Native Police were decidedly the poor relations of the white police, and despite a pay rise for both provincial and Maori police in early 1854 the same sum was allocated for all policing activity in the province for the financial year that began on 1 October as that which had been voted for the preceding 12 months. 58
At this very time, however, serious resistance to land sales was burgeoning amongst the Taranaki Province Maori population. In May the Ngatiruanui-inspired anti-selling movement had been consolidated at a large meeting at Manawapou, and the government was well aware of this since minor Taranaki chief Te Ngahuru, a policeman, had attended and reported back thereon. Although the northern provincial tribes withheld from formally joining the loose organisation which was established, their proselling elements were in a distinct minority. Years of internecine factional rivalry were soon to be sparked off. The first Maori blood spilt in tribal warfare in the area since the beginning of pakeha settlement occurred after principal chief Rawiri Waiaua of the Puketapu sub-tribe of Atiawa, who had transferred from the Armed Police Force upon the establishment of the Native Police, ‘offered to sell a piece of the Hua block belonging to him’. But Cooper, hoping to begin an avalanche of land sales, persuaded him to ‘sell’ the entire block, and the chief set about surveying the land ‘although Waitere Katatore and the other owners told him if the chain were carried over his land, he would be fired at’. The forces of Katatore, a Puketapu chief related to powerful Wiremu Kingi, indeed resisted the survey in August 1854 and Rawiri and several of his people died as a result of the ensuing skirmish. Jolted out of complacent optimism, settlers and their local politicians demanded military deployment to Taranaki in order to intervene in the emergent intraracial war on the side of the pro-selling factions. They were reminded by Wynyard that although troops were garrisoned in New Zealand for the ‘protection of one Race against the other’ as well as for protecting the colony from ‘foreign aggression and in time of War’, this did not mean that they could be utilised in place of the employment of ‘prudence and good conduct’ in land alienation. Indeed, this would be likely to precipitate generalised war just
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at the time when a reduction in the imperial military presence in New Zealand was contemplated. 69
Determined to give succour to the forces of the landselling factions, the local settlers chose to interpret Constable Rawiri’s death as murder. The dead chief, an ultra-‘loyalist’, had been acting at the request, if not on the instructions, of George Cooper. No matter that the land purchase official’s actions had been extremely foolish, and differed greatly from those adopted in the past by the more cautious mediators McLean and Halse; to most settlers Cooper’s aggressive tactics provided the surest and quickest way of getting on to the land, even if it meant some initial strife. Individual settlers were soon arming the followers of Rawiri, ensconced at Ninia pa for their forays against Katatore and his Ngatiruanui allies. The implications of this so alarmed even the provincial government that, in a move endorsed by Auckland, it warned that Europeans interfering in ‘Native Disturbances’ would have to ‘take the consequences, as the Authorities cannot answer for their safety’. By March 1855, with tribal warfare raging sometimes close to New Plymouth, the General Government was under great settler pressure to regularise pakeha aid to the ‘friendlies’. In a concessionary measure (which was however regarded as ‘totally inadequate’) it placed responsibility for liaising with and arming Maoris, and for fortifications, in the hands of the magistracy, especially those of the Resident Magistrate. 80
In view of the continuance of the intraMaori warfare, aided and abetted by some pakehas, the General Government had come around also to accepting the essence of a plan initially suggested by Chief Land Purchase Commissioner Donald McLean: that of a large paramilitarised police force geared to handling a situation of war or near-war. But in deference to provincial feeling which railed against the ‘domineering insolence’ of the General Government, the original plan had been substantially altered. Firstly, whereas the McLean police force had been intended as a supplement to a militia, settlers preferred that imperial troops fight their battles for them; the General Government therefore met them half way and altered the concept of the force to that of a substitute for both militia and troops. Secondly, McLean’s proposed body was in essence that which he had operated for Grey, an 1846-style mixedrace force which ‘during war times’ would act with ‘courage and fidelity’; it would be composed to a significant degree of ‘active intelligent natives selected from different tribes in the country’. This proposal the provincial authorities considered to be ‘very dangerous’, for even if such a force confounded Eurocentric expectations by remaining loyal it would allegedly be riven by intertribal
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and intratribal disputes. To be sure, Cooper had disciplinary problems on that score even in his three-man ‘Native Police’. McLean’s proposed ‘hybrid, carpentering, scavengering body of Armed Police’ was because of its Maori component considered by public and politicians alike as one which was ‘not only illusive, impracticable, and wholly inadequate, but would inevitably ensure the most disastrous results in the event of a collision with the natives’. In short, it would be ‘more dangerous to ourselves than to the enemy’. Thus, when the General Government decided that the ‘least objectionable mode of providing for the safety of the Settlement appears to be by the establishment of a strong and efficient body of Armed Police’, it meant a pakeha police of 30 to 40 men operating ‘in aid of the Civil Power’ in normal times, and as a ‘valuable Nucleus around which the Armed Settlers might rally in case of need’. 61
The General Government intended however that this Greyite force—with Maoris left out —should be a replacement for the existing provincial police, and funded essentially from provincial revenues. Although it would present benefits for the province, such as its utilisation for building roads, undertaking other public works schemes, and providing in routine circumstances harbour boat crew and the like, it was a financial burden which the provincial government was not prepared to shoulder; despite General Government assurances of financial contributions the suggestion was branded ‘worse than useless —altogether absurd’. In any case, adding two or three dozen men to the provincial police as a total solution ‘betrays in our judgement a wonderful misapprehension of the actual exigency’: whilst the late Chief Rawiri’s people were being denied government weapons and ammunition, ‘enemy’ Maoris had been moving into the province and building fortified pa, and they required putting down by a military rather than a police force. The settlers appealed again, including directly to the Queen, for troops as the most efficient way—and the least costly to the province’s human and financial resources —of dispossessing the Maoris of their land. 62
In April 1855, following urgent representation by the provincial government on the ‘unruly and overbearing spirit of the Natives’ headed by Katatore, compromise was reached by an agreement with Acting Governor Wynyard. After he visited the area in a vain attempt to mediate between the two Maori sides, Wynyard stated that troops were needed to protect the whites lest the tribal fighting overspill into their territory—but that the soldiers would require supplementing by a fully fledged Armed Police and a militia, both institutions that had been rejected at a public meeting in
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New Plymouth. To ensure the sending of troops Superintendent Brown was on 21 April forced to eat humble pie and as a first move he called upon locals to volunteer for military duty whenever requested. However, the onrush of events was to overtake such plans. By early July Wiremu Kingi of Waitara had joined forces with anti-selling co-thinkers in the Puketapu, and he and Katatore besieged ‘loyalist’ Ninia pa. Soon the situation threatened to embroil the pakeha in a Maori civil war, for by mid August all Taranaki Province tribes and hapu had aligned themselves with one side or the other, and it appeared that the pro-selling minority might be forced into taking refuge in the provincial capital. Resident Magistrate Flight enrolled nearly 500 specials, and Wynyard had little choice but to agree to send an equal number of soldiers, albeit—to the settlers’ disgust—with strict instructions to do no more than protect settlers from the consequences of tribal fighting rather than to intervene on the ‘friendly’ side.
The first 250 troops arrived on 19 August and this was followed by a militia call-up. In such circumstances there was seen to be no need for the formation of an Armed Police, for the mediation of the officer commanding the numerous troops brought about a gradual restoration of peace amongst the tribes and all was quiet by the end of the year. Thus the province continued to be served by only its two small existing police forces. Moreover with troops at the provincial capital able to act as a mobile reserve for use in the event of major rural disturbance, Halse’s provincial police, and to a lesser extent the Native Police, came to concentrate their policing activities on the town of New Plymouth and its immediate environs. This was especially necessary since the presence of the garrison there generated as ever its own problems of order: the number of people gaoled in the province in 1854 (eight) increased fivefold in 1855. The original troops from the 58th Regiment had been joined by extra cadres in early September along with 200 men from the 65th, bringing Major C L Nugent’s total command in Taranaki to a peak of nearly 500. After a reduction to 300 had been carried out by Christmas, with a further outflow of soldiers in March 1856, the garrison stabilised at around 250. 83
The municipal focus of Halse’s police had already been apparent as a trend by late 1854, when provincial politicians complained of the absence of police stations at the recently acquired farming areas of Omata, Tataraimaka and Bell Block to the immediate east and west of New Plymouth. Police were instead concentrating on enforcing the municipal police legislation (‘with unnecessary vigor’,
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Brown later admitted) which had come into effect earlier in the year. Moves to place district constables in the farming areas near New Plymouth fell through only after the hard-line but shrewd local politician Robert Reid Parris pointed out to the Provincial Council the dangers that could result from rural farmer-constables interfering in race relations. Even so, grave dangers of race conflagration remained in a province whose socio-racial affairs were dominated by greater fragmentation of tribal authority than that existing in most other areas of the colony. Maori exiles (slaves freed by the now Christianised Waikato, or Atiawa who had fled south in the 1830s) were flocking back into the province and many ended up—at least for periods—in town; their numbers, the confusion of their divided authority and claims to land, and resulting interracial and intraMaori fracas, demanded the constant deployment in the streets of both pakeha and Maori constables urged to have ‘more than ordinary vigilance’. 64
In late 1855 Henry Halse, whose services in mediating between the races was sometimes appreciated better in Auckland than in New Plymouth itself, was appointed to handle Maori affairs in the Province on behalf of the General Government. He had not been the pliant instrument desired by the local settler-politicians, and had often been accused of ‘extraordinary’ leniency towards Maoris, even if during the ‘emergency’ of 1854 the Taranaki pakehas had so realised their indebtedness to Halse’s knowledge of the Maori that the Superintendent had overridden a court direction that he proceed to Auckland to present evidence in a criminal case. As the crises faded—and accordingly the militia units were disbanded — criticism had been gradually resurrected, making the General Government foresee that once it had ‘lured’ Halse from provincial employment the Taranaki settler-politicians would appoint one of their own kind to head the police force. Such a decision might well precipitate rather than prevent chaos. This assessment, together with the fact that it had been succumbing to pressure to subsidise the increased costs of policing New Plymouth after the town metamorphosed into a military garrison, led to the Executive Council agreeing in late 1855 to provide at its own cost an Inspector of Provincial Police—and it added the job to George Cooper’s other strenuous duties. Although Cooper had sparked off the incident which had led to the outbreak of tribal war, the central politicians assessed that he had learnt the requisite degree of caution from the incident, and they were in other respects satisfied with his general performance. The provincial regime felt that Cooper’s purchase activities were energetic enough, and the state of its Treasury coffers had meant that the offer could be scarcely be refused. '*
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The effective head of the police, in any case, became in reality Corporal John Dunn, an Irishman of working-class origins who had become a soldier in 1838 at the age of 20. He had left the 65th Regiment in New Zealand, married a New Plymouth servant, and joined the local police in 1851; he was to be promoted to sergeant at the beginning of 1856, and at the time of his death had effectively controlled Taranaki’s provincial police for 19 years. The rearrangement at the top of the police in late 1855 drew renewed attention in Taranaki to the two small forces now nominally superintended by Cooper and prompted scathing attacks on the police from some politicians—with the usual racist remarks uis-d-uis the three Maori police, for example that a single Englishman could do their work better. But for all its ethnocentrism the provincial government had learnt enough sense to strongly defend the use of the Taranaki Native Police as mediators in interracial and intraMaori quarrels, and it stressed the need for caution in dealing with Maoris despite—and in the case of pakehas emboldened into recklessness, because of —the presence of the troops."
At the same time there were also pressures to abolish both sets of Taranaki police: they were allegedly ‘eminently inefficient’, stood at ‘their corner’ instead of conducting ‘perambulations’ through town, did not properly guard the streets at night, were employed in the ‘private services’ of government officers. They were said to be too numerous and expensive for ‘common duty’, yet so ‘entirely useless’ in quantity and ability for ‘extraordinary duty’ that prior to the arrival of the troops a reluctant citizenry had to be forced by the threat of fines to be sworn in as specials. A year earlier the constables had engaged in agitation to secure a sizeable pay rise of just over 2s per day in order to be able to buy life’s ‘necessaries’, and some politicians now baulked at paying either the privates’ annual £96 each or Dunn’s £l2O. Underlying all these criticisms of the police was the fact that many settlers and some of their political representatives now felt safe with troops present in the provincial capital. Casting civil libertarian rhetoric to the wind, some advocated that in view of the province’s small financial resources military police could undertake most or even all necessary urban policing. Tight protection of the revenue—hence of the existence — of the province and full protection from ‘savages’ was seen to be worth the price of any perceived loss of liberty through being policed by soldiers: Dunn’s men, after all, comprised an ‘armed police force’, albeit discernibly policemen rather than soldiers. The provincial government, on the other hand, not wishing to lose the locus standi which accompanied direct control over the province’s police, took the view that if economies in public spending were
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crucial for the viability of the province they could be made elsewhere. All the same, opposition to the continuance of the force remained strong. 67
After a great deal of debate a compromise was worked out; the provincial police would remain, as would the provincial subsidy for the Native Police, but the whole pattern of policing in Taranaki was to be subjected to investigation by a select committee. Its deliberations led to a rapid sharpening of image—uniform coats or capes for pakeha constables, more regular beats—and a tighter control by both forces over such unruly behaviour as the discharge of firearms in town at night. But the new image proved to be ephemeral, for the major result of the investigation was the slashing of civil police expenditure over the ensuing year from more than £BOO to a mere £3OO, an exercise which gained impetus as a consequence of a local agricultural depression. When Superintendent Brown talked in late 1856 without fear of contradiction of there having been great improvement in ‘social order and respect for the laws’ he could do so partly because, holding off against the most virulent political critic of the police, merchant Isaac Newton Watt, he had declined to fully phase in the policing reductions until the raw edge had been taken off the newly garrisoned town.
But the reductions did have to be implemented, and this meant the requirement of another policing agency to fill the ensuing gaps in police coverage. The situation referred to by Brown, indeed, reflected mainly the result of this other mechanism of policing, as was noted at the time. ‘lt is to the admirable efficiency of the Military Police organised by the officer in command, that New Plymouth is indebted for the order that prevails’, commented a newspaper. The 65th Regiment’s Brevet Major (later LieutenantColonel) F G Murray, the commanding officer in Taranaki from 1856 until the outbreak of interracial war in 1860, routinely detailed NCO-led patrols to surveil the streets of the town. So successfully had military policing worked that by September 1856 Brown was, because of an intrastate crisis, prepared to entertain the prospect of something akin to merely a token civil police presence, even none at all. Much of the work of the truncated New Plymouth provincial force had focused on serving the courts,, and a new General Government law which seemed to hand fees from civil process to the central state had prompted the Superintendent to inform Resident Magistrate Flight in retaliation that provincial constables would no longer service the Taranaki court system. Had this eventuated Dunn’s force could have been truncated even further, almost to extinction. When the General Government confirmed that all constables were obliged to service the criminal
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justice activities of courts, Brown indeed riposted that all provincial policemen would be disestablished. This seemed to confirm the worst fears of the Taranaki police that they were now regarded as expendable, although such an extreme threat was apparently nothing more than an attempt to elicit from central government an offer to provide civil constables. When the Auckland-based central state called their bluff the provincial authorities had no choice but to retain a small police force, if only to ensure the viability of the local criminal justice system. 8 *
It was the General Government’s concern over Taranaki being the likely flashpoint of interracial conflagration which forced it, however, to concede the next demand. With tribal warfare continuing but the army not allowed to intervene on the ‘friendly’ side except to rescue pakehas, Brown’s government announced in October 1856 that it was wiping its hands of all Maori affairs ‘so long as they are controlled by His Excellency’s irresponsible advisers’; from the end of the month the province would therefore ‘cease to exercise any authority over or contribute to’ the Native Police. The Superintendent had just secured the dismissal of one of the three Maori police and now proposed that the General Government retain the two remaining ‘native constables’ as its own exclusive force in the Province. The two were prepared, he claimed, to take a pay cut in return for being relieved of night duty, and the money saved could be used to defray what until now had been a provincial charge, the hiring of horses for the constables’ frequent journeys afield. As Cooper’s career was now orientated almost entirely to land purchasing, Brown suggested that Halse be appointed Inspector of the proposed new General Government Native Police.* 9
The suggestion—or ultimatum—came at a crucial time for Maori affairs in the colony. It was on 4 November 1856 that the offices of Chief Land Purchase Commissioner and Native Secretary were fused in the person of the holder of the former, McLean; Fenton, with his favouring of ‘indirect rule’ of the Maori, had been deposed. The decision symbolised the evolution of policy in a tougher direction—away from cajoling and coaxing the Maori to part with land, a process which had been too slow and too uncertain to satisfy settler aspirations, especially in McLean’s old stamping ground of Taranaki. All the same McLean was fully apprised of the particular delicacy of interracial relations in that province, and therefore persuaded the General Government to adopt Brown’s suggestion of a two-man Native Police superintended by Halse, who knew more than most about both Maori customs and Maori policemen. On 17 November 1856 Halse was appointed Inspector of the Taranaki Native Police, soon to be designated as a General Government
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body, men who already, he confirmed, Tender me material service in arranging disputes and differences between the races’. For the time being McLean kept his hard-line, rapid-purchase policies, in which the Maori constables were designed to play an important role, in reserve in Taranaki. 70
By the end of 1856, the year in which the effective head of police had been promoted to the position of sergeant in charge, policing in the Province of New Plymouth was fraught with difficulties. There were internal problems in the reconstituted Native Police: not only were they in the event not prepared to take a pay cut,but it was also deemed essential, despite Brown’s submissions to Auckland, that they undertake night duty in town to control an increasing rate of urban Maori drunkenness. When Inspector Halse on 1 December formally took control from Dunn —de facto head to that date of the Native Police as well as of the provincial force —one constable had resigned in protest whilst Wiremu Paneta, a veteran policeman from 1852, was threatening similar action if his grievances were not rectified. Halse pleaded their case for equal pay with the pakeha police, whose monthly rate had itself dropped to £7. He had noted that like the European constables Maori police were obliged to pay for their own uniforms, and unlike them they were required to travel, if necessary on instant notice, far from town; their duties were ‘of a much more important nature in this peculiarly circumstanced Province, surrounded as it is by a large and increasing native population, than the ordinary duties of the European Constabulary’. Halse’s arguments proved to be decisive, and in any case the increased pay rates which he secured represented a lower overall payment than the General Government’s previous annual contribution of £177 to the three-man hybrid force. The resigned constable, Private Karira, who had also joined the New Plymouth police in 1852, was reinstated in the new year and became the anchor of the small force. 71
Sergeant Dunn’s provincial force, reduced by late 1856 to a rank and file of two privates and reminding one editor of the ‘small but brave army of Bombastes Furioso’, remained under fire from settlers. The status of the working head of police had already plummeted earlier in the year as a result of a much publicised incident: at a ratepayers’ meeting chairman Isaac Watt ordered Dunn to secure the removal of a disorderly and drunken ‘gentleman’, but the Provincial Treasurer had intervened in the ensuing melee to prevent actual ejection. Resident Magistrate Flight subsequently ruled in court that the chairman, not being a magistrate, possessed no authority to order arrest, and that ‘for whatever short time a man is laid hold of by a Policeman he is for that time under arrest’.
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Watt was therefore fined for causing Constable John Boyd—whom the sergeant, following the chairman’s directions, had instructed to make the arrest —‘to act in a manner most offensive to the feelings of every Englishman’ in depriving a man of his right to free speech, and the government instructed Dunn that the regular assignment of police to public meetings was to cease. The police, particularly the low-born Dunn, had not only been humiliated by the ‘gentry’ but they could not now —until the ruling had been quietly forgotten —undertake a duty considered in colonial New Zealand to be essential to the preservation of order.”
Yet at the same time Dunn’s force was being increasingly attacked for failing to carry out properly those police functions which were not conducted by the military. A poor record of detecting illegal distillation, to take an example far removed from the task of surveilling public meetings, had led not only to a fall in local customs revenue but also to increased drunkenness among Maoris forced to frequent slygrog outlets as they could not legally purchase spirits. At the beginning of 1857 Superintendent Brown, just before his defeat at the polls by former New Plymouth Company official George Cutfield, acknowledged that even the Native Assessors and pakeha and Maori police between them might be inadequate to detain Maori offenders outside the boundaries of the capital: in that case he would ‘empower the Sergeant of Police to call on the people of the district to aid him, thus virtually obliging them to act as Constables’. It was not a prospect relished by the settlers, who were constantly demanding stronger measures of state coercion against the Maoris throughout the Province. ‘Trouble’ was on the increase: travel between Wanganui and New Plymouth was sometimes disrupted despite the nominal swearing in of the regular mail deliverer as a constable; armed Maoris would free impounded cattle, one such attack having been actually led by a ‘Native Assessor’. 73
There was rejoicing when in August 1857 the leading Puketapu opponent of landselling, Katatore, changed his policy and despite opposition from his former Ngatiruanui allies began to negotiate to sell 40,000 acres, becoming at once persona grata with the pakeha. The pakeha still controlled only 60,000 acres of the 2,315,096 in the Province, and because of the slump in prices for agricultural products settlers with capital here too were beginning to see landengulfing pastoralism as their salvation. Pressure upon pro-land-selling Maori factions was inexorably quickening, fuelling the intertribal and intratribal rivalries which had remained reasonably
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quiescent for some time —partly as a result of the efforts of the Maori Assessors and police—but which now burst out into a series of armed clashes at Bell Block and elsewhere, the anti-selling side reinforced by the growth of Kingism. Pakeha optimism that Katatore’s volte-face heralded a new age of land acquisition was revealed as premature. 74
A chief of Kingi’s Manukorihi branch of Atiawa, Ihaia Te Kirikumara who had allied his own following to Rawiri Waiaua’s Puketapu branch in the previous wars and whose landselling efforts had ever since been frustrated by Kingi and others, now turned upon his old antagonist Katatore. Whereas the latter had quickly become the ‘darling’ of the settlers because of the lack of complications over his offer, the ‘friendly’ Ihaia and his people had been virtually abandoned by pakehas unable to make use of their readiness to sell land and blamed Katatore for their rapidly decreasing ability to extract state largesse. As the feud intensified to ‘gigantic proportions’, armed Maori patrols operating on behalf of Katatore as well as of Ihaia began detaining and searching Europeans, even at the very outskirts of the provincial capital. On 9 January 1858, on Ihaia’s orders and with the help of relatives of Rawiri, Katatore was fatally ‘waylaid and chopped about with the tomahawk’ upon leaving New Plymouth after seeing Robert Parris, the man who had been appointed Taranaki’s Land Purchase Commissioner when Cooper was transferred to Hawke’s Bay—thereby relinquishing his nominal police overlordship in his old province and leaving Dunn in unimpeded control —in mid 1857. Because arch anti-land-seller Wiremu Kingi’s forces at this point opened attack against those of Ihaia, who had been consistently ‘loyal’ to the pakeha in the past, and since the actual leader of the murder squad, Tamati Tiraurau, lived ‘respectably’ (and comfortably) in town as a vital middle man in European trade with the Maori, New Plymouth public opinion was vocally in favour of military intervention on the side of Ihaia, despite his involvement in the killing of a ‘reformed’ Katatore. The best hope for pakeha expansion in the area lay once again with Ihaia and his ilk.
With the Provincial Council praising a chief openly acknowledging himself to be guilty of murder, it was politically impossible for the central government to take steps to detain the offenders; nor, on the other hand, did it wish to succumb to settler blandishments designed to secure the throwing of the weight of state military forces behind Ihaia, thereby indulging in full-scale war. It would concede only a proclamation—in February 1858 —that ‘all persons whosoever who shall unlawfully assemble with Arms’ within the limits of white settlement would be treated as being in arms against
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the Queen, hoping by this means to keep the tribal fighting away from Europeans; and an authorisation for Colonel Murray to meet any armed resistance to the measure by supplementing his garrison with militia—which the settlers unusually, but in panic, wanted—and with troops from Wellington. The proclamation was at once made redundant because the centre of fighting shifted to the Waitara area, where Kingi’s strong forces were soon surrounding Ihaia’s in Karaka pa. Convinced that victory by Kingi would ramify far beyond defeat of one landselling faction by symbolising the potential gains of resistance, many Taranaki settlers threatened to intervene to save Ihaia, quite possibly by using their mobilised militia units. Insofar as such action would have at least tacit support from Taranaki’s provincial politicians, this would create a serious situation. To avoid such complications the General Government ordered that fighting must cease so that Ihaia could be exiled to join relatives on the Chatham Islands; should Kingi refuse, then Murray was to give Ihaia an armed escort out of the pa, and to proclaim martial law in the event of armed resistance to this manoeuvre.
In the event it was Kingi who agreed to a truce and Ihaia—now comfortably reinforced by Wanganui Maoris —who refused, and the fighting dwindled away once again as a result of the deadlock. All the same, important departures from the traditional central government disinclination to intervene in tribal warfare had taken place. To be sure, at first the troops and militia were only to be mobilised should the ‘civil power be unable to compel obedience’ to the proclamation banning armed assembly in European-occupied areas, but this had then given way to preparedness to declare war on Wiremu Kingi in order to avoid white civilians becoming embroiled in tribal fighting. In any case the civil power was virtually meaningless, in coercive terms, in what was by now a highly militarised province. Under direct and indirect pressure from Taranaki settlers the General Government had been prepared to abandon its mediatory role in the struggles between pro-landselling Maoris and those resistant to pakeha expansion. War could not be long in the coming. 78
With the general increase in ‘excitement’. Sergeant Dunn’s force had staggered under ever greater burdens during daytime hours, handling for example prosecutions of violators of the arms proclamation —even though the intentions of the declaration were not to ensnare individual Maoris—or acting as messengers between agitated state officials. Night watching of necessity suffered, and the military police, headed by Corporal Edward Billing, increasingly took over evening patrol policing until recently conducted by Dunn
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and his two men: it became common to refer to Dunn as ‘Sergeant of the Civil Police’ to differentiate his force from the military policemen. As for the state of order in the countryside adjacent to town, Resident Magistrate Flight had confessed that if the Assessors declined to act upon his instructions T have no means of obliging them to do so’. Indeed, they could not even ‘be depended upon to arrest Natives in all cases of theft’, let alone to impose pakeha ideas of order upon their peoples. Payment of Assessors’ salaries to ‘leading outlaws’ was condemned in the general settler campaign against the policies of the central state. 76
Relentless pressure continued to be applied to the various organs of this central authority by the Taranaki settlers, aided by their own Christopher William Richmond, who held leading positions in the Stafford ministry. His 1858 confirmation as the colony’s first Minister of Native Affairs was a development which had raised an air of anticipation in his province that a show-down with the Maori could not be far away. At the beginning of 1859 Stafford departed for a visit to England, and Richmond now dominated the General Government. At the best of times the autonomy of operation of the state was circumscribed by the views of the interests it represented; when these views reached a uniform crescendo in Taranaki, were given strong backing by men of wealth and power elsewhere in the Colony—particularly in the North Island —and were endorsed by the leading figure in the ministry, it was inevitable that the central institutions of state accept to a significant degree the prescriptions urged by the Taranaki settlers, however turbulent might be their outcome. The prevailing ruling conception of the interests of long term ‘order and regularity’ might well need to encompass from time to time a temporary degree of extreme disorder, up to and including actual warfare. In the final analysis, in matters of state the end mattered rather than the means. Normally, to be sure, that end could best be served by modes of social and racial control involving the suppressing of turmoil—but not always. With the census of the previous year having revealed that for the first time pakehas outnumbered Maoris in New Zealand, it was now deemed time to strike.
Whereas the February 1858 proclamation’s intent had been no more than to ensure, by prohibiting the use of alienated land as tribal battlefields, that the Europeans did not become entangled in intraMaori warfare, on 8 March 1859 Governor Browne in person notified the Taranaki Province tribes that British law would henceforth be rigidly enforced upon all people within the limits of European settlement. This heralded a new and tough line on landselling, currently being worked out between himself, Richmond and
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McLean. As arranged beforehand, after the speech the minor chief Te Teira Manuka of Wiremu Kingi’s tribe came forward with an offer to sell a small block of the much coveted land at the mouth of the Waitara, where Kingi’s people had been dwelling on ancestral land for a decade since their return from southern exile. The Governor’s phrasing had been enigmatic: he would ‘not permit anyone to interfere in the sale of land unless he owned part of it’. The Taranaki settlers now pressed him to clarify whether this implied state rejection of the customary Maori concept of communal land holding by the entire tribe, headed by and speaking through its chiefly leadership.
It did: communal tenure was now reinterpreted to mean communal ownership by the current occupants of the piece of land in question, rather than by the tribal unit as a whole operating through its principal rangatira. The Governor left Taranaki, boasting that ‘I found the settlers dissatisfied and leave them as I believe well pleased’, and he ordered the military to be on the alert. As the months unfolded and negotiations with Teira dragged on, it was clear that war could occur, for Wiremu Kingi would not contemplate giving his permission for the sale of the piece of land which Teira’s people occupied. The fact that the ‘sale’ was invalid even under the ‘new rules’ —as the state later acknowledged—had no significance, for the decision had been made to employ force to break the deadlock in the process of European land alienation. Taranaki was merely the convenient location for the inevitable showdown. Indeed under McLean’s guidance individualisation of Maori tenure had been legislated for in 1858 with the Native Territorial Rights Act, and it was the Crown’s quashing of this measure which necessitated the new approach. It was both symbolic and practical when in late 1859 Halse, who had been transferred from Taranaki that September to attempt the conciliation of King Potatau, was replaced as Inspector of Native Police by Robert Parris, the General Government official negotiating with Teira: the Maori constables were now overt protagonists of a central state which had ceased to portray itself as a neutral mediator between the races. As always, policemen were in the final analysis obliged to carry out the wishes of the political executive."
It had been at Superintendent Cutfield’s instigation that the Stafford ministry had chosen as its Taranaki land purchase officer Parris, a man whose ambitions to be a farmer had been frustrated first by Fitzßoy’s disallowance of Commissioner Spain’s award and later by Maori resistance. He was, by dint of his hopes and experiences, a typical Taranaki settler, but although sharing the aspirations of the province’s Europeans he had endeavoured to minimise
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the disruption which the Waitara purchase would inevitably cause. He was however told by his masters to hasten the acquisition: within a week of being appointed Inspector of Native Police he had paid the first instalment of the purchase price to Teira, and he then wrote to McLean that ‘now is the time for turning the tables’. At the Executive Council meeting of 25 January 1860 it was decided that Parris should be instructed to survey the ‘purchased’ land, which lay between Kingi’s two pa at Waitara, and that Colonel Murray be given power to proclaim martial law and protect the surveyors should there be resistance—there being some slight hope that the Atiawa chief would be sufficiently aware of the potential might of the pakeha state to give in without a fight. On the contrary, Kingi was instead to mobilise not only the Taranaki and Ngatiruanui but also elements from the core territory of Kingism. 78
From the arrival on 2 February of the steamer from Auckland conveying the news of the central political executive’s decision there was great excitement amongst Taranaki Europeans. Few would have disagreed with the assertion of J C Richmond to his brother the Native Minister that the ‘collision must come, that order must be asserted’, that a short, sharp ‘battle of races’ was needed to ‘read a real lesson to the Maori’. On 20 February Inspector Parris took the survey party out to the Waitara; when it met passive resistance he applied to Murray for military assistance, and martial law was proclaimed two days later. On 1 March Governor Browne and commander of imperial forces Colonel Charles E Gold arrived with reinforcements, on 5 March the army seized control of Waitara, on 17-18 March the troops forced the ‘enemy’ out of Te Kohia pa on the disputed land, and before the month was out the first engagement involving locally recruited forces in what became known for the next hundred years as the ‘Maori Wars’ occurred at Waireka against Kingi’s southern allies.
Under martial law policing was now officially the responsibility of the military, although the provincial police continued to act as constables in New Plymouth. Order-imposition was not an easy task, for soon all but a few of the province’s 2650 civilians were crowded into town. J C Richmond predicted that ‘black sheep of all sorts with white skins’ would ‘seek to suck advantage out of our confusion. I am going to get a muster roll of the rogues & vagabonds that as far as possible they may be kept under surveillance & at innocent amusements as militiamen.’ A series of military proclamations on the requirements of order were issued: publicans allowing soldiers to become drunk and disorderly would have their establishments closed at once, Maoris entering town required passes procured at Bell Blockhouse to the west of New
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Plymouth or at Omata Blockhouse to its east (shared between which were to be found the remainder of the civilian pakehas in the province). Militia and volunteer units supplemented the military in policing and guard duties, particularly in the palisaded town. Dunn and his men were under the strict orders of Colonel Gold, head of police in the province under martial law regulations, instructed for example to ensure that all inhabitants had candles or lamps in their front windows ready to light in case of alarm. Policing in Taranaki had swung in toto to the instrumentalist extreme of the policing continuum, merging with military activity. War and postwar ‘pacification’ were in the 1860s to dominate the evolution of policing of not just Taranaki but a great deal of the North Island as well.”
Relative but Decreasing Quietude in Canterbury and Otago
With the North Island drifting towards race war in the 1850s the Maoris of the South Island remained few and demoralised. The ‘first introduction of the Maori to the majesty of the law’ in Canterbury after the provincial government took over its policing function did not occur for a long time —and that was merely the locking up of a man on breach of peace charges while his fellow tribespeople spent three days accumulating sufficient money to pay his fine. The ‘native problem’ was virtually non-existent below Cook Strait, and the character of policing differed accordingly. It was, initially, the policing of the Canterbury settlement that came closest to that of North Island modes, as this was the most sizeable raw community and in its earliest days belied in some respects its theoretical origins as a transplant of the traditional British class hierarchy and its methods of social control. 10
Because of the work required to be performed at any new settlement, itinerant labourers had been drawn towards the expanding Port Victoria economy in search of at least semi-permanent employment. The ‘polite’ sectors of the community railed against ‘that rough and lawless portion of the population of New Zealand which has no fixed home in any particular settlement but whose particular characteristic is the greater quantity of crime committed by it, in proportion to its numbers, than by any other class.’ Such type of person, it was believed, ‘ever hangs about the footsteps of a settlement in the first stage of its foundation’, reinforced by a
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‘migratory, prison-tainted influx from Sydney and Tasmania’ which itself included men ‘goaded on to desperation by starvation and brutal punishment’. Some of these latter, it appeared, had come to Canterbury specifically because of the small size of its APF detachment: in March 1852, for example, this had consisted of two constables on the plains and in Lyttelton an officer, an NCO and half a dozen privates.* 1
State response to this perceived incipient ‘criminal underworld’ had relied to a disproportionate degree upon the skills of Edward William Seager, a 23 year old schoolteacher who had arrived aboard one of the immigrant ships in late 1851 and joined the police the following year. He possessed both an intelligence fitting him for detection and a toughness learnt in the streets of London after the reduction of his once well-off father to humble circumstances. Work at the Inner Temple as a porter had enabled his father not only to procure a good education for his son at the Temple choir school but also to retain useful social contacts, and it was at a meeting with J E FitzGerald that the seeds of an intention to emigrate had been sown in the mind of the young Seager, It was now Sub-Inspector FitzGerald who persuaded this white-collar youth with a ‘robust taste in dramatic narrative’—not to mention a ‘reputation for embroidery’—that he was a suitable if unlikely candidate for the police force. Seager rapidly gained promotion from private to corporal, and was to rise to the forefront of active policing at Lyttelton in quick time. After the resignation of FitzGerald from the end of January 1853 Commissioner Simeon relied upon him almost completely, Grey having decreed that one commissioned officer was quite sufficient for the small Canterbury APF detachment despite Simeon’s lack of expertise at policing.
A young man ‘of a romantic turn’ was thereby thrust to the forefront of an unromantic and demanding job. On a not untypical mission carried out before a lockup was built in Christchurch he arrested a ‘dangerous’ man at Riccarton and marched him through a cold, stormy night across the plains and over the hills to Lyttelton, his prisoner before him at the end of a rope, threatening to blow the man’s head off if the rope slackened. Even later in the decade, when the prevailing state of order in the settlement indicated that any elements comprising an ‘underworld’ had moved on, there were still incidents of violence. When two prisoners escaped from Lyttelton Gaol’s hard-labour gang, Seager and his armed men pursued them over the hills to Sumner, where in a climactic gun battle convicted thief Samuel Smith was severely wounded —the same man who in a subsequent escape during convalescence was
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recaptured by Seager in Resident Magistrate/Commissioner Simeon’s stable after bloody hand-to-hand combat. Police pursuit of escapees across the Port Hills was par for the course for Lyttelton men; Smith’s partner in the earlier escape, Alfred Ronage, was also to escape again before his time was up. 82
In the middle of 1853 FitzGerald was elected the founding Superintendent of Canterbury Province. At its gazetted capital of Christchurch on 28 September, three days before the policing function was handed to the local politicians, he opened the first meeting of a provincial legislature under New Zealand’s 1852 constitution. After some lobbying by Simeon, whose career orientation was now provincial (he was not only elected a Provincial Councillor but also sat on the first provincial executive as Treasurer and was selected as the Council’s first Speaker), the Canterbury government decided like its Auckland counterpart to retain the local Resident Magistrate as the nominal head of police in the capacity of Commissioner. In a completely rational world Seager, the provenly capable effective head of Canterbury police prior to changeover, would have been confirmed in the role of working chief of police by his mentor FitzGerald, But although by now the Wakefieldian concept of transplanting an agriculture-based society and economy had been abandoned in favour of a pastorally-rooted economy—sheep runs by now covered all the plains and alpine foothills—Canterbury was still the most consciously class-based community in the colony. Aristocrats and gentry, usually ‘younger sons and university men’, merely invested their money in ways other than those originally planned, and they continued concomitantly to keep an iron-tight grip on the local institutions of state. Seager’s comparatively low socio-economic standing disqualified him from recognition as effective head of police. 83
Twenty-two year old Charles Christopher Bowen, on the other hand, had been of suitable stock to serve for two years as private secretary to Canterbury Association Chief Agent Godley, and upon the establishment of the provincial administration he was offered the position of clerk to Charles Simeon’s several offices of Resident Magistrate, Sheriff, Provincial Treasurer and Commissioner of Police. Not long out of Cambridge, he had no policing experience yet nevertheless in September 1853 was offered the vacant SubInspectorship of Police by its previous incumbent, FitzGerald, a personal friend. A month later the Superintendent promoted Bowen to Inspector of Police. Three gentlemen of wealth and status, all of them Canterbury Association men, therefore occupied the commanding heights of the provincial apparatus of social control—FitzGerald, Simeon and Bowen. It was to be a baptism of fire
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for the new ‘high policeman’, engulfed as he immediately was in the ongoing but now escalating crisis within the police organisation. It had long been a point of public comment that police efficiency suffered from the ‘low scale of remuneration’, 3s 6d per day, offered the men, their memorial of the previous year having been rejected by the Governor-in-Chief. They were far from happy that the most menial labouring jobs offered Is more, with the possibility of earning up to 16s per day at harvesting time, and that when policemen travelled in the course of duty their incurred expenses were not reimbursed. When Bowen took over, all five privates in the provincial Armed Police Force were on the verge of resigning as soon as—imminently—their contracts expired."
The task of mediating between the provincial government and the claims of the ad hoc police union which had arisen was delegated by Simeon to Bowen. This was at first considered merely an emergency backstop in case replacements could not be recruited, but when it became clear that the combination could not be broken since no adequate potential recruits were offering the Bowen negotiations reached an impasse. The Commissioner therefore persuaded FitzGerald that privates’ pay (except that of the sole constable now operating at Akaroa, already increased to 4s daily as the only means of providing a police presence there) should be raised to 4s 3d per diem. The provincial government planned, all the same, to retain the annual policing budget at little more than a mere £4OO, an amount which presupposed a single Christ-church-Lyttelton-Akaroa policing axis even at a time when settlement was spreading centrifugally. Indeed as Bowen was taking up his new position the second sheep station in South Canterbury, Arowhenua, was allocated and, like the Rhodes brothers’ existing run at The Levels to its south (100 miles from Christchurch), it was to become a focus for settlement on the overland route to Dunedin. Meanwhile small settlements were forming around Christchurch, and to its north.
The government’s police estimates were pegged so low despite these developments and even after allowing for the increased pay because it had decided actually to lower the size of the provincial force. Its rationale had already been explained early in October when Resident Magistrate Watson, who had been confirmed by the new government as head of the still autonomous Akaroa police, had been ordered by FitzGerald to halve his two-man force consequent upon a decision to take mail-carrying functions away from the policing service. At the beginning of November Bowen was notified that the Lyttelton to Christchurch police mail service was also to be stopped. According to the Superintendent, the Lyttelton estab-
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lishment therefore needed consist of only three privates, reducible to two should there be a dearth of hard-labour prisoners to supervise. Bowen’s application for a compensating increase in personnel at the now skeletally manned Christchurch station was turned down. Thus it was that the provincial capital came to have a police force consisting of a single private seconded to the Resident Magistrate although nominally responsible in the first instance to Edward Seager, the NCO in charge at Lyttelton, who was at this stage promoted from corporal to sergeant and paid 5s per day. Because of both the force reductions and the fact that the two commissioned officers, Bowen and Simeon, received their respective salaries of £l5O and £3OO from the General Government in their non-police capacities, the Provincial Council soon endorsed the pay increases tentatively awarded by FitzGerald, the extra pay, backdated to 1 October, having been hitherto regarded as a loan to the men. This put the constables in a happier frame of mind, but police resources were now more overstretched than ever. It was not possible to adequately cope with the increasing workload, and as a result the force was frequently blamed for numerous ‘irregularities’—such as failure to ensure the removal of decaying bodies of sheep and bullocks along the Sumner Road. 85
Such severe reductions in control resources could not be sustained for long, and expenditure on policing soon began to rise, beginning with the adding of an extra £lOO to the budget which allowed in April 1854 the addition of a second policeman to the Christchurch strength. Next on the agenda, the politicians had no choice but to widen police coverage throughout the northern and central sectors of the province. The Canterbury politico-economic rulers required something more effective than the low-key district constable network which had been established elsewhere in the colony however, for part-time rural police had neither the expertise nor the resources to effect a ‘preventive’ role; on the other hand, the rural population was too small and insufficiently concentrated to have regular policemen posted at key ‘rural’ settlements such as Onehunga or the Hutt in the North Island. The government decided, then, to experiment with the appointment of a ‘district constable’ with a higher profile than those elsewhere in the colony. This would be at the largest settlement away from the provincial capital, at Kaiapoi to the north of Christchurch, a river port where drink-related disturbances were rife. The town was, moreover, the principal Maori settlement in the province, and it was there if anywhere that racial tension might develop. The Lyttelton-based headquarters of the provincial police would, of course, provide aid
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in emergencies to the Kaiapoi police station, as to anywhere else in Canterbury. 86
Bowen protested vigorously at the appointment, because although working under Canterbury APF regulations the Kaiapoi constable was ‘not to be considered a regular member of the force’; he would be responsible to the magistracy, a sore point with a commissioned officer who had already experienced magisterial interference with his APF. The Inspector and his predecessors had never been happy about their lack of control over policing in the
Akaroa area, and it now appeared that the government intended establishing a network of ‘rural’ policemen who were similarly not responsible to the provincial APF. He requested that the Kaiapoi and other such subsequent appointments be made under the 1846 Ordinance so that the incumbents were under his command. The government reply confirmed however that each district policeman would ‘act simply as a Parish constable’, rather than as a member of the provincial police. At least pending rural expansion in settlement, the armed police force was now seen definitively as an urban police which doubled as a reserve force for the province. Only when smaller settlements became sizeable urban areas would regular police, responsible to headquarters, be stationed there. On 19 April a 24 year old locally resident Irishman, William Horton Revell, was selected by a reluctant Bowen for appointment in Kaiapoi as a constable—on £25 per annum —in order that ‘there may be some person clothed with authority and residing in the District in whose discretion and responsibility reliance can be placed.’ 87
As the end of 1854 neared, the annual problem of the renewal of the privates’ contracts focused government attention upon the provincial police force. When the men again expressed their intention of resigning if pay did not rise in line with non-police wage rises, the government tried to call their bluff despite Bowen’s recommendation that it accede to the wishes of a petition signed by Seager as well as by the privates. The combination held firm, and on 22 November the police force refused en bloc to be resworn for another year. The Superintendent had little choice but to immediately order a rise in privates’ wages to 5s per day, with 6s for Seager. To avoid acknowledging that the police had won through the employment of collective industrial muscle, FitzGerald blamed the entire incident upon Bowen for his not having mentioned in the first place that the petitioners’ demands related to a renewal of contract, supposedly a different matter from ‘increasing an allowance for a new term of servitude’. The executive in turn had no choice but to endorse the new rates. With any future ‘direct action’
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by police in mind, however, it also gave the Superintendent financial sanction to employ supernumerary policemen during emergencies.
The Inspector’s bargaining position had been increasing during the first year of operation of the Canterbury APF. FitzGerald had rapidly come to realise that Bowen was, despite his other official duties, the effective commissioned head of police. For Simeon was noted by the Superintendent as being not only averse to exertion (which was forgiveable in a ‘gentleman’) but also as being inclined towards unreliability (which was not). FitzGerald had soon begun to bypass the Commissioner and communicate directly with the Inspector on policing issues. Although Bowen’s views were not always listened to and —as over the pay dispute—he could be used as a scapegoat, there was a certain quid pro quo for his overall usefulness whereby on most policing matters he got his own way. At the very time of the wages dispute, for example, his argument that the policing tasks at Kaiapoi had assumed such great proportions as to require rearrangement was conceded, and as a first step the Superintendent gave permission for a lockup to be constructed in the town. At the end of the year, following Revell’s resignation from the burdensome task of being a part-time constable at a river port, Bowen was authorised to find for the area a ‘permanent Policeman’ who would be a member of his Armed Police Force. At once the Inspector took the opportunity to create two police districts for the province, hiving North Canterbury off from the rest of the province and making its sole policeman responsible direct to himself. The fact that he had permission for only a private to be appointed at Kaiapoi was a problem, but he surmounted it by designating the new position that of Sub-Inspector in charge of the district and paying the incumbent just slightly more—at £lOO salary—than that paid to privates in Lyttelton and Christchurch, The post, combined with that of clerk of the local court, was given to Revell, whose vigour as district constable had lived up to Bowen’s initial expectations. 88
It was not intended that Bowen’s Lyttelton/Christchurch men and Revell between them provide ordinary policing coverage over the vast areas of Canterbury which had recently been carved up by capitalists into large pastoral runs. The sheep stations were beginning to employ numerous hands, and itinerant workers—often runaway sailors and the like—were roaming the province in search of work. To control such a restless population, as in similar areas of Wellington and Nelson provinces, the ‘squattocracy’ conducted its own forms of ‘informal’ policing. The Canterbury politicians now
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attempted to institutionalise this by inviting runholders to nominate employees as constables to preserve local order and regularity. Although there would be no state salary, expenses incurred in policing would be reimbursed. In the event the envisaged network of employee-constables was stillborn since workers were loath to attract the stigma of being regarded as employers’ spies; in any case informal policing arrangements proved to be adequate, with the runholder-JPs able to swear in specials if emergencies arose. Requirements that certain rural accommodation house proprietors act as policing agents of state for specified purposes were designed to provide, additionally, a degree of institutionalised back-up for the socio-political elite. The people of Canterbury remained the most tightly controlled in New Zealand, with a small number of capitalists holding something approaching total political power — as the infamous ‘Mackenzie affair’ of 1855 demonstrated. 88
James Mackenzie (also spelt McKenzie), a semi-literate Scottish shepherd in his early 30s, had allegedly stolen a thousand sheep from Robert and George Rhodes’ run at The Levels. It seems likely that the drunken, incompetent young ‘gentleman’ who acted as overseer at The Levels, John Sidebottom, ‘framed’ the naive shepherd in order to hide his own probable complicity in previous huge ‘losses’ of sheep to rival runholders. After he and two Maori shepherds apprehended Mackenzie with a flock which Mackenzie said he had been hired to drive southwards through hitherto unexplored territory, the Highlander escaped and walked the hundred miles to Lyttelton. Figuring that the ‘fugitive’ would attempt to board a steamer due to depart for Sydney, Sergeant Seager donned disguise and searched the town, locating Mackenzie in the loft of a shanty. From then on the odds were stacked against the shepherd, even though the Crown case rested mainly upon the unreliable Sidebottom’s evidence.
Mackenzie’s story, that a ‘John Mossman’ had hired him to drive sheep which he had not known to be stolen, was supported by evidence; but the barrier of his humble standing, itself a grave handicap when confronted with state officials of the same class as Sidebottom, was heightened in an English, Anglican society by the Scotsman’s nationality, religion and native language. Mackenzie spoke fluently only Gaelic, did not understand English very well, and when under stress lost his limited ability to speak it. At a perfunctory trial in April 1855 he refused to cooperate with a court interpreter who had connections with the Rhodes family, was declared ‘mute of malice’ and, in the absence of counsel, omitted crucial evidence in his defence. There were only three prosecution
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witnesses, two of whom, Seager and Bowen, had no first hand information about the alleged crime; the judge, whose history included being struck from the bar in Australia, placed the onus of proof of innocence upon the accused. Bowen made no effort to trace ‘Mossman’ or another drover whom even Sidebottom had acknowledged to have been with Mackenzie on the night of his capture; like all the other officials he assumed Mackenzie guilty of just about the worst crime that could be committed in the eyes of the pastoral squattocracy. The police were to regret the shepherd’s resultant five-year gaol sentence, for the wild, sensitive Mackenzie could not tolerate incarceration and escaped from custody three times. 90
These escapes imposed great burdens on the undermanned police, as did others from the Lyttelton Gaol or its hard-labour gang. Despite what Bowen regarded as an adequate wage the ‘police department is suffering from the former low rate of wages which made the service unpopular and almost disreputable.’ Even a travel allowance of 2s 6d for each night spent away from the station, which the Inspector extracted from the government to attract recruits, had little effect. There were usually vacancies, and the ‘quality’ of some of his men made Bowen despair. At the end of their evening assignments to ‘clear the hotel bars’ at closing time, the policemen were frequently intoxicated as a result of being ‘liberally treated’ by law-bending publicans. Despite low staff numbers Bowen was forced at the beginning of 1855 to dismiss the second constable at the capital for ‘long continued neglect of duty’, a man who had been ‘an absolute evil at Christchurch, as he encouraged the drinking going on by his presence’. Shortly afterwards the private in charge of that station, Richard Whish, was ordered by the Superintendent to reside in the building which had been chosen to house the government offices, and to be in constant attendance upon the government as its orderly. This, in addition to his pre-existing function as messenger to the Provincial Council, would make it impossible for Whish to conduct ordinary policing duties, although he was to remain a sworn member of the APF. By the end of January, therefore, the provincial capital was bereft of any properly functioning policemen, and Bowen could find no suitable men to fill the vacancies.
FitzGerald insisted to Bowen that Christchurch be provided with a private of police, and thus in February one of the Lyttelton privates was transferred—a procedure which prompted a complaint from the Provincial Engineer that, with no supervisory constable for the hard-labour prisoners working out of Lyttelton Gaol, public works were suffering. Peremptory commands from the Superinten-
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dent that vacancies were to be filled were of not much help. On 20 February, after a constable had declined to renew his contract, Bowen’s entire Armed Police Force—other than the one-man North Canterbury detachment—consisted of Seager and three privates, one of them being Whish whose ‘name being kept on the police roster only tends to keep up misapprehension as to the expense of the Department and the work it is capable of performing’. Another had just recovered from an injury received on duty, preventing his taking the hard-labour prisoners out to work. Bowen was hoping that the end of harvesting would produce ‘good men’ for the police—or, more long term, that provincial immigration would solve his problem.’ 1
Mackenzie’s first escape in May 1855, and the turmoil it created, led to a government review of policing. Although the Scottish prisoner was now leg-ironed, further escapes by Mackenzie and others were (correctly) feared. The importance of local Maoris on Banks Peninsula having acted in the past as ‘informal policemen’ for reward money was now affirmed and extended by the swearing in of two Maoris at Lyttelton as constables. One lasted only a few weeks before dismissal for ‘inefficiency’ but the other, H Williams, became a regular private in the Lyttelton police, his services naturally being used in particular for specialised liaison work with Peninsula pa. Christchurch, whose two resident policemen on the allowed establishment were still both privates, was in June itself designated a distinct police district, as the area centred on Kaiapoi had been; an expanding town, it was clearly destined in the near future to eclipse Lyttelton in population and commercial significance in addition to its political predominance. To relieve Inspector Bowen of the task of immediate supervision of Christchurch, a second Sub-Inspector was appointed by the government. Simeon had always relied greatly upon Seager, who ‘has always conducted himself entirely to my satisfaction’, but the sergeant was again bypassed. A friend of FitzGerald’s of higher social standing than Seager, John O’Neill, was instead awarded the position, which carried with it additional official duties and remunerations.”
In August 1855 the Provincial Council decided to take a longerterm approach to the question of recruiting suitable policemen. As part of provincial government immigration schemes, up to half a dozen men from the London Metropolitan Police, a force whose name was by now legendary, would be brought to Canterbury and in exchange for a free passage would be bound to serve for three years. It was a decision that was to double policing expenditure. Shortly afterwards Simeon resigned his Commissionership as he was about to return to England, and he was succeeded on 19 Sep-
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tember by baronet’s son and runholder Henry John Tancred, the man who had been appointed to the Resident Magistracy also vacated by Simeon. Tancred addressed himself seriously to the task of policing the province. A month after beginning work, for example, he had replaced an inefficient constable with William Rutledge, a private trained in the police of Victoria —a force in the process of melding Metropolitan and Irish models for application to turbulent antipodean conditions.”
By the beginning of December 1855, however, the cost of living had again so increased that men whose contracts were expired could not be induced to stay. It would be almost impossible to replace them, Tancred submitted, while to take on a whole new force of inexperienced men—were any suitable candidates available in the first place—would surely be an inefficient use of public funds. Most alarming of all, a disgruntled Seager had expressed his intention of resigning from 19 December, and the new Commissioner could not conceive of being without his ‘valuable, conscientious and efficient’ services. ‘lt must be remembered that Sergeant Seager, although he has served four years, has received very little promotion, while he has seen the sub-inspectors O’Neill and Revell at once put over his head with a much bigger salary than he has .. ..’ Whilst the government would neither concede Tancred’s pleas to raise the men’s pay nor make Seager a Sub-Inspector at £l5O per annum, a compromise was worked out. Police rates, including Seager’s, would be reviewed when the Provincial Council met in 1856. Meanwhile Seager’s pay would be increased by Is per day to 7s (or £127 15s annually) and he could leave the force before the expiration of his current contract if the Council’s deliberations did not satisfy him; in the event the politicans were to realise their indebtedness to the sergeant and make appropriate remunerative concessions. By the beginning of 1856, because of the problems of local recruiting the number of regular, full-time provincial police had temporarily fallen to one NCO and four privates, all of them stationed at Lyttelton. The Kaiapoi and Christchurch districts had to be controlled by their commissioned officers alone, as task which O’Neill in particular found taxing: ‘He tells me’, reported Tancred, ‘that while he is engaged in part of the town irregularities are going on in other parts.” 4
By now the authorities were alarmed at the increasing sympathy of working people for the plight of James Mackenzie. If he were to pine his life away in the dank stone cells of Lyttelton Gaol, as seemed possible, there would be even closer popular scrutiny of the institutions of state and the class interests that they represented, perhaps even graver problems of public order as a consequence.
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The Provinces, 1853-61
Upon investigating the whole Mackenzie affair Tancred very quickly saw that the original police and judicial investigations had been perfunctory, that the Crown’s case had by no means been proven beyond reasonable doubt. With the backing of Superintendent FitzGerald, who was of course vitally concerned with the state of order in his province, Tancred secured from the Governor a pardon for the shepherd in early 1856. Mackenzie, banished from the colony as a condition of pardon, disappeared from recorded view—except in the hagiography of the poor and their sympathisers and in the demonology of the wealthy. The colonial prerogative of mercy was never exercised lightly; less than three years previously ‘all the Principal merchants and influential inhabitants of Wellington’ had petitioned the Governor to release a probably innocent man who had languished for four years in gaol only to have their application rejected on the grounds that the prisoner had once before escaped from custody, albeit in another colony. What Samuel Butler characterised as the ‘strange proceeding’ of Mackenzie’s release was carried out for motives of state expediency: an action of preventive policing.’ 5
Removal of the most troublesome continuing individual policing problem did not guarantee harmony inside the police. When later in 1856 Tancred was away in Auckland to take his seat as a Legislative Councillor, former Wanganui Resident Magistrate W J W Hamilton acted, among other official duties, as Canterbury’s Commissioner of Police. In the course of doing so he clashed with O’Neill, whom he considered inefficient and insubordinate. The Sub-Inspector had even arrogated to himself Hamilton’s prerogative of police deployment; during a panic after some robberies he had arranged with the magistracy and government to temporarily employ a constable to help him out with his strenuous duties. In such a disputatious atmosphere policing efficiency in the capital suffered. When the acting Commissioner required special work to be carried out in Christchurch, Seager was sent across from Lyttelton, much to O’Neill’s resentment. Tancred’s return to duty on 2 October was welcomed by the staff as a chance to return to normalcy, but new problems arose later that month when the first of the Scotland Yard men arrived and the government decreed that existing policemen would have to be dismissed to make way for them. In the event, since Seager was loath to discharge any of his four Lyttelton privates, who had ‘obtained a good knowledge of the people here and are consequently much more efficient than strangers’, it was agreed that the first redundancies would occur in the two-man Christchurch force —although with more men en route from London the Lyttelton men would also soon suffer. 96
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Tancred barely had time to establish the new men in their positions, geared to implement a tighter beat system on the latest Metropolitan lines, before his resignation as Commissioner on 27 November 1856. A sensitive intellectual, he had never regarded policing duties as anything but distasteful. Nevertheless he left Canterbury police fully able, he believed, to cope with the extra turmoil that planned increases in immigration would bring, particularly in light of the imminent arrival of the extra Metropolitan police. Of the five imported privates who were now to form the basis of the Canterbury APF, two had previously been in the army and one in the Irish Constabulary, institutions said to be catchment areas for the best police elements. But it soon emerged that the provincial authorities had been misled by the image carefully and successfully nurtured by Rowan and Mayne. To the dismay of the Canterbury state the new policemen brought with them those problems relating to drink, class and lack of maturity (the oldest recruit was only in his mid 20s) which in actuality abounded in the Metropolitan Police. One offended so many times that he was dismissed in March 1857 and ordered to repay his passage money to New Zealand. Only two became relatively long-term members of the force; one of these—John Price, promoted to corporal in 1857 —was to be dismissed in 1860 for repeated drunkenness and dereliction of duty, which left Sergeant Thomas Mann, one of the December 1856 arrivals, as the only Metropolitan import remaining in the force. 97
Runholder John Hall, a shipowner’s son who had served in London as a special constable during the suppression of Chartists in 1848, was induced to take over the Police Commissionership from Tancred as part of the duty flowing from his appointment as Resident Magistrate at Lyttelton. It was a shaky beginning, for almost at once he was obliged to dismiss the troublesome SubInspector O’Neill, whose many influential friends then put great pressure upon the government to rescind the decision. The SubInspector was, they claimed, an ‘officer universally respected and to whose efficiency they attribute in a great measure the present comparative absence of crime and the tranquil and orderly state’ of Christchurch. But O’Neill had lost the Superintendent’s support and their protests were not sustained, although they managed to extract for him the compensatory position of bailiff, which he accepted with bad grace. By then, the beginning of 1857, the provincial police had stabilised at an establishment comprising, besides its officers, Sergeant Seager, a corporal and four privates at Lyttelton, and a corporal and private at Christchurch, an arrangement which was generating problems.
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Seager’s headquarters station, and most policing activity, was still based at the bustling port. However the growing town of Christchurch, which had just surpassed Lyttelton in population, was increasingly the scene of disorders. An application for the issue of revolvers to the police was hardly any solution when most of them remained stationed across the Port Hills from the capital. Even publicans complained of police neglect, a typical grievance being that of the owner of Christchurch’s Golden Fleece who in March 1857 was powerless to prevent several dozen sailors rioting in his public house. The Commissioner was also beset by discontent in the ranks, particularly after a test case brought home to the constables the precariousness of their tenure. Whilst grappling with a hard-labour gang escapee, one of the ex-Metropolitan privates had been ruptured by falling on to rocks, and he had then been discharged under clause 13 of the 1846 Ordinance. Notwithstanding his view that the man was untrustworthy. Commissioner Hall now pressed for the award of compensation in order to reassure his staff of its security, but the government at first rejected the application and then compromised with an ungenerous lump sum payment of £5O. Later that year the Akaroa constable finally gave up his fight for parity with the regular privates’ wages—having long since fallen behind —and resigned. This happened at a time when regular police wages themselves were being kept from catching up with cost of living increases by recruiting from amongst the newly arrived provincially-sponsored immigrants, and during a year when cost-cutting measures went hand in hand with an increase in the dangers of acting as constable. The chase in which the constable was injured by a fall was paralleled within a few months during the escape of Smith and Ronage from the hardlabour gang along the Sumner Road, although the ending of the latter event in a major shoot-out was exceptional. 9 "
With settlement expanding, calls for wider coverage of policing were increasing. A store had opened at the site near The Levels of what was to become the leading centre for southern Canterbury, Timaru, and by the beginning of 1858 a number of buildings were being erected. Although the pakeha population of the incipient town and its hinterland —which stretched southwards to the border with Otago, the Waitangi (later Waitaki) River—numbered only a few hundred, Resident Magistrate Belfield Woollcombe, a half-pay naval officer appointed in mid 1857 as a ‘general agent for the Govt, in all matters connected with the opening up of that country for settlement’, was quickly calling for the services of a regular constable. In September 1857 he had been given permission to employ a special constable whenever necessary, providing that the services
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
came cheap and a report was submitted each time. But he had found it difficult to find anyone to ‘act in that Capacity on any emergency’ and his insistent pleas could not by 1858 be ignored. The problem of inadequate social control resources was not confined to South Canterbury. It was a time of state-funded expansion in the whole Province —a boom stimulated by policies for ‘vigorous development of resources and communications’ of the Superintendent, lawyer-merchant William Sefton Moorhouse, who had been elected in October 1857. Kaiapoi was so bustling that its inhabitants had requested a constable to operate under Revell’s directions, and plans were being made for both Immigration and Police Barracks in Christchurch. In the middle of the year Moorhouse ordered the Commissioner to second a Christchurch constable who suffered ill-health exclusively to the daytime duties of Inspector of Slaughterhouses, official orderly, dog registrar and so forth, thus freeing the gradually increasing detachment at the capital from such functions in favour of the more urgent duties of maintaining social order in the streets.”
As 1858 progressed the prosperity and rising prices engendered by Moorhouse’s energetic immigration and public works policies not only exacerbated the problems that constables on fixed incomes faced in maintaining their standard of living but also, by attracting great numbers of working-class immigrants, presented them with greater problems of order. The focus of disorder, moreover, was increasingly displaced from Lyttelton to the provincial capital. Extra police were taken on to cope, and by mid year there were three NCOs and nine privates in the provincial force, costing £l5OO per annum. With an increasing politicisation of the issue of order, the burdens of high policing had been largely taken off Bowen’s shoulders to lie on those of the Commissioner. Nevertheless Hall was dismayed when the Inspector now resigned from his policing position in order to concentrate on business—and on political support for Moorhouse’s expansionist projects, ultimately bound for higher career stations in life. The Commissioner notified the government that with the loss of so experienced an officer he was only prepared to continue in his basically unpaid position if a replacement commissioned officer were appointed for the province’s major port, one who could both act as high policeman and double as immigration agent there. This would allow Hall more time for his various official duties in Christchurch, now the base for the Resident Magistracy. He visited Lyttelton twice weekly and Kaiapoi monthly on judicial business, and was confident that he could even as a very part-time Commissioner adequately advise the requested Lyttelton officer as well as exercise supervisory control
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The Provinces, 1853-61
over the northern Sub-Inspector. In his absences from duty on political affairs—Hall was eventually to rise to Premier—the commissioned officer at Lyttelton could act as Commissioner. The plan had to be slightly modified to fit the situation of the man chosen to replace Bowen, but in essence it was accepted. 1 ™
The provincial government indeed accepted Hall’s conditions with alacrity—partly because, with the General Government paying his substantive salary, Canterbury had to accede only to his demand for expenses as Commissioner. As for the Lyttelton commissioned officer, Seager was by now the only possible contestant; not only did Hall consider it ‘wise economy to encourage him by some increase of rank and pay’ but also the government officials perceived that they could hardly afford to lose his experienced services should he resign after being again superseded by a newcomer to policing. Indeed expediency demanded the overriding of Commissioner Hall’s recommendation, once Seager had been accepted as a viable candidate, that he only be promoted to ‘Ser-geant-Major’, a policing rank used elsewhere to elevate men of humble origin to a rank generally regarded as equivalent in status to that of commissioned officer. In order to definitively retain the services of the ‘working head’ of the Canterbury provincial Police Department the government promoted Seager—on 19 October 1858—to the position of Sub-Inspector. The completion of this private-to-commissioned officer odyssey was an even more profound symbolic breakthrough than were similar events elsewhere in the colony, given the province’s origin as a conscious replication of the English class hierarchy, and it was to open new social doors for Seager—including friendship with Samuel Butler. By the time that his granddaughter, novelist and drama producer (and eventually Dame) Ngaio Marsh, was born, the former lowranked private of police had behind him an acclaimed career not only as a policeman but also as Gaoler of Lyttelton Gaol and (from 1863) reforming head of Sunnyside Lunatic Asylum. 101
Seager’s newly elevated position as second in command of the provincial police gave him a long-awaited opportunity to rationalise the province’s diversifying policing arrangements, which in the past had responded only in an extempore fashion to new needs. Revell’s position in relation to the Christchurch-Lyttelton police fulcrum had never been entirely clear, but already it had been decided that the consequences of the immigration inflow to all parts of the province required full coordinated social control from Canterbury’s policing centre. The northern Canterbury SubInspector’s combined salary, at nearly £2OO, exceeded Seager’s, but he was now firmly placed as responsible to the Commissioner of
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Police via the office of the province’s principal Sub-Inspector. In addition to formalising the hierarchy of command so far as the Kaiapoi police district was concerned, Seager incorporated the Akaroa district into the provincial police. Banks Peninsula bays were reportedly playing host to an ‘underworld’ element of runaway sailors, smugglers (a particular concern of Seager’s), ex-Australian criminals and various other lumpenproletarian elements. Okains Bay, long renowned as a ‘refuge for evil-doers’, the scene of drunkenness and debauchery, was regarded as particularly troublesome. Traditionally Resident Magistrate Watson policed the area from Akaroa, but he was hard-pressed now to do so. The ‘Chief Constable’, Joseph Deighton, was his only policeman and had to supplement a meagre £BO police salary by acting as postmaster and undertaking other tasks besides. Seager now provided Deighton with an ordinary constable as helper, and ensured that the court - house/police station, which had been built a year before but had remained unfurnished and hence unused, was put into commission. Watson was also firmly placed in the formal police chain of command, although in the event this did not mean much because over the next few years the Akaroa district continued to operate as a self-contained policing unit. In 1860 Watson was in fact to report that in the preceding few years he had received only three police communications from Lyttelton and none from Christchurch.
One arrangement with which Seager had too few resources to interfere to any great extent was that of implementing at least a minimal degree of social control in those rural spaces subjected only infrequently, if at all, to the visits of provincial policemen. This was normally in the hands of JPs and men of wealth and influence, but a not insignificant degree of policing was conducted by publicans. It was in order to supplement the efforts of the local socio-economic elite, or sometimes of an isolated regular policeman, that some operators of rural public houses were required as a condition of licence ‘on all occasions to give every assistance to the police force and to act as special constable’. There were nine of these sanctioned in 1859: at Kowai, Saltwater Creek, Oxford, Waimakariri, Great South Road, Pareora, Arowhenua, Head of Akaroa Harbour and at Rakaia, where the publican had also to undertake to ‘ferry police constables and prisoners in their charge over the river free of charge’. The necessity of attaching a condition also to the Akaroa Harbour special constable/publican’s authorisation indicated the calibre of some of the people entrusted with this stop-gap method of keeping the peace: if he were to supply spirits to Maoris, or allow drunkenness, his licence would be cancelled. The publican-specials were kept under varying degrees
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The Provinces, 1853-61
of scrutiny by the nearest JPs and some dared not allow their customers and others in the vicinity to transgress too far beyond the behavioural norms required by the pastoralists and their representatives and allies in the provincial administration. Despite an increasing sophistication of the Armed Police Force, the rural control system continued to operate as a mode of control that was, however inadequate, deemed necessary in the absence of sufficient resources to paramilitarise policing control throughout the province. Thus when Resident Magistrate Hamilton granted in 1860 a conditional licence to John Hastie’s accommodation house at the Hurunui on the border with Nelson Province, two of the 15 provisions related to policing: TO. To be sworn in and act as a constable, especially when required by the Magistrates or the Police. 11. On all occasions to render every assistance, and to supply information to Magistrates and to the Police in the execution of their duty.’
Meanwhile the newly-promoted Sub-Inspector Seager had worked out a reorganisation whereby the headquarters district of the Canterbury Police was divided into sub-districts. Firstly, Christchurch, whose headquarters station was now supplemented by the suburban stations of Avon and Heathcote. Secondly, Port Victoria (Lyttelton), where surgeon-magistrate Dr W Donald acted as Commissioner in Hall’s absences, the original plan that the second in command of the provincial police carry out this function having fallen through with Seager’s appointment; Canterbury officials would accept him as a ‘working head’ of police but not as a coequal in rank and status. Finally Rakaia, constituting the southern portion of headquarters district. This focal district, the hub of the province’s immigration, public works and economic expansion, encompassed the majority of the Canterbury police, whose total strength was stabilised at the end of 1858 as follows: Sub-Inspector Seager at Lyttelton, recently promoted to a salary of £lB5 (which included his work as immigration official, and his travel expenses), Sub-Inspector Revell (promoted to policing salary of £125), a sergeant at 6s 9d per day, a corporal at 6s 3d, and nine privates earning 6s apiece. The Rakaia sub-district, southwards down the coast at an important river crossing, was constituted in response to the small farming/small town settlement, complementing the large runs, which was spreading to the south and west of the capital. It formed a link with the southern district based at Timaru, where the town now distinctively forming would flourish from January 1859 with the arrival of its first shipload of immigrants and the disembarkation of 120 settlers. At this point the provincial government decided to encourage immediately the development of Timaru as a port and servicing centre for the south of the province.
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
The police station already established there and manned by a district constable from late 1858 was boosted in status to that of a two-man regular force, the privates acting also as boatmen, overseers of road works, apprehenders of Lyttelton escapees making for Otago and as general agents for whatever the state might require. 103
The establishment of this fourth police district—additional to northern, headquarters and Banks Peninsula districts—had created problems in the hierarchy of command. Armed Police Force discipline required at very least a degree of pyramidal internal supervision, but the officers and NCOs at Christchurch and Lyttelton were unable to visit as far as Timaru at frequent intervals. Thus the original Akaroa precedent was adapted: whereas Resident Magistrate Watson was in his police capacity now responsible to Seager and Hall, when Timaru Resident Magistrate Woollcombe was placed in control of the local police station the southern official was made responsible to the provincial executive alone in policing matters. This was a logical step, since the Canterbury government was utilising the services of the force in order to open up its southern regions, although it was not a development which was greeted with joy by the Armed Police Force leadership. The government, moving cautiously in such a delicate matter, selected the Timaru constables very carefully, and in 1859 it even ordered the
secondment of a new recruit for Woollcombe to the Christchurch police for a month’s training before taking up his policing post at the province’s southern station. This however did not affect the fundamentals of the debate over whether the provincial policing function should be devolved: control over the man by Hall and Seager lasted only as long as the period of secondment. The Timaru ‘police district’, then, was in actuality an autonomous police force, and indeed in 1860 —after it had been temporarily reduced to the strength of a single private—Resident Magistrate Woollcombe was accorded the honorary title of Sub-Commissioner of Police and provided with £5O per annum to conjointly perform the duties of high policeman and ‘Beach-master’. South Canterbury, a special case wherein the police were required by the provincial state to be its direct agents of development, had therefore been given special police status for the duration of its early development—a situation which stood until 1861, when the two-constable Timaru district was added firmly to the Canterbury provincial police superstructure. 104
At the time of Seager’s promotion in later 1858 to Sub-Inspector the government was in the process of updating the Province’s ‘police offences’ legislation by replacing the 1849 New Munster ‘Efficiency Ordinance’. To cope with increasing urbanisation the
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The Provinces, 1853-61
police in Christchurch, Lyttelton, Kaiapoi and Akaroa were given more extensive powers than before, some of these being carbon copies of those found in other provinces’ legislation. Their primary purpose was to aid the policing of Christchurch’s growing sprawl across the plains. There was considerable opposition to a number of these increments in police power. Distrust of police was revealed in a Provincial Council debate when five politicians in vain attempted to remove a clause allowing magistrates to gaol—as well as fine—those who assaulted policemen. Constables, it was claimed, laid such charges of assault ‘on the very slightest grounds’. Nevertheless, on 1 December 1858 the Canterbury Police Ordinance was passed, and urban police were now empowered, inter alia , to demand entry to any dwelling wherein refreshments were sold in order to repress disorder, or to force citizens to come to their aid—with punishment of a £lO fine or a month’s gaol for refusal."*
The logical result of both the primacy of Christchurch and Seager’s commanding position in the revamped provincial police would have been removal of the senior Sub-Inspector’s headquarters and barracks to the capital. When this was not done, towards the middle of 1859 Seager made application for it. He was supported by John Hall who, wearied with the burdens of policing—mainly because of the duality of Lyttelton’s role in hosting port and prison—saw this as a convenient way of relinquishing the position of Commissioner. Seager, he believed, had overcome the handicap of the circumstances of his birth and had proven to be quite capable of handling the province’s police requirements without any intermediary between the Sub-Inspector and the provincial executive. But the Moorhouse regime was in the process of re-examining the whole question of order in the province: police offences legislation, the Timaru force, Seager’s reorganisation, all were regarded as arrangements that would quite possibly need supplementing or altering with the Superintendent’s development policies increasing in tempo. The executive was therefore unwilling, before the review was finished, to accede to the requests of its two senior police administrators, although in the event other pressing matters of government were to crowd out any chance of a quick resolution of the problems of policing in the province.
After the initial Seager reforms, then, policies tended to emerge in familiar piecemeal fashion: the senior Sub-Inspector for instance secured permission for a new and better uniform, and when the inadequacy of the police carbine issues led to the death of a prisoner, the firearms holdings were reviewed. Not all ad hoc developments were welcome to the policemen. When privates claimed for
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
damage to their uniforms incurred during pursuit of a thief the government laid down guidelines and declared that because of what were seen as the advantages accruing to being policemen, particularly free accommodation, the men were to bear such costs themselves in future. By the latter part of 1859 Seager had been forced by pressure of work at the capital to board there, leaving his family behind in Lyttelton. It was only at this point that Hall managed—in November—to secure permission to move police headquarters and Sub-Inspector Seager permanently to the provincial capital, where the Canterbury government now deliberated in grand new chambers. 106
With Seager controlling the force from the capital Resident Magistrate Hall virtually made it a condition that if his Commissionership were to be retained its fundamental nature must be altered. His major official functions and his pursuit of private profit left him insufficient time to carry out duties currently required of him, such as monitoring Canterbury police expenditure, liaising with the government on province-wide police matters and keeping the accounts of the force. His request was that the position become a local equivalent—albeit on a greater scale—of the policing function of the Timaru Resident Magistrate: a general supervisory role over the policies and personnel of the Christchurch police alone, including the power to adjudge and discipline the men. This was not acceptable to the provincial government, which wished neither to pre-empt any aspect of its reviving in-depth investigation of the whole policing apparatus, nor to abolish the position of nominal head of the police of the entire province. In consequence Hall resigned from the position of Commissioner of Police in March 1860, an action which spurred the provincial government to circularise all other provinces in order to survey their policing arrangements. Meanwhile, before an analysis of the responses revealed that the concept of having General Government officials superintending provincial police forces was by now anachronistic, the Commissionership was temporarily handed once more to W J W Hamilton, 1 " 1
Hamilton, although only 35 years old, had behind him many years of official experience, including of controlling police, and he had already held a number of General and provincial government posts in Canterbury before being appointed in February 1856 as Resident Magistrate with a roving mandate in the province, a position which had particular reference to resolving land grievances held by the South Island Maoris. At the time of Hall’s resignation he was manning a Lyttelton Resident Magistracy position for an extended period pending the arrival of Henry Gouland, who had
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been notified that he was to be transferred from Collingwood to Canterbury. Hamilton agreed to take over the unremunerated position of Commissioner of Police for Canterbury Province on condition that the provincial government use its influence (perhaps, if necessary, even its money) to guarantee continuation of his high centrally funded Resident Magistrate/Sheriff salary of £5OO. These conditions accepted, he found almost at once that the excessive drinking and the racial tensions which had dominated the work of his judicial/policing post on arrival at Wanganui a decade before had been reasonably minor problems compared with the growing pakeha disorder in the burgeoning southern province, particularly its urban areas. These were once again said to be attracting Australian ‘underworld’ characters, this time moving on from the declining goldfields across the Tasman. That there was at least a modicum of truth in this widespread belief was brought home humiliatingly to the government when it discovered that the infamous Tasmanian bushranger Martin Cash had joined the Christchurch police and was using ‘inside’ information to profitable effect—in running brothels in particular. Cash, the compiler of the Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies solemnly declared, was ‘the greatest scoundrel of whom there is any record in Canty.’ Although he was dismissed and fined for brothel-keeping, Cash’s continued presence in the city and his high profile in the red light areas of Salisbury and Manchester Streets (where he owned, among other establishments, the notorious ‘Red House’) served to remind the police and the public of the alleged presence of a ‘criminal class’ in urban Canterbury. 1 ”
Like Bowen some half-dozen years previously, Hamilton inherited a force whose members were again beginning to flex their collective industrial muscle; the men had already secured, by means of a petition, free winter fuel. The eight privates now stationed in Christchurch complained to him straight after his appointment about their living and working accommodation in barracks inadequate for even the four persons it had been designed to hold. In the room doubling as sleeping quarters and office the night-time stench from bodies asleep in bunks and on the floor was so overpowering that men returning from duty had to leave the door open. Their premises adjoined the capital’s immigration barracks, which they superintended, and some of its inmates created considerable problems, such as a woman whom the police could not get rid of by placing in a job because she suffered from an ‘offensive disease’ and was a thief to boot. There were not only frequent collective police protests at prevailing conditions, but also a propensity for the men to combine to demand alleviation of their increasing workload,
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immigration and public works schemes having led to a greater amount of turbulence and disorder to control. It was the first time in New Zealand since the Auckland APF troubles of 1846 that policemen took major demands beyond wages, perquisites and allowances and into the field of working conditions.
A very real benefit to the state had emerged as a by-product of the ad hoc union formed in the Christchurch police station: the men had conjointly grown suspicious of Cash, and only their combined approaches to sceptical officials had led to the investigations which exposed their colleague’s unsavoury past and present activities. This, and Seager’s sympathies with their grievances, ensured that the constables were not punished for their various occasions of combining. On the contrary, sufficient concessions were thereby produced to maintain a reasonable level of continuity in the force and to raise its size: by the end of 1860 it comprised, besides the two Sub-Inspectors and three NCOs, 18 constables including two at ‘Akaroa and the Peninsula’ and a similar detachment at Timaru which was ‘also acting as Beach-Masters boat crew’.
Annual expenditure was now seven times that which it had been upon the founding of the province seven years before, a spending level which assured at least a certain level of esprit de corps within the force. Morale was maintained too by the empathy of the effective head of the police with the problems amongst the ranks through which he had himself risen. Seager knew from experience the difficulties of purchasing and replacing uniforms on police pay. When Sergeant Thomas Eldridge and Constable Robert Elliott suffered clothing and footwear damage whilst saving warehouse goods during a fire in Cashel Street the Sub-Inspector, typically, fought for full reimbursement. But the subsequent fate of the private reminded all members of the force of the dangers inherent in their job. During the blaze Elliott had ‘received a severe internal injury from a bag of flour thrown down upon him from the upper storey while he was in the street’; he was not able to continue in the job and was therefore obliged to leave (‘allowed to resign’) before his period of contract had ended. Even Seager was to take the opportunity, in early 1862, to retreat to the relative security and quietude of becoming Gaoler (and his wife Matron) of Lyttelton Gaol."*
By the beginning of the new decade the police were finding immigrant-related work particularly burdensome. Because of the relatively prosperous conditions prevailing in traditional recruiting areas in England, the provincial government agents there were filling the ships with persons who did not necessarily meet various relevant criteria. ‘There are’, wrote one agent disapprovingly, ‘some
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who have been taken at a very low cash payment, and a good many Irish and Scotch.’ Police closely monitored the arrival of the ships, and Seager feared that ‘bad habits’ learnt prior to or during the passage would contaminate Canterbury social life. In July 1859 he was ‘informed by the police constable on duty’ aboard a ship just berthed at the port of scenes of ‘no parallel’. Upon investigation he found in the forecastle men and girls ‘all huddled together with arms thrown around each others waists and necks, their legs thrown over either party, so that it was impossible to distinguish one sex from the other’. Some were covered over and ‘what was taking place under these coverings no person could tell, excepting upon unmistakable sounds you would guess at a something. I imagined that by confronting some closely they would exhibit some slight amount of shame, they appeared not to take the slightest notice of either me or the constable, but still remained in their disgusting position .. ..’
As part of the ‘missionary’ role of the police, constables were obliged to supervise all aspects of immigrant arrival, disembarkation and first days ashore. Newly arrived single women ‘accompanied by persons living in the town of Lyttelton, well known by the Police to be loose, idle and disorderly characters’ were, Seager reported, being allowed by a publican ‘to assemble in his house and dance; not only this, but... indecent liberties were taken with some of the women. The girls had to be forced to the Barracks and locked in by the matron at 9 p.m.’ Not only were there duties relating to the imposition of official morality upon immigrants, there were problems relating to some families arriving destitute or orphaned, their placement in circumstances where they could at least survive being seen as a fundamental mode of preventing future breaches of order and regularity. There were also the inevitable few amongst such large numbers who would soon be swelling the already sizeable gaol population. By 1861 policing was costing the Canterbury government what seemed like a huge sum of £3OOO per annum. 110
Otago’s provincial police cost in its first six months of operation £165 7s 6d. At the time of the provincial government’s takeover of policing on 1 October 1853 the unpopular Sub-Inspector Strode and his equally unpopular Armed Police were retained only pending the meeting of the Provincial Council at the end of the year, a decision of pure expediency. As soon as news had first reached the settlement that provincial government was to be instituted, the Otago Settlers’ Association had passed a resolution condemning
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Strode for ‘allowing himself to be influenced by the most unworthy political and party motives, praying that he might be removed’, and neither he nor the type of policing he represented could survive the new regional political order. Meanwhile discussion centred on the type of replacement force needed. Leading settlers, guided partly by the smallness of the southern province’s population and its lack of resources but largely by their theocratic vision of an agrarian -based society of ‘good’, god-fearing people, argued for fundamental change: the community leaders were moral policemen, so there was no need for a substantial state police force. Such ideas had been in the air for some time: the inaugural meeting of the Settlers’ Association in mid 1851 had demanded ‘the Police Establishment reduced to one Sergeant’ and it was essentially that same body of people which was now in a position of political authority. After the first Provincial Council deliberations Superintendent William Cargill, founder of the Scottish religious settlement and emodiment of its ideals of hard, ‘clean’ living and thrift, ordered Strode as an interim measure to reduce his force to that of a corporal and a private at both Dunedin and Port Chalmers. 1 "
On 11 February 1854 the local politicians finally opted for the type of force that seemed best suited to their ‘law-abiding’ community: a non-militarised, part-time police would replace the Armed Police Force personnel and organisation. Otago, alone of the provinces, would formally drop the word ‘Armed’ from the title of its Police Force. In Dunedin there would be three ‘district constables’ retained at £2O each per annum, and paid a further 6s for every day engaged in police activity; another at the port would be able to engage the services of an assistant to be paid £5 per year. Strode would be replaced by a ‘Head-Constable or Corporal’. The proposals were radical in the extreme. The previous existence in Otago of even a nominal APF had clearly followed politico-symbolic rather than evolutionary logic, to be sure, particularly in view of the absence of a ‘Maori problem’. However the new arrangements were based not, as might have been expected, upon the Nelson ‘civil’ police model but upon principles alien to normal colonial policing types, ancient concepts of a homogeneously thinking and behaving community that would mostly police itself. This was to ignore both that the province was not a hermetically sealed unit and that the demands of the economy of an area of necessity take on their own dynamics, independent of the wishes of political visionaries.
Social and economic insulation was quite impossible. Of the 56 prisoners gaoled through 1853-4, for example, half were visiting seamen, and developments of long term socio-economic impact were in train. At the beginning of 1854 Otago Commissioner of
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The Provinces, 1853-61
Lands W Mantell set off on an expedition overland to Bluff Harbour, in the southernmost part of the South Island, with Police Corporal Henry France in charge of the treasure which was to purchase Murihiku (what was to become Southland). Accompanying them were a number of wealthy Dunedinites seeking out en route suitable areas on which to take up pastoral runs, signalising a vast extension in the politico-economic rationale of the settlement: the province’s inhabited territory would shortly spread out along a route which had first been explored by Europeans—including W J W Hamilton—only in 1850. When immigration into Otago recommenced in a small way later in 1854 moreover, it became clear that it was not always possible to apply stringent controls to even ‘selected’ incomers.' 12
On such matters the man hand-picked by the executive to carry out its policing wishes was, unlike his masters, labouring under no illusions. Within a week of its optimistic decision on the future of policing in the province the government had chosen John Shepherd, a ‘humble’ and devout farm manager who had been a constable in Scotland, as its chief of police. Although it was a huge rise in status to be made Chief Constable of Otago Province Shepherd accepted the offer ‘with Considerable Reluctance’, aware of the unrealism of executive expectations in light of the scantiness of the resources offered. The politicians were not altogether lacking an appreciation of reality, it is true; although their envisaged policemen would neither wear uniforms nor carry firearms, they would carry batons and there would be a store of extra batons in case specials needed to be sworn in. Moreover the envisaged proportion of expenditure on policing resources, an eighth of government spending, was about on a par with that of other provinces. But the fact remained that the Otago leadership’s concept of policing was anachronistic. It was Shepherd, ‘capable in a commonsense way’, who saved the provincial government from the results of its own misapprehension by insisting on conditions which precluded an entirely part-time force: even with the interim arrangement, ‘what 2 men Could Do with a Lot of Drunken and Disorderly Sailors or Sawyers ... Rather pussies me.’ Nor was he impressed at the prospect of civilians volunteering as ‘special constables’ in times of need, realising that most people preferred to pay for regular police activity rather than carry out unpleasant duties themselves. 113
Even while Shepherd was still considering the offer of provincial chief of police, the two full-time constables who had been temporarily employed to replace the discharged APF privates had proven unable to cope with the police workload and two more had been taken on. This development, though based on a fortuitous increase
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of work of an ephemeral nature, helped the politicians to decide to accept Shepherd’s conditions relating to the creation of at minimum a semi-regular force. From 11 March 1854, the date of his appointment, the four temporary privates were designated ‘assistant constables’ (soon called ‘constables’), the rank of ‘private’ having been deliberately dropped to symbolise the fact that the new force was still to be qualitatively different in nature from its predecessor. Shepherd’s shrewdness quickly made him indispensable to the government, which found no problem in conceding his demands for perquisites to supplement his meagre £BO salary: 7s 6d per day travel allowance, even when travelling to the port, free boat and horse hire and an annual rent allowance of £2O. One of his initial problems as Chief Constable was having Strode, slighted (like Beckham in 1847) by his removal as head of police, sniping from his privileged position on the bench as Resident Magistrate at Shepherd’s alleged ‘inefficiency’. 1 "
Although the Otago force (the ‘Four Johns’) constituted a civil police it was placed by Shepherd on 22 April 1854 under the 1846 Constabulary Force Ordinance, but with the clauses on drilling and other aspects of police militarisation declared inoperative in normal circumstances and with some additional rules inserted by the Superintendent. In place of military-style regulation, traditional police deference to magistrates—now that the devolved state had a say in appointments to the bench—and to other social and political superiors was stressed. The men were also bound by Part II of the 1852 Rules and Regulations —‘Duties and Powers of Constables’— which emphasised the cultivation of good relationships with the public. Duties were to be orientated towards ensuring regularity in the two urban areas on the shores of Otago Harbour. This was to be accomplished under the 1849 New Munster ‘Efficiency Ordinance’, Dunedin having remained so economically stagnant that a move to localise the provisions of that measure had lapsed as being unnecessary. By 1 May 1854 when the new Otago Police Force was officially constituted in accord with the political executive’s wishes Shepherd, with no policing or military experience, had already stamped upon it a style of control that, while decidedly relaxed, was not slovenly as with its predecessor. Most people preferred it to the detachment of the New Munster APF which had hitherto policed Otago, given the incongruous mix of militarised trappings and lax behaviour which had characterised Strode’s policing regime. Paradoxically social control tightened with the establishment of the Shepherd regime at the same time that (and because) in public perception an oppressive police was replaced by a force whose behaviour was generally acceptable. 11 ’
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Shepherd could not however extract from a frugal government sufficient concessions to implement fully his concept of a regular force. Thus the Otago provincial police was a curious hybrid. It had two regular constables stationed in Dunedin earning 4s per day (and an extra 3s 6d when travelling); they could call upon the assistance of a supernumerary constable paid an annual £lO retainer plus another 3s 6d per day when policing. At Port Chalmers an even lesser supernumerary who occasionally operated as a fifth constable reported to Assistant Chief Constable (and butcher) John Thompson, who received a £l5 annual retainer and travel expenses. As the Chief Constable predicted, both the size of the force and the amount of pay offered proved inadequate, and later in 1854 a significant reorganisation occurred. From this point three full-time constables (including an overseer of hard-labour prisoners in daytime) policed Dunedin on the higher wage of 5s per day, and the single semi-regular Port Chalmers constable received twothirds pay at a salary of £6O; Shepherd gained part-time clerical assistance and eventually secured a substantial rise in his own salary to £125. 116
There were problems involved in the quick ditching of part-time policing in favour of return to a force whose core was full-time policing. In particular Shepherd’s experience did not encompass the theory or practice of the beat patrol system. However lax had been Strode’s control over his men, he at least had understood the fundamentals of modern policing techniques. Thus in later 1854 the provincial government was forced to swallow its pride and designate him ‘Police Magistrate’ with a general advisory superintendence over the force, although Shepherd’s intimate channels of communication with the Provincial Superintendent were not tampered with. This arrangement survived until 1 October 1855, when the disharmony and rivalry existing between Shepherd and the General Government’s agent caused the provincial government to re-elevate the Chief Constable to unfettered headship of the force and to abolish the supervisory position. By then, however, the force had been set on its feet as an urban patrol unit: Shepherd, now on nearly double his initial pay, presided over four ‘Town Constables’ paid by this time 6s per day to keep pace with rising prices. 117
In mid 1855 the ‘Efficiency Ordinance’ of 1849 was republished as a reminder of the degree of order deemed necessary for an urban area of 1500 people. The Chief Constable’s terms of reference formally included charge of the gaol, hospital and immigration barracks, and also extended to whatever needed doing—getting the public jetty at Dunedin repaired, for example. Shepherd was very much, too, Superintendent Cargill’s moral policeman. A typical
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letter of instruction to his Port Chalmers constable —by this time George Warren—enjoined him to suppress drinking, working and shooting on Sundays; and the Chief Constable would urge the bench to impose restrictive liquor licensing conditions. 118 That May had however seen an indication that the envisioned Scottish theocracy could be no more than a dream: the robbery of the iron safe of the Port Chalmers Custom House, a major event for a province with a pakeha population of little more than 2500 and one whose seriousness was not mitigated by the inability of the thieves to force open the safe. Rising prices were a further indication that the province could not remain insulated and isolated from the rest of the colony. Dreading the predicted arrival of sizeable numbers of immigrants, particularly of ‘suspicious characters’ from the Victorian goldfields, Shepherd placed his policing establishment on the mailing list to receive issues of the Police Gazette published in Melbourne.
Men of means were now exploring new avenues of investment far from the provincial capital, including the consolidation of the large sheep runs being established on the fertile southern plains. In January 1856 Bluff Harbour, the site of a whaling community (at the settlement of Bluff, soon renamed Campbell Town, or Campbelltown, which it remained until 1917), was declared a port of entry and the decision was taken to build a major town, Invercargill, at a minor port on the edge of the plains 17 miles away. That October Daniel Ross was appointed the first constable in the province to be stationed away from the Otago Harbour area, being sent to join Resident Magistrate A J Elies as the second official at what was to be the major new settlement of the far south. Although at first his police station would operate from Bluff, he was seconded for supervisory purposes to the Resident Magistrate, There was muddlement over the pay arrangements for Ross at the isolated new station, and he resigned the following February before Invercargill had been constructed; he was replaced by George Walker, a man whom Shepherd had found to be ‘intelligent’ when employed on occasional policing duties in Dunedin but who at once blotted his copybook at his new station by omitting to report to Shepherd the escape of a prisoner. 119
In the year of the expansion of policing to the far south two sets of events occurred in that region, one redolent of the past and the other a pointer to momentous future developments, which conjointly symbolised the unreality of the theocratic utopia of the Dunedin leaders. First, the builder commissioned to construct Bluff s gaol became its first inmate after going on a drinking spree on its completion. The port town, like other small, long-established
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settlements around the coast, particularly that at the whaling station of Jacob’s River, was home to ‘rough’ characters and the prisoner was freed that night by the device of friends kicking in the door that he had just constructed. Secondly, gold was discovered late in the year at the Mataura River. Prominent Otagoites, particularly those with capital in pastoral pursuits, voiced fear of the ‘disturbing consequences which might follow’ a rush. Although the diggings—at Tuturau—soon proved to be little more than a ‘flash in the pan’, within five years a poet’s predictions that gold made people ‘guan mad outricht’ was to be proven accurate elsewhere in the province and policing methods would accordingly be drastically altered. 1 ”
In the intervening period in Otago these methods were in any case already gradually moving towards the paramilitary end of the policing continuum. From 1856 Shepherd was tightening the conditions of service: that October he dismissed George Warren from his solecharge position at Port Chalmers for failing to meet minimum policing requirements, he exempted Warren’s replacement from much of the repair work that had previously been required on the roads at the port, and he insisted that Constable Walker of Invercargill agree to serve a year’s engagement. Progression towards paramilitarist modes of policing was by no means rapid or linear. Shepherd’s policy towards his policemen remained far from that of the paramilitarist leader; ‘I am not inclined to compell my people by force’. The constables at Dunedin, Bluff and Invercargill, moreover, were required to act virtually as domestic servants to the Resident Magistrates, cleaning out their offices, lighting their fires, cutting their firewood and so forth; certainly the use of privates’ services by officers for ‘orderly’ duties was a characteristic of paramilitary police forces, but that presupposed a ready supply of members’ labour resulting from the ‘reserve force’ function of such bodies. It should not have been, as it was in the Otago case, at the expense of patrol/surveillance duties. In the middle of 1857, as a result of the hiatus in beat policing, central Dunedin shopkeepers subscribed sufficient funds together with a subsidy from the government for employing a nightwatchman, who was sworn in as a constable to ‘apprehend all disorderly persons that may be prowling about after the men on duty have gone home’; although the man operated under Shepherd’s orders, he was not a regular member of the provincial force. Despite such departures from paramilitarist police norms, however, the overall trend towards tighter state coercive control was unmistakeable. 121
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Among the new challenges facing the police those resulting from increasing immigration, which was boosting the province’s population in the latter half of the 1850s—to above 4600 in 1857, 7000 in 1858 —loomed large. Certainly a significant proportion of the new arrivals went on to the land, especially in the Tokomairiro area, and gave the police little trouble except when ‘letting off steam’ on arrival in the province. But those who remained in town created increasing pressures upon the two Dunedin beat constables, who were often now called out at night in addition to operating a daytime beat system and acting under Shepherd’s guidance as guardians of public morality—particularly in response to instructions from society leaders appalled at the free intermixing of sexes which was believed to be the result of cramped steerage conditions on the way out and therefore ‘rectifiable’. The constables of the provincial capital could frequently find no time in which to venture into the countryside, a fact which prompted the Chief Constable to suggest swearing in all ferrymen as constables so that they could detain and return to the capital those significant numbers of prisoners who escaped from the gaol. When contingencies arose Chief Constable Shepherd had no choice, given that he had as yet no reserve force, but to employ as temporary constables ‘Migratory persons’ looking for short-term work, an item for which £2OO was budgeted annually. In 1858 a second nightwatchman was added to the supernumerary police force of the capital; the pair were in effect night constables, earning the same pay as their daytime counterparts, albeit with specific instructions to protect commercial properties. That year Chief Constable Shepherd’s salary rose to £175, commensurate with his increased workload, but provincial policing expenditure was yet to reach £lOOO a year. 122
In September 1857 Shepherd had calculated that his five-man regular force (three at Dunedin, one at its port and one at Campbelltown) would soon need supplementing by a sixth constable, to be stationed in Invercargill. Within a year this estimate had been proven too conservative, with an escalation in requirements for the retention of order in the Dunedin area as well as in the region bordering Foveaux Strait. In the capital drunkenness and related disturbances in the streets were noticeably on the increase, and Shepherd reported that the two Dunedin nightwatchmen were ‘absolutely necessary’ because ‘Felony’—which, he noted, was ‘hithertoo almost unknown here’—was ‘now becoming quite common and principally at night after the Constable goes of duty at a V* past 12, and there are other irregularities’. The nightwatchmen were now to be entirely a charge on the government, remaining at the normal constable’s pay of 6s per diem. They
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had by dint of this alteration in paymasters been more fully incorporated into Shepherd’s force, even though employed specifically to serve during the hours of darkness.
In addition to the Dunedin area police (Shepherd himself, the ‘night watch’, three regular constables including the one permanently assigned as overseer of hard-labour prisoners, and the man at Port Chalmers) the Chief Constable required a sizeable increase for the southern part of the province: two constables at now bustling Invercargill (one of them acting as Gaoler) as well as the retention of Campbelltown’s one-man station and the creation of a new sole-charge station at Jacob’s River, which was booming as a spin-off from the increased general activity in the south. He was not however allowed to open the Jacob’s River station, and for this and other reasons found workload pressure building up against limited police resources throughout 1859. One Dunedin constable had acted as bailiff whenever required, and now with increased court work the man was seldom available for police duty despite the ‘increase of population and among them a considerable number of very indifferent persons’. Shepherd responded to the heightened policing demand by working his men harder, and by a more covert approach to the suppression of certain types of offending deemed particularly reprehensible by Superintendent Cargill, his government and their class. This in turn produced the first organised public protests against policing methods since Strode’s days, a public meeting on the liquor issue. Those present proclaimed that the ‘employment of the police to act as spies and informers to trap the unwary into the commission of offences, tends to demoralize and degrade that body in the eyes of the public, to destroy its efficiency for discharging its legitimate duties, and to deprive it of the respect and confidence of the community.’ Yet so far had societal developments moved the unfazed Shepherd from the community policing ideas of six years before that he was soon advocating the swearing in of a ‘detective’ to rove ‘privately’ through the province to stop slygrog selling, albeit especially to the Maori.' 23
In October 1859 Shepherd computed that he would need an annual budget of £2284 15s were he to properly police Otago Province. This would entail adding to the capital’s police strength of five constables (including the bailiff working even nominally only half-time as a policeman) another three, one for day duty and two for night. He was given the extra man for day duty, but only one other for night. Beyond the capital Invercargill station, in the charge of Constable William Fraser, could retain its two men and also now cover Campbelltown, he argued, but a two-man station at Jacob’s River was essential because of its ‘considerable number of
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Seamen, or men who have at one time been engaged at whale fishing and have settled down there’ and who ‘generally speaking have a great dislike to any law but that of doing what is right in their own estimation. One Constable is not likely amongst a number of these men to get much assistance, he contended—in vain, for eventually a single constable only was sent to the settlement, which at this time was becoming known as Riverton. At first the new man, transferred from Campbelltown, did not have the benefit of even a lockup and could (in Shepherd’s words) ‘do nothing to drunkards but recomend them to go home the best way they can’. m
Despite such situations, by the end of the decade policing in Otago had become considerably more overtly coercive than it had been at the beginning of the provincial government, and Shepherd lamented that the ‘Public generally do not like to assist a Constable’. He urged that the government should institute a police uniform, partly to save his 11 staff from beatings since offenders often claimed that they did not recognise their victims as constables, but also to symbolise the tougher policing stance now being taken. There was an element of public relations in the request, too: if the policemen were in uniform they could be approached by ‘respectable’ citizens for help in various situations and thereby gain kudos. The government’s lukewarm response was paralleled by its reaction to Shepherd’s urgings for a greater regular rural police coverage to keep pace with the influx of immigrants into the countryside and its small towns: it implemented instead a rural network of six part-time ‘district constables’. Each was to be paid £2O annually and, following developments further north in the colony, was to be responsible to the local magistracy, with Campbelltown redesignated one of these ‘district’ stations. Shepherd protested at this disruption to his plans for systematising a more tightly controlled, centralised constabulary in the province, arguing in November 1859 that full-time policemen should be stationed for the first time in the north of Otago—at Oamaru, Moeraki and Waikouaiti—and also at Taieri Village and Tokomairiro/ Clutha. 125
The government held off, hoping that the district constable scheme would be adequate, but during 1860, when further expansion took the Otago population to nearly 12,700, it was forced to act on its Chief Constable’s suggestions. In March of that year the government permitted Shepherd to divide the province into two police regions, placing the new ‘Southern district’ under Invercargill’s Constable Fraser, who was accordingly given a rise in pay from 6s to 6s 9d per day, designated ‘Assistant to the Chief Constable’ and given control over Constables Thomas Walsh at
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Campbelltown (re-established as a regular, full-time position) and George Walker, who was about to establish the new station at Riverton. All policing communications between headquarters and southern constables would now be channelled through Fraser’s Invercargill office. In the following month Cargill’s successor as Superintendent (since January), pious merchant James Macandrew, authorised the issue of uniforms to the force, and on 26 April secured for it for the first time an NCO structure. Not only was Fraser appointed a sergeant (remaining at Invercargill but with a pay boost to 7s daily), so too was Dunedin’s John Outram, a ‘steady’ and ‘intelligent’ constable ‘who has had considerable experience as a Constable in one of the large Towns in England, and is very well acquainted with the General routine of a Constables duty’. David Kilgour at Port Chalmers, now with a staff of one under him, was promoted to corporal, the final link in the creation of a chain of command policing structure. 12 *
Asking for a personal salary increase—to bring his annual remuneration to £2oo—Shepherd argued that his duties were ‘becoming more onerous and Complicated every day’, that the increasing disorder in the province (related to onset of recession as well as to immigration) demanded that he daily work through to midnight. He requested extra help—quite apart from that provided by the NCOs—in the form of a married constable to be placed permanently at Dunedin’s Immigration Barracks, doing police work in the town and elsewhere whenever there were no occupants. He repeated that it was increasingly urgent for regular stations to be established in the north, tentatively again suggesting Oamaru and Waikouaiti; and he submitted draft paramilitarised police regulations for the Superintendent’s endorsement, requesting that an Ordinance similar to Canterbury’s police legislation be considered in order to ‘give more weight to the rules lately drawn up’. Shepherd saw some but not all of his requests met: a corpus of acceptable regulations, although not enshrined in legislation, and also the addition of an extra regular constable, the first to be stationed in the north, at Oamaru near the Waitaki River boundary with Canterbury. 127
Arrangements outside the capital were still, the Chief Constable noted, far from satisfactory. In view of the ‘hopeless’ state of the Invercargill Gaol, for example, he had to tell Sergeant Fraser that the ‘expense of apprehending and conveying to Dunedin from your district runaway Seamen is so great that unless you have Special instructions from me you need not trouble yourself about them’. Later in 1860 Fraser had to send Walsh from Campbelltown to assist Walker after the latter had been assaulted at Riverton, a
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town notorious for its drinking and disorderliness. Both of these southern constables had been promoted to corporal that August. The move was mere expediency because the Constabulary Force Ordinance allowed only policemen above the rank of a private to board vessels on policing business; hence like Kilgour (at first) at Port Chalmers they received no extra remuneration. Nevertheless there was a spin-off effect in strengthening the chain of command system throughout the province. 1 ”
In tune with his ‘professionalisation’ drive the Chief Constable had redesignated the rank of constable that of ‘private’, ordered a ‘few dozen’ pairs of handcuffs from England, investigated the purchase of modern rifles, instructed police to display their batons prominently, instituted a corporal in the capital and implemented Macandrew’s authorisation by procuring for the police a uniform for the first time in his regime—blue frock-coat, red-seamed doeskin trousers, blue shirt and belt, cap and topcoat, all with ‘Otago Police’ markings. By September 1860 £2OOO had been spent over the preceding 12 months on the revamped provincial police, and the force was now to be expanded even further. Shepherd requested the upgrading of the Oamaru station by placing a corporal in charge and making it a two-man station, as well as the establishment of stations at Waikouaiti and Taieri (a district including Waihola and Tokomairiro), since ‘robberys have been committed in all those districts to a considerable Amount during the last 6 months’. He was granted his wishes for the two northern districts, although this proved to be only a paper concession with regard to Waikouaiti. As well as being unsuccessful with his application for Taieri, too, he equally failed to get the politicians to agree to add to his staff a night sergeant in Dunedin who would in moving ‘from one beat to another be a great assistance in quelling the disturbances so prevalent in Town at night’. All the same, he now controlled, with the aid of an ‘Office Keeper and Messenger’, a regular, uniformed police consisting of five actual and two nominal NCOs and 11 privates, from whom he demanded ‘sobriety expertness in doying there duty and clenliness’—standards not able to be met in early 1861 by Riverton’s George Walker, nor by his replacement, nor by Corporal Kilgour’s Port Chalmers assistant. 1 ”
Dunedin and Otago had progressed considerably since the establishment of the province, and Shepherd’s force had accordingly altered in character. All the same, its ‘professionalisation’ progress had been only partial in character. Not even the constable who acted as hard-labour overseer as yet carried a firearm, Gaoler Henry Monson testifying that any prisoner could escape, if he wished, from work gang or prison in Dunedin. Walsh had to be
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given instructions that in view of his lack of resources at the southern port he should not lock up ‘any but those who are really drunk and incapable’. Even the uniforms were piecemeal: from the very beginning the contractors could not supply complete sets as ordered, and soon men were wearing clothes that were ill-fitting, inherited from those who had left the force, with some police wearing working men’s moleskin trousers since the original issues were fast wearing out. A visitor from Victoria in 1861 was so alarmed at a man ‘parading’ two nights in a row outside his hotel room that he drew his revolver before learning that it was a private: ‘The most heated imagination of the most hare-brained person would never have imagined the person I saw to be a constable.’ Within a few months he would have felt at home, for with the advent of New Zealand’s first large-scale gold rushes Victorian paramilitary police were by then patrolling the streets of Dunedin. The type of major police reform selected at that time for Otago had been influenced in part by a ‘trial run’ in the Nelson goldfields, in a province which had in the early 1850s vied with Otago in its reputation for placidity. 130
Nelson: Devolved Response to Disruption of Tranquillity
The newly created Nelson provincial government inherited in 1853 an ‘Armed Police Force’ detachment that was in essence a local civil police: area head of police Thomas Fagan, confirmed in office as provincial police chief earning 6s 6d per diem, and the five privates who were re-enrolled as members of the Nelson Province Armed Police Force at 5s daily. Despite its retention of Fagan’s title of Sergeant-Major the new government continued to regard the force essentially as a civil one, and it would soon drop the rank of ‘private’ and revert to that of ‘constable’. Moreover included in the Police Department establishment were several ‘Rural Police’, district constables in isolated areas who shared £lOO per annum between them. Expenditure on policing rose steadily, £7OO for the first year of the province, almost £lOOO appropriated for the financial year starting 1 October 1854, although the relative tranquillity of the region was reflected in the lack of public interest in policing—except for an occasional complaint that the police were overindulgent towards slygroggers. The provincial gaoler was not entitled to a salary increase, argued an officer of government in 1856, because ‘for the most part of his time he had little or nothing to do’. One of the most serious crimes recorded was that of the
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theft of a box of possessions by, it was suspected, one of the small number of ‘ne’er-do-wells’ who lived in and around the sleepy provincial capital. 131
Within broad guidelines established by the provincial government Sergeant-Major Fagan was able to control his force much as he wished. To be sure, the suzerainty of the Resident Magistrate over the Nelson police before the creation of the provincial state had not been specifically repudiated at date of transition. Nonetheless for all practical purposes it lapsed as a result of the circumstances and aftermath of the changeover; Resident Magistrate Richmond resigned, there were delays in securing a successor, and squabbles about whether central or regional government was to pay for the General Government-controlled Resident Magistracy dragged on for years, debilitating in the process both the funding and the administrative authority of that institution. Unfettered by any regularly intervening authority, Fagan was able to keep on top of local problems of order, helped in 1856 by executive willingness to concede some of his requests made in the name of efficiency: an extra regular constable, a doubling of the amount of funding for district constables, an increase in regular pay to 6s per day (with £l4O per annum for the head of police). 132
The first real problems of order arose in the vast and fertile Wairau plains area and its hinterland, cut off from the rest of the province by rugged terrain. Squatters had begun stocking it with sheep in 1846, three years after the fatal race confrontation at Tuamarina. When they and their employees began occupation (particularly after Grey’s purchase of the Wairau lands in 1847), leading lonely existences in mud huts, the small pakeha population tended to resort to a settlement at the mouth of the Wairau River, the port of entry for the area, to collect supplies and drown their sorrows. This ‘town’ at the Boulder Bank, dominated by James Wynen’s trading and drinking establishment, had become notorious for its disorder, the New Munster authorities initially attempting certain expediencies in order at least to confine the Wairau’s problems of drink-related disorder to a tiny cluster of dwellings. In April 1848, after importing livestock worth £9OO to Spring Creek, near the site of the Wairau affray and of what was to be the town of The Beaver (later Blenheim), former Indian civil servant Henry Godfrey Gouland had been appointed the region’s first JP, and as such able to swear in specials. An approach to solving problems of order in the region, this development was prompted by the official granting at that time of the rural lands in the Wairau and to its south which the Nelson purchasers had long awaited.
When Gouland left for Port Victoria the policing vacuum that
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resulted was filled in a different fashion from 1 October 1849 by Superintendent (of the Southern Division) Richmond’s appointment of wealthy runholder Charles Watts of Landsdowne as the Wairau’s ‘district constable’, paid a nominal retainer of £1 per month. Now that the region was regarded firmly as an extension of the Nelson settlement, the ‘Rural Police’ scheme had been seen as appropriate for it. Watts in turn was succeeded a year later by pastoralist William Atkinson of Blind River, in the Awatere area southwards of the Wairau plains. By the time that Atkinson resigned in early 1852, the pastoralists’ control over the Wairau/ Awatere had consolidated, and superintendence of their informal policing network —social control carried out, often, by station managers—was then conducted by Spring Creek JP Dr Francis Vickerman. The normal pattern in pastoral areas of policing being dominated by men of enormous wealth and influence had emerged, parallel with the official, but minimal, efforts to create a formal police presence. Nelson’s new provincial government in 1853, headed by Wairau pastoralist Edward Stafford, was quite content to retain the inexpensive status quo in that distant area, which now extended far southwards to the boundary with Canterbury at the Hurunui River, incorporating the coastal sector of the similarly pastoralist Amuri region. 133
At this point the town at The Beaver began to form around Wynen’s new store on the banks of the Opawa River. After the January 1855 earthquake opened the river for navigation to the site, the settlement forged ahead to become the main, though still small, centre in the sparsely populated ‘greater Wairau’. A month after the earthquake Gouland returned from his first stint in Canterbury, and on 31 March he was made the government agent for Wairau/Awatere as (unpaid) Resident Magistrate in general charge of order. The pakeha population was now more than 600 and slowly growing, with the development of The Beaver reflecting the settlement in the region of people other than pastoralists and their employees. Pastoralist social control required complementing, and with an increase in the level of disorder accompanying the growth of slygrogging outlets the Nelson provincial government needed, if it were to rely upon magistrates to keep that level down, to implement a formal police presence in the Wairau once again. It was for this reason that it revived the position of ‘district constable’ for the Wairau, at salary of £3O. This time however the incumbent was placed under ultimate charge of Resident Magistrate Gouland, whereas until then all ‘Rural Police’ in the province had been in the final analysis under the command of Fagan. A new police force had been created. 13 *
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Gouland chose James McKenzie (not the alleged sheep-stealer of Canterbury!) for the new position, and the district constable operated under the orders of the region’s other resident JP as well. There was no lockup, police station or courthouse in the Wairau, and when McKenzie was seriously assaulted three Nelson constables had temporarily to be sent for. The resident policeman, not surprisingly, resigned, being replaced by tough ex-soldier M Watson, who as Gouland’s manager when he had first moved into the Wairau had acted as his ‘sort of unofficial policeman’. His methods involved gaining the support of, as well as placing under surveillance, the drifting labouring men who had come to the region in search of work. Although sensible enough in Watson’s isolated situation at The Beaver, these methods ‘were not held in great esteem’ by a squattocracy uneasy at the great amount of hard drinking and socialising with unruly elements which was undertaken by their sole constable. Gouland’s headquarters, moreover, were not easy of access, since Spring Creek was surrounded by swamp (ensuring that it was never to emerge as the township of ‘Goulandia’ for which he had grandiose plans), while as the Resident Magistrate was unpaid ‘it cannot be supposed that he will give up any great amount of his time’ to ensuring that order was more than ‘nominally maintained’. These difficulties, and others of communication within the Wairau region and with Nelson—via the Tophouse or Pelorus, not easy routes —led to pressure being put upon the provincial government to provide greater policing coverage. 133
By mid 1856 the Wairau/Awatere settlers were petitioning for an end to their ‘exposed state of life and property’, and by the close of that year their demands had become specific: a police station/ courtroom, two full-time constables and a paid magistrate. A Wairau correspondent to the Nelson newspaper described scenes of the ‘most frightful riot and disorder’ centred on slygrog outlets, adding that ‘to inform against these unlicensed houses is, in the existing state of our affairs, more than it would be safe to undertake’. Moreover at the time that this was published Gouland resigned from office ‘because it is not in his power to make his decisions or his office respected’. He had been frequently humiliated by a sector of what the pastoralists considered to be the ‘raff of the population who dread living where magisterial authority is strong’, while even his tough district constable for the same reason ‘likewise has retired into private life’. Policing was again in reality entirely the affair of the pastoralists, although the region’s remaining magisterial authority could in theory swear in specials or send for the Nelson police in emergencies. 136
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The Provinces, 1853-61
Although the Wairau newspaper correspondent had almost certainly been exaggerating in order to impress on the provincial government the need for greater state representation in his area, the policing issue now added fuel to the fire of a pastoralist separatist movement in Wairau/Awatere. Dissatisfaction with Nelson control, particularly with its disinclination to provide resources to a region from which it derived a great deal of its revenue, had escalated after October 1856 when worker-nominee and tradesman John Perry Robinson (who was regarded as dangerously radical by pastoralists and received no votes in the Wairau) was elected provincial Superintendent. Continued neglect of policing in the east of the province now augmented the separatist camp with the small farmers and businessmen who were most affected by the results of widespread over-indulgence in liquor. There were localised pressures too inside the Wairau region: the few ‘respectable’ inhabitants at the ‘official’ port of the region, Waitohi (laid out in 1848 as Newton, later called Picton), agitated for a proper road from their settlement across the hills to the plains and for the establishment of ‘constituted authority’ in their area to provide protection from the ‘Deserters, Soldiers, Sailors and Prisoners of the Crown’ who had begun to settle there—and occasionally to steal from them. Settlers complained to the General Government of ‘gross neglect and mismanagement’ on the part of the provincial authorities, of ‘being wholly unprotected here, having no Resident Magistrate, police, lock-up, or any other Government officials’.” 7
In May 1857 the Nelson government was forced to accede to the building of a police station, lockup and court at The Beaver, and to provide an ‘efficient constabulary force’ headed by a Resident Magistrate; thus from August the Wairau gained its first full-time police force. It was commanded by Dr Stephen Lunn Muller, the son of a French count and previously Nelson’s Provincial Secretary, now designated Resident Magistrate (as well as Postmaster), this being in the middle of a brief period during 1856-8 when the management of Resident Magistracies was devolved by the General Government upon the provincial governments. Muller was provided with a clerk and Constables Joseph McArtney and W B Earll; a third constable was added in 1858, followed by a district constable at Waitohi in 1859. But despite these and other Nelson government concessions (a police-run mail service from The Beaver to Waitohi, for example) the separationists had held a decisive meeting in The Beaver courthouse in March 1858. It was presided over by police chief Dr Muller, and it was to be ex-Chartist Constable Earll who collected the requisite number of signatures to a petition which was in time to lead to the formation on 1 November
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1859 of the colony’s second breakaway province. This was a strange twist of fate: the appointment to police and magistracy of ‘outsiders’ from Nelson had initially been resented but they had proved instrumental in the creation of Marlborough Province. In August 1859, upon Muller’s recommendation, the Nelson government promoted McArtney to Sergeant-Major in anticipation of his heading the Marlborough Provincial Police Force. 1 ”
The creation of the Wairau police had been made possible by the availability to the Nelson state of sizeable new revenues from circumstances which had already led to the establishment of another Resident Magistrate-controlled police force in the province. In 1856 small amounts of gold attracted a number of diggers to Motueka, where the most northern district constable in the province had been stationed from 1854. Visiting politician Henry Sewell foresaw, on the basis of overseas experience, that if gold rushes were to occur in the New Zealand countryside the peaceful rural order of society would be profoundly disrupted, with labour from urban areas drawn inexorably and turbulently to the goldfields. In early 1857 his predictions were confirmed when sizeable quantities of gold were found in the Aorere River valley on the other side of the Takaka Hill from Motueka. By May a thousand diggers, more people than in the entire Wairau/Awatere, were on the fields, and Gibbs’ Town had sprung up near the mouth of the Aorere. 1 ”
The Nelson government was ill-equipped to cope with such turmoil within the hitherto placid province. At first, despite constant pressure by respectable advocates of a strong police presence at what were initially termed the ‘Massacre Bay Diggings’, it held off doing anything lest precious funds be spent on a goldfield which then proved, as had previous gold discoveries in the province and elsewhere, little more than chimerical. In the absence of a police presence the diggers, once five dozen or so had arrived at the Aorere, followed established practice from the Californian and Australian goldfields by implementing on 18 February 1857 some agreed rules ‘for their protection, peace, and quietude’. Demarcation disputes between miners, who usually operated in ephemeral groups, were to be settled by ‘five practical diggers, each digger to be chosen from a separate party’, and the local rules and regulations were considered binding upon everyone on the field ‘in the absence of a commissioner or any public officer to preserve order or make laws and rules. Although this self-regulation applied primarily to mining affairs, it was generalised to encompass policing
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The Provinces, 1853-61
action in response to excessive breaches of regularity by individual miners: an informal police force had been established. 1 * 0
Diggers, however, wished essentially to concentrate on digging rather than on regulating the increasing disorder that sprang predominantly from grogshops capitalising on miners’ successes—or failures —at the diggings. Influential Nelsonians, worried that the virus of disorder would gradually creep through the province from Massacre Bay, called for a ‘strong constabulary force’ to be established there. Miners would prefer being taxed to pay for such a force, they affirmed with some degree of justification, rather than ‘trusting to their own vigilance and revolvers’. The ‘galling necessity for self-preservation’ would lead, it was feared, to lynch law on the diggings; with ‘not Justice but Revenge’ prevalent on the goldfields, property and profits would suffer as well as persons, with province-wide ramifications. The Nelson Examiner , while recognising financial realities at the beginning of the rush, still urged that at least a Resident Magistrate be sent there, and a ‘police constable or two’ as a nucleus of a suitable force; the Magistrate could enrol respectable diggers in each locality as specials, ‘paid only for the time during which, or the days upon which, they were actually employed’. They could police the miners’ own regulations, which should be sanctioned by law. Others urged that the effects of gold required, throughout the province, ‘more resident magistrates, more police, mounted and foot, all on a much higher scale of pay than at present’. 1 * 1
As a contingency plan Superintendent Robinson enquired whether the General Government could provide troops if required. The ministry, headed by Nelson’s former Superintendent Stafford, was as yet amenable to leaving control of goldfields in provincial hands, but could not ignore the possible repercussions of an infection of disorder which had the potential to contaminate the rest of the colonial body. The answer was therefore in the affirmative, indeed that up to 200 soldiers could be sent at once if the province were prepared to house them. With this assurance the provincial government could afford to continue to stall, but while reliance on the central state was cheap and comforting it was not for public consumption until unavoidable. The provincial government used other justifications, notably the miners’ interim self-policing efforts and also an allegation that, since goldfields coercive measures must be self-financing, diggers would be suspicious that they were to be levied ‘class taxation’ that far exceeded the actual cost of keeping goldfields police. The most that the Robinson government would concede was that it agreed in principle to ‘send over a magistrate
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and some constables to the Aorere’ but that it ‘did not wish to go to the expense of so doing until it was absolutely necessary’. The government was lambasted by Wairau representative Charles Elliott, founder of the Examiner , as part of his campaign to bring the institutions of state to the more isolated areas of the province: ‘Riot and disorder, the result, he believed, of intemperance, were already known too frequently at the Diggings.’ On 22 April 1857 he persuaded the majority of Councillors to declare that further delay in procuring a goldfields police force ‘will exhibit in the Government a neglect of one of its highest functions’. 1 "
Yet even the government’s most strident opponents acknowledged that their fears were largely of potential disorder. Elliott himself could produce no evidence of mayhem. ‘Scenes of riot and confusion which took place through intoxication on every Sunday had been described to him as something fearful’: this was the strongest comment in reports of his speeches. And such a description was contradicted by a traveller in May who was ‘agreeably surprised at not finding disorder and drunkenness’ on the goldfields, even on the sabbath, the miners’ day off. But the same visitor joined his voice to calls for a goldfields police, since the miners themselves feared that the excessive and increasing number of drinking dens up the gullies would in the near future breed endemic disorder. Petty pilfering was reportedly increasing. In mid May 1857 pressure orchestrated by Elliott caused the government to agree to a sizeable expansion of policing in the province. 1 "
Already Sergeant-Major Fagan’s provincial police, consisting of six constables and several district constables, cost more than £lOOO per annum. Additionally two Resident Magistracy forces were now also provided: as well as the Wairau appointment with its twoconstable force, a Resident Magistracy to be created by the provincial government (under the powers temporarily devolved by the General Government) at the Aorere would be given four constables, with extra financial provision to employ specials when necessary. The new constables were to be paid, at 7s per day, a shilling more than were the Nelson constables in order to compensate for higher costs of living in outlying areas. The expenditure on the new forces, and upon buildings to accommodate them and their prisoners, would nearly triple police expenditure in one fell swoop. “*
The Aorere force, as the more urgent, was given priority. ExResident Magistrate Gouland had been appointed a Sub-Collector of Customs at Collingwood, the ‘official’ goldfields headquarters located adjacent to the supply centre of Gibbs’ Town; now, from 1 June, he was also appointed Resident Magistrate of the Massacre (soon to be renamed Golden) Bay area. The oppositionists were
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scathing: Gouland’s varied non-police duties must of necessity confine him mainly to Collingwood. Did the government imagine, asked the Examiner, that hundreds, soon perhaps thousands, of men engaged in a ‘pursuit analogous to gambling’ and with easy access to liquor ‘are to be restrained from the commission of crime and outrage by a resident magistrate and a couple of constables at a distance of ten or fifteen miles from the scene of their operations?’ On every goldfield in existence ‘scum of evil character’ had been thrown up. ‘ls there anything peculiar in the character or constitution of our atmosphere, that disorder and crime are not to follow in the wake of excess and of poverty?” 45
But such sentiments were politically motivated in their extremes of language: they represented the anti-Robinson factions amongst the wealthiest settlers, and accusations that the government was being soft on ‘malcontents and bad characters’ had smear intentions in what was now an election campaign. The Collingwood police headquarters in the event proved able to cope, despite a great deal of criticism. The application of the 1849 New Munster police offences legislation to the streets of the goldfields supply town was a significant factor, but more so was the fact that the field peaked early; the miners’ continuing (though lower-key, after the arrival of the police force) self-regulation activities were never engulfed by the predicted enormous influxes of men. It was authoritatively reported early in 1858 that ‘no extraordinary measures have been required for the preservation of law and order’ as a result of the goldfields. All the same, the whole Resident Magistracy force had at times to be deployed to put down riotous behaviour. Incidents such as stabbing and thefts became not uncommon, and when three ‘desperate characters’ escaped from Wellington they were watched for—and caught—en route for their natural pole of attraction, the goldfields. 146
At the beginning of their presence on the diggings the policemen located at the Aorere were obliged, in the absence of goldfields legislation, to act as disputes arbiters, claims regulators and so forth, tasks which occupied an enormous amount of time and energy but which were crucial if order were to be retained as the influx of men grew. It was not until early 1858 that the Nelson government passed Australian-based Ordinances aimed at creating specialist goldfields control machinery; further delays were then to eventuate since these legislative efforts usurped central state prerogatives. The goldfields police force had also to cope with a problem that the province thought it had put behind it: race relations. Elliott had been the first to envisage the possibility of strife between diggers of the two races, and by mid year some Maoris
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indeed feared imminent persecution as a reaction to their increasing numbers at the diggings. A flare-up had become even more likely by October with the opening of new diggings at Anatoki, near Takaka, where it was claimed that the ‘natives have driven all the white people away’ by getting ‘the best’ claims—particularly ‘bumptious’ Maoris from the North Island, commented George Taylor, who was to be made district constable for Takaka in 1858. The Examiner commented that ‘it will be a fortunate circumstance if a collision between natives and Europeans does not ensue’. In the end, after mediation in which police were involved, diggers of both races resolved their mutual differences and reached official agreement at a Court of Enquiry headed by Superintendent Robinson at Takaka. All the same, tensions remained: during an interracial case of ‘crim. con.’ it was rumoured that had the result favoured the European, local Maoris would have retaliated, and the Collingwood Resident Magistrate’s decision in favour of the Maori party may well have been influenced by this. 1 "
Resident Magistrate Gouland, hard pressed by the duties heaped upon him by the General Government, which had insisted on close monitoring of the devolved state goldfields administration even before itself taking over full control, was not able to pay adequate attention to his police force. A Collingwood correspondent indicated the problem in the Nelson paper in mid 1858: ‘lt has been suggested that the Government should appoint some respectable man to be chief constable here, as it is too bad to have to fine the police for being drunk and disorderly. If this were done, one of the force stationed here could be spared for the Takaka’, where there remained no police presence until the establishment that September of the district constable position. According to Collingwood protagonists of the idea of a Chief Constable, the senior of the four goldfields constables sent initially from Nelson had been ‘at times, given to drinking’, his subordinates were all without previous policing experience, and in any case the Aorere police were underutilised because of being officially based at the supply town as a reserve goldfields force: ‘they, naturally, having at times but little employment and no amusement, identify themselves with the population’ and therefore drank heavily, as was to be expected in the absence of stricter control by the busy Gouland.'"
The Nelson government was forced into action by pressure in the provincial and colonial capitals. At a public meeting at the Nelson courthouse on the subject of mineral leases there were ‘violent denunciations of the police’ of the Collingwood area. On 5 August Judge Henry Gresson invited the Grand Jury to use its ‘influence
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with the provincial authorities to maintain an efficient police force at and in the neighbourhood of the diggings.’ The Grand Jury obliged, and the Examiner endorsed its reasoning: most crimes committed were related to alcohol, and the ‘crimes which are its produce come to light principally at the diggings .... We must no longer have a single card-playing, drinking, tavern-haunting constable; only to be distinguished from the riotous crowd around him by his own assertion; but a body of men, each of whom will consider it his duty at once to put a stop to every act tending to a breach of the peace; and the production of whose staff should be at the same time a proof of his authority, and a summons to all present for assistance, which they are bound to regard and obey.’ 1 "
Stafford’s General Government was by then already responding to pressures to ‘clean up’ the Nelson diggings and had decided to regularise control of order and administration of the Collingwood and any future goldfields in the colony. On 19 August 1858 the General Assembly therefore imitated Australian legislation—via that Nelson provincial legislation which it had negatived in favour of central control —which tightly controlled all aspects of behaviour and work at officially proclaimed diggings. Wardens, heading their own specialist courts, would superintend all matters connected with the process of mining. The Gold Fields Act signalised a toughening of approach to the problems of order at the Aorere; certainly the Governor, on the advice of his ministers, could delegate responsibility for goldfields order to provincial administrations, but the latter were now firmly given notice that centrally-approved norms of public behaviour were a sine qua non for such decentralisation. 1 ™
While taking goldfields administration firmly in hand, the General Government did indeed devolve the control of public order at the Aorere to the Nelson regime. And in its efforts to meet the stricter standards of control now required, the provincial government actually over-reacted: when a disciplinarian policeman was sent from Nelson as Sergeant-Major to provide Resident Magistrate Gouland with a more controlled force, reporting only to the Resident Magistrate and not even in theory to police headquarters in Nelson, he proved too rigid, both on his men and upon the goldfields population. He attempted, for example, to require Collingwood shopkeepers to close on Sundays, the one day that most miners left their claims to come into town. In response to howls of complaint the Nelson government readvertised the position of head of Aorere police as that of ‘Chief Constable’ early in 1859. It chose from a number of applicants 30 year old Robert Strange, whose policing experience was supplemented both by a toughness
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acquired in exploring new territory in the province and by a professional family background which had led him to study law before emigrating to New Zealand.
The new incumbent himself came under local criticism from Collingwood businessmen, in particular for having no man on duty between one o’clock in the morning and daybreak, an omission caused by lack of resources rather than by lack of concern for property. However Strange soon made it clear that, while not going to the extent of repression that bred physical resistance, the government was serious about disciplining the goldfields by means of a police division operating under the Armed Police Force regulations of 1852. Miners especially resented stricter enforcement of mining licences: ‘we will not be hunted like dogs’. In keeping with the relative paramilitarism of his methods, Strange was quickly redesignated Sergeant-Major, despite an extra duty of acting as clerk to Resident Magistrate Gouland which meant that he was more deskbound at Collingwood than he would have preferred. By the time of Gouland’s posting to the Lyttelton Resident Magistracy, however, the field had long since peaked, and the goldfields police had attained a low priority in the eyes of the Nelson authorities. From 1 April 1860 it consisted besides the Sergeant-Major of a single constable at Collingwood and a district constable at Takaka. Shortly afterwards it was abolished as a separate force and the now largely rural area reverted to being policed solely by means of Strange (who retained his title) helped by a district constable. 161
Meanwhile the existence of the goldfield had led to increased problems of order throughout the province. By later 1857 the Examiner was warning that it ‘behoves the whole of the inhabitants of Nelson to look sharply after their movable property now that so many strangers are arriving among us ... small crimes are becoming more abundant now that we have so great a moving unsettled population.’ Women accused of ‘vagrancy’ were appearing before the Nelson court. Motueka residents living en route to the goldfields pressed for more state protection. By 1858 chief of police Fagan had gained an extra constable, bringing his numbers to seven, and had in a short space of time increased his district constable coverage: W Stanton at Richmond, G Walker at Waimea West, T Andrews at Waimea South, G Taylor at Takaka, J Boyes at Motueka and D Wragg at Whakapuaka. The advantageous economic impact of the goldfields upon the whole province was indicated by the regular provincial constables’ extraction of a pay rise to 6s 6d per day from the government.'”
Judge Gresson implicitly, and the Grand Jury explicitly, had condemned Fagan’s police force as well as that of the goldfields. In
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particular the court alleged weaknesses in detection, declaring that ‘in consequence of the increased population caused by the golddiggings, the police force requires a thorough reorganisation, and to be placed under one energetic principal officer.’ Fagan was able to prove that specific criticisms by the court were based upon lack of adequate information, but his police force was now under much closer scrutiny than it had before been. Extra strains were to be imposed upon it during 1860 when well over a thousand refugees from the fighting in Taranaki crammed into every available accommodation space in the provincial capital. In line with demands for more efficiency the Sergeant-Major had reorganised his men on a more paramilitary model. A hierarchical chain of command, for example, was established, whereby two constables were elevated to NCO status. The logical symbolic culmination of this trend was the decision, finally taken in early 1861, to uniform the provincial police force.
The force was by then, however, discredited by a leadership crisis. Sergeant-Major Fagan, after 17 years’ police service in Nelson, had died on 16 August 1860 aged 51. Certainly the ‘acting chief constable’, William Harper, presided over a provincial capital more orderly now than in the past, a reflection largely of the decline of the goldfields. A visitor could remark facetiously on the ‘sleek comfortable look’ of the constables, ‘seven nice looking fellows’ with little to do. But Harper soon lost his chance of succeeding to the position of Sergeant-Major by being charged with the ‘odious and abominable offence of procuring the conviction of an accused person by deliberate perjury’. When Robert Shallcrass succeeded to Fagan’s rank in Harper’s stead, he had control over a force which still contained the openly disgraced policeman, and public assessment of the Nelson police fell lower in mid 1861 when evidence presented at Harper’s trial led to his being gaoled for two years with hard labour. 151
The uniforming of the town police served to emphasise the growing division between full-time ‘policemen’ and the part-time ‘constables’ of the countryside. At the beginning of the provincial period nominal control of all police in the province, including district constables, had stayed with the Resident Magistrate, but in practice Chief Constable Fagan almost always reported directly to the government. The fact that Major Mathew Richmond’s successor as Resident Magistrate, John Poynter, had been also a member of the provincial government for some years blurred the distinction between his judicial and executive capacities. Particularly after the creation of Resident Magistrates’ forces in the Wairau and Aorere, however, it was increasingly accepted that Fagan report to Poynter
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in the latter’s capacity as Resident Magistrate charged with control of policing.
Although the district constables were originally controlled from the provincial capital, their isolation quickly led to their development into adjuncts—almost servants—of rural JPs. In 1858 the situation as it had evolved was given de jure status by the Provincial Solicitor, who held that the ‘police in the town were appointed by the Resident Magistrate, subject to the approval of the Superintendent; and that they were under the control of the Resident Magistrate. This was also the case in other districts where there were resident magistrates; and in the remaining districts the police could be ordered by the magistrates to perform any duties connected with that office.’ There were jurisdictional problems involved in the provincial government’s devolution of local police control to the magistracy. JPs particularly resented the occasions when the Nelson government gave orders direct to the rural police: in 1860, for example, Collingwood’s Resident Magistrate protested to the colonial Government against a provincial directive for his district constable to collect the (provincial) dog tax. To preserve the cheap and useful relationship whereby magistrates (paid, if at all, by the General Government) supervised policing, Provincial Secretary Alfred Domett negotiated a symbolic compromise rather than insist on the primacy of executive control over the constables whom it appointed and paid: the province would contract the constable privately to collect the tax, paying him a commission on the amount collected. 155
After the discovery of gold in the province, the burdens placed upon part-time rural police had escalated. By 1859 the two district constables at Motueka and Takaka were especially hard-pressed, with drunkenness a particular problem. There were complaints that breaches of the law ‘pass unnoticed’ by the pair, whose salaries, although by now up to £6O, allowed them to devote at most only half their earning time to policing. The Motueka district constable in 1859 could devote so little time to outlying areas under his purview that the Provincial Council succumbed to pressure and placed a small sum of money at the disposal of Moutere JPs for the hiring of a separate district constable. When the Resident Magistrate responded to demands for prohibition of supply of liquor to Maoris in the Motueka area, the Examiner noted the unfairness of imposing vast new duties upon the part-time constable: a Maori petition requesting equal rights indicated their intention to resist the enforcement of discriminatory laws against them.‘“
The appointment of that area’s district constable, John Boyes, had predated the goldfields turbulence. A Motueka farmer, Boyes
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had little initial difficulty in conducting police duties, which then consisted mainly of serving summonses. His workload expanded enormously in 1856, with up to 300 people on the local diggings; then, in 1857, with the road to Collingwood thronged by even greater numbers of would-be diggers, Boyes was forced to secure the erection of a lockup and to police excessive consumption of liquor far outside the town boundaries. The area became infamous for its inhabitants’ lack of compliance with, in particular, the liquor laws. Then, as the goldfields began to decline, so too did Boyes’ duties, the lockup accordingly falling into a state of dilapidation. The district constable had given no thought to abandoning his position during the period of turbulence, for he had a number of children to upkeep and his pay (ranging from £4O to £6O depending on political deliberations in the Provincial Council) was a hefty supplement to his primary income; moreover, in common with other district constables’ positions, additional paying offices (such as that of poundkeeper) automatically accompanied it. 16 ’
The district constable arrangement suited both constables and government. The latter found it cheaper than regular policing even when increasing duties forced them eventually to raise a few of the part-time salaries to approach that of regular police pay. Boyes found the position so attractive that in the mid 1860s he was to resist resignation despite failing health; after being finally ordered to resign as a consequence of difficulties experienced in collecting the education rate and other provincial revenues, the 55 year old policeman was succeeded in the position of district constable on 1 February 1866 by his son Thomas Boyes. When at the end of that decade revenue-collecting became ever more time-consuming, the provincial government relieved the district constable of it. Thomas Boyes was to survive in the position both a feasibility survey of 1875 and the abolition of the provinces, remaining Motueka’s district constable until beyond the turn of the century.
Nelson’s district constables had less cosy billets than those enjoyed by most in the colony. They were in theory, and sometimes in practice, obliged to act fully as regular constables whenever ordered. They were liable, under legislation of 1857, to a fine of up to £2 for ‘neglecting to lay Information or seize Dogs’, and the same applied for ‘improperly seizing Dogs’, plus the additional payment to the owner of the animal’s full value if it had meanwhile been destroyed; in 1859 John Boyes and Takaka district constable George Taylor were ordered to give help to Dr Ferdinand Hochstetter’s geological survey of their respective areas; Taylor would later be instructed to persuade local Maoris to lift their blockade of a road. By the beginning of the new decade the Nelson government
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had raised its establishment of district constables to a total of seven men, three of them policing in the north and the remainder at posts in the central, Waimea portion of the province. Expenditure on the part-time institution had quadrupled since the early days of the provincial administration but it remained an extraordinarily cheap method of policing, particularly in view of the fact that the extra duties imposed upon Nelson’s district constables (and not only those in the northernmost regions) in the wake of the gold discoveries were not entirely removed after the ebbing of gold output and the drifting from the fields of many of the diggers. Routine district constable duties throughout the province now included ‘to prevent drunkenness, disorderly conduct’ and other liquor-related offences which had barely intruded on their lives before 1857. Unlike district constables in other provinces they were required to make irregular patrols to all public houses in their districts, and to report errant publicans. 158
The impact of gold upon Nelson had been great enough to significantly alter the state of order in that province. Although the social consequences of that impact were insufficient to procure a fundamentally different system of policing throughout the province, the indigenous policing responses to the peculiar problems of goldfields regulation ensured that the experiments of coercive social control on the Nelson goldfields were watched keenly all over the colony. When the first major New Zealand rushes occurred in Otago in 1861 lessons learnt from Nelson were accordingly applied, and gold was to lead to the modification of policing systems throughout—eventually—the rest of the South Island, and ultimately to affect policing techniques throughout the entire colony.
North Island Policing at the Turn of the Decade
The North Island too was poised on the brink of massive and prolonged challenge to ‘order and tranquillity’. Prior to the outbreak of the first campaign in the Anglo-Maori Wars in March 1860, the three-man Taranaki Provincial Police had—even with military police aid —experienced difficulty in coping with the behaviour of soldiers in New Plymouth, but such problems paled in comparison with those presented by the ramifications of war. The provincial capital, whose normal civilian population was 800, became crowded with all of the pakeha residents of Taranaki Province (except for fewer than a hundred at the fortified blockhouses on the approach routes on either side of town) and with most of the
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troops. After Te Kohia Colonel Gold withdrew the bulk of his troops from the Waitara area to the vicinity of New Plymouth in order to face parties of Ngatiruanui and Taranaki tribespeople who had moved up from the south, and his men were joined by another 400 soldiers from Australia in April.
‘Tranquillization’ of the countryside was the responsibility of the armed forces; Dunn’s men concentrated almost entirely upon regularity in the town, enforcing the Municipal Police Ordinance, minimising health and fire hazards and policing what the Superintendent and other guardians of public morality saw as a ‘moral’ problem resulting from overcrowded living conditions. Operating under Garrison Standing Orders, military police supervised and disciplined off-duty imperial and volunteer colonial soldiers in the town and its now tiny European-controlled hinterland. After the withdrawal of the Ngatiruanui southwards following the battle at Waireka, Gold operated against the ‘rebel’ tribespeople mainly from Tataraimaka, not far west of the capital. 159
The provincial police were required to dampen panic in town with each arrival of news that ‘carried trouble, and terror into every house, no one knowing what would take place when the shades of darkness should have closed in upon us.’ The pakehas of Taranaki had greeted the initial news of war with such elation that New Plymouth ‘presented the appearance of a fair’, not reckoning on Maori ability to modify traditional fighting techniques to withstand an enemy superior in numbers and technology. Settlers’ dissatisfaction with the military developed as soon as they were forced to abandon their farms to the insurgents, making more difficult Dunn’s task of ensuring that ‘people did not interfere with the military occupation and protection of the town’. Discontent escalated because it was almost universally felt by settlers that the imperial military was unwilling to take definitive measures to crush Maori resistance and free the land for pakeha occupation. The imperial army leadership on the other hand resented being used for ‘exterminating the natives and dividing their lands’ in a military contest which they perceived to have been unnecessarily and deliberately initiated by colonists not prepared to tackle the martial consequences themselves. It was an attitude invariably misrepresented by the locals: the troops had behaved in cowardly fashion in Waireka, Gold was ‘monumentally incompetent’. A member of the militia, typically, recorded in his diary that the troops allowed the Maori to reside for two months at Omata ‘collecting cattle and shooting any people they could, allowed them to go quietly off with all their booty and after they had got well away then they raise about nine hundred men to find them where they knew they were
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not. Galant troops, daring Brittons what noble warfare fought with risk and crowned with success.’ 160
To the settlers, indeed, the military were ‘more than half disposed’ to view incidents of warfare, which extended at times into the outer areas of the town itself, as ‘matters which properly belonged to the Resident Magistrate, the Constables, and Coroner’. Although the blame was placed squarely upon Gold (and upon his replacement from 3 August 1860, Major-General Sir Thomas Pratt, the senior officer in Australasia), Dunn’s men also suffered in the eyes of the public because of their subordination to the military authorities. A typical report had troops returning from an expedition to be ‘met with a very cold reception from the townspeople’, the police powerless to deal with the ‘taunts and sneers’ which were ‘librally delt out to them as they passed along’. The Maori constables, who unlike their pakeha counterparts would be sent on journeys into the countryside to sound out prospects of peace, were also reviled by the settlers as tools of the ‘soft’ authorities—and distrusted when reports came through of former Assessors and their policemen having joined the ‘rebels’. The association of provincial police with military police, moreover, further lowered the standing of the former; townspeople flinched at brutal public floggings on the beach administered by military police to soldiers who had been found drunk. 161
The Taranaki settlers particularly resented the refusal of the military to move decisively against Wiremu Kingi after Te Kohia, but this was on orders from Auckland, part of the attempt by Governor Browne and his closest colleagues to ensure by means of diplomacy that the King Movement did not join with the rebel Atiawa. The effort was only partially successful, and a Ngatimaniapoto war party arrived to join Kingi; the reinforced insurrectionists challenged the British to fight by building a pa at Puketakauere, close to Camp Waitara, and on 27 June the imperial troops attacked. The result was a crushing defeat of the pakehas and consequently a new crescendo of vilification of Gold and his men in which, again, the Taranaki civil police shared as a result of their close association with the regiments. Moreover the constables had now to cope with further civilian panic: Waireka had removed fears engendered by initial Maori successes but Puketakauere reinvoked a feeling of great insecurity, particularly when it was realised that Kingites were joining Kingi as news of the rebel victory arrived in the Waikato. 162
Civilian-military relations were worsened a month after Puketakauere by Gold’s announcement that he would compulsorily evacuate all large families from New Plymouth, partly to make way
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for soldiers, and matters were exacerbated upon the arrival of Pratt in early August 1860 to replace the discredited colonel. Indeed there was now open rebellion amongst townspeople when the new military commander went much further than Gold and ordered the removal from the province, with their children, of women who had resisted the initial instructions to evacuate. Neither they nor their menfolk wished for this, particularly because by then it appeared as if the military were prepared to allow the war to drag on in a lowkey fashion indefinitely rather than finish it with a massive attack which would, it was believed, be definitive. In fact Pratt intended to supersede Gold’s string of defensive positions in the countryside by withdrawal to New Plymouth and to operate from there mobile offensive columns which, he hoped, would decisively defeat the enemy. Although some of the remaining families did evacuate, many did not—to the chagrin of Dunn’s civil police, who had to deal with the effects of a high sickness and mortality rate caused by unsavoury living conditions in the beleaguered town. On 6 and 7 September matters climaxed: Captain W C King of the Volunteers —later killed in action—was ‘put under arrest because he refused to do more than use persuasion with the settlers families to induce them to go on board the steamers for Nelson. A file of soldiery was given him to fetch the people in by brute force. He declined to do it. A commendable act and one which will raise him in the estimation of all but Military tyrants. A number of Volunteers and Militia have been sent to the guard room for refusing to allow their families to go away to Nelson.’ Women and children hid from the soldiers; not a woman was to been seen on market day on Saturday 8 September. Dunn’s civil police were caught in the middle of the continuing opposition between townsfolk and military. Dissatisfaction with the latter intensified when within the ensuing weeks troop reserves had to be withdrawn from the province to pre-empt suspected Ngatimaniapoto and Waikato designs upon Auckland; and again when from the end of the year Pratt, aided by large-scale reinforcements and operating from headquarters transferred to Waitara, began a ponderous sapping advance upon the main insurgent pa, a British strategy which was ridiculed for its cautiousness. 163
Yet soon after the building of approach trenches began the Maori were in actuality losing ground to the superior numbers and the debilitating firepower of Pratt’s forces. On 11 March 1861 they hoisted a flag of truce at besieged Te Arei pa high above the Waitara River, which allowed three days of negotiations during which Parris with the help of Maori police interpreted between Kingite mediator Wiremu Tamihana and Pratt. But further heavy
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fighting followed, until McLean arrived as Governor Browne’s personal envoy and effected a more permanent ceasefire. Kingi’s leading fighting chief, Hapurona, ceased hostilities at Te Arei on 18 March, and the first Taranaki campaign thereby ended, although both sides were determined to fight on at a later date. At the end of the month the settlers welcomed the departure of Pratt —New Zealand having been made a separate command —with ‘no good feeling to send after him’, but on 8 April McLean and Browne signed articles of peace at Waitara with Hapurona, thereby displaying to the Taranaki public what was seen as a lack of will to crush the rebels decisively. Neither Kingi, who with most of his warriors had withdrawn to Waikato territory, nor his Taranaki and Ngatiruanui allies, had signed and the latter tribes seized the settled Tataraimaka Block west of New Plymouth as hostage for the Waitara Block, whose ownership was to be officially investigated. A ‘goodly company’ watched the Governor enter town but he was ‘received without any mark of approbation. Not a single voice was raised to applaud’, for the settlers of Taranaki Province believed that ‘their interests were utterly overlooked in as much as the Governor had received the land and had given it back to the Natives.’ By the end of the month ‘the steamers have been busy taking away the troops from Town and from the Waitara.’
Although the official story was that the war had been won, unease was endemic in a province whose European-occupied area had actually shrunk in size: the settlers were not fooled, and regarded the truce as indeed only a truce. On 30 April the ‘mailman (a Native) has returned without accomplishing his task. The Southern Natives refused him permission to pass through their land.... This is Mr McLean’s permanent peace.’ Farming was conducted under the protection of those soldiers who remained, the settlers returning at nightfall to the safety of the town fortifications. The Ngatiruanui established a customs post not far from New Plymouth, preventing transit southwards without payment of the appropriate fee on a scale ranging from £5 for a Maori policeman to an enormous £5OO for a pakeha constable. 1 "
On the day that the Governor departed for Auckland, 15 April 1861, Taranaki militiaman U F Gledhill recorded rumours from the colonial capital that the Waikato tribes to its south were ‘showing signs of war. Some of the outer settlers have been ordered to leave their farms,’ Ever since 1859, and especially after the outbreak of war in Taranaki, Auckland’s central and provincial governments had feared Kingite invasion of the vulnerable city from the south —
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as urged by a minority of the movement’s leaders—and in mid 1860 they had jointly sponsored a long interracial conference at Kohimarama to search for a modus vivendi. Although the Kingites had not officially joined the Taranaki insurgents, they noted that the proffered deal was discriminatory in nature. It included laws against Maori possession of firearms, for example, and for the exclusion of tribesmen from membership of police and other state institutions. Governor Browne, anxious to avoid the gratuitous outbreak of war, resisted pressures for direct land purchase from the Maori which would have led to a scattering of settlers throughout Maori areas and endless provocations and ‘misunderstandings’. Nevertheless his fundamental demand for submission to the Queen’s sovereignty was unacceptable to even the most ‘moderate’ Kingite leaders, Tamihana and King Tawhiao (Potatau II) himself.
The failure of Kohimarama and the inability to decisively win the (first) Taranaki campaign revealed conclusively, so far as the political leadership of New Zealand was concerned, that meaningful pakeha sovereignty over the several insurrectionist regions could only be established following a definitive military subjugation of Kingism and its Waikato heartland. Browne, McLean and Attorney-General Frederick Whitaker —with the support of General Sir Duncan Cameron, who had replaced Pratt —now began planning the invasion of the Waikato, an idea postponed only by a ‘secret session’ of both Houses on 5 July 1861 which decided that troop numbers were as yet insufficient. As the year progressed, Aucklanders remained in a high state of apprehension over the intentions of the Maoris to their south, despite the return of New Zealand’s military headquarters to the capital after the Taranaki fighting. Aucklanders clung to the hope that Sir George Grey, who had been recalled by the Colonial Office to the colony as Governor to extricate it from its ‘native problem’, would somehow subdue the Maori and open up the province to large-scale pakeha development. Most New Zealand colonists, indeed, awaited his arrival with anxious optimism. 1 ”
Inspector Naughton’s Armed Police Force, largely concentrated in Auckland city, had been particularly ill-equipped to cope with the recent influx of troops and the increased state of excitement. Problems of finance had prompted a Provincial Council vote in January 1861 which cut the number of privates from 28 to 18, although after great pressure from the head of police three of the retrenched men had been reinstated. This ‘concession’ scarcely helped the Auckland police to enforce in the countryside—as just one example—the strict regulations controlling arms and ammunition disposition which had been introduced during 1860 as a result
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of the colony’s race hostilities. There was enough to do within urban limits where amongst the 8000 inhabitants racial feeling remained tense. The Inspector lost all chance in the capital of even partially conciliating urban or visiting Maoris after he was forced to relinquish his sole remaining Maori private, despite strict instructions not to antagonise urban Maoris for fear of repercussions from the Waikato. On 19 July 1861, as if in compensation for the increasingly worrisome and strenuous nature of his position, Naughton was promoted to the rank of Commissioner of Police, although Superintendent Williamson’s motives were mainly to make absolutely clear to the ever-interfering Resident Magistrate Beckham that he possessed not even residual control over Auckland’s police. Naughton was the first man in New Zealand devoted full-time to policing duties to hold the rank. 1 *
For a short period after Grey took up the reins of office on 3 October 1861 it appeared as if Naughton’s ‘native problem’ would dissipate. In the Governor’s first week back in the colony he had decided to supplement his predecessor’s efforts to impose terms upon the Waikato by any methods to hand—from bribery to coercion. He would attempt to undermine Kingism by ‘indirect rule’, allowing en route some of the concessions to the Maori people which had hitherto been rejected by the state. But just as Governor Browne had been prepared to invade the Waikato if and when opportunity arose, so too was Grey should his ‘soft’ option not succeed, as seemed quite possible from the beginning. Kingite suspicions of this alternative intent were reinforced when, near the end of 1861, the Governor ordered Cameron to construct a military road through to the Waikato River, where a redoubt would be manned at Te la. Confrontation then seemed inevitable. Both sides foresaw it happening sooner or later, to a greater or lesser degree, and the heightening tension made the regulation of ‘order and tranquillity’ a difficult holding operation pending the imposition of a new, pakehaised order upon the Waikato and other ‘rebel’ areas.
When Hawke’s Bay Province split from Wellington on 1 November 1858, its revitalised runanga were almost as powerfully organised as were those in Auckland Province’s East Coast region. A major policing function within the new province was therefore, in view of the heightening race tension spreading within the new province as part of Maori moves towards resistance throughout the North Island, that of pre-emptive surveillance of the indigenous race. Any anti-pakeha developments could, it was expected, be outmanoeuvred as a result of such intelligence, which was collected
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largely by the military. For the pakeha authorities the operations of the Maori institutions of social control were regarded as useful modes of rural order-imposition. As prominent local runholder (as well as Government official) G S Cooper was to report in early 1860, ‘the Runangas have been in constant and active operations, and I am bound to say not without a good deal of beneficial result’ for they rigidly enforced their own laws against drunkenness, and ‘acts of violence, such as seizing horses, etc, amongst themselves, rarely now occur.’ They were seen as a mixed blessing however. On the question of selling further land, Cooper complained, ‘they will listen to no argument, hear no reason’, which was hardly welcome news to the government or the local settlers. Certainly, as Cooper also noted, by preventing land being ‘sold’ by doubtful or minority claimants the runanga systems lowered the incidence of intraMaori and interracial quarrels. But in the final analysis, the pakeha surveillance authorities concluded, although the ‘conduct of the native is certainly improving’ this was only because Maoris were ‘held in check by the moral effect inspired by the presence of a body of troops’ and their runanga remained organisations to fear. 167
When (especially smaller and would-be) Hawke’s Bay agrarian capitalists found that it was futile to urge the General Government to use the troops based at Napier, and from 1859 Waipukurau, to enforce land sales, they focused their energies on agitating for coercive backing for the region’s Resident Magistrate. Such a development, they hoped, would alter the prevailing situation wherein when runanga law clashed with pakeha law the Maoris normally chose the former; when a Maori woman’s marriage was prevented by her people under runanga ruling a brawl developed, with the Resident Magistrate (who was legally obliged to proceed with the ceremony), his clerk, the ‘would be bride and groom, abductor and one or two others rolling on the floor together’ in the courthouse. The dangerous implications of the clash between the two rival systems of control were further illustrated in an incident when three Europeans drove their cattle carelessly past a pa: a heifer stampeded and knocked over an old woman, whereupon under customary law the Maoris seized horses in compensation. As it turned out, when reprimanded by the Resident Magistrate the Maoris were willing to hand back the horses, but not without stressing that the pakeha had broken laws aimed at keeping order and regularity at the pa, and no one doubted that had the woman died a serious confrontation would have ensued.
Yet although settlers found it anathema that Maoris were allowed to possess an ‘authority of their own and a table of laws by which they shall regulate and govern themselves’, the wealthy
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squattocracy which ‘reigned supreme’ in the economic, social and political life of the new province was not prepared to levy itself for the moneys required to provide sizeable police backing for the magistracy; the small pakeha population—l2oo at separation—provided no adequate alternative source of income for such purposes. The runholders’ own informal police power, especially over their employees, plus the presence of troops to handle both surveillance and emergencies of an insurrectionary nature, enabled the provincial politicians to continue the pre-separation civil policing arrangement after the emergence of the province on 1 November 1858. Captain John Curling, the Resident Magistrate, was therefore founding head of the provincial force, while the effective head continued to be the NCO Henry Groom, who controlled only one other regular constable. 168
This could hardly remain adequate for long, with more pakehas entering the province and the garrisoned troops creating problems of order which were only partially controlled internally by regimental disciplinary techniques. Thus the Councillors reluctantly increased the size of the police force, giving Groom two extra privates in May 1859. The runholder-politicians still did not attach a great deal of significance to their provincial police force, regarding it as a costly necessary urban evil to complement the allimportant control of the countryside: they did not bother to seek a suitable replacement for the by now manifestly out-of-depth Groom (who among other things was publicly pilloried by a coroner’s jury for incompetence) and in their first 12 months of office spent a mere one percent of the budget on civil policing. Their major methods of social and racial control involved continuing to operate their own informal policing mechanisms vis-a-vis the (especially rural) pakeha and to rely upon the imperial troops as a preventive and emergency force with regard to the Maori. Both modes of control were cheap options for the provincial state, although there had been discontent when it had quickly emerged that soldierly surveillance of the tribes would remain solely preventive, except in dire emergencies; there was no chance of there being any intermediate, proactive role for the detachments. In short, the General Government continued to resist local settler pressure and refused to allow the troops to be used to force ‘intransigent’ Maoris into Europeanised modes of behaviour, into selling land, and into submission. The Hawke’s Bay pastoralist group and its allies were forced to rethink: they did not possess the resources for instrumentalist control of the indigenous race, but the reactive principle could be applied to a lesser level of indigenous resistance than that
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of collective armed opposition—by embodying non-regimental soldiery. By the middle of 1859 they were therefore asking the central state for financial support for militia and volunteer organisations. Later in the year when Groom and his men, earning 5s and 4s 6d per day respectively, began to agitate for a pay rise, they gained some political and general support from those who considered it important that, in order to complement the obligatory focus upon reactive coercive capacity, the effectiveness of the provincial police be increased. 169
When the Provincial Councillors discussed the Province’s policing arrangements most were far from happy about the ‘unionisation’ of their police force, a view shared by Superintendent T H Fitzgerald, who under the New Provinces Act had been elected by the Councillors and therefore had no choice but to share their preoccupations. However some, again including Fitzgerald, acknowledged the inadequacy of the police pay in the course of analysing what could be decreasingly ignored, the lack of an efficient provincial civil police service. There was an undercurrent of consensus that the provincial police needed revamping and that, partly because Groom had combined with his men, partly because—in the Superintendent’s words—‘it would be generally admitted that a younger and more active man should be at the head of the force’, its leadership would have to change in the process. Finally however it was here too decided to defer changes until a wideranging review of policing had been conducted. 110
There was one exception to this deferment. At Clive —the first ‘rural’ township in Hawke’s Bay, founded in 1857 —and further south at Waipukurau, powerful settlers had been successful in carving out what amounted to their own one-man forces from Groom’s dispersed manpower resources. Although Curling remained provincial head of police, control of the ‘country’ privates had been vested in the respective chairmen of the local benches of magistrates. Now, because of the altered nature of Waipukurau as a small garrison town and as a result of the expansion of settlement in areas such as Porangahau and Te Aute which it serviced, the government authorised an increase in size and importance of its police force, so that it would now consist of a corporal and private. On 25 February 1860 H R Russell, Waipukurau runholder and chairman of the bench, advertised for an ‘additional policeman. Most ample certificates of fitness and respectability will be required.’ 111
Meanwhile, with notice that he was to be deposed as effective head of the provincial police and so with little to lose, Groom had taken the risk of organising a police petition which veteran mis-
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sionary William Colenso presented to the Council in early March. The petition emphasised the low pay of policemen and the fact that they received no mileage or horse hire allowance, and also complained that upon being issued with a new uniform the men had been forced to pay for it at once, at cost of a month’s pay. Curling testified that his policemen were the ‘worst paid of any class in the province’ and requested an increase in men as well as a pay rise for them. The petition, the views of the head of police and a boost in settlement—that January Havelock had been laid out, to be followed by other rural towns during the year—catalysed government action on police reorganisation. The train of thought of the provincial decision-makers had already been indicated by Fitzgerald’s edict on the need for a police uniform: he would as far as possible ‘professionalise’ the force. Such a development entailed reunification under an effective head of police—certainly not the demanding and therefore now even more ‘suspect’ Henry Groom—as well as better pay to attract ‘young and active men’. Above all it required a paramilitarisation of the Hawkes’ Bay police force.' 7 *
Accordingly, on 20 March 1860 Fitzgerald presented his policing proposals to the Council: a sergeant, at 7s per day, would be head of the unified force, and he was to ensure that his men moved from district to district ‘so as not to have time to attach themselves to any particular set’. To get relatively ‘good’ men at a time when workers might earn 7s or 8s per day, there would be five privates at an increased rate of 5s each, whilst the sole corporal would earn 6s and be stationed at Waipukurau with one of the privates, pakeha settlement having developed mainly in the southern half of the province. This latter station would have two horses attached because of the strenuous nature of the journeying required, sometimes a trip of a hundred miles being necessary to serve a summons. The proposal for mounting a portion of the force in this way passed by a single vote, the attitude of oppositionists being that police could walk distances of say 40 miles daily and hire horses for longer trips. However on the substantive issue of the nature of the force the Council was agreed, with a single aberration: Colenso’s preference for stationing only district constables outside Napier suggested a cheap solution to the problem of accommodating the wishes of those who advocated at least a nominal police presence in the north of the province, and a district constable on £3O salary was appointed at Mohaka. 1 ”
The new arrangements took effect from 1 April, and were able to operate effectively enough in the provincial capital despite police energies being diverted into controlling the gaol and its hard-labour gangs. But the pressure of local JPs upon the police outside Napier
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The Provinces, 1853-61
rendered the sergeant’s instructions to his force practically inoperative whenever they clashed with the interests of the runholding elite. Fitzgerald, a surveyor who had been a compromise candidate for the Superintendency and who was struggling for independence of operation from the powerful interests represented on his Council, therefore decided in early 1861 to re-emphasise the paramilitary nature of his force and selected a man assessed to have the appropriate qualifications. From 9 January that year Neil Campbell was elevated to the position of Sub-Inspector at the head of the force, amidst political opposition from those who felt that only a ‘man of education’ should be provincial police chief. The change had greater political ramifications than that of the previous year, for Campbell replaced the Resident Magistrate as the nominal head of police as well as undertaking active control; he reported direct to the Superintendent, his brief being to make the police a ‘much more effective and useful body than they have hitherto been’. His methods were those of 1846-style social control and internal police discipline, including that regular transfer of privates which was supposed already to have been happening, and the implementation of the Greyite concept of a direct link between heads of police and executive did not go unnoticed. 174
This altered orientation chagrined the southern JPs, who desired to retain influence over local policing methodology. As soon as the appointment of head of police was confirmed in early March Fitzgerald, now struggling to retain his position, was forced to make enormous concessions to the parochial interests of runholder-JPs. There would be only four privates in the paramilitary force, three of them controlled directly by Campbell in Napier. The fourth, heading the station at Waipukurau (soon to be physically quartered in a new courthouse-police station at nearby Waipawa) which comprised now besides the private only a district constable, was seconded to local chairman of the bench Henry Russell. The chain of command was so completely severed that Russell was even given the power of dismissal without reference to the Sub-Inspector. There were now also three other district constables in the province, all responsible to the local magistracy. In short the Sub-Inspector had therefore no power to dismiss, and few powers beyond those of nominal superintendence over, any of the non-Napier policemen. On 8 April a runholder, Captain J C L Carter, took over the Superintendency and the seal appeared to be set on the substantive abandonment of the short-lived paramilitary experiment. 175
Campbell realised that his chances of survival as head of police, especially in a period of retrenchment, were slim and began investigating the chances of becoming a publican instead. On the surface
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the Fitzgerald-prepared estimates providing for his promotion to Inspector at £l4O salary should have been passed, for no one questioned his abilities in the position and the NCO hitherto the effective head of police had been most certainly superseded by a man superior in technical knowledge and socio-economic status. Yet even with Campbell, as a pro-Carter Councillor explained on 9 May, ‘it was a question whether he had sufficient education to enable him to discharge its duties properly’. The provincial government decided to merge the position of chief of provincial police with another currently held by a ‘gentleman’ who happened to be a relative of Carter’s and who ‘had not work enough to do’ to justify current salary and allowances totalling nearly £250. Thus on 1 June 1861 Captain Charles William LaSerre, Provincial Engineer’s clerk and Paymaster of the Roads, became also Inspector in charge of the Hawke’s Bay Police Force, which now had an annual budget approaching £lOOO. n6
LaSerre’s force did not lose its remaining paramilitary aspects, and indeed it soon regained others. Certainly the Waipukurau/ Waipawa station was seconded as before to Russell, and there were still district constables at Mohaka and Porangahau as well as the one serving under the private controlled by the Waipukurau runholder/official. But the ethos of the regular force was not unaffected by that of its masters: Carter’s background was that of imperial soldiering and the new Inspector was himself a military man, within a few years to take command of the colonial forces in Poverty Bay. The logic of the situation required a substantial degree of paramilitary organisation, whatever the centrifugal pressures from JPs. The Provincial Council had already acknowledged that it had been a mistake to replace the private at Clive with a district constable, the latter being unable to prevent ‘the peace being broken’ even with occasional help from a mounted constable from headquarters. As well as the reinstated private’s position at Clive, LaSerre also officially commanded the private at the southernmost regular station—Russell’s control now being far less absolute than before—and the three privates in Napier. At the provincial capital, too, Henry Groom still presided as corporal and acted as effective head of police in LaSerre’s frequent absences. Reflective of the military perspectives of Carter and LaSerre, the force was now formally embodied in accordance with the 1846 Constabulary Force Ordinance and provided with a complex set of 74 rules adapted from those of 1852. 177
There were however some concessions to the magistracy, which alone could discipline for serious offences committed by policemen,
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The Provinces, 1853-61
and in practice JPs continued to correspond direct with the Superintendent on policing matters. Constables, too, could complain to the Resident Magistracy about their superiors, although only through the Inspector and subject to punishment for complaints deemed unfounded. In the final analysis the runholding elite had, directly or indirectly, the monopoly on policing, a point obliquely made after a number of Maoris forcibly released from custody a chief arrested for drunkenness: the tribespeople sent a spokesman to court to aver that a drunken chief should be shown the same indulgence by officialdom as a drunken pakeha ‘gentleman’. All the same, when the magistracy chose not to interfere in the operational procedure of the police LaSerre had a tightly controlled regime: pay was by policy always a month in arrears, for example, so that if the now compulsory six-monthly contract were broken punishment in the form at very least of pay confiscation would occur. Corporal Groom, whose ‘propensity for getting intoxicated’ was increasing, was dismissed for insobriety in October 1861, along with the Waipukurau/Waipawa private. ‘The being drunk or intoxicated in any degree is as serious an offence as a Constable can be guilty of, said the rules. 17 '
A disciplined paramilitary police, ‘an active and useful body’ such as—according to the runholders and politicians—had not emerged in the past, was required most of all because of the ‘native problem’. This imperative was partly indirect —resultant on the requirements of policing a garrison town —but largely far more direct. Comforting as the British troops were in the event of an emergency, the central state continued to disallow their use as a proactive coercive policing device lest this exacerbate Maori discontent and open a new arena of battle on the opposite side of the island from Taranaki. The Napier police were therefore seen by the Hawke’s Bay settlers as, inter alia, constituting an essential mobile reserve: in the eventuality of any serious disorder up to and including actual hostilities, the men could be deployed quickly to any comer of the province, acting as the nucleus for deployment of existing colonial levies and pending if necessary the formation of additional settler corps. There was general pakeha belief, in the words of Judge Alexander Johnston speaking at the first Supreme Court sitting in Napier in 1861, that the surest way of amplifying problems of disorder was by ‘permitting persons who boldly defy the law in small matters to boast of impunity’, and suppressing this was to be a prime duty of the police. Largely as the result of the region’s potential for race warfare, Inspector LaSerre’s force had moved a considerable distance towards the coercive end of the
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control continuum from the situation of the founding provincial police force of three years before, that of Corporal Groom and his single subordinate. 17 ’
The smallest North Island adjustments in policing in response to the Taranaki War and more general fears of race conflagation were made in Wellington Province. The majority of the province’s Maori population inhabited the western coast, particularly towards its north, and military defeat and disillusionment in the mid 1840s had seemingly at very least neutralised them; so much so that there was deemed to be no problem in transferring the Wellington detachment of troops to Taranaki. Even in the Wanganui area, the nearest sizeable European-settled portion of the province to Taranaki, important local Maori factions expressed themselves as being on the pakeha side in the war to the north, and leading chiefs were declared special constables in order to enhance their prestige should dampening of any local spread of insurrectionary ideas be necessary. The Wanganui settlers nevertheless felt a degree of alarm and therefore on 14 April 1860 decided to form a ‘Vigilance Committee’ to aid the Resident Magistrate in any way he wished—by the creation if necessary of a ‘Town Patrol’ to supplement the tiny police establishment under his delegated control, for example. But such were little more than token gestures and the uneasy, together with the more isolated settlers of the Rangitikei/Turakina area further south (with their single constable), were comforted principally by the presence of the military garrison which had been at Wanganui since the 1840s wars. 1 *
One of the few concessions made by the Wellington provincial authorities to local wishes and demands for more protection had been the acceding in 1860 to the pleas of Wairarapa settlers for a police presence, a request the more difficult to ignore since the northernmost policeman in the centre and east of the province had been since 1858 the constable stationed at the lower Hutt Valley. Even so it was a minimal step which was taken, Resident Magistrate Wardell’s appointment in the Wairarapa allowing the Superintendent to designate him head of a separate one-man, part-time, sub-provincial police force. The Featherston government did not do more partly because of its straitened financial circumstances, but also in part because—whatever colonists’ fears —there was in reality no Maori ‘threat’ across the Rimutakas. All the same, it was to reassure anxious settlers as far as possible within severe budgetary limitations that Byrn, with his military experience as a colour sergeant in the 1840s wars, had been chosen for the job of
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The Provinces, 1853-61
Wardell’s right-hand man. District constable Byrn and the Resident Magistrate (or in his absences, the nearest JPs) would between them would collect together ‘specials’ in the event of any emergency. The Featherston government sabotaged Wardell’s plan for a second Wairarapa district constable—at Masterton—by insisting that half the appointee’s salary would have to be paid by the General Government whose war policies had led to alarm even in the peaceful rural heartland of the Wairarapa. 1 "
Featherston and his executive had adopted a ‘peace policy’ stance at the outbreak of war, determined that interracial conflict—which they considered unnecessary —should not cross the border into their province, disrupting routines and profits. In any case—and this was pertinent to the decision against providing Wardell with a second constable—the provincial state was unable, because of the deadlock between government and Council, to cope financially with any manifestation of race turbulence: longstanding denial of supply had ‘reduced public expenditure to a trickle’ until new elections in 1861 put the Featherstonite pastoralists overwhelmingly back into power. Even at the beginning of the political wrangle, in 1857, demoralisation amongst the constables had been noted: an ex-policeman responding to criticisms of police efficiency publicly argued that they were ‘more sinned against than sinning’. High turnover and low salaries had, inter alia, precluded the establishment of a voluntary sick fund to which the men could subscribe—even those disabled on duty could expect nothing in official recompense —and the uncertainty as to whether pay would arrive on time, if at all, further lowered morale in the force. 182
Sergeant-Major Styles had rigidly enforced internal regulations against combining, but in January 1861, with a less disciplinarian corporal as acting head, the Wellington men revived the unionising propensities of a decade before. Nine constables headed by Joshua Tomlinson petitioned the Superintendent to raise their pay from 4s 6d per day to a level commensurate with that paid in other forces. They wanted, too, a free uniform issue, rather than merely an issue greatcoat every three years, and also demanded an alteration in the debilitating hours of duty worked. This was the first shot in 60 years of skirmishing which came eventually to centre on opposing the basic four-hours-on/four-hours-off beat system, although the Wellington men as yet demanded no more than an arrangement that would give them an occasional extended period of leisure. 183
Even had the government been willing to accede to ‘union’ pressure it could get no finance from the Provincial Council, and the demands were rejected; but as had happened with the previous
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Wellington combination, the authorities pulled their punches and ignored the breach of discipline by the provincial force in order to retain some kind of regular police, however inadequate and disillusioned it might be. In an effort to placate the men it offered instead to reinstate a ‘Good Conduct’ reward fund which would build up moneys accumulated from military and naval payments for catching deserters. Periodically, this fund would be distributed throughout the APF, including the minute ‘Hutt Police Force’. The latter had been designated after Styles’ death as autonomous from Wellington’s force, with Corporal Thomas Braggins coming under magisterial superintendence, but was included for administrative purposes under the heading of the Wellington Provincial Armed Police Force. The reward fund did not succeed in boosting morale because of the vicious circle in which the police found themselves: denied a decent wage and heavily overworked, constables had little time or energy to track down the large number of deserters. Many, judging from the complaints of naval and military authorities about the Wellington police, completely escaped, some of them even remaining in the region. The main concrete result of the agitation of early 1861, as it turned out, was a search by Featherston to find a more ‘reliable’ effective head of police than Finucane, who had allowed, even encouraged, his men to combine. On 6 March the Superintendent, recognising a kindred spirit, appointed Styles’ old sparring partner Frederick Atchison as Sergeant-Major in charge of the Wellington Provincial Armed Police Force.'"
At the time of the police petition the sensationalisation of an event of seemingly little intrinsic significance focused attention upon contemporary aspects of racial and social control. ColourSergeant James Collins of the 65th Regiment, guilty of killing his bullying superior at the Rutland Stockade in Wanganui, was hanged amidst wide publicity. The incident, by concentrating attention on the province’s northernmost outpost, served to remind the settlers of Wellington Province of their vulnerability in the event of Maori insurrection moving southwards: troops stationed in the province were few, the urban police were hardly more than a demoralised token of a ’reserve force’ despite their retention of the name of ‘Armed Police Force’. Unease, more soundly based than that which had helped lead to the creation of the Wairarapa ‘police force’, quickened in step with the Ngatiruanui retreat back to southern Taranaki after their refusal to sign any peace with the pakeha.
The Wanganui incident had additional symbolic significance as a milestone on the road of evolving socio-political attitudes about appropriate modes of social control. Many people of importance
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The Provinces, 1853-61
had fought for mitigation of the sentence, claiming that Collins was of the ‘finest’ character and had been driven to desperate measures by extreme provocation; although their pleas failed to make sufficient impact upon the General Government, a by-product of the campaign—whose ‘humanitarian’ stance was in itself noteworthy—was the first non-public hanging in New Zealand history. Although this, to be sure, occurred at the beginning of the decade that was to see the greatest bloodshed between Maori and pakeha, it illustrated that slowly and partially colonials of wealth and power were emulating—albeit mostly with reference to the pakeha population alone —moves by the metropolitan states on the other side of the world away from the various components clustered near the overtly coercive extreme of the continuum of social control. The retributive spectacle was gradually being subsumed by the principle of near certainty of detection as the major means of preventing violations of the desired order. All the same, there was a long way to go before attention was paid in any meaningful way to reformatory rather than exemplary punishment; before the imagery of policing was to be dominated by the ‘friendly bobby’ rather than by the ‘peeler’ of constabulary policing. Moreover such evolution in social control attitudes as there had been in New Zealand was now to be halted, and in some respects temporarily reversed, as a result of a development in the South Island which paralleled in its immensity the impact of the Anglo-Maori Wars of the North. 1!S
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CHAPTER VII
The Adaptation of Policing Methods to Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
Victorian-Style Response to Gold Fever
Modes of policing in New Zealand were to undergo great transformation in the 1860s, the result of the impact upon society of the gold rushes of the South Island and the wars of the North. With the first pioneering phase of the colony’s pakeha settlement culminating in the founding of Canterbury in 1850, in the following period of consolidation the colony’s police forces had responded by beginning to shed at the very least many of the trappings of militarism. The rate of summary convictions reflected the societal trend which provided the context for this development, rising only slowly and lagging behind the rate of population increase, a tendency which allowed a gradual demilitarisation of policing. The further that police forces were located from truculent Maori districts and pakeha towns, the smaller and the less paramilitary they became even in structure: the extreme example of this manifestation was provided by the judicially-controlled one-man forces, some of them part-time, of predominantly rural areas. Yet this evolutionary process had been slowed, sometimes partially reversed, even before the onset of the turbulent decade of 1860s —the result of increased Maori resistance, or of quickened pakeha immigration, or of both. One reflection of the emergent counter-trend was again the summary conviction rate, hovering around 2000 annually in the mid 1850s, rising by 25 percent in 1858, and approaching 3000 by 1860, by when the population had within the decade trebled. Even the least overtly militaristic of the major forces were compelled to adjust to such disruptive pressures, hence Chief Constable John Shepherd’s ‘modernising’ efforts in Otago. It was in his province in 1861 that the most rapid far-reaching transformation of policing in New Zealand’s history began, with the advent of the colony’s first major goldrush.
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
On 21 March 1861 a Californian working on a road through Robert McLean’s pastoral run in the northern Dunstan Mountains discovered gold; he applied for the reward that had been proclaimed by the Otago provincial government in 1857 when employers were alarmed at the outflow of labour to the Nelson diggings, his letter reaching the government on the 30th of the month. Within a fortnight 300 men were en route for or had arrived at the diggings which mushroomed on the banks of the Lindis River. Gold discoveries had been made before in Otago, but a recession which had set in during the previous year, together with the effects of political secession of the rich pastoral areas of Southland which took effect a day after news reached Dunedin of the Lindis find, ensured that this field would have much wider ramifications. Three months earlier the government, because of the recession, had declined Shepherd’s request to place a corporal above the constable at the new port of Oamaru, up the northern coast towards the border with Canterbury, although that town’s constable Alexander Simpson had been joined by a second policeman just prior to the gold discovery. These two men had now to cope with Oamaru becoming overnight a bustling supply base for the diggings located 120 miles inland, towards Lake Wanaka. 1
As at the Nelson diggings the miners at the Lindis quickly established their own mode of policing and government. A local committee formulated a code of ‘laws’, including at first prohibition on the sale of liquor. These were ratified at a public meeting on 10 April and put into effect by a miner who was elected ‘president and chief Robert Lear. It was reported that ‘any glaring instances of robbery or crime were not only rare, but severely dealt with’ by this ‘self-constituted form of government’. Offenders were ‘ignominiously expelled from the diggings’; a rostered ‘police force’ protected commercial premises. Meanwhile in Dunedin Superintendent James Macandrew had been arrested for debt, had disgraced himself by declaring his own house a gaol in order to make his prison life more comfortable, and had then been removed from office on 6 March by order of the Governor for improper use of provincial funds. John Larkins Cheese Richardson, a stationholder who as Speaker had led impeachment proceedings against Macandrew, took over from the deposed Superintendent and was confirmed in office in mid May 1861. Major Richardson had spent two decades in the Royal Bengal Artillery and was knowledgeable about state requirements of social control in situations of turbulence. Knowledge of the legendary disorders of the Californian and Australian diggings, particularly the Eureka insurrection in Victoria of 1854,
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created in Otago business and pastoral circles fears of similar happenings locally, and their new political leader almost at once began formulating preventive plans. 2
A government official had been sent to the fields in early April to assess the state of order. Because there was no emergency since the ‘diggers themselves are fully alive to the necessity of keeping due regularity’ there was time, he assessed, for the government to calmly formulate plans for policing what might become a major field. Late in April the Executive Council decided to increase the Otago police by three in order to enable the sending of Sergeant John Outram and two privates to the Lindis goldfield as a police nucleus at the diggings, pending General Government action to allow the following of the Collingwood precedent in creating a policing regime with sufficient autonomy to be able to cope with whatever problems the new situation produced. On 9 May Alfred Chetham Strode, now an Assistant Native Secretary, was temporarily appointed as a Resident Magistrate in charge, inter alia , of the new police force: he would reside at Oamaru, where Simpson had been promoted to corporal of police, and have full control over all Otago policemen north of Dunedin. In this way his police experience as a leading member of the Greyite Armed Police Force in the 1840s would be utilised to control disorder both at the goldfields and among men proceeding there. 3
As at the Aorere, the informal police regime was seen by the miners as only a temporary device pending the official establishment of a regulatory bureaucracy on the goldfields, including a police/escort service. Such requirements were posited to a considerable degree on a large rush attracting an influx of ‘parasites’ and claim-jumpers, and the state acknowledged the necessity for strong policing action should that eventuality occur. The soon temporarily expanded ‘Mounted Police Force’, headquartered at Otago’s equivalent of Collingwood, the supply port of Oamaru, with those of its men who were actually mounted troopers being stationed at McLean’s homestead and in tents at the diggings, would meanwhile suffice: on 20 May Strode reported that no thefts had occurred on the field since his appointment. Although the goldfields policemen were provided with firearms, these had not been flaunted. Aware of the propensity for overbearing behaviour as well as overtly coercive trappings to alienate citizens, particularly those of a volatile diggings community, the new Resident Magistrate had ‘given the Police express instructions not on any account to disturb so happy a state of affairs by their too ready interference in trivial matters.’ The small force, paid at higher rates than were policemen elsewhere in the province to compensate for the extra cost of living,
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
remained at the Lindis after the snows fell later in May, but the onset of winter blocked further development of what had turned out to be a small field. The diggings detachment was soon reduced to two constables, supervised by Corporal Simpson of Oamaru, and the northern Otago police again placed under Shepherd’s direct control, the Chief Constable having in any case retained a significant degree of control over his men even when they were seconded to Strode. 4
Richardson had meanwhile foreseen that if enormous rushes occurred in his province Shepherd’s police force, however much expanded in size, would not have the expertise to cope with a resultant massive increase in disorder; this turmoil would especially harm the interests of those pastoralists through whose runs the diggers passed and on whose territory they dug. The new Superintendent anticipated the possibility of a rapid influx of thousands of men, particularly after the winter. Whereas Shepherd’s force had been able to cope with the growth of an urban working class which was at least partly disciplined by its orientation to the workplace (although some of them had become marginalised, living in makeshift whares in the town belt), Richardson foresaw the police being swamped by the mobility and volatility of an influx of diggers and their hangers-on, including hard-core criminals from across the Tasman. The Aorere had indicated the need for at least a semiparamilitary response even to a smallish rush: what kind of coercive response would be needed for a far greater challenge to order and regularity? For him the solution to future such problems lay in replicating the police force of Victoria, which had fused and adapted to colonial conditions of goldfields-generated disorder the principles of what were acknowledged by contemporary experts to be the ‘best’ police forces in the world, the Metropolitan Police and the Irish Constabulary. On 2 May, before any police had been sent on to the Lindis diggings, he commissioned prominent Dunedin citizen William Fenwick to negotiate during his imminent visit to Melbourne with the Victorian government for the services of an experienced commissioned police officer to reconstitute and train an expanded and heavily armed provincial police. Fie also sought the possibility of release by Victoria to Otago of two constables, and of a detective since ‘it is not unlikely that the existence of the northern gold fields may make the presence of such an officer highly necessary’. 5
Late that month Shepherd submitted to his Council estimates of his requirements for control in the existing situation. Apart from the diggings presence, these reflected previous requests: a sergeant apiece for day and night duty in the provincial capital, assisted by a
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day corporal and six privates, with a seventh private doubling as the Chief Constable’s clerk and the man in charge of the ‘Emigrants Barracks’; a corporal and private apiece at Oamaru and Port Chalmers; a private at Waikouaiti; and the NCO and two men who constituted the regular core of the ‘Lindis Gold Fields’ detachment and who would be supplemented whenever necessary by other regular or by temporary constables. These figures included previously sought additions to the existing force —the night-duty sergeant, and the Waikouaiti man ‘much wanted’ it was said ‘by the respectable Inhabitants in the district’—which reflected the increasingly ‘boisterous’ nature of portions of the populace of the once-sleepy province even before any diggings fever.
Superintendent Richardson cavilled at estimates which already pushed policing expenditure beyond the £4OOO mark before encompassing the possibility of a major constabulary presence at the Lindis. Shepherd riposted by holding forth on the now sprawling nature of the capital, presenting accounts of the difficulty of covering it with an appropriate number of beats particularly in view of the numerous non-beat duties required of his force. Over the preceding year, he noted, ‘urgent police business’ in the countryside had taken up 227 1 /2 days of duty for the city police, so that he had been ‘often for days with but one and at most 2 men to assist me in Town’. As for Waikouaiti, he wrote that quite apart from intrinsic problems of order in the area T look upon all harbours round the coast where any trade is carried on, to be very suitable places for stationing the Police, in 9 cases out of 10, it is to such places that the thieves run too, I therefore look upon this as an important place for stationing a Constable.’ But on the day that this letter was first drafted (8 June) a local newspaper published the first intimations of a development that would within a matter of weeks make Shepherd’s estimates grossly inadequate.
News had arrived in Dunedin that veteran prospector Gabriel Read had discovered gold at Tuapeka, a site far more accessible than the Lindis from the provincial capital. Indeed it was located a mere 25 miles inland from the settled Tokomairiro. The Tuapeka proved to be the elusive rich field and by the end of June workers were beginning to flock out of Dunedin to attempt to make their fortunes on it. Shepherd notified his two-man mounted Lindis goldfields police that the ‘greatest excitement imaginable prevails in Dunedin and surrounding District’: it was to move to Tuapeka. ‘You can inform the diggers’, the Chief Constable told the Lindis head of detachment (by now Private Peter Dow), about the Tuapeka diggings ‘in a quiet way, not officially, and then I suppose you will, from what I hear, soon get clear of them.’ Read had
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
predicted that the Tuapeka field would 'astonish the Province’, and on 28 June Richardson, having previously gained from Governor Browne wide-ranging discretionary powers under the 1858 legislation in the event of such emergency, requested sanction from the Provincial Council for any expenditure which urgency might ‘demand him to exercise in order to protect property’. 6
In the Council the Superintendent was strongly supported by his ally William Cutten, a businessman who dispelled ‘storm in a teacup’ arguments by noting that even if the Tuapeka field were nothing more than another Lindis, most of whose diggers did indeed rush with the mounted police detachment to the new field, it was already too late to prevent a large influx from other provinces and from Australia. Moreover, if the diggings proved poor there would be large number of jobless, destitute men to police; only two days before, Dunedin workmen made unemployed by the recession had demonstrated in a manner alarming to the state. The Council therefore resolved to give the Superintendent power to ‘take such action which ‘as to him may seem fit’ to ensure such factors as the ‘maintenance of social order over an increased population, the safe conveyance of gold. In a decision that was to have enormous consequences, the Council authorised the immediate employment of an Inspector of Police, an officer at which level the Victorian government after its discussions with Fenwick was prepared to release. 7
Almost at once Richardson wrote to the Chief Commissioner of Police in Victoria, Frederick Charles Standish, offering the position of head of police in Otago to the officer who had been highly recommended by his government, St John Branigan. At £3OO the proffered salary was half as much again as Shepherd’s, and Branigan would be allowed free passage for himself and his family as well as free quarters and allowances. The Superintendent also exercised the powers of discretion given him. ‘As it is not improbable that our Police must be greatly increased shortly owing to the existence of a paying Gold field’, Richardson wrote, T should be obliged if you would select 2 trustworthy and efficient privates of police who will doubtless in a short period receive promotion should our expectations be realized.’ Although the idea of a specialist detective was now dropped, he requested that any presence of ‘undesirable’ characters amongst the expected exodus from Melbourne en route to Otago be notified to the Dunedin authorities. 8
There had been a certain amount of opposition to the idea of importing a Victorian chief of police, particularly from influential persons who feared that the adverse consequences of a rush would outweigh its economic benefits and who hoped that the whole new
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state of affairs would quickly fade away. ‘The population comes and goes, like flocks of birds’, a New Zealand observer had noted of the Victorian goldfields, expressing fearful sentiments about the extractive industry which were commonplace among fellow colonists of wealth and power. ‘This state of unfixedness is an insuperable bar to any effective measures of good. It is impossible to civilise nomadic tribes.’ The disquietude of Otago ‘Old Identities’ (so named in the mocking language of goldfields balladeer Charles R Thatcher) tended to be expressed in unease over the demotion—or, as was hinted by the government, the intended supersession—of their Chief Constable. Shepherd, who had ‘served the public so faithfully’, was elevated by such circles to represent a symbol of pre-goldfields Otago.
The criticisms of the government’s policing intentions implied a desperate hope that the disruption of the province would be neither too severe nor too prolonged: Shepherd had coped with a ‘wayward and unruly’ addition to the population in the last few years, had been a ‘mighty force’ in controlling it, and could continue to deal with any forthcoming problems of order. Ulterior motives were ascribed to his being ‘cast adrift like an old shoe by the martinet policy of our new Government’. Cutten for example had several times been taken before court by the police and fined for ‘allowing his dairy cows to vegetate, feed, and fatten on the rich cabbage gardens of the Dunedinites’; he and other politicians with interests in public houses were said to be upset about the rigid police enforcement of licensing laws during Shepherd’s professionalisation drive. The Chief Constable, it was claimed, was allegedly guilty only of ‘want of toadyism’ and if he were allowed to select ‘his own picked additional men’ he would keep order as well as could any Victorian officer. 8
Whatever the truth of the allegations Shepherd, for all the modernisation of the Otago police to permit it to cope with the increased problems of order in the later 1850s and the recession at the turn of the decade, did not possess the expertise of the Victorian police officer in controlling gold-generated turbulence. Moreover it was too late for anyone to attempt to prevent the Gabriels Gully diggings at Tuapeka from becoming ‘world-famed’. By mid July, just prior to its expansion to Waitahuna, there were 1200 men on the field; by the end of that month, after a surge back towards Gabriels at Weatherstons, 2000 men crowded the Tuapeka diggings. Shepherd had little choice but to acknowledge that he and his methods were anachronistic. Pre-empting a humiliating supplanting by Branigan, he resigned in order to return to farming, although agreeing to remain as Chief Constable until the arrival of
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the new head of police. The government promised resources for the establishment of an interim policing detachment at the diggings. 10
One of Shepherd’s significant transitional problems in attempting to marshal the stampede towards a gold-dominated economy was that of coping with the response of the provincial police themselves to the new spirit of restlessness which had pervaded Otago upon the opening of even the Lindis field. As the authorities had feared, a general societal defiance of discipline had emerged and this affected the police as well. Late in May Dunedin privates petitioned for higher wages and travel allowances, and—given the necessity of their ‘maintaining a respectable appearance when on duty’ and the government’s failure to provide them with uniforms—for a clothing allowance. Recognising that resistance might be counter-productive in this period of crisis, Shepherd actually backed their demands (although opting for an imported issue uniform rather than for an allowance). He also added some of his own demands on behalf of his men, and this and the relative ‘softness’ of the force’s disciplinary regime—constables were able to decline transfer, for example—confirmed to Richardson’s satisfaction his initial assessment that the Chief Constable’s outlook was out of harmony with the needs of the times: there was neither unionisation nor choice of stationing in the Victorian police."
As the outflow of the labour force from Dunedin to the Tuapeka diggings gained rapid momentum, however, the police were thereby given a greater degree of bargaining power. The entire force threatened to resign unless it received an immediate pay rise in order to counter the inflationary consequences of the rush. Since it would be impossible to replace all the policemen at once, Shepherd had no choice but on 9 July to reiterate his recommendation for an increase ‘so as to retain them for a time at least until other arrangements can be made’. Certainly since several had renewed their contracts only that April the government could, technically, have declined their resignations. But deserting police could easily mingle with the diggers, there would in any case be no replacement privates of suitable calibre able to track them down, and those unwilling to defect would still be reluctant and therefore inefficient policemen. The government grudgingly offered constables, along with other minor state employees, a 25 percent rise. 12
This was insufficient. Four of the men whose contracts were soon to expire were still determined to resign in search of gold, the others remained discontented. The Chief Constable —having nothing to lose—lectured the Superintendent that ‘it would have been advisable to have given the men an advance corresponding to the advance in the price of Provisions, Firewood etc. Firewood alone as
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your Honor will be aware is doubled in price viz from 30/- to 60/per cord.’ There should, Shepherd claimed, have been a 50 percent wage rise: T regret the loss of men who are acquainted with the Country, there can be nothing more annoying than Strangers in the Police.’ To retain experienced men and to attract newcomers of worth to the expanded force upon which it had just agreed, the government was forced later in July to concede a huge pay rise which took privates up 60 percent to 10s per day, corporals to 11s and sergeants to 12s 6d. 13
To arm the envisaged goldfields detachment Shepherd had to recall the revolvers and swords that he had sent to the headquarters of the Lindis force at Oamaru, since men heading for the Tuapeka new diggings had bought out existing supplies in the capital; additional police weaponry would be imported from Melbourne. Meanwhile Richardson visited the new diggings to assess the situation. As was the custom the miners had formed their own police and government. Chaired by the discoverer of the field, a man of Californian and Victorian experience, a committee supplemented the token police presence, ensuring fair distribution of supplies, keeping spirits away from the area and generally maintaining order to the satisfaction of the Superintendent. But its members were anxious, they told Richardson, for the state to intervene definitively and release them for full-time mining, particularly as it was expected that shortly the ‘evil disposed and idle will find their way’ to the diggings. It was clear too that hard liquor would soon make an appearance; ‘a few reckless men’, jealous of their neighbours, would rob, even murder, it was confidently predicted. Richardson agreed that when the main police detachment arrived it would operate, inter alia, a code of mining and related conduct based upon that drawn up by the miners. 1 *
Central Government had confirmed its delegation of control of the Otago goldfields to the provincial administration, and on 24 July 1861 Richardson’s plans were accepted by the provincial executive. Under the 1858 Gold Fields Act a Commissioner with overriding powers was to be appointed, and Strode had been selected for the prestigious position at a salary of £5OO, another step along the path to his final destination of wealthy runholder. Goldfields policing was to be organisationally separated from the provincial police; Strode would head, among other institutions, a ‘Goldfields Police Department’ consisting initially of a sergeant, corporal and six privates, all of whom were to receive the new provincial police rates of pay and ‘in addition the difference between the price of provisions in Dunedin and the price on the diggings’. Members of
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
this force would be seconded from the provincial police, and Sergeant Outram was sent to Tuapeka to make firm arrangements for the goldfields police station. By the end of August all of the detachment’s privates—although few of the station’s furnishings—had arrived, extra staff having been gained through advertising for men who, aged from 25 to 35 years, would be suitable for the rigours of the type of policing that lay ahead.“
Despite its calling in of policing experts from across the Tasman, the government had learnt a vital lesson from unsatisfactory elements of the Victorian experience. The goldfields policemen in that colony had been renowned for ‘overbearing conduct’ which verged at times upon ‘savagery and sadism’, the various reports agreeing that they had been brutal, unjust and hated by the diggings populace. Yet their ‘bouncing, bullying, and swearing’ demeanour and repressive activities would not by themselves have provoked endemic social resistance —culminating in the armed insurrection of the Eureka Stockade—had not the police been responsible for collecting mining and other licence fees that were oppressively exorbitant and therefore avoided by the diggings populace wherever possible. Even goldfields officials acknowledged that it was ‘hardly congenial to British feelings to have a tax or fee collected at the point of the bayonet’. Furthermore, since the Victorian constables themselves received half of the fines imposed upon licenceevaders and slygrog sellers police perjury was widespread. The Otago government, while wishing to use Victorian policing expertise, wisely decided that its goldfields police would collect neither licence fees nor rewards. Moreover a further result of wishing to avoid the stigma which had been attached to the Victorian police was a decision that the police presence would be as low key as possible in other respects as well; one of the corollaries of this was that for general protection of property, and in cases of emergencies, all shopkeepers and traders on the fields were to be sworn in as unpaid special constables when they collected their operating licences, thus creating a large corpus of potential help for the handful of police at the diggings. 16
The government realised within a fortnight of this decision however that civilians were of little use as goldfields police, and that even the best specials might not be capable of adjudicating boundary disputes or of preventing the increasing practice of ‘claim jumping’ by a few strong parties of diggers. It therefore altered the rules so that such appointments were to be made at Strode’s discretion. As the first police reinforcements arrived the prevalence of disorder was increasing as a result of the widespread selling of poor
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quality slygrog, there being no legal alcohol sales until October. There would clearly have to be more police than initially planned. Moreover the unofficial miners’ regime, decreasingly able to cope, disbanded itself upon the arrival of the main body of police and government agents, at the very time when it was becoming clear from the poor response to continued advertising that local recruiting of policemen of any adequacy for the provincial goldfields police was practically impossible. Richardson and the executive had as early as 6 August taken a decision of great significance: because of the events which had ‘so disorganised our society’ Standish would be requested to send across additional numbers of Victorian policemen as a ‘nucleus for further organization’ of the Otago police. Personnel as well as methods would be imported into the province from Victoria."
Branigan was to find awaiting him, as well as the goldfields police under Strode, another autonomous seconded police unit, the ‘Gold Escort’. This consisted of a replication in numbers and rank of the initially planned ‘Goldfields Police Department’ but with the addition that it was headed by a Sub-Inspector with salary—if not status —equal to that offered to Branigan, It was to operate on military lines, the man chosen for the position having been recently appointed Adjutant of the local militia, Lieutenant William James Balfour Junor. Although the escort was a separate institution from the goldfields police, Junor was responsible to the Goldfield Commissioner’s Department, Only a year before, Shepherd’s police had been issued with batons for the first time; now the escort police were to be armed with carbines, revolvers and sabres, and like the goldfields police they were to have ‘distinguishable’ blue uniforms with scarlet beading on trousers, coat and cap. 18
The service had already begun by the time that the executive finally approved the details of the escort arrangements in early August. The first escort in July had comprised a ‘rag-tag’ of untrained men and horses, the escort police ‘wanting in that soldierly appearance which inspires respect’. There was as yet no coach road into the diggings, and the last section of the journey had to be undertaken by packhorse. On arrival at Tuapeka the escort constables had to go from door to door seeking food and lodging like a ‘lot of houseless, homeless wanderers’. They were subjected to great ridicule both at Tuapeka and back in Dunedin for the contrast between the image presented by their new uniforms, and the impression of incompetence shown by men hardly fit, it was believed, to wear them. Moreover since the government refused to take any responsibility for loss of bullion, and it appeared that the escort was quite capable of losing gold to the highwaymen expected
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any day from Victoria and New South Wales, most diggers preferred to carry their own gold out despite the free nature of the service offered. 19
By the third run, however, the escort police had become more efficient. With their presence now perceived to be of benefit, their ‘strutting about in their new donned uniform’ was more tolerated. This was especially so after the 3000 men at the diggings heard of the anticipated arrival from Australia of another 2000, a figure expected to include hardened criminals. Ominously Strode’s initial case upon arrival shortly before had been to deal with the first serious crime on the diggings, a stabbing, and in anticipation of a rash of similar happenings there was a panic of collective insecurity at Tuapeka. This feeling was exacerbated by (unfounded) expectations that Chinese diggers would also arrive and ‘swamp’ the Anglo-Saxons; anti-Chinese riots had been a feature of the Victorian goldfields and now, contemporaneously, had occurred at the infamous Lambing Flat in New South Wales. Otago miners flocked to the escort to get their gold out before disasters befell, and even after commandeering extra horses it could not cope with the amount offering. On 21 August it reached Dunedin ‘in gallant cavalcade order, there being including other riders from the diggings about twenty horses, two abreast’—and well over 5000 ounces of gold, doubling the total gold input into the capital. Unlike the earlier ridiculed efforts, the escort would now arrive at the official Gold Receiving Office at the Bank of New South Wales ‘with a great clatter of swords, a circle of troopers and pack horses round the Bank, loud words of command and intense excitement of the populace not to mention a Grenadier looking Constable with a musket and fixed bayonet who’, reported the bank manager, ‘does duty in consideration of our keeping the Government gold.’ The rush had ‘assumed enormous proportions’, and on 27 August SubInspector Junor was authorised to purchase a dozen more escort horses. 20
Upon his arrival aboard the Oscar in late August Branigan found the escort service and goldfields police struggling to handle the current necessary minimum level of duty and clearly inadequate for coping with future anticipated levels of disorder, and a provincial police floundering under Shepherd’s interim regime. The latter body was a curious hybrid of old and new: from 6 August all policemen had been operating under paramilitary-style contractual obligations, but only the day before that Shepherd had to all but beg Oamaru’s Corporal Simpson to move south, even offering him the choice between serving in Dunedin or on the escort. New men were being taken on without Shepherd having time or opportunity
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properly to investigate their suitability, and in any case poor reinforcements were deemed to be better than none at all. By the time that Simpson did leave Oamaru (where he had been living at the lockup), his assistant John Mackay had been promoted to corporal in charge and joined by a man who though a stranger to Shepherd was the only person to be found willing to be sworn in as a constable. Within a fortnight the small station, far from the nearest magistrate, was put to the test when two escaped convicts including a manslaughterer, for whose capture Maoris had been offered £lO, were intercepted at the northern port town. Typically, the incident had meanwhile meant neglect of regular duties.
Police resources were everywhere overstretched, and sometimes needed supplementing: in the Waihola area bordering Tuapeka, for example, landowners established preventive vigilante patrols. In July despite the increased turmoil on the streets the number of arrests in Dunedin had barely risen; by August the demoralised police, often working core shifts of 13 hours daily and subjected to the ‘insults and contumely of the lower order’ of Australian diggers, had little time or inclination to arrest and the rate actually fell. The men, especially those new to policing, were having to cope with ‘serious’ crime outside their ken, while one of the most experienced policemen, Alexander Mee, was absent, having followed William Brutton, an embezzling teller of the Dunedin branch of the Union Bank of Australia, across the Tasman in exemplary pursuit.’ 1
In order that they be retained, Shepherd’s best men had been rapidly promoted. Before Mee’s departure for Australia, for example, this former Lindis private had been promoted sergeant in charge of the police in Dunedin, where he controlled a corporal and five privates. The rest of the province, except for Tuapeka and the escort route, was now covered only by a corporal and private apiece at Port Chalmers and Oamaru. The police were conscious of the considerable opposition which had been expressed towards their rapid pay hike from 6s to a basic rate of 10s, on the surface the steepest general percentage police pay increase in New Zealand history. But even this rise had not kept pace with the market price of labour and they had therefore continued their pressure for higher wages, leading erstwhile supporters to abandon them because of what was described as so ‘monstrous a demand’. The government had conceded no further: they could resign and the public would ‘meet the difficulty until other remedial measures were organised’, viz the importation of Victorian policing methods and accompanying personnel. Most had stayed on, but were demoralised by their low standard of living, their increased workload and the insecurity of their job.”
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
The policemen’s futures were entirely in the hands of St John Branigan, upon whose arrival the Richardson government promptly discovered why Standish had been willing to relinquish so efficient an officer. Branigan would accept no curb upon his exercise of professional judgment, would consider no compromise. When the government had followed its initial request for a handful of Victorian policemen with another for further personnel, together with Victorian uniforms, equipment and rules, the idea had still been to adapt elements of that colony’s system to Otago. But Branigan would not accept the basics of the new tripartite police system which he found upon his arrival, nor most of the personnel whom he inherited: the Otago police system was to be thoroughly Victorianised, to become as near as possible a clone of the force that was often referred to in Australasia as the ‘most efficient body of police in existence’. 23
The two forces which rivalled Victoria’s for such repute were its progenitors, the Irish Constabulary and the London Metropolitan Police. The Victorian adaptation and melding of the two systems into a force suited to the conditions peculiar to an antipodean goldrush colony had meant of necessity that the ethos of overt coercion fundamental to the Constabulary had initially been given much greater stress than had the emergent ‘consensual’ ethos of Rowan and Mayne. Membership of the Irish force was described even decades later as ‘hardly distinguishable from a soldier’s life’, the main purpose of the Constabulary being to suppress various degrees of resistance by the majority of Irish people to the presence of the British state and the Anglo-Irish class which owned the bulk of the land. It was geared to intervention at any level, from individual violations of state-decreed norms through sectarian brawling and riots up to full-scale battle. Its rank and file were of working class and peasant stock, often ex-soldiers, its officers generally young upper-class Englishmen who fitted easily into the social world of the controlling class. Members of the latter were, in the view of a young officer who later rose to high Constabulary rank, the ‘most delightful of companions . . . hating work of any kind’. The Irish armed constable’s personal inclinations were often in strong contrast to the duties he had to perform on behalf of the socio-economic milieu to which his superiors belonged; this was particularly the case for the Roman Catholic member, a relative newcomer on the Irish paramilitary scene since original regulations had debarred entrance to Catholics. Later in the century, by which time most non-officers in the Constabulary were of the Catholic
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faith, a typical constable, the ‘son of a small farmer’, continued to have ‘no enthusiasm for the role of protector of the property of landlords’—but did the job effectively all the same.”
Around the time that the state of Victoria separated from New South Wales most of its policemen, particularly from its 50-man Melbourne force, were lost to the goldfields which had sprung into existence in the Ballarat area. With the military, a ‘few elderly men left in the city police’ and a handful of rural constables attempting to cope with the disorder inherent in gold fever, emergency recruiting was instituted —but able only to procure reinforcements that city Police Superintendent Evelyn Sturt characterised as the ‘most drunken set of men I ever met with’. To police the diggings however the Goldfields Commission managed to recruit men of less incompetent disposition who had been lured by the ‘payment by results’ reward system. The receipt of half of every fine imposed for slygrog offences and licence-evasion acted as a weighty supplement to the basic police wage. It was the reward-orientation of goldfields policemen, ensuring as it did the non-use of police discretionary power both to waive mining fees for unsuccessful diggers and to exempt non-diggers from fee payments, which had led at once to intense resistance to policemen from the diggings population.
‘The evidence of reliable men and the contemporary press is overwhelming that the rank and file of the police on the goldfields in 1852-3 were venal in the extreme, and where they were not bought off, their hunting duties were carried on with a vindictive spitefulness that justified any organised opposition’. From the earliest days of convictism, in any case, working people in Australia had detested the coercive forces of the state. They had reserved their most potent venom for men of their own ilk who had betrayed their ‘mates’ by joining—usually from similar economic desperation to that which was to drive Roman Catholics into the Irish Constabulary—the police or the military, an attitude which in turn led to harsher behaviour towards civilians by the members of the various Australian police forces. Such traditional anti-police feelings were now concentrated against the police presence on the goldfields, where ‘man-hunting’ in particular aroused the ‘universal hatred of the people’. 25
This public animosity ensured that the Victorian goldfields police would adopt, albeit in modified form, the ethos of overt coercion and the iron-tight military discipline of the Irish Constabulary, The state required, in effect, an ‘army of occupation’ to police the goldfields and to transfer gold through bushranger territory to Melbourne. A banking official who was to have utmost praise for New Zealand gold-era police recalled in contrast that
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Gold rush Otago, 1861-7
Victorian ‘traps’ would brandish their swords at harmless civilians, indulge in false arrests, treat ‘licence hunt’ victims ‘more like dogs than men’; after swoops by mounted troopers, whereupon the cry ‘Traps! Joe!’ would ring out as warnings from those first to spot the raid, diggers unfortunate enough to be caught without licences were ‘degraded by being driven before an armed force to gaol’ and by being then set on to roadworks to pay off fines often inflicted with scant recourse to equity. Englishmen did not like being treated as Irishmen and the continuing spectacle of ‘demoralising and ruffianly policemen’ treating diggers ‘like felons’ led to ever increasing opposition. 26
Such pressures had quickly led to the establishment in 1852 of a select committee, and Superintendent Sturt made submissions which became the basis of the committee’s recommendations; moderation of the activities of the goldfields police and streamlining of the colony’s policing operations, both doubly necessary in view of the general assessment that circumstances required the merging of the seven separate police systems of Victoria. The recommendations were accepted by the government and at the beginning of 1853 newly-appointed Chief Commissioner William Mitchell took over a consolidated and revamped colony-wide force. Other of Sturt’s proposals were also implemented. He had considered that part of the reason for the counter-productive ‘excesses’ of the goldfields police lay in the lack of a trained officer class, the biggest Victorian departure from the Irish Constabulary model. Although there was no substantial stratum of upper-class young Englishmen from which to choose, the Superintendent had been authorised to recruit 250 ‘nice, well-bred fellows’—many of them in the event exarmy—to form a ‘cadet’ intake. Military-style training was given to this future officer elite by ‘hard taskmaster’ Captain Jared Fox at Richmond Camp, and by early 1853 the cadets were sufficiently au fait with their responsibilities to be sent off to the diggings around Ballarat. Other cadet intakes followed and, although ‘licence hunts’ continued, members of the new police elite, particularly as they rose to higher ranks, managed to alleviate at least some of the bitterness at the police/diggers interface. 27
Sturt’s other major contribution to the unified Victorian police was modernisation of the beat system of Melbourne by the importation of an Inspector, three NCOs and 50 rank and file from London. The newcomers, signed up for 10 years in return for their free passage, arrived on 1 May 1853 under Inspector Samuel Freeman, who mapped the city into beats and sections organised fully on the ‘semi-military lines’ of the current Metropolitan force. The new system made the Victorian capital’s police famous. ‘There is
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not, probably, a city in the world, not excepting even London, the streets of which are so efficiently guarded night and day as those of Melbourne.’ Accompanying the importation of personnel and method came the Rowan and Mayne criterion of ‘acceptability’, which gradually spread out to the smaller Victorian towns as Freeman’s beat system took root beyond the capital. It was not however to become in colonial conditions as overriding a principle as it was in London, despite its incorporation in the famous Victorian Manual of Police Regulations of 1856. Control of first the Melbourne police and then (from 1854 to 1858) of the entire Victorian force by Captain Charles MacMahon, regarded by many as ‘too much of a martinet’, ensured the retention of tight discipline over and by the police. They were not allowed to forget their ultimate purpose, that of containing collective hostility to the established order; John Sadleir was to recall an incident after his cadetship when as a 21 year old Sub-Inspector he controlled a large body of police standing by at barracks lest an anti-government demonstration become violent. 28
Overt coercion remained in still higher profile on the goldfields, where a near-rebellion by miners over licence-hunts was repressed by troops in late 1853. Despite some lowering of absurdly high mining fees, licence hunts not only continued but were stepped up by the orders of Governor Sir Charles Hotham in September 1854. It was consequent upon this that on 3 December armed rebellion by Ballarat miners broke out at the Eureka Stockade, and a police and military attack on the position led to the deaths of well over three dozen people, mainly diggers and their allies. The police ‘committed many acts of wanton cruelty’ including, noted a coroner’s jury, murdering ‘unarmed and innocent persons of both sexes’ far from the stockade. In the investigations that followed observers generally stressed provocation by the police, and at the ensuing trial of 13 insurrectionists for treason all were acquitted. The authorities had learnt a lesson: goldfields administration became more ‘benevolent’, licence fees were further lowered and policemen were under orders to take a less coercive profile, a factor also reflected in the 1856 regulations. Irish Constabulary-style enforcement in Victoria, then, had been mellowing from the time of the reorganisation of 1853 and especially after Eureka. Captain Standish, Chief Commissioner from 1858 to 1880 and born of a ‘high-class English county family’, furthered this evolution of the police in the direction of its becoming a less manifestly oppressive force, the result partly of the dispersal of settlement into the countryside having necessitated a reorientation of barracks detachments towards small, even one-man, stations in the interior. 21
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
Given both the infamy of past extremes of Victorian police behaviour and the current process of gradual movement in that colony away from the extreme, coercive end of the continuum of control, Branigan was to stress in Otago that arms should be used only in ‘unavoidable necessity’, that on beat duty the ‘baton is the weapon to which the constable should have recourse, and even the use of this should be avoided as much as possible, as good temper will generally effect more than the use of violent measures,’ Despite their emphasis on internal discipline, sections of MacMahon’s 1856 regulations, under which the reconstituted Otago force operated, were suffused with the consensual doctrines of Rowan and Mayne; in particular they taught that police efficiency depended upon the extent of information that the police could obtain, this in turn depending upon the support of as many sectors of the populace as possible—or at least on the alienating of as few people in ‘targeted’ sectors as possible. 30
It must be stressed, however, that even the post-Eureka mellowing of the Victorian police had been only relative, and certainly uneven. Standish was not yet fully the indolent, ‘free-and-easy personality’ whose later astonishingly inept handling of the Ned Kelly insurrection was to bring about his downfall. A tough army background had paved the way for the difficult positions of Assistant Commissioner of Goldfields at Sandhurst and then Protector of Chinese which he had held prior to his police appointment. Moreover when the Victorian goldfields policing system was imported to the New South Wales goldfields it was remodified in the direction of overt repression. A not untypical report of the use of the ‘extraordinary powers’ wielded by such goldfields police was an account of the police procuring for a suspected thief and slygrogger a year’s imprisonment as a ‘rogue and vagabond’, whereupon the prisoner’s dwelling was burnt down by the constables, his wife and children made homeless. The new Otago policing regime was not unaffected by the New South Wales restatement of the coercive policing ethos, and in any case the objective conditions prevalent at new rushes demanded some asperity of state social control methods. Branigan was to pay great attention to importing large reserve quantities of firearms for the Otago force, and consistently defended policing methods which were resented by large sectors of the provincial population as ‘unfair’. If a house suspected of harbouring thieves was searched to no avail, he instructed, the police upon leaving were to pretend that they considered the occupants innocent—but were then to swoop again a week later ‘and ten to one but you succeed’. Such methods reminded diggers of the early days of the Victorian goldfields, a period when a typical
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occurrence would be for the police to don working clothes and stage a mock fight in order to attract an audience which would then be literally as well as figuratively held captive by the ‘traps’. 31
St John Branigan’s birth in humble circumstances in Ireland in 1824 had led him to an early career as a soldier. He left the 45th Regiment in Cape Colony in order to join the local militarised police, in which organisation his ruthless authoritarianism had been rewarded by a rapid rise to commissioned officer rank. After being wounded in the ‘Kaffir Wars’ of the early 1850s Branigan had turned entrepreneur in an attempt to take advantage of the shortage of merchandise in early goldrush Victoria. When the riches expected to accrue from the importation of a shipload of goods from South Africa to Melbourne did not materialise, he returned to policing and entered the Victorian officer-cadet course in November 1854, being promoted in June 1856 to the rank of Sub-Inspector. During the period prior to his Otago appointment he had been working under the control of Freeman in Melbourne, but because of the decline of the Victorian goldfields and hence of the colony’s economy government spending cuts were implemented which severely affected its police. It was for this reason that Standish, under orders to reduce his staff (which had peaked at a membership of 1343) was prepared to release men for service in Otago; and that Branigan was prepared to chance his luck across the Tasman, for he was already at the top of the Sub-Inspectors’ rank and pay scale with no foreseeable chances of further promotion in the declining Victorian force. 32
From the beginning of September 1861 the newly designated Inspector Branigan set to work in Otago. In a phenomenon practically unique in New Zealand policing history the government provided him with nearly everything that he requested, beginning with a £lOOO order for police equipment from Melbourne, particularly for the purchase of arms, uniforms and escort wagons. The provincial politicians had at once realised that they could scarcely afford to lose Branigan’s expertise and feverish energy, but were also aware that he had been given leave of absence for up to a year from the Victorian Police so could return at any time that he wished. On Richardson’s advice the Executive Council on 9 September created for Branigan the new title of Commissioner of Police, increasing his salary to £4OO and backdating his appointment to 20 August. The government was perfectly willing, also, to accede to his determination to rely upon the imported men from Victoria as the core
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of his force. Shepherd’s men remained on sufferance, compelled to prove themselves capable of adjusting. Corporal David Kilgour of Port Chalmers, for example, had soon to hand charge of his station to Sergeant John Chapman from Victoria and join the Dunedin staff ‘for the purpose of being drilled and undergoing instructions’, but he was not to last; nor were any of the old force except Corporal Thomas Blatch, who suffered demotion in the process. 33
As part of the deal with Richardson Commissioner Branigan had insisted that he be in control of all police in the province, and it had been a simple enough matter to remove from Strode (due soon to resign in any case) control of the police at Tuapeka and of the escort. However Branigan was still left with a second-in-command, Sub-Inspector Junor, who did not have Victorian experience, and he set about driving him from the force. Branding the escort arrangements ‘defective’, the new Commissioner persecuted Junor for not following to the letter the strict new paperwork procedures which he had just imported from Melbourne; he forced the government to reprimand his subordinate and punish him by implementing a Sub-Inspectorial pay cut, and he heaped large amounts of extra work on the Sub-Inspector as well. Not only had Junor to both control and travel with the escort, but also whenever he was in Dunedin he was now obliged to lodge near police headquarters in order to be on call at all times and to carry out supervision of town policing. He resigned a month after Branigan’s appointment to the Commissionership. 3 *
In Junor’s place two officer appointments were secured by the head of police. The senior of these, to be assigned as policeman number 2 in the new Provincial Police Force, was Branigan’s close friend and colleague, 30 year old Jackson Keddell. Although English and Anglican rather than Irish and Catholic, Keddell’s career was similar to that of his superior: army service, Victorian police, rapid rise to commissioned officer rank. On leave of absence from the Victorian force, he had come privately with Branigan to the province to sound out prospects. The Commissioner secured a backdating of Keddell’s appointment as Sub-Inspector in Otago to 20 August, the date on which the pair had left Melbourne along with the two policemen who had been originally sanctioned, Peter Sheridan and Hugh Bracken (whose terms of employment also applied from the day they left Victoria). The only hitch in proceedings was that Keddell had to accept the reduced Sub-Inspectorship salary of £250, but after he was placed in charge of the goldfields district of Tuapeka and Waitahuna as well as of the escort Branigan quickly secured a rise in his salary to £300.“
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On the same day that Keddell entered the force, 9 October, Branigan created a second but junior Sub-Inspectorship for William Nixon Morton, a choice which revealed a lack of judgment of character on Branigan’s part. Captain Standish later admitted, in reference to Morton, to being ‘rather glad when Branigan induced him to leave Victoria for Otago’ for in his assessment the man had been ‘always eccentric and betrayed a morbid disposition ; the Victorian police chief had in fact recommended him to Branigan as good material for promotion in order to be rid of him. The new Otago head of police however needed someone who could help him replicate the Victorian police, and Morton sufficed. The new appointee was to take charge of the ‘Treasury Escort’, and his ‘services when not so employed will be available for visiting and inspecting the outlying stations and other General Police duties’; he was also to secure the setting up of a ‘Police and intermediate Escort Station’ at Tokomairiro (later Milton) on the road between Dunedin and the diggings in order to service the escort and protect local farmers from depradations by refractory travellers. 3 *
Branigan had been delegated the unprecedented authority of dealing directly with the Victorian authorities on the subject of securing authorised policing requirements. As for manpower, the provincial state had on 8 August followed up its initial request for a head of police and two or three helpers by asking Standish for two sergeants, six mounted constables and an equal number of foot constables. Late that month a party headed by Mounted Sergeant Morton and Foot Sergeant John Chapman left Melbourne for Otago in response. The arrival of this ‘small but efficient body’ of men was greeted with relief by the state in the ‘unparalleled excitement’ prevalent in the province by September: for the Superintendent they were ‘all that I could wish’. But by the middle of the month it was clear to the politicians that the Victorian policemen who had superseded the old force were sufficient in number to constitute no more than a ‘basis for the ready formation of an effective corps’. Thus Branigan gained permission to import another Victorian contingent similar in size to the party which had been brought across by Morton and Chapman. More policemen from Victoria were later to follow, and news quickly spread around New Zealand that Otago was sparing no expense to keep order on the goldfields and elsewhere in the province by attempting to ensure the sine qua non of surveillance/patrol policing, a preventive profile that suggested ‘almost certainty of detection’ of transgressors. 37
At the same time, the Commissioner paid careful attention to setting up a tight disciplinary hierarchy throughout his force. Sur-
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
veillance by police over population could best be secured through panoptic surveillance by superior police ranks over their subordinates. As soon as supplies of ‘occurrence books’ arrived from Victoria, for example, entries were compiled daily at each station so that each constable’s every significant move was on record; in turn each policeman in charge of a station forwarded a weekly report to headquarters. Within both the rank of constable and NCO there existed three classes, with ascendance to second or first class depending upon promotion. The crucial figure in the hierarchy of discipline and surveillance was the NCO, who trained and watched the privates and was also supposed to collect and pass on any ‘information on any point’ likely to be required by his superiors in the chain of command. ‘lt is of great importance that Government should receive immediate intelligence of every occurrence involving the safety of personal property, or the maintenance of the public peace.’ At each step of the hierarchy policemen were required to furnish concise reports of all untoward events, a system which—via the zenithal Commissioner —enabled the ‘Government to form a correct opinion’ upon their seriousness and any appropriate state response. 38
Within this hierarchy of command, specialised functions were given organisational recognition. Previously detection in Otago had been as elsewhere in the colony an ad hoc function of ordinary policing, its only formal differentiation in the province having been the 1857 permission given Shepherd to swear in a constable to ‘act as a detective’ on roving commission in the north of the province to prevent slygrog sales. In a modern force, the element of detection that was inherent in patrol-surveillance needed complementing. Branigan quickly chose detectives from among his imported men and applied to them Victorian detective regulations. They were to be the elite of the force, intended to infill the spaces patrolmen could not reach and thereby to ensure the validity of ‘almost certain detection’, and they were paid accordingly. To complement the overall hierarchy of discipline the detective rank too was divided into three classes. There was further specialisation when the first half dozen detectives, divided between Tuapeka and Dunedin, were supplemented in late 1861 by two goldfields ‘revenue constables’ whose job was specifically to detect and prosecute slygrog sellers. This experiment, replete with inveigling procedures, was however soon abandoned when the hostility that it provoked amongst the diggers made the effort counter-productive. Moreover Superintendent Richardson’s application of the lesson of Eureka by refusing to allow the Otago police to be the collection and enforcement agents of miners’ licensing had meant that, although at first the cry
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
‘Joe’ echoed around the gullies whenever Branigan’s men appeared, it soon became no more than an announcement of any unusual happening of any variety.
Branigan was soon to further this lessening of non-acceptability by deliberately moderating behaviour in many areas of police work—responding to magisterial warnings against the tricking of arrestees into implicating themselves, for example. Particular attention needed to be paid to detective practices, he soon perceived, and the non-uniformed men were made subject to the orders of the uniformed policemen in charge of the stations at which they were posted (although retained at higher rates of pay than those given to their equivalent uniformed ranks). Moreover the Commissioner himself continued to keep a watching brief on the situation. When intelligence operations on the diggings led to widespread anger at the spectacle of the ‘escort cart laden with cases and bottles’ confiscated from slygroggers, the Otago Daily Times commented that ‘by employing the police in this service their power to check rowdyism is weakened and they are looked upon as a species of being against whom it is the duty of every man to raise his hand.... The experience of the futile efforts of the police in Victoria to put down sly grog-selling should convince the “powers that be” in New Zealand that they need not hope to be successful.’ In response Branigan adjusted the Otago position on the coercive continuum: the police attitude towards illegal grog selling on the diggings was moderated, it being widely publicised that ‘sly-grog persecution’ was instead now the duty of the Inspector of Distilleries. 39
All the same, such adjustments were neither great nor—as yet—many. The force was founded consciously to operate in the vicinity of the position occupied by the Irish Constabulary on the coercive continuum. Thus endemic friction between police and public was inevitable, at least until an ‘acceptable’ level of order and regularity had pervaded significant sectors of population in the province. Police continued to use informers to procure slygrog convictions from time to time, a device which prompted the most respectable of commentators to call for the tarring and feathering of such ‘obnoxious’ people. ‘Entrapment’ was a mode of procedure which was particularly despised by civilians. After Detective Joseph Tuckwell recognised two well-known Melbourne thieves amongst Dunedin crowds, they were surveilled as a prelude to a police operation to remove them from circulation. At the Provincial Saleyards Detective Robert Lambert ostentatiously flaunted money to ensure—successfully—that his pockets were picked, but when plain-clothes policemen moved in and the two professionals resisted arrest, only
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
the personal intervention of Branigan prevented their rescue by the angry crowd. Several hundred people followed the detectives and their prisoners to the lockup, and were ‘with difficulty kept off the officers’. Of course hostility to covert surveillance operations, particularly those involving enticement, was not unique to Otago, with even the judiciary railing against the latter practice from time to time in various parts of the colony. But the problem was exacerbated by the social turmoil of early goldfields Otago and by aspects of the police methods employed to contain it.“
Not all imports of the Victorian police system were resisted as oppressive by the mass of people; the transplant of one institution indeed received general welcome. Otago Harbour had become choked with ships unloading stores and disembarking sufficient people to more than double the province’s population by the end of the year to 30,000. The chaos meant that both people and profits suffered: deserting seamen meant problems of future supply of necessities to the province, for example. Thus it was widely appreciated when in mid September Branigan gained permission to establish a ‘Water Police Force’ based at Port Chalmers. The first, temporary, coxswain was Constable Dow, who as a member of the old force was soon to be reprimanded by Branigan for being soft on prisoners; he and his boat’s crew of five (including a reserve) reported to Sergeant Chapman, whose placement in charge of Port Chalmers station indicated the seriousness with which shippingorientated duties were taken. Their major specific tasks, other than general functions of keeping order amongst shipping, seamen and immigrants, were to contain the smuggling of gold out of the province, to prevent an influx of ‘undesirables’ from Australia, and to curtail the opportunities for seamen to desert for the goldfields. This latter point was dramatised by the publication late in September of a letter from a Melbourne customs official warning the water police that two specialists in the ‘crimping of seamen’ were en route to Otago, a move which helped to legitimise the water constables in the eyes of numbers of the public."
Like detectives, who earned between 11s and 15s per day according to their classification, the water police were also paid at higher than standard rates as of right (in contradistinction to a Is hardship allowance for diggings and escort police), with water constables being given sergeants’ wages of 11s and 12s, for example. The job required experienced seamen, but sailors were seen as inhabiting a sector of society the majority of which was supposedly ‘notoriously addicted to irregularities’; the theory went that high wages alone would attract seamen of the impressive calibre required for exercising the degree of discretion given to water
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police. They were authorised for example to board ships at will or secure warrants to search shore premises for deserters. Owners of properties where deserters were found had themselves the onus of proving their innocence, and penalties for ‘harbouring’ runaway seamen were severe. Although in the event the provincial Ordinance which sanctioned the already-created water police was disallowed by the Governor owing to the Otago state’s arrogation of too much power, the water police continued to operate under Otago’s 1862 Police Regulation Ordinance—as did a smaller water police established on Lake Wakatipu late the following year to cope with shipping resulting from the new goldfields in that area."
At first the Port Chalmers water police operated from the hulk Thomas and Henry, which functioned too as an overflow gaol. For Monson’s institution had been really suited only to ‘our days of quiet simplicity’, and its big influx of unwilling guests with the beginning of the rushes had soon led to frequent escapes, despite the building of a seven foot fence around it. The hulk, which itself was the scene of some escapes, continued to take in a number of prisoners to ease the pressure upon Monson’s establishment until the gaol department was reorganised that November. A new gaoler renowned for his harshness introduced—in the criminal justice system’s equivalent of Braniganite reform—such measures as flogging as punishment for recalcitrant inmates, and soon had nearly a dozen staff to cope with his hundred or so charges. When the water police could divest themselves of responsibility for prisoners, and more so when they were able to abandon the Thomas and Henry for a shore-based station, it was with much relief. 43
Meanwhile, significant portions of Branigan’s and Keddell’s first weeks on the job had been spent in travelling through the region, especially on the goldfields, where the entertainment and supply shanties centred increasingly upon the new rush at Weatherstons rather than upon nearby Gabriels Gully. In later September, pending the appointment of the goldfields Sub-Inspector, Branigan had ‘dismounted’ Sergeant Outram and replaced him as policeman in charge with the Commissioner’s trusted friend Sergeant Hugh Bracken. The new incumbent, tasked with preparing the ground for the commissioned officer, was supplied with three ex-Victorian men to help keep order at the diggings and implement a Tegular system of patrol both by day and night’. The Commissioner ensured that a road suitable for wagons was soon pushed through to Tuapeka in order that a full Victorian-style escort could operate, and sent to Melbourne not only for escort-wagon equipment but also for the Victorian escort driver recently made redundant by the building of railways."
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
Along the road to Tuapeka armed guards investigated potential hiding places for any ‘attacking party’ and the ‘fine-looking disciplined body of men’ making up the escort police was exhorted not to ‘travel listlessly onwards without thinking of an attack’. ‘To watch the arrival of the escort is the only relaxation the busy folk of the town permit themselves; a considerable crowd always assembles as soon as they descry the cortege coming over the hills’ towards the provincial capital. The display seized the imagination of many Otagoites and, along with publicised feats of detection, greatly aided acceptance of Branigan’s police reforms. ‘Dunedin has secured the pick of the Victorian Constabulary force’, commented the Otago Daily Times when reporting the delivery of 21,000 ounces of gold by the escort police. The praise would have been less unstinting had Branigan not applied similar attention to depressing the turmoil of the streets of the Dunedin/Port Chalmers urban area: all ‘populous places’, particularly if they had commercial or servicing functions, were to gain significant police coverage. Moreover, to ensure that the policing vision did not become bifocused on just the capital and the goldfields, senior policemen would undertake expeditions into the countryside to investigate the altering patterns of population distribution and the possible necessity for establishing country stations. The escort servicing station at Tokomairiro grew quickly into the headquarters not only of the escort but also of a separate police district.* 6
It was hard to keep up with the volatility of a goldfields-orien-tated population, nevertheless, and Branigan’s problems increased as a result of the almost inevitable disillusionment that set in amongst the gold seekers after the early heady days of the rush. Inexperienced miners, disappointed that nuggets were not to be readily found on or just under the ground, had quickly begun to drift back to the capital, particularly in the wake of a statement by Richardson on 28 September warning against over-expectation. Men with sufficient wherewithal began in October to leave for Australia, some new arrivals never going beyond the wharf area; penniless would-be miners who were forced to remain behind created heightened problems of urban order, and a thousand unemployed miners agitated to be provided with public works employment. Entire areas of Dunedin consisted of people living hopelessly under canvas along half-formed streets, surviving on occasional work or by scrounging and petty theft. Surburban residents, such as those in Caversham, who desired a police presence to guard their property from passing diggers or from the urban poor had themselves to undertake informal patrol measures. The only other choice given them was to pay half the cost of a local
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
police establishment, for the focus of Branigan’s policemen needed to be more than ever before on the commercial centre, where property was concentrated and people crowded. 46
Many observers commented on the rapid change that had come over Otago’s policing. It was said that at one time Dunedin constables, ‘to dispel the ennui which beset them, were obliged to use diligent search after any stray cow’ which might be cropping ‘the exuberant pasture which covered our future roads’—or at most after slygrog sellers. Now this seemed ‘but a vision of the night, the fancy of a disordered brain’, replaced by a coercive surveillance both covert and overt —and far ranging. Whilst Branigan’s detectives infiltrated working men’s movements, ‘in the gloom of night is seen the gaunt spectre of the passing policeman, stern silent and impassive, who with ready carbine instinctively convinces you that at a moment’s notice he could drill a whole in your jacket.’ The Victorian admixture of Metropolitan and Irish methods had been indeed transplanted to Otago, although not without public dissent. Quite apart from that expressed amongst ‘targeted’ sectors of society, there was other, more ‘respectable’, opposition. Foundation policing expenses had amounted to more than £5500, and nearly double that expenditure was anticipated for routine policing purposes during the first six months alone of the reconstituted Otago force: there were murmurs of discontent on grounds of cost. But a countervailing factor would ensure that such voices remained sotto voce."
The Expansion of Goldfields and Policing
From the beginning of the goldfields period the authorities and public—at least, those people influenced by and contributing to newspaper speculation—alike feared a major influx of hard-core professional criminals from the Australian colonies. Soon after taking office Commissioner Branigan followed up Richardson’s request to Standish for the provision of criminal intelligence by asking the Victorian, New South Wales and Tasmanian police to send him details of ‘any of the criminal class’ likely to be en route for Otago. His men, particularly the water police, were alerted to be watchful and intercept all known incoming Australian offenders. By early October the Commissioner was making enquiries across the Tasman about individual arrivals; by mid month Australian Police Gazettes, recording details of crimes and suspects, and specially prepared lists of offenders were being avidly studied in police stations throughout Otago. On 28 October New Zealand’s first
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Gold rush Otago, 1861-7
Police Gazette was published from the Commissioner’s office. Modelled on that of Victoria, the circular was to be issued on a regular basis, initially fortnightly. At once it became a crucial instrument of surveillance and communication for the Otago police, and Branigan also sent it to other heads of police in New Zealand and Australia. Later the provinces of Canterbury, Southland and Auckland issued their own; in the post-provincial amalgamation of New Zealand forces a colony-wide Police Gazette was created and has continued to appear to this day.* 8
Those yearning for continuity with the ‘Arcadian simplicity’ of Otago’s past were jolted into consciousness that Branigan’s concerns about criminal arrivals were not entirely without foundation when on 19 October 1861 a West Taieri JP reported that a ‘most daring Highway Robbery under Arms was committed yesterday’ some two dozen miles from Dunedin. At the base of the Maungatua Range ‘seven men wearing crape on their faces and armed with two revolvers each stopped fifteen men who arrived from time to time on the spot, tied them first and then robbed them of all they possessed.’ Until now the most dramatic crime of the goldfields period had been that of the embezzling bank teller who had absconded to Australia, and the new incident was universally seen as signalling the arrival of the Australian professional criminal."
Henry Beresford Garrett, a ‘gentle’ bank robber released earlier that month from an Australian gaol, had upon arrival in Otago quickly gathered together a gang of like-minded new arrivals. At a hut along the road to the diggings the group listened to miners grown complacent by the hitherto absence of serious crime (a fact to which Strode testified on his retirement that month as Goldfields Commissioner) boasting about the amounts of gold that they carried. The following day the ‘Garrett gang’ retreated towards Dunedin in advance of the diggers and waylaid, one by one, those whom they knew to be carrying significant amounts of valuable property. The affair was given a further sensational tinge by reports of the bizarre way in which the victims were treated after being relieved of gold and possessions totalling £400; whilst tied to trees in a gully they were treated kindly, with pipes, tea and grog provided.™
Far from this being reassuring, the self-confidence of what was soon labelled as the ‘bushranging gang’ confirmed for Otagoites that the robbers were professionals from across the Tasman, and there was panic. Far from viewing Branigan’s forces as overkill, previous critics now linked themselves with a new consensus which held that Otago’s policing resources were inadequate, particularly after the few mounted police available to gallop off in search of the
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
‘Garrett gang’ managed only to round up a few innocent diggers—along with James Nimon, a brand-new Dunedin policeman whom they did not recognise as a colleague. The gang’s sentry was not caught until the following month —to be gaoled for three years—and the only other of the ‘highwaymen’ to be brought before the Dunedin court was Garrett himself, arrested in Sydney late in the year. He was to be gaoled for eight years in May 1862, a prelude to spending most of his remaining quarter-century incarcerated in Dunedin and Lyttelton Gaols. 51
The alarums and excursions associated with the Maungatua holdup were put to profitable use by those who had all along urged that the highest possible level of coercive potential be obtained by the local state. A couple of days after the news of the affair reached Branigan he tested the water by requesting the immediate construction of wooden, Victorian-style prefabricated police buildings at the Great King Street headquarters of the force, at Waitahuna and Tuapeka, and at three important highway points. Agreement to this, and more, was quickly secured so that now half the province’s estimated expenditure would contribute to policing, the highest proportion of state spending on this item in the colony’s history. The Otago police would be allowed to expand to 11 sergeants (nine foot, two mounted), 45 constables (30 foot, 15 mounted), two escort grooms and an escort driver, six detectives and a water police of five constables headed by a sergeant. Many of the extra men were to be Victorians, and the force was to continue to operate under Victorian regulations.”
Although from Branigan’s point of view such a number of police was required as a result of the wider problem of general goldfieldsgenerated disorder, he had gained widespread acceptance for it from abetting a tangible fear that the Maungatua robbery presaged Otago becoming, in Superintendent Richardson’s words, the ‘converging point of the criminal element of the Australasian colonies’. Branigan actively fostered the post-Maungatua panic. Agitation in newspapers and elsewhere to ban even former convicts from entering Otago provided him with an ostensible incentive to submit almost immediately draft legislation based on Victorian law. He publicised key facets of it: persons suspected to have been originally transported to Australia and who had entered Otago after 1 August 1861 could be arrested on even oral testimony; had their sentences expired only within the last three years they could be deported or gaoled, their property confiscated; persons ‘harbouring’ them or bringing them into the province were also liable for stiff penalties.
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
The measure was enacted as the Criminals Ordinance of 31 October despite the Provincial Solicitor’s branding of it as ‘clearly unconstitutional and most tyrannical’, a view which the General Government upheld in disallowing the measure. As with the water police legislation the provincial politicians, acting in deference to Branigan, had taken upon themselves too much power. In later bitter wrangles over provincial and central state jurisdictions Superintendent Richardson threatened that Otago would abandon all responsibility for its own policing in the absence of General Government legislation to stop the ‘tide of convictism surging inwards from the neighbouring colonies’. Some individual postMaungatua incidents provided ammunition for such fears; there were a few armed robberies, and Sub-Inspector Keddell was himself held up at Waitahuna. Yet no ‘tide’ of criminals ever eventuated; all was anticipatory, based upon expectation and potential rather than upon actuality
Similarly reflective of the worst possible scenario of public disorder had been the Superintendent’s request to the General Government on 17 September for a hundred imperial troops to be stationed in his province. Although Commissioner Branigan had already been praised for having ‘placed the armed police force in a state of perfect and admirable efficiency’, the policemen at his initial disposal were few. Not only did the Otago authorities fear ‘riot’ from disappointed diggers who had returned to the capital, they also saw the need, pending a fully established police force, for ‘preserving the peace in that province, should it be threatened by the large influx of diggers now taking place there’. Such fears seemed confirmed when in November, coincident with the first major influx of diggers from New South Wales, news reached Otago of large-scale conflict between police and miners in that colony. When soldiers from the 70th Regiment arrived at Dunedin in response to Richardson’s submission even most diggers, the sector of society against whom their weapons were in reality aimed, were in general sufficiently influenced by the post-Maungatua panic to accept their presence as legitimate. In the event the ‘military occupation’ was superfluous. The only important aid to the civil power which the military carried out involved a few policing duties whilst Branigan whipped his now enlarged force into shape—the guarding of banks, for example. Although troops remained in Otago for 18 months, in response to wave after wave of gold rushes, they were never needed to subdue the populace and instead spent much of their time constructing roads and some of the time, as individuals, creating trouble for the police. 5 *
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Commissioner Branigan was readily able to ensure at least an acceptable minimum of control of society, even at its most turbulent, with a broad range of disciplinary devices available to his men. Chief amongst these was an ‘exceedingly stringent’ Vagrant Ordinance passed at his urging to ‘restrain the lawless portion of the population’. Police could now arrest as ‘idle and disorderly’ anyone whom they classed as beggar, habitual drunkard, prostitute, without visible means of support (i.e., most miners from time to time) and so forth; a single JP could pass sentence upon anyone who ‘shall not give a good account of his means of support’. With this Draconian measure policemen, in goldfields conditions, had no difficulty in detaining anyone whom they wished to check up on or to put temporarily out of action, Hugh Bracken arrested at Weatherstons a man ‘known to be a bad character’ and, although there was no specific charge against him, he was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment with hard labour under the anti-vagrancy legislation. Such harsh actions were not infrequent at first, though decreasingly necessary when after the initial turbulence had settled a relatively high level of order —for a goldfields province—prevailed. Soon influential opinion was generally satisfied with the ability of the police to ‘protect life and property’ in circumstances where most miners were prepared to obey approved codes of behaviour most of the time. Even after sending for troops Richardson testified that the diggers were ‘certainly the most orderly and respectable men it had been my good fortune to meet’. Most contemporary reports confirm, often to the surprise of the observers, a relatively ‘orderly’ way of life. 55
By mid November Branigan’s star had risen again after the relative fiasco of the aftermath of the Maungatua affair, with at least one observer already predicting that the Commissioner’s skills would ensure his elevation to the head of a unified New Zealand police. A legendary aura was already growing around the man who was soon said to have—in the words of his obituarist a dozen years later—‘brought the Otago Force to such a pitch of excellence that it was universally admitted to be one of the best not only in these colonies, but in the world.’ Operating from new quarters in Dunedin, including a separate detective office and proper stabling facilities, his men had a high and exceedingly ‘smart’ and efficacious profile. Yet their activities were openly, often crudely, coercive and they had a rapidly increasing stockpile of weaponry and ammunition upon which to draw if necessary —and with which they had to practise regularly. Accompanying this soldierly image, moreover, came some of the realities of life and work in a quasi-military context. 56
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
The background of the mistakenly apprehended Irishman James Nimon, for whom ‘soldiering was my hobby’, was typical of that of the new Otago policeman. He had arrived in Victoria in 1853 from military service in India and joined the police, which he discovered to be as severe in discipline and punishment—in Melbourne as well as at the diggings—as the army had been. A legend complementing that of Branigan grew up around the ex-Victorian constables of Otago; ‘athletes, hard riders, dead shots, strong fighters—the class of men one would expect to find in the Army’. But this was sheer romanticism, the actuality of policing work—and for that matter more so of soldiering—being normally quite different. Nimon’s family circumstances verged on the marginalised—alcoholic wife whom he disowned and left in Australia, children growing up in circumstances which caused him endless angst, a working life as a policeman that was sometime unpleasant, often tedious. Particularly from the end of the year when on the grounds of his Melbourne street experience he was made the Otago capital’s Inspector of Nuisances, Nimon’s long working days exemplified in extreme form the mundaneness of much of the policing experience. 51
Moreover prosaic policing duties did not mean even a relatively easy working and living environment. The conditions of policing in Victoria had been altering for some time, and many of the new Otago men did not welcome the transition from the comparative civilisation of their Australian policing conditions to the ‘want of comfort’ and ‘laborious duties’ of Otago. Some were lured away from Branigan’s force by prospects of a fortune in gold, or at least by the higher salaries offered by shopkeepers and traders who required staff who could double as security guards. When the resignation rate reached one every second day Branigan submitted that a pay rise was ‘absolutely essential’: from 1 December unprecedently high daily rates of 11s (foot) and 11s 6d (mounted) were paid to constables, with Is extra for those on escort or goldfields duty. These increases served to stabilise the force, together with the continuance of extraordinarily rapid promotions for Victorians. Not atypically, mounted constable Otto Paschen was promoted almost upon arrival to 1/c sergeant; two future commissioned officers—John Bevin and Andrew Thompson—gained rapid promotion from foot constable to 2/c sergeant, not the only policemen of later note to have had their careers greatly enhanced at the outset in such fashion. 5 *
Even those not selected for immediate promotion but who could meet a key requirement of advancement —literate report-writing—-had good reason to stay. Once the Victorian police had acquired a solid core of professional policemen at higher levels it had abol-
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ished the officer cadet scheme in favour of promotion from the ranks. In turn, any Otago vacancy (excluding the Commissionership) had by regulation to be filled from the next lowest rank, primarily on the basis of ‘efficiency and adaption for the particular vacancy’ while also taking into account seniority, length of service and good conduct. Under this regime a competent policeman able to please his superior, all-important in a force of strict hierarchy, would soon rise through classes and ranks. 59
By the end of 1861 a fully functioning policing system was operating at the two population foci: the provincial capital, and the mushrooming goldfields towns on the Tuapeka field which contained half of the province’s people. At the goldfields the main police station remained situated at the government ‘Camp’ in Gabriels Gully despite the coming and going of rushes and supply towns at nearby diggings—Weatherstons had surpassed Gabriels in size, and later the major centre would move to ‘The Junction’ of the two gullies, at Lawrence. The policemen at the diggings worked closely with the goldfields authorities, especially with (from October) Major Edward Croker at Gabriels and Captain William Baldwin at Waitahuna, the persons chosen by Richardson to succeed Strode as ‘Commissioners’. Not only was this an office unauthorised under the General Government’s delegation of control of goldfields to the Superintendent, hence their later reversion to the title ‘Warden’, but also the incumbents arrogated considerable powers to themselves, Croker in particular acting as if he were a Resident Magistrate rather than a non-stipendiary JP. The imposition of order had taken precedence over questions of legality in Strode’s time, and it was perceived that the need for this had not yet dissipated. By early 1862, however, when ‘Commissioner’ C Worthington was appointed at the new Waipori diggings, the police and government officials at the Tuapeka were satisfied that, in the circumstances, acceptable norms of behaviour had been established. So far was the initial emergency over that, under pressure from Branigan, formal links between police and goldfields judicial/ administrative officials were increasingly severed. 60
At this point Branigan had sufficient trustworthy men in positions of responsibility to enable him to tighten his surveillance network throughout the whole province. He split Otago into districts ‘each complete in itself’, its officer in charge responsible direct to the Police Commissioner. Branigan was himself able to travel extensively by placing the four stations in the Dunedin district in the hands of his third ex-Victorian commissioned officer, Thomas
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
King Weldon, an Irishman whom he appointed Sub-Inspector from 4 January 1862. One of the original cadet intake in Victoria, Weldon too had seen little chance of advancement amidst the retrenchment of that colony and had headed a new 10-man contingent of police therefrom, bringing the numbers of former Australian policemen in the Otago force to more than six dozen. His decision to move to Otago proved sound, for he gained great prestige superintending the headquarters district and was later to become one of the colony’s top policemen. The escort service was by now operated from the Tokomairiro district, whose five stations were under Keddell’s command; Morton remained in charge of the Tuapeka district, which now had four stations from which to control the 15,000 people on the diggings. The peaceful north, with its two ‘rural’ stations in the Waikouaiti district, was in the charge of an NCO. 61
In the provincial countryside an ‘organised system of patrols is carried out, which connects one station with another, throughout the populated portion’, Branigan could write by April 1862. Crucial intelligence was gained by calling at the homes of important settlers ‘to find out what is going on’ (in the words of the official instruction manual which was later produced), in return for which policemen were specifically ordered to prevent depredations to runholders’ property by diggers en route for the goldfields. The efficacy of the intelligence network was indicated by a number of dramatic events, beginning with that in November 1861 when Sam Perkins, the ‘Fortrose Liar’, tricked a great many diggers into following him to a bogus rush and there buying his stores. After the punishment—a number of lashings—decreed by a ‘popular court’ had begun, alerted police rode ‘furiously’ in and seized the prisoner, who was later gaoled for false pretences. 62
The element of ‘prevention’ inherent in country patrols, especially those amongst the diggings gullies, was (unlike in urban patrolling) effected by unpredictability, by irregular movement, journeys undertaken ‘without ostentation’, rides performed ‘silently’, constables liable to turn up anywhere at any time, often approaching by the most obscure routes. The ‘ill-disposed’, therefore, were thus unable to predict police movements, and would be deterred from committing offences against order and regularity. This was a reflection of the Irish rural patrol system, inherited in a modified form via Victoria, parent systems followed so faithfully as to ensure even the alteration by Branigan of Otago’s lowest rank from ‘private’ to ‘constable’—more a reference to the word ‘constabulary’ than to the common law office of constable. The country patrol operated not upon the high visibility method of the Metropolitan-style patrol but upon the population’s heightened consciousness of the
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full extent of the coercive capacity and outreach of the police. On their irregular journeys country patrolmen would drive home the point by arresting ‘disorderly and suspicious persons’ found at ‘unseasonable hours’, whilst small but effective enforcement detachments could be formed whenever necessary.“
Police intelligence and coercive capacities were also proven to general satisfaction by the breaking up of a ‘notorious gang of ruffians’ (the ‘Sullivan gang’) who operated from a gully near Weatherstons and specialised in ‘sticking up’ diggers. On 8 March 1862, after a man was robbed of £27 and an accommodation-tent proprietor fired upon, ‘information was given to the police and they at once determined on visiting the tent inhabited by these bad characters’. A police party headed by Sergeant-Major Hugh Bracken captured two of the men but in the ensuing melee, amidst a hail of shots, three others disappeared, two of whom ‘escaped across the ranges’. Intelligence sources led the police next morning to the pair—Richard Burgess (also called Richard Hill 64 ) and Thomas Kelly—who subsequently received six months’ imprisonment for possessing stolen weapons and three years’ hard labour for firing at Acting Sergeant Joseph Trimble with intent to kill. The case not only highlighted the detective/repressive capacity of the police, however. Its consequences also indicated the counter-pro-ductive potentialities of state coercion that violated an unwritten societal code of ‘fairness’; it was the police party which had first opened fire, and evidence of the alleged returned fire upon which the substantive sentence was based was at best flimsy. Although the authorities were satisfied because ‘trouble-makers’ were out of action for a long period to come, even some of the diggers upon whom the gang had preyed were uneasy. And the prisoners’ hatred for a society of which at least significant sectors had condoned their sentencing led them to vow to take a life for every lash received in gaol. Certainly their methods were far more callous after their release than before their capture, and soon after their departure from Dunedin Gaol they were to become New Zealand’s most infamous murderers. 65
The feting of the police after the capture focused attention on Bracken, whose career epitomised that of the fast rising young policemen under Branigan’s command. The 28 year old Irishman had, typically, been a soldier prior to joining the Victorian police and upon arrival in Otago he had been promoted from 1/c Sergeant to a short-lived rank of Senior Sergeant in November 1861, and to Sergeant-Major (classified as commissioned officer in status) in the new year. To encourage ‘sagacity and determination’ in the course of police duties Branigan instituted a silver Badge of Merit, and as
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a result of Bracken’s instant fame for capturing the ‘Sullivan gang’ he became its first recipient. As in most paramilitary forces, the Commissioner had also implemented a more important reward structure than that based upon kudos: monetary awards. For the capture of the gang, all of whom were gaoled for the accommoda-tion-tent robbery despite the paucity of evidence, the SergeantMajor received £lO, Trimble (who was promoted as well) and Detective F Johnson receiving £5 each. The Reward Fund was periodically boosted by various means, including by fines inflicted upon constables and by police salaries saved when men were temporarily seconded to non-police duties on the goldfields. 66
In many ways there was greater rapport between police and public on the goldfields than in the Dunedin urban area. Miners appreciated a stability that enabled them unimpededly to concentrate on their search for gold, and the capture of professional criminals was in their eyes a priority task. In general therefore the London Metropolitan Commissioners’ dictum about obtaining the ‘general support of the community’ was a realisable goal on the diggings even for a coercively-orientated force, particularly in the absence of licence-hunts and because of police awareness of the need to apply differentiated standards of behavioural ‘regularity’ to the goldfields areas. ‘Nearly every store and butcher’s shop are dispensers of poisoned liquids misnamed as brandy, gin, etc’, but these ‘dens of infamy’ were normally interfered with only when they became fronts for ‘criminal’ operations. Drinking and fighting in the streets of the goldfields shanty towns were, despite considerable criticism by visitors to the diggings, tolerated to an extent inconceivable in Dunedin. In goldfields terms Branigan could report truthfully in early 1862 that at the new Waipori field the ‘utmost order prevails’ amongst its 1500 diggers, even though every Saturday evening ‘presents all the appearance of a Saturnalia’ when the ‘festival of successful labor’ was celebrated by some whilst others drowned their sorrows. 67
This differentiated approach implied no lessening in coercive capacity. Indeed, by April 1862 Branigan had gained permission to steadily raise the size of the provincial police to more than 100 members. As well as specifically importing men for the job, the Commissioner would frequent the docks when ships arrived, particularly those from Melbourne, in order to dissuade likely-looking potential policemen from going to the goldfields in favour of joining up with the force. Although the Commissioner followed the custom for all early paramilitary forces in attempting to recruit mainly single men who could then be encloseted in barracks away from inclination to socialise with the local community, he could often
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attract only married men, persuading in particular those with children that prospects in the Otago Armed Police Force were far superior to the uncertainties of the diggings. The married men were chiefly placed at work in the city, where a third of the force was situated (whilst another 10 policemen, including water police, were located at Port Chalmers). The bulk of the goldfields and escort police comprised however, in classical paramilitarist mode, unattached young men over whose minds and bodies a greater control could be obtained. 68
The constable’s ‘first duty’ of ‘proper respect to all in command, and prompt and unvarying obedience to their orders’ was of heightened importance in situations wherein one false move could mean the difference between tranquillity and riot. Victorian regulations, often Irish in origin and later to be incorporated extensively into the Otago police manual, were most firmly in force. A constable ‘who for a moment questions or disobeys the orders he may receive from a superior officer’ would be ‘severely punished’, and the required reflex submission to the orders of superiors was instilled by rigid routine. There could be no absence from parade, nor from barracks at night. As in the Rules and Regulations of the Constabulary Force of New Zealand as well as the Victorian Manual of Police Regulations, even when off duty in daytime constables could not leave the barracks without notification —nor, even then, move beyond a quarter mile radius from the depot without permission or be gone for more than two hours having gained such permission. Day duty men had to rise at 5.30 am (6.30 am in winter), with specific times for dressing, tidying up, meals, bedtime and, at 10 pm, lights out. There were prohibitions on associating with dismissed policemen, on allowing friends or relatives into barracks, on drinking, gambling and eating food inadequate to sustain efficiency; on voting or expressing political or religious views, breaches being punishable by dismissal.® 1
One ultimate purpose of the instilling in constables of such ‘perfect obedience to their superiors’ was to ensure that the ‘soldiers acting alone’ had also the capacity to act in unison; ‘at all times’ they were ‘liable to be called upon, in case of internal disturbances, or from other causes, to act in concert as an armed body.’ In order to be able as such to ‘act with precision’ they were required to master drill; ‘marching, the movement by files, threes etc’, ‘manual and platoon exercises’, and, for the elite troopers, the ‘sword exercise and carbine drill’. On the goldfields, they were taught, ‘very little would lead to a popular disturbance’ and an occasion such as a riot of 50 or so men trying to release a mate from the Port Chal-
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
mers lockup was a not atypical—if intermittent—occurrence elsewhere. Skills of collective discipline inculcated in the recruits were crucial for purposes other than that of controlling collective activities deemed disruptive by the authorities. When a fire menaced Dunedin in late 1861 Branigan’s men prevented commercial disaster because they were the ‘only persons capable of giving or executing orders’. The rigidities of military-style discipline had other crucial purposes as well. Reflex adherence to orders even when far from their superiors made constables of much greater use as servants of state; just as importantly, the tight discipline which made them ‘prepared for any emergency’ was intended also to provide them with a self-disciplined response to unforeseen problems arising in their capacity as ‘soldiers acting alone’, especially on city streets."
Shepherd had responded to the increasing size and importance of Dunedin even before its inundation by diggers headed for Tuapeka by dividing the capital into two districts, with two ‘night police’ patrolling the larger and more central area. In the other, ‘District No 2’, which comprised the north-east of the town and contained a number of grog shops, the Chief Constable had only a single night private to patrol the entire area between 9 pm and 7 am. This constable, he noted in the course of one of several proposals for increased staff, could reasonably cover the district only four times a night: he might well be quelling a disturbance at a hotel at the Great King Street end of the district ‘while somebody else is calling loudly for the Police at Mr. Towers Hotel’ a mile away, and so ‘as a matter of course complaints are made, that a policeman cannot be found’. 71
There were more constables working the town by the time that Branigan arrived but the system had by then become even more antiquated as the result of the onrush of events. The beat structure adapted by Freeman to Melbourne from the London model was now applied to the sprawling provincial capital. The central urban area was divided into sections, each supervised at all times by an NCO. and there was a senior NCO (and soon, above him, a commissioned officer) in overall charge of the town. Each section was divided into beats, with half the patrolling constables on day duty, organised in two reliefs: 5-9 am and 1-5 pm for the first relief, 9 am-1 pm and 5-9 pm for the second. In their intervening four hours between reliefs, ‘off-duty’ men were required to remain at barracks as a reserve prepared for contingency action. Thus each day-duty man was on duty call 12 hours daily, seven days a week; after a fortnight, day-duty constables switched to the 9 pra-5 am
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night beat, the sleeping day constables being regarded as the reserve —and often awoken to be used as such. Conversely, nightduty constables sleeping or otherwise occupied during the daytime were also frequently called upon to assist the day reliefs.’ 2
There was considerable praise for the new Otago police both within and beyond the provincial borders, much of it a combination of satisfaction that Branigan’s constables were ‘efficient’ with appreciation that many of them took seriously their oft reiterated instructions to practise ‘perfect civility’ to those members of the populace who were not ‘causing any trouble’. These orders were reflective partly of the specific need to avert that ‘angry and hostile feeling’ with which working people had greeted and resisted the new Metropolitan and Victorian forces, more generally of the Rowan/Mayne legitimatory ethos which was drummed into the Otago constables. ‘A constabulary force can only obtain complete success by having the general support of the community’, including that of the ‘lower classes’. This was no easy objective in a situation in which the overt Irish/Victorian constabulary trappings of coercion were displayed even when coercive activity was temporarily in abeyance. The imposition of officially acceptable modes of behaviour upon a colonial goldfields frontier however of necessity demanded a public cooperation which depended in reality to a significant degree upon ‘respect’ for the immense coercive potential of the state. This potential was symbolised by the paramilitary beat constable who, responsible for the ‘good order’ of his area, was expected to ‘discover all that is going on within its limits’.
The ability to impose coercive sanctions depended in the final analysis upon the comprehensiveness of the intelligence accumulated by the constable; would-be offenders were to be deterred by the knowledge—as with the watched in the Panoptic prison, who did not know when they were being watched —that the policeman might well know, or soon find out, who to arrest after the forbidden deed was carried out. The beat constable was trained to be cognisant of ‘suspicious’ characters and their habits, and ‘by close observation of their movements deter them from committing depredations, or other offences against person or property’; furthermore, he was to be acquainted with the inhabitants of every house on his beat, and was instructed to listen out for anything ‘likely to produce danger or public inconvenience’ and to report it. Police were expected to be expert on all facets of urban affairs—to attend, for example, all ‘political’ meetings in order to detect ‘seditious or exciting language . . . along with any circumstances tending to endanger the peace of the district.” 1
In turn the policeman himself was the subject of pervasive obse
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vation; the beat was to be walked at a steady speed, with specific points passed at specific times, so that the constable’s superiors and the public would know where to contact —or to check up on—him at any given time. Any deviation from the constable’s tight time/spatial beat structure had to be reported to his NCO, who would also check at irregular intervals to ensure that he was adhering to the rules. The watcher was the watched, a situation productive of tension. People were moreover aware that, however courteous the individual constable to the individual citizen, underpinning the network of surveillance lay not only the wish but also the capacity of the state to be able to apply appropriate doses of coercion whenever and wherever necessary. Public acceptability based in the last instance on ‘respect’ for the state’s ability to administer ‘condign’ power could never be entirely free of strain. 7 *
New Zealand urban spaces were of straggling character, partly because of the hilly configuration of most of them but mainly because of the practice that had arisen, particularly in suburbs, of building detached houses standing alone in sections. By April 1862 Branigan had 21 foot constables on Dunedin beats but, unlike in London and to a lesser extent Melbourne, sufficient to cover only the inner areas: the Commissioner was ‘painfully aware’ of this inadequacy in terms of the prototype. Moreover suburban dwellers complained of women and families, in the absence of menfolk departed for the diggings, being ‘exposed to the danger of the robber the ruffian and the night prowler and midnight assassin and violator of the virtues of the domestic altar,’ The best comfort that Branigan could offer was an incipient suburban police station system, and irregular nightly mounted patrols by four constables through the suburbs. Not that there was in actuality a great deal of ‘crime’ or disorder in the suburbs. People disposed towards violating state-desired norms of social behaviour lived and operated mostly in the crowded inner area, home of the ‘greater amount of vice’ and of facilities for ‘disposing of plunder and evading discovery’, but moral panics took little heed of facts. 75
The force’s inheritance of the ‘new police’ as well as of the Irish Constabulary system imposed an added burden upon its paramilitarised membership. Branigan's constables were expected to exhibit all the characteristics of ‘good citizens’, and since the supervisory movements of NCOs and officers were ‘rapid and uncertain’ it was risky for the men ever to drop such standards. The ‘discipline and good order’ required by the state from each citizen was supposedly embodied in the bearing of policemen, who were to be viewed as touchstones of uprightness by fellow members of the classes from which they were drawn. They were expected to
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attend church and carry out other acts regarded as being of positive virtue; they were expected to refrain from unsatisfactory behaviour such as lodging or mixing with, or marrying into, families of ‘reputed bad character’.
These embodiments of ‘correct’ behaviour were to be visible for emulation even when the men were off duty since they had to wear uniforms at all times except during their three days’ annual leave. In tune with concurrent ‘new police’ proselytising in industrial Britain, New Zealand constables were to act as urban missionaries to the working class; working men on joining up as police found themselves in an ‘entirely new situation .. . totally different from that which they occupied as private individuals.’ Inter alia, they could not now drink in public houses; they were supposed not to ‘shoulder past respectable people, but give way in a mild manner’; they were forbidden to undertake what was anathema to the state, the combining to seek redress for grievances over pay and working conditions. Even collective petitions forwarded through the police hierarchy, tolerated in the earlier quasi-military forces, were banned ‘as a general rule’, with the result that police could protest or make submissions only as individuals and then decidedly as underdogs: ‘frivolous’ complaints brought punishment, and an appeal to the Commissioner over a disciplinary decision, if similarly adjudged, would produce a revised punishment harsher than the original. Internal control was, whatever the theory about means of redress for grievances, ironclad. Two goldfield constables, gaoled for a week for allegedly being drunk and using ‘bad language’, took their case to the Commissioner who rejected it without giving them a hearing—and, after an appeal went before the government, Branigan dismissed them. ,s
Commissioner Branigan was not insensitive to the fact that the better the pay and working conditions of his men the more contented they would be, and after price rises had in early 1862 lowered police morale he requested a pay increase for them. It was not to be, despite a continued respect for his leadership. Superintendent Richardson, certainly, was fully supportive of the ethos and methods of the Branigan regime, particularly in face of tentative suggestions by the General Government that time was ripe for attempting to centralise colonial policing operations: the ‘efficiency of the police force... in a considerable measure depends on the existence of a local power prompt to decide, and equally prompt to act.’ ‘Crime’, he declared, had ‘barely had time to develope itself before it was detected, and its career arrested.’ But already the now 113-strong police force was under budgetary restraint, and as a
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
result the honeymoon with Branigan was over. With £16,500 having been spent on policing in the preceding half year, and Branigan computing a similar expenditure for the oncoming six months, a pay rise (replied the Superintendent) would inevitably mean a pay reduction in the future with a consequent ‘fearfully deteriorating effect’ upon discipline. This was the culmination of a series of instances of the strained relations between Branigan and his employers that had escalated since the beginning of the year. After the consolidation of his force he had continued to act as if he possessed virtual carte blanche authority—for example buying without authority for £BO a whale boat for the water police—and on each such occasion he had been reprimanded. 77
In some of these cases the Commissioner had clearly overstepped his authority; in others the actions of the government indicated an incipient rethinking of the ramifications of the wholesale importing of the Victorian system of policing to Otago. When early in 1862 the Superintendent ordered goldfields officials to obtain monthly reports from local police on the state of the public houses in their areas, Branigan complained. The Victorian ‘chain of command’ precluded such interference with the deployment of constables even if it were conducted by the Goldfields Commissioners in their magisterial capacities; the regulations which the Police Commissioner operated stated clearly that ‘magistrates are not vested with any powers of interference with the interior executive arrangements of the police force.’ In matters other than those of court procedures proper, they could direct constables only in the case of a ‘felonious attempt upon life and property’. There was now to be a re-enactment of the policing/magisterial jurisdictional disputes of the Crown Colony period. 7 *
Richardson, who had approved the use of the Victorian regulations, had meanwhile no choice but to withdraw his contentious instructions. He was not however enamoured of Branigan’s stance, which though formally correct he considered to be wrong in spirit. In the final analysis, he pointed out, Branigan was no more than his servant. It was the wish of the government that was of crucial importance, not which branch of the state was to execute that wish in practice: public house surveillance reports were to continue under orders now channelled through Branigan, with copies of the reports to go to the goldfields officials. The Police Commissioner, not one to compromise, at once began drafting rules giving goldfields officials such limited powers over police as to be practically meaningless. Nevertheless government interference in the running of his department inexorably increased and relations between
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Branigan and the Superintendent correspondingly worsened; Branigan fought a decree by Richardson that travel by escorts on Sundays should occur only in emergencies, and was far from punctilious in responding to instructions to report to the Superintendent each time the ban was violated. 78
In mid 1862 what now amounted almost to a feud with the political executive culminated in an explosion of fury from Branigan when he was asked to explain why three constables who had been ordered by the government to act as clerks to Resident Magistrates on the goldfields were still receiving the police goldfields allowance. The query was fatuous: the men still did police duties, continued to pay high prices for provisions, and had to endure the same discomforts as before —the policeman/clerk at Camp Waitahuna, for example, having to arrange for court sessions to be held either in his own sleeping quarters or in the open air. Branigan, abandoning protocol, thundered at the Deputy Superintendent that ‘calling for reports of this nature, without sufficient cause, is not only extremely annoying, but is calculated to reflect on the management of the Department entrusted to my control’. That he survived as chief of police in such circumstances was indication of the value ascribed by the state to his services. 80
The government could not in any case afford to lose Branigan because of his great standing amongst circles which counted. In early 1862 the Dunedin Grand Jury endorsed the judge’s opinion that ‘the orderly state of society under the very unusual circumstances is greatly owing to the efficiency of the police force, under the able superintendence of Mr. Commissioner Branigan.’ Such sentiments were frequently echoed in the judicial system and the press, and there had been a similar presentment by the Grand Jury at the time when Branigan had flagrantly broken the unwritten rules controlling his subordinated relationship with the Superintendency. The Otago Daily Times had frequently referred to the Commissioner as an officer ‘worthy of the trust reposed in him, and who has marshalled together a force well officered and wellappointed, and in every respect a credit to the Province. A finer body of men could scarcely be got together'; the judiciary was wont to refer, in addressing the local state, to ‘your admirable police force’ as an ‘illustration of the wisdom and economy of constructing your permanent institutions upon a liberal scale’, A ‘niggardly’ approach would ‘diminish its prestige, spirit and power’ and curtail its ‘efficiency as an engine for the prevention of crime’. 81
Quite apart from this type of implicit pressure to retain a Braniganite force, there was a clearly perceived need for Victorian-style policing on the ever-expanding goldfields. This perception was
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
partly the result of the oft-expressed warnings by Branigan, judicial authorities and others of an imminent influx of Australian criminals, but mainly because the police were mobile enough to move into areas of new diggings sooner than other officials. Even were they tardy in doing so because of commitments elsewhere, public pressure would be put upon the government by people who knew that the procuring of a police presence was the most realistic mode of ensuring quick, state-provided agents of (relative) stability. Thus, to repress claim-jumping and general disorder in early 1862 on the new Waipori field (where, Mounted Constable Edward Garvey reported, ‘miners are actually starving for want of breadstuffs’), a tent station was established to serve the mushrooming population of more than a thousand, and to provide—as was usual at new diggings—a branch escort to link with the main line. In June, when ‘roughs’ had left the higher, richer fields for the milder climate of relatively poor diggings such as those of ‘The Woolshed’ near Tokomairiro and ‘confusion’ prevailed as a consequence, a successful miners’ campaign to open a police station at the lowland field began. This was all the more necessary, Branigan assessed, because the area was not an officially proclaimed goldfield and therefore even the nearest goldfields official could not enforce state mining regulations.* 2
With the onset of winter, however, many Victorian miners left the province, reducing the population spread across the various diggings to some 7000. What ‘crime’ there was emanated mainly from starving miners attempting to survive, rather than from as Branigan claimed a ‘criminal element’ too wary of capture to return to Australia. Making this claim enabled the Commissioner to resist reductions in authorised strength—if not in the scheduled police station building programme—although he wisely kept actual strength somewhat lower than the allowed establishment figure in order to prove his awareness of the state’s requirement for economy. He argued cogently, however, that fabulous new goldfields might be discovered at any time, and indeed new diggings far from the Tuapeka were beginning to form inland in the northern sector of the province. Typical was that centred on Mount Highlay, where one of the first Victorian policemen in Otago, Thomas Jervois Ryan, arrived on 23 June 1862 to establish at the area’s principal sheep station a local police headquarters. Runholders, a number of whom were JPs, welcomed the presence of policemen as protection against ‘Rowdie Men’—and utilised constables who were operating far from their superior command to remove diggers from their leased runs even though mining on Crown land was not illegal. Richardson had to intervene to prevent this practice at the
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Highlay, where Ryan ran his peripatetic police service from the only spare room in the runholding homestead. 88
In late July there were rumours of promising gold discoveries in various sections of the Dunstan ranges, an outlying portion of which had hosted the Lindis rush. As the policeman of nearest access Ryan undertook a ‘most fatiguing and dreary’ trip to investigate. Over the preceding six months half a million ounces of gold had been legally exported from Dunedin, four-fifths of which had arrived there by escort, and 20,000 people had ventured at some stage on to the Tuapeka and minor diggings; more gold, Ryan confirmed, was now being found in the inhospitable southern Dunstans. That this was to be far more than merely another minor field was heralded by the lodging of 87 lb of gold from the area in Dunedin in mid August by ex-Californian miners Horatio Hartley and Christopher Reilly. Branigan, his future employment now assured at a time when there was little remaining leeway with his leave of absence from Victoria, could therefore resign from that force. The task ahead was not to be an easy one, for there now began a ‘rush of unprecedented magnitude’ from Tuapeka (over 5000 diggers reportedly left within a week) and Dunedin to the Dunstan. Ryan was sent off again, this time with the fullest of ‘discretionary powers’, arriving at the upper Clutha River on 27 August to find ‘4OOO men starving’ along a stretch between the Manuherikia and Kawarau rivers. 84
Ryan probably exaggerated the numbers of men but not the enormity of the problem in the freezing, treeless terrain of the Dunstan area, particularly since the men, not knowing how to extract the gold from the deep, turbulent river, suspected that the rush was a ‘duffer’ one. The major official responsibility however passed the following day to Sub-Inspector Jackson Keddell, who arrived as ‘acting Commissioner’ of the not yet officially proclaimed goldfield at the head of a small police party. This policing presence was received as a welcome supplement to the inevitable miners’ committee which had been elected to deal with local government and order. As Branigan himself was shortly to do in a similar role at smaller diggings in the Nokomai River area near the Southland border, Keddell imposed his own informal goldfields regulations to meet conditions not envisaged in the rules issued by Commissioner of Goldfields (since May) Vincent Pyke—an arrangement which ‘would have no present legal effect but it would meet an emergency’. The police officer also organised demonstrations of appropriate gold extraction methods by Hartley, who had returned with him.
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The Dunstan police superintended both the progress of provisions drays which began to arrive at the end of the month and the distribution of their expensive contents, flour being doled out at 2s 6d a pannikinful. There was great discontent over the high prices, and at the lack of tools and timber for constructing the apparatus for mining river-beds. Whilst controlling this dissatisfaction the police endured the same hardships as the diggers. Keddell himself, ‘who does duty... like a black fellow’, lived and worked from a ‘tent, and that’s all, neither chair, table, no bedstead, nor timber to make them.’ In cases of ‘absolute distress’ amongst diggers Keddell was authorised to ‘enter into such arrangements on the part of the Government as will secure the requisite amount of food for the support of life without placing them between the alternative of starvation or violence and theft.’ Using the services of assigned policemen like Ryan, he was especially tasked with protecting the property of ‘runholders and others’ located along the routes to the upper Clutha fields. 85
Keddell’s organising abilities in the extraordinarily difficult job of local ‘representative of the government’ won him the position of Commissioner of the newly proclaimed Dunstan goldfield from 1 October 1862, the beginning of a new career which was to include a number of judicial positions and the leadership in 1863 of a goldfields volunteer force to the Anglo-Maori Wars. Branigan did not endeavour to retain him as second-in-command of the Otago force, for the two strong-willed individuals had been clashing since soon after Keddell’s appointment, so much so that the Commissioner had actually at one stage suspended him for ‘neglect of duty’. Temporarily replacing Keddell as head of police at the Dunstan, Sergeant Trimble arrived on 4 October in company with a foot constable, to take charge of the detachment which so far had numbered only three mounted constables. The eruption of the Dunstan diggings had necessitated a frenzy of policing rearrangements. Quite apart from crowding direct overland routes from the Tuapeka, for example, many would-be diggers took the trail which began at the port of Waikouaiti, where the police station was strengthened as soon as rumours of Dunstan gold first filtered out. Patrols were regularly made along the route in order to instil in runholders some confidence that the government was coping as best it could with the problems of order which were endemic in such rapid, sizeable and unpredictable societal movement.
Mounted Constable John Irwin’s instructions to protect stationholders and their property from ‘violence or exaction on the part of disorderly characters of any sort’ had a familiar post-discoveries
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ring to them, and the police were also ordered to protect the persons and property of ‘honest diggers’. On the more established road north from Dunedin to Waikouaiti a new police station was established at Blueskin to discourage ‘depredations’ upon the masses of people heading for the goldfields. Within a week of Keddell’s appointment to the Commissionership of the goldfields both Branigan and the more compliant Sub-Inspector Morton, now transferred from charge of the Tuapeka district, had arrived at the Dunstan with reinforcements. As soon as the magnitude of the new finds had been realised there had been agitation for sending in the Otago detachment of troops to act as escorts for the gold from the new fields, as had been implemented in emergencies in Victoria, but Branigan was determined that his force should cope on its own. On 22 September the Commissioner had placed Hugh Bracken in charge of escorting gold through from the Dunstan to Waikouaiti, to be joined at the Highlay by Ryan. ‘As this is the first Escort’, Keddell was ordered to ‘do his best to provide against any contretemps’. The Dunstan police reinforcements, taken mainly from the depopulating Tuapeka, included five troopers who were to accompany the initial escort of some 600 ounces of gold carried by packhorse along a route located by Ryan. By the time that Bracken arrived back on 18 October to take charge of the Dunstan (later Clyde) station its strength amounted to 10 staff, over and above the escort men who were also under his command. 86
The next day ‘Sergeant Major Bracken patroled to the junction of the Manuherikia, and from the large population, and the rappid manner in which the Township is a forming there and from the great number of bad characters that are Knocking about it, and Some Robberys having been committed the Sergt Major thought it advisable to have a police station formed there at once.’ Thus Mounted Constable Robert Bullen, who had been ‘constantly patrolling’ the main road to the diggings at ‘uncertain hours’, and a foot constable proceeded to ‘The Junction’ to police the new town (later called Alexandra) from tents. Marginally as a result of the increasing police presence in the new fields, the oft-publicised endemic brawling and chaos —particularly that resulting from the activities of claim-jumpers, including some not averse to using weapons—had ceased to become a ‘daily occurrence’ by 1 November when the first detective constable arrived at the Dunstan.
Even a month before, despite the presence of 10,000 miners in the province, including 2000 travelling to the Dunstan or to the Nokomai, the head of the Goldfields Department had reported favourably upon the diggers: ‘Orderly and peaceable in their habits and general conduct, crime is rare amongst them, and although the
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police-force on the gold-fields is necessarily small, life and property are safer in the tented gullies of Otago than in many of the cities of civilised Europe.’ Although Pyke himself joined many others in proving incapable of pursuing the logic of his own observations and accredited the relatively high state of order to the ‘excellent’ police, a few commentators took a more realistic viewpoint and acknowledged that in the final analysis such a situation prevailed notwithstanding the number and nature of the police. A newspaper editor reassured his readers that for reasons unconnected with policing ‘we have no misgivings that the great mass of the miners, will become tainted with crime or violence’; another observer commented that ‘but for . . . the desire of the people generally to crush rowdyism we might otherwise see reproduced the same want of order as has recently characterised the gold fields of New South Wales and its roads.’ 87
On 8 September Branigan had left Dunedin for a personal inspection of the new diggings, going first to the lesser of the major fields, Nokomai —centred on Victoria Gully at Moa Creek near the Southland border—where Charles Worthington was about to be installed as the key goldfields official. The Commissioner here settled the inevitable mining disputes and soon ascertained that the main problem for the Otago state in the area was to ensure that the local goldfields economy should be orientated towards Dunedin rather than Southland. This looked to be a difficult task since frequently-impassable mountains (Branigan himself was unable to get through) lay between the Nokomai River and the Dunstan, and Branigan soon found that immediate hopes of taking a branch escort through to the main line of escort from the major diggings at the Clutha were chimerical. He ordered Sergeant Benjamin Bayly, installed as head of police at the Nokomai, to begin a low-key escort service that skirted the Southland border and linked with that from Tuapeka, which itself was to be joined by the Dunstan escort when a route was developed down the Clutha. Once this latter main line of escort opened, the Nokomai branch escort joined it at Musgraves, in the vicinity of modern Roxburgh. 88
As soon as news of the Dunstan field had broken, constables had begun to tender their resignations from the force in order to join the quest for gold. Branigan refused to release any man who had not completed his 12 months’ service, but to allay discontent he promised to procure a pay rise should the condition of the provincial Treasury improve as a result of the latest rush. Additionally, he paid close attention to the cost of living at the Dunstan. When he
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Polking the Colonial Frontier
discovered in October than his men were having to pay 10s 6d per day for ‘messing’ on that field he acknowledged at once that police pay on the new goldfields, 12s per diem inclusive of the standard Is goldfields allowance, was inadequate and arranged for a temporarily increased allowance pending the despatch of emergency provisions. By late November communications with the upper Clutha region had so improved that a coach had been able to get through, and Branigan therefore declared the emergency over; Bracken would now bulk-purchase provisions, and the diggings police would pay the expenses thus incurred. This meant however that police at the Dunstan now paid 8s per day for ‘messing’ that was of ‘an inferior description’, and at a time when the price of labour had so chased commodity prices on the field that it averaged out at £1 daily. Jealousy-tinged New Zealand-wide comments on high Otago police rates of pay were based on grossly outdated conceptions of prevailing ordinary rates for labour. Branigan’s men were far from happy, with constables expressing their protest in different ways: a foot constable’s wife refused solicitations to ‘act as cook and female searcher’, men hinted darkly at voting with their feet. Branigan was forced once more to treat the situation as an emergency, and late in the year extracted from the government a reinstatement of the previous temporary diggings and escort allowances of 5s per diem, although this was to decrease progressively as the cost of food on the goldfields fell.” 9
The caution that Richardson had displayed in sending for police help from Victoria before any sizeable rush occurred and in importing troops from the North Island was by now, in misplaced anticipation that gold yields had already peaked, being applied in the form of an unpopular series of state spending reductions. Government expenditure was such a ‘very severe and exhaustive process’ that no department could any longer expand and many had to contract, even police expenditure—given a partial dispensationhaving of necessity to stabilise. In order to procure maximum resources in such circumstances, therefore, the Commissioner again deliberately exaggerated the influx of ‘mauvais sujets’ from Australia, the press obligingly helping by inflating the projected numbers of the undoubted ‘sprinkling of desperate criminals’ who had entered Otago. In his departmental report of October 1862 the Commissioner claimed that ‘some of the most dangerous criminals of the Australian Colonies’ were in Otago, their number supplemented by many diggers who ‘emphatically belong, if not to a criminal element, at least to that from which it is recruited’.
Within a fortnight of the report, which called for the creation of the new position of Detective in Charge, Thomas H Sincock had
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
arrived from 10 years’ service in the Victorian Police —including some years in charge of detection at the goldfields centre of Ballarat —to reorganise Otago’s detective branch ‘upon the system now pursued in Melbourne’. With this hand-picked policeman in so crucial a position, Branigan could concentrate even more upon persuading the Otago politicians that there was a crisis of criminality in the land. The ‘police authorities of the adjacent colonies’, he complained, were only too willing to send their recalcitrants on to New Zealand. The Grand Jury quickly responded to the alleged influx of ticket-of-leave men by requesting increased policing resources. Whilst Richardson resisted any costly innovations, at the same time he utilised Branigan’s reports in order to prevent the Otago politicians decreeing actual cuts in police expenditure.”
The government was in any case quickly preoccupied with yet more widespread problems of disorder. At the time of the police departmental report rumours had been spreading of fabulous gold finds further inland from the Dunstan, near the shores of moun-tain-girt Lake Wakatipu. At an undisclosed locality on the Arrow River prospector William Fox had acted as unofficial ‘commissioner’ and police chief over a small community of miners which gradually swelled as searching prospectors came across it. After a month the secret was out and in November enormous numbers of men left the Dunstan and other diggings for the Arrow, where the instant township of Fox’s (later Arrowtown) sprang up, and for neighbouring areas in the Lake District. From Dunedin Branigan, not at first appreciating the magnitude of the new finds, attempted to cope by transferring Mounted Constable Thomas Quirk from the Otago/Southland border station of Mataura to the new diggings while keeping him responsible to Bayly at the Nokomai. A ‘dangerous and threatening’ situation was exacerbated by unbearably hot weather at the inaccessible Arrow, and claim-jumpers, some of them operating in gangs and sporting firearms, challenged the authority of the miners’ ad hoc policing and governmental committees.
Police goldfields resources were already stretched, and even after Sergeant-Major Bracken investigated and reported on the new rush in late November nothing more could be done than to transfer from the Dunstan three police headed by the Sergeant-Major himself, with more to follow—and more ordered from Victoria. Upon his arrival at the new diggings in the second week of December Bracken addressed the miners, emphasising while toying with his revolver that his men would use firearms if necessary to impose order. He followed the precedent of both Keddell and Fox in applying, unofficially, standard goldfields regulations, and ensured
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
acceptance of his rulings over disputes by appointing disinterested miners to help him work out his decision in each case. Branigan arrived to superintend the establishment of a permanent ‘police camp’. Irregular licences were issued by the police pending the area’s proclamation as a goldfield, and the diggings quickly became more orderly—although the overstretched police resources meant that pockets of disorder remained up isolated gullies away from Fox’s. In particular there was a still richer river further inland, the precipice-channelled Shotover; from November hordes of diggers had begun to move along it, establishing precarious shanty towns on river beaches and along tributary creeks—as far upriver as the richest area of all, Skippers. By early December, reported Southland Province policeman/‘spy’ Sergeant Edward Morton, 800 men lived along the Shotover alone, serviced —as were all the Lake District diggings, which were cut off from the Dunstan by rugged terrain —from a mushroom town and port on the shores of Lake Wakatipu called ‘The Camp’, situated on runholder William Rees’ home station. 91
Before the end of the year Bayly and Worthington had moved their policing and goldfields administration offices to this ‘populous town’, for it was by then clear that with 3000 miners already at the Shotover-Arrow diggings and many others en route the Lake District goldfield would be the biggest of all in Otago. Whilst Branigan sought desperately to formulate plans for police redistribution and expansion the brunt of the policing burden fell upon Arrowtown’s Sergeant-Major Bracken, who negotiated a modus viuendi between the police troopers and the representatives of the bulk of the miners. Then Bracken resigned from the force to join Rees, the leading Wakatipu capitalist, in a hotel venture at ‘The Camp’, which was officially renamed Queenstown a week into 1863, Bracken’s ‘energy and boldness have secured him the approbation of the wild race of men to whom I belong’ said Fox when presenting the departing policeman with expensive gifts donated by diggers at the Arrow; but even had he stayed, the temporary state of makeshift order imposed by the Sergeant-Major could not have survived the large numbers arriving and competing for territory, claim-jumpers and some criminal elements included. ‘Arrow Township’ was described in lurid terms: its five police, now headed by Mounted Sergeant Edward Garvey, were unable to prevent nights becoming ‘one continual scene of fighting and screaming’. Such a ‘horrible’ state of disorder existed through the Lake District that there were calls for a dozen extra police for every constable on the ground, and/or the stationing of the Dunedin troops (some of whom were deserting for the fields), and/or (Pyke’s suggestion) the mass swearing in of
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
specials. At Queenstown, as at the Dunstan earlier, businessmen clubbed together to pay for their own nightwatchman, who patrolled the town revolver in hand between 9 pm and 5 am. Like Rees before him, Bracken now acted informally as a coordinator of self-policing measures in order to protect his and others’ property. 93
In view of such reports and despite the unease of some local politicians that the province’s revenues were ‘almost lavishly spent in Police and Gaol establishments to the crippling of its energies’, Branigan was able to secure a slight increase of funding which took police expenditure to the enormous annual sum of nearly £42,000. His economising concessions were few and relatively insubstantial, the removal of a superfluous depot storekeeper for example, although the politicians pruned from his estimates other items that they (but not he) regarded as ‘frills’ such as the projected creation of a police library. However an immediate grant of £2500 was given him to cope with what was perceived as the ‘emergency’ of the fastopening fields in the interior. An editor commented, and at least most diggers would have agreed, that Otagoites ‘will be quite willing to continue the security of life and property which they have hitherto enjoyed, at the premium which they are called upon to pay.’ 93
For diggers, the safeguarding of their hard-won gold was as important as the safeguarding of their means of obtaining it. For reasons of economy Branigan had arranged that the Dunstan escort merge with that of the Tuapeka rather than take the northern route to Waikouaiti. The escort consisted of a dozen troopers, eight of them leading packhorses, two forming the ‘Advance Guard —riding about 100 yards in front, the non-commissioned Officer in rear, and the Officer on either flank. The duty of the Advance Guard is to examine and ride round every bush, rock, or other cover with carbine in hand before the main body approaches’. The riders, Branigan reassured, were spaced ‘in order to prevent the appearance of a compact body at which a raking fire would have effect, besides which, the men have all been under fire before, while the Officer in charge has already in Victoria earned for himself the character of a gallant, cool and prudent Officer under difficulties.’ In the real danger zone, the half dozen miles across the Knobby Range out of Dunstan, constables from the goldfield ‘thoroughly examine the track, with loaded rifles, immediately before the Escort departs’. With the advent of the Lake diggings, and the extreme difficulty of carving out ready access between Wakatipu and Dunstan, the Commissioner was faced with the expensive—and politically unpopular—possibility of having to establish another main line of escort. He thus set out to explore which of
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
several alternatives was the most viable, but he quickly found a crisis on his hands which precipitated fast action. 9 *
When Branigan had visited the Lake District to investigate its policing arrangements, he had been alarmed to find that Southland Province was arranging a police treasury escort therefrom to Invercargill. He still hoped to be able to conquer the transport problem between the two major interior fields, creating a single main line from Queenstown. The first leg would journey to Dunstan and the escort would then continue along the current Dunstan route down the Clutha/Molyneux to Tuapeka. Meanwhile in response to the Southland initiative he ‘lost no time’ in ‘establishing a permanent Escort’ from the new fields to Dunedin. ‘The road however from the Lake to the Dunstan —whichever way taken, i.e., either over the Crown, or along the Kawarau’ remained ‘at present so bad’, he assessed, that the Nokomai precedent would have to be followed. In any case, even had it been possible to send Wakatipu gold via the existing line of the Dunstan escort, the latter was itself now stretched to capacity given the condition of the Clutha route. Hence he concluded that the ‘most satisfactory and economical way’ by which the Lake District could be reached was ‘from Tokomairiro across the Molyneux and Mataura and so on to the foot of the Lake’. Although this was a journey which would take the escort cart through some Southland territory, that province’s government planned for its escort to traverse Otago territory, albeit ‘disguised’ as a private venture from the moment it crossed the border. Under Branigan’s scheme the gold destined for Dunedin would be collected together at Queenstown, from where the escort would ship it to the southern tip of the lake and then take it by cart to the provincial capital. 95
Sergeant Thomas Ryan, who had recently established a police station north of Waikouaiti at Palmerston where the northern trail to the Dunstan left the north-south highway, was soon to be given the task of handling the Lake End (soon renamed St John’s after Branigan, later Kingston) to Tokomairiro section of escort. Subordinate to Sub-Inspector Morton, who was in overall charge of escort arrangements, Ryan—and Bayly at Queenstown —received instructions from the Commissioner which aimed at avoiding the ‘deep and lasting disgrace’ which would accrue to the Otago police should there be a successful hold-up. ‘Sergeant Ryan will be careful to examine his Men’s arms every morning before starting and see that they are fit for use. He will also inure his horses, particularly the draught, to firing, repeatedly firing over them when on level country.’ Branigan accompanied the newly-routed escort to Waka-
588
Commissioner St John Branigan, Otago Provincial Police.
Chief Commissioner Charles MacMahon, Victoria Police.
Commissioner R C Shearman, Canterbury Provincial Police.
Captain J Fox, Richmond Police Camp. Melbourne.
John Bevin, Otago Provincial Police.
Christchurch Police Station, 1863, centre.
Volunteer Rifles going on picket duty, New Plymouth, 1860.
t7P%*e~ ikr & -c-»- r (? CLIMOKIU MORTO, * KOYAL ARCA Dt, DU N t»l N ,
James Nimon, Inspector of Nuisances, Dunedin.
John Emerson, Marlborough Provincial Police,
John Nash, Nelson Provincial Police.
Inspector Thomas Broham. West Canterbury Police.
J B Thomson, detective in charge, Southland and Otago Provincial Police Forces.
Ferrymead, near Christchurch, 1863, police station and lockup next to hotel.
The Battle of Rangiaowhia: a stylised depiction, including the fatal wounding of Inspector M G Nixon of the Colonial Defence Force.
Kaitake Redoubt, Taranaki, 1863-4
Oakura Redoubt, Taranaki, c 1863.
Soldiers constructing the road through the forest from Drury to the Waikato, 1862.
Potatau Te Wherowhero’s Ngaruawahia headquarters
Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
tipu in mid January. Receiving at Queenstown intelligence that a specialist escort hold-up gang had arrived from Australia, he warned Bayly that if the escort troops were attacked ‘any excitement or bustle will probably be fatal’ and at once sent for two detectives to be stationed at the police camp on the shores of the Lake in an attempt to pre-empt any such occurrence. 96
Arrangements for the first escorts from the Lake were makeshift and primitive. In a typical early entry in his escort diary Ryan, encamped at the incipient ‘St John’s Township’, recorded ‘another most miserable night having no Blankets and sleeping on the bare ground in my Cloak the Breeze blows cold from the Lake’. Whilst awaiting Branigan’s arrival by boat from Queenstown with the first load of 13,000 ounces of treasure (and there would have been more had the escort been able to cope), Ryan’s men practised their shooting and paraded each morning at 4 am; as a reward for their being ‘smart, clean good fighting men’ when ‘on duty’, Ryan allowed them to get drunk. In what was to be a regular pattern, the first escort also took out three long-term prisoners, the only means of securement at Queenstown and Arrowtown being logs to which prisoners were manacled.
The second escort, in what was to be a fortnightly service, brought out 24,000 ounces but was first delayed by bad weather and a leaky (after a policeman put his foot through it) whale-boat. On the overland portion of the journey, which was to be normally conducted by two or three foot police riding on the treasure wagon with twice as many mounted police in accompaniment, this escort struck further problems. A wagon wheel broke and a dray hired to replace the vehicle stuck in the mud; a replacement wagon arrived two days later but when going downhill its brakes failed and it smashed to pieces in a gully, injuring the driver and a prisoner. On the same journey a constable was dismissed for sleeping instead of guarding gold and prisoners. Many people, miners and non-miners alike, branded the policing and escort service—constrained as it was by government spending limits—too ‘niggardly’. The ‘usual Government parsimony’ was contrasted with the generous escort service provided by the New South Wales administration. 97
Partly in response to miners’ demands for a more frequent and reliable escort service, which resulted particularly from his selffostered and continuing rumours of ‘bad characters’ arriving from Australia, Branigan extracted more resources from the government. Barracks were built at St John’s (forming the nucleus of a soon bustling town) while accommodation houses built along the route meant that the days of the troopers sleeping on the ground
589
Sir 8
Policing the Colonial Frontier
were over. All the same, comforts for the escort police were few. On a not atypical day, ‘miserably cold and bitter’, the escort was ‘several times nearly spilled through the bad state of the roads’. To add to the discomforts of weather ‘snowing, blowing and raining the whole time’, the wagon was twice awash when crossing a swollen river, and Ryan himself soon fell seriously ill. Branch escorts were even more primitive, particularly that down the Shotover, where pack horses clung to precarious tracks hundreds of feet above the surging, rocky river; prisoners were chained to posts outside the small, inadequate inn halfway through the gorge,"
Before January was out Branigan had exceeded his authorised strength by a dozen in an attempt to provide day and night patrol coverage for Queenstown —where he operated from temporary, tented headquarters—and to service five Wakatipu stations. Apart from the two on the shores of the Lake and that at the Arrow, a station had been established at Cardrona —a diggings settlement on the roundabout main route between the Dunstan and Wakatipu—and another at Kawarau Falls. At the latter, soon called Frankton, the Otago government had intended to build its goldfields administration centre, and its police station was therefore deemed the Lake District police headquarters-designate. The government decision was consequential upon a dispute with Rees over the ownership of the site of Queenstown a few miles away, but even after goldfields administration buildings were erected in mid year at Frankton the original town remained the commercial centre and port—the Frankton arm of the Lake being shallow—of the goldfields. In August the government had therefore to admit defeat and regional police headquarters reverted permanently to Queenstown, with Rees himself given the contract to build the permanent ‘Camp’ as well as eventually receiving £lO,OOO compensation for being prevented from freeholding his home station upon which the town had been constructed."
In March 1863, with Frankton still no more than a ‘few solitary looking tents’ but Queenstown a bustling metropolis of a thousand people, the government had responded to Branigan’s submission for a weekly Wakatipu escort. But since under existing circumstances this would prove costly the Superintendent soon opted for an economy measure suggested by the Commissioner himself. This took advantage of improved access to the diggings, of the anxiety of people of substance who wished to get safely and comfortably to the Wakatipu, and of the commercial gains to be won from taking freight through: the government contracted out the gold escort to Cobb and Co, which from early April ran the service in conjunction with a passenger and goods coach business to the diggings. Strict
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
police supervision over the service was however retained: armed police accompanied the weekly trips and Bayly, the officer in charge of the escort (although Ryan took it on to Dunedin from a half-way point), had the ‘right to object to any or all’ of the passengers. Additionally all timetabling and safety precautions were firmly in police hands, and the Commissioner could levy a fine of ‘£lo per hour for any delay beyond two hours either on starting from, or arriving at, the Treasury’ in the provincial capital. Meanwhile, with diversion of men and horses to the Wakatipu route it had proven necessary to take the Dunstan escort across the bleak and rugged Rock and Pillar Range and along the West Taieri trail. After the contract escort met the state escort from Tuapeka at Tokomairiro, the joint body continued on to meet this rerouted Dunstan escort at Saddle Hill. Branch escorts joined the main lines at various places. The Wakatipu escort now averaged 27,000 ounces of gold per month to Dunedin, compared with 185,735 ounces taken out from the Dunstan during that entire year. 1 ”
The escort from Queenstown was soon operating in so generally acceptable a form that few utilised the rival Southland escort from what that province insisted on calling the ‘Border Diggings’ to Invercargill. Nevertheless police resources, both human and material, remained overstretched. The new diggings ‘are so scattered and the people in the sequestered gullies are getting such great quantities of gold’, it was reported, ‘that the temptation to crime is very great, the police force being almost powerless to act, not from want of pluck, or any fault, but from the smallness of their numbers, and the wide extent of country over which their services are required. One great cause of complaint also is, that there are not enough wardens, to decide disputes, so that men are almost driven to the primitive state where each must assert his own rights with the strong hand.’ Travellers confirmed that disorder in particular ‘prevails to an awful extent’ in parts of the Arrow-Shotover diggings, some mountain gorges reportedly the ‘scene of many a wild fierce encounter between the Tipperary or Tips, as they are generally termed and the Galway boys.’ 101
Indeed, the inadequacy of police resources upon the goldfields was forever in the news. Early in 1863, it was said, ‘gangs of scoundrels’ were ‘roaming’, ‘plundering’, ‘assaulting’ on the Lake goldfields. At Arrowtown, a newspaper correspondent wrote, the five police were ‘unable to do more than maintain a semblance of order by their presence’; there were too few men available for a satisfactory escort service through to Queenstown and thus in a single day the police had been obliged to reject a thousand ounces of gold, to the frustration of the diggers. ‘Some of these men have
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
come in thirty miles; they are afraid to return, and do not like carrying it about them. Many of the bad characters lurking about know these circumstances, and also the strength of the police force. It is these circumstances that render any attempt to maintain order and afford justice to the injured a mockery and a delusion.’ Stories in the newspapers about claim-jumping and other ‘open audacious contempt of the law’ abounded. Seven Maoris, forced out by a gang of whites who considered that their own race should take precedence, returned with tomahawks to do their own policing in the absence of Branigan’s men. After two contending parties at Skipper’s Gully far up the Shotover had waited three days in vain for the arrival of a state representative, they ‘fought it out’ on the fourth, with the ‘Galway Boys’ triumphant. Miners along the Shotover were soon forming their own vigilance committees, tougher versions of the self-governing regimes normally established at new fields. This was particularly the case at the rich Maori Point area, centre for 2000 diggers along the Shotover but isolated from the Arrow and Queenstown stations by prevailing poor communications. 102
After considerable agitation by Shotover miners backed by goldfields Wardens, Branigan partly met their demands first in April by ordering the construction of a sod station at Arthurs Point where the road between the two major Wakatipu stations crossed the river and, despite resistance from a cost-minded government, again in mid year when an NCO and constable were sent to Maori Point. Even so, these stations were universally acknowledged as inadequate for countering Branigan’s and others’ apprehension that ‘much violence will be attempted (in jumping claims etc)’ in the locality. The Lake District correspondent of the Otago Daily Times wrote that ‘robberies are both numerous and frequent; drunkenness is prevalent, and men are constantly complaining of having their pockets cut out; sticking up is not unknown in the district; jumping claims is a regular pursuit....’ Whilst the influential paper acknowledged the ‘comparative immunity from serious crime which Otago has hitherto enjoyed’, ascribing a great deal of this to police efficacy, it echoed Branigan’s pronouncements in warning that the ‘hardened convict population of the neighbouring colonies, which furnishes the brigands and cutthroats whose deeds fill the Australian papers, is rapidly recruiting the ranks of the criminal class in this colony.’ Every ship docking ‘adds to the number of hardened and professional criminals’. 103
The Commissioner’s propaganda, clearly, was succeeding, particularly in the context of an influx of immigrants into Otago that was now enormous, peaking at 14,000 in March 1863. The February
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
capture at the Dunstan of the celebrated Charlie Gilbert, a leader of the Gardiner Gang which had ‘stuck up’ the Lachlan escort in New South Wales, gave Branigan a bonus in his campaign for more resources —as did continuing rumours that Frank Gardiner himself was on the loose in the province. Additionally, Branigan could point to the presence at Arrowtown from January of the notorious American, Captain W H (‘Bully’) Hayes, South Pacific blackbirder, pirate and murderer, who ran a hotel-cum-entertainment house at the diggings centre. The Commissioner’s angle on Australian exconvicts had by now somewhat changed in details. Most of these men, he postulated, would be from Tasmania, a number of them ‘conditional pardon’ men liable to complete their sentences if they ever returned to their penal colony or to Britain, men who would require ‘constant and unremitting surveillance’. A number of them would tend to head for Otago because of Victoria’s 1856 Influx of Criminals Act, which prohibited their entry to that goldfields colony on pain of expulsion or imprisonment. There was a small degree of truth in what he said, but that problem was largely being coped with by importing specialised Victorian detectives on the ‘rare opportunities’ when they and other ‘superior men’ were offering. 1 "
Branigan had of course brought across, without Richardson’s permission, Thomas Sincock and created for him the new position of Detective in Charge at £260 salary. So highly did the Commissioner regard the chief detective that Sincock was—with Bayly—made a Sub-Inspector (at £360) in February 1863 and soon to be placed in charge of the City District. Yet despite such comforting developments even the sceptical Richardson believed Branigan’s propaganda to the effect that Otago was becoming ‘one vast penal settlement to the entire destruction of its prosperity . . . the converging point of the criminal element of the Australasian colonies’. The Commissioner from March 1863 launched into a campaign to exclude, by means of further Victorian-style legislation (that of 1861 and 1862 having been vetoed by the Crown), the admission to Otago of ‘desperate offenders, ticket of leave holders’ and similar delinquents and miscreants. It seems doubtful that Branigan ever really feared a ‘tide of convictism surging inwards’, and the government of his latest scapegoat, Tasmania, pointed out that at most only 16 of its ticket of leave men could possibly have escaped to New Zealand. When by 1867, after many state-propagated moral panics, it became clear that Otago had not become swamped with degenerates, Branigan claimed this to be because his police had been ‘by strict surveillance able to grapple with the evil’. In reality, far from a ‘crisis of a most serious nature’ having been created by
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Australian criminals, Branigan’s problems of order were of indige nous nature. 105
This had been recognised by many of those concerned with order at the time. Commentators in 1863 could not agree as to whether the influx of hard-core criminals had already occurred or was about to occur, but all were in concord that police protection from the effects of endemic disorder was inadequate. At the Mount Benger goldfield which had been proclaimed in late 1862, no policemen had been posted three months later despite its reported population of 3000 and its strategic position between Tuapeka and Dunstan. Branigan used publicly expressed discontent at such states of affairs to squeeze more resources from the government, sometimes acting unilaterally in the knowledge that influential opinion would not tolerate his dismissal. He received no more than a reprimand for a private deal with Standish to import ‘smart & steady’ young men made redundant at Richmond Barracks in Melbourne. 1 ”
In matters of internal reorganisation of the force Branigan was allowed a large degree of autonomy from the state in the postDunstan emergency period, normally being given all the support needed—particularly if it were inexpensive. Although the Police Regulation Ordinance of 19 December 1862, providing formal legislative sanction to ‘Branigan’s Boys’, clipped the Commissioner’s wings to a certain degree by stressing the Superintendent’s overall control, the Provincial Council had found no difficulty in passing the Town and Country Police Ordinance earlier in the month. This previous enactment replaced Crown Colony legislation as the major legal basis of policing powers in Otago Province and reflected the tight means of coercive social control demanded—and already effected—by the Police Commissioner. At the height of the challenge to order in February 1863, and despite alluring promises of an Inspectorship, Branigan’s second in command Thomas K Weldon had resigned to head the Southland provincial police. The Commissioner had no problem in gaining quick permission to fill both this vacancy in commissioned officer ranks and that left by Keddell by promoting 1/c Sergeant Bayly—a Tasmanian who had served in Victoria —and 1/c Detective Sincock to Sub-Inspectorships. When the latter took over control of headquarters district his instructions were to reorganise the beat system and put into full effect the new police legislation, which focused on urban disorder. With reorganisation and increased numbers, all seemed to augur well for the future. Few contemporary experts on policing disagreed with the
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Otago Daily Times comment of 18 March that ‘we have as finely organised a staff of police as is to be found anywhere’. 10
But almost at once a number of events were to occur to besmirch the image of the police. Sub-Inspector Morton had already faced a Board of Enquiry on a charge of withholding information from the courts, and now Branigan himself was widely accused of participating in an official cover-up over sex and drinking orgies at the female immigration barracks in Dunedin. The integrity and the intelligence of the entire force came into doubt too over the infamous case of the brutal murder of ex-miner Joseph Smith, ‘Yorky’, proprietor of a tent store at Miller’s Flat on the Mount Benger field. In the absence of any local policeman—itself a topic of critical conversation —local runholder Walter Miller had taken charge of the search for a thief whom Yorky had befriended before being battered to death. But the murderer had escaped to the Tuapeka on Yorky’s horse, and when spotted there a Taw and stupid’ recruit guarding the police camp on his own did nothing to apprehend him.' 08
As if this were not enough, a Tuapeka detective 10 days later mistakenly arrested a man who fitted the description of the murderer; Job Johnson, a miner who had just arrived from the interior goldfields. Although Johnson gave full particulars of his background and recent movements, the details were not checked out for veracity and he was committed for trial. At the Supreme Court hearing Queenstown’s Resident Magistrate J Nugent Wood testified that on 19 March, when the murderer was know to have been in Yorky’s tent, Johnson had been a juryman at a coroner’s inquest in his court, more than 100 miles away from the scene of the murder. The state had now to concede what everyone else had known all along, and the police and Crown Prosecutor were subjected to great ridicule and contempt for what was called by the mildest critic their ‘somewhat unscrupulous’ behaviour. Ever since four miners from the Lake District had sworn in the lower court that Johnson had been in their area at the time of the murder, newspapers had assumed Johnson’s innocence and warned the police that ‘they must avoid exciting suspicion that instead of having the ends of justice in view, their aim is only to secure convictions.’ The Otago Daily Times lectured the police, while Johnson was still incarcerated, that they had ‘no right to force a commital until they had enquired into the alleged alibi.’ People were angered that the real murderer had escaped in the many weeks between murder and trial, that Johnson had been forced to spend his life’s savings of £BOO in clearing himself, and that he had become rheumatic through his imprisonment in cold conditions.
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The government was forced to pay £5OO compensation, whilst an infuriated public raised the rest of his expenses. Branigan never spoke to Nugent Wood again; his attitude, Wood claimed, was that ‘his prey had been taken away from him’. 109
As the Johnson affair climaxed, public sympathy for the shorthandedness of the police began to waver as Victorian-style methods of policing were increasingly queried. Judge C W Richmond’s reason for refusing to allow Otago policemen to wear their militarystyle headgear in his court was accorded favourable comment: as far as he was concerned, policemen were civilian ‘peace officers’ rather than military men. Cases where policemen earned kudos were now frequently crowded out of the news by unfavourable publicity. The capture by two ex-Victorian police of Australian highwayman James Wallace at the Dunstan was to be overshadowed by a case emanating from a routine police action which escalated to indicate that the police were ‘endeavouring to exercise too stringent a rule of the goldfields’. As a result of a judicial decision by Wood some Arrow residents held a political meeting; police ‘pounced upon’ and arrested a man addressing, said Sergeant John Lynch (in charge of ‘the camp’ at Arrowtown), a seditious meeting of 30 or 40 persons. Another constable present testified that the arrestee was ‘only arguing with some of his mates’—albeit somewhat vociferously, since he had been on a spree—and ‘respectable’ witnesses shared such a view, particularly a doctor and the Union Bank’s Goldfields Inspector P McTavish. The latter pair, concerned that the man had been doing nothing illegal (a point later confirmed when the case against him was dismissed in court), went along to the police station to ‘bail him out, so strongly was their sense of the injury done him’. They were ordered from the tentstation and McTavish, upon pausing to mention who he was and his friendship with Branigan, was arrested and handcuffed. 110
Confronted with three charges of obstructing the police, McTavish offered a cheque to cover the requested bail of £lOO but it was declined by Lynch, who then chained him, amidst anti-police hostility from a large crowd, alongside the earlier prisoner to the post which served as the Arrow lockup, McTavish was freed only after a clerk from his bank brought the bail money. When later Wood dismissed the charges against McTavish as well as those against the original prisoner, Sergeant Lynch compounded his problems by arguing with the Resident Magistrate in public court. There were factors in Lynch’s favour, insofar as he had experienced in the past many problems with men refusing to leave police premises, and he had not been deflected from what he saw as his duty by ‘name dropping’. There was moreover a vital dimension of class
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involved in the affair; Resident Magistrate Wood castigated the NCO for his ‘indiscretion, to use the mildest term’ in being unable to ‘discriminate a gentleman from a loafer, or a blackguard’, a point seemingly confirmed by his inability to behave deferentially in court. Newspaper reports of the affair berated Lynch’s pretensions, particularly for possessing the temerity to apply ‘trumped-up’ charges against a man who was a Victorian magistrate: ‘it is anything but a laughable affair that a gentleman of position and respectability should be treated as a felon on so slight a provocation.’ ‘We venture to say that the sensation-loving public was never treated to a more outrageous episode than this.’ 111
However mitigating the circumstances, the fact remained that the sergeant had made the gratuitous arrest upon which later developments in the case were based; since, Wood ventured, Lynch felt that a few quarrelling men constituted a riot, ‘his nervous system is sadly too weak for an officer of police in charge of a mining district’. Arresting people at random, the Magistrate commented, was more likely to create than allay a disturbance. There was, thundered the editorialist, a ‘very clear line between severity and tyranny, and the latter is likely to create the very evil it is desired to avoid.’ Lynch’s type of behaviour had led to the Eureka Stockade, where ‘the Victorian Government received a lesson which taught them ever after to allow the fullest possible expression of public opinion.’ The sergeant had of necessity been obliged at first to use ‘early Victorian’ police methods to produce order at the Arrow, but matters had changed and the old methods now appeared to be those of ‘inordinate severity’. Nugent Wood warned the police to focus upon ‘those ruffians who follow after rich rushes’ rather than upon hardworking miners who might occasionally go on a spree." 2
The affair became a cause celebre rather than just an interesting newspaper story for two reasons. First it brought to light accounts of similar cases where police were said to have picked on innocent people rather than to have suppressed the ‘mob of low blackguards, who take every opportunity of causing disturbance and riot’ and the few hard-core criminals on the fields. Miners at the Arrow and up the Shotover who clamoured for police protection could now note the discrepancy between the persecution of people like Lynch’s ‘rioter’ and the unchecked claim-jumping, theft and general disorder on the diggings. The case would not fade away, either, because of the fact that a man of rank and influence had been insulted by a young Irishman of lowborn origins: significant persons among the elite felt the need to extract an exemplary pound of flesh. To restore public confidence in the police among elite and
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non-elite alike Branigan had requested from the government a board of enquiry. Unwilling to raise class issues in so sharp a form, however, the provincial leadership declined on the technical grounds that no formal complaint had been laid. Although Branigan exemplarily secured Lynch’s resignation, he could not forestall further publicity when McTavish then proceeded to lay a formal complaint, thus obliging the government to proceed with an enquiry in order to avoid blatantly violating its own ruling. In the event Warden R Beetham’s report provided the best possible result for both police and state. The police were exonerated from violating societal norms of deference by the finding that the sergeant had been unaware of McTavish’s occupation or status at the time of the arrest. Police dignity moreover was upheld by the finding that no non-policeman, other than a New Zealand JP, ‘would be justified in entering the Tent of a Sergt. of Police contrary to the instructions or caution of a constable stationed outside, and enquiring into the charge against a prisoner under arrest.’ To be sure Lynch had not shown due respect to the court, and everyone knew that he could easily have verified McTavish’s identity had he wished, but his exit from the force had rectified such hiccups in the social order. 113
All the same, the police image was to suffer further; first by the insistence of the erratic Sub-Inspector Morton, in charge of the Wakatipu district, that the Lynch enquiry proceedings held at the tented Arrow court could not be reported, a submission upheld by Beetham conditional upon the right of the Superintendent to allow publication should he wish. Secondly, when McTavish had attempted to have the Sub-Inspector removed from the court of enquiry Morton, in defending his own right to attend, had admitted not only that Lynch was ‘not able to cope’ with his accuser but also that his sergeant had bungled the original case against the bank official. This was not the first time that year that the police had been revealed by the judicial system as seemingly inadequate. McTavish, determined to exact revenge for his public humiliation, now protracted the case by taking out private proceedings against Lynch. 11 *
By the time that the enquiry’s report was submitted to the authorities Branigan was beleaguered on all sides by criticism. On 1 June 1863, for example, Sergeant Andrew Thompson’s Tuapeka escort had met Ryan’s cortege at Tokomairiro only for it to be discovered that en route from Tuapeka 210 ounces of gold had been lost from a bank bag that had burst open. Ryan correctly predicted that Thompson ‘will have to suffer’ and the sergeant was suspended, as much to assuage public ire at police ‘incompetence’ as
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on the merits of the case. Although in the event a board of enquiry found that the bags provided by the banks had been inadequate and exonerated Thompson, the damage to the police image had already occurred. At the same time, along the upper Shotover police were being castigated for their laggardly behaviour in investigating a murder, even after the stealing of the body suggested circumstances of extreme peculiarity. In actuality Branigan himself was far from satisfied with the performance of even senior members of the force. He suspected Detective Tuckwell of malingering, and had frequently found occasion to reprimand both Sub-Inspec-tors Bayly (in charge at the Dunstan) and Sincock for neglect of duty. Their personal failings, he believed, provided a ‘pernicious example’ to their men and were reflected in a general lax standard of discipline and competence. Their performances were seen as all the more disappointing since so much had been expected of them; both officers were in the course of 1863 threatened with dismissal if they did not mend their ways rapidly. 1 ' 5
Since the beginning of the gold rushes to the interior Branigan’s propensity to indulge in unilateral decisions had been resisted fiercely by Richardson’s increasingly cautious regime. The December 1862 Police Regulation Ordinance had given legislative framework to the general Victorian system which Branigan had been operating, granting for example the Commissioner the power to appoint constables. But it was passed in an atmosphere of personal recrimination and bitterness between Otago’s heads of state and police respectively and had therefore formally truncated the Commissioner’s powers. Whilst operational autonomy was generally allowed to remain with Branigan, Richardson was not loath to intervene when he felt it necessary—to his Commissioner’s chagrin. The first major dispute between the Superintendent and his head of police had begun when the former exercised his prerogative by sending a letter euphemistically described as ‘quite unusual in tone’ direct to Branigan’s Chief Clerk, Edward Hardcastle. Under the Victorian police system the government had taken an incorrect attitude in this communication by condemning Hardcastle for signing urgent letters on behalf of Branigan in the latter’s absence. In Victoria, and under Branigan in Otago, the Chief Clerk was informally the second in command, at the hub of policing operations. The Otago Commissioner regarded Hardcastle as his ‘most valuable and efficient officer’, more important than any other two of his men put together. Although Weldon had been made nominally second in command, his brief covered only the Dunedin area and it was Hardcastle who had been instructed to act temporarily
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as de facto Commissioner when Branigan was travelling: Richardson had chastised him for following orders! The Chief Clerk resigned, feeling slighted by the government." 6
It was Branigan’s strongly expressed anger at losing the linchpin of his entire organisation at so crucial a period of the rushes that had caused Richardson to legislate the subordinate position of the police chief firmly into the Ordinance. The Superintendent, it was made clear, appointed or dismissed officers and NCOs; he too proclaimed districts and determined their complement of police, made final decisions upon charges against the men and framed rules and regulations. Such powers normally lay in abeyance, but when the Victorian rules were finally published in Dunedin in 1865 in a form adapted to Otago they reinforced the Superintendent’s ultimate authority. An earlier set, drafted in 1863 by Sincock to Branigan’s requirements, had not provided adequately for this and was therefore vetoed. This was even though Richardson’s successor (from 9 April 1863) John Hyde Harris was far more sympathetic to Branigan than his predecessor had become, but he too found it necessary to clip his Commissioner’s wings by securing amending legislation. All the same, even in theory the Commissioner retained a great deal of power—to appoint constables, for example, or to remove them from the force. And in reality Branigan often continued to act as if his powers were unchecked, for instance by personally disciplining his men under circumstances where legislation confined the right of punishment to any two JPs. But the government had already made its point and from the passing of its late 1862 legislation Branigan had sometimes in practice, and always in the last instance, been given decreasing room to manoeuvre. The same applied to his officers; Sub-Inspector Morton, for example, was severely disciplined by the government for calling tenders for police quarters up the Shotover without having first gained the Superintendent’s permission, circumstances of emergency notwithstanding." 7
Under the Harris regime there was at first some leniency. At the height of public disquiet with the Otago police Branigan implemented organisational reform in order to make best use of existing resources, and was able to reappoint Hardcastle as Chief Clerk—with a Sub-Inspector’s salary of £350 emphasising the elevated nature of that position in a paramilitarised force. He also argued that while suitable in the days when the miners were all concentrated in the Tuapeka area, the figure of three commissioned officers —originally one each for goldfields, city and escort —was long since anachronistic. Now all three were in charge of districts and there were no separate commands for escorts. Within days of
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
Harris assuming office Bayly, for example, had been transferred to take immediate charge of the Dunstan field and general supervision of its escort, which was conducted by an NCO. Branigan suggested to the government that two new Sub-Inspectors be created for taking over the main lines of escort, and Harris and his advisers accepted the validity of his argument. The senior of the two promoted policemen, Samuel Mead Dalgleish, was given charge of the Wakatipu escort, to the chagrin of Ryan who had been in ‘horrible suspense’ awaiting his own elevation to that role. Branigan had indeed originally lined up Ryan for the position but the ‘too mercurial’ NCO had blotted his copybook even to the extent of being temporarily suspended by the Commissioner on a number of unspecified charges. In the event Ryan had been let off with a reprimand for the only offence revealed to him, drinking with his men—something of which the Commissioner himself had been ‘guilty’ in the past. The real reason for his disgrace in the eyes of his superiors was that he had, with his usual indiscretion, meddled in the politics of the Superintendency—on the ‘wrong’ side! 118
Dalgleish, a tough Glaswegian who had become a Victorian police cadet at age 17, had fought at Eureka with his friend Keddell. Joining the Branigan force in October 1861 aged 24, he had risen to be an NCO a year later. But his effectiveness in his latest rank was lessened by a debilitating feud with Sergeant Ryan, whose ‘sense of honor and self respect’ had suffered. The problems began at once, with Ryan refusing to respond to orders deliberately issued to put him in his place, and escalated wildly a year later when both courted the same (in Ryan’s words) ‘knowing and yet a cunning little puss’ whom the NCO wished to marry for her money. The second appointee, 23 year old Irishman Gilbert Percy, renowned as a strict disciplinarian, was placed in charge of the Dunstan escort and thereby escaped the immediacy of Ryan’s wrath. Despite these two appointments of dominating men, the Otago officer personnel remained overshadowed by Sub-Inspector Morton, who was Branigan’s closest confidant. The two top men in the force had both been at loggerheads with Richardson over the allocation of resources and government intervention and it was said had clandestinely, with other heads of departments similarly affected, conspired with opposing politicians to help bring about the Superintendent’s downfall. That September Morton, although a ‘very superficial Man’ in the eyes of many, received the big reward: promotion to Inspectorship.' 1 *
With the two new Sub-Inspectors in charge of escorts, officer strength reached five, with Sincock in Dunedin controlling five stations, Morton 10 at the Wakatipu field, and Bayly seven at the
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Dunstan. NCOs controlled the other three districts, with six stations apiece in the Tuapeka and the Tokomairiro, and four in the Waikouaiti area. There was a high turnover of personnel. To the end of 1862 Branigan had appointed nearly 200 men, and in that same period more than half of these had been discharged or —in the case of two dozen men—dismissed; in 1863 he was to appoint 129 men, while 81 left the force for one reason or another during that year. In mid 1863 there was a total of 176 members divided into mounted (six sergeants, 46 constables) and foot (14 sergeants, 90 constables) divisions, together with specialist units —particularly the water police (sergeant and five constables) and the nine detectives, three each in Dunedin and at the Dunstan, two at Wakatipu and one at Tuapeka. In addition, Branigan had recently expanded the female workforce within the Otago police. Soon after arrival he had adopted the Victorian system of appointing part-time ‘female attendants’ at the main lockups (which often doubled as gaols on the goldfields), the first female police employees in the country. He now extended their role to that of ‘cooks and female searchers’ at the 10 main stations. In return for £25 per annum the women, usually policemen’s wives, cooked for the men at barracks and for lockup/gaol inhabitants, processed female suspects, and looked after female prisoners. 120
At this time Branigan envisaged expansion of his full-time force to more than 200. Extra men were patently needed, he contended. At the largest settlement outside the provincial capital a dozen staff found it difficult to cope with the task of order imposition because of what ‘amounts to little less than a daily exodus of the entire Queenstown station to Franktown and its detention there while the court is sitting.’ For, with the government plan to centre goldfields administration at Frankton, both prisoners and those policemen required to give evidence had to travel to the small township every day that the Resident Magistrate held court; here the prisoners had to be closely guarded, for the sole-charge constable at Frankton station had no lockup at his disposal. The overstretching of resources on the existing goldfields was exacerbated by the mid year opening up of the last of the extensive goldfields regions: the Hogburn/Mt Ida/Upper Taieri. 121
On 18 July Branigan instructed his Waikouaiti sergeant to proceed inland to investigate reports of thousands of miners at the unpoliced Hogburn. When word was received that 3000 or so had congregated there, a mounted constable was sent through as an emergency measure, and Sergeant Thomas Ryan was on 3 August
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transferred to take charge of the district, based at Mt Ida. It was a difficult assignment: the ‘police camp only consists of one tent. Petty robberies are very numerous. A regular gang of scoundrels infest the place.’ The Commissioner minuted a warning that Ryan was ‘placed in a very precarious position at present and it would be judicious to behave with the utmost moderation towards the Miners.’ Even after he was joined by reinforcements who included Detective James Rowley, those on the spot considered that there were never sufficient police, with ‘rowdyism’ continuing unabated.
Ryan’s nature precluded any possibility of sustained display of (in Branigan’s witheringly sarcastic words) the ‘tact which I have always given him credit for possessing’. His reign over the new goldfields ended after a series of incidents which were too repressively coercive for the Otago force, even in the circumstances of local emergencies engendered by a series of turbulent new rushes. On his arrival at the new diggings town of Fullartons the NCO rode in with his revolver drawn and, to the distaste of the populace, made it clear that all authority resided in him. When he then repaired to an insubstantial brothel, however, an angry crowd gathered, the tent strings were cut and the ‘caligo was thrown aside and made exposure of what I may here not describe’; after further altercation Ryan emerged from under the canvas firing his revolver and the crowd fell upon him and administered a beating. A week before Christmas 1863 the sergeant recorded baldly in his diary of the new rush to the Saxtons area: T followed it up with two Troopers. There was great rowdyism going on. In a melee I fired on a man named McDonald. I was suspended for an investigation. I came off with a reprimand’—and a transfer back to the escort service which he hated. 122
Meanwhile Branigan’s warning to Ryan that he should ‘bear in mind that one or two members of the Force cannot be expected to preserve that degree of order at new rushes which ought to be observed at settled Townships’ was pertinent in a number of areas. Small but nevertheless turbulent fields opened up even within the boundaries of the provincial headquarters district: by mid October Sub-Inspector Sincock was having to cope with a thousand miners at the West Taieri field a mere 20 miles from Dunedin. Leg-irons and handcuffs were sent to its main centre, Hindon, pending the arrival of a portable lockup, and by the end of the month a weekly escort was operating. The administrative centre was described as crowded with ‘diggers, loafers, idlers and rowdies’. Although, wrote a correspondent, the police were doing a ‘splendid’ job their numbers were small: ‘such rowdyism as has been practised openly at the Taieri, would not be permitted by any other community of diggers,
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that it has been my lot to fall in with.’ In short succession Sergeant John Nagle, already sporting two black eyes from a previous assault, was stabbed in the cheek with scissors when arresting a stick-up suspect, Detective James Farrell was assaulted, and Nagle and a constable were thrown into a mud pool in the street and set upon. Reinforcements were sent, but this of necessity meant drawing men from other areas which were also under-staffed. The escalation of rushes in this annus mirabilis of the Otago goldfields caused many a policeman weaker than Ryan to lose his nerve. All the while Branigan pressed for greater human and financial resources. 123
Branigan had another most telling argument for increased police membership. From the beginning of 1863 Ryan had noted in his diary unseasonably bad weather, and Dunstan was to be virtually flattened by gales which lasted until March. Then in July heavy snow fell upon the interior goldfields and subsequent rain precipitated a thaw which suddenly and violently flooded the creeks and rivers worked by diggers; much of Arrowtown, including the police camp, was swept away, as were many beach encampments along the Arrow and Shotover. From early August even worse followed: huge blizzards swept the interior areas almost daily for many weeks, and normal weather patterns were not restored until the end of the year. The 70th Regiment detachment stationed in Dunedin, its job of late consisting of little other than guarding the Treasury, had been withdrawn from the province for posting to Taranaki in the middle of the year; direction of relief and rescue operations in the bleak interior mountains was, therefore, entirely in police hands.
A party headed by Sub-Inspector Percy which sought and found some four dozen miners lost in the snow for several days was a not atypical occurrence that winter. Police problems were heightened by weather-related phenomena: the health of many miners suffered, including an outbreak of scurvy up the Shotover amongst men denied fresh food for nine months and a considerable amount of rheumatism and related complaints. A hospital was opened at Frankton by the government and it was a frequent police problem to convey seriously ill men to it. Destitute diggers moveover created adverse ramifications of order, especially with Harris and Pyke unwilling to provide public works relief, and this further hampered search and rescue operations. Although possibly hundreds of diggers perished during the winter, it was widely acknowledged that police rescue procedures had been as effective as was consistent with their limited resources. 11 *
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The public had before it, moreover, the example of a police 'martyr’, Sergeant Edward Garvey, an archetypal Branigan man who had arrived from Victoria in late 1861 destined for fast promotion. On 23 September 1863 Sergeant Ryan, still in charge at Mt Ida (later called Vincent, then Naseby), had sent Garvey and a constable to investigate the new Snowy Mountain rush at Clarke’s in the Mt Burster area of the Kakanui Range. On the return journey an over-confident Garvey strode on alone through a snowstorm, leaving the constable and another companion sheltering beneath a rock convinced that the party had lost its way. These two later struggled out to Mt Ida camp, severely frost-bitten, and Ryan accumulated further odium from the diggings fraternity for alleged laxity in the ensuing search. At the end of the month the body of the sergeant, who was said to have been greatly ‘esteemed’ and ‘respected’ on the new goldfields, was located. More than £l5O was subscribed to a fund to erect a monument to Garvey. The asseveration that he—along with fellow Otago policeman John Bevin—had participated in the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ was much publicised, as was the declaration that he and yet another Otago policeman had also won the French Legion of Honour decoration, of which only 20 had been awarded to British personnel at the Crimea. 12S
In the middle of June Branigan had enquired of Bayly whether workmen had finished forming a road through the Kawarau Gorge to link the Wakatipu directly with the Dunstan diggings. This route would be of crucial significance in allowing the escort from Queenstown to link with that from the Dunstan, thereby avoiding the cumbersome journey by boat to St John’s and then onwards in part through Southland territory. Weather delayed the work but in October, when the route was still a track impassable by vehicles, the contract with Cobb and Co was allowed to lapse and the new escort from the Arrow began, two men forming an advance guard along the precipitous trail through the gorge, which afforded plenty of cover for ambush. The merging of the two main lines of escort gave Branigan greater manoeuvrability with his officer corps. W’hen there were problems of staff relations at Tuapeka the Commissioner was able to replace sergeant-in-charge Andrew Thompson with Sincock, thereby serving two purposes. Whilst the officer transferred from Dunedin was to act as troubleshooter in resolving the problems of the first goldfields police district, at the same time it was made clear to him by this ‘demotion’ to a district of lesser importance that Branigan’s warnings that he would be dismissed if he did not improve his performance were not empty phrases. As it
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turned out the Sub-Inspector was instead soon to be faced with far graver problems—superintendence of turbulent new rushes in the Mt Ida District. 128
The severities of the winter put a considerable strain upon individual policemen. Many of them, unhappy about having to suffer freezing conditions in tents or, at best, flimsy wooden buildings, were resigning before the expiration of their 12 months’ period of service: in August Branigan again prohibited early releases. In Dunedin too living conditions at the ‘Constabulary Depot Barracks’ were becoming increasingly cramped and uncomfortable as the headquarters detachment grew larger. ‘More accommodation is urgently required as several of the men have to sleep on the floor, and in wet weather the buildings are almost uninhabitable, on account of the roof being in a very leaky state,’ Such conditions were almost luxurious compared to some at the diggings. Even as winter began to subside many miners were already starting to move back to the goldfields, accompanied by a number of hangers-on who created further problems for the overstretched police resources. In November a newspaper correspondent commented of the five policemen living in the ‘barracks’—two tents—at West Taieri that ‘what with watching the prisoners and patrolling the town, it would seem as if they never slept at all’; the two contemporaneous resident policemen at Maori Point were unable to exert a significant impact upon the control of disorder. That year reported crimes in the province rose fourfold, and the rate did not noticeably decline even after the starvation-induced thefts of the winter were a thing of the past. Many observers saw the net addition of some four dozen new police—during a year in which 18 new stations had opened in the first eight months —as inadequate. 1 ”
Many however also dwelt upon alleged police incompetence, it being said inter alia that constables were ‘incapable of exercising the most ordinary discretion in the execution of their orders’. Morale was lowered further as the result of a series of spectacular crimes in later 1863. In September four masked men detained a bank official on the Tuapeka-Waipori Road, took him to the El Dorado accommodation house and robbed the captive, the proprietor and guests of money. The resignation at that point of the head of the detective police, the renowned Joseph Tuckwell, did not help matters, and the highwaymen were never located. Two men who were believed to have robbed Bank of New Zealand official J Skinner of a huge sum near Dunedin in December were arrested but the money was never found, and police competence was once again placed under critical scrutiny. The problem was partly that given the expansion of the force, which surpassed the figure of 200 in the
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spring, and its high turnover, many of the new men were inadequately screened for selection, and most raw recruits were in any case rushed into ‘emergency’ policing with training comprising little more than elementary instruction and disciplining on the job. When, after August, a new dimension of training was added, it was nothing more than practising drilling, the result of the appointment of Constable Augustus Stokes as full-time drill instructor.
It was hardly surprising that even in the streets of Dunedin the new men seemed incapable of the discretionary ability required of ‘soldiers acting alone’: ‘the police appear to have instituted a sort of martial law on the footpaths of the city, and subjected respectable persons pursuing their business avocations to very officious and uncalled for interference.’ Putting into the streets men trained only rapidly and partially, if at all, and without socialisation into the norms of state-desired behaviour, not only created trouble but also militated against the ultimate state aim of a ‘consensual’ force embodying ‘correct’ modes of civil relations. It was a problem that deeply concerned Branigan: the required balance between the dual police role of representing both repressive and ideological apparatus was not being struck. To be sure, differential standards of social control were required in different parts of territories hosting major goldfields, but 1863—the year of by far the greatest influx of people into Otago—had seen directed at every sector of the force many a public accusation of despotic police action. 128
The Contraction of Goldfields and Policing
The problem of what should be for the Otago police their precise situational location on the coercive continuum was compounded by the escalating internal crisis of constabulary morale. Throughout the winter policemen in the interior had grumbled at the slashing—other than for the Wakatipu men—of their daily goldfields allowance. This had happened because the government had seen the economic writing on the wall: goldfields did not provide an adequate basis for a sustained high level of economic activity and concomitantly sizeable government expenditures. In September 1863 Branigan, in a public statement considered by police to be the thin end of the wedge, had bowed to executive pressure by predicting not only a further decreased goldfields allowance but also that a ‘reduced scale of pay’ might be ‘paid to those men who join the Department after a certain date’.
By early 1864 most goldfields were in noticeable decline, and even the Wakatipu allowance was reduced, albeit with a quick
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reinstatement to the full 5s for the four policemen along the Shotover (at Maori Point, Skippers Gully and Upper Shotover). Branigan allowed overall numbers to fall off by natural attrition so that by the end of March 1864, when for example the Hindon detachment had been reduced to two, the force comprised 188 members; over the preceding 12 months 72 constables had left the force whilst only 40 had been taken on. Savings had been effected in contingent expenditure, too, as Sub-Inspector Sincock, now in charge of the Mt Ida district, had discovered. In response to a rush which left the district headquarters town of Vincent ‘almost depopulated’ Branigan, during a tour of duty, had of his own initiative moved the centre of police operations in the area to the 5000strong town of Hamiltons. The government retrospectively sanctioned the expenditure incurred. Sincock however found that to meet the ‘emergency’ the physical transfer of the police camp, stables and gaol was an inadequate response, and he unilaterally made some expensive decisions. The government was so infuriated—as it had been with Morton on the Shotover—that it made Sincock himself pay almost a third of the £ll6 8s 6d expenditure occasioned by his requirements in the course of the move. As it turned out Hamiltons was a brief exception to the general rule that the goldfields were waning: apart from that one area, it was confidently stated in mid April of the various fields, ‘except in a few minor cases crime may be said to be almost unknown, and the lockup keeper’s duty happily well-nigh a sinecure.’ 129
At the time of the combining of the Dunstan and Wakatipu escorts, Branigan had brought the newly promoted Morton in to take charge of the Dunedin district in place of Sincock, with Percy taking over the Wakatipu district, Bayly remaining at the Dunstan, and Dalgleish handling the new main line of escort. By 1 April 1864 —when the goldfields population was assessed at 18,000 —there were, besides these five officers, nine mounted and 13 foot sergeants, 42 mounted and 99 foot constables, a team of seven water policemen, the nine-man detective unit and Quartermaster Sergeant James Graham Fox. Ordered to cut costs further Branigan chose the ‘only safe and judicious way’, that already foreshadowed of paying new men a shilling per day less than the rest. This was a measure designed to avoid the massive internal unrest which would have resulted from universal cuts but which was from the point of view of economy meaningful in a force with an annual turnover of a third: his assertion that ‘in the course of a short time’ all men would be on the new rate was an exaggeration rather than an untruth. 1 ”
Nevertheless the measure contained all the seeds of future dis
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content, for it applied to all persons appointed to any subcommissioned positions within the force, including by promotion; constables raised to NCO rank found themselves, on wages of 12s per day, little better off than they had been before. As the new men increased in numbers, too, they resented performing for 10s per day the same work carried out by their comrades at 11s. Additionally there were other cost-cutting measures, particularly the non-filling of vacancies, and despite outflows of miners to new goldfields in Marlborough Province shortages of police remained keenly felt in the Otago interior. The Alexandra detachment could not adequately cope with prevalent ‘rowdyism’; at Cardrona a new Warden/Resident Magistrate was ‘not supported even by the executive importance of a single policeman’ and was thus unable to ‘handcuff hyenas’ or even enforce the ‘sagacious blue book of Mining Regulations’; of a newer Lake District diggings it was said that some ‘notable example of Lynch law will sooner or later wake up the Government to the culpable neglect with which they have treated this important gold field’; the mounted constable at Hampden was so ‘continually conveying prisoners either to Waikouaiti or Oamaru’ that ‘not only has his troop horse become entirely knocked up, but during the time he is away with prisoners, there is no one left at the station as a protection to the inhabitants.’ 131
Branigan had to fight even for retention of his Police Gazette, the linchpin of his surveillance operations, after the Printing Committee of the Provincial Council in May recommended that in its place any necessary police notices could be inserted in a government advertising sheet. ‘lt would be impossible for me to compress within the limits of a single letter, the very great benefit derived from the publication’, he argued: the Gazette’s ‘discontinuance would most materially affect the efficiency of the Service.’ Garrett had been arrested in Sydney on the strength of information in the Otago Police Gazette. The clinching argument was that individualised circularising of necessarily confidential details about crimes and suspected criminals between police stations ‘would entail not only a large amount of extra clerical assistance, but would also require an extra number of Mounted Constables who would be kept constantly travelling with these informations’. Even so, it was decreed that the publication should now appear monthly rather than fortnightly.' 32
Economic contraction did not by any means lead to stagnation on the goldfields; on the contrary, the characteristic ebb and flow of diggings populations continued, with police struggling to keep up. Now, however, more so than in the past increased police in one area meant depletion in another. By August 1864 the Nokomai was
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reviving, and Branigan set about transferring the Kingston station buildings—made redundant by the rerouting of the escort —to accommodate the ensuing increased police establishment there. That same month a tent station was erected at Dunstan Creek, the beginning of a police presence at a new diggings soon to be centred in the Hills Creek/Blackstones area and by the end of the year at German Hill. All the same, there was a net population outflow from the province which indicated quite clearly that the heyday of the Otago fields was over, a mere three years after it had all begun; in a three month period more than 7000 people left the province for the Marlborough fields and then for fields on Canterbury’s West Coast which were to prove even richer than Otago’s.
By October the downturn in revenue from the goldfields had produced an overriding government directive to its institutions of state to economise. Branigan submitted estimates designed to save £4OOO over the ensuing six months (as against expenditure over the previous six) but late in the month this was rejected as inadequate. In line with other departmental retrenchments, but without consulting Branigan, the politicians decided to generalise the shilling per day reduction to all constables and sergeants, as well as to reduce officers’ pay by £5O per annum: only the Commissioner’s salary of £7OO remained unscathed. There was some political opposition to the measure on the grounds that it would ‘dishearten those upon whom the preservation of peace and order depended’, and much public anger about the imminent ‘disorganisation of one of the best disciplined forces in the world; a body of men not alone remarkable for their respectability, but their general intelligence and world renowned efficiency.’ 1 ”
Such sentiments were by now integral to Otago lore. Alexander Bathgate in Britain in 1874 recalled of his visit to the province a decade before that its ‘police force was long one of the boasts of Otago, and really it would have been difficult to find a finer-looking body of men. They were remarkable for their height: the uniforms, too, added to their appearance; instead of the tight-buttoned frockcoat of the English “bobby”, they wore a short loose coat, or jumper, of fine cloth, with a double-peaked glazed shako. A stranger would have supposed every man an officer.’ But in 1864 the force characterised by C W Richmond as ‘fully equal to the London Metropolitan’ was to be subjected to an overall pay cut even though, it was noted, there had been no corresponding decrease in the cost of living. 134
Detective in Charge Francis Weale requested of the government, via Branigan, a reconsideration of the decision to impose a
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‘reduced scale of pay ... to nearly every member of the Police Force’, correctly noting that the ‘Commissioner must also regret it’. His pleadings were specifically related to the work of the men of his own branch in Dunedin; duty ‘from 9 am until midnight, Sundays included, the nature of the duty compelling them to expend a portion of their daily pay in order to obtain information, expences that cannot be charged, and the total absence of any lodging accommodation’. The Commissioner endorsed his application,
claiming vis-a-vis the detectives that if their ‘vigilant surveillance becomes from any cause relaxed, the most deplorable consequences may ensue’. Branigan warned, moreover, that for a paltry £7OO saving, after a 12-month period in which he had been reducing expenditure at the rate of nearly £lOOO monthly, the ‘best and most intelligent men of the Force will in a short time leave it.’ The pay reductions, he noted, had already ‘caused a dissatisfied and unsettled feeling to spring up through all ranks of this Department, several of the best officers having intimated their desire to leave the Service.’ If the new rates of pay were indeed to prevail, he submitted in a separate memorandum, the government would have to provide a travel allowance for the force. 136
The Victorian police rules provided punishment for ‘all combinations’ within the force but, immediately upon receipt of the news of their forthcoming wage cuts, the Dunedin men had decided conjointly to demand immediate discharge upon official notification thereof. This was claimed to be legally possible since a decrease in salary would have the effect of violating their yearly contracts. When other public servants similarly protested, the government decided to delay implementation of across-the-board cuts in the various provincial bureaucracies. At once the Dunedin policemen met, heady with the exhilaration of collective action and still dissatisfied because other substantive demands had not been conceded. They took advantage of a loophole in the regulations, that men should not ‘as a general rule’ combine to sign petitions, in order to organise one; on 2 November 1864 their leaders, Sergeant James Deane and Constable James Sutton, drew up a petition which argued cogently that a number of the Otago members had given up good police jobs elsewhere, particularly in Victoria, to join the Otago force. They pointed out that they were obliged to buy their own uniforms (at cost exceeding £4O) and to purchase respectable wear for plain-clothes duty. Inspector Morton, and hence implicitly Branigan himself, endorsed their appeal: despite their displeasure at combinations, the two senior men had before them the spectre of the collapse of the Victorian core of the force.
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Branigan was already having to calm the fears of Dunedin businessmen that the current crop of police resignations would have detrimental effects upon the commerce of the capital. In the event, because of enormous pressure over inequities in the various reductions, the Provincial Council abandoned its efforts to lower public salary levels and instead appointed a commission to investigate appropriate means of effecting that retrenchment which all politicians agreed was necessary as a result of the ‘failure of some of the main sources of Provincial revenue’. 136
Meanwhile it was left to Branigan to conduct his own negotiations with the government on the question of reducing policing expenditure. His case was not helped by an accumulation of police scandals during the year, which had extended as far up the hierarchy as Sergeant-Major level with James Grennan (the other Legion of Honour recipient, who would be buried alongside Garvey on his death in 1866) being accused of beating up prisoners. Towards the end of 1864 the scandals culminated in two much discussed affairs. First, wide publicity was given to the theft of 147 ounces of gold from the Teviot diggings which had been left unguarded in an office at the Dunstan police camp. When Branigan proceeded to the station to investigate he discovered that the keys to the box which held the gold had been kept by Sergeant Z Wilson in a pigeonhole in his office, which was frequented by friends of the police cook, an ex-thief. Sub-Inspector Bayly was at once suspended for ‘disgraceful negligence’ in his capacity as head of the district and given 10 days in which to save himself from dismissal by making good the loss to the Bank of New Zealand, whilst the sergeant chiefly at fault was at once demoted and then dismissed early in 1865. 137
The incident was to have a number of significant ramifications. It produced further damage to the police image later that year when the public was reminded of the Dunstan robbery: Sergeant F Mallard of the Water Police arrested a man who had been a policeman at the Dunstan at the time of the theft on suspicion of complicity in the affair, but it eventuated that the large sum of banknotes he was carrying was the result of many years of hard saving. Of more internal and immediate import, it became apparent that Branigan’s de facto powers were still enormous in scope. Earlier in the year, the Council had amended the Police Regulation Ordinance in order to ‘bring analagous clauses together’. Although Branigan had gained the power to dismiss NCOs as well as constables, the general thrust of the debate and its results had indicated a desire by politicians to circumscribe his powers; this had been expressed most forcibly by anti-Harris oppositionists led by Major Richardson and
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Julius Vogel. The government had been willing partly to accommodate such views in order to stress Branigan’s ultimate accountability to the executive. A clause had thus been added making the Superintendent-in-Council the final appeal authority for dismissed policemen, ensuring that the Commissioner could not now get rid of any constable without first notifying the government. Yet on a day to day basis Branigan still retained the immense power implicit in the Victorian rules which he operated, whilst the 1846 New Zealand police legislation was still unrepealed in the province except for specific parts of the Otago laws which contradicted it. The powers he arrogated to himself in his treatment of Bayly were quite illegal, for disciplinary actions against commissioned officers were the prerogative of the Superintendent on delegated authority from the Governor. Yet not wishing to quarrel with Branigan the government endorsed his decisions, despite Bayly’s ostensibly good record of service, altering the ruling only to allow the reinstated Sub-Inspector to pay the missing £555 5s 7d by instalments —a process overtaken in September 1865 when Bayly was forced to resign during retrenchment. 138
In addition to the Dunstan embarrassment Branigan’s public star waned further at the end of 1864 as a result of his close association with Morton: the Inspector was to violate not only the Rowan and Mayne ethos of acting with ‘perfect civility towards all classes’ but also the paramilitary requirement that officers provide a model of behaviour for their men to follow. Earlier in the year the Commissioner had seconded Morton to reorganise the Marlborough Province police and while this had cut some policing costs there had been, however, an ulterior motive for the move. Having come to realise that Standish’s unease about the man had been well based, Branigan had hoped in vain that the northern South Island province would retain Morton as its chief of police despite his increasingly eccentric and erratic behaviour. The Saturday Review having mocked the failure of the ‘disappointed fop’ to gain the permanent headship of Marlborough’s police, the returned Inspector—in charge of the Dunedin district—now made the general instruction that lower ranks desist from responding to newspaper criticism with even a letter seem foolish by clubbing editor J G S Grant on the head with the butt end of his whip. 139
The assault, giving the flamboyant editor what he described as a ‘mortal wound that shall follow us to the grave’, came at the time of a campaign by the newspaper against the police which was based on the various irregularities which had occurred. The force was, Grant claimed, overstaffed, overpaid, overdressed, inefficient and, particularly in the case of Morton, incompetently officered. ‘The
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Otago Police are overridden with snotty snobs, infinitely inferior in education birth and manners to the most humble member of the real working force.’ The finale of this sensational drama gave critics even greater ammunition. Because the Inspector was under Branigan’s protection the government had at first done nothing more than condemn his actions, but it had no choice but to act after the bench found him guilty of assault. The resultant nominal nature of the judiciary’s punishment (in view of ‘provocation’ by the ‘notorious’ paper’s editor) gave it however the excuse to merely reduce him in rank to Sub-Inspector, a leniency little modified by the comment that such behaviour would probably have meant dismissal had he not been an officer. This, particularly in the face of his defiant assertion that he would do the same again in similar circumstances, seemed strange ‘justice’ when placed alongside Bayly’s and Wilson’s punishment for no more than professional carelessness, or when compared to the—often carceral—fate of many an ordinary citizen for considerably less grave offences. 1 * 0
There were to be yet further ramifications of the Brani gan-Morton relationship. Although the Commissioner was some times an embarrassment to the government he was in essenci
considered professionally indispensable; taking advantage of this he actually reinstated Morton to the pay and rank of Inspector on 10 May 1865, despite increasing signs of insanity in his friend and right hand man. When the Commissioner then for a period left the province, exhausted and ‘suffering from ill-health’, it was a mentally sick officer who therefore took over the provincial police during the recuperation. Later that year Branigan transferred the 33 year old officer from the capital to the now fairly quiet Dunstan, and in mid 1867 to the even quieter Tuapeka, where he was to clash with Sergeant James Sutton. Although the NCO was accordingly dismissed the following April, the Inspector’s behaviour was by then so bizarre that, upon representations by the local Resident Magistrate, Morton was retired on grounds of health with the ‘golden handshake’ of a year’s pay. Three years later in Fiji his insanity became so manifest that he was detained and brought back to New Zealand for confinement in the Auckland Lunatic Asylum. 1 "
Meanwhile a series of other incidents had continued to damage the image of the Otago police, producing a countervailing ‘siege mentality’ amongst its members. Unsettled by the trend towards police retrenchment, they fought in closed ranks against what they perceived to be a hostile and misunderstanding world; what was always an implicit theme of the paramilitarist police bureaucracy’s occupational sub-culture now gradually became explicit. When 1/c
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
Sergeant Andrew Thompson at Lawrence incurred huge legal costs in an attempt to defend an action against him for false imprisonment, his comrades—including those who had suffered under the NCO, who was regarded in the force as a ‘strict disciplinarian’— rallied behind him, testifying that he was an ‘honest’ man and presenting him with a purse of sovereigns and a gold ring. The display of a defiant front to the world became ever more overt as the retrenchment trend escalated. 112
By December 1864 it was clear that the opening of goldfields on the West Coast of the South Island would, even if they were to prove relatively unsuccessful, enormously swell the outflow of human and capital resources from Otago. The provincial government therefore warned departmental heads of the imminence of further drastic spending cuts, and requested that they begin implementing such reductions at once. Branigan’s response on the final day of 1864 was rapid but, to the government’s mind, unsatisfactory: merely holding out prospects of the reduction of the Otago police by a third of the current strength once the forthcoming Exhibition in Dunedin was over, and then only if no new payable goldfields were discovered in the province. With the Commissioner’s mana weakened by the scandals of 1864 and now further by the outflow of some 4000 diggers for West Canterbury, on 9 January 1865 the government took a firm line with the head of police. 1 "
The Commissioner’s suggested one third reduction was to be phased in at once through the paring of £lOOO from police expenditure every month. Only three months before Branigan had by contrast envisaged a reduction of fewer than half a dozen members of his force; he now protested that this new instruction would oblige him to ‘break up many stations and leave many populous places entirely without Police protection’ since the total sum involved ‘represents the salaries of not less than fifty men’ while the ‘present Exhibition requires an extra staff of Police both by day and night’. He concluded firmly that he could not increase the current momentum of four or five redundancies per month, and that very same day an event occurred in Dunedin which indicated to the state the danger of too rapid a police rundown in the urban area. When strike-breaking labourers came in to work on harbour reclamation works the strikers, who were opposing a pay reduction, attempted to repulse their presence and the fighting which broke out was quelled only by the arrival of all available policemen from the Barracks. The strike leader was arrested, and the strike-breakers protected. Later in the month police were given ‘great praise’ for
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their handling of crowd control and property protection at the scene of a fire which threatened to engulf Princes Street. Although Branigan’s protests about the size of the planned reduction were still rejected as catastrophist, its pace was now to be moderated. All the same the purge remained drastic.
Before February 1865 a dozen constables and a detective had been discharged as redundant and stations such as that at Molyneux Township (later Balclutha) abandoned. By 1 April with fewer than 7000 people on the goldfields and depression worsening so much that state wage payments, including those of the police, were being postponed, Branigan had pruned 40 men from his force. This reduction, he submitted, was sufficient in view of the fact that it was ‘highly probable’ that widespread digging interest in Otago would revive after the first flush of the West Coast rushes faded. Indeed, combined with other economies his retrenchment measures amounted to the target figure of £lOOO savings per month. But soon the politicians were talking of even further cuts in government spending and on 1 May Branigan’s estimates, based on the then existent force of 116, were declined. From 1 August he was ordered to reduce expenditure by a further £9OOO per annum, meaning another drastic pruning only a quarter less than that of the preceding six months.'**
Branigan was in a dilemma. Certainly he could talk of the ‘very orderly tone of the general population’, but he had already reduced his interior coverage to what he considered a bare minimum. Although nearly half of the force was stationed in Dunedin itself, none of these numbers could be permanently redeployed elsewhere because with the winding down of the goldfields the capital had become the major focus of provincial disorder. To avoid further corrosive reductions in staff the Commissioner, unable to gain government reconsideration of wholesale retrenchment, therefore agreed in June to a shilling pay reduction per day across the board for constables and NCOs. The rates introduced on 1 April 1864 had created for men joining after that date a now non-graded rank of constable offering 10s for foot service and 10s 6d for mounted. The bottom police pay rate, therefore, now fell to 9s as from 1 August 1865, and officers’ salaries were reduced by the amount decreed the previous year. Even so some further staff redundancies were required, the threat of which prevented the men from any effective organising to combat their wage cuts. When Branigan was dilatory in reducing total numbers the politicians stepped in and insisted, and also ordered various other expenditure cuts such as halving the number of mounted positions to 16. Above all, since the force with its five commissioned officers was now clearly top heavy, at least
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one would have to be dispensed with. It was the still-disgraced Bayly who was selected —at age 27—for enforced retirement, thus making way for the increasingly peculiar Morton to be given the Dunstan and Branigan himself in turn to take control of the Dunedin district. 145
By late September 1865 headquarters district, that with the most policemen, had a total of 41 police. The three important goldfields districts had staffs of fewer than a dozen apiece, their duties including escort work, with Dalgleish controlling seven men on the main line of escort and branch escorts operating from areas such as Mount Ida. Branigan had even undergone the humiliation of asking the small Southland Police if it could cover the Mataura border area so that he could close down Otago’s police station there. Over the preceding year the shedding of an officer, three NCOs and 63 men had been a decrease that was over-proportionate to the exodus of diggers. On the other hand the population outflow prior to the big personnel retrenchment measures had not been matched at the time by comparable police reductions, whilst the current loss of population, as the gaoler’s report showed, had included the type of person most likely to run foul of the police. Nevertheless, the retrenchment had been severe: over that 12 month period Branigan had saved £13,177, reducing annual police expenditure, including escort costs, to less than £20,000. 146
Ammunition for Branigan’s efforts to halt escalation in the pace of police cuts fell into his hands through generalised opposition to a Chamber of Commerce plan to import Chinese labour. Arguments previously expressed by the Commissioner about the ‘notorious fact that “John” was one of the greatest prowling thieves in the world’ were repeated time and again in many quarters, and it was constantly asserted that once the Chinese has arrived the ‘existing police force would require to be greatly augmented’. Branigan knew that he could not prevent an inflow of ‘Celestials’ because the government was in favour of their introduction for the purpose of working over the already mined goldfields areas, and because many employers, anxious to gain cheap labour, were also desirous of a Chinese influx; he therefore argued, partially successfully in view of the current context of social moral panic, for a lesser rate of reduction for his force in anticipation of the need to control the crime and debauchery which would allegedly follow. He was aware too that physical opposition to incoming Chinese workers would require strict control were it not to get out of hand.
The Commissioner received support in his struggle to slow down the police retrenchment programme not only from racist antiChinese feeling but also from influential people in country towns
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alarmed at the extensive reduction in non-urban stations. There were, they pointed out, still ‘bad characters’ on the loose as it was, and from time to time incidents occurred which backed up such claims; in mid year for example Sergeant Robert Bullen of Oamaru and his constable captured two armed so-called ‘bushrangers’. But on the whole such local fears were in fact generally groundless. When Nokomai’s mounted constable investigated reports of alarming incidents at Switzers (later Waikaia) he found that two ‘harmless men’ had ‘merely come into the Gully from the Station to get drunk’ and had been mistaken by the businessmen of the depopulating goldfields town for professional criminals. ‘The Storekeepers becoming alarmed armed themselves with guns and revolvers and remained on the alert during the night expecting an attack.’ In the tension the postmaster shot at and injured one of his own guests. ‘The Constable’s reason in reporting this matter is to shew how easily the people at Switzers are alarmed, they keep crying for Police protection while on enquiry the Constable cannot learn of one case of felony since the Police Station has been broken up.’ No matter: Branigan would use localised moral panic alarmism, which was spurred on by fears of depredations allegedly about to be committed by those made unemployed by the Otago depression, as evidence in his running submissions to the politicians. Moreover the depression had created an advantageous byproduct for Branigan. When more men resigned than the number of enforced redundancies, especially as the result of the lure of the West Canterbury goldfields, there was now a far wider pool of applicants—including many ‘respectable’ working people, even artisans —from which to select recruits. In taking on two dozen men to fill vacancies during 1865, he had the luxury of being able to choose those approximating the requirements of the regulations which were finally published that year; morally and physically fit men under 35, especially those with some form of education. 117
In the year of enormous retrenchment the only police section which survived almost intact in numbers was the detective branch, a facet of the Victorian Constabulary’s stress upon coercive surveillance. Thus when Richard Burgess and Thomas Kelly, incarcerated since 1862, were released in Dunedin on 11 September 1865 their ‘every step day and night was dogged by the police’. As a result the two criminals headed north, to be stopped, interrogated and searched at Waikouaiti and escorted to the Canterbury border in order to ensure that they definitely left the province. The Otago police were however later to suffer in image over this affair, for although they had warned the Canterbury police to expect Burgess and Kelly they did not oversee the border crossing. The pair
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
crossed the Waitaki River in an unlikely place and then headed inland, thereby giving the Canterbury police the slip. Within a month they had reached the West Coast goldrush capital of Hokitika, where they set out on the series of crimes that would culminate in their execution for murder. 11 '
Meanwhile however Branigan’s force had gained great kudos because of the well-publicised ‘successes’ of the detective branch. Its new-found fame had begun with the detection which led in October 1865 to the first execution carried out in the province, that of ‘wife-poisoner’ Captain William Jarvey. In September 1864 in the Dunedin suburb of Caversham the captain had given ‘medicine’ to his ill wife, whom he had frequently maltreated. Hearing her cries, their teenaged daughter Eliza had rushed in to find her mother dying and claiming that Jarvey had poisoned her ‘for the woman in the big hat and cloak’. After a woman fitting the description soon turned up in the household as a ‘housekeeper’ the daughter left home and then went to the police, who exhumed the body and in the absence of a government analyst in New Zealand sent a constable to Melbourne with ‘two sealed tin cases containing the stomach and a portion of the liver of the late Mrs Jarvey’. At a resultant ‘remarkable trial’ lasting nine days in March 1865 the Victorian government analyst Dr John Macadam, brought across the Tasman by the police, was given a rough time by Judge H S Chapman over his diagnosis of strychnine in the body. The judge, who could not bring himself to believe that such a pillar of the establishment as Jarvey could perpetrate such a dastardly deed, then—in the words of a newspaper commentator —‘converted his charge to the jury almost into a defence of the accused’. Two jurors therefore held out against a conviction and the jury was discharged.
On police urging the Crown agreed, although somewhat halfheartedly, to persevere with a second trial. It refused to pay the expenses of Macadam, but the analyst wished nevertheless to come with his assistant to clear the slights proffered to his professional reputation. Although Macadam died at sea en route in September the jury, guided by a different judge, convicted on the strength of the assistant’s evidence and Jarvey, said in court to have also supposedly murdered his illegitimate children in Tasmania, was hanged amidst great publicity. There having been no public doubt of his guilt since the first trial, this verdict ‘revived the public feeling of confidence in the law and its machinery’. The police were praised for their willingness to import the latest scientific techniques to Otago, whilst the detective work which had taken place in Dunedin (and had unmasked Jarvey’s incest with his daughter to add to his notoriety) received great approbation. 1 "
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As public confidence in the police rose, however, the comparative absence of disorder in the aftermath of the mining heyday, plus the need to retrench, caused the politicians to look more closely at Branigan’s concept of policing—particularly at the enormous de facto power he still held. The Commissioner, sensing the beginning of this trend earlier in 1865, had finally brought out the Otago Manual of Police Regulations which had been promised since 1861 but subjected to a number of delays, not the least of them resulting from his continuing assessment that use of the Victorian regulations was preferable to any localised adaptation which at the government’s insistence would give him fewer powers. Now he calculated that his best move lay in watering down the previously rejected Sincock draft into a form acceptable to the executive, thereby transfixing the status quo—whatever the ultimate responsibility of the Superintendent for the police—on paper in order to prevent further erosion of his power. The newly published manual made a number of ostensible efforts to adapt the Victorian parent rulebook to Otago conditions, incorporating for example the emphasis on constables’ discretionary powers which it borrowed from the New Zealand regulations of 1852; but as a pre-emptive tactic by Branigan to prevent further erosion of his own position it was still essentially Victorian in concept. Application of the handbook’s rules encompassed moreover, as the politicians gradually realised, practices which actually contradicted previous provincial police legislation: in particular, Branigan’s longstanding use of the Police Reward Fund not only to reward policemen but also for purposes such as compensating people whom his men had illegally arrested. 150
It seems that this issue achieved prominence as a result of policemen clandestinely contacting politicians, part of a protest at the Commissioner having taken advantage of his increased leverage over his members in a period of retrenchment to impose in a Draconian fashion the disciplinary regulations of the force. Men could be, and now were, punished for quarters that did not reach specified standards of tidiness or for smoking in uniform; they could be, and were, dismissed for ‘unfitness’, ‘negligence or misconduct’, or for reasons unspecified. They were subjected to transfer without notice, with ‘conduct sheets’ detailing previous offences following them from station to station; duties of ‘fatigue or any other work they may be ordered to perform’ might even include acting in the humiliating role of virtual servants to Branigan or his officers. 15 '
Amidst growing political criticisms of Branigan’s arrogance and arrogation, on Provincial Councillor Charles Haughton’s initiative
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a select committee was established in December 1865 to investigate the new manual. In the event the Commissioner’s evincing of the necessity for Victorian-style rules disarmed the committee, which accepted his argument of the need for certain extraordinary powers not disallowed by Otago legislation to be vested in the chief of police—to make pay arrears forfeit, for example, or to decide whether or not his constables’ fiancees were suitable marriage partners. He could point to much quite genuine evidence that people knowledgeable in policing techniques considered his force one of the best in Australasia, even in the world, and he knew sufficient about abstruse points of law to indicate that legal precedent backed such of his instructions to his men as that which bade them refrain from cautioning prisoners against incriminating themselves. 152
The Commissioner had a somewhat harder time convincing the province’s socio-economic ruling circles, as represented by the committee personnel, that he was justified in omitting from the Manual of Police Regulations section 7 of the 1862 Ordinance, which ordered police to obey ‘lawful’ magisterial ‘orders and commands’ when not on specific assignments for their superiors. Branigan had ignored both this legislation (itself a compromise between new-style and magisterial policing) and the 1852 regulations in favour of copying the Victorian formula; thus, his men were instructed, JPs were to be obeyed ‘in the execution of their Judicial duties, by serving all legal processes’ but were ‘not vested with any powers of interference with the interior executive arrangements of the Police Force’ except when involved personally in actual suppression of felony, riot or breach of the peace. After fast talking before his interrogators, Branigan was able to persuade the committee that his rules did not violate the wording of the legislation; even had that been true, they certainly disregarded the intentions of the 1862 legislators. 153
Most of all the select committee, quite possibly owing to continued secret pressure from dissatisfied policemen, was concerned about inconsistency between sections of the manual and the legislation on the subject of punishing constables. The Police Regulation Ordinance Amendment Ordinance had been enacted in mid 1864 to further restrict Branigan’s powers. It had specifically given the right of fining policemen to no persons other than a combination of any two JPs, excluding the Commissioner should he belong to the Commission of the Peace. The Manual of Police Regulations however incorporated the actual practice since 1861 of allowing the Commissioner to punish on his own whilst also giving him the choice of taking any case before magistrates. Moreover the published rules actually delegated to commissioned officers the power
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to fine the men. Branigan’s ‘explanation’ was that he had procured the drafting of the manual long before the 1864 legislation, positing it upon Victorian regulations. This was correct enough but hardly convincing as an account of his ‘innocence’ in this matter: for at the time of the amending Ordinance there had been much debate, the upshot of which had been that politicians had felt that they were removing a great deal of Branigan’s autonomy in inflicting punishment. The draft regulations, of course, should have been altered at that point.
Branigan had two equally unconvincing fallback explanations for the discrepancy between the reality of his internal regime and the theory embodied in the legislation: first, that although he had issued a copy of the manual to every man in his force it had yet to become operative, an evasion hardly corroborated by his general order instructing the force to adhere to it after 1 April 1865 and to ignore previous rules and orders where the manual contradicted them. Secondly, where the regulations conflicted with the Otago legislation of 1862 and 1864 Branigan claimed to be operating under the Crown Colony legislation of 1846, in blithe disregard of the fact that subsequent legislation took precedence where variations occurred. However for all Branigan’s faults his acknowledged reputation as an efficient head of police stood, and he remained popular amongst influential sectors of society; for the select committee to have ruled that he had been at best misleading and more probably untruthful would have rendered his position as Commissioner untenable.
To safeguard his retention, therefore, the select committee expressed itself as ‘perfectly’ satisfied that discrepancies between the evidence given and the facts of the matter had been no more than mistakes on the part of the Commissioner. Nevertheless there were recommendations proposed which implicity criticised Branigan’s past actions: the punishment section in the Manual of Police Regulations needed to be altered in order to tie in with the 1864 legislation and, more generally, the entire manual required reconstructing to more usefully meld elements of the 1846 Constabulary Force Ordinance with provisions emanating from Otago provincial legislation. In the event the government never formally implemented these recommendations; it did not need to for from this time on Branigan, under the closest scrutiny of his career, operated in conformity with their spirit, albeit with bad grace.'**
As 1866 unfolded it was clear that such partial restoration of the Otago diggings population as had occurred was merely a reaction to
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
initial disappointments on the West Coast, that the focus of goldmining in New Zealand had moved irrevocably north despite the findings of new reefs along the Shotover. There was a certain stability of gold production in Otago, but mainly now from capitalintensive workings on a large-scale with only small numbers of men involved. Further police retrenchments were deemed essential, and that year provincial constabulary wages fell by yet another shilling. Despite reiterated newspaper speculation from time to time on the existence of a significant ‘criminal class’, a group of people ‘separate from those who occasionally lapse into crime from the respectable ranks of society’, even Branigan had lessened his emphasis on such propaganda. Without protest he lowered his until now intact detective branch to three men, one of them new recruit John Bell Thomson —formerly of Victoria and Southland —who was later to gain great prominence.
A falling roll meant constant readjustment of decreasing resources. The Mt Ida district headquarters had followed the diggings population from Vincent/Naseby to Hamiltons, but by March 1866 the reverse flow had occurred. It was time, Branigan submitted, to move district headquarters out from the Hamiltons tent—‘old and worn out by fair wear and tear’—and back to Naseby, into permanent quarters. At the same time he pointed out that the utilisation of policemen as gaolers in the interior was counter-productive when they were obliged to act as custodians for any but short-term prisoners: all men sentenced to more than a two month term should be brought into Dunedin by escort, thereby freeing constables for patrol and surveillance duties. By September 1866 the total force had been reduced to 90. It was still top heavy, since the figure included 20 sergeants, but Branigan was loath to lose his best-trained men. He was able to resist further swingeing retrenchment by pointing to the fact that he had adhered to his promised schedule of reductions, even though the provincial state was finding its financial problems so pressing by the end of the year that it was lobbying for General Government funding for expensive activities such as policing—although it was not at all prepared to relinquish in return the all-important control of the police.‘“
Branigan was able to slow down the rate of reduction by a number of other devices as well. One was that of stressing an informal index of the popularity of the police; when their image rose in public esteem politicians were reluctant to act too forthrightly against the force. Such an occasion occurred in August 1866 upon Branigan organising posses totalling 30 armed police and warders to pursue two dangerous escaped prisoners; Otago Peninsula was cordoned off, and when the escapees attempted to slip through
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there were shootouts at Andersons Bay. One prisoner died and the other was wounded, but public sympathy lay with the police, especially with Constable James Baxter who had been wounded in the side of the head. People were particularly grateful that a Burgess/Kelly gang problem had been averted, news having recently arrived of the Maungatapu murders. 1K
Another braking device was to continue to emphasise the possible consequences of the organised importation of Chinese labour, the first batch having arrived at Tuapeka that February after long public speculation. In themselves, as was soon evident to those prepared to examine the matter dispassionately, the Chinese presented no significant problems of order but as in Australia racist persecution did create the possibilities of disruption of the peace, possibilities heightened by the ghettoised living conditions of many of the new arrivals: lack of intimate daily contact between the races encouraged fears by whites of the unknown ‘John’. A vicious circle was created when—as in Lawrence in 1867 —local bylaws were passed prohibiting any Chinese people from residing within town confines, forcing all of them into the nearby ‘Chinese camp’. When from the middle of that year parties of between 30 and 50 ‘Chinamen’ began arriving at the Dunstan, the local police monitored their movements very carefully, particularly after an intraracial Chinese killing.
The Europeans’ worst fears had seemed already confirmed by an altercation between a white and a Chinese miner at Tuapeka which had left the former seriously wounded. A public meeting threatened to expel all Chinese from the district if they did not locate and hand over their guilty countryman, and the local Chinese population had subscribed £2OO reward for his apprehension in order to insure themselves. Ugly incidents became common. Naseby people cut off a local Chinese miner’s pigtail and rolled him around town in a nailed-up cask; he escaped and was found wandering in a deranged state by the Hamiltons police, who nursed him back to health and escorted him out of the area. When John Ewing was gaoled for 18 months for wounding the miner Ho Chow the state, as the consequence of enormous agitation, soon released him —and was then obliged to release a Chinese prisoner to placate the tightly-knit minority community. In time the Chinese diggers were to comprise a third of Otago’s miners; their alleged propensity for looting, violating girls, spreading disease and practising crusading homosexuality had been quickly revealed as manifestly false, their economic contribution to the provincial economy was increasingly appreciated, and they came to be generally tolerated by Europeans.
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But in the intervening years their presence had frequently featured amongst reasons for delaying police retrenchment. 151
In fighting the threatened continued reduction of personnel Branigan would still from time to time resurrect the moral panic surrounding the arrival of criminals from Australia, but now in less catastrophist terms. He was no longer intimating that the force and its surveillance over arrivals provided the thin blue line between order and a chaos perpetrated by an entire ‘criminal class’. Indeed, Branigan was implicitly recognising by this time what was true of all police forces operating in non-emergency circumstances: that given a basic minimum of policemen—and this varied according to the type of policing situation faced —it was the organisation of a force rather than its size that was the crucial element. In October 1866 he acknowledged, whilst arguing that his numerical ‘efficiency minimum’ had been reached, that the ‘present strength of the Department would not require any material increase if during the year the population increased to double its present number’. 15 *
Not that Branigan was averse, in stressing that his force could not shrink any further in size, to reverting to earlier tactics and publicising that those whom Vogel had called ‘desperate hardened men, who held life very cheap’ were still arriving in the province. In July 1867 when a ship docked carrying seven men who had been given conditional pardons by the Western Australian convict authorities, and who were therefore unable to go to Britain or return to their own colony, the Commissioner went so far as to deliberately manufacture a ‘crisis’. The South Australian police had known that ‘none but long sentenced and very hardened Criminals have ever been sent from the Mother Country for many years past to Western Australia’, and so the vessel had been detained and guarded when it called at Adelaide. Branigan made a play of this and upon their arrival in Otago Harbour arrested the men, although no New Zealand legislation prohibiting entry existed. He permitted their release only when they agreed to be shipped at once from the province at government expense. ‘This small batch may be, for aught I know’, he reported, ‘an experiment’ by the Western Australian authorities to rid themselves of ‘villains’ not wanted in any Australian colony.
Although admitting that his previous predictions that the colony would be overrun by ‘conditional pardon men’ from Tasmania had proved incorrect, Branigan claimed that this was because he had been by ‘strict surveillance, able to grapple with the evil’. Now however ‘it is quite probable that before long the whole Colony may
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be over-run with these “Conditionals”. Apart therefore from motives of public polity, apart from the pestilence that must ensue if such hardened Criminals are allowed to come, while still prisoners of the Crown, and reside in this—the only clean Colony of the Australasias—l would point out that it will be absolutely necessary to maintain a Police Force in these Islands, at present both numerous and expensive, to keep this class of men under surveillance.’ 159
In now openly acknowledging that in normal circumstances, once a plateau of efficiency had been attained, it was organisation rather than size which counted the Commissioner was unwittingly opening the way to his men falling victim to the mythology of the recent past. True or not, ‘Branigan’s troopers’ of the early goldfields period were universally seen as having been superbly efficient. The police of the later 1860s therefore were presented with a sternly unattainable ideal by which to be judged by the populace—and by the politicians, who held the purse strings. Branigan worked long hours to uphold standards, although this was difficult when a chimerical touchstone of past glory overshadowed. One key means of holding public appreciation was by gradually altering perceptions of what constituted the efficient policeman. In post-rush days, the mode of policing inevitably required adjustment in a direction away from the overtly coercive end of the continuum of the mechanism of state force, and ipso facto the type of ideal policeman, Branigan stressed, would alter. 190
This situational correction of a mode of policing which would otherwise have become increasingly dysfunctional was epitomised in early 1867 when 390 books arrived from Europe for the new police library. Branigan’s application for a state-financed library having been turned down by the government at the height of the gold fever, he had now organised the men into a club that purchased books with subscription money. He was determined to ensure that Otago’s police would become the best educated in the colony. The books were chosen by the Commissioner for their educational and technical value, and long lists of those purchased were proudly broadcast: the province’s third set of the 23-volume Encyclopaedia Britannica, works of Macaulay, Carlyle, Dickens, Thackeray, Kingsley, Gibbon and Shakespeare, books of poetry, chemistry, military history, medical jurisprudence and law in general. There was to be regular receipt of The Times, and of various British magazines and journals. Although unfavourable comparisons with the past were not infrequent, the Otago force continued to be the most praised in the land. 1 "
Yet Branigan, as 1867 progressed, found it increasingly difficult even to maintain the status quo, since the fortunes of the province
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had not revived. The government was especially looking askance at escort policing. For some considerable time now the main line of escort from Queenstown to Dunedin had been contracted out to the Hoyt and Chaplin coach company, with special escort policemen accompanying the coaches the full length of the route. Moreover, the Commissioner noted that March, escort costs were doubled by a longstanding requirement that for the ‘convenience of the banks’ return escorts transport bank notes and specie to the goldfields, and extra costs were thereby incurred for services that the company provided for the police. There was now to be cost-cutting reorganisation. The contract escort would run from Clyde, to be joined by police branch escorts from Queenstown and elsewhere. Moreover, Branigan noted, ‘as I am now enabled to escort the Coach from Station to Station by Non Commissioned Officers and Constables stationed along the line of road, the service sought for has been narrowed down to the furnishing of certain seats in the coach, and calculating the weight of Gold as representing the seats’. The Commissioner was thereby able to ‘dispense with the services of both Men and horses’ hitherto employed exclusively on escort service as well as to cut the contract price by a significant degree. Partly in anticipation of further such redundancies, Branigan attempted to regularise for the first time the payment of compensation for discharge, recommending to the government the provision of three months’ wages since the men were ‘bound by law to give three months notice before they can leave the service’. In submitting estimates for the ensuing year, the Commissioner was able to predict savings over the previous year’s costs which would amount to £3166 18s Bd, well over half to come from economies within the ‘Treasury Escort Service’." 2
It was decided that the reductions were to come into effect on 1 May, in the context of general provincial departmental retrenchment. The escort men soon to be made redundant had fought hard for more generous compensation than even that envisaged by Branigan, and in April an agreement had been hammered out which created a precedent for all future police lay-offs. A month’s pay at the time of dismissal would be given for each year of service. Thus the Senior Sergeant of escort, with service of five and a half years, received the large redundancy pay of £lO9 16s; also discharged were two 2/c sergeants, one mounted and three foot constables, and an escort driver, and by the end of 1867 the Otago police had been reduced to a total strength of 80. This was well down from the period of its heyday, but it was still the most formidable provincial force in the colony.'”
It was increasingly urban-focused. Dunedin remained the com
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mercial capital of the colony even after the bulk of the miners had departed the province, and the altering societal composition of Otago, and particularly of its urban area, posed new problems and produced new solutions of social control. One new measure in which Branigan was intimately involved was in response to a phenomenon which he had first publicised in 1866, but which others had begun noting since gold transformed the nature of the provincial capital, that of the increasing numbers of destitute and vagrant children in the streets of the city. Various experts, including Superintendent (from August 1865) Thomas Dick, a businessman with a history of concern to imbue slum children with values other than those of the culture of the street, helped the Commissioner with a scheme to establish an Industrial School for ‘vagrant and neglected children’. When Macandrew once again became Superintendent in February 1867 (which position he held until the end of the provincial period) he secured an Ordinance to provide for industrial and reformatory schools based on the 1861 British Act; although this was disallowed by central Government as an impingement upon its prerogative by dealing with criminal law, that September an almost identical Neglected and Criminal Children’s Act was passed by the General Assembly. The way had now been prepared for Branigan’s evolving plans in this arena of social control eventually to come to fruition.
As 1867 drew to a close, Branigan’s importance in the authority structure of the province was re-emphasised by his appointment to a three-man Commission to ‘inquire into the present state of the Gold Fields Department of Otago, with a view to its re-organisa-tion’. This was the culmination of a year of goldfields-focused problems which were to have profound implications for the ultimate fate of the entire provincial system of government and, more specifically, for that of autonomous regionalised policing in New Zealand. When Macandrew was re-elected Superintendent despite his disgrace of six years before, the Stafford ministry—which included Richardson —had declined to adhere to the normal practice of authorising delegation to him of a number of governmental functions. Most important of these tasks was that of administering the Otago goldfields, and General Government agents in the province set about taking charge of official functions throughout the designated fields.
This was a far from uncomplicated task for goldfields administration had been intertwined with other provincial functions, including that of policing, and the provincial executive decided to
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Goldrush Otago, 1861-7
resist. On 24 April General Government Agent J Bradshaw, beginning a tour of the goldfields, telegraphed to Stafford from Lawrence that Branigan had instructed the officer in charge of Tuapeka (Morton) to notify goldfields/judicial authorities on behalf of the provincial government ‘not to hand over any maps plans documents or other property in your possession or to give any information or do any instructions of any Gentleman calling himself the agent of the General Government. The Provincial Govt, having decided that such officer is illegally and unconstitutionally appointed.’ The ‘provincial authorities’, Bradshaw claimed, ‘threaten to restrain me from acting’. 166
General Government reaction was swift and uncompromising. Wardens, Gold Receivers and Resident Magistrates disobeying Bradshaw would be dismissed, a threat which proved to be not an idle one. Macandrew now personally took over control of the campaign against the Wellington-based central regime, utilising the only set of state servants on the goldfields remaining under his control: the police. Throughout the goldfields, police officials obeyed the Superintendent’s 25 April orders to seize all public buildings. Should they swear in special constables to force entrance to their own premises, goldfields officers asked Stafford? ‘lf police in my district obey me will General Govt Guarantee their pay and employ them’? Both the Wellington politicians and the police on the goldfields were in a dilemma. The former did not want to face the consequences and implications of confrontation between professional provincial constables and temporary General Government police; Branigan’s constables would be in trouble if they disobeyed orders emanating from higher up the paramilitary chain. Stafford worked out a face-saving backdown: his goldfields officials were not
to swear in specials but were to ‘Refuse possession of Buildings’ and if ‘any person’—meaning a policeman—‘takes possession by force have informations laid for forcible entry and assault and commit for trial at Supreme Court.’ This approach was not as tough as it sounded, for in all but one town the public buildings had already been seized. Moreover, although General Government officials were authorised to pay ‘all Police who obey you’, the role of the Otago constable vis-d-vis judicial officialdom was defined as being no more than ‘to assist in administering the Criminal Law’. Implicitly, the paramilitary chain of command was sacrosanct except in very limited spheres; in the interests of the general public order of an important part of the colony, and therefore of the colony per se, the central politicians were prepared to concede a crucial point to their provincial opponents. 11 *
But a momentum had been initiated and ‘the peace’ remained
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disturbed. In Clyde, Bradshaw reported over-dramatically on 2 May, the ‘people will not allow the Court to be closed’ by Branigan’s police for an indefinite period. For the provincial regime was unpopular with some elements at the Dunstan, an attitude shared by the populace at the Wakatipu, although in other areas the population was assessed as predominantly pro-provincialist. Resident Magistrate H Stratford at Cromwell reported two days later a provincial government counter-attack in the one town to which Stafford’s guarantee of the inviolability of General Government buildings applied: ‘Provincial Agents urging people to riot. Mayor of Cromwell and riotous assembly seized on Court House at 11 pm. I took repossession immediately and removed all property.’ In any such circumstances of direct and illegal defiance of central state authority, provincial policemen had little choice but to follow judicial directions: ‘Sergt. John Cassells in spite of threats was firm and obedient to me’, Stratford added. The correctness of the policeman’s stance was confirmed even after the Premier continued to compromise by ordering Stratford to open his court in a ‘new building if you have not access to your usual Court’ because of provincial action. For, he declared, ‘all police officers are bound to execute your warrants —anyone refusing or neglecting is guilty of a misdemeanour and liable to prosecution—prosecute and commit for trial such police officers’. Yet even now, bizarrely in the circumstances, Stafford played a mediating role by pretending that the problem of a clash of command did not exist: any policemen refus-
ing to obey the Resident Magistrate were to be reported to the Superintendent and to Branigan! Moreover continued pressure from the judicial agents on the Otago goldfields for the Premier tc sanction the swearing in of paid specials could extract no express authorisation, merely an instruction to refer to the standard JPs' manual. The General Government was avoiding at all costs a showdown between central and provincial authority. 16 ’
There was one instance over which the General Government could not however equivocate, that of attempted coercive interference with documentation belonging to the central administration. At the Wakatipu, reported Arrow Warden Lowther Broad and Queenstown Warden Beetham to Stafford on 4 May, Provincial Councillors James Brown and John Hughes ‘demanded possession’ of the goldfields administration records. ‘Forcible entry of one Building attempted. They called upon Police to assist. We warned Sub Inspector Percy not to commit an illegal act. He obeyed us. The Supt. will probably dismiss him. Promised him his position and pay as ordered by you.’ Gilbert Percy, they submitted, was the ‘only Police officer in Otago who has risked appointment’ in the
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struggle by giving precedence to General Government over directly stated provincial government orders (Cassells having acted in a vacuum of specific direction from Dunedin). This action by a high policeman rankled with the Macandrew government even more than it might otherwise have done because the Wakatipu miners were manifestly on the side of the General Government. Bradshaw, predicting to Stafford that not only Percy but also his subordinate constables would be dismissed, added of the Queenstown populace that it had been ‘difficult to keep them from assaulting Provincial delegates’. Stafford’s telegraphed return message was firm: the Wakatipu policemen were to be told that ‘if they are dismissed by the Provincial government they will be paid by the General Government.’"*
In the event there was an overall trade-off. Although having shown its teeth and been propelled into re-examining the whole concept of dual state power, the General Government had assessed that time was not yet ripe for a fundamental change, particularly after a (semi-rigged) Otago government referendum on 1 July overwhelmingly favoured provincial management of the goldfields. The Macandrew regime had proven far more recalcitrant than expected, the Stafford government learning in early June for example that the Otago Superintendent was on the verge of despatching a delegation to the other provinces to secure their support. An implicit bargain was stuck whereby the provinces would be left unmolested, including retention of the policing status quo, while in turn SubInspector Percy and other police who had shown any propensity to obey central state officialdom would in no way suffer under the Macandrew regime. The Stafford ministry handed goldfields control to the ‘Executive Government’ of Otago again, but the clock could not be completely turned back.
The whole affair had put the spotlight upon the devolution of police and other important matters by the central to the provincial executives. Clearly the executive powers of the General Government were in the final analysis superior to those of the provincial governments. Policemen, as agents of state, should have obeyed those officials directly delegated by the Stafford regime to run all state affairs on the goldfields. When it came to the crunch Percy, Cassells and the constables under their control had acted correctly. Branigan was acutely conscious of this, and thus when the Otago government had attempted to have him dismiss the high policeman who had directly disobeyed the provincial government in favour of the General Government the Commissioner had resisted. Branigan too had then been threatened with dismissal, a problem resolved when the new General Government compact with Otago was
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implemented. Not that this modus uivendi, especially in the matter of policing, was universally approved: delegation of policing to the provinces, thundered a politician in the House of Representatives, led to the creation of a ‘Provincial Government army’ able to resist the General Government’s authority. Such views were to become ever more popular. 169
Over the next 10 years, indeed, the role of the police was to be brought prominently into the debate on whether or not to abolish the provincial system; a mere two years hence Branigan was to head a central government-controlled police force far larger than Otago’s at its peak, the force into which the provincial police units were absorbed at the end of that decade of debate. The relative quietude of the 1850s had by then been well and truly left behind. The colony’s summary conviction rate of 1860 (2903) had seen a series of dramatic rises: to 3490 in 1861, 6371 in 1862, 9296 in 1863, 11,357 in 1864, thereafter hovering in excess of 10,000 but not surpassing 12,000 until the mid 1870s. The new challenge to order which arose in Otago in 1861—the societal impact of gold rushes—had quickly made itself felt throughout the South Island and was to spread to parts of the North before too long. This, and the effects of race war, altered the face of policing in New Zealand. 1 ™
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CHAPTER VIII
The Spread of the VictorianStyle Force in the South Island
‘Virtues’ and ‘Vices’; The Impact of Otago Goldfields upon Canterbury Policing
From the first day of 1861 W J W Hamilton’s position as Commissioner in what was said to be ‘entire control’ of Canterbury’s ‘armed police’ ceased to be temporary in nature. The sweeping extent of his formal powers was soon communicated specifically to the two police stations in the region which had gained a tradition of autonomy: ‘all constables are subject to his appointment and dismissal’, the Resident Magistrates of Timaru and Akaroa (and, separately, Akaroa’s Chief Constable) were instructed. But in reality his position remained that of nominal head of police most of the time, something he had little wish to alter. Thus in the early months of 1861 it was Sub-Inspector Edward Seager, the effective Chief of Police in the Province of Canterbury, who had the difficult task of keeping an adequate force together.
Pay and conditions were not attracting suitable—or, sometimes, any—recruits; at one time Seager required four extra constables but was able to enrol only one. By mid year he had but two men to deploy on ‘night patrol’ in the provincial capital, a factor upon which an increase in burglaries was blamed. His problems became acute when the news of the vastness of the gold discoveries in Otago reached the province, and the sergeant, corporal and three constables in Christchurch all tendered a month’s notice of resignation in order to join the diggers. This was at precisely the time, too, when construction of the railway to Lyttelton—tunnelled beneath the Port Hills—was beginning, and disorder from the imported navvies was feared. Since all constables had been sworn in under section 38 of the 1846 Ordinance, which bound policemen to a year’s service at a stretch, Commissioner Hamilton on Seager’s advice declined to release them.'
The men now organised collectively and sought legal counsel. They discovered that the inexperience of Commissioners had led to a practice of the non-renewal of oaths after the first year of service
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and this had negated contractual obligations for men who had been in the force for more than a year. Hamilton reacted by charging the ‘ringleader’ of the action, Thomas Eldridge, with disobeying orders by leaving the force without permission, and sought meanwhile to retain the rest of his men by withholding all police pay for a month: those who left would therefore forfeit £9 in arrears. Late in August the magistrates hearing the civil action subsequently taken by the men came to the only possible legal conclusion, that in the absence of the renewal of the constables’ oaths after their first year of service the members of the force had been freed from any undertaking to serve for further yearly periods. 2
There had already been some discharges from the force of those prepared to forfeit a month’s pay to get to the goldfields, and now a crisis point had been reached. By previously securing permission to raise his total establishment by three to 17 (excluding quasiautonomous Timaru and Akaroa) Hamilton had been able to muster around a dozen men for duty on any given day, but after the court judgment more left and Seager’s recruitment amongst new immigrants, including married men who would not hitherto have been regarded as eligible, had to be stepped up. Normally lack of policing experience amongst raw recruits had not been seen as a barrier to efficiency, since new constables were rapidly socialised into the police milieu, but now much of the personnel of that environment was disappearing. Moreover the structural reorganisation mooted at the turn of the decade had not eventuated to any great degree. Yet this was just the time when such a structure, manned by experienced policemen, was required for the initiation of raw recruits—spin-off turbulence from the southern discovery of gold having begun to enter the province, mostly via the port. Meanwhile as a temporary expedient pending the completion of the recruiting drive, the General Government had been asked for emergency policing help. Five ‘stalwart’ Maoris had duly arrived from Wellington. ‘They were very willing to learn, but I had a very difficult task before me in training and instructing them’, reminisced Seager; one of them, moreover, was accused of appropriating some boots when on night duty and was sentenced to six months’ hard labour. The authorities perceived that more permanent policing arrangements were urgent, particularly since Provincial Geologist Julius von Haast was predicting the discovery of goldfields in Canterbury Province. 3
On 17 September Hamilton submitted a report containing a ‘proposal for the better efficiency of the Force’ which pointed out that the constables’ pay of 6s per day was insufficient in view of the current labouring wage, which had risen as high as 9s at Rangiora
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
and 10s at Lyttelton. An extra shilling per day for all men would therefore be expedient as things were, even before ‘what effect the working of the Otago goldfield may produce upon our labor market’ was examined: already 700 adults had gone south, and wage rates would inevitably greatly increase with further outflow. Moreover the corporal’s basic wage of 6s 3d was insufficiently superior to a constable’s, and needed to be increased to 6s 6d even at current rates, as ‘the office with its responsibility is either refused by the men altogether or accepted unwillingly.’ The Commissioner assessed too that ‘at Timaru, Akaroa and Kaiapoi one Constable should have the chief control over the others’, be designated ‘Chief Constable' and receive 3d per day above ordinary constables. Hamilton called for better and extra equipment, and an enormous increase in the police vote to meet the escalating demands of policing a region adjacent to the goldfields province. A concomitant tenor of his report was that such expenditure would not be properly utilised, indeed that its effectiveness would be ‘lessened by quite one half, without ‘an outdoor working head’ of policing in the position of Commissioner.*
From the beginning Hamilton had adopted Hall’s point of view that the salary of Resident Magistrate did not cover the position of Commissioner, but fear that General Government economies would mean a cut in his £5OO salary as Resident Magistrate and Sheriff had caused him to use the Commissionership as a bargaining lever. In short, he would continue to act as Commissioner so long as the Province ensured that his salary was maintained at its current rate either by the central authorities or by provincial subsidy, a ploy which had succeeded. After he was ‘promoted’ to Resident Magistrate of Christchurch and Kaiapoi from the beginning of February 1861 he had been ‘bribed’ by the provincial authorities to retain the Commissionership, which was from that point to carry a £6O ‘forage allowance’ even though his desk-bound policing operation required practically no riding. 5
Now, with the prospects of increasing disorder and a decreasing number of experienced men, Hamilton was attempting to divest himself of a position which, he stressed, required ‘an active and experienced Chief who could exercise ‘out of door control’ on a full-time basis. Such incumbent would have to be ‘frequently on the move, and visit all the Police Stations, and every place occupied by a small number of Settlers.’ The ‘out-door working head’ would need to cross both the northern and southern provincial borders at least once a year, because wanted men tended to hide in relatively unpoliced border areas. Such an eventuality would probably induce the Nelson provincial authorities to ‘station a couple of
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Constables in the Wairau and Amuri District if they could thus depend on their being inspected’ by the Canterbury chief of police, and Sub-Inspector Revell could exercise a more continuous supervision of Nelson-paid constables from his Kaiapoi base. To regularise the ability of the Timaru and Akaroa Resident Magistrates to enforce discipline upon their local police, they would under Hamilton’s scheme be designated Deputy Commissioners; this would be particularly important at the growing and increasingly disorderly South Canterbury township, where Woollcombe supervised the overland traffic southwards into Otago. ‘Frequent personal intercourse with the men and personal observation of the way in which they set to work upon their duty’ would enable the newstyle Commissioner greatly to improve efficiency, perhaps to the extent of saving two or three constables and certainly to the weeding out of the men who were less than adequate. 8
The present Commissioner had suggested that the revamped terms of reference for the chief Canterbury policeman could be combined with the duties of Inspector of Weights and Measures and Collector of Immigration Bills, positions which between them currently cost the government £4OO annually. But from 1 November, whilst the government was still considering the position of head of police, Hamilton’s problems of police control worsened with his reassignment to Lyttelton in the weighty positions of Collector of Customs and Sub-Treasurer. He agreed to remain as Commissioner only on a day to day basis, pending the appointment of a full-time Commissioner of Police by the Province. The shortterm nature of the offer finally precipitated some action, with the Provincial Council later in the month establishing a select committee to consider the shape of a remodelled Canterbury armed police force.
The anticipated move to a more professional style of policing had led the government to order material for new uniforms. When this arrived just before Christmas a correspondent hoped that ‘the authorities will take care that the force shall have some more becoming and distinguishing costume than the hybrid garments in which they now parade our city.’ The Otago and Melbourne uniforms were favoured as partway between the current situation and the ‘soldierly swagger of the Irish constabulary or the French gen d’armerie.’ After deliberating, the select committee in early 1862 decided that the questions involved in deciding on the appropriate type of police force were too specialised to allow it to decide on anything other than ensuring the repair of various police stations and lockups. Instead it recommended, and the Council voted accordingly, that a sum of £5OOO be placed at the government’s
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
disposal for implementing police reform. To effect this, the Councillors also authorised the government to emulate Otago’s approach to the ‘Melbourne authorities to secure the services of an efficient Inspector and several trained individuals to form the nucleus of a detective force.”
The decision to Victorianise the Canterbury police had been hastened by the overflow effect of Otago goldfields turmoil upon the province; a highway robbery, for example, caused Commissioner Hamilton to make strong representations in the new year that more of the same would inevitably occur. As winter approached, it was predicted with some prescience, diggers would leave the goldfields, and ‘bad characters’ amongst them, in order to escape surveillance by the police in Otago or Victoria, would move to Canterbury. Branigan had been sending Hamilton warnings about ‘criminals’ reportedly heading north and, although there was no statistical upsurge in crime at the time, the authorities perceived there to be an increasing general rowdiness. This manifested itself at Lyttelton in particular, but surfaced elsewhere as well.
When Sub-Inspector Revell followed a mob to the scene of a prize-fight on the banks of the Waimakariri, he and reinforcements he had summonsed—two mounted constables and a special—were forcibly ejected from the ring when they attempted to halt the proceedings. Even though the policemen had drawn their revolvers they dared not re-intervene, Revell later testified in court, because of ‘remarks I heard from the crowd and the small force I had’. All people present, admonished the judiciary (although a JP had participated in organising the illegal and disorderly fight), might have been guilty of manslaughter had one of the fighters died. The contestants and a number of spectators were sentenced for breach of peace offences. As Charles Thatcher sang of Canterbury that year: ‘We’re getting quite a rowdy lot; for rioting and fighting
Are small amusement that our population take delight in.’ 9
Prior to the decision to import Victorian police expertise, as a stop-gap solution to actual and impending problems of disorder Hamilton had made ‘new arrangements’ comprising little more than a couple of extra police and the designation of the Akaroa Customs Officer as a Deputy Commissioner of Police, pending the more permanent and thorough reorganisation of Canterbury policing which he was still in the process of formulating for the consideration of the government and his successor. The concept of an active, mobile Commissioner which he had been advocating since the previous September had expanded. The incumbent should be, he urged, none other than Branigan himself, but he was not suggesting that the southern Commissioner be lured up to take charge
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
of the Canterbury force alone. Since the impact of the goldfields could not be confined to Otago, the logical corollary was to work towards the expansion of the Otago police to cover the entire South Island within six or eight months, beginning with an immediate extension of Branigan’s authority to cover Canterbury policemen. It was a bold augmentation of the cross-border policy which he had already tentatively suggested. The scheme could be tested at once by the seconding of three or four Otago detectives to establish a ‘branch of the Otago detective force’ in Christchurch and Lyttelton. If the Otago diggings should prove permanent, this detachment could act as the nucleus of the expansion of Victoria-style policing northwards; if gold proved to be ephemeral, the additional men would be valuable in helping cope with the thousands of distressed miners who would inundate Canterbury in search of work. He meanwhile sought permission to double his 17-strong force in the event of such emergency. 10
The politicians, having considered Hamilton’s various suggestions, had not been prepared immediately to go beyond empowering him to call in paid specials for the quelling of short-term problems. But it was his lauding of the Otago police which had given them the idea of a Victorian-style force for their own province. They had not been at all enamoured of the idea of their police being under the wing of Otago’s Commissioner, given the situational importance of policing in the power at the disposal of the local state; indeed when later in the year the General Government investigated centralising the colony’s policing Canterbury’s voice of outrage was as loud as Otago’s. Once the Provincial Councillors had taken the decision to Victorianise their police, Sub-Inspector Revell’s rushed application for the job of effective Commissioner could not be seriously considered. It was time too for Sub-Inspector Seager, his lack of Victorian police experience now compounding his problem of having low social status in a class-conscious community, to move on to become Warden—and soon Gaoler —of Lyttelton Gaol. Instead, with the enthusiastic backing of Superintendent W S Moorhouse, Canterbury was to get its own Branigan from Victoria."
On 3 February 1862 Moorhouse asked the Victorian authorities to send a ‘competent person’ to organise the Canterbury police in anticipation of gold-related disorder. In accord with the province’s ideological origins as a consciously class-tiered society, the new ‘lnspector’ in charge of the police was to have ‘received the education of a gentleman’. Captain Standish chose 37 year old SubInspector Robert Clarke Shearman of the Richmond Depot head-
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
quarters of the Victorian police, a man born into a family of prominence in Waterford, Ireland. As a youth Shearman had headed for New Zealand in search of the elevated position he could expect from being related to Governor Hobson; in Adelaide he had learnt of Hobson’s death, and there he stayed in government employment, including as a policeman in the South Australian constabulary, until moving to join the Victorian police in 1852. Now after 10 years of police service Shearman, in a time of retrenchment, had—like the ‘Otago Victorians’ —no immediate chances for further promotion in the Victorian force. Both the Canterbury government and Hamilton had misconstrued the nature of the Victorian force as being detective-orientated and had therefore authorised the appointee to bring with him two detectives. Shearman’s bargaining position was such that he had no problem in gaining Moorhouse’s acceptance not only of a boost in his proffered salary to £3OO but also of the importance of bringing with him instead three uniformed constables. These handpicked companions were to be paid at 8s per day, well above the 6s still being paid to Canterbury constables despite Hamilton’s representations of 1861. 13
Negotiations over other conditions were however to drag on for several months. Inadvertently beginning a typical wrangle which was to have repercussions even decades later, Standish promised the men entitlement to the same privileges that they would have received had they stayed in the Victorian Police: on this basis Shearman told his three colleagues (two of whom had been in charge of important stations) that they would be eligible for an annual retiring allowance on completion of service, although this was not part of the conditions of service of the Canterbury police. Indeed, as matters turned out, the only certainties for the small detachment of Victorians were their free fares to New Zealand and the commencement of their pay from the date of discharge from Standish’s force. Meanwhile, during the protracted exchange of letters across the Tasman Hamilton stayed on as Commissioner, complaining all the time that ‘incessant work in several offices’ and location at Lyttelton made him ‘unable to exercise a direct and immediate control over the force’ at a period of increasing turbulence. He had imposed certain conditions for his continuing to serve, albeit temporarily, the most important being the filling of the position left vacant by Seager. The new Sub-Inspector of Police in charge of the Christchurch station, Francis Guinness, was a 44 year old offspring of a prominent Irish family, his captaincy in the Canterbury Rifle Volunteers and other military knowledge having also had a bearing upon his appointment. 13
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Hamilton and Guinness made a number of preparations for the arrival of the Victorians. First, in an initial major move towards the doubling and then trebling of police expenditure, the government authorised the force to be increased to 30 men to cope with the turbulence being noted by observers. Recruiting was by now an easy task given the winter influx of diggers—particularly men originally from Victoria—into Canterbury. In time, too, tenders were called for a long overdue police barracks in Christchurch, while constables, to the chagrin of the Provincial Auditor, were assigned at extra pay ‘on special service’ to conduct detective work amongst the people arriving from the Otago diggings. But the government would not contemplate other proposed expenditures which intruded upon the prerogative of the proposed new head of police. A proposition to import Branigan for a period in order to school Guinness in detection techniques, for example, was rejected, as was the mooted creation of a detective ‘special division’ from amongst the most intelligent of the constables."
In mid July 1862 at Lyttelton the Omeo disembarked the new Inspector and his companions, Irishmen Peter Pender and Henry Walsh from the station of Beechworth, and James Hurse. On 25 July Shearman, soon to be elevated a la Branigan from the title of Inspector to that of Commissioner, took over formal control of the Canterbury Armed Police Force from Hamilton and established himself at headquarters in Christchurch. Discipline tightened so quickly that within a week commentators were noting improvements in police standards. Shearman’s ‘own’ men were given supervisory positions, standardisation of records throughout the force was implemented, and all matters of any significance, however small, were to be reported up through the ranks to Shearman via Guinness, now elevated to Inspector at Christchurch. There could be no expenditure ‘except of minor importance’ without Shearman’s permission, and the recent opening of an electric telegraph line between Christchurch and Lyttelton allowed close monitoring of events at his second largest station. The new Commissioner secured himself a large pay rise to £4OO, emphasising his enormous power as the head of a militarised police, and set about sending for several more Victorian policemen, thereby bringing the number imported to Canterbury to a total of a dozen by the end of the year.”
The new era saw Shearman remove what he considered to be non-priority duties which the government had been gradually
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
farming out to the police, and carefully investigate the backgrounds of applicants who had been recruited on the spot pending a comprehensive Victorianisation of force membership: new men were required to be literate and able ‘to act on their own responsibility’. New arms were ordered from Victoria to replace the now antiquated items inherited from the past, with country police to have Colt revolvers and cavalry swords, urban men to be issued with rifle and sword. Incentives were offered to ensure that ‘good men’ enrolled and/or remained; given the lowness of the wages, Shearman abolished the practice of fining men for breaches of regulations on the basis that depriving them even further of money gave them temptation for corruption. Instead he opened ‘defaulters sheets’ for all his men, and serious breaches of regulations or accumulations of minor misdemeanours would lead to demotion or dismissal. Activity worthy of approbation was recorded in ‘meritorious conduct’ sheets, which counted for promotion purposes. As in Otago the greatest incentive for satisfactory men to join was the practice of filling superior positions from below on merit; as part of this reward-by-promotion schema, Shearman followed the Victorian system of dividing the ranks of NCO and private into three classes each. 16
The Commissioner could not persuade the government to raise basic wages by more than 6d daily to 6s 6d, but given the threeclass system within each rank the highest paid private would now earn 7s 6d as well as aspire to the rank of sergeant, which began at
Bs. Real income was boosted by Victorian-style perquisites—all police received free fuel, light and water; there was free barracks accommodation for constables, and a groom supplied to commissioned officers; uniforms were to be free issue, and travel allowances were generous. In Shearman’s view the advantages of such ‘extras’ were so great that there would be no need for a stateoperated reward system, while policemen could receive cash rewards from the public only with his personal permission. In such ways was the stamp of the individual head of police reflected. Branigan, by contrast, had preferred to emulate that Victorian strand of incentive which stressed the stimulation of rewards. In most respects, though, the reorganised Canterbury force was much akin to Otago’s because of their common root. 17
In the initial absence of gold-based revenue for the Canterbury state Shearman did not have the resources first given to Branigan, but he did secure the grant of £BOOO for establishment expenses and an undertaking for ordinary police expenditure to be stabilised at £7OOO annually. The four Lyttelton police were moved from their
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
inadequate quarters in the Gaol to the lavish surroundings of the house once occupied by Canterbury Association Agent—and aristocratic policeman—Godley; while the three Timaru police, as well as those at Kaiapoi, Rangiora and Akaroa, were also to move to better quarters. Ultimately the provincial police headquarters in Christchurch were to be located on land that Shearman persuaded the government to buy in Hereford Street—and which was cleared for occupation by prison labour—but in the meantime the Armagh Street stables of a local politician/businessman were purchased for £3OOO and fitted out as barracks and offices. Shearman was soon to find that initial promises did not always match results: by February 1863 he was expressing anger at the government’s slowness to erect two police stations which he had requisitioned, and the Hereford Street complex was to take more than a decade to complete. 18
Surveillance of the province was particularly distinctly divided between policing of the towns and policing of the countryside. For the latter, five constables and a sergeant were mounted for patrolling and guaranteeing the ‘tranquillity of the district’ to which they were each attached. They and their foot police colleagues were especially instructed to ensure that the scattered accommodation houses met the licensing conditions of the Public House Ordinance, an important facilitation of regularising affairs in an open country across which people continually travelled: until Shearman’s arrival there had been ‘laxity of duty’ by police in enforcing minimum standards of service, even upon some of the publican/specials. In addition, the economy of the province was damaged by ‘seamen deserting and leaving their employers helpless’ at the several ports. Rural police were particularly to watch out for fleeing deserters who, usually, made their way south towards the goldfields, working at runs en route. ‘lt is one of the most important duties of the police to exert themselves to the very utmost to put a stop to such an evil, which, if allowed to continue must be highly detrimental to the best interests of the Colony.’ 1 ’
Deserters were also to be found in the major towns, and in fact the police force, now 33-strong, remained urban-orientated. This was a reflection of Canterbury’s socio-economic and demographic makeup and of the rapid-response capacity allowed by the levelness of much of the terrain, coupled with what was perceived as the ‘greater amount of vice’ and disorder in areas of concentrated population, the ‘greater adroitness of delinquents’ who were based in towns, the opportunities that urban ‘facilities presented for disposing of plunder, and evading discovery’, and so forth. More than half of the Canterbury Armed Police Force was stationed at headquarters, and saturation preventative beat coverage was provided
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
for Christchurch in the same manner as in Dunedin —from London via Melbourne. There too any beat constable found by his sergeant to be not in the right place at the right time was deemed automatically guilty of an ‘apparent irregularity’ and to escape punishment needed to be equipped with a good explanation as to the cause of the absence of himself or an arranged substitute. 20
In regulations promulgated from the beginning and reiterated from time to time Shearman emphasised the rigidly disciplined nature of his force, presenting a familiar, Victorian, list of requirements. The constable had to ‘appear in his Police clothes at all times unless when leave is given him to wear plain clothes’, could ‘not resign or withdraw himself from his duties’ without giving three months’ notice, was liable to ‘immediate dismissal for unfitness negligence, or misconduct, independently of any other punishment to which he may by law be subject. The Commissioner may also, if he thinks fit, dismiss him without assigning any reason.’ For a number of observers the constables posed an impressive sight. ‘The best-dressed men in the streets are the police, a fine, well-drilled, and military-looking body’, reported a much-travelled officer’s wife. ‘Sneers may often be heard at their attempts to ape dragoons, yet it is wise to give them as complete an organization as possible, and they will be found, on emergencies that may arise soon, and which must arise late, to be worth whole corps of volunteers. Volunteering . . . occupies little, if any, of the settler’s time. Time is more valuable in a colony than in England .... The Provincial Government are right to foster as high a soldierly spirit of organization as possible, in the only force under their control.’ Even when a one-man station was opened in Waimate, in the far south of the Province, the presence of one of Shearman’s uniformed men—symbolically important, and also able to call in the coercive force available in Timaru and Christchurch and beyond if necessary—was sufficient to ‘clean up’ a key stopover on the gold route north from Otago: ‘not only is fighting almost unknown’, reported a local correspondent in wonderment, ‘but drunkenness appears to be on the decrease’. 21
Night duty beat police in Canterbury’s provincial capital were more fortunate than those in Dunedin in that they had to work only a six hour beat from 10 pm, but when they transferred periodically to day duty their shifts were an hour longer than those of policemen in the south. There were 15 hours per day assigned for reserve duty, ‘recreation and rest’; the first day duty section began work at 4 am, finished at 8.30 am, and was back on duty again 1 pm-5.30 pm; the second policed during the gaps between 8.30 am and 10 pm. Additionally, on any given day there were two men
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
detailed to conduct alternate 12-hour shifts as watchhouse keepers. Modified beat systems were introduced to smaller urban areas and Lyttelton’s police, chosen from men of seafaring origin, were to be provided with a police boat. Urban police were expected to ‘possess a perfect knowledge of all the inhabitants’ and goings-on in their respective beats or districts and upon observing ‘anything in the streets likely to produce danger or public inconvenience, or anything which seems to them irregular or offensive’ or which might ‘appear to affect the public peace or the department’ were to report it to their sergeant. 22
Public order tasks were especially difficult for the Lyttelton police at times when steamers arrived from Australia full of diggers en route south; Shearman gave charge of the town to one of his three imported Victorians, Sergeant James Hurse. One of the first tests for the new policing regime occurred in mid September 1862 when miners off the Rangatira celebrated in the streets of Lyttelton and, with Australian hatred of police, insulted the sergeant and two constables amidst scenes which threatened to escalate into extreme disorder. Then, as diggers scrambled to board the steamer when it was leaving the wharf, the police retaliated by arresting an alleged ringleader, an action which brought diggers to their comrade’s aid:
And oh to see the shower of blows
That came down on the peeler’s nose
From the lads of Tipperary
Local officials hastily gathered together exceedingly reluctant citizens as ‘volunteer constables’—on threat of the humiliation of being ordered to enrol as specials—and the ‘infuriated savages’ were chased back to their ship which had been waiting for them. It was now detained by the Resident Magistrate, who had meanwhile telegraphed Christchurch. Within an hour Shearman, Guinness and three other police, the ‘traps all armed’ (in Thatcher’s words), had arrived; amidst hostility aboard ship they arrested the alleged leaders of the riot. 23
Consequently while Sergeant Hurse lay badly injured Seager, in his new position as Gaoler at Lyttelton, received four customers. Some observers said that only a handful of diggers had been involved in the initial fracas and that therefore the arrest which precipitated the assault on the police was gratuitous, whereas the police contended that a full-scale ‘riot’ had occurred which violated the peace and therefore required a coercive response. Whatever the truth, Shearman’s new force had clearly signalled that stateimposed norms of acceptable behaviour prevailed even in the port. This was at a time when in Canterbury as elsewhere the Otago police were being hailed as ‘one of the finest and most effective
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
forces we have ever seen’, and the new Commissioner was determined to emulate the organisation and fame of Branigan’s force. As the ‘Tipperary Riot’ at Lyttelton showed, this ambition had its problems, since its methods could invoke a great deal of criticism. 2 '
For 14 years, people noted, crews and passengers had been getting drunk in the streets of Lyttelton without any hint of riots. It was the oppressive manner of the constables which had provoked the initial turmoil, the aggressive behaviour of Hurse which had prompted the assault, and the presence of militarised constables strutting their streets which caused townsfolk to ‘turn their backs’ on the police ‘through disgust, under the feeling that they were treated more like Russian serfs than English colonists during the previous two months’. The entire new policing regime was now often subject to criticism insofar as the men of its uniformed wing were ‘considered to be soldiers’ and its detective functions were alleged to be conducted with too great an air of secrecy.
The viewpoint of the state, its police and their defendants was epitomised by the Lyttelton Times , which characterised the reluctant townsfolk of the port as having ‘behaved like a set of cowardly poltroons’ in refusing to aid the police during the ‘Tipperary Riot’. Lyttelton dwellers would have to accept that the days of laxity were over, that ‘the screw was applied by a new hand, and the rules and regulations were put in force.’ In actuality Shearman’s approach was essentially that a number of sharp doses of medicine were required as prerequisites for curing what was seen to be a sick social corpus, that the parameters of acceptable behaviour needed to be established before, firstly, ‘reactive’ surveillance could be subsumed under ‘preventive’ surveillance, and then overtly coercive surveillance could be superseded by a less highly profiled mode of policing.
The Lyttelton intervention was one of those initial doses, a manifest notification that certain types of behaviour would no longer be tolerated by the state. With a sizeable number of potential offenders discouraged from ‘offending’ by the enforcement presence of the militarised police, it was seen, a transition could then occur whereby most people most of the time would become complicit in their own policing by internalisation of the encouraged norms of behaviour. Even by the end of the year there was some evidence that the process was swinging into operation; despite the military trappings of the revamped police, a factor which had even alarmed some property owners at first, there were now frequent calls to extend patrol supervision, particularly to spreading Christchurch suburbs such as those in the north-west of the city. 25 In a sense the full impact of Victorianisation in Canterbury had
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
been cushioned because, whereas Branigan had been backed almost from the beginning by the services of a sizeable contingent of Victorians, Shearman had initially only a hard core of three, with a few more to follow in piecemeal fashion. Hurse had been able to inculcate the new toughness of approach quickly into the handful of Lyttelton men but this close personal contact between the old and new police could not be reproduced elsewhere. Henry Walsh worked with the Commissioner at headquarters, and Pender’s duties at the Christchurch station were so great that he had little time to spare for training. To spread the Victorian ethos amongst the entire force, Shearman gave priority to consolidating his police rules in a Canterbury Manual of Police Regulations, which was published in December 1862. It followed closely the Victorian—and therefore the Irish—model, down to reproducing inconsistencies and meanderings, but with a degree of localisation added. As a newspaper commented a few years later, readers of the regulations ‘must have been struck by the military tone so carefully preserved throughout and the perpetual recurrence of words of command and other phrases used in the barrack or the camp’. The police were intended to be ‘in fact a semi-military force, trained and disciplined in military style, and accustomed to regard themselves and to be treated by their superiors after the manner of regular soldiers.’ 26
At the top of the levels of surveillance over both police and populace sat in theory the provincial Superintendent but in practice the Commissioner of Police, who was responsible for the ‘management and control of the whole Force’. Shearman’s formal power over the basal levels of the pyramid exceeded even Branigan’s, in that he could distribute his force as he saw fit and also have greater personal control over it. He could discipline a policeman, up to and including dismissal, for whatever reason he saw fit: such matters as evasion of the ‘true spirit and meaning’ of the rules, non-payment of debts, being spotted in a public house when ‘not necessarily there on duty’, ‘disgraceful’, ‘scandalous or infamous’ conduct. Not only was he not obliged to provide any reason for dismissal, neither had he to hand over any outstanding pay in such circumstances. All policemen, then, were motivated—in theory, at least —to practise impeccable behaviour on duty or off, and to do their best to ‘find out what is going on’ inside their area of jurisdiction and hand such information up the chain of command to the Commissioner. Shearman’s command of all procedures would later tighten even further with the mid 1864 appointment of Walsh to the new and crucial position of Chief Clerk, a development which capped off the erection of the Victorian-styled force. 27
As in Otago although to a lesser degree, the Shearman force was
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
a new construct, a point acknowledged when in later years 1862 was referred to as the date of the ‘establishment of the Canterbury Police Force’. The system required that heads of districts report direct to Shearman on a regular monthly basis, and as required. Thus one of the new Commissioner’s first tasks was to bring into the fold the anachronistic Akaroa district, which despite Hamilton’s formal terms of reference had remained virtually autonomous under Resident Magistrate John Watson. For some time, Shearman discovered, there had been complaints about police inefficiency in that part of Banks Peninsula: drunkenness and rowdiness in Akaroa and at nearby bays, and desertion from ships with an impunity which had threatened the town’s existence as a whaling port. Hamilton had gained better information on deserters’ movements from Akaroa’s customs officer than from its police. On investigation, the new Canterbury head of police discovered that Chief Constable Joseph Deighton not only also ran the post office from his police station (his wife taking over the office when he and his constable were absent on police duties) but conducted other official duties from it as well. This localised system was anathema to the Victorian, who quickly abrogated the exceptional practices which had characterised it since 1846.“
Inspector Guinness had from the beginning of the new regime not shaped up to Shearman’s ideals, partly because he openly empathised with the concerns of working people, including policemen, for a better life (indeed he would later become a pioneering labour movement organiser). Now, in incorporating Akaroa district fully into the Canterbury provincial police structure, the Commissioner posted him as a ‘temporary’ measure from the provincial capital to the obscurity of Akaroa. With a sergeant and constable under his control, Guinness was to remain there, isolated from the mainstream of Canterbury life and well away from Shearman, until the end of 1864. Instead therefore of Hamilton’s appointee controlling the police of the capital, Shearman’s friend and colleague Peter Pender was given command of the Christchurch district. He was accordingly promoted to Sergeant-Major on 1 November 1862, only months after ranking as a constable in Victoria. Amongst the new men selected by then by Chief Commissioner Standish for Canterbury service were two who were to make their mark in the force, Alfred Buckley and Thomas Sugrue. The following June, to hasten the programme of Victorianisation, Shearman imported two more key constables from across the Tasman, making both of them 1/c sergeants upon arrival. One, William Bickle, would die young, but the other, William H James, was to become of considerable significance. Aged 35, James had joined the Victorian police in 1852 and
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
become an NCO before leaving it; upon rejoining in 1858 he had been unable to gain promotion as a result of the force’s decline and, frustrated, had required no coaxing to come to Canterbury. 29
Meanwhile Shearman had perceived the need for a stronger, more direct control of the Timaru district also. South Canterbury was the fastest growing area in the province, and a pivotal servicing point for overland travellers, particularly would-be diggers heading for the fabulous new fields to the south. Quite apart from problems of general disorder, liaison work was also required with the northernmost Otago police station—at Oamaru—especially over the monitoring of criminals, deserters and other ‘undesirables’ wishing to escape strong police surveillance in whichever of the two provinces they were best known. At one stage the southern Canterbury police arrested—wrongly, as it proved—a man they suspected of being the infamous Australian bushranger Gardiner. Shearman’s first planned Canterbury police expansion had been to open a new station at the disorderly river crossing at Arowhenua (near Temuka), 10 miles north of Timaru, and this occurred early in 1863. Lacking a Victorian to place in charge of the important South Canterbury district, Shearman had transferred to head it the man who had hitherto, from Kaiapoi, policed the northern district, (now) Inspector Revell. With this ousting of Woollcombe and his earlier Akaroa rearrangement, Shearman had finally removed any substantial influence by Resident Magistrates over the Canterbury police: any outside interference with the force was firmly categorised as ‘subversive of the discipline of the general efficiency—and of the interests of the service’. 30
The Maoris of Canterbury, although only 500 strong, were perceived as a potential threat to order in the province, unlike the now liquor-ridden, disease-depleted remnants of the once-powerful Otago tribes. Some of the Banks Peninsula Maori had responded to the outbreak of interracial war in the North Island in 1860 by attempting to plunder the powder magazine at Sumner, but the police had been tipped off in advance by one of the scattered South Island Assessors, a Port Levy chief. Seager and his men had apprehended two of the rebels, beaten them severely, and cast them adrift in a boat. Shearman ordered close surveillance of the Canterbury tribespeople, but being anxious to keep his province free from racial tension urged his men to be more forbearing with Maoris than with pakehas because of their lack of understanding of the English language, laws and customs, ‘and also because their habits and feelings would naturally lead them to consider inoffensive many acts which our laws denounce’. Interracial mediation was supplemented by the appointment to the most populous pa in
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
Canterbury, at Kaiapoi, of a ‘native constable’ responsible to the Native Department—one of the former Wellington Maoris imported as an emergency measure when Canterbury policemen had first responded to the lure of the goldfields. The Commissioner could report with confidence after an 1863 police census of Maori arms and ammunition that there was no likelihood of insurrection. 31
If containing potential Maori insurrectionary propensities proved to pose no major problems, the Victorianising of the force did create difficulties. Some of these were jurisdictional; the judiciary, for example, would not accommodate Pender’s claim to be able to enter premises without a warrant in search of defaulters, applying to the constabulary a standard of application of ‘the law in the books’ which was unfamiliar to the Victorians. But largely the problems stemmed from the fewness of the Victorian men (Shearman’s many pleas for more being only very partly successful), the shortage of suitable local men offering in a period of goldrush, and perceived threats to civil liberties. There were frequent complaints about the lack of ability of the Canterbury police, particularly vis-d-vis the claimed expertise of the Otago men, to get ‘results’. They were accused from time to time of being unable to carry out the most simple of tasks relating to the maintenance of regularity—clearing stray cattle from the streets or town belt, for instance, or stopping the habit of leaving carts unattended outside public houses (with the consequent risk of horses bolting), or preventing ‘depredations carried out along the beach’ at Lyttelton. Such accusations were not of course new, but the Shearman force was supposed to have swept away the cobwebs of the old police. So rife was cattle-stealing that the Press would not be ‘inclined to quarrel with the police for a little over officiousness in an attempt to stop it. All we desire to point out is that they are turning their attentions in the wrong direction’, towards a repressivesurveillance presence that was not offset by adequate enough results to quieten the concerns of those of civil libertarian bent. 32
The editor of the Lyttelton Times, initially fully supportive of Victorianisation, articulated such fears amongst the elite in fuller fashion. Armed police were not tolerated by ‘Englishmen’, he claimed in discussing the relationship between policing and official ideology, except in aberrant circumstances such as existed in Ireland or on the goldfields of Australia and Otago. To be sure, it was wise to establish the nucleus of an armed force in Canterbury in
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anticipation of imminent discovery of a payable provincial goldfield, but meanwhile the ‘military’ nature of Shearman’s force should not be ‘paraded’ but kept in the ‘background’. ‘We have seen from time to time a trooper riding the streets of the town with a sabre at his side looking every inch a soldier’, a sight offensive to ‘British’ citizens. Moreover, the newspaper noted, such a display was not only subversive of the rhetoric of freedom, it could be actually counter-productive in the campaign to impose order. Whereas a constable with a staff would once have been adequate to settle a disturbance, the intervention of an armed quasi-soldier would create ‘bad blood’ amongst participants and observers alike. Certainly the force should have been Victorianised, certainly Shearman had done a zealous and thorough job in so doing. But the militarisation of Canterbury’s police had been too slavishly a straight transfer of the Victorian mode of policing. What was needed was instead an adaptation of the Victorian police system, so that the finished product both borrowed from English (‘old police’) practice and shaped itself in accord with the Canterbury situation. There was no need to copy the ‘vices’ and ‘vulgarities’ as well as the ‘virtues’ of the Victorian police system: it was not Shearman who was at fault on this issue, but Shearman’s terms of reference. 33
Such qualms were to a degree reflected in the Provincial Council in August 1863, with local politicians wondering openly whether the expensive (although costing less than a fifth of Otago’s) armed police were necessary, particularly in view of the ongoing grumbling at lack of ‘real’ policing work being done by Shearman’s constables. But with continued executive government backing Shearman pressed ahead with the militarisation of the Canterbury police regardless of criticisms and even of mockery. His efforts were helped by the occasionally permitted employment of more former Victorians, among them policemen such as Thomas Broham who were to become household names in Canterbury and further afield. Concomitantly the Commissioner strove for legitimation by attempting to create a police imagery of impeccable dress and behaviour, attributes supposedly reflective of impersonal efficiency and diligence of duty: ‘whips and sticks must not be used except when off duty’, jumpers could only be worn unbuttoned out of formal duty hours and then only with same-coloured waistcoats, and uniformity of appearance at each station was insisted upon to avoid a situation where some ‘will be seen in greatcoats or capes, and others without, more with long boots and pantaloons and the remainder with trousers’. All this complemented the process of professionalisation of his inherited force; inter alia criminal descriptions were standardised, and in August further reorganise-
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
tion occurred when the district of Rangiora was added to those of Christchurch, Lyttelton, Akaroa, Timaru and Kaiapoi, and Arowhenua was officially made a sub-district. ‘For the future’, the men were soon told, ‘let it be distinctly understood that no discretionary power must be exercised when adverse to the established rules’. The professionalisation, in short, was fixed firmly within the conventional boundaries of paramilitary policing: legitimately appeals to the public could only be contemplated when they fell within the compass of such constraints.”
The police presence on the streets was intended to be inexorable, actually or symbolically embodying the ‘condign’ power of the state. A government-sponsored ‘new chum’ at Timaru, in versifying his complaints about the high cost of living, was in no doubt about the centrality of the police role:
Government, generous, pays us (by heaven!)
Six shillings a day, yet our living costs seven.
But, it’s no use to growl: there’s a policeman to fright us,
Who keeps showing his teeth, as though meaning to bite us,
With a coat buttoned up that he’s frightened to stoop in
And a thing on his head like a pot they boil soup in.’
Under the 1858 Canterbury Police Ordinance, and more specialised legislation such as the Christchurch City Council Ordinance of 1862 and rigorous new public house regulations of 1863, constables were the linchpin of surveillance and control of most facets of urban life. In the capital they worked closely with William Pearce, the City Council’s Inspector of Nuisances (from June 1863), and with fire brigade personnel who were—as ‘fire police’—delegated auxiliary policing powers at the scenes of fires. In built-up areas the police uniform was supposed to be übiquitous and the only constraint upon putting theory into practice was the consistent perceived shortfall in adequate police numbers: even in Lyttelton, reported Resident Magistrate Dr William Donald late in 1863, justices were sometimes compelled to ‘undertake the function of policemen and themselves effect arrests of disorderly characters’; they ‘most distinctly and emphatically’ claimed that the law ‘had not been, is not now, and cannot be properly carried out with the present force of Constables.’ That an overwhelming degree of repressive force was not always available was a problem of resources, not of mode. No one doubted that the ethos of the pervasive, constabularised new police had arrived, albeit its performance in actuality falling somewhat short of what was intended.”
That October Shearman moved to discard the two commissioned officers whom he had inherited more than a year before, and whose
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presence now clashed not only with his authoritarian bent but also with the stepped-up pace of Victorianisation. He requested that both Revell and Guinness be transferred to other positions in the provincial government. As a result of a sequence of events it proved possible after a time to place the former elsewhere. Soon after the election of new Superintendent Samuel Bealey the previous March, in response to talk of gold on the West Coast of the province the Canterbury government had appointed an official agent, Charles Townsend, to aid prospectors and surveyors in that wild, inaccessible region. His assignment had been a tough one. Quite apart from the difficult terrain and weather, he had been forced to act as quasipoliceman in an area where the small numbers of people were devoid of societal constraints. Not atypical of the parties drawing supplies from the government depot which he established at Mawhera pa at the mouth of the Grey River was one nominally headed by former Canterbury policeman John Price. It was heavily armed and Price, when sober, indulged in free-lance policing by bounty hunting for ‘criminals’ alleged to hide out in the virtually impenetrable bush. Early in October Townsend drowned. Revell, whatever Shearman might think of him, had been applauded by the property owners of Timaru for his stern imposition and retention of order, and to both meet the Commissioner’s request and fill the vacancy caused by Townsend’s death the Inspector was appointed Government Agent at the West Coast from the beginning of 1864. All concerned were satisfied with the ‘transfer’, even Revell, for in actuality the new position gave him status, power and—at £4oo—a higher salary. 3 *
The services of Frank Guinness were less obviously able to be utilised elsewhere. But his ‘want of technical knowledge’ of policing and his political views made Shearman determined to remove him from the force, for even though he was virtually out of harm’s way in Akaroa his salary could be used, in the Commissioner’s eyes, to much better effect. An attempt by Shearman to send his senior commissioned officer off in a non-police capacity to the Otago border to inspect cattle for disease failed; instead the Commissioner was forced to station a mounted constable at the Waitaki to ensure that infected cattle did not cross into Canterbury. After a great deal of continued agitation by Shearman the most powerful figure in Bealey’s provincial government, William Rolleston, was finally persuaded in October 1864 to give Inspector Guinness notice of dismissal. When Guinness and Resident Magistrate Watson fought the instruction. Shearman made devastating allegations about the Inspector’s inability even to instruct the tiny Akaroa
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
station in proper policing duties, and on 1 December Guinness saved face by resigning. Shearman acknowledged that at all times Guinness had done his best, that his character was unblemished; but, reduced to the humbler occupation of Watson’s clerk, the former high policeman had become a sacrifice to the state’s acquisition of a fully Victorianised police. 37
The chief beneficiary from Shearman’s manoeuvres was Peter Pender, the epitome of the Victorian-style policeman. He had left his peasant family to join the Irish Constabulary at the age of 17, soon to be pitched into ‘one of the most painful experiences’ of his life, the eviction of starving co-religionists during the famine of 1846-7. Thus hardened, Pender graduated to military suppression of ‘disturbances’ and as a result of his prowess was made a sergeant at 22, after serving less than a third of the average length of time for promotion. He was one of the first Irish Constabulary volunteers for the Crimea in 1854, allocated to Lord Raglan’s mounted staff corps, a unit which lost more than two-thirds of its members in the field. After further military experience in Turkey, Pender returned briefly to the Irish Constabulary before leaving for Australia in the quest for ‘adventure’ and gold; when the latter, at least, failed to materialise he joined the Victorian police, wherein he felt at home.”
Upon arrival in Canterbury with Shearman the former Constable Pender became at once a senior NCO. From the beginning the new Commissioner’s intention was to make him, as soon as possible, second in command of the force. Here Shearman had to tread cautiously. His October 1863 argument for removing the two commissioned officers had been couched in terms of abolishing their offices and employing four constables in their stead, at a time when the magistracy, on behalf of the propertied, was urging greater police coverage. From 11 May 1864, however, Pender was promoted to the rank of 3/c Inspector, ostensibly filling the vacant Inspectorship left by Revell but continuing to operate from the Christchurch watchhouse. Pender was a harsh disciplinarian, and controls over the men now grew tighter, with hitherto ‘unwritten’ regulations being spelt out. ‘All Members of the Force will wear their beards and moustaches of a moderate length. It is conducive to health and will tend towards uniformity of appearance’. When constables were reportedly speaking to prostitutes in Christchurch streets, a course which ‘must have a tendency to lower the reputation of the Department’, they were forbidden to do so on pain of ‘the utmost severity’ of punishment: when ‘accosted on duty in the streets by women of this character’ constables should ‘instruct
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
them to proceed to the Depot and lodge any complaints they may consider it necessary to make’. 39
Upon promotion to Inspector Pender was replaced as SergeantMajor by an old comrade of Irish and Victorian days, Sergeant Buckley. For men deemed satisfactory—both Buckley and Pender had ‘clean’ defaulters sheets in Victoria—promotion was rapid, for Canterbury police were increasingly tempted to leave the force for the new Marlborough goldfields or for police forces to the south which offered higher rates of pay in a time of rising prices. During the year a total of 39 men joined the Canterbury Force, an indication of the extreme ephemerality of police employment at a time when authorised strength was 37. Forever finding difficulty in maintaining permitted strength by local recruiting, Shearman had closed the Heathcote station, established in 1863 as the eighth in Canterbury to cope with navvies working on the railway between Christchurch and Lyttelton, and had reduced Rangiora and Kaiapoi stations to a sergeant apiece. With a shortage of men on the beat in Christchurch and its environs, alarmist reports began to appear alleging increasing burglaries of houses and robberies along highways. ‘Where Are the Police?’ shouted headlines.* 5
Since with few exceptions the only men offering their services locally had been dismissed from the police of other provinces and colonies, the Commissioner was sometimes able to persuade the government to allow him to import some more Victorians: 10 were taken on during 1864, most of them in mid year, foremost among this contingent being Senior Constable Albert G Barsham who was destined to attain the Inspectorate a decade later. Shearman saw that the only way he could retain such men (and in the event a relatively high two-fifths of the 1864 intake were still members eight years later) and thereby thoroughly professionalise the force was to raise pay rates. He began a campaign of intense pressure on the government to bring the lowest police pay up to at least 7s per day, and at the same time he moved faster towards making his force an imitation of Victoria’s —more so in some senses than even Branigan had been able to do in Otago given the latter’s constraints upon disposition of resources imposed by the constant opening of goldfields. Although Canterbury’s first female searcher (on a parttime salary of £25) was not appointed until 1864, by when a number of women were already employed by the Otago police, in other matters Shearman’s force led the field: for example a £5O government grant allowed the establishment of a library at the Depot long before Branigan could set up such an institution in Otago. The Canterbury police library rules reflected the discipline of the police hierarchy. The officer in charge of the Depot was to approve all
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
purchases, but with the Commissioner holding final say in all library matters; membership was compulsory (and costly, at 3s entrance fee and Is per month), rules of usage rigid, holdings ‘uplifting’ and ‘educational’. Two books to have survived from the library’s later extension to West Coast police headquarters at Hokitika are Lectures on Natural Philosophy, and the even less thumbed Works of Hesiod, Callimachus and Theognis."
The Challenge of the West Canterbury Goldfields
The laying out of the major town of Hokitika at the very end of 1864 signified that the goldfields of Canterbury Province were more than just the ‘flash in a pan’ which those of the Wakamarina diggings in the north of the South Island had already been figuratively written off as earlier in the year. At the beginning of that year ex-policeman Revell had arrived as Government Agent at the mouth of the Grey River, on the boundary with the south-western portion of Nelson Province, and had then on foot taken gold samples across the Southern Alps to Christchurch. The provincial government, fearing like the Otago ‘Old Identities’ before them that the social consequences of a huge rush might outweigh the revenue generated from what could well prove to be small goldfields, had therefore ordered Revell to set about disbanding the official government presence in West Canterbury .Yet at the very time this decision was being made a party had struck payable gold at Hohonu (Greenstone) Creek, off the Taramakau River. By the middle of the year miners disappointed by low yields at both the South-West Nelson’s Buffer and Marlborough’s Wakamarina diggings were en route for the new field. Convinced of the potential for the extractive industry in the region, Government Agent Revell determined to persuade the provincial government to rescind its decision to close down the depot. On 19 July—two days before the arrival of the first sizeable party of miners from Nelson Province—he set off for Christchurch again to request a police detachment at the Coast in anticipation of Otago-scale rushes. On 29 July Shearman was instructed by a government converted to the inevitability (if not necessarily the desirability) of gold-generated freneticism within its province to comply with the request."
Shearman’s recruiting drive had been designed to match the province’s previous population increase, there being a calculation for example of the need for three new stations in the East Canterbury countryside. Although his financial estimates were high they had also to cover the sought-after pay increase, and they encom-
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
passed at most only a small amount of potential goldfields activity. Thus he could spare only two men for the West Coast expedition. Pender selected to head the detachment a 24 year old recently promoted to 3/c sergeant: Thomas Broham, an Irishman who had policed Victorian goldfields during a stint with Standish’s police before coming to Otago as a digger. When he had offered his services the preceding August Shearman had snapped him up. Promises of fast promotion were kept when he was at once elevated to 2/c sergeant and again to 1/c before the end of 1864. He was amongst the most perceptive and intelligent of the men who came to dominate New Zealand’s nineteenth century police despite the fact that in Victoria he had not been ‘considered to be very zealous in police matters’, and by 1 March 1865 he had risen to the position of 3/c Inspector in charge of the West Coast district.* 3
The Commissioner of Police for Canterbury Province had naturally envisaged that, in terms of the Victorian-style policing system he had introduced, the gold-bearing area west of the Alps would become a new police district fully under his control. But on 6 August 1864 he was informed by the government that Broham would be operating under the direction of Government Agent Revell. This was a severe blow for Shearman, who had secured Revell’s dismissal from his force for not shaping up within a mode of policing which had developed specifically to meet goldfields and equivalent or related conditions; he resolved to continue acting as if no powers over the detachment had been delegated to his former Inspector. On 10 August Broham and Constable George Cooper, a former London policeman who had accumulated mining experience in Victoria and Otago, left Christchurch by coach for Leithfield. This town became the main point at which travellers to the West Coast turned inland to brave the Alps, and it was thus made the centre of a new police district in October, the month when the West Coast goldfield first expanded. Meanwhile the West Canterbury police detachment, a revolver apiece and a tent between them, together with Revell and a few others, trekked across to the West Coast."
The party made its way first to the government depot where prospectors shipped in from the Aorere by storekeeper/entrepreneur Reuben Waite had formed the nucleus of Blaketown, later Greymouth. The first serious police action on the West Coast was to quell a violent anger directed at the authorities by some diggers who had returned, disappointed, to this base from the interior. Broham and Cooper also had functions grander than such ‘low police’ duties, particularly in assessing the importance of the gold-
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
field, reporting to their masters on the population, harbours and ‘every subject even of the slightest importance’ on the West Coast, and advising the government about the state apparatus it would need to establish there. It was in this arena of ‘high police’ duties that jurisdictional problems were—inevitably—to rise. The two policemen were under instructions by Shearman to remain under his sole command, and their paramilitary training precluded any possibility of obedience to a rival authority. Their first clash with Revell occurred after arrival at Greenstone Creek on 20 August. The Government Agent’s brother had been placed in charge of the Grey River depot but had abandoned it to go digging, and Revell now instructed Cooper to proceed there to take charge. Broham had received orders from Shearman that he possessed a ‘discretionary power more than in ordinary cases’, while his instructions made no mention of the depot or of any authority by Revell over him, and he therefore refused to implement the command. When the Agent produced, however, a letter of 8 August from the government which not only gave himself delegated headship of police on the West Coast but also specifically directed that a policeman be located at the mouth of the Grey, Broham had no choice but to release Cooper.*’
Yet the sergeant refused to accept that the wording of Re veil’s letter gave the Agent general precedence in police control over and above Shearman’s authority: under section 5 of the Constabulary Ordinance, and under the terms of the Canterbury police regulations, he could accept orders only from the Commissioner or a person delegated by the Commissioner. All that he would concede was to give full consideration to what he called Revell’s ‘suggestions’, since the discretionary powers delegated to him by Shearman a day after the date of Revell’s letter from the government did not encompass his acting as the Agent’s servant. To establish firmly the Victorian principle of internal police autonomy, he went so far as to deny Revell the use of the police tent since it would ‘in reality’ make the police ‘Mr Revell’s tent keepers on the West Coast’ and therefore detract from the ‘respectability’ that police had to cultivate amongst the diggers.* 6
It was not an auspicious beginning for good relations between police and other agencies of the state on the new goldfields, and the Canterbury government reproved the deliberate flouting of Revell’s authority by Shearman and his staff: ‘from the peculiar circumstances of the position in which he is placed his directions must be received by Sergeant Broham as if they had come from the Provincial Government and through the head of the Police Department’.
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Yet even then, in passing this on to his sergeant, the Commissioner deliberately obscured the government’s order for the bypassing of his own command on the West Coast: Broham was instructed to proffer Revell ‘respectful obedience’ but to carry out only ‘lawful’ and urgent orders given by him. On the spot, however, the sergeant had little choice upon receipt of this ‘clarification’ in mid October but to place himself under the Government Agent’s instructions and tactfully apologise to his new master for his ‘error of judgment’ in the recent past. 17
The mining experience of the advance police party’s members ensured that the state received reports of far greater accuracy than Revell’s. The Government Agent, his eye upon the proclamation of an official goldfield headed by himself as Resident Magistrate and Warden, exaggerated the extent of the early finds at Greenstone Creek. Broham, in contrast, reported a ‘mere patch’ of ‘tucker diggings’ stretching five miles along the bed of the stream, surrounded by bush so dense that at the ‘canvas town’ headquarters of the rush a horse could move no more than 100 yards in any direction. If the original Greenstone Creek prospector had remained, he felt, the diggers would have given him ‘something he would not easily forget’. By the middle of that September 300 men, mostly from Nelson Province, were working the field. As to be expected they had organised their own police and government regime, based upon the regulations which prevailed at the Buller, Wakamarina and Collingwood diggings which they had just left. There was, Broham reported, ‘utmost order’, but he feared that this would end if large numbers of diggers flocked in. Already the cost of provisions for the men working the West Coast was enormous, and drays pulled to the diggings by half-starved bullocks from the only three stores on the Coast—on the Grey and Taramakau rivers—would not be able to cope with supplies for even the expected influx of 200 men aboard the next steamer from Nelson. Broham predicted that if ‘penniless persons’ continued to arrive they might, while lubricated by the products of the inevitable grogshop proprietors, seize the government store, and certainly the mere handful of thefts from tents would escalate. 48
He begged for a force of about half a dozen men. Meanwhile he was rejoined at Greenstone Creek by Cooper. When the constable had left the store to forward Broham’s initial despatches to Shearman in response to the instructions of his sergeant he had contravened Revell’s instructions to remain at his post, and the Government Agent had therefore dismissed him from the job of depot guard. The affair was probably Tigged’ by Revell to once again secure the position for his brother, who had returned after
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
failing at mining, but Broham did not protest for he was relieved to have a companion once more in conditions of extreme difficulty. Quite apart from the problems of policing a mobile mining population, early West Coast policing presented as miserable a prospect as New Zealand policemen have ever had to face. The rain seldom ceased, the bush was oppressive, ‘sandflies and blowflies swarm in myriads’, the mosquitoes were ‘quite intolerable’, Broham’s tent headquarters ‘admits the rain freely’; even later in the year with matters somewhat more regularised, banking official G O Preshaw recorded the sergeant kneeling in his tent writing a report to Shearman, raindrops dripping on to the paper.* 9
Although in the initial disappointment men began to leave again for the Buller and other northern fields, even by late September ‘many destitute persons’—those who had not prospered and whose only hopes lay with successful finds—had begun to trickle across the Alps from East Canterbury. There was, too, a pool of unemployed men waiting in Christchurch and Lyttelton for the winter to end definitively before moving across to the wilds of the West Coast. The government was uncertain about what policing expenditure to commit itself to: no one could foretell whether the Coast was going to be another Otago. In anticipation that it would prove to be a substantial goldfield, however, Shearman had begun to tighten the military training of his men. In particular he had sent to Victoria for a sergeant ‘to Drill the Members of the Police Department’ and in October John Darby arrived to take up the position—although to the chagrin of the government he soon left for a more lucrative similar role in the Yeomanry Cavalry."
The government, noting that Otago’s annual police expenditure per head of population was £1 as opposed to its own current 6s, determined to conserve as much state finance as possible in the meantime. Politicians’ forebodings about the huge costs of gold-fields-orientated policing finally killed Shearman’s case for a general pay increase for his force. He had already conceded that in return for such an increase he would divest his force of the position of second commissioned officer, and he was now hoist with his own petard: at the time of firmly rejecting the pay increase Rolleston finally agreed to the dismissal of Guinness, but noted that Shearman had accepted that no replacement was required. By October two police constables had been stationed at Waitohi Gorge near the western entrance to transalpine Harper pass to supervise and monitor traffic between East and West Canterbury, but the still cautious government ignored Shearman’s support for Broham’s request for a sizeable detachment on the West Coast. Late that month, however, it relented slightly and authorised an
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extra constable to join Broham’s detachment; Charles O’Donnell was sent. 51
The new man was stationed at Greymouth, from whence he supervised the Greenstone Creek diggings, Broham having by now moved his tented police headquarters southwards to the mouth of the Taramakau. Here another township was growing around grog shanties supplying diggings opening up in a variety of areas, most importantly at the Waimea (or ‘Six Mile’) and Totara fields. By late November it was clear that the West Coast contained important quantities of gold, that its population of 700 would soon swell; banks were doing business, and a ‘happy state of affairs prevailed’. In December the government decided that its West Coast operations would be run from a centre to be established at the mouth of the Hokitika, at the site of a port that was central to the burgeoning southern gold producing areas. Here Broham helped Revell to lay out the town of Hokitika. On 21 December the sergeant established the ‘police camp’, the new headquarters for the threeman West Canterbury division of Shearman’s force.”
The small police detachment worked closely with banking officials to protect gold and money. The most serious single incident that had occurred before the end of 1864, by when a thousand diggers had reached the Coast, was an altercation at the Grey River bar between crewmen who had rescued a schooner abandoned by its master and the latter who refused them salvage rights; O’Donnell, under Revell’s orders, evicted the crew from the ship. There was little ‘crime’, beyond hunger-motivated thefts of food from tents, until February 1865 when the founder of the first bank on the West Coast, Dugdale Walmsley of the Bank of New Zealand, had his valise containing gold and notes to the value of £1720 stolen on the Waimea diggings. Broham watched the chief suspect all night and followed him to a cache where £670 in notes was recovered, but the man had to be released in view of the lack of specific proof that the discovered notes were those stolen; he lived in Nelson for years, periodically (it was said) returning to the Coast to replenish his financial resources and always eluding the police. 53
It was in reality however the endemic chaos to be expected when large numbers of men flooded into an underdeveloped area of very few facilities which gave Broham his greatest worries. Reporters on the spot were already wondering, before the end of 1864, about police ability to cope with any outbreaks of serious disorder. Then came a big upsurge in population from January 1865, with 2400 diggers in West Canterbury by March, two-thirds of them concentrated at the Waimea to the north of police headquarters. Reports
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
emanating from the police and others on the Coast were predictably alarmist. With provisions scarce —especially at Hokitika and its surrounding goldfields—and booze plentiful, ‘riot and starvation’ were widely predicted. These and the Walmsley gold robbery at last prompted a government response to the repeated requests of Broham, Revell and Shearman for police reinforcements west of the Alps.
At once Sergeant James McEnnes embarked with four foot constables on a steamer for Hokitika, and two mounted men were about to proceed by the overland route. The West Canterbury Police District, still uneasily under joint control by the Commissioner at Christchurch and the Government Agent at Hokitika, was to be 10-strong. This news was reported by government spokesman John Hall to a packed public meeting on the subject of the diggings in the Christchurch Town Hall on 2 March 1865, the day portable gaol cells were authorised for the West Coast. Three days later that entire area was proclaimed a goldfield with Revell, elevated to Warden and Resident Magistrate as expected, issuing the first miners’ rights on 21 March. The provincial government had finally accepted the implications of a major goldfield in its territory, and these long-delayed official actions opened the floodgates: at once a thousand men joined the overland route. M
To cope with what was now acknowledged as a province-wide ‘emergency’ Shearman was allowed to recruit extra men—some of whom would be channelled to Broham, who was at this point promoted to Inspector in charge of the West Canterbury Police District. Revell Street in Hokitika was so crowded that Preshaw had difficulty elbowing through the diggers; by the end of April the ‘rowdyism’ of the town was infamous in the colony. On 19 March Provincial Secretary William Rolleston had arrived at the raw provincial sub-capital to properly establish the superstructure of government on the West Coast. He was soon joined by his friend George Samuel Sale—like Superintendent Bealey a fellow Cambridge graduate—whom he was to install as ‘General Agent or Commissioner’ on the goldfields with such authority as Rolleston saw fit to provide him. When the goldfield had been proclaimed Police Commissioner Shearman had initially rejoiced at the concomitant elevation of Revell to the Wardenship/Resident Magistracy, for the new position had not incorporated the specific policing powers delegated to the provincial Government Agent. Yet the newly created position of Goldfields Commissioner carried with it plenary powers over all government departments in West Canterbury, including that of the police—so much so that the former
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classics don-turned-runholder was soon colloquially known as ‘King Sale’.
Shearman once again attempted to establish his own autonomous chain of command with regard to Broham and his subordinates, to no avail. When the Inspector wrote to Shearman for permission to station men at the Kaniere diggings the request had first —at government insistence —to be returned to Hokitika for endorsement by Commissioner Sale, who alone was authorised to sanction state expenditure on the West Coast. Although lacking in policing experience Sale, it was quickly established, had full power to direct the police—with ramifications involving actions which made the men unpopular in circumstances which Broham would almost certainly have tackled in more conciliatory ways. Under the hybrid Sale-Shearman regime however the West Canterbury police soon had at least permanent accommodation of sorts erected at the Hokitika camp and at the main digging area of Waimea. The police district west of the Alps was subdivided into the Grey, Waimea (headquartered at Forkstown, later Goldsborough) and Hokitika sub-districts, with the Taramakau and Arahura rivers as boundaries. At the end of 1865, when the numbers of recruits enrolled that year into the Canterbury Police had doubled those of 1864, the sub-district of Ross further to the south was added.“
The state’s initial goldfields expenses were disproportionately high in terms of revenue received from the diggings. The remoteness of the fields and the whole area’s absence of any pre-existing European settlement and administration added enormously to government costs. Broham had too few men to accede to customs officers’ requests to prevent ‘plunder and disorder’ at the scenes of the many wrecks on the Coast, let alone to search whole shiploads of departing diggers to ensure that they had paid gold export tax. Most importantly, the bulk of the gold went out by steamer to Nelson, the established commercial capital for the West Coast goldfields. Christchurch businessmen were ‘mad about the gold going to Nelson’, and as a result of their pressure, expressed vociferously at the 2 March public meeting, the government experimented with the idea of bringing the gold overland across the Alps. 56
Four new policemen were taken on in Christchurch to help provide a pack-horse convoy to Hokitika via the standard Hurunui Saddle/Harper Pass route, and after a gruelling 12-day journey the expedition—Shearman, Sergeant George Beattie and nine mounted constables —turned up at the goldfields sub-capital in poor shape in mid March. Although they sought out gold for the return trip to Christchurch the three West Canterbury banks as
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
well as individual diggers were unwilling to swap a quick secure steamer service conveying their gold to Nelson for the uncertainties, risks and ponderousness of the overland route. They instead requested that the pack-horse escort should operate from the Waimea to Hokitika. Rolleston, on the spot, refused to contemplate the expense of official mounted escorts to protect Waimea gold that would end up in Nelson, but after considerable agitation from men of influence he agreed to implement a weekly police accompaniment for private conveyors of gold to Hokitika —which Broham at once inaugurated.”
The job of escorting the bank officials from outlying diggings to Hokitika, begun with Broham bringing Preshaw, Walmsley and 500 ounces of gold through from the Waimea, was one of the most unpopular police assignments on the West Coast. The road branching off to the Waimea from the main coastal route ‘must be waded through to give a proper idea of its badness’, the Inspector related—l2 miles of ‘one continual slough wherein horses wade to their bellies in mud and slush’, crossing the same creek every hundred yards or so. ‘Roots of all sizes’, a packer noted, ‘torn and mangled when small into a sort of maccaroni squash, and when large remaining a dead hindrance to both horses and men, caused the mud ploughed by cattle and pack-horses to assume the appearance of a torrent; so bad was it that the whole distance was marked by the bones of dead animals’. Whenever the route was altered it reverted to the same condition within a couple of days. All this was at a time when trees and shrubs were being planted to beautify police stations in East Canterbury. Even the road to the West Coast was, reported Sergeant Beattie on the return of his ‘escort’ (minus any gold) over the Hurunui pass, in a ‘frightful state’ and required drastic upgrading to remain passable. 5 *
In February 1865 in recognition of the high cost of provisions on the Coast and to entice police to willingly serve there a goldfields allowance of seemingly generous proportions had been decreed. But this merely replaced free rations hitherto provided by the government for West Coast stationing and at 2s 6d per day extra for constables (3s for sergeants, 5s for Broham) was insufficient to make goldfields service attractive. In order to induce Constable John Nelson of Akaroa to move over the Alps and take control at the Waimea, for example, Shearman was obliged to ‘bribe’ him with rapid promotion from 3/c constable to 2/c sergeant within the short space of two months. Even then, contemplating the incessant rain and suffering the endemic discomfort of West Coast service, he pined for the comfort of home and wife in East Canterbury and, in Broham’s opinion, feigned illness. Refused permission to leave the
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Waimea he walked out regardless, and was sent back to Christchurch where he was dismissed on arrival. Since there were. Shearman declared, no doctors at the Waimea competent to adjudge whether or not he had been ill, Broham had been the best judge of that. Nelson no doubt considered himself better off than policemen forced to remain on the Coast, many of them subjected to riot and other forms of danger; one policeman, John Duncan, drowned on duty along with several diggers when their boat capsized in the Hokitika River. 68
Whilst East Canterbury policemen resisted transfer to the West Coast qua policemen, many of them wished to resign at the end of their periods of service to go to the transalpine goldfields as diggers. After the two most senior NCOs in the force, those in charge of Timaru and Kaiapoi, tendered their resignations at the height of the flow of diggers to the Coast, the government reluctantly agreed in March to a temporary daily pay increase of Is 6d per day for sergeants and men. Against Shearman’s vigorous protestations (complete with Branigan-style stories about the ‘criminal class’ arriving daily) this was reduced by 6d in late April and removed altogether at the end of June, leaving what one observer called a ‘trifling remuneration’ for the ‘somewhat unpleasant duties of a constable’. The West Coast allowance, too, would now be on a sliding scale tied to price movements monitored by Sale. Although this worked in favour of the goldfields-stationed men in the short run, in the longer term as prices fell the allowances lost any in-built compensations for the extra discomforts of service on the West Coast, particularly at new diggings where amenities were few or non-existent. This was so predictable that when the news reached Waimea of the adjustable scale all police on that station signified their intention to resign. As soon as the temporary increases were lost, the Commissioner had also seen his three best men in East Canterbury take the same step; gradually, other men trained in Canterbury left for provincial forces which offered wages in advance of a basic 6s 6d per day. State resources had not kept pace with the demands of goldfields which had rapidly ‘assumed vast proportions’. Broham and Shearman coped as best they could by ‘bribing’ with quick promotion their goldfields police. These had been rapidly reinforced, with a calibre of men who would not normally have been considered for recruitment by the ex-Victorian leadership, to keep pace with a population which had jumped to some 10,000 by the end of April. 60
The remoteness of the goldfields continued to cause grave problems, exacerbated by the ‘solution’ which had been adopted to meet the lack of significant state superstructure in the region—
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
‘King’ Sale’s enormous and strategic powers, which led to crippling administrative bottlenecks. Broham frequently—desperatelybegged the authorities for extra men and resources. It was in May that he had requested an extra sergeant and pair of constables to establish a station at Kaniere, scene of a big new rush a few miles upriver from Hokitika, but two months later there was still no sign of the three men so badly needed for the permanent policing of those diggings. Yet the Kaniere now hosted more than 2000 miners, and its town of the same name rivalled Hokitika in size. In the Coast’s administrative centre itself people complained that the streets were ‘infested with hordes of petty thieves’ and often blamed the police for the situation; yet by June only one constable could be spared for general beat duties in Hokitika. Moreover but a single detective had been authorised by the government to conduct covert surveillance over the surging, ever-changing population of the Canterbury sub-capital and its goldfields hinterland, and reports that his ‘endeavours are futile’ were hardly surprising.
The provincial government had at this time been attempting to improve overland access to and therefore policing on the West Coast. In mid 1865 it decided that an accompanying feature of the pushing through of an improved new line of road access across the Alps would be the implementation of a Victorian-styled escort service. The earlier, exploratory escort, the politicians calculated, had failed for want of a satisfactory line of communication. Police and others had long been investigating various transalpine passes, and in July Shearman set out to investigate the viability of the Arthur’s Pass route (south of and more direct than the Hurunui/ Harper Pass track) for the construction of a dray road. This was the line of access to West Canterbury which was chosen, and what has been called ‘perhaps the greatest of colonial engineering feats’ was operating as the main road to the Coast by late October. 61
The escort project was enormously ambitious, involving the establishment of a separate police escort branch of two Inspectors and 16 constables based at a gold receiving office located next to police headquarters in Christchurch and a string of police stations at regular intervals en route to Hokitika. Constables volunteered for service in the branch because higher wages were offered, but this engendered a crisis of replacement since their old positions could not be filled by suitable recruits prepared to accept the low pay of 6s 6d daily. When Shearman again applied for higher general rates of pay the government instead lowered the minimum height requirements for entry. Moreover, whilst accepting recruits direct for the escort in order to retain experienced constables for patrolsurveillance duties, the provincial executive made the first move to
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
truncate the expensive service before it had even started: it was now to be fortnightly rather than weekly, releasing escort constables for ordinary police duty between runs.
Other cuts were made as well so that in its final form, though still amounting to a weighty establishment cost of £5500, the core Gold Escort comprised only an Inspector, sergeant, four constables, escort driver, forage cart driver and groom. They were to travel in convoy, heavily armed, and could be supplemented by Christchurch or Hokitika police whenever necessary. There were also to be foot constables at stations en route, at Kowai, Craigieburn, Bealey, Otira and Rangiriri, and at Hokitika itself, each of them performing ordinary police duties as well as servicing the escort. There were 30 horses, three escort wagons and a forage wagon, with packhorses to be used initially to traverse the steepest, roughest part of the Alps. On 13 September the escort riders performed their first mounted drill, the result indicating that a great deal of training was still required: a couple ‘fell off their horses; a third was thrown and cut his head on a bottle’. After firing practice in the sandhills, with the Christchurch population anticipatory of ‘the magnificent scene when, decorated with flags and surrounded by its victorious guards, the waggon shall roll along with its precious freight, the centre of a jubilant procession’, the escort was ready for service by the beginning of December. 62
Even in the escort’s smaller, basic form, it was calculated to cost £12,000 for the first year of operation, bringing the estimated 12monthly police costs to £31,300 —to the consternation of some politicians. Before escort appointments were made to the service, police numbers in Canterbury totalled 78. Of those nearly two dozen were stationed in Christchurch under the control of Pender, whom Shearman found invaluable as his right-hand man. When the goldfield had been proclaimed, the capital city was in crisis, with destitute men in search of fortunes flocking through and living off their wits, and with the arrival in the vicinity of ‘adventurers’ such as Bully Hayes. Although this ‘emergency’ had passed after six weeks, the city was still a far more difficult policing proposition than it had been prior to the gold rush. In East Canterbury there were also eight police at Lyttelton, four at Timaru, three at Kaiapoi, two apiece at Akaroa and Bealey (at the entrance to Arthur’s Pass), and one at each of the seven smaller stations. Inspector Broham controlled 13 men in Hokitika, and had three each at Waimea, Greymouth and Kaniere, with four and two respectively at the new stations of Ross and Taramakau. To accommodate the new escort arrangements, a la Otago big promotions were made; 3/c Constable Thomas Baker, for example.
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
jumped four grades at once to become a 2/c sergeant. Some could not cope. One constable raised to a sergeant’s rank was demoted a fortnight later for ‘gross neglect and want of efficiency’, ‘being absent from his post’ and arresting a suspect ‘on a charge of highway robbery without reasonable grounds for suspicion’. During the course of the year, a record 89 recruits were signed up by Shearman. 63
The most significant promotion during the period of escort rearrangements was that of the sergeant in charge of the Timaru district, William Henry James, one-time Victorian NCO and drinking companion of Thomas J Ryan. James had recently been implicitly rebuked by the Canterbury government for ‘fractious conduct’ in refusing to listen to the local Provincial Surgeon’s requests for provision of adequate medical facilities for prisoners. For Shearman this had confirmed James’ toughness of character, and he had decided to elevate the sergeant to the position of Inspector in charge of the Christchurch end of the escort. Broham was to take charge of the West Coast end and to be replaced as controller of the West Canterbury district by Shearman’s old Victorian friend and colleague T K Weldon, the Commissioner of Southland Police, who was hawking his wares around the provinces because of the imminent loss of his position as a result of retrenchment in the deep south. This plan to employ Weldon had so blatantly disregarded all Shearman’s own rules of promotion from below that the Superintendent, who was in any case becoming alarmed at his Commissioner’s escalating accretion of power, vetoed it. When both size and frequency of the planned escort service were reduced by government fiat, Broham remained in charge of the West Canterbury police district and James, appointed 3/c Inspector from 8 November 1865, became sole leader of the escort."
In December Inspector James and his escort troopers, resplendent in their new uniforms, their backup men awaiting at newly built stations along the route, left Christchurch with their crimson and yellow escort van amidst fanfare and photographs. The government hoped that the ‘formidable’ image, the publicity and the provision of a good (if still hair-raising in parts) road would this time impress upon the West Coast banks and diggers the expediency of committing their gold to the police. Yet already the escort had been for months the object of ridicule far and wide. Not only was there scepticism about the amount of economic gain that would accrue to Canterbury since the government collected the gold tax —at least in theory—whatever the point of departure of the gold from the province, but there was also widespread know-
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
ledge of the accidental losses of gold by Otago police whilst crossing less rugged territory. The only possible chance of convincing some banks and West Coasters to consign gold to the escort was for the government to guarantee reimbursement for loss, but this it would not do except in the case of robbery.
The first escort therefore failed miserably, returning empty handed. No more followed and the Canterbury police were inextricably enmeshed in the ignominy of the entire venture. ‘No other blunder so damaged the prestige of the Canterbury Government’, wrote the historian of the rushes, echoing a contemporary assessment that a ‘more egregious waste of money no Government was ever guilty of. It was decided to transform the escort service into an internal West Coast service, from Ross and Waimea to Hokitika. This would be a much more low-key affair than the grand and ambitious transalpine service, and indeed it would do little more than regularise the existing ad hoc escorting arrangements on the diggings. Inspector James was transferred to take charge of the Greymouth sub-district in the north of West Canterbury, an area which had rapidly increased in significance since the discovery from mid 1865 of nearby fields (albeit most of them across the border in Nelson Province). 65
Until the arrival of James to take over Greymouth, which was at that point rather curiously designated a distinct ‘district’ within the West Canterbury police district (with James reporting to Hokitika rather than to Christchurch), O’Donnell, now a sergeant, had run the station with the aid of two constables. Up to recently little had changed there since his sole charge days, and the new rush, which left Hokitika temporarily quiet, had placed enormous strains upon Greymouth’s police station. Sent from Waimea to the Grey as Warden and Resident Magistrate in order to cope with the emergency, Revell had requested via Broham a substantial boost in police presence several times, with only partial success. Even at West Coast police headquarters the Inspector in charge still lived in a tent ‘quite unsuitable for habitation’, 15 months after his arrival across the Alps and long after other state officials enjoyed relatively comfortable quarters; his two local sergeants lived and worked in a similarly unsuitable tent which measured a mere 120 square feet.
The job remained unpleasant and dangerous for all the police in West Canterbury. Reports of assaults on policemen attempting to impose even minimally acceptable codes of behaviour were fre-
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
quent. When Hokitika’s constable John Carr threatened a Revell Street crowd with his revolver he was thrown to the ground, a bullet from his weapon passing through his thigh and emerging at the knee. Police numbers were kept up in such conditions by the offer of rapid promotions. This was an attraction even for some of the Nelson police on the goldfields north of the Grey and Arnold rivers in that province’s section of the West Coast, although the requirement to travel to Christchurch to enrol lost many potential recruits. By the end of 1865 police numbers in West Canterbury had increased and stabilised at around three dozen, plus a small unit comprising the sergeant and two constables which ran the crowded and primitive Hokitika gaol. As at Otago it had been found convenient to combine lockup and gaol functions since most prisoners were short-stay only. 66
Half the criminal population of Otago had congregated in Westland, complained Broham, and there were indeed some major crimes. In September 1865 the hapless Dugdale Walmsley, now travelling officer for the Bank of New South Wales at Greymouth, was ‘stuck-up’ on the bush-surrounded creek-bed ‘road’ between No Town and Twelve Mile —on the Nelson Province side of the border—by five masked men who relieved him of £4OOO in gold and money. The offenders were believed to have crossed into West Canterbury, and after several days of tracking by a police party led by Broham four persons were arrested on suspicion—but had to be released for lack of evidence. The incident occasioned fresh howls of outrage from influential people in Greymouth about the fact that three ‘solitary policemen, one of whom is always indoors at the depot, constitute our protective force’. The ‘bushrangers’ were never brought to book despite huge rewards offered. It was believed that at least one of the men ensnared by Broham was guilty, but most arrests made on suspicion of serious crime in the gold rush period had no judicial outcome. The great majority of offences committed in those West Coast areas without a regular police presence also remained unsolved or unresolved; not untypically, when a storekeeper was taking two captured robbers to the nearest constable they escaped under gunfire when he attempted to get them across a flooded river. From his base in Hokitika in later 1865 the notorious Richard Burgess robbed numerous people, and still had £5OO left after continual ‘living it up’ in town on the proceeds.”
Not that serious crimes were endemic on the Coast; indeed, most tasks dealt with by the West Canterbury police were connected not with despoliation but with the turbulence of diggings life. Constables spent a great deal of time, for example, tracing men who had deserted their families, particularly if the latter lived within Can-
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
terbury boundaries for destitution could be a financial drain on provincial revenues. Although the state stepped in only as a last resort, to distribute for instance £5O to women and children actually starving at Okains Bay, the perceived danger was that unless a hard-line stance was taken the situation would escalate and bring with it not only financial but also social control problems. Great store was therefore placed upon the fact that police enquiries were being made. Such activities were seen largely as preventive in nature, as were the investigations—albeit often cursory—into the many bodies found drowned in rivers or lying along bush tracks, or into men reportedly ‘missing’. Known West Coast drownings rose from six in 1864 to 71 the following year, with Preshaw talking of scarcely a day going by without one. As in Otago, it was suspected that some were murders, but the mere fact of investigations of some sort had to suffice as deterrence in view of the conditions."
Detection was, naturally, better developed east of the Alps, although of course those who had expected Shearman’s police to be detective-orientated had been disappointed. As soon as news of gold on the West Coast filtered through, potential diggers had begun to move to Christchurch in preparation for the arduous trek to the fields. While they were waiting for the winter of 1864 to disappear there were so many ‘hard working, industrious men’ with families to upkeep, quite apart from large numbers of fit, single young men, that many had not been able to find jobs in the urban areas of Canterbury. The government feared both radical agitation and intermingling by professional criminals and thus in August 1864 Shearman had been given permission to employ a detective. The frustrated Thomas J Ryan had then just resigned from the Otago Police and was headed north, with a brief Lyttelton stopover. Here Pender approached him, and as a result on 29 August at Christchurch he was taken on as the province’s first detective, with one of his major early jobs being to maintain surveillance over efforts by the unemployed to organise. 68
Pender soon felt that he had made a major mistake in recommending Ryan, who spent a great deal of his time drinking, gambling and conducting surveillance over young women rather than over political radicals. Soon the two had ‘drawn daggers’ and a violent feud developed. On Christmas Day 1864 Ryan was fined for drunkenness and attempting to drive the ‘Dog Cart over Pender’, whom he regarded as a ‘Damned Scoundrell’ who was ‘jealous’ of his abilities, whilst Pender for his part reported the detective time and again for breaches of regulations and ensured his removal from the plain clothes position in February 1865. More satisfactory
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
detectives were appointed on both sides of the Alps, and Ryan was transferred as a mounted sergeant to the vast, bleak Mackenzie Country near the Otago border, based at a sheep station where he normally had little to do except feel ‘infernally seedy from this Continuous and Systematic imbibing’.™
In short time there were four detectives working full-time on the West Coast alone, including a revenue detective assigned to detect evasions of gold duty. Detective efficiency was to increase when the two halves of the province were linked by telegraph in February 1866, the two Christchurch detectives being enabled more easily to coordinate surveillance over men moving in either direction across the Alps. The government had sanctioned elite wages for the detectives to ensure the best available quality: on 11s and 12s per day they received more than the highest paid sergeant’s 10s, and on the West Coast they also received the sergeants’ goldfields allowance of 5s per day. The establishment of a sizeable detective branch was the last costly innovation in policing methods that Shearman was allowed. In public relations terms it was money well spent. The capture of a forger such as ‘Louis the Frenchman’ was headlinegrabbing news far outside the provincial boundaries. 71
Problems and Retrenchment on Both Sides of the Alps
The stationing of Ryan in the territory only ‘discovered’ a decade before by alleged sheepstealer Mackenzie indicated how far the regular geographical scope of the East Canterbury police had spread once the finding of gold across the Alps had generated much greater activity on the Canterbury Plains. By September 1865 police numbers in the East had reached 47, soon to be established at 50. A year before Ryan’s arrival a Waimate JP and runholder had been obliged of necessity to arrest offenders himself and swear in locals as specials to take the miscreants to the nearest police at Timaru, a three-day return journey. Yet Ryan now supervised an area contiguous with that of a sergeant at Waimate and a constable who, stationed at Waitangi on the Otago border, scrutinised the entry of people and cattle into Canterbury. Shearman was just about to expand his force even further, particularly to the huge Totara rush which was centred at Ross, when the General Government notified the provinces that their subsidies would in consequence of a worsening colonial economy be heavily reduced. At once the Commissioner came under intense pressure to economise, hence the initial severe reduction in the planned escort service that
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September and several abandoned plans such as that of the formation of a Depot emergency reserve of half a dozen constables of high mobility. 77
But mere curtailing of planned expansion was soon considered insufficient and Shearman was requested to suggest economy measures in his force. The Commissioner was so used to exercising de facto autonomous power (at least, east of the Alps) that he merely, at first, gave an answer that included what amounted to a facetious comment: restoration of the minimum height for recruiting so that it would not take two men to make an arrest. This did not please the Superintendent, and neither did another of Shearman’s suggestions—that in addition to upgrading accommodation general pay levels should be raised so that he could retain trained men and therefore lower staff numbers following the resultant increased efficiency. The Superintendent refused even to put before his executive such an ‘economy’ measure which boosted spending, at least in the short term, by 50 percent! In the event it turned out to be the exigencies of order and regularity on the West Coast which precluded drastic pruning of the police force. 72
Shearman’s attitude however had infuriated the Canterbury politicians, who therefore looked again at the Commissioner’s legal position with a view to putting him firmly in his place. The Provincial Solicitor ruled, curiously, that the operation of the Canterbury police under the 1846 Ordinance, which gave so much power to the head of police, had become illegal as the result of subsequent provincial developments. All Shearman’s policemen had now to be resworn under Canterbury’s 1858 Police Ordinance which, because it was primarily police offences legislation, left the Commissioner’s delegated powers somewhat hazy and undefined. The manoeuvre enabled a situation whereby from time to time from now onwards various powers were specifically removed from the Commissioner. In early 1866, for example, the Provincial Solicitor denied that it was Shearman’s prerogative to decide upon the numbers of policemen in each class and rank, since there were financial implications to promotions. Shearman’s response—that in 1862 he had been promised control over internal police gradings and distribution and that this had been embodied in the Manual of Police Regulations—threatened to provoke a major confrontation and the government partially backed down. It did however insist that it be kept fully informed of all personnel matters, implying quite clearly that it would intervene whenever it wished. 74
This of course did no more than reiterate the de jure power of the executive to control, ultimately, every facet of policing. More importantly for the fate of Shearman’s concept of policing would be
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the actual extent of intervention and here a policy directive of January 1866 filled him with alarm: the internal escort on the West Coast was not to be run along Victorian-Otago lines. It was to be not only a far less expensive operation but also operated directly under ‘King’ Sale’s aegis, with Broham being ‘instructed’ by the executive as a first step to place a sergeant and two mounted constables at the disposal of the banks. This small unit alone would operate the weekly escort service to Hokitika, north from Ross and south from the Waimea. The detachment (joined by other police drafted in as required) was not physically as with the transalpine plan to carry the gold but to operate as an ‘armed force’ protecting bank employees. Shearman believed that the operation, reporting to Sale, had inadequate safeguards, and on the very first of the ‘new’ escorts from the Waimea one of the three bags of gold, containing 270 ounces, was stolen. 76
Tensions between police and goldfields administration, always present, at once intensified with these new arrangements, particularly in the ‘continual and sustained excitement’ of 1866. From the beginning of Sale’s mandate it had been made clear that policemen were to obey the orders of his key officers on the goldfields, the Wardens, who in any case as JPs still held some traditional jurisdiction over constables. The Goldfields Commissioner now began to assert his authority over West Coast police more vigorously, directly or by delegation: there were incidents of clashing jurisdictions in which policemen did not know whether to give priority to the orders of their own superiors or to those of Wardens. When a new rush occurred at Bruce Bay, far south of existing diggings, Sale promised a police accompaniment for Warden Matthew Price, who was en route there to prevent reported ‘complete anarchy’. But when Price followed this up by asking Sergeant Constantine Walsh of the hitherto southernmost station at Okarito (from early March the Coast’s third largest town, servicing more than 4400 people) to second to his expedition the NCO’s staff of two constables—themselves newly arrived at Okarito —Walsh refused. Fortunately for the pair Price’s previous official experience constrained him from putting them into an impossible situation by overriding Walsh’s orders, but after arriving at Bruce Bay and being unable, without police, to stop ‘very serious riots’ Price reported the circumstances to Sale, who thereupon complained to the government. 7 '
The situation at Bruce Bay had been serious indeed, for hundreds of the 2000 men who had arrived at the Bay by late March had become enraged to find that their strenuous pilgrimage had been to a ‘duffer rush’. Prospector Albert Hunt, whose application to Price for a licence had sparked off the rush, had been forcibly
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
detained —although protesting that he had never claimed to have found a sizeable field—and escaped into the bush when being compelled to lead the diggers to his claim. The ‘crowd were, as may be imagined, anything but satisfied’, and in the evening hungry, thirsty and angry men ‘set law and order at defiance’ and plundered stores at Bruce Bay’s newly erected Weld Town, ‘presenting a scene of drunkenness, dissipation and riot that baffles description’. Further rioting was prevented only by the rapid arrival of a ship with four police aboard, and with the regulars as a coercive nucleus Price swore in 20 specials. ‘This evidently had a very pacifying effect on the turbulent’ for the disturbances then lessened and most men began heading north again. By May only a hundred diggers remained, and the police station was about to be disbanded. Meanwhile, the government had told Shearman and Broham very firmly that policemen were to obey the orders of Wardens.”
As a result of these instructions there was a tightening of procedures, but the Victorian ethos of the unbroken chain of command was so pervasive within the force that a few months later the situation came to a potentially explosive head. When the Warden at Waimea instructed Sergeant Daniel Byrne to make an arrest the policeman stalled in the belief that the order was not lawful, and in the ensuing sequence of events both Broham and Shearman defied Sale’s authority. The Inspector refused a direction from the Goldfields Commissioner to suspend Byrne, referring the matter instead to the Commissioner of Police, and the latter instructed the suspension to proceed only if Byrne were to be found guilty of an offence; Broham, alleging lack of evidence, cleared his sergeant and, again in defiance of Sale’s directions, retained him at the Waimea. Meanwhile the Goldfields Commissioner’s formal complaint to the government had garnered more force than ever because the General Government’s new consolidating Goldfields Act had a clause instructing constables to ‘assist’ Wardens. 18
Shearman now considered it apposite to launch an all-out assault upon government violation of the Victorian system of police on the West Coast: ‘I feel convinced that a police force governed under a divided authority cannot be efficient’. He perceived such a situation to be ‘fatal’ to internal discipline, and predicted that it could well mean that Wardens directed police to undertake extra duties such as settling mining disputes or acting as bailiffs to the detriment of their substantive tasks. Because the diggings had retained their profitability, making 1866 the most prosperous year of all on the Coast, and diggers had therefore continued to flock to the West Canterbury police district—bringing the population to 30,000—the Police Commissioner had actually been able to gain dispensation
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
from the economy cuts. Moreover he now had permission to employ 54 police in the area. Reports were clear however that even these increased numbers of men were sufficiently hard-pressed conducting their ordinary duties without having extra burdens thrust upon them. For Shearman too any disincentive for constables to remain in the force needed to be fought—indeed in mid year he had even won a small but significant pay rise of 6d per day for men and NCOs. The government, having already acknowledged that the Commissioner’s case for at least a partial dispensation from economy cuts had a rational basis, now further compromised. It insisted on reiterating the principle of delegation of police authority to Sale—and by extension to his staff—but added that the Goldfields Commissioner was to use his discretion very carefully as to what extra duties the police would carry out. The implication that these would in the normal course of events not be onerous was clear and this proved to be the case. Moreover the trend back towards constabulary autonomy seemed confirmed when Sale suggested that the escort service be treated as an integral part of policing when expenditure was being considered. Explosive confrontation had been deflected. 79
Shearman’s decision to attempt finally to dismantle dual control had been based upon a shrewd assessment that the government’s waiving of economy cuts for the police indicated its acknowledgement, as a politician commented at the end of 1866, that his force was the most important department in the province. The Commissioner continued the initiative into the new year by seizing upon an argument that was decisive for an economy-minded executive: there had been excessive expenditure upon the West Coast partly because of extravagant requisitioning by Sale. Shearman’s case was strengthened by an event that indicated the absurdities to which dual control could give rise. When Inspector James had transferred to Greymouth he moved into the only available house, and Broham had therefore sanctioned government payment of its rent. Sale however refused to pay, considering the rent to be excessive, and the owner successfully sued Broham in his capacity as head of the West Canterbury police for £26 10s; the Inspector was threatened with being arrested by his own constables if he did not pay. The net outcome of this and other circumstances was that Shearman won what amounted to operational control of the police west of the Alps once again. 10
The ending of problems associated with divided authority of course made no difference to the problems of undermanning in West Can-
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terbury. When news of the Bruce Bay riots reached Hokitika, and constables were despatched southwards at once, this left no one available at headquarters for routine patrol work to Arahura and other outlying areas. Illness took its toll, particularly as police accommodation remained makeshift and cramped. Shearman was ‘seldom consulted’ on living and working conditions during ‘King’ Sale’s reign over the police, and could gain little improvement for the West Coast police after it. Even in Hokitika, as part of the economy drive ‘the best part of the police reserve was sold, the buildings were removed and huddled together with those occupied by the prisoners and the arrangements which cost so much money, time and trouble were almost completely upset’. Conditions worsened immeasurably as police rushed to establish stations at new diggings. When investigating in February 1867 gold finds at Haast, far south even of Bruce Bay, Sergeant Byrne and Preshaw found themselves holding up the inside pole of Broham’s small leaky tent all one night—while the Inspector held on to the ropes outside in the wind and rain. Next day they laid out a new town. 81
Broham had been finding it difficult to keep up with the rushes throughout 1866. By the middle of the year the Ho Ho diggings, centred at Blue Spur, had given the Kaniere a new lease of life, but there was as yet no police presence amongst the 2500 diggers spread out across the new field. At this time there were calls for a greater police presence at Ross—where a storekeeper threatened to ‘shoot the next ruffian through the head’ because the local police were unable to impose order amongst its 3500 people—and at the similarly sized Okarito field, where what had become the main centre at Five Mile was bereft of a permanent detachment. Moreover the Waimea field was about to undergo a rejuvenation, centred on the turbulent town of Pretty Womans (soon renamed Stafford Town) which was said to contain ‘notorious thieves of the worst character’. Its population was to peak at 6350 by the new year. As the Waimea burgeoned again, new rushes near the lesser but still significant diggings up the Grey Valley also required police stations. Throughout Westland the police struggled with limited resources to locate a station at any place considered to be the ‘haunt of bad characters’, even where there were merely ‘one or two gangs of notorious scoundrels’, and/or at localities of endemic disorder and riot. Priority was given to areas such as Five Mile that were populated mainly by Irishmen, for the presence of ‘Tips’ was believed to be more conducive to disorder than that of other nationalities. 82
Because of the relatively small number of policemen for such
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
turbulent circumstances, the performance of each constable having thereby more importance attached to it than was usually the case, internal discipline remained harsh. When a Kaniere constable criticised his sergeant’s ‘negligence’ and ‘supineness’ in the context of a robbery of the police camp, he was given short shrift by Broham for violating the subordination expected in the chain of command system. The constable then bypassed the police authorities and reported to the judiciary and to Sale that his immediate superior had committed perjury. This led to the complainant being briefly gaoled by Broham, personally accused by Shearman of making a ‘trumped up charge’, and drummed out of the force. Even if the discipline were tolerable, for a number of policemen the conditions of service were not. With fields opening hither and yon during 1866, Broham soon practically gave up asking as in the past for well-constructed, semi-permanent living and working quarters for his men. Police problems were added to when men stationed at the two southern and northern West Canterbury main centres found it impossible to buy policing ‘necessities’, since storekeepers were finding that the government was far too tardy with payment—a complaint by no means unusual in New Zealand, but of singular seriousness in the circumstances of the West Coast goldfields. 83
Such continued discomforts, and Shearman’s inability to get pay rates further increased, resulted in many problems in recruiting men of calibre. Hokitika policemen, a newspaper correspondent reported, manifested ‘that conspicuous peculiarity of Sir Richard Mayne’s blue-coat boys, so remarkable in London, namely, of never happening to be near enough to render assistance if particularly required’. Such remarks could be fobbed off as sour grapes, but Broham was certainly concerned about the quality of policing under his purview. To his chagrin, policemen were the butt of ridicule. During a key judical hearing in Hokitika Broham was asked to produce the lawbook commonly referred to as ‘Roscoe on Evidence’, but when the constable he had assigned to the task returned to court it was—to the mirth of all—with Revell Street hotelier Johnnie Roscoe in tow.
Towards the end of 1866 a more specific worry for the police authorities was the reversal of a previous trend: the propensity for trained West Canterbury policemen, after their periods of service had expired, to resign and join the Nelson South-West Goldfields police operating north of the Grey and Arnold rivers. To Shearman’s frustration the Nelson government was now offering goldfields wages from a third to a half as much again as those prevailing in West Canterbury. Police north of the border, for
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example, might be paid up to a basic 16s per day, plus government rations for those on escort duty, as compared with 1 Is 6d per day in toto for a 1/c constable in West Canterbury. The differential between the pay offered in the two portions of the West Coast increased in May 1867 when the West Canterbury goldfields allowance fell by a shilling per day in response to falling costs of living. Additionally, since a number of the Nelson goldfields police were initially men dismissed from West Canterbury for misconduct or neglect of duty and were not therefore likely to rise far in their new force, some of Broham’s best men left to join it with prospects of good promotional opportunities. West Canterbury men of lesser calibre too continued to join the Nelson force because its discipline was less harsh, it ‘not being an organised body’—not organised, that is, along Victorian lines. The Canterbury government, prompted by Shearman, asked its northern counterpart in mid 1867 to reduce its goldfields pay to parity with West Canterbury’s, but Nelson refused. 1 ”
The restricted amount of suitable available manpower, reflected in the fact that the number of police who signed up with Shearman during 1866 was a third down on that of the previous year, meant that there could be little diversion of resources to specialist detective work in West Canterbury. At the beginning of 1867, for example, there were only three plain clothes police west of the Alps, Richard Dyer and C T Browne at Hokitika, and a constable recently arrived at Greymouth. Surveillance over the ‘criminal’ element had to be conducted largely by patrol police. These primitive detective arrangements proved to be only partially adequate to cope with even the handful of men deemed to be of the ‘Sydney bush ranging fraternity’—particularly when the latter found an ally within the police force. On 10 May 1866, following a series of robberies in the vicinity of the West Canterbury sub-capital, the Hokitika police camp itself was burgled and, inter alia, a number of revolvers stolen from rooms which opened out only upon a courtyard in which police were present ‘at nearly every minute of the day and night’. Suspicions of complicity by at least one policeman were to zero in upon Constable John A Carr, whom Broham already regarded as a disruptive element in the West Canterbury force. The robbery had been masterminded by Richard Burgess and Thomas Kelly, its purpose, which proved abortive, being primarily to steal police uniforms for use as disguise in a planned bank robbery at Okarito. The police were certain about the guilt of Burgess and Kelly and arrested them, but were outwitted by a preemptive stratagem devised by Burgess and by the perjured evidence of his new associate from Victoria, Joseph Sullivan*
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The Spread of the Vietorian-Style Force
The phenomenon of criminals moving to areas of lesser state surveillance, often at the prompting of police pressure, was well known in contemporary Britain. Burgess and Kelly had been cleared by the courts, but the Hokitika police were determined to make the goldfields capital ‘too hot’ a place for them to linger, and their loose-knit ‘gang’ therefore went north to Greymouth. As the local head of police already knew Burgess, they based themselves at Cobden on the Nelson side of the Grey, but Inspector James spotted them anyway and placed them under cross-border surveillance. On 28 May, in the course of a strategy to rob gold-buyer E B Fox, some members of the now-expanded gang intercepted by mistake the young surveyor George Dobson, son of the Canterbury Provincial Engineer, on the track between Greymouth and Arnold. He was strangled and buried, probably by Sullivan, to avoid their being identified. Meanwhile having become aware of the plot to rob Fox, Inspector James had set a trap, with he and several other policemen travelling with the gold-buyer, dressed as diggers. Burgess saw through their disguises and his men remained hidden in the bush rather than intercept the small convoy. Next day James, still unaware of Dobson’s murder, raided the hotel room occupied by the gang and —in Burgess’ words—‘bid me leave his district, or otherwise he would cause me to leave by compulsion by caricaturing my visit there in the newspapers and put every business man on his alert. I promised to leave by the first convenience . . . .’
The Burgess-Kelly gang, now joined by receiver of stolen goods Philip Levy, sailed by steamer to the Buller, where they were disappointed to find no bank to rob, and then on to Nelson. Although the telegraph had potentially revolutionised communications in the South Island its initial use was sparing (largely on grounds of expense), and the West Canterbury police authorities failed to inform their Nelson counterparts of the movements of the ‘gang’ until after five people had been killed by it along the Maungatapu track through to the Wakamarina. When news subsequently came through to Hokitika of the arrests of the murderers, Broham requested that should they be released from custody in Nelson they be immediately rearrested on the strength of a West Canterbury warrant on charges including that of conspiracy to murder Fox. ‘We do not intend to let them go’, the Nelson police telegraphed back. 86
On 5 July Broham heard from Nelson that Joseph Sullivan had talked freely about the various crimes of the Burgess-Kelly gang, and his testimony enabled the Greymouth police to locate Dobson’s body. It also led to the arrest of Constable Carr and other alleged West Coast accomplices of the gang, who were charged with
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the police camp theft. The detaining of Carr led to considerable public debate, some who knew of Inspector Broham’s ‘down’ on the constable ascribing it to persecution. As word spread rapidly throughout the colony, commentators—in an implicit testimony to the successful image-creation abilities of Branigan—condemned the West Canterbury police force for failing to be anywhere near as ‘clean’ as that of the other major goldfields area, Otago. Broham’s men had been garnered, it was claimed, in a ‘careless manner’, hence the presence amongst them of a man even prepared—it was alleged, on the basis of Sullivan’s account —to be a party to the planned murder of Fox; the West Canterbury police had fallen down on surveillance/prevention, and should rectify this by importing Otago detectives.
Neither Carr’s case nor that of critics of West Canterbury surveillance techniques was helped by Burgess’ protestations that he alone had robbed the police camp. The gang leader’s evidence was not considered trustworthy, and indeed it could be proven that a police sergeant had been following him closely the whole evening in question. But the judicial proceedings on the Coast dragged on because the Nelson authorities, fearing for Sullivan’s safety from a diggings population enraged at his complicity in the murder of miners (and at his treachery to his mates), refused to bring him to West Canterbury to testify. Four months after his arrest Carr was, to Broham’s chagrin, discharged by the magistracy from custody along with his fellow accused since Sullivan had still failed to appear. When later in the year the Nelson authorities did send Sullivan to Hokitika in police care, Carr was rearrested and he and his alleged co-offenders faced the court on a variety of charges. Despite Sullivan’s evidence, the results were far from satisfactory for Broham and Shearman: one man gaoled for four years for perjury, another for two years for conspiracy to rob, while Carr and the chief suspect in the Dobson case were acquitted because of lack of corroboration for the evidence of the detested Sullivan. 87
The whole ‘Burgess gang’ episode had hardly reflected favourably upon the West Coast police, despite evidence of several successful surveillance activities. Even minor ramifications provided unhappy publicity. When Sullivan had eventually arrived at Hokitika by steamer in December 1866 the awaiting crowd had been infuriated by a police trick: a decoy police detachment waiting at the usual landing place had been surrounded by miners, whilst a constable and the two detectives quietly collected the prisoner at a prearranged spot on the beach. When a section of the crowd caught up with this small party in Revell Street and surrounded it, the main
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police detachment turned up just in time to rescue Sullivan. Possessed by an ‘ungovernable rage’ at the police for protecting a man who had sent his comrades to the gallows for crimes in which he had participated, the crowd then attacked the police camp. In circles where ‘vigilante law’ was frowned upon, too, the police were not popular for having bungled the decoy operation. It was with a sigh of relief that Broham despatched Sullivan back to Nelson Gaol early in February 1867.“
On the other hand the Maungatapu murders and their aftermath gave a huge boost to Shearman’s long campaign for greater formal powers for the police, such as the right to detain on mere suspicion. Members of the public, unaware that such occurrences were in fact a daily practice—certainly on the West Coast —called for police power to ‘apprehend any man against whom they have reasonable grounds for suspicion and compel him to give an account of himself. Newspapers urged the adoption of anti-vagrant legislation of the type that Otago had borrowed from Victoria, for ‘it does not require proof of any distinct breach of the law’, a factor which ‘gives the police an advantage they cannot get in any other way’. Civil libertarian arguments did not enter the picture: the benefits of such a preventive measure, whereby ‘the arrest of one puts 20 others in fear’, were deemed too important. It would, Shearman argued, keep ‘known criminals of every class’ in ‘proper check’; had such a measure been in force the Burgess gang would never have first ventured on to the West Coast. Without the passing of catchall vagrancy legislation, its advocates claimed, Canterbury would remain a ‘land of refuge’ for ‘all criminals and disorderly persons’, a place where ‘they can resort when hard pressed elsewhere, and plot their nefarious schemes unquestioned and undisturbed.’* 9
Shearman knew that even if police were given power to ‘lay hands upon those who they know to be engaged in any criminal design, before, and not after, the design has been carried into execution’, this could relate —within the terms of reference of these current demands —only to an extreme minority of persons in the province. To be sure, even before the post-Maungatapu events there had been much loose talk of the ‘many desperate characters who now infest the coast’, and when the Superintendent took a coach through from Christchurch he was met on the western side of the Alps by mounted troopers as a ‘thoughtful precaution’. All the same, ‘crime’ amounted largely to no more than the phenomenon of public disorder. Banking official Preshaw, a target of criminal gangs, a man who had been the victim of the theft of £l4O from the safe in Inspector Broham’s tent, reflected of the Coast’s diggers
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that a ‘harder-working or more honest population it would be difficult to find; nay most of them were warmhearted and unselfish’. As in Otago, most breaches of order and regularity were related to liquor-induced turmoil, there being little to do but (as Burgess testified) spend money ‘like dirt’, or to petty thefts committed by diggers down on their luck.
The typical clash between citizen and authority occurred in a situation of brawl. Incidents such as former Otago police NCO Bracken’s killing of one of the ‘party of five rowdies’ attempting to get access to his Hokitika hotel in the early hours of the morning were gifts for the Commissioner’s search to legitimise greater police intervention at the level of riot and theft. With the support of influential public backing he obtained a harsh Vagrant Ordinance from the legislature and by May 1867 he had used it to ensure that many of what he called the ‘criminal class’ had been locked up or scared from the province. During the course of that year West Canterbury police alone made no fewer than 1400 arrests. Not content even with this, Shearman began campaigning for the replacement of Canterbury’s ‘almost useless’ Ordinance for controlling order in provincial towns by strict ‘nuisances’ legislation of the type that prevailed in Otago and Australia.”
The Canterbury Provincial Police reached its numerical peak in late 1866 when it totalled 108 members equally divided between East and West Canterbury, at a time when Otago’s force had fallen below 100. But there had already been voices of warning: the Otago experience had indicated that once the process of gold extraction had peaked, economic decline could set in with some rapidity, and state spending habits had accordingly undergone modification. Despite the government’s economy programme however police costs had actually been rising, partly because of the staff increase (albeit at a rate less than the population growth) and also because of the mid year wage increase and an earlier government concession to Shearman of rapid promotions, at least to 1/c positions inside each non-officer rank. There were now twice as many 1/c NCOs and thrice as many 1/c constables as there had been during the previous year.
i/iic picviuus yctxi. Expenditure on police, running annually at £20,000 for East Canterbury—the type of figure that had prevailed in the costly days of establishing goldfields police—and at well over £9OOO for the internal West Canterbury ‘gold escort alone’, could not in the eyes of many be maintained at its current level. Eventually Shearman was forced into a number of economising measures, even to the extent of the disbanding of the formal escort service. But
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these cuts were in essence marginal, and he was even able in some circumstances to envisage some expansion, such as the opening of a new station at Oxford and the sending of Sergeant S E Horneman to establish a station at Ashburton on the road to Timaru. 81
In May 1867 this situation altered. The revenue from Canterbury’s goldfields had begun its downward slide and the government, with an eye to lowering drastically all sectors of government expenditure from 1 July, forced the Commissioner to present a plan that would provide bare-minimum resources for policing. Shearman submitted that East Canterbury could not be adequately controlled by less than its current strength of 54 police. He could, however, reduce the goldfields strength to 47 and lop off £4650 in toto from West Canterbury police expenditure. Together with cuts in non-wage expenditure east of the Alps this would slash total police spending by a fifth. But the plan did not satisfy a provincially appointed Civil Service Commission established to investigate efficiency in mainly the East Canterbury provincial departments of state. Its chairman, former Police Commissioner W J W Hamilton, highlighted what he considered to be the East’s excessive police expenditure. Reflecting his policing experience in the pre-goldrush days, and that of fellow Commissioner C C Bowen, his Commission’s report harshly criticised the very presence of a paramilitary Victo-rian-style police east of the Alps. ‘We object to the system as unsuited to the character of this country and its population’, it said. The Commission clearly viewed Shearman’s £450 salary, generous compared to that of other high officials, as symbolising a police force which had gained for itself an unduly prominent profile in the official scheme of things, Hamilton must have had second thoughts since the days when his own recommendations of professionalisation of the force d la Otago’s had led to the Victorian input in the first place. 92
A paramilitary organisation for the goldfields, however, was implicitly accepted by the Civil Service Commissioners. A return which Shearman provided for the Provincial Council on 17 June indicated that there were two dozen police at Hokitika and eight at Greymouth, both of these units capable of acting in a concerted manner anywhere in the area in an emergency. There were smaller units of three men each at Ross, Stafford Town, Rutherglen, Okarito and Haast, two men at Kaniere and one apiece at Waimea and Rangiriri. Given Shearman’s projected reductions in staff west of the Alps, the Commission was satisfied as to the type and
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strength of the West Canterbury police. The rejection in Hamilton’s report of the mode of operation of the eastern sector, however, struck a responsive chord: the police force was ‘framed, equipped, and managed on too grand a scale, and a large sum is spent, as though it were some crack cavalry regiment, not in maintaining its efficiency but in keeping up its appearance’. In short, a police ‘formed on the model of the Irish Constabulary rather than of ordinary police’ was not required in East Canterbury. 93
There needed, concluded the Commission, to be ‘radical modification’ of the force on both rational and cost-cutting grounds. The Irish/Victorian model it viewed as ‘quite foreign to English institutions’, particularly because of its fostering among constables of a feeling of independence from judicial control. Instead there should be decentralised, judicial control of policemen, with the manual revised accordingly ‘by the Government, with the assistance of the Bench of Magistrates’. Hamilton advocated retention of current wage rates for senior NCOs and officers as incentives, but alleged that the pay of constables and junior NCOs was too high and hinted that West Canterbury rates should fall as well. The report also recommended that both uniforms and weaponry should be rationalised, for example by abolishing full dress uniform and sabre, and that the numbers of police horses should be reduced. The Inspector of Police could in its view conduct the duties of inspecting weights and measures, the police boat at Lyttelton should be done away with, and two constables could be withdrawn from that port when the railway beneath the Port Hills opened. In short, the Hamilton Commission wished to truncate and demilitarise the eastern portion of the Canterbury Armed Police Force. 84
Shearman fought back. ‘The appearance of men armed for any emergency has a great tendency to prevent crime’, he riposted in the course of a summary of the purpose of the preventive/patrol concept of policing in its Victorian mode. Zeroing in on specific policing functions, his ‘leading object’ was to combat the ‘criminals of the most desperate class, men of the most daring character’ who allegedly infested the province. They and would-be offenders of less villainous ilk would desist from committing crime in the province whilst under the observation of an efficient police with resources to ‘run them in’ if they violated the behavioural code. As far as Shearman was concerned, the deterrent principle was being upheld by his force in a manner that would be impossible under a smaller or different type of force. Any problems lay not with his organisation: the weak link in the chain of deterrence, as he had believed all along, was what he regarded as the pampering of gaoled criminals instead of the infliction of ‘repulsive’ punishment. 96
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The view of Hamilton and his quartet of very prominent local personalities, that of preferring ‘ordinary police’, was attractive to a significant number of representatives of the landed elite which still dominated provincial politics. Many of them, particularly the JPs, had long felt that Shearman’s police were insufficiently deferential and attentive to their needs and those of their class. Yet of course the Commission’s requirement of regular magisterial control over the police as in traditional English rural areas was now outmoded even in some of the remotest corners of the ‘mother country’. Moreover even before the growth of urban areas in the colony the traditional system—albeit highly modified —had been found increasingly anachronistic, particularly for solving crises of order and for imposing minimally acceptable standards of public behaviour, hence its abandonment in 1846-7. The fact that even exMetropolitan constables had proven to be inadequately disciplined for the job in relatively quiet 1850s Canterbury spoke volumes about the state’s need for an injection of sustained Irish/Victorian militarism into a force required to police a province both adjacent to and housing major goldfields. The Hamilton view mistakenly conflated the APF chain of command with its requirements of ‘strict discipline and regularity’ and the characteristics of a military force per se. The Commission’s suggestions of organisational reforms within the system were in fact not viable. ‘Once break the chain of responsibility and disorganisation must follow’, went the paramilitary police dictum. 96
After deliberation the government in essence came down in favour of Shearman’s defence of the Victorian-style police, able to rationalise this decision partly on the basis of the inbuilt counterbalance whereby all constables, whatever bureaucratic force they belonged to, were still liable to judicial and emergency control by JPs. More importantly in actuality were the Commissioner’s economic arguments. To revert to even the type of police inherited from Hamilton, let alone one under local JP control, would mean, Shearman had argued cogently, ‘the sacrifice of money, life and property’. After hearing the Police Commissioner’s submissions that he was already losing his best men to provinces offering higher inducements, the government rejected too as ‘false economy’ the Commission’s recommendation of a cut in police pay. Hamiltonian criticisms of current non-wage expenditure were moreover rebuffed by Shearman to the satisfaction of the government: providing for 100 or so men across more than two dozen stations was an expensive infrastructural operation, particularly if specialist duties were taken into account. Such duties, in any case, were often sources of revenue for the state —or, as in the case of constables who rode the
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railways keeping watch over public and private property and order, methods of saving state expenditure. On 3 -July the Provincial Secretary introduced Shearman’s ‘bare minimum’ estimates into the Provincial Council. 9 ’
Although the politicians duly rejected Hamilton’s idea of JPorganised police, the debate within the portals of the Council Chambers continued, amidst considerable public interest. A newspaper editor in agreement with the Provincial Councillors’ decision to retain a Shearmanite force noted that they ‘fully, and admiringly, grant the efficiency of the force’, but the ‘question is, could not the force be maintained at an equal degree of efficiency for a less cost?’ For economy-minded men of affairs the Commission and its aftermath represented, he noted, the culmination of a ‘long standing grievance’. ‘Every session some remark is made about the large expenditure on the police force of this province, and we are surprised that, considering the strong opinions that have been passed out of doors upon this subject, no attempt at reduction has been made before’. The upshot of the debate was that the Provincial Councillors rebelled against their executive and reduced the estimates which the Commissioner had prepared. It was not an enormous reduction, but it indicated to the government a widespread feeling amongst the politico-economic elite that ‘unnecessary expense’ upon ‘ornamental rather than necessary additions’ had been a feature of the policing past. ‘The Government have evidently hitherto left themselves altogether in the hands of the Commissioner’, commented the Press the next day, hoping that the lesson would ‘compel the Government to examine into the whole system with a view to lessening its cost’. It was a view in line with that of its provincial rival, which had praised the Hamilton Commission and characterised Shearman’s force as being ‘far beyond the requirements of our small and peaceable community’. 98
So it was that Shearman was ordered to make ‘certain alterations’, the aim in particular being that of immediately slashing £lOOO from East Canterbury’s policing budget. He began to implement a plan which focused on abandoning one-man stations such as those at Ferrymead near Christchurch and at the entrance to the Alps of the old Hurunui route to the Coast. In this exercise he was not averse to indulging in some sleight of hand, for example transferring Bealey’s sole-charge sergeant across the ranges to Otira and thus consigning the £lBO spent annually on his posting to West Canterbury’s budget. While he was carrying out the rearrangements his force came under attack at General Government level, a spin-off from attempts by Canterbury representative William
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Travers to centralise functions of state, including policing. A col-ony-wide police would, the politician argued, remove constables from the ‘very great evils’ of ‘party strife’ and sectional pressure which were likely to occur at provincial level. It would also make for efficiency: the Nelson police had not been notified of the real nature of the Burgess gang, with ‘frightful’ consequences. With a centralised New Zealand police, moreover, criminals would not be ‘dumped’ into other provinces: upon leaving gaol in Otago Burgess and Kelly ‘would have been escorted from place to place, or watched by the vigilant eyes of the police’ wherever they went."
The attack was homed in upon the police of the politician’s own province, held up as an example of a force ‘which stands upon an improper footing towards the public’. Travers, a lawyer, argued along Hamilton Commission lines for delegation of policing, within the framework of centralised control, to the judiciary, for the ‘true conservators of the peace of the colony are the magistrates’. Instructions in the Canterbury Manual of Police Regulations telling policemen that ‘absolutely their whole duty is obedience to the officer by whom they are commanded’, he argued, ‘ought not to be allowed to exist’. Indeed the Commission had been ‘exceedingly moderate’ in its indictment of what was ‘to all intents and purposes an independent force, recognising no control but that of its own officers’. His motion embodying the call for a colonial police was eventually withdrawn but the ‘seeds of reform’ were being sown, and public debate on the nature of policing continued.
The Canterbury government was increasingly wary of Shearman’s proposals, for example that of appointing ‘revenue detectives’ in East in addition to those who had operated for a year or so in West Canterbury, and in attempts to cut costs it insisted on relegating further governmental functions to constables. The new sergeant at Oxford would have to act as clerk to the bench, despite Shearman’s protests that the ‘whole attention’ of constables ‘should be devoted to the service’ and that it would ‘establish a precedent that would soon become general throughout the province’. The Canterbury Commissioner was increasingly having to come to grips with being forced to direct his staff to carry out the types of non-paramilitary duties generally conducted by policemen in other parts of New Zealand, even in Otago.
Meanwhile West Coast separationist moves were gathering momentum as the worsening eastern economy ensured the continued blatant ‘exploitation’ of goldfields wealth by the East Canterbury politicians. Legislative implementation of the political bifurcation of the Province was to greatly speed up Shearman’s loss
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of de facto independence from his political executive. On 10 October 1867 Canterbury’s executive council met in panic to discuss the implications for the Treasury at Christchurch of the now imminent secession of West Canterbury. One of the decisions taken was a reflection of the nature of the debate over policing styles: once the turbulent goldfields and their revenues were lost to Canterbury, a Victorian-style force replete with expensive Commissioner would no longer be sustainable or necessary. Shearman’s services were therefore to be terminated from the date of political separation from Canterbury of the region which was to be called the County of Westland: he was told that his final day of service would be the last day of 1867 , m
In fighting to retain his position. Shearman had to show not only that he and his style of force were essential for keeping order east of the Alps but also that he was now more prepared than in the past to willingly carry out executive wishes: he succeeded. In a sense, then, the Hamilton-Travers onslaughts had produced the opposite result from that intended by either. Instead of greatly enhanced power over police by the judiciary and/or by the colonial executive, Canterbury’s provincial government tightened its own grip upon the reins of regional coercive power. When huge spending reductions were ordered, Shearman argued in his usual fashion that without the maintenance of preventive police efficiency any cuts were ‘false economy’, but this was mainly only for the record. He submitted a retrenchment plan in mid November which was ‘less calculated than any other to injure the general efficiency of the force’. The scheme reduced East Canterbury’s police strength from 54 to 40 and almost halved non-wage expenses. Additional to the removal of several stations as already agreed, the main impact of the cuts was to procure a ‘lesser police presence in the streets of the urban areas’. 101
The retrenchment involved abolition of certain positions—an Inspectorship, a clerk, two foot sergeants, four mounted constables and six foot constables—plus a number of demotions which permitted the retention of some of the best men in the force. The Sergeant-Major in Christchurch, for example, would be reduced to 1/c sergeant and sent to an outstation in order to make way for the now-demoted Timaru Inspector. Since Shearman had recently been deliberately refraining from refilling vacancies, only five members of the force would be made redundant. Given the size of the province the Commissioner refused to contemplate, unless absolutely forced, reducing the number of the 11 East Canterbury police stations which remained. He lectured the government on the patrol/surveillance principles of the preventive coercive police: ‘I
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hope it may at all times be borne in mind that the absence of crime is the only true index of the efficiency of a police force.’ The ‘most hardened criminals the colonies can produce, are numerous in the Southern Island’ and ‘conduct their business in some respects similar to other people and avail themselves of circumstances likely to prove most to their advantage.” 02
Shearman, then, had saved his own position whilst not abandoning his guideline principles—meaning, in real terms, that he had not been forced to discard the concept of the unbroken chain of command and the accompanying propensity for the force to present a repressive visage to the populace. Moreover he had not capitulated entirely to the retrenchers, and had therefore—whilst agreeing that his men should from now on pay for their own uniforms—resisted a strong school of thought which advocated the cutting of police wages. This being said, not only had he nevertheless conceded a great deal, but also one consequence of his attempt to safeguard both himself and therefore, as he saw it, the rudiments of the Victorian style of policing, was to plague him for years. Peter Pender, who had that August been promoted to 2/c Inspector and would have headed the force had Shearman been forced to go, had built up a powerful coterie of influential friends and even after Shearman’s reprieve there were suggestions that Pender should replace him as head of the force. To remove from Christchurch the man who had become a dangerous rival, Shearman now discovered a ‘non-prevalence of crime’ in the provincial capital and ordered Pender to transfer to Timaru, the second biggest town east of the Alps. Paradoxically, because of a gradually growing unease between his and the Commissioner’s autocratic personalities Pender had applied for the Timaru position on James’ transfer to the West Coast, and had twice subsequently renewed the attempt. These applications by Pender had been interpreted by Shearman as weakness of character, as willingness to jettison responsibilities at a time of a growing disorder in the capital which was due not only to the ramifications of the goldfields but also to the effects of increasing poverty among the populace as the colony’s economic situation worsened. Permission had been refused. 103
After James had been succeeded in Timaru by a weak sergeant who allowed the town’s police to lapse into indiscipline. Shearman had in mid 1866 promoted a veteran of the Irish and Victorian Constabularies, Alfred Buckley, to 3/c Inspector in charge of Timaru and the South Canterbury district. Now the Commissioner wished to swap Buckley with Pender, although the former in the
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meantime would have to undergo demotion to Sergeant-Major to take some of the top-heaviness off the reduced force. As it was, the Canterbury force carried proportionately a much greater loading of NCOs than in other provinces because of Shearman’s habit of promoting those appointed to the one-man stations on the plains to sergeants. Pender viewed the intended move not as a one-off attempt by Shearman to shore up his own authority vis-a-vis that of his second in command at the capital but as the climax of a longstanding ‘plot’ against him. He now interpreted the rise of Broham to a 1/c Inspectorship before his own recent elevation to only second class as indicative of Shearman’s scheming, and he sought to resist the transfer to Timaru. In actuality the Commissioner, at least until strains had recently entered his relationship with his second in command, had stuck by his initial pledges to Pender and Henry Walsh that they would to the best of his ability be promoted with all haste ; it had been the government which had held Pender back and rewarded Broham instead. Be that as it may, Pender refused point blank to transfer to the station to which he had previously aspired. 1 "
At the beginning of November 1867 this discord came to public notice for the first time, beginning what would become the longest and most-publicised major internal police feud in New Zealand’s history. It was reported in the press that 300 people, including merchants, JPs and City Councillors, had petitioned the Superintendent requesting that Pender not be transferred. Christchurch’s ‘quietness and peace’, they claimed, was ‘mainly owing to the experience and vigilance’ of the Inspector, and his removal would mean ‘demoralization’ of the local force. Years later it emerged that Pender’s friends had initiated the petition of their own accord, and that Pender had opposed the idea when he found out. Their motivations went beyond mere personal friendship. It was hoped that gold would be discovered in East Canterbury to compensate for the loss of the gold-generated revenues of the West Coast and Pender, whose duties took him often into the streets of Christchurch and into its environs, had been seen to be a worthy equivalent to Broham in such an event. Many felt that Shearman by contrast would be handicapped in superintending on his own a close-to-
home goldfields because he had grown used to managing the force from a desk. The Commissioner was naturally affronted that his own role in preserving order had been implicitly downgraded in the petition, and his unhappiness turned to anger when Chief Clerk Henry Walsh, a man jealous of Pender because of the latter’s faster promotions, told Shearman that Pender had initiated the petition himself.
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The Commissioner denounced Pender to the government but made the tactical error of decrying the petitioners, who included powerful members of the socio-economic elite and could not therefore be denigrated with impunity. In the circumstances Superintendent Moorhouse’s executive could do little but countermand Shearman’s transfer order to Pender. From now on for years the two men were to fear each other’s ambitions, Pender telling the Commissioner at one stage that he would sooner break stones on the road than remain in his constant state of uncertainty about his job. Pender’s friends from time to time spearheaded attacks on the Shearman style of police organisation, recalling both the Hamilton Commission’s comments and those of the Police Commissioner himself on the orderliness of Christchurch and East Canterbury and ascribing this to Pender’s role as ‘working’ head of police. The Inspector would partially ‘demilitarise’ the constabulary in line with socio-economic change. Soon after the petition was publicised there were criticisms of the ‘extravagant nonsence’ of Shearman’s establishment: his ‘enormous’ salary, his employing of ‘two clerks and a flunkey’ at headquarters, his concept of a militarised police force, ‘all that stuff and grand uniforms and spurs’ which could not be supported by a ‘small and poor community’. Why, it was asked, should beat police in Christchurch receive pay and perquisites which had not decreased in pace with the rapid economic deterioration which had occurred in the first half of the year, making them better off than craftsmen when they now did little but get owners of horses and dogs fined? 106
On the West Coast the year 1867 had begun forebodingly enough with the berthing on New Year’s Day at Hokitika of a ship containing the first 14 Chinese people to enter the Coast, and their rough reception by a hostile crowd. But racist trouble was avoided when the newcomers, from Sydney, made clear that they were heading for Otago via the overland route—on which they were detained for some time on totally unfounded suspicion of the murder of a digger—and no further Chinese entered that year. Indeed, rather than being a year of escalation of trouble, 1867 proved to be a period of consolidation in the mining community, with footloose elements drawn off to new fields in Auckland Province and Queensland, although the odd ‘disgraceful riot’ was to occur in remote mining areas and Greymouth remained ‘a big transit camp through which men drank their way into the Grey Valley’. When Moor house toured the fields in March and April he found the population and gold yield, and therefore disorder, had already appreciably shrunk.
It was only now with the emergency period over that the West
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Canterbury police gained their first substantial barracksheadquarters in Hokitika, opened later in the year. Their acquisition set the symbolic seal upon what had become the increasing autonomisation of the West Coast police: freed from endemic intervention by the West Canterbury overlord Sale, Broham had also recently experienced a fall-off in interest from a Police Commissioner immersed in difficulties of his own in Christchurch. At this very time Broham found himself, it is true, placed in a relationship with the provincial executive even more directly than in Sale’s heyday. For in August, soon after West Coast separationist agitation began in earnest, Hokitika businessman and mayor J A Bonar superseded Sale as the chief government agent on the Coast, and as Canterbury’s Goldfields Secretary (Sale was his Under-Secretary) Bonar held, ex officio, a place on the provincial executive. The Inspector was now theoretically accountable to a member of the government. This was however to be but a brief interlude since it was in the following month that the Westland separation petition was presented, and before the end of September the second reading of the County of Westland Bill had been completed in the House of Representatives. 101
Although becoming more stabilised, the West Coast remained a region of policing contrasts. The new barracks were imposing. ‘The buildings themselves, which are of wood, covered with iron roofs, and having brick chimneys (a novelty in Hokitika) form three sides of a parallelogram, and are surrounded by a substantial fence of corrugated iron, eight feet in height.’ The library contained ‘upwards of two hundred volumes of standard works, together with local and colonial newspapers, and various Police Gazettes.’ But diggings continued to open, and tent stations came and went. One of Shearman’s final letters to his government regarding West Canterbury was a requisition for tents for the region—‘during the late gale one of the old tents has been completely destroyed and should be replaced as soon as possible. The others are also urgently required.’ Policemen continued to risk their lives. Attempting—in hot pursuit of a man—to cross the Taramakau while it was in flood, a sergeant was hurled into the current when his horse stumbled; unable to swim, he was caught upon a snag extending just above the water and he clung to it for four days before rescue. Back at the yard in ‘the camp’, the men continued to undergo periodic military-style drilling formations, including sword exercise, guided by the visiting drill instructor from Christchurch. 108
The official Canterbury provincial police return of December 1867 showed 103 full-time policemen, together with a female searcher stationed at the capital and another at the sub-capital.
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The open feud between the two top policemen maintained its momentum in the provincial capital, while criticisms of Shearman and/or of paramilitary policing rumbled on. At the same time the Commissioner was hard at work preparing for West Coast secession on 1 January 1868, when that area’s 50-member police district would be hived off, and for the cutting of a dozen or so men from what would remain east of the Alps of the bifurcated Canterbury Constabulary Force. Recruitment figures indicated trends: in 1867 13 men had been taken on, quarter the previous year’s figures, most of them destined for the West Coast; in 1868 a mere two men were to join the Canterbury provincial police. Shearman’s heyday was over. Even so, he continued to control what in New Zealand terms was a weighty police force, one which contributed towards the propensity of Canterbury’s authorities to gaol more people per head of population than those of any other province. 108
The Victorian System in Miniature: Southland Province
In the far south of the colony there existed a third Victorian-style police force of far smaller size than Canterbury’s or Otago’s. On 1 April 1861, just prior to the discovery of gold in Otago, a sizeable section of that province comprising 1500 people had broken away to form Southland Province. The southernmost pastoralist squatters had engineered the split so that they could control their own destiny, and much of the population—qua their employees—was firmly controlled within the great runs which dominated the regional economy. State coercive power was needed in only the handful of towns, the biggest being the provincial capital, Invercargill, which boasted 400 people at the time of separation. The initial wielders of power in the new state were content therefore to retain Otago’s handful of ‘Southern Police’ as their agents of official coercive control, and the NCO in charge of Invercargill, Sergeant (later retitled Chief Constable) William Junor Fraser, had become head of the Southland Province police.
In fact the metamorphosis of a branch of the Otago police into a separate provincial force occurred by default. The first official notification received by any Southland policeman that no Otago salaries and expenses would be paid for the period after the date of transition did not come until a mid May letter from Chief Constable Shepherd to Corporal R McKay of Riverton. Even this was full of uncertainty, and at the end of that month Shepherd was asking the Otago Superintendent how to reply to Fraser’s enquiry
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as to why he ‘and the Police at Carnpbelltown and Riverton’ had received no wages for April. At the same time Shepherd, who had continued to act as if he were in command of the ‘Southern Police’, asked ‘whether the Police in the Province of Southland are still to be considered under my control as they keep writing to me for instructions on various matters’. He felt ‘in rather an unpleasant position’ for he had ‘no wish either to shirk my duty (if it is still my duty) nor to officiously interfere, with what may not properly belong to me’. It was only now that the position was clarified. At the very end of that month Shepherd, responding to a request by Fraser to transfer a constable, notified the Invercargill sergeant that he and his subordinates had some time before ceased de jure to be under Otago control. The problem lay in a hiatus of authority, for the first Southland Provincial Council session did not commence until 3 August, and under the New Provinces legislation it was the Council which selected the controller of the executive, the Superintendent. Meanwhile the Resident Magistrate, as General Government agent, superintended order and regularity with the aid of the rest of the judiciary pending the establishment of full provincial control of, and financial accountability for, the police. 110
At first the runholders rarely had to call the police into the countryside to supplement their informal modes of policing. The small ‘urban’ population was easily kept under surveillance, and strangers closely watched, by Fraser and his now three provincial subordinates. Even so, from the beginning there were calls for a night patrol in Invercargill to deter ‘effervescing spirits’, and a spill-over of societal activity from Otago with the opening of the Tuapeka goldfield increasingly taxed the energy of Fraser and his sole constable in the new capital. The politico-economic controllers of the province themselves hoped—because of its vulnerable economic base—for goldfields inside their territory, and indeed a small rush soon occurred on the Mataura run of the province’s first Superintendent, Dr JAR Menzies. By later November so many miners were heading from Otago towards this field that Branigan placed a mounted constable at Popotunoa on the road to Invercargill. In line with the resultant increasing amount of social and economic exertion in Southland, its capital’s population had risen by 50 percent by the end of the year. In August, amidst this move away from pastorally-ordered tranquillity, the new government consulted Invercargill’s Resident Magistrate on the type of policing improvement required in the province. On his advice an extra constable was taken on in order to provide a needed night patrol in town, and the politicians pondered on his recommendation to
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professionalise the force by making it a uniformed body amenable to the 1852 regulations. 111
In late September the runholder-dominated government, concerned at the potential for disorder in town and country alike, decided to paramilitarise its force to some degree. In subdued imitation of Otago Superintendent Richardson’s actions it requested from the Victorian authorities the services of three constables. Like that of its northern neighbour—and later of Canterbury—the request was more in anticipation of widespread social disruption than a response to it. The government, in the hope of a goldfields boom and certainly predicting an increasingly disorderly spill-over from across the border with Otago, asked that one of the men be able to undertake detective work and the other two be capable of mounted duty. Because there was as yet no emergency no thought was given to replacing Fraser, whose knowledge of policing had been gained entirely under Shepherd’s tutelage and who therefore was scarcely fitted to head a fully militarised force. However he was deemed to know enough about policing to cope with a gradual professionalisation process. 112
In November it was learnt that Captain Standish had contracted for service in the Southland police a recently discharged detective, Albert P Bird. But despite the offer of a basic 8s 6d per day, a high pay by Southland standards, together with the perquisites of free quarters, light, fuel and uniform, it was not until December that the Victorian Commissioner could locate two uniformed men willing to go to a non-goldfields province in New Zealand. Meanwhile, in response to a Menzies government plan for artificially injecting conditions of ‘boom’ into the new province and to a rush in Otago’s Blue Mountains, near the Southland boundary, six further Victorian police were ordered and a few men recruited locally. By the end of 1861 the Southland Police establishment comprised 10 men, including one on ‘trooper’ duty for country work, with more soon to be mounted. This rapid growth was matched by fast alteration of style towards that of the already famous ‘Branigan’s Boys’. Within the first fortnight of 1862 the force had accordingly become so changed in appearance that the first complaint of ‘ornamental’ police extravagance appeared in the local newspaper. At the same time a tender was let for the constructing of a headquarters police barracks, at a cost of £290. 113
An observer scoffed at the government’s preoccupation with its ‘Horse Marines’: ‘the precise angle at which glazed hats must be worn has to be determined; the proper build of boots, the cut of breeches, and the proper width of military red stripes discussed’.
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To his question as to whether the purpose of this ‘useless Regiment’ was an anticipated invasion of an ‘army of Otagoan Diggers’, the answer was—clearly—yes. Moreover, the government had been actively, under Dr Menzies, attempting to precipitate such an ‘emergency’ in order that its resultant economic harvest might be reaped, and on 1 February Mounted Corporal Edward Morton was accordingly sent off in search of payable gold in the upper Mataura area. It was the first of many explorations in the northern part of the province in search of gold—or at very least in quest of ways of channelling central Otago gold southwards to Invercargill. The police establishment would continue to increase since Menzies, ‘so far from thinking too many Victorians have been engaged, only regards them as a nucleus of such a force as may yet be required’. It was not, in actuality, necessary for the extra men to be from Victoria. With increasing population growth an available pool of recruitable labour soon yielded men of sufficient quality, and so unfulfilled orders of personnel from Melbourne were cancelled."*
There was considerable feeling that not only was the government employing a police force whose cost was beyond its means but also that it was establishing the wrong type of force. This had been reflected as early as January 1862 in the deliberations of the Provincial Council upon the police vote. Although the government had previously pledged not to move beyond the 14 police already authorised, it had now requested permission to take on up to 21, Councillor James Wilson found it ‘strange an armed police should be required to prevent an invasion of picks and shovels’, noting that in Victoria he had seen rushes of up to 20,000 people ‘yet he never went armed, and he had never suffered robbing or violence’. His colleague William Tarlton, uneasy at the government’s ‘imprudent prudence’, asked for a pledge that the figure of 14 would be surpassed only if a big rush occurred in the province itself. 11 *
For the government, Nathaniel Chalmers made it clear that although ‘coming events were casting their shadows before’ as Wilson had contended (albeit the latter and the state disagreeing over whether or not there existed a menace to societal stability from those events), the purpose of implementing a Victorian-style force was ‘not to keep the whole force marching about the town doing nothing’ until a Southland goldfields opened. There were immediate problems resulting from the presence of a gold province across the border: ‘once let it be known on the Otago gold-fields that we had not an efficient police here, we should soon have all the bad characters from that Province rushing hither to ply their vocation at the expense of our settlers.’ Hence two men had been stationed at Hokonui in the Mataura area, and more were to be deployed in
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
the country towards the border, else ‘there was no knowing what acts of robbery and violence might be perpetrated in the out-coun-try districts, where females were often left alone the whole day . . . acts of violence which would probably make us shudder’. The spillover of turmoil did not revolve merely around diggers. The crews of three large vessels which had arrived at Bluff Harbour with sheep aboard had begun to desert with impunity upon finding but a single corporal stationed at Campbelltown, and it was only when extra police were sent that ‘the sailors found they had better desist from that practice’. The Southland government, moreover, had followed the lead of other provincial governments in appointing an immigration agency in England, and the first assisted passengers were to arrive later in the year. The experience of other immigration schemes in the colony indicated that—however ‘well-chosen’— large groups of immigrants created at very least initial problems of order upon landing. 1 ' 6
In the final analysis the attempt at Victorianisation of the force, as opposed to a mere increase in its numbers, was a response to the government’s hope that its ‘growth’ policies would be sustained by the discovery of a large goldfield within Southland’s borders. The head of the Executive Council, Walter Pearson, argued with effect that the rushes of Otago had so overtaken that province’s capacity to respond to the resulting problems of order that its police force had necessarily to be backed by imperial troops, at a cost of up to £20,000 per annum, and that a properly established Southland force would pre-empt such a situation. The criticisms were weathered and the estimates passed. Yet the government remained under constant scrutiny over its expenditure on coercive capacity, and just one of many suggestions for keeping police spending at a more economical level was that of reverting to the Armed Police practice in the 1840s of utilising police to carry mail when travelling. But the chief government response was to attempt to keep expenditure on the existing force to a bare minimum, regarding it as a nucleus for any highly-militarised force which might need to be scratched together in an emergency. This frugality had ramifications for the morale of Fraser’s men. 1 "
It had been assumed that the Victorian recruits would be single men, hence the offer of free accommodation. This was withdrawn for Bird when he finally arrived with wife and family. Moreover the new constable was paid merely regular constables’ rates which, although recently increased to take account of the upswing in the economy, fell short of the 10s which had been promised him in order to include extra expenses incurred as a consequence of detective work. After more than a year of fighting such attitudes, Bird
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was to resign. In February 1862 the seven Victorian constables who had arrived had the uniform clothing with which they had been issued in Melbourne on Southland instructions confiscated and placed in storage in Invercargill, following a policy decision that the state was not liable to provide such costly items. Since free clothing issue had been one of the perquisites which had lured them across the Tasman the constables were forced to petition for redress. When winter came on, the Invercargill men were again forced to combine to extract from their employers clothing sufficient to withstand the biting southern cold, and overcoats were finally provided only after a burglary of a store had occurred while policemen were huddled elsewhere, inadequately clad, sheltering from a storm. The government continued to save money in ways which affected policing—by neglecting in the capital to do anything about street lights which the Town Board said it could not afford to install, by refusing to provide portable lanterns for the men on the beat." 8
Meanwhile the process of tightening and professionalising the police organisation proceeded apace: by the end of March 1862 the regulations of 1852 were issued as those of the Southland police, and on 24 May a typical Police Ordinance for the regulation of municipal order, giving urban police wide-ranging powers, was published. That day the province’s newspaper commented that the previous ‘primitive state of innocence and security is passing away’. Recently the store burglary and other results of the influx of ‘that reckless, restless, loafing element’ of goldfields population had indicated that the night patrol of two men in company was inadequate: ‘during the half-hour that would elapse between their visiting each extreme of their long beat, there was ample time for nearly every uninhabited store in the town to be burglariously entered by the few feloniously-minded folk who seem of late to have found their way to this town’. Fraser had therefore divided the capital into short solo beats ‘so enabling the policemen on duty to communicate with and assist each other in case of need’. Men were redeployed from Victorian-style barracks work so that more were on beat duty between 9 pm and 6 am, and a corporal was placed in immediate charge of the night patrol. 118
The cutting of throats predicted by Pearson never eventuated, and indeed when the countryside was terrorised it had been not by any low-born Garrett but by deranged runholder Captain James Tibbitts. For his role in the finale to the affair, when he had prevented Charles Tibbitts from committing suicide after the man had shot dead his attacking ‘lunatic’ brother, Hokonui’s Edward Morton was promoted to sergeant. His new position was soon to be
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
needed, for suddenly turbulence inside Southland province increased greatly. In September 1862, the month of the arrival of Southland’s first immigrant vessel, Otago miners were swarming from Tuapeka not only to the Dunstan but also along a ‘road’ which took them through some Southland territory to the Nokomai diggings, just inside Otago’s borders across from the Upper Mataura area of Southland. So potentially important were these diggings regarded that Branigan himself would be appointed Goldfields Commissioner as an emergency measure. ‘Not so very long since’, commented the Invercargill newspaper, ‘the increase in our standing police force which was made by our Provincial Government in anticipation of the discovery of a payable gold-field within the Province, was thought to be excessive and premature. This opinion is no longer entertained even by the severest of our economists; for already it is found that the force is not sufficiently numerous to meet the requirements of every part of the province, and that a further addition must be made to its strength.’ 120
Until Otago could establish its own police presence on the Nokomai, which was rapidly to host a thousand diggers, the Southland government placed a constable there and improved the access route from within its own province in order to place the field in far easier communication with Invercargill than with Dunedin; additionally, at a strategic border position on the west bank of the Mataura near the diggings, a regular police station was planned. In Invercargill there was an increase in the ‘floating population’, including what was categorised as a ‘scummy turbulent element’ associated with the rushes. Some of the newcomers ‘have been endeavouring to show that they are stronger than the police or the law’, but despite assaults committed upon them the Victorian-style police had reportedly been able to cope. It was of course hoped that the Nokomai field would stretch far into Southland territory, and in order to be able to monitor a possible influx of hard-core Australian criminals in such eventuality Fraser had been in contact with forces across the Tasman; a Criminals Ordinance even more stringent than Otago’s was soon prepared on the basis of the information received. 121
Whilst cooperation with police forces ‘on the other side of the water’ proceeded smoothly, all was not well with relations between the Otago and Southland forces, with members of both frequently required to cross the border in the course of duty. A growing tension was highlighted by a much publicised case in which Otago constable Thomas Quirk, stationed on the eastern bank of the Mataura River border, accused Southland constable William Coppinger of Hokonui of behaving ‘in a violent and disorderly manner,
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and with having assaulted Constable Quirk to the effusion of blood and serious injury to his person’. An Otago Resident Magistrate, openly biased against Coppinger, insisted that the matter go before the Supreme Court in Dunedin despite it being a matter only of common assault. Here, early in 1863, Quirk altered his evidence. Although the judge ascribed this to the probability that he was ‘an uneducated man, and did not know how to tell a story properly and connectedly’, the jury did not convict. At the very least, in the comment of a newspaper writer, the Otago policeman ‘apparently does not come out of the affair with very clean hands, any more than Coppinger’. But in the meantime damage to the Southland police’s image had been done, and it was exacerbated by other magisterial criticisms within the southernmost province; ‘some very severe remarks’, for example, ‘upon the impropriety of policemen clandestinely ensconcing themselves behind the doors and back windows’ of a hotel to detect after-hours sales. Such problems of imagery were inevitable in a Victorianised force. 122
In some ways too the force fell short of the Victorian ideal, despite the mid 1862 importation from Otago of ex-Victorian Sergeant John William Chapman to provide the Chief Constable with a second-in-command experienced in militarised, goldfieldsorientated policing. That October, for example, pre-separation policeman Duncan Campbell, originally sent to Riverton with the assurance that it would be a permanent posting, defied an order to move to Campbelltown in view of this promise and his investment in buying and planting a section ready for building. The principles of a mobile patrol force, of course, required both obedience to superiors and insulation from local ties, yet when Riverton inhabitants petitioned for their corporal’s retention Fraser was prepared to cancel his order to transfer. It was Superintendent Menzies who refused to acknowledge the mitigating factor of Campbell’s good record and to take heed of the constable’s intention to resign if compulsorily transferred, pointing out that once orders were successfully disputed ‘all discipline will soon come to an end’. This was the attitude that would have been expressed by a Victorian-style head of police; Chief Constable Fraser’s days were numbered. 123
Ever since the opening of the Nokomai, influential Southlanders had advocated a government escort to Invercargill for gold from the border fields, gold which was seen as belonging to the province by ‘right of natural affinity of commercial interest’. The Southland government had remained unconvinced that the running expenses would be justified by the economic results: the Otago escort to
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Dunedin from Nokomai, for example, carried a mere 300 ounces in early November 1862. Instead, Southland border police were given orders to protect travelling gold purchasers and diggers carrying gold, accompanying them to ‘safer’ places than tented camps—such as to sheep stations—and thereby luring them to spend and/ or deposit their wealth in Invercargill. Pressure mounted, and it became evident that the government would eventually give in should significant extraction of gold in or near the north of the province be sustained. The first applications for head of escort began to arrive in early November. Then came news of the fabulous finds at the Arrow and other diggings around Lake Wakatipu, and by early December many diggers had left the Nokomai headed for Fox’s and the Shotover. Surreptitious reconnaissance trips by Sergeant Morton to these new Otago fields confirmed the rumours of great wealth. Invercargill businessmen were ecstatic, for here too the easiest route to the new fields was by the road north from Invercargill and across the border into Otago, followed this time by boat transport from the southern tip of Lake Wakatipu to the burgeoning site of the future Queenstown. Morton facilitated the delivery of supplies to Lake End and superintended the overland journey of a ‘large sailing boat’ which the Southlanders rushed up to Lake Wakatipu.' 2 ’
Invercargill’s economy throve as its merchants supplied most of the initial stores for the Wakatipu diggings, often paid for in gold, and the provincial capital hosted diggers arriving by sea en route for the Wakatipu. By mid December Invercargill, with suddenly in excess of 5000 people, boasted extra police and a new police headquarters and barracks to match, and the government had decided to provide an escort to accompany a private entrepreneurial scheme to attract Wakatipu diggings gold to Southland. But herein lay problems of diplomacy with Otago. A public meeting of ‘very numerous and influential’ persons in Invercargill had requested that such an escort should cross the border and penetrate far into Otago in order to purchase the gold at its source. The Menzies government however considered that the police could do no more, as agents of the Southland state, than officially superintend the escort on their side of the border. Beyond the boundary the wagons and equipment could proceed over Otago territory as a private escort, and the Otago government was asked whether it would provide a police escort for ‘our gold’ from the Wakatipu to the border. To this Menzies received a cool rebuff in the form of notification that quite sufficient escort procedures from the interior fields to Dunedin had already been established; subsequent repeated communications received no reply. Detective Tuckwell
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
was sent by Branigan to Invercargill clandestinely to investigate the extent of the smuggling of gold out of Otago without payment of gold tax, and Otago police were soon stationed along the road between Lake End and the Mataura River boundary to monitor the traffic between the two provinces. 125
Meanwhile Southland’s experimental hybrid escort—state as far as the border, private beyond, although this latter entailed in reality little more than a discarding of police uniforms at the border in view of Otago’s denial of police protection—had set off on 16 December under Sergeant Morton and four mounted troopers. When three days later its personnel reached the home station of William Rees, the site of the Wakatipu diggings capital, they found themselves at a disadvantage for there was now a ‘more numerous and more completely equipped Dunedin Escort’ in the process of formation. Tension surrounding the interprovincial rivalry also frightened potential customers away. One Southland buyer went on to the Arrow ‘under the care of two of our policemen’ to boost the quantity of gold purchased, but it still amounted at 2700 ounces to only a fifth that of the first Otago escort, and when Morton’s escort arrived back in Invercargill on the first day of 1863 it was amidst considerable disappointment. Pressure for an efficient, official escort right through to the Wakatipu diggings, one that would induce Otago diggers to send their wealth south rather than east, became intense—particularly from businessmen wishful for a fully state-financed escort. James Wilson, now all for state expenditure on escort policing at least, pointed out that South Australia had run an official escort from the Victorian goldfields to Adelaide, and that nothing in the New Zealand constitution prevented official police activity within another province. A public meeting, in resolving that all that mattered was boosting Southland commerce, did concede that ‘if the wearing of a uniform gave offence to our neighbours, then led us avoid it’, but this conciliatory feeling disappeared as soon as it was learnt that the uniformed Otago escort traversed some Southland territory on the route between the southern tip of Lake Wakatipu and Dunedin. 126
Proponents of the full-distance official escort loudened their voices when it was learnt in late January that the Otago Wakatipu escorts were taking out many thousands of ounces, and would have taken more had they been of sufficient capacity to fully ‘meet the emergency’. But already the Southland executive had on 16 January secretly agreed to establish a state escort which went right through to Queenstown where, far into Otago territory, the Southland force would actually establish a police station comprising a corporal and two constables who could collect and protect gold.
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
Morton would periodically bring the gold through to Invercargill with a properly equipped escort. At the beginning of February it was decided to place a Southland Provincial Agent, Edward Jackson, at the police station which Rees —whose commercial links were with Invercargill—had allowed to be established on his property. His duties comprised both superintending the police operation apd acting as gold receiver. Policemen had operated before —if usually informally—within the territories of other provinces, and both Otago and Southland police had operated across each other’s borders; but the establishment of a station upon the soil of another (and unwelcoming) government was unprecedented, and there were bitter accusations of ‘an armed force’ operating unethically, if not illegally, in Otago. 127
At the time of Jackson’s appointment the Southland government finally decided that a new head of police was needed to coordinate the greatly expanded activities of the force and to Victorianise its organisation. There had already been an offer from Invercargill undergaoler T Morony, an ex-Victorian policeman, but Branigan’s right-hand man Thomas King Weldon had influential friends in the southern province and was secretly offered the position. He accepted the proffered Inspectorship of Police at £350 salary and was allowed to resign from Otago service on 6 February, hiding his real reason and thereby avoiding any insistence by the Otago Commissioner that he serve out his full contractual period of notice. The value attached to Weldon’s expertise was indicated by the great efforts taken in vain by Branigan and the Otago government to persuade him to stay on. The Southland government had assisted in the subterfuge by asking Branigan at the very time of the negotiations with Weldon to recommend a Victorian policeman for the position of head of their police. Thus it was that relations between the two sets of provincial politicians and officials, already strained when news of the Southland escort first arrived, worsened and personal relations between the two heads of police became markedly less than friendly. 128
Menzies was forced by business opposition to his alleged ‘supineness’ to send off the initial fully official escort prior to Weldon’s arrival; Chief Constable Fraser took it out of Invercargill on 10 February, all of its troopers having had escort experience in Victoria. With it went the small party of police for Queenstown, under Corporal Andrew Dow. This first openly full-distance government escort was marred by its wagon falling to bits, by obstruction from Otago officials—Otagoites were warned by Goldfields Secretary Pyke to refrain from giving the escort ‘food or shelter, and they are on no pretence to be allowed to camp on government ground’—and
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
by hostility from the Wakatipu area police, who had been supplemented by Nokomai colleagues in order to counteract the Southland ‘invasion’. Most of all, the success of the escort was impeded by the reluctance of most of the Wakatipu diggers to entrust their gold to a province about which they knew little except for misleading information propagated by Otago police and officialdom, or in which they had been exploited by business people when passing through Invercargill. Jackson, who was in charge of Southland police while they were on Otago territory, had wished to make the return journey to Invercargill of the full-distance escort a resounding success in order to generate confidence. But when it arrived back on 23 February it carried a much smaller amount than that of the earlier hybrid escort; less than 1000 ounces (the Invercargill story), perhaps less than 500 ounces (the Dunedin story). Disappointment in Southland was profound, ridicule in Otago loud, particularly after the circulation in a Dunedin newspaper of a story that when the troopers arrived outside the bank in Invercargill the ‘local Dogberry’ on Sunday duty was so intoxicated that he attempted to move the escort along for blocking the thoroughfare: Tm a young man from Victoria, and you don’t get over me’! 128
Although the Southland state per se was clearly not able to make a profit out of the escort, particularly since all official duty on gold extracted at the Wakatipu went to the Dunedin Treasury, it decided to continue the service in order to stimulate provincial business profits. The second escort took out more bullion, but nowhere near as much as Otago’s even though from Kingston, through which both escorts passed, it remained an easier journey to Invercargill than to Dunedin. Meanwhile goldfields balladeer Thatcher was causing uproarious hilarity at the Wakatipu fields at Southland’s expense. He sang of visiting that province’s tented official agency in Queenstown:
‘I saw the agent, Jackson, there,
He put on such a business air,
But he’d no business I declare-
Go a-head, Invercargill, 0.
In the ‘large striped tent’ a ‘tall trap stood behind the door’ guarding the ‘ponderous safe’ which had been brought through by the first escort. It had cost £3O to ferry the one-ton iron safe up from Kingston,
‘But the Southland Government is sold
For ’ta’int worth sticking up, I’m told.
Indeed, it was of use for little more than storing Jackson’s potatoes in! For
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
. no one lodges gold there
In that iron sanctuary;
The agent and the safe smell
Of the Old Identity.’
He heaped scorn on the escort too: ‘Eight armed troopers looking
bold... TO GUARD TEN PENNYWEIGHTS OF GOLD!’
‘Sergeant Morton in his pocket
Could carry all the gold,
And not be incommoded
This escort soon they’ll see
Is a luxury too expensive
For the Old Identity.’
Ridicule upon ridicule was heaped on the Southland ‘poaching’ experiment. Even Jackson’s legal action against ‘the Inimitable Thatcher’ backfired when on 23 April Nugent Wood dismissed all allegations but one—and on the latter fined the satirist a mere £1 plus costs for using threatening language in a street altercation with the Southland Agent. A couple of hundred people who had gathered cheered when they heard the result, collected among themselves the value of the fine, and paid it at once on the balladeer’s behalf. 130
The Invercargill correspondent of the newspaper which had chuckled at the Southland ‘Dogberry’ retorted that ‘now Mr Weldon is appointed’, the ‘young man from Victoria’ would ‘have to look smart’. For Southland pinned its hopes upon Weldon, who upon arrival on 20 February 1863 had been formally appointed Inspector in charge of the Southland provincial police. As had happened in Otago with Branigan, the government spared no expenses in installing their new saviour, lavishing on him for example an extra £lOO annually in lieu of quarters. Fraser, redesignated Senior (or 1/c) Sergeant in charge of escort, proved not to be acceptable to Weldon and was therefore in April made Gaoler of the new Invercargill Gaol, a position he retained for many years. The man he displaced, Thomas Baker, was transferred to the police as a mounted sergeant because of his cavalry experience. Fraser now looked after the ‘rowdies’ whom Weldon —characterised widely as a ‘terror to evil-doers’—cleared from the streets. Relations with Branigan quickly further deteriorated, partly because of errors made by the new incumbent—in requesting cooperation for transferring prisoners when an agreement to this effect was already in force, or accusing Branigan of poaching an ex-Victorian policeman from Southland when the man had in fact initially been contracted to serve Otago. Branigan certainly made no attempt to heal
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
the breach, however, and studiously refused to treat his late subordinate as an equal. All the same, the Southland government found Weldon ‘very efficient’ and on 22 September promoted him to Commissioner, although the fact that there was no pay rise involved was one of several indications that this honeymoon too was over. 131
Southlanders had been optimistic that the combination of Jackson ‘industriously touting’ for gold in Queenstown and Weldon’s organising abilities would ensure that the province received its share of the booty from what they insisted upon calling the ‘Southland Border Goldfields’. From 9 March Weldon turned the escort into an imposing Victorian-style cortege which offered a fortnightly service by boat from Queenstown to Kingston and thence by land to the Southland capital, but the mockery continued unabated. ‘The safe sent up by the Southland Government is reported, at a moderate computation, to be sufficiently large to hold all the gold in existence as bullion or coin in the Australian colonies, if not in the world’. Queenstown diggers were still generally unprepared to entrust their gold to Southland, and the escort which arrived on 10 April held less than 400 ounces—not even twice the amount that Morton was to bring in personally from the new diggings at Switzers (in the Waikaia area on the Otago side of the border south of Nokomai) later in the month. At the local miners’ request a regular police escorting service was soon provided from Switzers to Invercargill in lieu of an Otago service for what was, in Dunedin’s eyes, a small field. 132
Weldon had taken over a force whose membership had spiralled to a total of 33, yet at once he requested an immediate increase by about a quarter, promising to cut back should the escort and the Queenstown station have to be abandoned. His wishes were in part granted by authorisation to appoint at once several new men, although the escort was not allowed to be as grand as he had planned before his departure from Otago. By the end of March he had argued so successfully for the need to cope with an imminent huge influx of criminals that he had been able quickly to build the force up to comprise a headquarters staff of 20 (besides himself it comprised four sergeants, 13 foot and two mounted constables), a sergeant and three men at Campbelltown, a sergeant and two men at Riverton, a sergeant and constable at Hokonui, some one-man country stations and the Queenstown operation—as well as the escort service comprising the Senior Sergeant and three men. Additional specialist personnel a la the Victorian system was requested and allowed: clerk-storekeeper, Sergeant-Major/infantry drill instructor, cook/female searcher.™
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The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
Yet just when the structure of a fully fledged Victorian police had been assembled, when barracks had been altered to accommodate up to 65 police and there were 43 members in the force, it became clear that the escort situation would not improve. Without a large and regular injection of gold, the fragility of Southland’s economic boom was exposed unless and until the province located its own sizeable goldfield. Meanwhile the government did all it could to generate economic activity, and indeed the escort service was kept going only for reasons of desperate (and deceitful) optimism: in Jackson’s words ‘to keep up the appearances, as the public do not know whether I send much or little’. Hopes were raised in late May when it was learnt that the Wakatipu police and administrative headquarters were to be moved by the Otago government to Frankton. At once Southland’s Provincial Council met secretly and decided to heighten its presence at the Wakatipu and establish a branch escort from Arthur’s Point through to the Southland police station at Queenstown.
But Otago did not in the event leave Queenstown virtually policeless, the new branch escort proved to be a ‘comparative failure’, and the lakeside station run by Southland was abandoned. Three mounted men were consequently removed from the Southland force and redeployed elsewhere in government service. The escort limped along, now monthly although again fortnightly in October following Jackson’s report of Wakatipu disgruntlement with the Otago government’s alleged neglect of miners’ interests, but it was not to last for long. Despite the initial period of interprovincial rivalry, from the point of view of goldfields and escort police the most positive aspect of the crossing of provincial boundaries had been the comforting presence of periodic numbers of extra constables. Relations became therefore normally cooperative, the first official full-distance Southland escort having set a good example by stopping to attend to Otago’s ill escort sergeant, Thomas Ryan. 13 *
Weldon’s Southland policing structure had been postulated along classical patrol-police lines, with the province divided into districts in the charge of sergeants. He sought out men of the highest possible quality, putting great pressure upon the government to increase wages in line with the province’s comparative ‘boom’ conditions, so that from May 1863 the lowest paid policemen earned 10s per day. When a constable of hitherto good character was accused of indecent assault, having caught hold of a young woman ‘in an improper manner’ and kissed her while on duty, Weldon allowed the matter to go before the courts and did not intervene to prevent the gaoling of the culprit for two months. This was a public
707
Policing the Colonial Frontier
display of what would happen to constables who violated the standards he expected. There were other ways of inculcating ‘correct’ modes of police behaviour. When the Inspector procured the services of the provincial surgeon as medical officer for the police, to vet applicants for jobs and for sick leave, in the Victorian style no pay was to go to those off duty with venereal disease, for which they ‘deserve no pity’. 136
With the end of the ‘boom’ in sight, by August police numbers had been reduced to 37; in November escorts were being cancelled because of the lack of gold entrusted to them. Police numbers were kept up to even this reduced strength only while continued hopes of goldfields being discovered within Southland borders remained alive: Switzers field had gradually spread towards Southland and a small rush had actually taken place within a few miles of the border. To reduce expenses Weldon dismounted a number of constables, but treated them as a reserve for the mounted goldfields police force which it was hoped would be necessary one day. The quality of conditions of work did not keep pace with pay increases, and remained particularly dismal in the back country. Even in ‘civilised’ Riverton the three-man detachment shared a one-room barracks with any prisoners they might have taken. At The Elbow station, sole charge mounted constable Michael Hartnett’s tent was broken into during his absences, and he had to do what he could with men ruined mentally and physically by bad luck at the diggings. When he allowed an alcoholic to shelter in his tent ‘station’ (luring harsh winter nights, and his superiors got to know about it through the man hanging himself, Hartnett was punished by demotion to foot constable. He and the other few border police touted for all the gold they could get, assiduously explored the possibilities of rumoured new finds, and protected prospecting parties ‘from any intrusion on a reasonable area occupied by them’. Despite all their efforts no big Southland field ever eventuated. 136
Policing here too therefore continued to be focused on the capital, where half the force was located, and on the larger towns. In the two years from September 1862 a dozen ships brought in 1700 immigrants, many of whom remained in urban areas; by 1863 the provincial population was fast approaching 10,000. Police endeavoured to keep the towns healthy, and were appointed inspectors of slaughterhouses (animals had hitherto been killed in Riverton’s main streets, for example) and of nuisances in pursuit of this goal. Sergeant-Major Chapman, in charge of Invercargill, endeavoured to keep its drains and sewers from being ‘choked up
m
The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
with filth and rubbish’. In the first quarter of 1864 there were 369 arrests, mostly for drunkenness and/or disorderliness; by the end of that period police numbers had crept back up a little to 41 in order to cope with the potential threat to ‘the peace’ of a sizeable proportion of people whose hopes of economic advancement had been dashed. Not the least of the police problems was that of the social distress resulting from the beginnings of economic downturn. Some 70 families, with up to seven children apiece, squatted on Invercargill’s town belt under canvas or in paling shanties, unable to afford rents, often because husbands had been forced to leave for Otago in search of gold or work. 137
Concomitantly with the increasing urban orientation of the force, its emphasis was gradually moving towards a greater concentration upon detection-surveillance. In late July 1863 Southlanders learnt that Weldon had employed a Victorian detective from Bendigo for the purposes of establishing both a detective branch and a Southland Police Gazette modelled upon those of Victoria, Otago and Canterbury. The man selected was John Bell Thomson, an Englishman who had defied his architect-surveyor father’s wishes that he study law by sailing for the Australian goldfields; he now brought across the Tasman with him his entire initial staff, one other detective. The new detective branch set to work to identify Australian criminals, sending some who had been attracted by the ‘easy pickings’ of Invercargill back to the Otago goldfields. 138
In August 1863 the province witnessed an onslaught on slygrog selling, a longstanding subject of complaint by the guardians of morality and of ‘respectable’ profit, by means of Victorian detective methods: two informers were employed by the police who thereby succeeded in ‘bagging’ 22 offenders. Observers were astounded for, as a defence lawyer commented, slygrogging had been so endemic in Invercargill that ‘in consequence of its having been so long winked at by the police, a sort of license had been extended to it’. Although the amount of disorder now decreased, and the state stood to gain increased revenue through an insistence on the obtaining of costly licences by grogsellers, there was outrage at the imported methods amongst believers in traditional civil libertarian ideology. The informers, one an ex-Tasmanian policeman, were labelled ‘unprincipled adventurers’ who went ‘sneaking about . . .
laying traps, and trumping up cases to get part of the penalty’. ‘Under any circumstance’, thundered a local editorialist, ‘the detestable practice of espionage should only be resorted to after every other means have failed’. The suddenness of the raids had been ‘underhand’, police actions ‘highly objectionable’. There was ‘something very revolting to a right-minded man in employing
709
Policing the Colonial Frontier
informers (almost invariably of notoriously bad character)’. But the new detection techniques rounded off the establishment of the Victorian system. 139
By February 1864, although ways of luring gold to Invercargill were still being examined—including by re-establishing a oneconstable station at Queenstown and the mounting of even more frequent police trips into the Nokomai and other border diggings the Southland government had acknowledged that it could not continue to rely upon gold to solve its financial problems and underwrite the province’s economy. For this reason, and also because of disease amongst the province’s livestock, retrenchment was necessary; in March Queenstown was permanently abandoned as a Southland post and Edward Jackson recalled. In response however to a directive to all heads of departments urging the production of plans for economising, the Commissioner could envisage losing at most only two or three men from his allowed establishment (despite a recent upswing in numbers to meet the challenge of social distress) —and then only if the continuing efforts to find gold along the Southland side of the Mataura finally collapsed. All the same, foreseeing that large-scale economies were most likely inevitable Weldon began in anticipation voluntarily to reduce by refraining from filling vacancies. By the end of May he had reduced the force to 33 and planned to abandon three rural stations. 140
Thus when on 1 June 1864 all departments, particularly the expensive and ‘important Department of Police’, were ordered to drastically cut their establishment figures, this meant for Weldon actually dismissing only a handful of men, although these included his clerk, that position considered of course to be of such great value in a Victorian-style organisation. More seriously in terms of the morale of those who were left, all police pay was reduced by a shilling per day. The Commissioner considered this inevitable and therefore protested only at pay cuts for the force’s elite—his own (down to £4OO including allowances) and that of the detectives. Their restoration, he estimated, would still allow him to reduce annual police costs from their recent £16,000 to about £6240. The government, however, insisted on cuts all round, promising a general police pay rise should the province’s economic circumstances improve. They worsened: the second detective was soon dropped, and annual estimates fell to well below £6OOO. 141
Weldon now began to fight a rearguard action to prevent his remaining force of 28 (plus a female searcher/cook) being further reduced. Already some two-thirds of it was concentrated at Invercargill and most of the rest at the port and at Riverton. This left
710
The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
only three men to cover the countryside in routine patrols operating from Winton, Gore and Lowther; the large force at headquarters barracks was regarded in classic Constabulary style as a mobile reserve for use in emergencies occurring anywhere in the province. To retain his current strength despite instructions for further retrenchment, he recommended that the government further reduce its police spending by temporarily cutting constables’ pay by another shilling per day, so that foot constables would earn 8s and mounted men 8s 6d; all sergeants would receive the current 2/c sergeants’ pay of 10s 6d, and the Sergeant-Major’s salary would be reduced by £lOO to £209. 1,2
The Commissioner quickly discovered that his willingness to concede was a tactical error. The government accepted his lowered wage stricture and then depressed parts of it even farther, to 9s 6d for sergeants and 10s 6d (equivalent to a salary of £l9l 12s 6d) for Sergeant-Major Chapman. It insisted upon abolition of the office of Detective-in-Charge, thereby demoting Thomson in pay and status, and dictated still further staff reductions: morale was enormously affected. Weldon negotiated long and hard, emerging with a package that in the circumstances was not unsatisfactory. From the new year, sergeants’ pay would fall but only to 10s and Chapman’s to 11s; the distinction between foot and mounted constables would disappear, wages for all constables falling to the level previously prescribed for unmounted men. However the financial problems of the province were approaching crisis point as the Treasury, burdened by an ambitious railway project, sank increasingly into debt. Towards the end of 1864 10 police were removed from Weldon’s establishment. The expansionist policies of Menzies were increasingly seen as not viable for the small province, particularly after the focus of goldfields activity moved from neighbouring Otago to distant West Coast. The Superintendent fell and in the midst of the political confusion which prevailed until John Taylor took office on 13 March 1865 further reductions were made in the established size of the force. 1 * 3
At the beginning of that year there had remained a force of 18 members: 11 located at headquarters barracks, three at Campbelltown (the destination of the main railway being built' across 17 miles of swamp from Invercargill, but not fully completed until early 1867) and four at one-man stations. The economy rapidly worsened even further in the first quarter of 1865, a period when the level of arrests, dropping to one-eighth that of a year before, reflected alike the accelerating loss of police numbers and general population. By the end of March the total force had been
711
Policing the Colonial Frontier
reduced to 11 by means of accepting all submitted resignations, mainly from men wishing to go to the West Coast, and some members had been demoted in rank and pay. The rapid decrease reflected savage retrenchment policies which were confirmed, and quickened, by Superintendent Taylor. Headquarters staff now consisted, besides the Commissioner, of a detective (Thomson), sergeant and two constables. Only that previous November had the government formally endorsed Weldon’s long-drafted IrishVictorian flavoured regulations; now, bereft of the manpower required for a high-level surveillance profile and of the ability to ‘concentrate’ meaningfully in military formation, the Commissioner’s force was Victorian in but theory. Even Weldon’s own position was precarious, hence his proffering of his services to other provinces as an expert in establishing the paramilitary mode of policing. 14 *
In a sense the reduced Southland force was now but a unit to regularly police the capital, its port and the two other not-far-distant major towns of Riverton and Winton, with only skeletal representation and emergency intervention capacity elsewhere in the province. A suggestion by Weldon that two policemen be stationed on Stewart Island after the plunder of a wrecked ship on shores that were becoming notorious for ‘lawlessness’ received short shrift. Much of the province was in normal circumstances policed informally by runholders, formally so if they were JPs. It was to a degree a reversion towards pre-goldfield days, although there was also an element of continuity. Even after the opening of border diggings, police stations such as that at Hokonui had sometimes, as in the Otago and Canterbury interiors, been based at least initially at runholders’ stations. In return for the provision of food, board and some degree of comfort, runholders thereby received protection from ‘depredations’ upon their stock by hungry—sometimes starving—prospectors and diggers. In the period of rapid retrenchment, with miners present in small numbers only, runholders could usually control them without difficulty. The Invercargill-based police force would have to do its best to concentrate at least some coercive force should there be an emergency, its small numbers supplemented in a major crisis of order by civil reinforcements pending arrival of the armed forces at the service of the colonial state.'"
Supplementation never proved necessary, for there were only two series of very partial emergencies that arose during the period of drastic police reductions: first, there was another rush on to the run
712
The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
of ex-Superintendent Menzies at Mataura at the beginning of 1865 and, although by Otago standards it was minor, an initial number of 80 diggers accelerated to 700 within a few months. The situation was met —albeit inadequately, as discovered when a crowd nearly lynched a murderer—by the temporary stationing there of Sergeant Thomas Baker from the one-man detachment currently at Dacre. On the diggings the township of Menzies Town sprang up, containing ‘too many stores, grog shops, a dancing saloon’, and Baker—acting as gold receiver, policeman and government agent—brought out moderate amounts of gold which, together with that going to Invercargill by private hands, helped the ailing economy. From mid year, too, Baker regularly visited the Switzers field to bring out gold after its branch of the Bank of New Zealand closed, the distress of many of the diggers on the field having made the bank agent feel too endangered to remain. The Otago government had no objection to such cross-border activities by Southland police, infilling as they did a gap in its own policing coverage of minor border goldfields. 1 * 6
The second series of mini-crises for the Southland police arose in May. With the government by then quite unable to pay the railway contractors and the latter taking civil action, towards the end of the month the local Sheriff —a General Government judicial official—accordingly prepared to auction off rolling stock at Campbelltown, circumventing by a technicality a stay of proceedings. The Superintendent authorised police resistance to the sale and—not for the first or last time —constables were thus torn between conflicting loyalties to provincial and colonial authority and to political and judicial authority. The general melee which ensued at the site, and the smallness of the police presence in comparison with that of the milling crowds, resolved the policemen’s dilemma for them and they found it impossible to prevent the auction and another, two days later, up the track at Stanley. Even when contractual problems had been resolved sufficiently to allow work to continue, so that a train was able to get through between the capital and the port the following year, there were further difficulties of order when navvies who had not been paid blockaded the line.I*’ 1 *’
Meanwhile state expenditure cuts continued, and even the £2700 estimated in 1865 for police expenditure was quickly considered excessive and most non-wage policing expenses were therefore drastically slashed. It was not surprising that the ‘general feeling of insecurity’ which the Commissioner noted amongst the province’s population was reflected within the truncated police force. Men wishing to stay on in Southland were loath to resign in the absence
713
Policing the Colonial Frontier
of alternative work, particularly married men unwilling to chance their luck on the West Coast, yet their only security was a guaranteed one month’s notice of termination. Their hours of work were moreover now much longer and more strenuous than before, with for example only two men available to patrol the capital at night, their problems only slightly alleviated by the nightwatchman whom the capital’s businessmen had long since clubbed together to employ. Police patrol duty involved a 12-hour day with recall to duty whenever needed in the other 12 hours.I** 1 **
Low morale and overwork bred problems of inefficiency. When in 1865 the body of young woman Catherine Farrar was discovered, neither the constable first on the scene nor duty sergeant M O’Keeffe, a veteran of the Southland force, noticed that she had very clearly been murdered. This ‘gross and culpable neglect of duty’ was compounded both by their failure to observe near the body a vital clue linking the murder to a prominent citizen, and by their leaving the corpse unguarded. Largely because of the latter omission, which raised the possibility of a ‘plant’ of incriminating evidence, her murder remained ‘unsolved’. This supplied an easy way out of a dilemma for Weldon, who could not afford to upset the enclosed world of the local politico-economic elite, but it brought his small force into public contempt. Meanwhile ridicule of the Southland police was still being spread through the colony by Thatcher, a typical song by the entertainer expressing surprise at the arrest of a jewel thief by a ‘watchful trap’ in Invercargill. It added with reference to the Southland police in general:
‘Tis the only case I ever knew
Of a bobby all there when he was wanted’.'* 9
Just near the end of 1865 Commissioner Weldon had reluctantly concluded that he could no longer justify a detective on his staff. He offered to transfer J Bel! Thomson to the position of sergeant. The detective preferred the work he knew and was given instead, at his own request, a year’s leave of absence without pay, subject to immediate offer of recall if provincial finances improved. As a parting shot before he left in the following February he orchestrated raids on Invercargill’s ‘several houses of ill fame’. That same month the last Southland diggings of any importance opened in the Pahia-Orepuki area on the coastal sands across the Longwood Range from Riverton, and in early March Weldon crossed to the area to ascertain whether there was sufficient gold and population to justify a resident agent of government. The following month, as a result of his report and at the request of the Commissioner of Crown Lands and the local runholder, a constable was stationed
714
The Spread of the Victorian-Style Force
there ‘to keep the peace among the present fluctuating digging population’. By mid year the area’s regional importance was indicated by the fact that the experienced Chapman, now ranked as a sergeant after the reductions, was stationed at Riverton, while Sergeant Edward Morton at the station on the ‘southern goldfields’ had been assigned to keep order amongst the 250 diggers. 150
From that time Morton operated a one-man escort service at fortnightly intervals, bringing out 251 ounces on the first trip, but despite Weldon’s keenness to have the area proclaimed an official goldfield no fabulous finds were made. Further retrenchment was on the agenda, and indeed Taylor had been elected to office on a platform of at least re-amalgamation with Otago and possibly incorporation as a component of a new South Island-wide political unit. His solution to the problem caused by a diminishing policing profile was simplistic—the rushing through of alterations to Southland’s 1862 Police Ordinance with the ‘view of making the Police more effective in the protection of life and property’ by giving them extended powers. This was not what Weldon wanted: his men, he contended, needed most of all relief from long hours of duty. When twice during 1866 the government attempted to reduce the force further in size in response to falling population he resisted, noting that he still had three times the population of 1862 to police but with a force of a third its size of three years before. He was listened to, and his total of three sergeants and seven constables remained stable.' 51
Another government option was to lower wages again. Because of cost of living increases, Weldon had actually managed to raise these from the lowest point to which they had sunk during the retrenchment, pushing them up to 10s 6d for sergeants and 9s 6d for the two mounted constables. Pay of 9s remained for the other five, a lower wage rate within the rank of constable having been reintroduced to mitigate the financial effects of the new ‘incentives’. He was not now prepared to concede the case for another depression of wages, citing Southland levels being already lower than those prevailing in the forces of the other southern New Zealand provinces, and in November 1866 he defeated a firm proposal to drastically lower the basic police wage. Economising measures therefore intruded ever further into police contingency spending, reducing efficiency within the force. Political interference in the distribution of police finance and personnel, moreover, meant that the lessened resources were not always used wisely. The government continued to hope for a significant find of gold on the coast at Orepuki and through to October 1868 kept on a policeman there to superintend, although much of his work consisted of little more than checking
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‘slight rowing’ amongst the miners. The diggings along the Mataura border, after being worked for years, had been virtually abandoned by 1866—the year of the biggest population outflow from Southland—and the constable removed, thus depriving the Invercargill economy of the gold which a border constable could have escorted through from Switzers. In the past the police had been able to claim some special treatment as a result of their aid in replenishing the provincial Treasury, but no longer. 152
Southland’s only expansion of police coverage in this period of prolonged retrenchment was to the large and rugged island across stormy Foveaux Strait from Campbelltown. In 1840 Major Bunbury had in vain recommended that a British Resident be stationed on Stewart Island to curb its disorder, and the island had ever since been a refuge for Europeans reluctant to submit to official norms of behaviour. Even before the Southland breakaway—which was prior to Stewart Island’s purchase from the Maori by the Crown in 1864—there had been strident calls from Invercargill for a police detachment to be stationed there to put down piracy, theft, and the smuggling of especially grog, gunpowder and tobacco. Such calls were renewed periodically as a result of specific incidents, but the Southland government had other priorities. It became interested only after the constable at the capital’s port reported in September 1866 that gold prospecting parties were making the journey across the Strait. 153
Accounts of crimes being committed on Stewart Island which could hinder the search for elusive gold induced the government to send Weldon there at Christmas time. He reported that a ‘state of lawlessness had existed on the island, and some few cases of crime have been committed with impunity—particularly that of stealing goods saved from wrecks—which no doubt would have been prevented, had police been there’, and renewed the call he had made 18 months previously for a Stewart Island police station. This could be undertaken cheaply by removing the barracks from the mainland railway construction town of Stanley, now vacated as a result of progress on the Invercargill-Campbelltown line and of grandiose plans for its future having fallen through because of the provincial recession, and relocating them at the main island mining centre of Port William. Here a sergeant would be stationed, with authority to employ boatmen in times of emergency. On 29 January 1867 the Provincial Councillors, elated at reports of gold having been found on Stewart Island, despatched Sergeant Morton to supervise order and mining from the rough-water harbour at Port William, where he would later erect a tiny dwelling-cum-office. 1M
Because of the smallness of the force on the mainland, however,
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no permanent station was established on Stewart Island, and Morton’s role became that of visiting policeman. Yet increasingly, because of the economic depression, people drifted across the Strait in attempts to subsist away from ‘civilisation’. Some who were unable to cope turned to extralegal activities, joining the small number of hard-core criminals already in residence. In response to appeals from ‘respectable’ residents, the Commissioner again visited in mid 1867 and confirmed that because of the ‘refuge it is capable of affording to thieves, wreckers, and smugglers’ Stewart Island was becoming a ‘depot for contraband goods’ and the location of illicit whisky distillers catering for slygrog outlets in the South Island. Morton’s presence now became increasingly frequent, indeed semi permanent, and he did much to facilitate gold prospecting, especially by the cutting of tracks through the dense bush in the northern areas of the island.
But as the sergeant’s orientation was of necessity towards the mining industry, and in view of the limitations of a one-man detachment in a sizeable area of primitive communications, that November Judge H Chapman could remark that the ‘dominion of law and order is not yet well established’ on Stewart Island. In his three cases that session two were from the island, one of rape and one of attempted rape. It is true that Morton was uncovering illicit distilling, and in April 1868 Invercargill police were to intercept a still that was en route for Stewart Island and would have distilled 500 gallons per day, the largest such seizure to date in Australasia. The huge cost of the equipment—some £2O0 —indicated the extent of the fruits of extralegal activity upon the island. All the same, as sizeable finds of gold did not eventuate the intermittently manned police base’s status was downgraded that year to that serviced by a constable, and only a renewed (but equally abortive) rush during 1869 ensured that the station, then temporarily upgraded to one of NCO status with a ‘police boatman’ on the staff, survived until its closure before the decade was through. 15 *
Meanwhile, by early 1867 the Southland politicians had realised that the already drastic state retrenchment measures were inadequate. Among suggestions in the wide-ranging public debate was one that Weldon be given increased tasks —such as taking over the Gaol and also filling the office of Provincial Auditor and Warden of the Goldfields—together with the slashing by a quarter of his high salary of £4OO. The abolition of the office of Commissioner and the handing of the police over to one of the sergeants was another idea mooted. What was generally agreed was that the current depressed size of the police force could not be further greatly lowered. Even the politicians’ Retrenchment Committee acknowledged that the
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small force’s efficiency was preventive of crime, and that reductions in manpower would hinder its functions. It recommended instead that 6d per day be taken from the wages of NCOs and constables, even though this would be a ‘trifling’ saving of less than £lOO per annum. Support in the Provincial Council for the financial plight of policemen was vocal, but the measure scraped through by two votes. 157
By now elite opinion in Southland had come to regard the regionalised police system in New Zealand as ‘cumbrous, absurd and expensive’; small provinces just could not each afford a ‘model police force’, however valuable strategic control of such a body for their own politico-economic interests. The Travers plan for vesting at least police, gaols and harbours in the General Government was widely supported; centralisation of police in particular would create both greater efficiency and heightened economy. As the editor of the Southland Times expressed it that November, the local police were ‘as intelligent and active a class of men as can be found in any part of New Zealand. But we do affirm that the Province does not require so expensive a staff, and cannot afford to maintain it’. Growing state financial desperation had already ensured that police numbers had further been reduced (by one), and basic pay again lowered (to 8s); at the end of 1867 the two junior sergeants were reduced to a newly created position, on lower pay, of senior constable, leaving only two NCOs in the force. The streets of the capital were patrolled by unsupervised constables with outdated equipment, ft was a sorry force indeed to be presided over by a Victorian-style Commissioner of Police. In any case the days of ‘constabularised’ forces were numbered, certainly insofar as they had any chance of retaining ‘purity’ of form, even in those parts of the South Island which had experienced gold-based booms of real substance. 158
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CHAPTER IX
Indigenous Policing Developments in Central New Zealand
Nelson: Goldfield Intrusions upon Placidity, 1861-7
At the beginning of 1861 war in the North Island and immigration in the South were dominant among a number of factors producing new ‘movement’, greater actual or potential turmoil. The provinces of central New Zealand, the core area of the old Southern Division, were all to respond in different ways to the resultant challenges to ‘order’. But all three of them adapted to their own special circumstances modes of policing control which had been tested elsewhere. Even in relatively placid Nelson Province—whose Aorere gold-fields-generated turbulence had previously waned—the recent increase in disorder had been so noticeable that a police chief ‘untainted’ by the old ways was being sought. Of the dozen applicants for the position of Sergeant-Major in charge of the Nelson provincial police, acting head William Harper (already irrevocably disgraced in any case) and other members of the late Thomas Fagan’s force were bypassed by the government.
On 14 January, at the instigation of Provincial Secretary Domett, 41 year old former English policeman Robert Shallcrass was appointed. A printer by profession, the new incumbent had experienced goldfields life overseas and had latterly been working on the Examiner. Domett had been attracted by the combination of conceptualising vision and firmness of purpose which Shallcrass displayed, capabilities which made him seem the appropriate person to police both the old and the emergent Nelson; ‘we hope’, commented his erstwhile newspaper, ‘we shall now no longer hear complaints of the inefficiency of the force.’ It was to symbolise the new, harder direction of the police that Shallcrass secured permission to uniform the membership. And over his half dozen constables he placed an NCO, 30 year old Sergeant Edwin Edwards, an Indian-born son of a career soldier. As a portent of things to come, the Sergeant-Major quickly had on his hands two new if small gold
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rushes. One was at the distant Buller on the West Coast but another was much closer to home in the Wangapeka Valley, although a reprieve from serious problems of ‘disorder’ was granted almost at once when the 300 diggers on the Wangapeka field hastened off to Gabriels Gully and likewise only a handful stayed on at the Buffer. 1
The trend in the quiet province had hitherto been towards devolution of the policing function, and this was only partially halted by a ‘new look’ based as elsewhere mainly upon potential rather than actual public order problems. Two years after his accession to the position of chief of police, for example, Shallcrass was ordered to place four of his men under the direction and control of the Sheriff during sittings of the Supreme Court. Much of the policing of the territory moreover was still covered in normal circumstances by district constables, whose numbers fluctuated from year to year. They totalled nine after one was appointed in 1862 to Riwaka and another to the remote pastoral area of Amuri, bordering Canterbury Province. The dozen great runholders in the Amuri had previously found no difficulty in keeping a tight control upon a local populace economically dependent upon employment at their sheep stations, but after the breakaway of Marlborough Province the communications flow from Nelson to Christchurch tended to bypass the new province and traverse inland Amuri, creating some problems with transients. When the southwards trudge by goldseekers began in 1861 such difficulties in social control in the Amuri escalated and the local runholders placed pressure upon the Nelson government for the position of a state-paid constable to give oflicial/legal backing to their informal policing operations. This was a small price to pay, the Nelson politicians conceded, for an area that made a major contribution to keeping the provincial economy afloat, and the part-time appointee was put under the charge of local Government Agent (and runholder) George Rutherford. 2
In addition to the provincial force based at Nelson, and the network of district constables, a viable (if tiny) goldfields police detachment under direction of the Resident Magistrate at Collingwood had been re-established in response to an upsurge of ‘movement’, with Sergeant-Major Strange controlling a private apiece at Collingwood and Takaka and the district constable continuing to provide assistance at the latter settlement. Not all of the provincial localities’ elites were happy with their policing coverage, and even the revamped northern arrangement was considered by many in the area to be unsatisfactory. This feeling arose partly because police salaries and expenses were extracted from goldfields revenue,
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constituting a comparatively large amount which left little over for other purposes such as local development: a bridge reported by the police as dangerous was, not untypically, left in that condition for months. Demands were also frequently expressed for a more efficient service in the Aorere, and here the problem lay not only in the size and resources of the goldfields police but also in their inability to act decisively in the frequent absences of Resident Magistrate James Mackay, who often travelled great distances in the South Island in his capacity as Assistant Native Secretary. It was contended that ‘further provision is required for the peace and safety of the community at the Gold-Fields’: at very least a ‘resident’ Resident Magistrate was needed, at most the incorporation of the goldfields police into the revamped provincial force. In fact however the Collingwood police force retained its separate status in the estimates for 1863, albeit Strange’s staff falling to that of a single private, and it was not until 1865 that the area’s policing was absorbed into the force run from Shallcrass’ headquarters at the provincial capital. 3
There was little problem of policing at Collingwood itself, a settlement described as ‘one of the most orderly and peaceable little towns on the coast’, but there were pockets of turmoil in the diggings and also in areas bordering the region covered by Ser-geant-Major Strange. There were for example loud complaints of the inadequacy of the police presence at Motueka, a ‘formerly quiet district’ which by the time of Shallcrass’ accession to the position of head of police had become ‘notorious’. It was alleged that the district constable could not control the ‘riot and turbulence’ of the local drinking population, which could be tracked after closing time at midnight by a trail of ‘wanton destruction of property’. Worse, feared Mackay, was the possibility of interracial strife. The area’s demoralised Maori population, it was said, ‘bettered the example thus set to them by committing acts which may yet lead to a trial for murder’, despite a network of honorary Assessors who reported to the Resident Magistrate. A ‘capricious, irregular, and occasional enforcement of law is almost worse than no law at all’, commented the Examiner. The local elite, headed by half a dozen magistrates, requested a regular constable rather than a part-timer ‘who only considered it his duty to act when especially requested or desired to do so’. Mackay called for a Maori regular constable to be stationed there as well, to supplement the efforts of the rangatira who worked with the state. The provincial government however baulked at the expense entailed by such options, and its promises at the time to put a stop to disorder amounted to little more than a pledge that suppliers of liquor to Maoris would be dealt with by ‘the utmost
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severity’. If matters ever got out of hand, it reasoned, the local legal and policing authorities could call in the ‘reserve force’ based at Collingwood and Nelson city.*
Therefore by November 1861—when an increasing degree of turbulence in the province was indicated by the fact that Nelson Gaol held three people awaiting trials for murder—pressure was again building up for more effective policing operations in the area to the south of the Takaka Hill. A Motueka dweller wrote that ‘the two things people chiefly care about are to be in peace at home, and to be able to get to and from it safely and easily. So far as the Government is concerned, that will depend on good constables and good roads’: but the government had not responded to local requests for additions and alterations in police coverage, although it was to place the extra district constable at nearby Riwaka in 1862. The Examiner was soon to widen the indictment to include inattention to local policing and other needs elsewhere in the province. On the other hand, District Constable John Boyes of Motueka replied, such complaints were frequently exaggerated for effect: ‘I know it is very hard to please everybody; some tell me I meddle too much, you say not enough, but I must leave it to the people to say how I manage my duties, I think they will say different to you’. The government, at least, was satisfied that it had adequately networked the province with constables, commensurate with its resources. That central provincial police control of district constables was in normal circumstances minimal did not matter. It was agreed that outside the capital and the goldfields policemen needed generally to be responsive only to parochially-perceived concepts of order, to JPs formally and to ‘the people’ (usually a synonym for the dominant socio-economic classes) of their area informally. 5
In reality the little-disturbed continuity of Nelson’s social and economic base —as opposed to the ‘activity’ generated by the quickened pace of ‘movement’ —ensured that even the ‘new image’ urban policing of Shallcrass differed only somewhat marginally from that of the past. Stray horses, cattle and dogs, and breaches of liquor legislation, remained the major enforcement concerns of the Sergeant-Major, with a raid on a billiards game ‘after hours’ in a public house being big news. There were a number of criticisms that the Shallcrass force was adjusting insufficiently quickly to the growing degree of turmoil. There were also countervailing pressures resisting further paramilitarisation of policing in Nelson Province, including some public concern about policing habits being too harshly focused upon licensing enforcement procedures. This was especially the case after the magistracy warned publicans that a
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policeman ‘may demand entrance into any public house at any hour’ and ‘break open a door’ if refused permission. A publican roused from bed by Sergeant Edwards in the early hours of Good Friday echoed the concerns of a number of people in asking ‘do we live in a free country?’ All the men drinking on his premises, he claimed, were doing so legally since they were ‘respectable’ lodgers, but he was still reported to the Resident Magistrate for the information to be taken into account at relicensing time. There were periodic outbursts of protest at such episodes and at police roughness in making arrests. More typically, however, criticism of the police centred on their doing too little, on their refraining from taking a more visible and repressive profile, rather than on the constables zealously exceeding the bounds of duty or justice. Numbers of the socio-economic elite felt, in short, that the move along the coercive continuum begun with Shallcrass’ accession had halted prematurely. 6
In May 1862 a seventh rank and file constable was added to the provincial police force, and along with all other regular policemen outside the Aorere goldfields he was based at the capital. Complaints about policing in the main urban area however continued at not infrequent intervals. Typical was a protest that the ‘nine inhabitants of the Castle of Indolence’, viz police headquarters, were negligent in allowing two dead bullocks to rot in the Maitai River which flowed through town. Police practice was said to be ‘to hear of a public nuisance one day, visit it the next, and the third day see to its removal’. A stranger to Nelson asked pointedly why there were no policemen to be seen walking the streets. One problem was that from their new station (near the outskirts of the city) the Nelson police had to be available for covering the entire province when situations arose with which district constables could not cope by themselves, as well as to provide beat coverage for the city itself. It was a tall order in a province which was constantly expanding in activity potentially troublesome for the state, including such matters as a delegation to the Maoris of the Aorere district by Waikato followers of the Maori King who were attempting to secure support for the ‘rebels’.’
The city-based police were ill rewarded for their service. Whereas the Collingwood goldfields private received 8s per day, his Takaka colleague 7s fid, and their Sergeant-Major of Police at a salary of £lB2 10s actually received more than Shallcrass, the regular police at Nelson earned 6s fid per day. A politician’s attempt in 1862 to add an extra shilling for men who had served in the force for more than five years failed. Morale, therefore, was not high, particularly when coupled with the tradition of vocal criticism—when deemed
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necessary—of the police which had developed in the province over the years. A well-publicised case of early 1862, typical of those which evoked criticism of the police, reveals also the deferential attitude of policemen to their socio-economic superiors, always more marked in the police of relatively rural-based and placid provinces than in the tougher, more independent forces thrown up by the turbulence associated with gold and warfare. Even more significantly it also explicates the position of the Nelson police as being in an intermediary phase of development under Shallcrass, who of necessity had to pay obeisance to his socio-political masters but who in his groping towards autonomisation of operation was prepared to confront his ‘betters’ in defence of the mode of operation of his force. 8
The case arose after two men, including the Secretary to the Board of Works, J L Bailey, had been ejected ‘in a peculiarly offensive manner’ from the audience at a Supreme Court sitting by Constable John Barton, who was acting on the orders of Shallcrass. When the aggrieved persons requested an explanation the Ser-geant-Major explained that with the shortage of room in court he was obliged to admit only certain categories of the public, such as ‘professional men’, to that section of the courthouse; when other people were mentioned as having been admitted, it became clear that they had been given priority because in the eyes of Shallcrass their social status was superior to that of the complainants. Irefully, Bailey took the matter further, with the result that Sheriff Maxwell Bury claimed that he had given Shallcrass no orders to evict anyone from the court. Moreover, he announced that ‘charges of a similar nature, and in one case much more offensive, have been made to me’ against the police, and added that the ejected persons might well bring action for assault against members of the force. The correspondence relating to the case was published, along with Bailey’s request that the politicians consider the ‘necessity for the appointment of a properly qualified and educated head of the police department for, at present, we really do not know who to apply to for redress when any of the police exceed their duty, or otherwise mis-behave themselves.”
The Sergeant-Major made a spirited reply to the accusations, which had, he commented sarcastically, been published ‘I presume, for my careful perusal, sober reflection, and future improvement’. The ‘manner in which the numerous unpleasant duties connected with my office are performed is now too well known to the public of Nelson’ to suffer from such allegations of ‘extreme measures’ on his part. He had intervened to keep order in court without instructions from the Sheriff because that official had not been attending to his
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duties; Bury’s attitude was ‘ill-advised’, and if indeed action for assault were taken against him he was ‘quite prepared to defend it’. He finished by mockingly quoting Bury’s own words about ‘delay occasioned by the onerous duties of the session’, applying them to problems of policing—court ‘clients’ having been supplied by the constables in the first place. No one was left in any doubt that in the view of the chief of police, his men were doing as efficient a job as could humanly be expected in the light of the available policing resources of Nelson Province. 10
Shallcrass’ self confidence that regardless of his position in the deference structure he knew his job was to serve him in good stead when the impact of further gold finds in the north of the South Island began to step up the already altering pace of life in his province. At first there had been very little effect because the only new area where gold had been dug out in sustained quantities was in the region of the Buller in the remote West Coast part of the province. A few prospectors and diggers, Maori and pakeha, had stayed on there rather than follow the rush to Otago. For them Tuapeka had indicated that the success of Collingwood could be repeated, even bettered, and the West Coast—not just the Buller River area—seemed as likely as anywhere else in the northern South Island to yield gold. There were calls for some form of officialdom to which miners in ‘Nelson South-West’ could turn in cases of dispute, but when Superintendent Robinson visited the area in 1862 he concluded that in view of the orderly conduct of the prospecting diggers there was no need for the goldfields legislation to be brought into effect or even a sole constable to be sent there. ‘Should, however, a large accession to the present number of diggers take place, it is scarcely to be expected that this highly satisfactory state of things will remain.’ Differing assessments of the immediate situation noted that violence, even a murder, had occurred in Nelson Province’s West Coast region, and that ‘drunkenness and riotous conduct’ were prevalent at the town of Westport which had begun to form at the mouth of the Buller, Policing of western Nelson Province by long distance—from Collingwood and Nelson city—could not last for much longer."
Advice to the government grew urgent in tone when in February 1863 it was reported that groups of Maoris had left the disaffected areas of Taranaki and Waikato headed for the Buller diggings, creating the spectre of real ‘native difficulty’ in Nelson Province. This ‘threat to the peace’ proved chimerical, but agitation based upon much more tangible needs continued. The difficulties created by the absence of a resident coercive officialdom amongst the several hundred men now on the diggings were publicly indicated that
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June when two suspected thieves were seized but witnesses could not afford the time and money involved in travelling to Nelson to give evidence before the judiciary. Magistrates across the ranges in the settled areas of Nelson found it impossible to properly arbitrate in far-away mining disputes, even when the diggers brought their cases through to ‘civilisation’. Agitation for a police presence on the goldfields mounted when for the first time in Nelson SouthWest a main diggings area was opened far from the complex at Waimangaroa (eight miles north of the Duller mouth) which had hosted the majority of the miners. The new area was in a creek-bed off the Lyell River, a tributary joining the Duller well inland, and a hundred diggers were soon living there on a permanent basis.
At the Lyell, as at the main Duller workings downstream, elected policing committees (usually at around a dozen members) controlled order. At first they fitted Robinson’s characterisation, miners respecting ‘each other’s rights, and mutually aiding one another in carrying out their own views of equity in the apportionment of the land constituting their claims’. But as ‘outsiders’ drifted in the committees found it increasingly difficult to regulate claim sizes and prevent claim-jumping, especially by newly-arrived Australian diggers who felt that Maoris in particular should display due deference by handing over their rights, and they sent clear messages through to the government that they would not act as informal state officials indefinitely. Demands for an overland escort to Nelson continued to be rejected on the grounds that gold could be easily got out through Westport by ship, but in November 1863, after 15,000 ounces of gold had been extracted within Nelson South-West, 2/c Sergeant John Nash (recently promoted to NCO rank, making him third in command of the provincial force) was sent to the West Coast, It was a start but his sole presence, local businessmen in particular claimed, was inadequate: Nash, without local judicial backing, had no ‘power to issue either a warrant or summons’, he was bereft of a lockup, and he had to ‘refer even the most trivial things to Nelson’. Their complaints were not about this ‘excellent officer’, who was generally regarded as a ‘very steady man’, but about the lack of both a police staff and a goldfields judicial and administrative structure to back up his work. All the same, his presence on the goldfields made a big impression at once —and not always a favourable one. Diggers who had come 40 miles downriver to Westport for recreation, for example, were ‘disgusted’ when Nash enforced 10 o’clock closing at the public houses. 12
Complaints about the sergeant behaving ‘imperiously’ were to be expected, for Shallcrass had chosen his man carefully, bearing in
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mind that the capacity for abrasively wielding condign power could be a useful one in new diggings areas. The 34 year old Irishman had been a soldier since boyhood and had seen active service, including fighting in the 65th Regiment in 1846 in the North Island, before joining the Nelson police in June 1857. His very toughness however backfired for the state because he attempted to apply too rigid a definition of order to the goldfields, thereby provoking considerable resistance to official authority. Resentment at the mode of policing at the Buller increased early in 1864 after a second constable had been sent surreptitiously across to the West Coast portion of Nelson province. At the Lyell diggings en route, and at Westport, he posed as a storekeeper while gathering information on slygrog activities and on liquor-selling to Maoris. Charges on the latter count were especially resented, for the law forbidding sales to Maoris was regarded as absurd by fellow pakeha miners, or it was at very least seen as impracticable upon a goldfield; it was moreover viewed as unfair by local businessmen (most of whom sold liquor as well as other products) who felt cheated by a state representation which they themselves had fought to introduce. One of the storekeepers fined for selling to a Maori had indeed been on a delegation to the Superintendent requesting a stronger official presence. In fact the activities of the ‘secret policeman’ were generally regarded as ‘petty spite’ on the part of the government by almost the entire Nelson South-West population, not just the diggers. In a familiar dichotomy, however, they still wanted a state-provided assurance of a type of ‘order’ appropriate for a diggings populace, and so the existing police presence was deemed to be both too little and too harsh; more police were required, but they should be men who would tolerate goldfields customs whether or not these formally breached ‘the law’. They would be expected to focus their energies upon elements which violated the code of the diggings. 13
Nelson Province’s responses to the demands of order required by the presence of goldfields in the northern South Island had been initially cautious in terms of extra expenditure, but the press of circumstances forced alteration in this attitude during the course of 1864. The catalyst lay outside provincial boundaries. To be sure the upper Buller workings were spreading, so that by mid year the Matakitaki had displaced Lyell as the chief centre of production in that area; but by then the potential development of South-West Nelson had been stymied by the opening in April of the Wakamarina goldfield in Marlborough Province, not far from the eastern border of Nelson Province. The thriving new field was, Thatcher sang, ‘affecting the City of Nelson, Provisions have gone up in price’. The Nelson provincial authorities were determined to
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foster the resultant commercial boom in their province one way or another, including by injecting the capital’s economy with Marlborough gold, and they appreciated that this would involve an additional outlay in policing expenditure. As a result SergeantMajor Shallcrass departed on 19 April to establish an escort from the new diggings, the Nelson government having none of the scruples about ‘poaching’ over which the Southland government had initially agonised. Although the escort lasted only a matter of weeks until the Marlborough government had first established its right to receive all duties from Wakamarina gold and then set up its own escort, the indirect benefits to the Nelson economy from the nearby goldfield continued to be sizeable: problems of public order correspondingly escalated for the police, and the provincial authorities had no choice but to give them extra resources.“
Then, with more long-term consequences, later in the year it was a prospecting expedition from the Buller which moved south across the border into West Canterbury and discovered gold at Greenstone Creek, sparking off the human implosion of the great West Coast goldfields era which had major commercial and social ramifications for Nelson. Initial momentum was unsteady, with the 400 men at the Greenstone on no more than subsistence takings by October. Wakamarina’s star having somewhat faded by then, even the Buller had revived to a degree. Although this was only comparative, banking official Preshaw describing Westport at the time as a ‘miserable looking place’ centred on a couple of shanty stores and a Maori encampment, the Buller police station had followed the bulk of the diggers upriver to The Triangles (in its place a district constable was soon to be appointed at Westport) where there was some considerable activity taking place. The big impact of gold upon Nelson Province, its state of order and its police would however, carrying on and taking much further the impetus provided by the Wakamarina, come from West Canterbury before Nelson South-West gold was to become of any great significance. 15
In 1863, with growing population and the intermittent arrival of diggers en route for the Buller, the number of regular Nelson provincial constables had been raised to nine. Three more were added for a short ‘emergency’ period after the gold discoveries in Marlborough, as soon as it was perceived that goldfields-associated disorder would spill over the border into Nelson. It was fortunate for the Robinson government however that economic benefits arising from the Wakamarina finds came without all the problems that a major diggings on Nelson territory would have posed. The inability of the
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provincial police in its current form to cope in circumstances of significant indigenous mining operations was symbolised by the fact that they had become, by default, a non-uniformed body. Their government-provided uniforms had already worn out, with even the NCO in charge of the capital merely wearing a ‘semi-military kind of coat’ in an effort to distinguish himself from the populace. A major goldfield in Nelson Province would have necessitated a drastic and costly reform of policing amounting in essence to the creation of a new category of police force.
Immediately upon the Wakamarina discoveries, indeed, there was a widespread call for the government to ‘at once take measures to organize a police force as the exigencies of the case will require’. At first this opinion frequently took the form of a suggestion—from the Examiner and the Grand Jury, for example—to amalgamate the Nelson and Marlborough police into one revamped corps, an idea found attractive by Marlborough’s Inspector Morton, who actively fostered it. Imported from Otago to impose order in the wake of the Wakamarina finds, Morton could reasonably have expected to be requested to head any such bi-provincial force. Yet the relative success of the imposition by his men of some degree of order at the Wakamarina itself led instead to a general modification of attitude inside Nelson: the beast across the border tamed, Shallcrass’ men could fairly adequately deal with what was increasingly a peripheral overspill of disorder. A call for tighter cooperation between the two forces soon became more usual, particularly after the Superintendent promised on 19 May 1864 to reorientate Nelson policing to cope with the increased ‘movement’ in the province. This focused attention in particular upon ways of preventing ‘loose characters’ from Otago and Australia from ‘polluting’ Nelson city.' 1
Agitation for a more professional police presented a degree of ambivalence appropriate for a province whose capital had long been dubbed ‘Sleepy Hollow’. A newspaper assessment that the existing force was totally incapable of protecting lives and property, of preventing ‘outrages of a serious nature’, was coupled with condemnation of the more overtly coercive methods that Shallcrass was gradually developing to meet new demands. These involved, it was alleged, ‘disregard for liberties and privileges of unoffending citizens’ and an unwarranted preoccupation with the surveillance of public houses. A civil action reported at the same time illustrated the point. It was brought against Sergeant Edwin Edwards by ‘mechanical engineer’ Thomas Elder for false imprisonment. While out walking at 12.30 am on a ‘beautiful moonlight night’ he had been considered suspicious by Edwards, who ordered two con-
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
stables to arrest him and had him searched and locked up for half an hour before another constable recognised him as ‘respectable’. The judge suggested a penalty that would not be excessive but which would act as a warning to the police, and the jury awarded damages of £l5, several weeks’ wages for the sergeant. 1 ’
Such heightened tension between police and normally nontargeted sectors of society was a post-Wakamarina phenomenon, even though in actuality little was done in any fundamental way, despite Robinson’s stated intentions, to reorganise Shallcrass’ police along more repressive lines. Although money had been provided so that specials could be employed in any emergency situations, the Marlborough rush had proven too short-lived to have any major impact on Nelson’s policing arrangements. Yet as a result of it the provincial police had to cope with a greater workload and a more complicated society. There was the narrow Maungatapu track through to the Marlborough diggings to patrol, and increased ‘rowdyism’ in Nelson city to suppress. District constables found their slender resources over-stretched by the need to superintend the internal migration inspired by goldfields activities. Rutherford at the Amuri, lamenting in mid May the ‘want of police protection’ against passing would-be miners, angrily asked a rhetorical question of the Superintendent on behalf of fellow runholders: T suppose you mean us to club together and act on the principle of lynch law’? By September there were complaints about the number of burglaries in the capital, and accusations that a night-beat coverage of three constables was too sparse. In response a detective, Nelson’s first, was appointed, but Judge Alexander Johnston expressed the views of many observers when in November he commented that more criminal cases would have been placed before him ‘had a more vigilant system of police been in existence’. 1 *
By now it was the flow-on of increased social and economic activity from the new West Canterbury goldfields which was beginning to place the greatest strains upon the provincial police, particularly upon the two sergeants and nine constables who now operated from headquarters. The Nelson capital was, especially until the building of Hokitika but also afterwards, the commercial entrepot for the West Coast. The centre for West Canterbury supplies and receipient of its diggers’ gold, Nelson city bustled as it never had before, and the police patrolmen were increasingly hardpressed to cope. There were many ramifications of the capital’s new role: a great increase, for example, in the number of ‘distressed persons’, and Sergeant-Major Shallcrass was made ‘relieving officer’ in charge of the administration of charitable aid. He began
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Developments in Central New Zealand
by ‘removing such of the poor as require to be permanently supported by public funds’ to barracks, where they could be more easily both supported and controlled. As commercial activities in the centre of the city expanded, complainants protested that the outskirts received less attention, an omission only partially rectified by the establishment of a fire brigade which relieved police of some of their erstwhile duties.
In early 1865 Shallcrass had a major, if short-term, crisis on his hands when the rush to the West Coast suddenly gathered great momentum. All but 500 of the Wakamarina diggers flowed through Nelson city, and Otago miners stopped over en route by steamer for the Westland diggings. Unruly and impatient diggers encamped under canvas on the fringe of the provincial capital, those unwilling to undergo the rigours of the overland journey chafing impatiently at the wait for steamer passages. Even by March there was a backlog of 800 awaiting departure for Hokitika. Shallcrass put pressure upon the authorities for greater policing resources, but matters languished as the result of a lacuna at the top of the political ladder, Superintendent Robinson having been drowned late in January at the mouth of the Buller. A permanent successor, businessman Alfred Saunders, was installed two months later, but it was not until June, and then only as the result of pressing representations by the Resident Magistrate, that it was decided to increase the force permanently by three men at headquarters and to re-uniform it. Such revival of morale as might have been expected was counteracted by a decision that to the £lOO provided by the Provincial Council for now compulsory uniforms the constables were obliged between them to add the difference, although as it happened difficulty in obtaining suitable clothing delayed the appearance of the uniforms (blue, with military cap) on the streets until near the end of the year. 1 ’
The increased state expenditure involved in the upgrading of the provincial police was also partially offset by the phasing out of the Collingwood Goldfields Department police. Resident Magistrate and Warden James Mackay had resigned in mid 1864 and complaints about delays in making a replacement appointment led to a temporary position as head of the Department, including of its police, at the end of the year for Captain Frederick Horneman. The provincial appointments of both Warden and Sergeant-Major of Police at Collingwood were extended only until the end of September 1865, with the remaining private of police at the goldfields centre already having been removed. With history repeating itself, the replacement ‘force’ was to consist of a sole district constable; in addition, a new district constable had been approved for Motueka
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Valley to relieve John Boyes of some of his onerous duties at Motueka settlement, the Riwaka district constable having resigned in 1863 and not been replaced. 20
Boyes had been troubled since the previous November by what was described in the Provincial Council as a ‘political combination’ or ‘conspiracy’ against him by five leading local JPs, including the chairman of the bench, who had twice attempted to persuade the Superintendent to dismiss him. His ill health, it was claimed, prevented him from fully carrying out all his policing and associated duties. Finally, worn down, Boyes submitted his resignation—as demanded by the magistrates—towards the end of 1865. His son Thomas Boyes was said to have obtained the backing of five other local JPs for the now vacant position, whereas the predominant magisterial clique led by J Dutton opted for an alternative candidate ‘as it was evident the same objections urged against the father holding the office must apply to the son’. The Superintendent, a strong-willed man who had once been gaoled for contempt of court, was equally inclined to play policing politics. He opted for Thomas Boyes, who had already been carrying out some of his father’s duties, even though the JP backing of Boyes junior was probably exaggerated and in any case was that of magistrates who did not normally sit on the bench. In February 1866 Dutton and his four bench colleagues threatened to decline to act as magistrates for the district unless the new appointment was cancelled, but the regional executive arm of government stood firm against the local judicial arm and the crisis faded away as the Motueka JPs came to terms with having been outmanoeuvred. The Saunders regime, meanwhile, had problems of much greater severity on its hands. 21
When Southland Police Commissioner Weldon offered his services in 1865 to establish a Victorian-style police in Nelson his application was premature. The Buller was still quiet, and problems in the capital were still of the nature that, in the eyes of the politicians, they could be rectified by the provision of a mere three extra constables. Suddenly in mid year, soon after the latter step was taken, rich findings of gold were made in a dozen gullies just north of the Grey/Arnold riverine border with the western half of Canterbury Province. Hundreds of miners poured into the area, which was serviced by the West Canterbury settlement of Blaketown/ Greymouth. The nearest Nelson state representation was northwards, at the Buller. Reuben Waite and other goldfields businessmen almost at once urged upon the Nelson government that the
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Developments in Central New Zealand
‘first and great need’ on the new Nelson South-West diggings was a police presence, the next being a warden’s court as there had already been many instances of ‘cheating’ and claim-jumping. The need for Nelson Province coercive officials on the fields seemed more urgent still when a Hokitika constable, pursuing a man northwards, declined to cross the border and move out of his area of jurisdiction. 22
The Nelson government, the Collingwood experience having particularly alerted it to the special problems posed by goldfields, acted promptly. On 1 August 1865 it proclaimed the Nelson South-West Goldfield and appointed Provincial Engineer John Blackett JP as Warden of the field with discretionary powers to impose order. That month the appointee arrived with a handful of constables to establish the South-West Goldfields Department at Twelve Mile Landing on the banks of the Grey, with extra police to be recruited locally. A new goldfields police, completely separate from SergeantMajor Shallcrass’ force, had been created under the auspices of the new administration. The Nelson government acted cautiously, however, fearing to spend too much on rushes that might prove to be as short-lived as Wakamarina’s or as low-yield as those at the Buller. There were ramifications from this. Banks closed their agencies when no constables were posted at No Town, inland from Twelve Mile Landing; downriver, miners crossed to Greymouth to dispose of their gold rather than travel (as they believed) dangerously to administration headquarters.
Twelve Mile Landing had been a convenient place at which initially to establish the goldfields administration, being the main distribution centre up the Grey Valley for the 4000 diggers soon ensconced in the diggings towns —Moonlight’s Gully, Red Jack’s, No Town and many others—and on claims up the tributary valleys. But matters of jurisdiction were complicated since the Grey River transport artery’s lower reaches formed the provincial boundary, hampering the infrastructural development both of South-West Nelson fields and of new diggings which were soon to open south of the border. The Nelson South-West administration and policing headquarters were therefore moved quickly downriver to Cobden, located on a site opposite Greymouth on the northern bank of the Grey, enabling a greater measure of interprovincial cooperation and some pooling of scarce state resources. From the official camp and from the Twelve Mile police station which remained intact. Warden Blackett moved quickly with his policemen to the scenes of new diggings; at Sullivan’s Creek for example there were reportedly ‘lots of jumping cases, and the Warden has
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
gone with the whole of our police force to settle the matter on the ground’. 23
Blackett worked hard with minimal resources to develop the goldfield, superintending the cutting of tracks, the carrying of mail and other necessities, and the settling of claims disputes, much of the labour being carried out by his police. This placed extra burdens upon the founding constables, who were hampered in any case by problems of policing inexperience. Those of constabulary background tended to be types attracted by slacker internal police discipline than that south of the border, a recruiting factor which offset initially poor wages in the South-West Nelson Police. ‘Our men do not at present know the run of the bad characters’, commented a local newspaper correspondent on police inability to discover who had robbed Walmsley near No Town. Indeed it was the banking official, feeling that the three new and inexperienced policemen assigned by Blackett to go from Twelve Mile to No Town to investigate constituted an inadequate response, who had gone straight down to Hokitika and persuaded Broham to implement a wideranging search. The bevy of West Canterbury police, including detectives, hunted for the robbers on both sides of the border; it was hoped that they could at very least help the Nelson SouthWest police in ‘driving the robbers from this place’, from the West Coast altogether.
Provincial Engineer Blackett’s duties were multifarious, and his energies were required elsewhere than merely in the south-west corner of the Province. He had been no more than a temporary appointee, a man able to create an emergency infrastructure of state in a remote but fast populating area. On 29 November 1865 he was replaced as head of the goldfields administration by Thomas Alfred Sneyd Kynnersley, Warden, Resident Magistrate and ‘Commissioner’ (though not officially so called until 1867) of the Nelson South-West Goldfield region. The new man was given ‘almost plenary powers’, including responsibility for the ‘disposition, discipline, and ordinary charge’ of the police in the area, and like Blackett he reported direct to the Nelson government on all matters including policing. The Collingwood and (in part) West Canterbury precedents had therefore been followed, with the ordinary provincial police machinery bypassed. Saunders’ choice of Lieutenant Kynnersley, on the recommendation of Marlborough’s Superintendent, was a fortunate one for the Nelson government. He had learnt how to ‘handle men’ from his magistrate father, and his first position after leaving the Royal Navy (because of ill health) had been that of Warden and Resident Magistrate of the Wakamarina, where he had proven more than capable of imposing
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Developments in Central New Zealand
and maintaining a considerable degree of ‘order’. A young man of 26, he had quickly developed a strong affinity with the diggings world and its propensity for as much self-regulation as was feasible. He gained, reciprocally, a respect from the surging Nelson SouthWest mining population which was rarely given colonial public officials, whose socio-economic backgrounds usually ensured scant understanding of or empathy with the class to which most diggers belonged. Few would have disagreed with his obituarist’s verdict in 1874 that he had been ‘the most popular man on the goldfields’. 2 *
Under Kynnersley’s guidance the police began to disperse amongst the main diggings, their numbers having been allowed to increase once the government realised that the goldfield was a viable one with at least a degree of permanency. Despite the headquarters move to the sub-capital of Cobden, Twelve Mile Landing remained ‘the principal station for the police force on the West Coast’ because of its centrality in the main diggings area. From here the men operated as a mobile constabulary unit able to concentrate policing power wherever required. In early March 1866, for example, a ‘posse of constables’ attempted in the face of armed resistance to seize a coal mine from a company previously licensed by the General Government to mine the area, the action being conducted on behalf of another company recently granted the lease by the Nelson government. After a day’s siege an armistice was agreed to pending civil action. By that date there had been several cases of ‘sticking-up’ to investigate, besides the famous No Town robbery, and thefts and assaults were increasing. New policing challenges arose from April when what proved to be largely a ‘duffer’ rush occurred at the Little Grey (Mawheraiti), upriver from the supply town of Ahaura which had grown at the limit of navigation up the Grey. Soon prospectors began leaving Squaretown, on the Mawheraiti, to cross the saddle to the new diggings of the Inangahua, which were also reached from along the Duller, When Commissioner Kynnersley inspected the Inangahua in June, he found a thousand diggers, centred on a disorderly town named after himself. He and his men had also to control diggings along the beaches north of Cobden and, from mid 1866, new diggings beginning to appear on the pakihi lands further north towards the Buller. The Commissioner still felt able to cope because although ‘crime generally is apparently on the increase on this gold-field’ it was ‘chiefly, 1 believe, in consequence of the Canterbury police force having been largely increased lately, whereby the bad characters had been driven further northward.’ 2 *
In order to cope with this perceived problem Kynnersley recruited experienced West Canterbury police into his force,
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
attracting ‘quality’ by offering good promotion prospects and—by now —higher wages. Remuneration, moveover, increased in proportion to the degree of isolation of the police station. Broham at Hokitika was enraged at the seduction of some of his best constables, even though he had ‘poached’ from north of the border in the recent past. At Ahaura and No Town two constables apiece received pay of 13s 6d per day, shillings more than the highest paid West Canterbury men and the same as Twelve Mile’s sergeant, whose three constables received 12s 6d each. In turn the sergeant at Cobden received 12s 6d, his three constables (including a gaoler) 11s 6d. By the end of 1866 Nelson was offering up to 16s per diem for constables. The goldfields chief was soon to be assisted by another Warden, and what he lacked in quantity of policemen he felt he increasingly compensated for in quality. In any case, the West Canterbury police corpus to the south provided a comforting emergency reserve should reinforcements ever be necessary. Kynnersley’s only important request to be declined was for a SergeantMajor of police to take overall effective control of policing throughout the expanding South-West goldfields; he was finding it a strain to keep track of his dozen-strong police force, superintending as it did a wild area of 5400 scattered people. The resources of state in the South-West were deemed inadequate to provide an escort service, and there was discussion of a joint Nelson-Canterbury escort from border area diggings into the main centres. One section of thought amongst the West Canterbury separationist movement stood for incorporating all territory north of the Taramakau into Nelson Province, which most observers agreed was providing a better policing and administrative framework than that which Canterbury had implemented in its relatively neglected Grey District. Such a scheme, it was argued, would inter alia provide sufficient economic return to allow Nelson Province to implement an (expensive) Victorian-style escort service, a reason which of course carried no weight with the Canterbury Government. 26
Kynnersley’s knowledge of Victorian-style policing had been learned only at second hand, first from police at the Wakamarina, now from recruits from the south. He was hampered by the fact that some of the very first men secured from West Canterbury were of ‘poor quality’, having been expelled for misconduct or incompetence. These, moreover, had by joining early gained preference in the new force over ‘good’ constables who had been held back by their contracts to serve the Canterbury government for a full year. As a result of such factors police discipline in Nelson South-West was less severe than in other South Island goldfields forces, although it could increase as capable men released from West Can-
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Developments in Central New Zealand
terbury gradually gained ascendancy in the force north of the border. Despite the ad hoc nature of the force’s formation, the exigencies of the situation produced in the South-West goldfields police many characteristics similar to those of the classical Irish/Victorian mode of policing: the ability for immediate redeployment, for example, was considered to be essential. When the Grey River Argus exaggerated the size of the find at the Little Grey, and Kynnersley reported that ‘men are flocking there from all parts’ and that he ‘might as well attempt to stop the flow of the Grey itself as to stop the rush’, police from Twelve Mile hastened to the turbulent area in order to preserve order amongst men made angry by the futility of their journey to the location. With a ‘duffer’ rush anything might happen: this was the period of the infamous Bruce Bay riot. 2 ’
The costs of administering and policing the South-West were enormous, and there was therefore no willingness on the part of the Nelson politicians to give Sergeant-Major Shallcrass any extra men to cope with policing the rest of the province. With its state of order increasingly affected by West Coast goldfields, the existing provincial police were reimbursed for their growing workloads by a substantial pay increase in April 1866, although this was to a degree offset by increased living costs resulting from the injection of gold-based commerce and industry into the province. The Ser-geant-Major’s salary rose to £230 —slightly above that of the NCO at Cobden but well below that of the Twelve Mile sergeant—whilst Sergeant Edwards’ pay rose to £l6O a year; the second class sergeant now earned £l5O, and the constables’ pay rose by a pound a month to £l2 and (for most) £ll. Resentment at the tougher stance being taken by the provincial police still smouldered amongst those who remembered the Nelson of heretofore, and sometimes police were ‘brought into line’ by the influential, A constable was fined £2O on four cases of assault, for example, ‘a somewhat expensive mode of paying for the luxury of flourishing a baton ad libitum , to the terror of the well-disposed of the Nelson citizens’. The barring of doors at the Supreme Court by two constables was referred to, typically, as the ‘impertinent officiousness of the police’. 28
Suddenly, in June 1866, all such criticism disappeared as a result of the capture by the Nelson police of the ‘Maungatapu murderers’. The entire colony now focused its attention on one of the most infamous and publicised criminal cases in the history of New Zealand. After Burgess and Kelly had been released from Dunedin Gaol they had made for Hokitika, where they soon comprised the
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
nucleus of a small, loose group of professional criminals. Burgess was the mastermind of the amorphous ‘gang’, while Kelly had been an associate of Australian bushranger Frank Gardiner. Branigan, Shearman and Weldon had frequently warned their governments that men of this ilk should be intercepted at the point of entry, but in actuality such arrivals had been rare. It was because the Burgess/Kelly band was perceived to be—by New Zealand standards—unique in its criminality that first the Hokitika and later the Greymouth police were to subject it to intense scrutiny. Leading West Canterbury at Inspector James’ instigation, Burgess, Kelly, Joseph Sullivan and professional ‘fence’ Philip Levy headed north by steamer. They intended robbing a bank at the Buller, but with the shift in focus of Nelson Province’s diggings to its east and south that settlement no longer boasted any such institution. ‘A more deserted looking place I never saw’, recorded Burgess: T felt while here as if I was out of the world.’ They decided to go on to Picton ‘because some time ago I had learnt that the banks of the East Coast of the Middle Island were entirely at the mercy of any marauders who liked to enter them.’ The gang landed at Nelson, well in advance of three West Canterbury policemen detailed to search for them on account of the presumed murder of Dobson, Shearman himself having travelled to Greymouth to investigate the surveyor’s disappearance. They then set off by foot across the Maungatapu track into Marlborough Province, stopping at Canvastown. While Levy went up to Deep Creek to investigate the state of the Wakamarina diggings, Burgess told his companions that he ‘did not approve of the way we were travelling. We were leaving a track behind us all the way, for the residents took great notice of wayfarers’ and might well alert the police authorities. They would return to Nelson and travel to Picton by sea. 29
At Deep Creek, ‘Gentleman Levy’ had met friends of old, including French chef Felix Mathieu who was famed on the New South Wales and New Zealand goldfields for his ‘inexhaustible flow of good humour and smart repartee’. Mathieu was about to leave his Cafe de Paris public house in the care of his wife in order to investigate business possibilities in West Canterbury, the Wakamarina diggings having become all but exhausted. Travelling with him on similar missions would be storekeepers John Kempthorne and James Dudley, and American digger James de Pontius. Hearing of this Burgess decided that the party, which would be carrying money for investment, should be waylaid along the Maungatapu track. Retracing their recent trek in search of a suitable ambush site, on 12 June Burgess and Sullivan robbed an
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Developments in Central New Zealand
old miner James Battle and then strangled him so that he could not raise the alarm. On the following day the travelling party was intercepted, robbed and tied up, and then by strangulation, stabbing and shooting murdered one by one and the bodies hidden off the track. In Sullivan’s version of the story, he and Kelly merely acted as lookouts while the job was done; in the version of the other three gang members, Kelly and Levy had disapproved of the plans and walked on ahead towards Nelson. The corpse of de Pontius was buried so that should the authorities discover that murders had been committed they would assume that the American was the culprit and had fled. According to Burgess, he and Sullivan again met up with Levy and Kelly just before Nelson. His version of events as outlined in his ‘confession’ and corroborated by two of the three gang members is at least as convincing—or unconvincing—as that which Sullivan was to give in turning Queen’s evidence and sending his three comrades to the gallows. 30
Unbeknown to the gang, Mathieu had arranged for Deep Creek resident Henry Moller to follow his party to Nelson to retrieve its pack horse. When the German could not locate his friends at their prearranged meeting place, he and others made enquiries. They were not taken seriously by Nelsonians, and in fact the police contemplated arresting them for disturbing the state of order in what was (in Burgess’ words) still a comparatively ‘peaceful little town’ in spite of its role as goldfields supply centre. Mass murder was considered by police and populace alike as inconceivable, and civil engineer Theophilus Mabille was unable to find local volunteers for a search party. At Canvastown businessman George Jervis suspected the Burgess party, which he had put up and supplied, of foul play and persuaded the Marlborough police sergeant at Havelock, Samuel Goodall, that his case was strong. When these two arrived in Nelson on 17 June with friends of the disappeared men and voiced their suspicions people still thought that they were ‘mad or labouring under a delusion’, but though still sceptical Ser-geant-Major Shallcrass had by now little choice but to act upon the fears of a three-man delegation (Jervis, Goodall and Mabille) which urged that his force take action. The next day Mabille, given command of three Nelson policemen for the purpose, set off along the Maungatapu track (which he had formed in the first place) finding en route items which indicated the commission of murderous crimes. Discussion with travelling Deep Creek diggers turned up the name Levy, word was sent back to Shallcrass and that night the suspect was arrested. The other three were rounded up one by one the following evening; they had all been awaiting the departure
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
of any ship which would take them anywhere but under the surveilling gaze of the West Canterbury police. 1 '
As police numbers were too small to conduct a fullscale search for the bodies, citizens at an outdoor meeting by the Trafalgar Hotel subscribed money and appointed a committee headed by Charles Saxton to organise a search in conjunction with Sergeant Edwards. On 21 June a party of 50 (including Maoris recruited for their knowledge of bushmanship) set out accompanied by a constable, and other searchers later joined in. A poster offering £2OO reward for information leading to conviction boosted enthusiasm. In order to persuade one of the captives to talk, the proclamation also offered a free pardon for any accomplice who was not an actual murderer, and a copy was placed on the watch-house door where the four prisoners would see it. On 27 June the police, assessing that Levy was the least villainous of the gang and might ‘crack’, or at least that the other three might think this, removed him from the police station to the Gaol and called in a rabbi, who visited with a copy of the proclamation. It was Shallcrass who had devised this two-pronged plan, and one component of it worked, Sullivan, knowing that the bodies would be found sooner or later, panicked at the prospect of being beaten to the pardon and on 28 June made a ‘confession’ to Shallcrass which also encompassed the gang’s West Coast activities, including the murder of George Dobson (allegedly by Kelly and his associate James Wilson) and the robbery of £2500 worth of gold from an Okarito bank. Sullivan’s directions led the searchers, guided by a police party under Shallcrass, to find the four bodies of the Deep Creek party on 30 June and that of Battle, about whose murder nobody had known before the ‘confession’, a few days later. 12
A Nelson resident wrote at the time that ‘since the finding of the bodies the excitement was increased ten-fold —nothing else is thought of’. It was feared that other ex-Australian criminals from the West Coast might make ‘some desperate attempt’ to rescue the gang, and on the Search Committee’s recommendation the Resident Magistrate swore in specials to guard both the captives and the town. The prisoners, declared a resident, ‘ought to be severely punished for upsetting the public mind’, and from the police point of view one of the purposes of the specials was to prevent a lynching. People were doubly angry that only Burgess, Kelly and Levy were charged with the murders of the Mathieu party, it being widely believed that Sullivan had tailored the story to save his skin. To assuage public feeling the prosecuting authorities eventually charged him with Battle’s murder, since this had not been covered by the proclamation under which Sullivan claimed pardon. When
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Developments in Central New Zealand
in August Burgess produced his own version of events he exonerated not only Kelly and Levy but also those persons in West Canterbury, including Constable Carr, whom Sullivan had implicated in gang activities. In a dramatic five-hour peroration to the lower court, a performance repeated at the Supreme Court trial held in September, he claimed that the ‘bloodthirsty and lying monster’ Sullivan had alone helped him to murder the victims. Separate interrogations of Kelly and Levy tended to confirm this version of events. To be sure Sullivan’s evidence seemed also to cohere with some known facts, but it was alleged that he had been given these, inadvertently or otherwise, by the police. 33
Feeling in Nelson ran so high, with the guilt of the prisoners openly assumed, that the General Government proposed to move the trial venue to Wellington—and backed down before the fury of the response. There was, an Otago newspaper confirmed, a ‘general belief in the guilt of the accused and police therefore had difficulty protecting the prisoners at their public appearances, particularly the reviled Sullivan who had not only violated humanity but also the ‘rules’ of mateship imported to the diggings from Australia. At the trial however the Sullivan account of the killing of the Deep Creek party was undisguisedly preferred by the authorities and the public to that of Burgess, Kelly and Levy, despite telling evidence in support of the latter version—the finding by police of a bloodstained shirt of Sullivan’s, for example, which militated against his story that he was the Toad-keeper’ during the killings. Although the only evidence against Kelly and Levy was that of the informer, Judge Johnston directed the jury that Sullivan’s evidence was sound, and the result was a foregone conclusion. The three gang members were executed at Nelson Gaol on 5 October, Kelly and Levy protesting to the end their innocence of the murders, possibly—as a handful of contemporary observers felt —justly so. Police superintended the hangings, while the Nelson Volunteers ringed the Gaol ‘in order to repress any possible demonstration on the part of the populace, with a view to obtain forcible entry to its precincts’. 3 *
Public fury now focused on Sullivan who, despite claiming to have been on lookout duty when Battle was murdered, had quickly been found guilty of that crime—his testimony this time not believed, just as it was not to be believed later in West Canterbury about the role of Carr and others. The guilty verdict placed the colony’s authorities in a dilemma, for throughout the country police relied heavily upon informants from amongst members of the ‘criminal class’ and its milieu. Sullivan had decided to talk upon the assumption that the pardon proclamation covered the
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
murder of the old miner, and he alleged that Shallcrass had confirmed this to him at the time of the ‘confession’. To hang him could well be to create a stark, long-lasting symbol to the informing network that the police were not to be trusted. Superintendent Alfred Saunders, upon such representations being made, secured commutation of Sullivan’s death penalty for the murder of Battle to a sentence of life imprisonment. Public opinion, having forced the Sullivan prosecution in the first place, was enraged. Why should Nelson tolerate the presence, in its hard-labour gangs on the roads, of that ‘arch-master of human depravity’ with his ‘insolent air of a villain dead to every sense of shame’? The police feared that harm would come to him, a factor which of itself would militate against trust of the police in the world of the informers. The narrow escape of Sullivan from a lynching when taken to Hokitika to testify confirmed the worst fears of Sergeant-Major Shallcrass and his men. 38
By early 1868 the Superintendent had secured permission from the General Government to transfer Sullivan to Dunedin Gaol. The continuing strength of feeling was again shown when following this decision a Nelson constable took the prisoner dressed as a ‘gentleman’ aboard the steamer. Sullivan was recognised, the constable had to defend him with his revolver before the pair were ordered off by the captain, and the murderer was returned to the Gaol amid ‘shouts and execrations’ by a public suspicious that the authorities were attempting to release him. A week later another steamer was boarded, this time with Sullivan disguised as a policeman accompanying a constable disguised as a prisoner; although at stopover in Wellington the ‘universally detested’ Sullivan was recognised and reviled, in the end Dunedin was reached safely. Over the years in Dunedin Gaol the prisoner frequently, and correctly, submitted that his continued and well-publicised incarceration militated against police information-gathering opportunities, and Otago Police Commissioners confirmed that if ‘pains and penalties’ were seen to result from providing intelligence, key sources of information would be denied them. In early 1874 the authorities considered that sufficient ‘decent interval’ had ensued and freed him with the unsubstantiated excuse that he was suffering from cancer; amidst public outrage he left the colony, it being a condition of his release that he never again return. 35
The circumstances of Sullivan’s departure indicate the importance of placating the ‘informing world’, regardless of public feeling, He had ‘feared to be at liberty’ for even a short while in New Zealand and therefore refused to leave the precincts of Dunedin Gaol, so was clandestinely taken to Mount Eden Gaol in Auckland.
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Placed aboard a ship headed for San Francisco, he was recognised by passengers and put off by the captain. When spotted in the city’s streets, still accompanied by a Dunedin warder, he sought asylum with the local police, preferring to return permanently to gaol than to risk injury or death. Aucklanders volubly pronounced it a ‘disgrace that such a ruffian should be let loose’ amongst them; even the mildest observers agreed that the decision to release the murderer had been ‘impolitic’. ‘This trouble and uneasiness was predicted at the time when his neck was saved from the hangman’s knot.’ The authorities now fostered rumours that he had left Auckland, in order to make alternative arrangements for his departure from the colony. Realising the ‘great desire of the Government to get him out of the country’, he demanded both special luxury treatment in Mount Eden, which he received, and a large lumpsum allowance for re-establishing himself overseas. Still holding out for the latter when a secret passage for London was secured, he consented to leave only after Auckland Gaoler Captain R Eyre gave him some ‘vigorous treatment’.
The ‘decent interval’ before the pardon had been so protracted partly because of the pressure of public opinion but also because of a countervailing tactical factor. Continued incarceration of the ‘horrible and dangerous character’, noted Saunders, was a ‘means of creating a wholesome distrust of each other amongst the desperate villains who may band together for such nefarious purposes’. Indeed, Mount Eden prisoners petitioned the Governor to be kept away from the ‘human monster’, and when it was rumoured that Sullivan was to be returned to Dunedin Gaol from Auckland, hard core inmates petitioned against his rejoining them. Even after his departure the offending and non-offending public alike avidly followed Sullivan’s progress abroad. Hounded by London detectives tipped off in advance, he returned to Victoria to see his estranged wife and family, only to be arrested under the Influx of Criminals Prevention Act in December 1874 and sentenced to be returned to New Zealand —to the horror of New Zealanders and a definitive intervention by their Government. Instead he was incarcerated in Pentridge Stockade and released in 1876. Alleged ‘sightings’ of Sullivan all over the world, including New Zealand, where he was presumed to be en route to retrieve gold hidden on the Maungatapu by the gang, continued to hit the headlines in the colony for decades and people were still ‘spotting’ him after the First World War! 17
Although the ‘soft’ treatment given Sullivan had been basically for police reasons, it was the judicial and political authorities who were blamed. The Nelson police in particular emerged greatly
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enhanced in the eyes of the public, despite some initial criticisms of their slowness in investigating the disappearance of the Deep Creek men and of their clumsiness in handling evidence. After pronouncing the death sentence on Burgess, Kelly and Levy, the judge praised the provincial police for their recent increase in efficiency: in no other force in the colony had there been ‘such a marked improvement’, with Shallcrass running a police operation that was ‘well organized, and supported by a public opinion’. Immediately after pronouncing the death penalty on Sullivan on 19 September 1866 he called for the Sergeant-Major to come forward and stated ‘he had been instructed to say that it was the intention of the Government to promote Mr. Shallcrass to a higher grade in the service’. A week later the chief of police was created an Inspector and his salary raised to £260; Edwards was promoted to Ser-geant-Major, and 2/c Sergeant Nash, long since recalled from Buller, became a 1/c Sergeant. The promotions were for ‘steady, intelligent and painstaking conduct’ in the course of those ‘difficult days’ for the police of the capital.”
This Nelson provincial force was to remain at the same strength, but even before the Maungatapu affair news had reached town of crucial new developments in the South-West which were to necessitate both an increase in Kynnersley’s police and its geographical reorientation. There was still considerable activity in the south of the goldfields region, such as the arrival at the Little Grey of a ‘numerous brigade’ of ‘rowdy’ diggers, but Sergeant William Norris Franklyn of the Twelve Mile headquarters was able, drawing upon a militia officer background, to control it. Kynnersley’s attention had turned of necessity to new developments northwards. The first and lesser problem was that of the diggings far up the Buller in the district of Inangahua. When Commissioner Kynnersley found these to be ‘in a lawless and somewhat disorderly state’, its storekeepers ‘anxiously desirous of the protection of the police’, three constables were despatched ‘with instructions to remain there until further orders for the protection of life and property and the maintenance of order’. They were to report ‘frequently’ to Kynnersley, who would monitor the situation to ensure that it did not get out of hand. 19
Far more significant developments were soon to occur on the coastal plains south of Westport. At a tiny and treacherous natural harbour at Constant Bay a goldfields centre had formed as the focal point for the just opened ‘Pakihi Field’. The earliest days of the diggings were typical, with miners organising their own regulatory
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Developments in Central New Zealand
regime pending the establishment of an administrative and policing structure by the state. In September 1866 Kynnersley laid out a township on the shores of the harbour, with—as always— provisions for a substantial police camp. By the end of October news had spread that ‘the Pakihi’ was a fabulously wealthy field, and it quickly hosted 3000 people. Until police arrived, since the miners’ committee focused its attention upon the diggings themselves there was a brief period of chaos and rampant drunkenness in town. After their arrival the harsh methods used by the constables to impose order, including the chaining of offenders to a log inside a tented lockup at ‘The Camp’, led inevitably to allegations that a ‘state of terrorism’ had been created.
On the other hand the bulk of complaints were increasingly directed against the wild scenes which still punctuated the painful emergence of a more orderly routine. Alleged police inactivity during a drunken brawl in Charleston (as the Pakihi field’s servicing and administrative centre at Constant Bay was soon called) in April 1867 led to accusations that the police attitude was ‘calculated to bring law and order into contempt’. Whether this claimed failing was due to too few police or to ‘want of discipline’ amongst the town’s constables —there were protagonists of either view, and of both at once—the government would be urged to provide a ‘feeling of security’ in Charleston if matters did not improve. Locals with a vested interest in ‘tranquillity’ held aloof from Kynnersley, who was characterised by the local newspaper as the ‘pet’ of all the other South-West newspapers: because their own requirements of order were met they would not brook ‘anything that is said in his disfavour’. But he was failing, believed the men of wealth and power on the Pakihi, to impose a satisfactory state of affairs at Charleston and its diggings hinterland. By October 1867, with 3200 people Charleston was double the size of Westport, which itself was reviving as the major servicing centre for the entire Nelson South-West."
Relative police neglect of the diggings near Constant Bay was partly the result of a fourth major coastal urban centre in Nelson South-West having sprung up literally almost overnight in November 1866 at Fox’s River. Ten miles south of Charleston, this settlement acted as river-port and supply centre for new diggings which rapidly surpassed in size and importance even those serviced from Constant Bay. To quell the archetypical chaos of a new gold town, here accentuated severalfold by the unparalleled speed of the creation of a settlement—soon named Brighton—so large as to possess a suburb (St Kilda), there was an imposing injection of police resources. The men were taken first from Charleston, and
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
then supplemented from elsewhere. Within weeks the magnitude of their task in a town which boasted more than 50 public houses had been reflected in the erection of a ‘massive’ wooden building to serve as what was characterised as a ‘very strong’ lockup.
When the Nelson authorities attempted to administer Brighton’s mining affairs from Charleston chaos ensued, with ‘many disputes concerning frontages and claims’ threatening to get out of hand. The police conducted a holding operation until Kynnersley, alert as ever to the possibility of disorderly ramifications resulting from official decisions taken on a basis of inadequate on-site information, could move there and hear claims in his tent—which he duly proceeded to do for a solid fortnight. ‘We have been successful so far in keeping the peace’, he wrote in January 1867, ‘although at one time at Brighton when there were some 5000 men idle and discontented about the place, there appeared to be a likelihood of a repetition of the Bruce Bay riots. I had for a few days seventeen constables at Brighton .... The excitement of these rushes has now subsided, and Brighton and Charleston are both in a tolerably orderly and satisfactory state’. Although Brighton continued to remain important throughout 1867 (partly revived by the servicing of a rush to its south at Canoe Creek) and was placed under police offences legislation along with Charleston, the focus of the diggings soon moved northwards again. Not only did the Charleston area prove to be sustainably remunerative for several thousand diggers, but April saw a major new diggings area open up at Waite’s Pakihi/ The Skibbereen, a field which soon became known after its main settlement, Addison’s Flat. Police deployment altered accordingly.* 1
With the opening of the Pakihi diggings complementing new fields far up the Buller, the South-West goldfields administrative headquarters had been shifted from Cobden to Westport. The transfer of policing headquarters to the northern port was conducted at the same time, and in a short period the areas bordering West Canterbury became little more than backwaters. A return of stores on 1 April 1867 noted that the Twelve Mile police station possessed a mere five revolvers and two pairs of handcuffs; Ahaura and Little Grey stations were even more in decline; ‘The Station at No Town has been destroyed by the weather.’ In order to ensure that the full economic benefits of the South-West goldfields remained in Nelson province, that January Kynnersley had organised a gold escort from Cobden to Westport, via the Pakihi diggings centres, and chosen Franklyn to head it. The Commissioner ‘selected four thoroughly reliable men to assist him. It is of no use establishing an escort unless it is a thoroughly efficient one, as some of the most notorious ruffians on the West Coast are now
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Developments in Central New Zealand
at Brighton. One gang of five, especially, was .. . known to have left Waimea, each with a revolver intent on some extensive operations’ in Nelson South-West. Although the escort was not the grand affair of the Otago fields, it sufficed."
The Superintendent told the Provincial Council at the beginning of 1867 of being able ‘to entrust an increasing amount of discretionary power’ to Commissioner Kynnersley. ‘The amount of harassing and exhausting work which he has sometimes undertaken for fifteen hours a day to meet the demands of sudden rushes, has obviated the necessity of some costly appointments’. Saunders was doing no more than echo publicly expressed opinion throughout most sectors of the goldfields population in asserting that Kynnersley had ‘been able to command the uninterrupted respect and obedience of the large and ever changing body of miners, amongst whom his duties have been performed’. With the recent inflow of miners to the Brighton and northern Pakihi diggings in particular, the Commissioner had needed to take on a temporary but ‘very considerable addition to the police force, a precaution rendered more necessary by the presence of some gangs of desperate ruffians known to be in possession of firearms’. That this claim had some substance was indicated that same January when three ‘bushrangers’ were arrested in a whare by a mounted constable and one of the new acting constables. 43
Moreover with Westport booming as a result of the Pakihi yields, a rush occurred in April very near the town itself, on ‘the Caledonian’ river terrace. A police trooper galloped forthwith to notify Kynnersley, who was visiting Brighton, whereupon a thousand diggers at once rushed northwards to the new field. The resultant hasty redeployment of police in the area of the Nelson Province goldfields sub-capital was soon to be repeated several times as new terraces opened up. The last significant South-West goldfields rush was at the Mokihinui River, the northernmost field of all on the West Coast, where 1500 diggers worked. Nowhere else on the Coast was the ‘urban’ mining population so high as it was at the Buller/Pakihi, where diggings fanned out from the towns themselves. Charleston’s size had made it easily the second town of the West Coast and bigger even than Timaru, second town of East Canterbury. The ‘urban’ foci of settlement in Nelson South-West posed the endemic problems of order that were to be expected from the concentration of large numbers of volatile miners into agglomerations where pastimes were limited mainly to the consumption of alcohol."
On the other hand both the location of the major South-West goldfields on the coastal flat and their urban-orientated population
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
made for a relatively easy concentration of policemen in emergencies. An ‘important auxiliary to the maintenance of peace’ had been the building of a good road along the coast between Cobden and Westport, but there remained a running debate about the adequacy or otherwise of the surveillance upon which rapid intervention was posited. At the height of the Maungatapu scare it had been argued forcibly that both the West Canterbury and Nelson goldfields police required reorganisation, and it was claimed by some that this could be done best by importation of Australian techniques of surveillance. This could be carried out, in particular, by taking on men currently being laid off in Otago—policemen who would be able inter alia to identify the ‘criminals’ who had drifted from Otago to the western goldfields."
Kynnersley’s force was however safe from executive interference because it had proved to the state’s satisfaction that it was able to cope in its evolving, indigenised form with officially perceived problems of goldfield disorder. Over a period of time there had emerged a series of ranks and grades—according to responsibility, isolation and cost of provisions—which now offered sufficient remuneration of between 11s 6d and 15s 6d per day to attract and retain some ‘men of quality’. The workload had come to be shared between three sergeants, six senior constables, five mounted constables and 19 foot constables, and it was a complicated force to control for a man with multi-faceted duties. Kynnersley’s enormous and escalating tasks, indeed, caused him to increasingly devolve policing duties to the most senior of his sergeants, William Franklyn. After the Goldfields Commissioner had forced the issue by placing upon the estimates provision for an Inspector in charge of the South-West police the Nelson government, now headed by Superintendent Oswald Curtis, acknowledged the need for a working head for Kynnersley, and agreed that this should be at commissioned officer rank. On 18 September 1867 Franklyn was awarded the position, which at £3OO salary surpassed Shallcrass’ remuneration of £260. The new Inspector remained responsible to the Goldfields Commissioner, and was based in Westport in close proximity to the government administration. By this means, paradoxically, the delegating of the Commissioner’s powers meant that centralised control within the police of Nelson South-West was strengthened rather than weakened, for previously the busy Kynnersley had been obliged to deal direct with the several sergeants rather than through an ‘effective’ full-time head of police. This had meant that, by default, the NCOs had often been acting in an authority vacuum. Centralisation at Westport was often to be deplored by the Warden at Cobden, who wanted devolution of police responsibility
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Albert Barsham, Canterbury Provincial Police,
Inspector Thomas Scully, in charge of Hawke’s Bay Provincial Police.
T A S Kynnersley, in charge of Nelson South-West Goldfields Department police from late 1865.
John Blackett, in charge of first Nelson South-West Goldfields Department police.
Inspector Peter Pender, Canterbury Provincial Police.
District Constable George Walker, Nelson Province
Maori Constable in Wellington Provincial Police Force.
Commissioner James Naughton, in charge of Auckland Provincial Police.
NCOs, Taranaki Military Settlers, Pukearuhe,
Richard Gamble, Auckland Provincial Police.
Contemporary sketches of one of the Maungatapu murders, Nelson Province, 1866,
Maungatapu murderer Thomas Kelly.
Maungatapu murderer Joseph Sullivan.
Maungatapu murderer Richard Burgess.
Maungatapu murderer Philip Levy.
Home of Taranaki Military Settler officer, Captain W B Messenger, Pukearuhe, 1866.
No 9 Company, Taranaki Military Settlers, Pukearuhe
Developments in Central New Zealand
to local Resident Magistrates, but the new organisation was found by Kynnersley to be the most suitable mode of coercive social control for the area under his command.* 6
The skill of the force was affirmed in the eyes of the public at the end of the year when digger Robert Wilson was hanged for the tomahawk murder of his mate James Lennox at Deadman’s Creek, along the track to the Fairdown rush near Westport. Detective Constable Robert Lambert, now of Westport, had handled the enquiries and on the basis of ‘l4 years experience of the habits of the digging population’ quickly homed in upon the suspect. As it was not clear that the decomposed body had indeed been that of Lennox, and the evidence was purely circumstantial, there had been agitation in civil libertarian circles to commute the death penalty, but this actually served to give even further favourable publicity to the abilities of the goldfields police. The case helped to counterbalance, to a degree, a strong traditional suspicion of detecting methods which had been highlighted at that time by accusations against former detective J Trimble (who had been involved in the Otago capture of Burgess and Kelly) that he had fired his own hotel for insurance purposes: ‘as if ’, Trimble replied in advertisements in newspapers, ‘a detective or ex-detective might be taken for one from whom such a criminal act as the one in question could without scruple be expected’. Many would still have replied that this was quite in character, but their numbers appeared to be decreasing.* 7
Businessmen, and miners who had settled semi-permanently in the towns, were frequently moved to show their appreciation of police ‘protection’ from ‘rough elements’. This sometimes manifested itself as opposition to the paramilitary principle of frequent transfer, and even in Charleston to begging—by means of a public meeting and a petition to Kynnersley—the reinstatement of John Irvine ‘as head Police officer in the District’ since his departure was deemed ‘most impolitic and calculated to retard the advancement of the district’. The police of that diggings port, indeed, had received considerable sympathy from a sizeable proportion of inhabitants in April 1867 when they petitioned against the removal of their ‘remote’ allowance. They had previously been paid 15s daily and the new rate of 13s 6d, they protested, was ‘not equivalent to the rate of pay on the Diggings and the probability of advancing our present Circumstances’; from it they had not only to provide their own ‘clothing etc etc’ but also were ‘still compelled to Board at an Hotel through insufficient accommodations in Quarters’.**
There was a quid pro quo for increasing popular support—or, at
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very least, decreasing popular antagonism—for the South-West police. ‘Direct’ methods of policing which had been tolerated in circumstances of turmoil at the establishment of the diggings had now to be moderated, and officials in charge of securing order had to be frequently reminded of this. Resident Magistrate Charles Broad could still report in March 1867 from Brighton with sardonic approval: ‘Mr Ex Murderer Duggan has been keeping every body awake —last night having got incarcerated—l believe he was eventually lulled to rest by being treated by Dr. Rhodes with a mouthful of the wood of the country—received behind his head....’ The applier of the harsh ‘medicine’. Constable Rhodes, was nonetheless generally reviled when soon transferred to a more settled Charleston. The same people who had praised Irvine now got together a public meeting to discuss the ‘officious and obnoxious’ conduct of the transferee; a petition was sent to Commissioner Kynnersley stating that the ‘absence of Constable Rhodes would be conducive to the welfare of Charleston, and the surrounding district, and your petitioners would respectfully draw your attention to the unpopularity of this officer wherever he has been stationed.’ Even the Commissioner himself was to blot his hitherto unblemished copybook and draw considerable criticism in some influential quarters despite his continuing general popularity. His gaffe was that of emulating Morton’s Dunedin behaviour and ‘beating the editor’ of the Westport newspaper ‘with the butt-end of a riding whip’ in retaliation for a report attacking him for associating at the races with two women of alleged ill-repute.* 9
At the end of 1867 the South-West Nelson goldfields population and output peaked, after a hectic three years during which their development had been the crucial factor in the doubling of Nelson Province’s population. The provincial police under Shallcrass were able to cope with the extra social activity generated in the nongoldfields parts of the province by continuing as before but with more resources made available to them, more particularly so after the kudos resulting from the ‘Maungatapu murderers’ spectacle—albeit a glory somewhat tarnished until Sullivan had been removed from Nelson soil. The mid 1860s represented the ‘high point in Nelson’s career as a province’, the revenues from West Coast gold boosting its economy to such a degree that it was the last of the South Island provinces to feel the signs of on-coming depression. Kynnersley’s goldfields police provided security for the unimpeded flow of profits from the soil of the south-western portion of the province. The force had pursued its own paramilitary, if eclectic, logic of development. It had been enabled to do so in what was generally considered to be an eminently satisfactory fashion partly
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because the generation of high profits in which it had played a part had swelled state coffers and released extra resources for the policing operation. In particular, as rush followed rush from late 1866 there was sufficient discretionary revenue available to Kynnersley to appoint as many ‘acting’ constables as were required to at least ‘hold’ any given situation of crisis. The direct input of ‘borrowing’ (from Otago via West Canterbury) aspects of the specific Victorian paramilitary mode of organisation was limited in Nelson SouthWest, but the demands of the situation produced a force which, in the last analysis, approximated in all essentials the organisational features which the existence of sizeable new goldfields required if the wishes of the state and its backers were to be fulfilled. 50
Marlborough, 1859-67: From Pastoral to Paramilitary
Dr Stephen Lunn Muller, Resident Magistrate in charge of the Wairau police, decided that it was hardly dignified that when the new province of Marlborough came into being on 1 November 1859 it should (despite its tiny population of little more than 1000) have a police force consisting of merely his three constables and a district constable at Picton. Thus his securing of permission from the Nelson government to rocket Joseph McArtney from Constable to Sergeant-Major on 10 August 1859, at 8s per day, a pay of Is higher than that of the regular constables. Constable Earll, piqued at having been overlooked despite his hard work for the separationist movement, resigned and became a publican. The new Marlborough Province force was a miniature of Nelson’s, unarmed for routine duty and stationed at the provincial capital of Blenheim (the replacement name for The Beaver), where a third of the population lived. But unlike in Nelson where the police force was not controlled by the Resident Magistrate, the Marlborough head of police remained actually as well as formally responsible to Resident Magistrate Muller, and his power could be delegated to the unpaid magistracy. This situation of Resident Magistracy headship of the police remained in place after 1 May 1860 when the Provincial Council first sat and elected runholder W Adams as Superintendent. 61
There was not a great amount of ‘crisis policing’ to do in the small province. Work revolved around the odd drunkenness and brawling incident in the towns, the odd apprehension of men wanted mainly by the Nelson police. A big event was the robbery of a Blenheim man of more than £lOO. When the suspect, a runaway
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
sailor, eluded local police surveillance Sergeant-Major McArtney chased him to Kaikoura, where he had been reportedly spending stolen sovereigns, then down across the Canterbury border to Kaiapoi and from thence to Christchurch. With the cooperation of Canterbury police the fugitive was shipped back to face trial in Blenheim. The policing of Marlborough, given its strategic position (even though many travellers now took the inland road between Canterbury and Nelson), was often carried out in conjunction with the neighbouring forces. Internally, social control in the provincial countryside was frequently conducted in typical pastoral mode by the clique of large runholders who monopolised the land. 52
The same class, together with urban businessmen, controlled local politics. As the holders of the main source of wealth in the province they were not prepared to countenance levies for state purposes beyond the bare necessities, except in the provision of official positions for their friends and relatives. Thus, almost from the beginning of the existence of the new regional state, with social control to a significant degree informally regulated from the large sheep stations, the already meagre spending on police matters in the Wairau fell. When the estimates were prepared for the 1860-1 financial year one of the two current regular constables was dropped in order to keep police and gaol expenditure down to £623 15s, almost a third of that being for maintenance and conveyance of police prisoners. The following year planned expenditure rose very little, despite a rapid increase in population. The force remained the smallest in the South Island, indeed in the colony (excluding a few sub-provincial forces), with the head of policing having at his disposal only Constable John Ewart at the capital and a district constable to the north. On 1 July 1861 the pretension of a Sergeant-Major presiding over a force of one full-time and one part-time constable was removed, McArtney reverting to the position of constable-in-charge at the regular constable’s pay of 7s per day. At the time of this reduction, relatives of leading members of the pastoralist government were being lavishly handed sinecured positions; the small state, now serving 2300 people, boasted 21 officials. 53
For some time after the creation of the new province a broad split amongst the Councillors had been shaping up, between the businessmen —centred on Blenheim —and the pastoralist lobby which wished to remove the capital to the port of Waitohi (Newton, Picton) as had been envisaged by the Governor-in-Coun-cil in gazetting the province in the first place. Having secured the majority of votes amongst the 302 electors of Marlborough, the pastoralists had moved their capital to the port in April 1861. But
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Developments in Central New Zealand
since Picton was still very much a speculators’ paper town, despite the erection there of a ‘commodious gaol’ for the province (presided over by former Nelson policeman Cawte), police headquarters remained at Marlborough’s only major urban centre. In 1862 after Blenheim-based oppositionists to the pastoralist government gained a narrow majority in the Provincial Council elections, runholder/Superintendent William Douglas Hall Baillie prorogued the Council as soon as it met on 20 September. The legality of this step was debatable. In the new provinces Superintendents were elected by the Councillors and Baillie was therefore in effect preventing his own ouster by circumventing due constitutional procedures.
The enraged majority continued to sit. They elected their own ‘government’, which was headed by William Henry Eyes as Superintendent and Gouland as Speaker, and resolved to remove the seat of government to Blenheim once more. Whatever the status of Baillie’s actions, these proceedings were, in the words of the parliamentary historian, ‘irregular’. Next day, when the ‘rebel’ government attempted to gain access to the government offices constables acting under Superintendent Baillie’s instructions barred entrance. Thus when the rival government assembled in Blenheim on 24 October the parallel administration had no official documents or status, and pretender-Superintendent Eyes had no choice but to prorogue it. Whilst his supporters undertook judicial proceedings against the Baillie clique, the judiciary froze public funds: the police, along with other humble employees of state, received no pay for months. Only after the judiciary decided against the Blenheimbased politicians was there another election, this time won convincingly by the pro-Picton group, and payments to the constables could resume. 5 *
The demotion (and subsequent disappearance from the policing scene) of McArtney, a loyal servant of Blenheim-orientated Resident Magistrate Muller, had been bound up with political rivalries. Now, after the turmoil generated by the period of the competing governments the organisation of the provincial police was altered to concentrate the available coercive power in the service of the pastoralist party, and to symbolise and protect the victory of Picton. On 17 March 1863 the Superintendent made the police force directly responsible to himself, without a judicial intermediary, thereby removing Muller’s role as superintending head of police. On the same day Montague Adams was transferred from the Blenheim station to Picton and designated Chief Constable of the Marlborough Police Department. Prior to his establishing there a new police headquarters the Picton district constable had handled
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
routine policing matters in the tiny new capital settlement, but lack of adequate policing in the area had of late come under fire.
The provincial force was now upgraded to consist of three regular policemen, with Constable John Overend taken on as the third man in May by pastoralist Thomas Carter, who had succeeded to the Superintendency a week after the reorganisation of the police. Soon, too, a district constable was appointed at Kaikoura, the coastal settlement in the south of the province which had developed after the purchase of the area from the Maori in 1859. That year Havelock on Pelorus Sound, at a strategic point on one of the tortuous mountain routes to Nelson, had begun to develop as a pakeha as well as a Maori settlement; here a labourer of some policing experience was soon to be routinely employed to act as constable whenever required. 55
It was common for Chief Constable Adams himself to follow in McArtney’s footsteps and undertake wideranging tracking and similar work, while regular constables Overend and (now) John Kennedy focused on urban, drink-related problems of order. Work involving Maoris was conducted in conjunction with a part-time Native Interpreter, with pro-government Maori authority in the north, and —especially vis-a-vis North Island ‘rebels’ passing through the area—with the roving James Mackay. When a murder occurred amongst the Maori community at Pelorus it was Assistant Native Secretary Mackay who travelled there to investigate. When his suspicions zeroed in upon an individual, he had to hold off friends of the accused by threatening to shoot them, resolving the local crisis of order in the end by swearing in two local pakehas as special constables and taking the prisoner out to Picton under their protection. Such dangerous confrontations were however few in the sparsely populated province. The men of the force remained nonuniformed and seldom resorted to their armoury. They were often little more than personal servants to the Superintendent and his government and their high officials, and frequently fell under the direction of the magistracy. Then, in 1864, the province’s population suddenly doubled within a matter of days: the newcomers were transient, restless and, in the eyes of the authorities, dangerously turbulent. The Marlborough provincial force could not possibly meet this new ‘challenge to order’ without the most drastic of alterations in its form and methodology. 66
Following the discovery of gold in the valley of the Wakamarina River in the first week of April 1864, Marlborough’s pastoral placidity had been shattered by what Superintendent Carter called a
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Developments in Central New Zealand
‘wonderful change’ in the province’s fortunes. By the end of the month it had been transformed from a province of ‘comparative insignificance’ to one of ‘considerable importance’, host to the first large-scale rush since the Otago discoveries. Within a fortnight of the opening of the diggings, 3000 men had passed through Picton and another 1000 had made their way to the goldfield by other routes; during that winter 6000 Otago men made their way to the Wakamarina. The port of Havelock, previously a handful of houses at the edge of a mudflat, became the ‘principal business town’ of the goldfield, with some two dozen hotels in its main street alone. The appropriately named Canvastown near the mouth of the Wakamarina changed overnight from a Maori pa to a bustling depot for the upriver valley diggings, where the main supply town formed at Deep Creek. Thatcher sang:
‘This rush will soon clear out Otago,
For passenger ships advertise,
And each steamer will bring up a cargo
Of Victorian diggers, no flies .. .’ 87
The contrast between a province before and immediately after the discovery of gold was nowhere so marked as it was in Marlborough. The problem of imposing a certain minimal degree of order upon the turbulence was posed graphically and suddenly. The Superintendent, while fast becoming the wealthiest pastoralist in the province, nevertheless had goldfields experience in both California and Australia to draw upon. Chief Constable Adams’ miniscule force, he realised, was the most ill-prepared of all the provincial forces to cope with chaos induced by the opening of large-scale gold diggings, even to act as the nucleus of a scratch paramilitary force. As soon as he had established that the Wakamarina was a significant gold-bearing area, therefore, he wrote to the Otago government requesting that a detachment of goldfields-trained police be sent up post-haste. Otago, retrenching its police force, was only too pleased to reply in the affirmative. Carter had meanwhile also applied at once to Auckland for permission to proclaim an official goldfield, whilst at the Wakamarina a regular constable recently appointed at Havelock because of increasing traffic to Nelson liaised with the usual temporary selfpolicing regime established at a meeting of the diggers. So useful to the government was the regulatory regime that the state picked up the cost of distributing its rules amongst the diggers, although by early May with the arrival of some ‘rough characters’ the miners’ self-policing committee was beginning to chafe. 58 In the rirct tiroolrc moo o A 'i. _a ■ _..
In the first weeks there was a considerable degree of agitation centred on the demand for an escort run by the Marlborough
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government. When Sergeant-Major Shallcrass’ first Nelson escort departed the Wakamarina on 23 April the amount of bullion it carried fell short of expectations, for a sizeable number of miners wished to get their gold out to Marlborough banks. In a rerun of the earlier Otago/Southland escort situation, they were influenced in this decision by propagated depictions of the Nelson escort as an ‘organised system of robbery, for it can be called nothing less when one Government sends an armed guard into a neighbouring territory with the express view of depriving the Government of that territory of its legitimate revenue.’ The fate of their gold was, in short, perceived to be uncertain if they directed it towards Nelson. This feeling was heightened by the scratched-together appearance of Shallcrass’ cortege, and the well-known dangers and difficulties of the road to the west. It was known on the fields moreover that the Marlborough government had made a decision to form an escort to Picton even before the arrival of Otago police, and that it was taking firm steps to ensure that gold-duty revenue ended up in the Picton Treasury. On 2 May an escort improvised by Chief Constable Adams arrived at Canvastown, soon after the departure of the second escort to Nelson, 59
The procedure was all too hastily conceived, replicating matters which had frightened miners off the Shallcrass escort. Diggers were scattered along a 16 mile stretch of the valley, often far up tributaries, yet there was no central receiving office where they could take their gold in readiness for the escort departure. They were moreover given no guarantees for its safe arrival. There was another factor of considerable weight too: Adams had quickly made some new police appointments pending the arrival of the Otago detachment, and had put his four escort policemen into at least ‘something of the uniform of a constable’. But it was still all very makeshift and ‘diggers, as well as other people, judge a great deal by the look of things’, so many of them boycotted his escort for fears about the safety of their hard-earned gold. Therefore when the guardians of the bullion arrived back in Picton on 6 May they carried only 376 ounces. It was said that if escort police were mounted and uniformed, and the gold ‘properly guarded’, with official receipts issued from an established office, the gold flow into Picton would greatly increase.
Meanwhile the more experienced Nelson police were now persuading miners to hand over to them the bulk of the treasure extracted from the beds of the Wakamarina and its tributary streams. It became all the more urgent to solve the financial problem thereby posed to the Marlborough state as reports came through to Picton of menacing developments at the diggings—
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policing remedies for which would be costly. The field could not accommodate the numbers who had arrived, and so many diggers were flowing in that increasing numbers of newcomers were ignoring the decisions of the elected 12-man committee and jumping claims. The Superintendent was becoming universally berated for his ‘apathetic habits’. To be sure, on the day that the first escort arrived back in Picton Carter, following receipt of a favourable reply from Otago, had specified his policing requirements to Superintendent Harris. Yet his request for a detachment consisting of a sergeant, four privates and two detectives was seen by expert observers not only as laggardly but also as too modest in the circumstances, even were it to be no more than a nucleus to train a largely locally-recruited force. 60
Commissioner Branigan of Otago himself had meanwhile assessed that the requested detachment would be inadequate for the control of a major goldfield, and decided unilaterally to send a larger force. He had worked hard to impose order upon the Otago diggings milieu, and did not want the cancer of disorder to establish itself elsewhere in the South Island body politic—for that would have ramifications in his territory. He placed the expedition in the charge of Inspector William Morton, whose irrationality was proving an embarrassment to him in Otago but whose proven abilities to superintend overtly coercive policing methods in situations of widespread disorder were all the same not in doubt. Morton would create a Victorian-style force in Marlborough, and should the government of that province wish he could be ‘detached on temporary duty in charge of the Force’ which he would fashion from an amalgam of the existing provincial police and the Otago transferees; indeed, Branigan hoped that the Marlborough government would take Morton off his hands for good. An advance nucleus of fully armed Otago police departed with the commissioned officer, at a day’s notice, on 18 May: 1/c Sergeant Samuel Moore, later to become an Otago Inspector, mounted constable Patrick Kinsella, foot constables Patrick Bergin and George Cruickshank. They and those comrades who were to follow were given the option of returning to Otago after three months’ service up north, or of joining the Marlborough police permanently. 61
On the day that the Albion left Otago with the advance detachment, the Marlborough newspaper published alarming predictions from its correspondent at the Wakamarina that ‘bloodshed, outrage and general disorder’ were likely unless police protection were given at once. In a fight over a disputed claim a few miles upriver an attacking party advanced with spades, picks and axes, whilst the defenders drew revolvers and knives until a ‘strong muster of the
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quietly disposed diggers’ intervened as conciliators. There were many ‘rowdies’ who considered that ‘might is right’. Diggers as a body were generally pacific, the article said, but would not submit to having claims jumped, tents pillaged and lives threatened—and it passed on the urgent plea of the organised miners for a strong police force ‘not so much to quell any present disturbances, as to prevent those we are threatened with’. At the same time the inhabitants of Havelock resolved to send a deputation demanding a suitable police and judicial presence, the least the authorities could do for an area now proclaimed a goldfield with their town its gazetted port of entry. Upon the arrival of Morton’s detachment, just as the crescendo of protest was proving politically embarrassing in the extreme, Superintendent Carter commissioned the Inspector to undertake at once the ‘duties of organizing and Superintending our Police Department’. Montague Adams was demoted to sergeant, the Otago men were offered permanent positions, and Branigan was requested to send Enfield rifles, Colt revolvers, carbines and other paramilitary police equipage. 62
Whilst Morton began organising his new force from Picton he demanded, as ‘Superintendent’ of the new Marlborough ‘Police Escort Department’, a salary of £4OO. Although some cautious politicians demurred the government had little choice but to agree, and gave him a three month provisional appointment as head of police, a position soon called Commissioner. A policing budget of some £5OOO for the ensuing financial year was agreed to. Morton was allowed a force of three sergeants at 13s 6d per day, two mounted constables at 11s fid, seven foot constables at 11s, and a detective earning 12s. In addition, two district constables were allocated to Kaikoura to cope with the increased overland traffic from the south towards the Marlborough goldfield. Even this large increase in police was insufficient, Morton and others considered, hence his (abortive) plans to procure a bi-provincial force or at least to get Nelson Province to share the policing of the Wakamarina. 63
Before the end of May Commissioner Morton had taken two thirds of his new force through to the goldfields. The Examiner of 2 June, though noting the robbery of a tent pitched opposite the Havelock police camp, conceded that the ‘benefits of their presence are already beginning to be felt’. Canvastown was not a great deal quieter as a result of the stepped-up police presence but the Tows are always stopped in good time’. Still, the resources available to Sergeant Moore on the diggings up the river were thinly spread and complaints about the lack of police protection for miners and their gold therefore continued. Moreover there were running problems of
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order with a number of those who had arrived after all known auriferous land had been pegged out, and their numbers continued to swell. Delays in appointing the goldfields Warden meant too that overworked constables had to arbitrate in the many claims disputes on the diggings. All the same, as the new force increased in size and experience it was reportedly getting on top of its responsibilities, and its escort became a relative success. It superseded that run by Nelson, and by July it was bringing out 1400 ounces of gold in a single trip. 64
Morton’s task proved to be easy neither in the Wakamarina nor in the rest of the province. Putting the old police and local raw recruits in Victorian-style uniforms was merely the beginning of a somewhat difficult process of imposing quasi-military mores and discipline upon them. In addition to his experienced Otago men he sought out others with paramilitary policing background. His ideal recruit was 31 year old John Emerson, of Irish, Victorian, and Otago constabulary experience, a man who had learned to appreciate the need to temper coercion with discretion even in the process of imposing certain minimum codes of behaviour upon the surging social life of a goldfields-orientated community. This was a technique picked up by experience, and some of the non-Otago police in Marlborough found themselves in trouble for having too wholeheartedly and indiscriminately absorbed the Irish mode of policing from their new comrades. Morton soon found himself embarrassed by a case which Constable Overend brought without permission against a slygrog seller in Picton—fearing, correctly, that his force would be reviled by public opinion for ‘entrapping’ the offender. The Commissioner even argued in court for leniency towards the defendant in an attempt to placate public anger, but suspicions about the implications of the paramilitary chain of command remained and a strong school of opinion argued for magisterial supremacy over police in order to minimise excesses. When the idea of making the actions of constables accountable to someone other than the Commissioner surfaced in the Provincial Council in June, however, it was bound up with political wrangling. Magistrate Eyes, leader of the Blenheim faction, had accused Adams of questioning one of his own judicial decisions. The complainant, in a familiar rendition of the traditional view, contended that a constable, as a servant of the judiciary, was bound to be subordinate at all times to JPs. The Superintendent, knowing that the bitter feeling between the two men was rooted in the Blenheim perception of Adams as a lackey of the Commissioner, and the Commissioner a lackey of the Picton-based political executive, had refused
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to investigate Eyes’ grievance. Only when the Council narrowly blocked any further investigation of the issue was the magisterialist school of thought defeated. 66
In any case, on 20 June the Councillors passed a Police Regulation Ordinance which Morton had drafted to encapsulate the Victorian arrangements that he had introduced. The Commissioner of Police alone was given the prerogative of both appointing and dismissing constables, whilst the Superintendent of the Province carried out this responsibility with regard to NCOs and officers. As in Otago the ‘general control and management of the Police Force’ lay in the hands of the Commissioner, including a mandate to frame rules and regulations. Discipline was suitably strict; stiff fines or hard labour sentencing for offences such as leaving the force without giving three months’ notice, for example. George Grey, once again Governor of New Zealand, would have recognised in the Ordinance many of the characteristics of his 1846 police. Some of it, such as the oath of office, was copied verbatim from the founding Armed Police Force records. Although the Superintendent was in theory at the peak of the pyramid of command, in normal practice the Commissioner had, d la Victoria, full control over most internal matters; as a later Superintendent noted, although the legislation did not compel men to purchase a uniform, Morton made it mandatory. 66
The expensive new force had soon proved its value to the state by suppressing mass agitation by unsuccessful diggers for public works schemes. But the very existence of the agitation pointed to a grave dilemma faced by the government. It was soon beyond doubt that many more people had arrived than could be accommodated on what was proving to be a field very limited in size, and hopes for the discovery of other diggings opening up in the province were fast fading. A strong police was needed to quell the disorder that was to be predicted from this set of circumstances. Yet goldfields revenue had never been as great as expected, the Wakamarina falling into the category of a ‘poor man’s diggings’, and signs were that the current output would quickly dwindle in any case. How could a strong force be fiscally sustained? Part of the answer was easy; a highly paid Commissionership, politicians were soon noting, was neither permanently needed nor financially viable. An imminent decision to remove Morton was made even easier by the fact that the strains of policing a raw goldfields populace were aggravating the police chief’s fickle mental condition. On 9 July 1864 it was announced that the ‘eminently useful’ services of the Commissioner were to end by the beginning of August because of the probable impermanence of the diggings and therefore the lapsing of
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the purpose of his seconded position. Morton would return as Inspector to Otago. 57
Superintendent Carter’s executive had resigned over his alleged ‘dilatory, impracticable way of doing business’ at a time when speed and energy were required to reap the short-lived rewards of a working goldfield. Under increasing attack, he resigned from the Superintendency and therefore from the role of head of police just prior to Morton’s departure, and Acting Superintendent Baillie took over personal control of the police. He was confident of his abilities to do so because of a long military career which had included participating in the suppression of the Punjab. The former Otago men, unaware of the financial problems of the Marlborough state, had decided to stay on and in mid August Baillie transferred 28 year old Kinsella, who had been rapidly promoted to sergeant with his successful containment of disorder in the bustling capital of Picton, to take charge at a newly created separate police district centred on the servicing and port area for the goldfield. This jurisdictional division of the Wakamarina between supply and diggings area was new. Kinsella’s headquarters were to be located at Havelock and his area of responsibility to include Canvastown, whilst he also had overall charge of providing the escort.”
The rearrangement resulted from a riot at the upriver diggings, an event which those with a vested interest in order had been predicting with dread. Morton had placed Sergeant Cruickshank in charge at The Forks and given him one of the previous Marlborough men, Constable Samuel Goodall, as an assistant, Goodall having had English police experience. In mid August, when the latter was making an arrest, several dozen ‘rowdies’ interfered. Cruickshank intervened, and when in turn he was attacked, drew and fired his revolver, the bullet grazing a man’s face. The weapon was knocked from his hand, ‘he was then thrown to the ground, trampled on, and kicked in a savage and brutal manner to so great an extent that his life is deemed in danger’. Baillie in response planned to have a stronger detachment upriver, able to act autonomously from that of Havelock in order to prevent further such occurrences but also to have rapid access to the services of the downriver district whenever necessary. First of all, however, the former Picton NCO was assigned to show the goldfields community that riot would be greeted by the determined state application of condign power; Kinsella and his Havelock and Canvastown men converged on the valley to track down the ringleaders in that ‘lawless neighbourhood’. Cruickshank recovered, minus an eye, but he
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was not to return to duty at the upriver station. Immediately after the riot Goodall had been elevated to sergeant with full control—responsible to Picton, not to Havelock—of the Deep Creek/The Forks diggings. This task was somewhat alleviated by the upgrading to full Warden status of goldfields official Walter Hippolyte Pilliet, a young cousin of powerful Marlborough pastoralist Charles Clifford. 69
Goodall was charged to use his ‘utmost diligence to maintain order’ in his turbulent area of several thousand men. But already the field had passed its zenith; with the onset of winter diggers had begun moving away to the milder northern West Coast diggings, and by the summer larger numbers were beginning to transfer to the new West Canterbury fields. Meanwhile the Marlborough police, which had briefly peaked at just short of two dozen, had been, by deliberate policy on financial grounds reduced in size. Goodall had fewer than half a dozen men, whilst for emergencies the entire field could muster, including the escort, only a dozen police. As so often in policing, there was an element of false economy about the state’s retrenchment of its constabulary. Because of inadequate police protection at the upriver escort terminus under Goodall’s jurisdiction, many miners opted for depositing their gold with Sergeant Kinsella’s escort troopers immediately prior to their departure; in the ensuing melee, many would miss out and the Treasury at Picton would thereby suffer. As men realised that the Wakamarina was not going to provide them with the finds to which they aspired, they continued to drift from the field and the policing level was in consequence lowered even further. By the end of the year The Forks, down to 300 people, had lost three-quarters of its population. It was a vicious circle, for the depleted numbers of police could not then control the ‘rough’ elements remaining, and complaints of police incapacity to control disorder and protect property continued to flow in. All the same, many of the elements deemed most ‘undesirable’ were among the first to abandon the field. Additionally, disorder had been partly contained by the November appointment of T A S Kynnersley to his first official position, replacing Pilliet as Goldfields Warden. This was a choice the local police came to appreciate as a result of Kynnersley’s capacity to gain the confidence of the bulk of the miners.™
On 5 September 1864 pastoralist A P Seymour had become Superintendent of Marlborough, and three days later he had formalised the de facto arrangement under which his friend Baillie held the position of Police Commissioner. There was much public comment at this violation of the Victorian—and most other—
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Developments in Central New Zealand
systems of policing. It was ‘broadly asserted that the gallant Captain is not übiquitous, and that as Captain of the Marlborough Rangers, Commander of Militia, Speaker of the Provincial Council—also performing the duties of Clerk to the Council —and member of the Executive Council; the duties of Commissioner of Police, must, in a great measure, devolve’ in such circumstances upon the tier below that occupied by the Commissioner rank. Since there was a lacuna in police leadership between NCO and nominal head which it would be expensive to remove, this situation was fraught with problems. Yet even when Seymour and Baillie visited the diggings to assess the policing situation on the spot they decided to retain control of the police in their own hands, relying on their NCOs to exercise daily supervision and undertake any necessary discretionary activities. They were soon to discover that the Irish/ Victorian methods of their men, unchecked by any commissioned officer stratum, contained inherent problems of public relations. Ex-Otagoite Patrick Bergin, for example, had arrested the ‘respectable’ Nicholas Macdonald at Picton. He swore the man was the cattle thief for whom a warrant had been issued at Riverton in Southland, and for that reason the Picton magistrates would not allow Macdonald to speak in court. When Bergin arrived at Invercargill with the accused in irons, it became immediately clear that the latter ‘bore no resemblance whatever to the real culprit’ and Commissioner Weldon secured his release.”
In notifying that Southland had granted a free passage back to Picton for the wronged man, Weldon implied that Bergin could hardly have made a genuine mistake for Macdonald had both a blind eye and a speech impediment. Baillie was forced by public opinion to hold a public enquiry, at which Bergin was accused by Macdonald of framing him. This was said to have occurred in order that Bergin could get a trip south to see his wife in Dunedin, having failed to get permission for leave from the Marlborough police, and few disbelieved this version of events. The police image was further besmirched by a contemporary case of a man gaoled in Christchurch on information from Marlborough for allegedly murdering his mate, while the supposed corpse was ‘alive and well, walking about the streets of Picton’. Local opinion was vociferous. Outrages upon the liberty of innocent men have now become so common, that no one may feel himself safe from being seized at any time and kept in gaol for an indefinite period as being suspected of some crime entered in a criminal calendar.” 2
Macdonald requested a free passage to Sydney, lest other charges be wrongfully brought against him, and this the Marlborough
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
government granted along with £l5 compensation. But articulate public opinion was not placated, particularly in the light of a series of continuing incidents reflecting adversely on the attitude of the police. Marlborough’s detective, Mathew Callan, was fined for assaulting a Nelson publican when attempting to force his way into the Wakatu Hotel. When a new Resident Magistrate presided over the Picton court he was astounded at the aggressiveness displayed towards accused persons by Sergeant Cruickshank, who had since his injuries been placed in a less demanding post than that of the goldfields. That such problems would soon begin to disappear happened only because the flourishing West Coast fields south of the Grey river had lured away the majority of the remaining Wakamarina diggers. This process was speeded up by a big flood at the diggings early in 1865, by when the Deep Creek escort was bringing out little over 500 ounces per trip. By March there were only 400 or 500 people left on the Marlborough goldfield. Police salaries had already been reduced, and there was discussion on the fate of those remaining policemen who had managed to avoid redundancy. The upshot was that more men were dismissed, some of them finding policing jobs in neighbouring provinces. By May, apart from a district constable at Kaikoura and a part-time ‘Native Policeman’ George Pukekohatu gazetted the previous August, there were only seven police in the entire province: two each at Havelock, Deep Creek and Picton, and one at Blenheim. Soon two of the goldfields police would be redeployed to the heartland of Marlborough.’ 3
Baillie’s major problem was increasingly therefore not that of perceived police oppression but of insufficient regular police for emergency work. Even in early 1865, before the fullscale run-down of constabulary numbers at the Wakamarina, Canvastown police found difficulty in coping with three men who had broken into a grog store. When the burglars drew knives to fight off the constables, nearby diggers took sides and a general melee ensued before the initiators of the problem were, with difficulty, secured and forwarded to Havelock. When later in the year Constable John Jeffreys attempted to arrest some men at Deep Creek on a warrant issued in respect of claim jumping, they beat him and sent a message of defiance to the Warden, challenging him to attempt to seize their claims at The Forks even with the entire provincial force. Warden Kynnersley and Sergeant Goodall, who was by now in sole charge of the truncated police detachment in the goldfields area, had to swear in specials in an attempt to cope. But the unsatisfactory nature of this type of emergency remedy was indicated by the indiscretion of one of the specials in leaking their intentions: the
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‘rioters’ had abandoned camp to hide in the bush by the time that the police expedition reached their tents. Kynnersley’s request for two additional regular policemen to be stationed at The Forks in order, inter alia, to apprehend the wanted men could not be met.
It was soon widely considered in the political sphere that the force had been pruned too severely, and it was raised again to nine in mid year; three sergeants at 9s per day and six constables at 8s 6d (for one) and Bs. One of the new regulars, ex-Nelson constable Joseph Goodall, brother of Samuel, was appointed to take over from the Kaikoura district constable. Within a few months he had ‘cleaned up’ the alcohol-induced disorder of the town, something his predecessor had attempted in vain to do, and begun acquiring other official positions in the area. Baillie relied most of all, and increasingly, on his Sergeant at Picton, John Emerson, who was popular with the public for rescues of drowning people and suchlike, and many a ‘smart arrest’ by the sergeant was commented upon in the press. With Emerson’s years of experience in constabularies put to use, and his proximity to the politicians (including the nominal policing head) at the capital, the Commissioner soon came to treat him as the de facto ‘effective’ head of police in the province. The sergeant’s rigid adherence to paramilitary surveillance policing, simultaneously with popular acclaim, indicated that Victorian isation of method did not necessarily have to alienate the ‘respectable’ population of even a small provincial ‘urban’ area and its hinterland. Indeed, Emerson’s expertise would have been welcomed by many of the remaining diggers up the Wakamarina."
Later in 1865 there followed another ‘rival governments’ fiasco after Superintendent Seymour refused to accede to a majority Provincial Council vote that he move the capital back to Blenheim. The problem of which was the legitimate of rival executives was less clear-cut for the police this time, but since the matter went to litigation they were able to take refuge in parts of the 1864 legislation having instructed them to obey the commands of magistrates. They supervised new elections ordered by the judiciary, and amidst all the confusion the former Blenheim-based opposition squarely gained the majority and W H Eyes was installed, this time legally, in the Superintendency from 23 October. The government was to move, more permanently this time, into ‘somewhat palatial buildings’ in Blenheim. Although he represented the party of smallholders and businessmen, Eyes had personally amassed immense wealth as a runholder and he held the pastoralist elite in no fear. Immediately he decided that the province’s creaking finances were the result of the sinecures heaped by the pastoralist politicians upon themselves, their friends and their relatives. All superfluous
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offices, including Baillie’s Commissionership of Police and the position of Warden of the dying goldfields, were to be abolished. Upon request, on 2 November Captain Baillie and Warden Kynnersley were allowed pre-emptively to resign. After three weeks in office, Eyes had saved the province £2OOO in salaries. His retrenchment policies were realistic in the circumstances, and his ‘great force of character’ was to ensure that he usually got his own way in the end, but there were struggles ahead. 7 '
The Superintendent, facing a tough fight against the pastoralists, was aware of the importance in the power stakes of a police force both viable and pliable. Determined to keep a firm grip on the constables and therefore on the coercive capacity of his state, Eyes became Commissioner in all but name. His followers, on the other hand, were of the opinion that the economising knife should cut equitably as well as deeply through the departments of state. In order that the police force should be reduced in line with other departments, therefore, the NCOs were voted the services of only three constables. In the course of effecting this instruction and giving Constable John Overend of Picton only five days’ notice of dismissal, Eyes found himself on shaky legal ground as he had not been formally gazetted Commissioner under the terms of the 1864 new legislation. In the event it was not on this basis that Overend successfully sued the Superintendent: the £4O compensation which he won was awarded on the basis of inadequate notice of dismissal given to a man against whom no allegations of misconduct had been made. But a gap in the legal situation had been uncovered, and a Police Regulation Amendment Ordinance of June 1866 retransferred the powers taken by Morton as Commissioner to the Provincial Superintendent. Written into the new legislation during amendments was a clause which benefited the constables by taking into account the Overend case: a month’s notice of dismissal was necessary for men not accused of misconduct. Emerging from the controversy too was a decision that the practice of stopping money from constables’ salaries in order to pay for their uniforms was neither fair nor legal. 77
The legislation effected a direction in policing which was a reversion to the pre-Morton era, and with the goldfields era fast fading Eyes attempted in other ways to remove elements of Victorianisation. Indeed in some ways he unwittingly turned the clock back further than the immediate pre-goldfields period. He took literally, for example, the standard clauses in the Victorian-style legislation which gave JPs disciplinary and general powers over constables, and which had only of necessity been inserted in order to bring the rank of constable into line with the ancient office of constable.
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Eyes was too inexperienced in policing matters to realise the full implications of including in his instructions that the ‘police force in each district is under the more immediate supervision of the Resident Magistrate 0r... of the Bench of Magistrates.’ He was soon to realise that to devolve power in this way was to hand it to men already powerful, often his political enemies.”
In any case the Superintendent’s ruling on this matter clashed with his contemporaneous reassertion of the pyramidal police hierarchy. Whereas Baillie had implemented a system under which theoretically several NCOs reported directly to the Commissioner—albeit Emerson predominating in practice—Eyes, partly because he was suspicious of Emerson’s closeness to the previous regime but also because residual ‘disorder’ from the goldfields period was seen to require a regular chain of command, put aside past rivalries and raised Montague Adams (who had been stationed at Blenheim for some time) to the position of Senior Sergeant in the force. Any meaningful role for the magistracy quickly fell into desuetude for a period. At headquarters in the new capital Adams was to receive and despatch all police correspondence to the districts, and keep in close touch with the Superintendent by reporting at least three times weekly. In the unfolding of the Eyes regime, those clauses of the Ordinances which acknowledged the primacy of the Superintendent and of the chain of command were the ones which were in practice increasingly stressed. Adams forwarded all police correspondence to Eyes, and received from him ‘all directions relative to the force’. Indeed on the very day of his instructions to Adams Superintendent Eyes asserted his authority as effective head of police by ordering a Deep Creek and a Blenheim constable to exchange stations.”
The emergent new-style Marlborough police was, then, a peculiar hybrid. It fell far short of being a devolved, magisterial police of the type which might have been expected from Eyes’ instructions—but which would only have been viable had the area reverted totally to a pastoral society and economy. Instead the force was centralised as under Adams’ previous period of policing seniority, but now the Superintendent insisted on a rigidly authoritarian chain of command in the classic paramilitary mode. Yet in an important departure from the Victorian model its effective head was openly a political creature. The Senior Sergeant realised the inappropriateness of such organisational rigidity in a sparsely populated province in which disorder was becoming occasional and nucleated, although it were these same factors which enabled a political leader
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
to tackle the role of effective head of police, and began to implement a system of decision-making which made some allowance for the discretionary exercise of local initiative. Not a person to equivocate in doing what he considered best whatever the rules, Adams was soon in trouble for bypassing Eyes in a dispute with the Picton sergeant, the strong willed John Emerson. The senior NCO was comfortable enough with a chain of command system, so long as he could not only modify it but also head it. Thus in early 1866 the Senior Sergeant was put in his place. He was reminded that ‘no written communication, however trifling it may appear, is to be received without being laid before his Honor, who will tell you what answer to give’. A form of words, dictated to him for use in correspondence, was designed to ensure that the system operated in an inflexible manner. Whenever Adams wrote to his men he was specifically to state that he was acting on the Superintendent’s orders, and in communicating with him his constables were required to state that they were reporting ‘for the information of His Honor the Superintendent’. Soon after the mid 1866 police legislation regularising the situation of the Superintendent acting in the capacity but not the title of Commissioner, Eyes was actually styling himself Commissioner of Police. 80
To insist by then on a stiff paramilitary disciplinary and command structure was anachronistic, for the need for overtly repressive policing was gone with the run-down of the Wakamarina. Even the formal appearance of the Victorian system was collapsing in response to enforced and continuing retrenchments in state spending: Marlborough Province, like Southland, was not an economically viable political entity in the absence of major goldfields. An indication of the trend towards ongoing reduction in policing coverage was the earlier withdrawal of the remaining constable at Deep Creek to fill a gap at headquarters in Blenheim. This left, to the protest of many of the diggers still at the Wakamarina, only Sergeant Samuel Goodall at Havelock to control the entire western sector of the province. It was soon to be widely said that a police presence at Deep Creek might have discouraged the Burgess gang from committing the murders on the Maungatapu track that June. As it was it had been Goodall, escorting prisoners to Nelson in the company of friends of the disappeared Deep Creek party, who had confirmed to Shallcrass that foul play was highly likely and who, in searching Nelson with men who knew the gang by sight, had arrested Levy in the Wakatu Hotel."'
But hard economic facts meant that the process of retrenchment was relentless. In early 1866 the ‘several members of the force in the Province’ had lost their privilege of free light and fuel; in mid
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year the force was reduced to six; the problems of controlling a province in serious financial straits increasingly forced Eyes, first tacitly and then later in theory, to abandon the Victorian chain of command as a normal modus operandi. Indeed delegated operation soon went further than the Senior Sergeant wished, albeit falling short of the magisterial devolution talked about at the beginning of the Eyes regime. Although Adams continued to receive reports directly from his men, the logic of the situation ensured that Sergeant Emerson came to act mainly under the orders of the Picton Resident Magistrate, Samuel Goodall under Resident Magistrate Pilliet, and his brother, now a sergeant, under the instructions of the Kaikoura magistrates—so long as these various members of the judiciary toed the government line. The organisational structure of the force had by that stage evolved as far as was necessary from the Victorianism induced by the Wakamarina influx, with but 150 diggers remaining on the field. Yet despite this devolutionary trend, Eyes required there to be in place a chain of command that could be activated to his own satisfaction whenever he wished. Adams’ behind-scenes resistance to the Superintendent’s initial pretensions to be effective head had developed into a bitter feud between the two men, and in late 1866 the Senior Sergeant was demoted and transferred to Picton. John Emerson, having done penance for his prominent policing role in the previous government, replaced him on 1 December as Senior Sergeant at police headquarters in Blenheim. Emerson was a man whom the Superintendent could trust to carry out his policing wishes with a minimum of supervision. 82
Emerson had himself been reprimanded, after his dispute with Adams, for communicating directly with the government. But in view of the circumstances the rebuke had been gentle, for Adams had refused to pass on Emerson’s complaints about his conduct to the Superintendent and the complainant had no other course available to pursue. The new senior NCO in charge had received his basic training while working up to the rank of sergeant in the Irish Constabulary, a service interrupted by his inclusion in that force’s special draft to the Crimea, where he had been wounded in action and won a distinction for bravery. After emigrating to Victoria and joining its police he had specialised in escort duty, transferring to Branigan s Otago force in February 1863 and serving at the diggings at Tuapeka and Wakatipu. His goldfields policing experience was such that when he had applied to join Commissioner Morton’s reconstituted Marlborough Constabulary he had at once been taken on and sent to Havelock. With his elevation now to a position that saw him soon reverting to effective head of police in
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the Province his operational command was seldom interfered with by Eyes, although the Superintendent did reserve for himself certain powers such as the selection of policemen, even at constable level. Although Emerson never forgot the need for a reserve function, for police to be able to concentrate their resources in unified formation, and drilled his small force accordingly, the tasks of the Marlborough police had altered greatly from those of the goldfields days. 83
Christchurch politician Travers summed up Emerson’s force, from an outsider’s point of view, in 1867: Marlborough had ‘little room for robbers, and with no extraordinary wealth, it being for the most part a pastoral district’, it required only a small police mechanism. ‘During the few occasions that I have had to pass through Picton I do not remember to have seen a single policeman . ...’
Those small numbers of individuals with great wealth, mostly the runholding oligarchy, found it cheaper in normal circumstances to handle problems of local social control themselves rather than tax their class to pay for a sizeable province-wide police force. Consequently the Senior Sergeant’s task was not easy: with only five men he had to conduct police superintendence over a very large area, whilst frequently being forced to resist efforts by the provincial politicians to lower police rates of pay from the established base rate of 8s daily, even to resist efforts to further cut back on personnel. This latter was one battle he lost at the end of 1867, when he was obliged to reduce his small staff by one man. Even after these drastic economies, with police salaries costing a mere £BOO annually, the government stated firmly that policing could not necessarily be excluded from further public spending retrenchment. This is not to say that the political leadership did not value the work of the police. As each month rolled by the Marlborough executive begged the General Government for a grant of money which would at very least allow it to pay its policemen and thereby retain their services: the force might be reducible, but it was far from dispensable. 8 *
Marlborough Province had imported the Irish/Victorian/Otago police model in order to meet a specific crisis of order of the type with which that system had evolved to cope. When the emergency and its ramifications had begun to dissipate, the Marlborough police had embarked upon its own wandering search for a coherent direction. As so often, the paramilitarisation of a force was succeeded by a long, often confused and never total regression to less overt modes of policing as the perceived social ‘emergency’ began to dissipate. The new course in Marlborough was partly a mixture of the different policing arrangements of the pre-goldfields era, insofar as the top political leader asserted his rights to head the police
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after the Morton period and the province’s economy was to become once more primarily pastoral based. But the force also retained those residual elements of Victorianisation which were required in an area that, in the wake of a brief but frenzied diggings period, could never completely replicate its pastoralist socio-economic past.
Nelson’s response to the crisis of a vastly bigger and more sustained goldfield, though one far more isolated from the mainstream regions of the province, had been of greater indigenised and empirical makeup. All the same, similar problems in that province had produced similar solutions to those applied in Victoria, Otago and elsewhere, a trend reinforced by the close proximity of the Victorianised West Canterbury police from which men and ideas were freely borrowed. Moreover in Nelson South-West the evolution from the strict paramilitarism of the raw goldfields force had not progressed far —certainly vis-a-vis the Marlborough police—by the end of 1867. A reminder of why this was so would come not far into the following year, when civil war seemed to threaten between ‘Fenian’ and ‘loyalist’ diggings factions in the Addison’s Flat/Buller area. Marlborough’s microcosmic policing odyssey from pre- to post-goldfields experience had been that of extremes. To meet its societal emergency the province—with its tiny force designed only to cope with the small, scattered population of a pastoral regionhad imported a ready-made paramilitary detachment, while in response to the quickest and most drastic fall-off in importance of any of New Zealand’s major goldfields it departed faster and further from the Victorian mode of policing than any of the provinces which paramilitarised their police forces. The general pattern was familiar enough: the advent of gold rushes would bring a brief flurry of official and unofficial policing improvisation, and this would be superseded by an equivalent or replication of a Victorianised force. After the heyday of the goldfields, a protracted, painful and incomplete disengagement from the large and repressively-orientated paramilitarised force would set in. Within this pattern, as the Marlborough experience illustrated most dramatically, the specific circumstances of time and place, society and economy, dictated a series of indigenised state responses to challenges to ‘order’.
Agents of the Political Executive: Policing Wellington Province, 1861-7
Across Cook Strait the regionalised problems of order in Wellington Province, quite different from those of the northern South
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Island, had also produced their own indigenised responses by the state. These developments did not usually by any means closely follow the logic of socio-racial policing evolution in the centre and north of the North Island, where the potential and actual threat of Maori insurrection against the pakeha state loomed considerably larger. Wellington Province’s policing borrowed and adapted aspects of policing from both Islands, but largely followed a trajectory determined by its own socio-economic base, its political superstructure, its tribal politics and its geographical location.
By the turn of the decade the effort by the Provincial Council majority to oust the political dominance of the pastoralist elite looked shaky. Control of the police was one of the main state functions to have remained firmly in the Superintendent’s hands, providing him with a power base from which to sustain his defiance of the Councillors —albeit a somewhat unsteady base as the financial implications of Featherston’s stance hit ever harder home. At the very end of 1860, with its long denial of supply to the nonrepresentative government of Featherston having made no policy impact, the Wellington Provincial Council acknowledged that its strategy to bring the pro-pastoralist executive into line with its own views had not worked. It now agreed to the Superintendent’s longstanding demand for dissolution. The ensuing Council elections of 1861 were a triumph for the large pastoralist interests, with but a single Radical Reform member, Charles Borlase, successful. On 2 March 1861 Dr Featherston was duly re-elected Superintendent and could now turn his attention to the problems of the citybased provincial police, securing a permanent replacement for the late Samuel Styles within four days. The new Sergeant-Major in charge of the Wellington Province Armed Police Force was a policeman whom he could trust to carry out his wishes with singleminded ferocity, 33 year old Frederick Atchison. ‘Union’ unrest in the police would now be a thing of the past, for the new effective head was renowned as a disciplinarian, and the entire mode of functioning would be tightened. But the choice of Atchison helped to create an unhappy public image for the provincial police.* 5
This might well have been predicted in view of the evidence. Atchison had never exhibited any great degree of sensitivity in his public dealings, nor indeed (despite his insistence on internal police discipline after he became chief of police) in his relationship with Styles, against whom he had fought unremittingly. None of this bothered the Superintendent, who had managed to retain pastoral political dominance because of his own autocratic behaviour: a highly politicised and if necessary repressive police was fully in
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accord with his propensities. True to form, within a couple of months the Sergeant-Major had precipitated a saga which exposed to public scrutiny not only some obdurate aspects of his character and the fact that he was entirely the creature of the dictatorial Superintendent and the interests that dignatory represented, but also some crucial components of ‘official ideology’. In the course of a domestic dispute between labourer James Newry and his wife the police had been called in. During ensuing negotiations Atchison stated that he personally would prevent Newry removing furniture from the family home in the working class suburb of Te Aro. During ensuing litigation, however, Resident Magistrate A B Ferard warned the chief of police in open court that any such police intervention would be unlawful. In May the landlord of the house, claiming that his property would suffer as a result of Newry’s ‘quarrelsome and violent conduct’, ordered the man to leave. Newry, knowing that a court order was required for such eviction, refused to go. The police were again called and Atchison, Corporal Charles Millward and a private dragged him from the house by his hair and placed him in the Lambton Quay lockup. When they later released him, Newry was told that his freedom was conditional upon his not returning to his house under any circumstances. In terms of the eviction incident per se, nothing remarkable had occurred. Such discretionary action by the police, whatever its legal status, was an accepted part of the fabric of social control by the state and its agents of coercion, although to be sure it was not common for the chief of police to be personally involved in the melee.
The vital factor which first elevated this incident from the unremarkable into a cause celebre was that both before and after Newry had been locked up, Atchison had refused to allow him to remove his furniture from the house. The man in nominal and effective charge of the coercive sector of the provincial executive had thereby blatantly defied an instruction by a member of the judicial arm of the state—in a jurisdictional space legally occupied by members of the magistracy alone—and had committed an assault in the process. Resident Magistrate Ferard therefore fined Atchison a total of £2 16s 6d, the smallness of the amount no doubt conditioned by the Sergeant-Major’s role as the servant of the powerful Dr Featherston. The commotion which the SergeantMajor’s actions had precipitated might have died away had he quietly acknowledged the validity of his punishment, but that was not in his nature. He now ensured that the storm intensified, with the Wellington police at its eye, by defiantly refusing to pay up and
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instead appealing to his masters, the members of the provincial government. Dr Featherston and his executive, long used to handling the internal affairs of the state of Wellington Province virtually unchecked, opted to uphold their head of police vis-a-vis Ferard, a servant of the General Government: the provincial government absolved Atchison of blame in the whole affair and undertook to pay his fines. As soon as the Sergeant-Major was notified of this on 23 May he further exacerbated what might still have remained a minor jurisdictional dispute by taunting Ferard when passing on the information. 86
For some days already the Resident Magistrate had been warning Atchison of the necessity to pay his fine promptly. Since no money had eventuated by 25 May, despite the Sergeant-Major’s mocking notification that the government would pay, he declared the head of police to be in a ‘state of insubordination’ and issued a warrant of committal against him. Millward, under those traditional police regulations which were invariably incorporated uneasily into the chain-of-command organisation of paramilitary forces, had no choice as second in command in Wellington but to accept magisterial supremacy in the field of executing directions correctly issued under the law. He was therefore obliged to obey instructions to arrest Sergeant-Major Atchison at once, at the very time when his superior was demonstrating to the entire city police how to use a new fire engine. The humiliated Atchison was released from custody only when the fine was paid over by the provincial government. 87
Featherston and his executive viewed the whole episode as an intrastate coup by central against regional authority, and sought to assert their supremacy over the Wellington judicial representative of General Government. Using his delegated powers the Superintendent remitted the fine for what he characterised as only an ‘alleged assault’ upon Newry by Atchison, and ordered Ferard to repay the money to the Provincial Treasurer. This amounted to a declaration of civil war. The first of the ensuing skirmishes was originated by the Resident Magistrate. He protested at the damaging effect that the remission would produce in the attitude of the police towards the judiciary, particularly in view of the ‘gross impertinence’ and ‘insolence’ displayed by the Sergeant-Major towards him even in open court. All his future communications to Atchison, he predicted, would ‘be received in a spirit of sullen and disrespectful opposition which is likely to extend itself to the force under his control’. Superintendent Featherston refused to discuss the matter with him, ostensibly on the curious ground of the Resident Magistrate’s allegation that the depositions shown to the
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Superintendent by Atchison upon which Featherston had made his original decision had been obtained ‘surreptitiously’ from the court. Even had Ferard’s accusation been false, it was scarcely a legitimate reason for the Superintendent refusing to engage in dialogue upon the keynote issues involved. In any case the accusation was, in the event, proven to be more or less correct: the clerk of the bench had left the documents out overnight for Atchison’s perusal only, and the Sergeant-Major had without authorisation ordered Millward to copy them. 88
Featherston had no choice but to issue at least a nominal reprimand to Atchison for such irregular procedure, but followed this action immediately with what the judicial arm of the state saw as the crowning insult —he promoted his chief of police to commissioned officer rank, effective from 1 June. The instructions for the new Inspector, in setting out his relationship with the judiciary, stated merely that he should give judicial officials any help that ‘they can reasonably require’. Hitherto the head of provincial police had maintained a close connection with court procedures, not only being involved—like most senior policemen in the colony—in prosecution procedures but also presiding over the constables’ duties where they intersected with those of court and custodial officials. Now, Featherston told him, it was neither his duty to attend court nor within his terms of reference to undertake functions rightfully those of a bailiff, whose office was a General Government responsibility. Should Ferard attempt to make the police carry out duties properly belonging to the judicial machinery, Atchison was at once to inform the Superintendent. Throughout the colony in normal circumstances the criminal justice system operated in tandem with the police system, but Dr Featherston was prepared to sabotage this in Wellington city in order to stress the ultimate supremacy of the executive arm of the state, of which the police were a crucial component, over that of the judiciary. 89
Resident Magistrate Ferard retaliated in kind. Since the informal merging at the courthouse of the two mechanisms of state had been destroyed, and since he could trust the police to respect the confidentiality of court documents only were he himself present, policemen could not now use the ‘Police Orderly Room’ at the courthouse as an operational base for general police duties. Instead, they could use it only during court hours, and even then only for duty actually connected with persons appearing before the court. At the same time Ferard appealed to the General Government, qua controller of the criminal justice system, for support. The colonial ministry was already predisposed towards an unfavourable attitude to the Wellington police, for British naval authorities had for some
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time been complaining of its constables’ allegedly ‘utterly inefficient’ performance in capturing deserters and of a ‘license prevailing’ in Wellington which was ‘most prejudicial to HM service’, problems attributable in part to laxity of internal police and therefore of societal control during former head of police Styles’ long illness. On 10 July 1861 Attorney-General Frederick Whitaker came down in favour of Ferard and against the Feather-ston-Atchison position: the political storm intensified.”
In a view endorsed by the Legislative Council, of which he was a member, Whitaker ruled that Grey’s 1853 delegation to Superintendents of the power to remit judicial decisions was unlawful, that in any case Governor Browne had not reconfirmed any such delegation, and that even if the original remission had been and was still lawful its mode of use in the current case was ‘open to the most serious objections’. Featherston’s actions in constituting himself as a court of appeal without even taking evidence were unconstitutional and undermined the system of justice. And finally, Whitaker ruled, the depositions made it clear that Atchison had indeed assaulted Newry. 91
The Attorney-General, however, always more interested in amassing wealth through land speculation than in governing, had spoiled his case by inadequate homework. Featherston was able to point to 31 remissions of sentence by Superintendents under Browne’s Governorship. The prerogative of pardon, he riposted, was common where a technical breach of the law had occurred in which ‘the offender may be placed in such circumstances that he will stand in a great measure and perhaps be wholly excused in moral and general justice though not in strictness of law.’ Atchison, he now claimed in an argument which did not explain the release without arrest of Newry at the police station, had been acting under his responsibility as constable to suppress a breach of peace. Both sides were weltering in a sea of technical disputation. The situation had in any case been transformed two days after the Whitaker ruling by the fall of the long-running Stafford ministry; the new General Government, that of William Fox, was allied with Dr Featherston, who indeed was briefly its first Colonial Secretary. 92
In investigating Featherston’s demand that Ferard be dismissed, new Attorney-General Henry Sewell uncovered a technicality which was said to invalidate Atchison’s conviction. It was Newry’s wife who on paper had rented their house, and as she had consented to his eviction he had been, at the point of resistance to the order to leave, in the eyes of the law an intruder. It was correct for a
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constable to lay hands on him in such circumstances, and to prevent him regaining access in order to remove furniture. This interpretation enabled Sewell to heavily censure Ferard for displaying ‘positive animus’ towards Atchison, and to rescind the late General Government’s condemnation of the Inspector’s actions. He could hardly avoid, however, administering rebuke to Atchison for his disrespectful language to the Resident Magistrate in open court and for his unauthorised copying of the depositions. Even the Superintendent did not escape censure of sorts for having forged ahead with action relating to the conviction without consulting Ferard. Dr Featherston won the remission argument however: power for Superintendents to remit sentences was declared to be still valid under Grey’s original pledge. 83
Sewell moreover went further, in a pronouncement which had great implications for policing in the colony: Featherston’s actions in the Atchison case had been absolutely correct. T think it would be detrimental to the Public Service if Officers of Police acting bona fide in the discharge of their duties were made liable to fine and imprisonment.’ Ferard should not have taken criminal proceedings against the chief of police but left it to Newry to open civil proceedings against either Atchison or the landlord. The Resident Magistrate was instructed that the Inspector was ‘an Executive Officer equally entitled to the protection of the Government in the due discharge of his duties as yourself.’ If policemen ‘acting upon reasonable presumption in the fair discharge of their duty, were made liable to imprisonment as Criminals’ then ‘very serious detriment’ to the functioning of the state would occur. 84
Sewell hoped that his ruling had laid to rest the entire episode, but in acknowledging that the affair had assumed ‘somewhat a political character’ the Attorney-General himself explained why this aspiration was premature. Quite apart moreover from the wrangle between the central and regional executives, a cherished facet of ‘official ideology’, that however right a constable believed himself to be, in the final analysis he was subject to judicial interpretation of the law, had been implicitly exposed as hollow. So Ferard continued to ask awkward questions in defending the traditional and never openly challenged theory of the autonomy of the judiciary and the inviolability of ‘the law’: how was it that ‘political and party motives’ were allowed to interfere with the decision of a magistrate to punish a policeman who had acted, in his assessment, illegally? If police regulations permitted defiance of the law they should be altered, for whatever Sewell claimed the law did not exempt from accountability constables who acted extralegally
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(deliberately or otherwise) in the course of their work. The effect of the General Government stance was actually to advise magistrates to ignore the law in specific circumstances. Was this what was intended? 95
This and other questions posed by Ferard were to his mind merely rhetorical: in theory ‘the rule of law’ and the principle of judicial independence were both complementary and sacrosanct. But reality was more complex than this. The functioning of the state, its very raison d’etre, required of its servants the imposition and safeguarding of ‘order and tranquillity’ as their overriding responsibility. Wielders of ‘the law’, including the police and the judiciary, were expected—whatever the theory—to apply it whenever necessary in a selective fashion, to employ ‘discretion’ in ways which promoted ‘peace and good order’. Debate arose when there were conflicts of opinion over when and how to invoke the unwritten rules of discretion. Whitaker’s assessment of the Fer-ard-Atchison dispute had been that the interests of the state required that the theories of ‘law and order’ and judicial independence be upheld in order to avoid public scrutiny of the hiatus between the hegemonic ideology of the state and the actual purposes which underlay it. The Fox ministry’s assessment was that the interests of the state and of ‘order’ required the willing cooperation of both General and Wellington governments, albeit at the possible expense of partial demystification of the doctrine of a law always neutrally applied by an independent judiciary. If this cooperation depended upon placating the irascible Featherston regime,
so be it, and Ferard would be ignored. When the Government indeed managed at last both to downplay the legal/ideological ramifications of its ruling and truncate the still-rumbling debate between centripetal and centrifugal executive force, the risk seemed to have paid off.
It reckoned however without the character of the Wellington head of police. Atchison, not content to let the matter rest, sought public vindication and private profit by suing Resident Magistrate Ferard for damages for wrongful and malicious imprisonment. After a long and bitter case, during which the Inspector concealed until the last moment the technicality upon which he hoped to win, the judge pronounced that the gaoling had been proper and nonmalicious. Meanwhile in pursuing the case into the judicial arena Atchison had forced that arm of the state to defend its theoretical independence from other state sectors: as had clearly emerged in the litigation which had kept the matter in the centre of the public eye, Ferard’s decision had been opposed on political grounds and this was deemed to be beyond the pale. Judge Johnston, in addi-
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tion, castigated the constables involved in the Newry affray for having ‘acted illegally throughout and proved themselves guilty along with Atchison of punishable assault.’ He expressed hope that the constables had acted through ignorance rather than by conspiracy to defy the judicial system, and that in future they would obey magistrates, whose ‘proper Officers’ they were. He declared that constables were liable to grave penalties for disobedience or disrespect to magistrates, although ‘at present’ he would take the case under consideration no further. 56
The judge thus incorporated into his statement of the theory of judicial autonomy within the state the traditional English system of the subservience of constables to the magistracy, the latter having of course been over many centuries the key local agency of social control. Yet since 1846, as confirmed by the 1852 rules under which it still operated, the Wellington ‘Armed Police Force’ had been a strictly hierarchical body in which members were responsible to their superiors—and at the apex of which stood ‘an Executive Officer’ responsible directly to his political superiors. For the General and provincial governments to have challenged the judge’s findings in a direct fashion however would have provoked yet another constitutional crisis, one of immense public impact because of the now sensational character of the Wellington clash between police and judiciary. The Fox ministry opted out of further public controversy damaging to the ideological norms of the state by merely quietly declining to endorse the Johnston viewpoint rather than stridently denouncing it and Whitaker’s position, and by instructing Featherston to ensure that his police from now on acted with deference and respect to the magistracy. 87
Privately the General Government was angered by Atchison’s self-seeking legal action which had destroyed the successful conclusion attained as a result of Sewell’s calculated risk. The actions of the head of police in Wellington had publicly highlighted anomalies between the theory and the reality of the mechanisms of state, and a risky manoeuvre had therefore in the end failed—with no compensatory positive results for the ministry. Also angered were many people of influence who normally backed Featherston but who remained unimpressed by the Superintendent’s defence of his Inspector. Atchison had been revealed for all his disciplinarian attitudes as psychologically fragile, since he had been (in the Province’s official version of the story) driven to extremes by a judicial official allegedly attempting to ’irritate and provoke’ him. To be sure this claimed taunting had supposedly been by such methods as deliberately degrading him in front of his men, or conducting such close surveillance over the police on court premises as to supervise
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Millward’s visits to the lavatory; and Ferard had indeed been deemed guilty of ‘undignified conduct’. But none of this excused Atchison’s ‘want of personal respect and cordial obedience to the Magistrate’, or the revelation of the Inspector’s want of toughness of character, or —worst of all —his willingness to drag the whole affair, with its grave ramifications, into the public arena when the General Government had come out on top. Particularly after this latter occurrence, Featherston’s actions in defending and even encouraging Atchison and Millward, who in turn was promoted on 1 October 1861 (to sergeant), were frowned upon as inexpedient. Although the Superintendent, secure in his position as de facto autocrat, laughed off the criticisms, public sympathy for the Resident Magistrate had increased when he resigned as a result of Sewell’s strictures upon him—and waxed further when Judge Johnston pronounced his actions to have been correct all along. Inextricably bound up in the public atmosphere was a dawning realisation that the ‘rule of law’ could be a different creature from that which was officially portrayed. 98
The anti-police feeling which was also generated by the controversy was mitigated or exacerbated, depending upon the location of the observer in the various economic, social and ideological spectra, by tightened surveillance of the populace, particularly in the urban area, by Atchison’s police. Featherston had required this because both the comparative laxity of Styles’ last months and lowered police morale resulting from the scarcity of provincial state resources was thought to have enabled a build-up of turbulence. The increase in disorder noted by observers was in fact a reflection of colony-wide socio-economic change, aggravated moreover by the movement of military foci southwards from Auckland after the outbreak of the first Taranaki campaign. In response to the perceived increase in turmoil, among other things surveillance-patrol techniques were tightened and more police weaponry was imported into the province, some of it supplied by Branigan from Otago. The Superintendent also used the opportunity of Atchison’s promotion to bring the fruits of the increased surveillance more firmly under his own control. Certainly his official instructions gave the new Inspector a degree of discretionary power which brought him part way towards the considerable freedom from direct control that was possessed by his South Island counterparts: he could make his own appointments without reference to the Superintendent, for example. There was on balance, however, a curtailing of the powers hitherto exercised by the Wellington chief of police. He was firmly notified to cease dismissing men without prior reference to Featherston, his discretion was strictly curtailed by an insistence
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on literal interpretation of most of the 1852 regulations, and he was now obliged to provide weekly general intelligence reports to his superior together with immediate reports on ‘all circumstances connected with, or affecting in any way, the peace’ of the province. The paramilitary and reserve force structure of the bulk of Wellington’s police had been retained to a much tighter degree than in Nelson, partly because of the ‘native problem’, more so because of the requirements of Featherstonism. It was this latter factor which set the force apart from other sizeable New Zealand police operations; the majority of its provincial constables, those based in Wellington city, were very overtly, undisguisedly, agents of the political executive.”
This situation was more veiled in the province’s second largest urban centre, Wanganui, and its hinterland, that area of Wellington region where conflict with the Maori was likeliest, for here the magistracy were heavily involved in the policing function. In the capital Featherston’s requirements for police activity were mediated through the head of police, but in the northern centre Atchison’s control over the detachment had been theoretically greater than Styles’ but still only nominal. Indeed the Superintendent handled the overall direction of the policing problems of Wanganui personally without reference to the provincial head of police, particularly because of the threat of war spilling southwards from Taranaki. Featherston, often billed as a leader of the colonial ‘peace party’, had no desire for race conflict to interfere with the pakeha economy of his province in general and the interests of himself and his runholding and other allies in particular. Because of the communications problem with Wanganui the Superintendent had however delegated to the local judiciary the task of policing control—in any meaningful, immediate sense—in that region. All the same, in response to the struggle between judicial and executive authority which arose from the Newry affair Featherston made fresh moves to ensure that it was understood that magisterial control over Corporal David Atkinson and his small ‘Wanganui Police Force’ was by delegation only: he initiated an investigation into the detachment’s efficiency, and then dismissed one of its privates for his conduct in a disturbance. To rub the lesson home to the Wanganui judiciary he ordered the corporal rather than the magistrates to appoint the replacement, subject to his own power of veto as Superintendent, and repeated such exercises from time to time.'”
In terms of his overarching brief to avoid race warfare within the
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province Featherston had stressed in his instructions to Inspector Atchison rule 62 of the 1852 regulations, the need for ‘greater tolerance’ towards Maoris, especially to prevent the ‘evil consequences’ attendant upon causing inadvertent ‘irritation’ to members of chiefly castes. He and the judiciary relied for daily control of the delicate state of order in and around Wanganui township upon the discretion of Atkinson, who as a former imperial army NCO had a good relationship with the garrison and its police and who liaised with the Resident Magistrate in charge of Maori affairs and with the ‘loyalist’ runanga. In addition, the two constables based at Rangitikei and Turakina travelled their designated areas once a week, distributing mail en route and passing intelligence back to the local magistrates to whom they reported. The crucial prerequisite for interracial coexistence in the north-western countryside was however seen to be collaborationist runanga. When many of these were deemed agencies of the state under an ‘indirect rule’ scheme implemented by the returned Governor Grey in a number of areas of the North Island from late 1861 a key mode of policing in the most tense part of Wellington Province came under the formal control of the General Government’s Native Department. But the exposed position of the Wanganui region to insurrectionary tribes was to ensure that the ‘official runanga’ were under tighter local control by pakeha officialdom than many elsewhere—and that this officialdom, albeit usually judicial, came under the close scrutiny of the peripatetic Dr Featherston. ‘Loyalist’ and official runanga, the latter complete with their own judicial and police agencies whose formal channel of liasion was with the Resident Magistracy, often defused potentially explosive situations. When a settler during the course of a fight in mid 1862 killed a Maori who had stolen his pig the Wanganui garrison went on the alert, but after deliberations and investigations the local runanga concluded that the fault lay with the deceased. 101
There were many other such examples of local Maori forbearance. When tribal representative Pehimana was returning to his tent, pitched in town during a visit to sell produce, he was stopped by two soldiers and brutally attacked. The turmoil brought to the scene a runanga constable, ‘one of Mr. White’s Native policemen’, who secured one of the offending soldiers with the help of nearby Maori civilians. Corporal Atkinson, chancing upon the scene, assumed that he had discovered a European being maltreated by Maoris and ordered the latter to free their prisoner, who at once ran off. When the runanga constable managed to explain the situation Atkinson was ‘most anxious’ to recapture the offenders, but it was too late. Wanganui pakehas were impressed that the tribes
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people ‘behaved very well in the matter’ by not only treating the attack as the ‘violent act of a half-drunken man’ who was not representative of the military but also by refraining from taking the circumstances of the escape any further. 102
But despite the propensity for some official and non-official runanga to play the pakeha system to a greater or lesser degree, complex difficulties in race relations were far more common —even at the white interface with those same runanga. In terms of control of territory the north-west of Wellington Province was a microcosm of the situation which prevailed over vast areas of the North Island: a pakeha nucleus, a hinterland of various degrees of settler penetration and various and changing degrees of cooperation by Maoris therein, and —usually farthest from the European centre — areas that were no-go for the pakeha. Coexistence with the pakeha could not necessarily be seen as synonymous with consent. Sometimes extraordinary passivity would be shown in the face of settler provocation by even dissident Maoris, a self-preservation measure to prevent the might of imperial authority falling upon them. At other times, ‘friendly’ hapu tied in to the official runanga system would resist manifestations of state power. When Atkinson sent one of his Maori privates to ‘loyalist’ Matutaera Pa to arrest a man accused of attempted assault of a young pakeha woman, the constable was resisted and could not ‘proceed to extremities’ of action because of ‘the apparent temper of the natives’. According to the police, the only problem was that the inhabitants of the pa wanted the accused to be tried by Resident Magistrate W Duller at Turakina rather than face white prejudice in Wanganui, but in the eyes of the authorities to accede to this would be interpreted by settlers and Maoris alike as buckling in the face of forceful resistance.
Corporal Atkinson and his man consulted Duller, who provided them with five runanga constables for a return expedition in order to establish that the European law and its enforcement procedures must run their course unimpededly. By then the suspect had fled the pa, and a sizeable number of the inhabitants were recanting their previous stance in view of its implications, with Duller threatening to dismiss all salaried officials at Matutaera if the offender, Wirihana Mohara, were not captured. The Resident Magistrate and the local head of police now doubled the number of runanga constables in the search party. Colleagues of the fugitive contacted Kingite Maoris at Kaiwhike who, seeing this as a method of recruiting by proclaiming that converts to Kingism would be sheltered from pakeha officialdom, despatched half a dozen ‘soldiers’ to prevent the arrest. A skirmish occurred when the two sides met,
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the ‘loyalists’ led by Assessor Tahana of Matutaera, and although the ‘official Maoris’ reportedly ‘acted pluckily’ the Kingites won and departed for Kaiwhike with Wirihana. There was contempt among Taranaki whites for ‘the abortive efforts of the emissaries of the law’ to their south. But the problems of governing an expansive area where adherents of Kingism, of ‘loyalism’ (or ‘Queenism’) and of neither intermingled and shifted their positions with some frequency were of a different order to those of policing the tiny pakeha enclave around New Plymouth. 103
In early 1863 Grey added new Assessors and ‘native constables’ to the official paylist for the Wanganui area, ostensibly in response to the wishes of a ‘friendly native’ delegation to Auckland but in actuality as part of his plan to neutralise various regions in preparation for an invasion of the Waikato which was by then planned. This process of ‘buying off ’ certain influential rangatira had, local authorities agreed, a measure of success, particularly when coupled with Maori assessments of the value of commercial transactions with the pakeha. Such cooperation might be only temporary and conditional, but it helped the white authorities maintain a level of ‘order’ in the countryside that the state could live with. By April a ‘marked change’ was being noted amongst hitherto non-loyalist Maoris in the Wanganui area, even on its northern frontier with rebel-held southern Taranaki. Resident Magistrate John White, for example, had taken some runanga police to the northern boundaries of the Wanganui Block to accept the surrender terms of two former insurrectionist chiefs, one of them from the border settlement of Patea. Moreover even in the heartland of south Taranaki Te Ua Haumene, the prophet whose teachings were soon to inspire the pai marire resistance movement, wrote to White that he was willing to make peace. When as a sign of proof the Wanganui Resident Magistrate demanded return of mixed-race offender Henry Bates, Te Ua arranged that a Maori policeman could collect the fugitive. 10 *
But events elsewhere were about to ensure that extreme strains would be placed upon the temporarily and relatively harmonious race relations of north-west Wellington Province. The second Taranaki War was deliberately precipitated by the reoccupation on 4 April 1863 of Tataraimaka by the imperial troops, and Maori and pakeha alike now awaited the imminent invasion of the Waikato. Hard-line pakehas in the Wanganui area were urging pre-emptive strikes against local Kingites in the belief that the Queenite Maori network was inadequate for purposes of neutralising potentially insurrectionist tribes and hapu. To ensure that armed race conflict remained beyond the borders of his province. Dr Featherston
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rushed to Wanganui and persuaded a meeting of the magistracy to prevent ‘any demonstration calculated to create excitement whether amongst the Natives or the Outsettlers’. During the Taranaki and Waikato campaigns there lay on the shoulders of the Wanganui magistracy and police—Maori and pakeha—a responsibility specifically delegated to them by the Superintendent to ensure that copy-cat or spillover warfare would not break out within the boundaries of Wellington Province. In a typical resultant incident, when a Rangitikei coroner ordered an Assessor to arrest two Maori witnesses missing from an inquest no action resulted because of a general belief that if the warrant were executed there would be armed resistance. As always in the final instance, order took precedence over the law when the two happened to clash. 1 ”
A degree of delicacy was also to be necessary in the Wairarapa where, head of police/Resident Magistrate Warded had reported in October 1861, local Maoris had polarised into Kingite and Queenite factions. Up to that point however there had been no real obstacles placed in the way of the area’s pakehas, whose numbers were steadily increasing (from the thousand present in 1858 to double that figure in 1864). Indeed, so placid had matters been in race relations terms that there were no extant Government salaried positions for Wairarapa Maoris, Warded reported. Although the situation would have to be closely monitored in light of the growth of support for the Maori monarch, so far even the Kingite runanga, in close communication with the King’s capital of Ngaruawahia, ‘governed by the broad principles of justice’ in a manner acceptable to the European authorities. Warden's conciliatory inclinations towards the indigenous population, which translated into a continuing series of subtle talks and negotiations, had been coincident with the wishes of the Featherston government from the time he had taken up his post in 1860. Great care had been taken not to provoke the Maoris into retaliation against pakeha acquisitiveness uis-d-vis Wairarapa land, despite the militancy of important chief Ngairo and his ally residing on the south-western coast, Wi Tako Ngatata, the former ‘friendly’ chief who had now abandoned the European side. Pakeha ‘hot-headedness’ which would destroy the delicate equilibrium was to be firmly suppressed. When residents of Carterton had requested a militia after the Waitara dispute flared into war, for example, the provincial government denied permission. 106
When Atchison took office Wardell’s entire formal police resource consisted of a single district constable, H Byrn of Greytown. The small farmers policed their own tiny communities, and
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offered their services as specials to the magistracy in times of racial strain. Elsewhere Dr Featherston’s pastoralist friends, whose private empires covered large areas of (in particular) the central and eastern parts of the province, policed their runs with all the power at the fingertips of the ultra wealthy. At the acme of socio-eco-nomic as well as political power stood Featherston; his own local ‘policing’ methods were not atypical of those of the most powerful pastoralists. In 1858 W and J Williams had lodged an application for a 10,000 acre run adjacent to some of Featherston’s holdings in the Akitio backfalls, but after they had moved on to the land the Superintendent was instrumental in ensuring that ‘a posse was rounded up and the brothers forcibly run off. The dispute over the block of land so coveted by Featherston dragged on for years, with a repetition of the forced eviction occurring at least twice, and not without the occasional firing of weapons. Such vigorous ‘self-polic-ing’ continued until the leader of the pastoralist political elite won his case in a rigged Land Court. When at a later time Featherston ordered Atchison to take a party of police and surveyors to his run to round up stray sheep, it was widely noted that no police expedition would have carried out such a service for ‘ordinary individuals’ in the easiest of circumstances —let alone journey a hundred miles into rough country to do so. 107
Following the invasion of the Waikato in July 1863, pakehas at isolated towns and runs in Wellington Province were even more alarmed than before at the prospect of Kingite attack, despite the arduous efforts by Grey, Featherston and the policing and judicial authorities to ensure that Wellington Maoris would not rise in sympathy with the insurrectionist tribes. Wairarapa settlers had noted a recent upsurge in local Kingism and desired protective military organisation. The state, desperately attempting to preserve the socio-racial equilibrium which had prevailed in that important area and in other areas of the province where there were no imperial troop detachments, responded in two ways. First, the General Government decided to create a Wellington Province division of the new Colonial Defence Force. The CDF was in the process of being embodied under 1862 legislation enabling the Governor to create a force of up to 500 men ‘for the protection or reinstatement of any District in the Colony in which there may have been or may be a state of war or insurrection’. Its planners had conceived such a force as being an Irish-styled ‘Military Police’ able to be deployed at General Government will across provincial boundaries on ‘pacification’ exercises, whilst possessing an inbuilt military capacity per se. Instead what emerged at the beginning of the Waikato war were several provincially-based corps of ‘standing
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army’ nature, to provide protective covering for potential or actual troubled areas.
Each regional division of the CDF was under the control of a General Government-appointed commanding officer (in Wellington’s case Major J Edwards) who had autonomy of operational decision-making within the CDF but was responsible to superior regional officers in the colonial military establishment. Although the ranking structure for most divisions was borrowed from the 1846 Armed Police the men, scattered between garrisons, were little more than (often mounted) elite soldiers, albeit with some trappings of constabularisation. Their pay, at a minimal rate of 7s 6d daily, was superior to that of constables. The 200 CDF ‘troopers’ who were to serve in Wellington Province, partly recruited with Branigan’s help from disappointed gold diggers in the South Island, were to be distributed between several provincial localities in order to prevent southwards escalation of the armed struggle with Kingism, or at least to act as a series of military nuclei to cope with it should such an eventuality occur. An important task was to surveil ostensibly ‘friendly’ tribes, ‘so as to prevent the possibility of their holding communication with the tribes now in rebellion against Her Majesty.’ 108
The second state reaction to societal alarm in the southern North Island occurred when responsibility for preventing the outbreak of war in the province was specifically and fully delegated to Superintendent Featherston because of his reputation as a ‘peacemaker’. As General Government Agent Featherston gained tight control over the province’s militia system, which at that time was rationalised by the combining of the Wellington, Wairarapa and Castle Point districts under a single command, that of Major Edward Gorton. The new system underwent a potential baptism of fire almost at once, and proved itself in the process. Rumour reached the Hutt settlers that Ngairo’s Wairarapa Kingites were about to descend upon them, and local militia officers unilaterally called out their men in what the authorities deemed a ‘complete and absurd panic’. Dr Featherston and Major Gorton immediately went north, ordering the Hutt militia detachments to desist from feverish drilling activities which would, if anything, have provoked the Kingites into what they would have believed to be a pre-emp-tive strike. The Wairarapa settlers, even more panicked than those in the Hutt, were dismayed when their leaders turned up with no troops; indeed, they would have already attacked the local Kingites had Ngairo’s people proffered them an excuse to do so. At Papawai pa near Greytown Featherston and Wardell met with the Kingites, the Superintendent explaining that no imperial troops would enter
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the Wairarapa if Ngairo desisted from military preparations. The Colonial Defence Force detachment about to be posted in the region was, he claimed, ‘not so much a military force as a police force, to see the Queen’s laws executed’. In case the Kingites disregarded his advice, Featherston secretly sent to Wellington for arms which Gorton distributed to volunteer groups, but since the King’s followers remained quiescent these were never used for anything beyond routine and low-key drilling purposes. Keeping close surveillance over potential insurrectionists were the 60 members of the CDF garrison established at Featherston under the command of Inspector Samuel Deighton, an interpreter who knew both the Wairarapa and the Rangitikei tribespeople intimately. 10 ’
The mobile soldier-police of the Colonial Defence Force were established principally also at two points along the western coastal strip of the province. For some time there had been fears of Maori resurgence in the long-subdued south-west, where Wi Tako’s people and other dissident tribespeople dwelt. The ‘strange’ appointment for Porirua-Waikanae of a Resident Magistrate who knew little about anything but military affairs had caused speculation late in 1862 that the area was being scrutinised by the state for martial purposes, perhaps a pre-emptive conquest of Maoris who might prove troublesome during the projected Waikato invasion. Although this latter did not happen, coastal Maoris had heard the rumours and even ‘friendlies’ were suspicious of pakeha intentions. Featherston had therefore visited the main settlements along the coast to placate them. In so doing he gained the cautious cooperation of neutral and ‘friendly’ Maoris for the posting of 50 rank and file soldier-police at Pauatahanui, gateway to both the hill pass to the Hutt and to the Porirua road to Wellington, by stressing the policing characteristics of the CDF. He then carried out the same manoeuvre further up the coast, enabling him to install a similar number at Hammonds Woolshed in the Rangitikei. The experiment worked insofar as pro-pakeha and neutral tribes of western and central Wellington Province were soon agreed that by such means racial conflagration in their areas could be prevented.
Other than imperially garrisoned Wanganui, therefore, the most volatile area now remaining seemed to be the Wairarapa. Here, in conjunction with Warded—now a permanently resident Resident Magistrate for the area —and the CDF ‘police’, Featherston managed by coordination of persistent effort over a considerable period to prevent hostilities from breaking out. The Resident Magistrate, for example, reported to the government before taking any action in the case of the supply to Maoris of illegal tobacco and, probably, ammunition. As had happened not infrequently in the
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past, the Superintendent advised that an arrest on such a charge would in the circumstances unnecessarily endanger the peace of the province, and the whole affair was dropped. The General Government endorsed a Featherston/Wardell decision to reject settler requests for the establishment of a network of stockades in the Wairarapa on the grounds that these might provoke the Kingites to hostilities. 110
Featherston did however order the transfer from the Hutt to Greytown of a regular member of the provincial Armed Police Force, Thomas Braggins. This had a dual purpose: to help alleviate the fears of Wairarapa pakehas living north of the CDF garrison by the provision of a professional intelligence-gathering resource in close proximity to Resident Magistrate Wardell, and to procure some effective policing of the numbers of ‘low pakehas’ beginning to arrive at or pass through the several growing settlements in the region. Although he welcomed the advent of full-time local police back-up, Wardell was not enamoured of the actual arrangement made. Whereas the Resident Magistrate had always had full control over the Wairarapa’s district constable, Private Braggins was to report directly to Atchison in Wellington, in turn receiving his instructions from the Inspector, This was yet another of Featherston’s ways of keeping a tight personal grip upon the state mechanisms of social control, it being far easier to direct the near-to-hand police chief than the absent judicial official. Yet as a result of both poor communications and lack of day-to-day specialised knowledge of the Wairarapa in the capital, the new arrangement militated against full effectiveness of the post. In mid 1864 Wardell requested that at very least the private should be ordered to report regularly to the Resident Magistracy. This would enable the Resident Magistrate, while taking ‘care not to interfere’ with Atchison’s general instructions, to monitor and regulate the movements of the APF regular policeman; currently, Wardell claimed, Braggins—a demoted corporal—always had an ‘excuse’ in hand for ‘apparent neglect’ of duty. Inspector Atchison however was reluctant to concede any degree of loss of control over one of his regular force, and declared that Wardell’s powers as JP were quite sufficient to control the private whenever he were needed in an emergency. The differences between the alternative superiors of the constable could not be resolved, and Featherston did not acknowledge that removal of the difficulties inherent in the status quo would outweigh the benefits to be gained from Atchisonian superintendence of the W airarapa constable. The Residen. Magistrate’s resulting request for a second private to do the work which Braggins was unwilling or unable to do was ignored. The Colonial Defence Force members
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were seen as the crucial regular ‘policemen’ to back up both formal and informal policing modes in the Wairarapa. 1 "
In Atchison’s assessment most of his regular provincial police force was routinely required at headquarters in the provincial capital, whatever the prevalent disruption to ‘regularity and order’ in the countryside. Quite apart from the basal theory of the mobile police reserve of emergency capacity, which would link up inter alia with CDF detachments when necessary, this rigid adherence to police centralisation was also related to the general move southward from Auckland of the foci of soldiering, including to Wellington city itself. Garrison-created problems of urban disorder, as elsewhere, could not be completely resolved by the activities of military policemen. In mid 1863, for example, warned by a beat private that a recent assault on a member of the 14th Regiment was likely to lead to grave disorder in Wellington, the Inspector notified the local military commanders; but despite patrols of town by the regimental picket and by army policemen, a ‘Military riot’ did occur. It was of sufficiently serious proportions to alarm the General Government upon its receipt of the news. Featherston placated the Auckland politicians by dismissing it as ‘nothing more than one of the Rows not unusual in Garrison Towns in England’. Nevertheless the volatility of large numbers of soldiers in town with access to liquor remained a very real problem which the provincial police force would have found exceedingly difficult to suppress had the constables not been concentrated at headquarters barracks." 2
To better meet increasing situations of town-based, especially collective disorder, Atchison further tightened internal police discipline. The moving of headquarters to the new Supreme Court complex in Lambton Quay in 1863 enabled a corollary development—a general smartening of image, so that no longer for example would police premises be allowed to be littered with straw. The new look even benefited the lockup ‘clients’, who were now to be provided with beds of sorts. Yet further ‘improvement’ within the force was required following the final move of the colony’s capital to Wellington in February 1865, for the provincial police then became the guardians of parliament and the central institutions of state. Provincial state policing powers were of course in the final instance no more than functions delegated by the General Government. Hitherto in Auckland, and now in Wellington, the colonial ministry retained—and exercised—full authority to ‘communicate with, and give orders direct to the Inspector of Police’ of the capital, and to make use of local constables as it saw fit. Wellington constables
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Developments in Central New Zealand
soon gained a higher profile as a result of mounting guard over Government buildings, acting as orderlies and messengers, and presiding at official ceremonial occasions. By mid year their uniform had accordingly been updated from traditional tight-fitting tunic and belt to a more impressive high-quality navy-blue cloth shirt with rolling collar, worn beltless. 113
Yet the smart new image belied an increasing discontent among Atchison’s men. Indeed uniforms themselves were a point of contention: policemen in Canterbury and some other provinces, the men noted, received free issue, whereas the Wellington men had to purchase their own. Nor did they always receive compensation when the uniforms became damaged or even ruined in the course of duty. None of this would have assumed the proportions of a sizeable grievance had pay risen above the long-standing 6s per day basic wage. In the last few years only Atchison had materially benefited from politicians’ deliberations about police remuneration, his total pay and allowances having increased in 1862 to £330 15s, more than three times that of the basic grade constable. ‘There are not a worse paid class of men in the Colony of New Zealand than the Wellington Police’ a newspaper correspondent claimed. One ramification of this was that in the past, to the chagrin of many pakeha observers and the disruption of the official policy of deMaorification, it had largely been Maoris who were interested in joining Consistent attempts to enrol a high proportion of ablebodied pakehas were not successful. Given the pay offering, suitable young whites would not —if they had families could not afford to —join up. To counteract Maori predominance a form of positive discrimination in favour of Caucasians of even ‘inferior quality’ was put in place, with the result that the attempts to pakehaise it as much as possible led to the force being described as increasingly ‘elderly’ in composition. Men of lengthy service could not withstand gruelling 13 hour days without help from fresh young recruits if efficiency were to be maintained, but the new pakeha recruits were seldom fresh and invariably far from young. If the city force lined the streets from Thorndon to Te Aro, it was claimed, a burglar would be able to run the length of town and still escape! What angered a number of observers was that there were suitable young men available were the pay adequate, even some with policing experience; an immigrant ship arriving in May 1865 had aboard it no fewer than five people who had been paid as constables to keep order on the voyage out. 1 "
With debate on police pay, conditions and morale forced into the open by clandestine police links with outside publicists, by the middle of 1865 the politicians had no choice but once again to
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examine the matter. Yet circumstances were fast changing, and from the very beginning of its re-entry into the political arena the prospects for the police case did not look promising. By then it was clear that the Provincial Councillors were increasingly economyminded as a result of the looming clouds of recession, and there were signs that the police would not be considered inviolate. The Greytown constable’s station had been subject to increasing rent demands, and in commenting on the distance of this police office-cum-residence from the lockup one Councillor cited a case where three prisoners had burnt to death in consequence of a similar arrangement. When it was proposed that both sets of problems could be avoided by state erection of a police stationhouse next to the lockup and courthouse however, only 11 Councillors supported the proposal, with 16 opposing on the (clearly spurious) grounds that the granting of free housing to one constable would open the door to a ‘vast number’ of similar requests from other Wellington provincial policemen. There were to be no significant increases in state spending on police, not even for a one-off and relatively inexpensive building. 115
When the crucial pay debate occurred all speakers praised the ‘dark men in blue’ who paraded the city streets, but an effort to raise all 34 privates to the 6s 6d per day that 20 of them already enjoyed was defeated by a margin of two to one. In actuality the police bid, long in the offing but hitherto restrained by Atchisonian discipline, had come too late. Paradoxically that which had finally forced them into action, the beginning of economic recession, now ruined their hopes of success. Some of the men had been so frustrated that they had informally combined and threatened to resign if their pay did not rise above the current ‘miserable pittance’, yet it was the very fact of the depression and its quick creation of a pool of unemployed in the city which now enabled the politicians—secure in the knowledge that suitable recruits could soon be gained from the out-of-work to replace the dissatisfied privates—to reject a small rise for even the worst-off police. Pay, then, remained as before: 8s and 7s per day for the two sergeants and two corporals, 6s 6d and 6s for privates. It was scant reward for an exhausting job whose potential for danger was indicated at the time by a pick-axe attack upon a constable guarding the hard-labour gang. 116
Meanwhile the state’s concern for order and regularity in Wellington Province had obliged it to pay more attention to its western coast. By the beginning of 1864 it was felt that Maori defeats in Taranaki and Waikato and the ‘magnitude of the resources that have been called forth to secure the complete crushing out of the rebellion, have already had a most salutary effect on the minds of
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the natives within this Province. Still, there are not wanting symptoms of adherence to the falling fortunes of the King s cause, and Kingite demonstrations at Otaki have not altogether ceased from our midst.’ Wi Tako had with a fine sense of symbolism deliberately made Otaki —headquarters for the Wellington West Coast official runanga district —his base for open opposition to the pakeha state, and there his ‘soldiers’ had been undergoing ‘drilling and manoeuvring’. Rumours abounded of messengers travelling between his camp, centres of Kingism in the Wairarapa, the pa of Kingites along the coast towards Wanganui, and King Tawhiao’s exiled establishment. There were calls to use the Colonial Defence Force to move against the various Wellington Province strongholds of Kingism if these would not submit to the Queen’s authority. Featherston however preferred to rely on preventive surveillance rather than on conquest, and this indeed helped ensure that warfare did not occur—as it might well have —on that long stretch of coast north to Wanganui. On the contrary, it was at this very time that the Manawatu was finally opened to small farmers, who conducted their own ‘policing’/surveillance as they broke in their lands—or until their holdings fell into the hands of the pastoralist oligarchy, whereupon the patriarchal authority-systems typical of the powerful runholders would be set in place.
The Wanganui River valley and the area to its north was a quite different proposition. In particular that part of north-west Wellington Province whose tribal areas straddled the Taranaki border was seen as a ‘focus of sedition and fanaticism’. It was in this coastal cross-border region that Kingism had been born, at Manawapou in 1854; here too, more recently, pai marire or hauhau had bred and its emissaries had been despatched around the country to preach the resistance creed of a new adjustment cult. When Frederick Weld took office as premier in late 1864 he was determined to impose the ‘Queen’s order’ upon such a district, one which he perceived to be the Tallying point of disaffection and the nursery of fanatical propagandisin’. To be sure his general Maori strategy was to avoid ‘aggressive warfare’ while settling ‘country already held by the troops’, but the importance of north-west Wellington/southern Taranaki was such that it was seen to require definitive conquest. A road would be built between Wanganui and Taranaki along which fortified military posts would be erected; of the 30 companies of an armed constabulary corps which Weld (in vain) envisaged creating, a dozen were to be employed in this strategy.
First of all, however, the preconditions for such a fortified road and a hinterland amenable to ‘pacification’ were to be imposed by General Sir Duncan Cameron’s ‘red coats’ and on 5 January 1865
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Governor Grey ordered the commander of imperial troops to begin the ‘Wanganui campaign’. A series of engagements eventuated, the line-up against insurrectionist Maoris including ‘friendly’ indigenous forces. Liaison with the ‘government native’ corps involved runanga constables from time to time, and Maori police were also enmeshed in the negotiation activities from which a formal peace emerged between the government and Wanganui area ‘rebels’ that September. Wanganui was by now more of a garrison town than ever before, and it was policed accordingly, a situation that would be perpetuated because renewed warfare lay ahead for the region. In the event the British, under New Zealand’s new imperial commander of troops Major-General Trevor Chute, proved unable to conquer most of the ‘rebel territory’, despite ‘scorched earth’ marches between Wanganui and New Plymouth (during which Te Ua—the pacifist prophet whose followers were sometimes far from pacifistic—was captured). The projected chain of fortresses to command a countryside in the process of ‘pacification’ never therefore eventuated. Large areas of the colony remained in effect de facto sovereign states, with their own institutions of order and social control. 118
There were greater or lesser policing repercussions throughout Wellington Province from the battles and skirmishes waged north of Wanganui. In February 1865, because of the Wairarapa settlers’ fear of the spread of hauhauism, the Weld ministry agreed to postpone the scheduled removal (following the defeat of Kingism in the Waikato) of the Colonial Defence Force detachment from Featherston. In May there was further panic when it was learnt that a party of pai marire adherents was en route for the Wairarapa. Weld had opted, in the event of hostilities in that area, to place leadership of reactive operations in the hands not of Wardell, who was considered to be too conciliatory a member of the ‘peace party’, but of Wellington Resident Magistrate C Dudley Ward. With the Wairarapa pakehas terrified, the latter mobilised a task force comprising a dozen Wellington policemen and another troop of CDF. But despite Ward’s fighting propensities milder and wiser ‘Featherstonian’ counsels prevailed, on the basis of a correct assessment that what turned out to be a small number of hauhau emissaries did not constitute an attempt at invasion. Such influence ensured that to avoid provoking both the travelling band and disaffected Wairarapa Maoris Ward’s party was composed only of six constables headed by Inspector Atchison when it left for the north.' 19
Were fighting to prove necessary, the police chief’s detachment was to serve as a nucleus for an instant response by volunteers, militia and the Colonial Defence Force. Matters were tense for a
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short period however, because of the attitude of the expedition leader. Ward scorned the caution of Warded and of the authorities back in the capital and, despite being backed by such a small police detachment and a (by now) truncated CDF garrison, made demands which would have amounted to subjugation of the dissident Wairarapa tribes. But when Kingite chiefs Ngairo and Wi Waka warned that if police attempted to prevent the emissaries from arriving in the Masterton area there would be armed resistance, the Wellington Resident Magistrate’s bluff was called and he was forced to back off. Now supported by a CDF troop whose presence had been shown to be defensive in nature and thereby rendered less unacceptable in the eyes of non-Queenite tribespeople, Ward negotiated conditions whereby the hauhau party could stay at Ngairo’s pa.
The immediate crisis over, with the state accepting in principle that the hauhau could propagandise where they wished so long as they did not actually foment insurrection, the provincial police detachment could be redeployed for service back in the capital. In effect the peaceful result vindicated the Featherstonite approach as routinely practised on the spot by Warded, and when that August a rumour spread of the impending descent upon the mid Wairarapa of yet another alleged hauhau war party, preparations were therefore placed in the hands of the local Resident Magistrate. The party never eventuated, and most state problems with the Maori in the area remained regionally indigenous rather than resulting from ‘invasion’ from without. The pre-hostilities pattern remained, with constant negotiations—often involving Maori police—required even in relation to the ‘friendly’ tribes. It gave few pakehas possessing intimate knowledge of the tribespeople any surprise when Assessor Ngatuere, having lost a case in the pakeha court, promptly turned to a Kingite magistrate and secured a reversal in the judgment. Ngatuere then began recruiting for Kingism, and his position as state official was suspended. 120
Sometimes the Kingites gained significant symbolic victories over the pakeha authorities. At dawn on 21 January 1866 the military guard aboard the prison hulk Manukau in Wellington Harbour checked on its hauhau prisoners of war, to find that 53 had escaped during the night. The soldiers were forced to hoist the police flag and fire volleys to attract the attention of Atchison’s men ashore, since some 20 of the captives had made their escape in the ship’s boat. When hastily-gathered police parties set out for the Hutt and Porirua areas in pursuit, they discovered that all survivors of the escape—at least half a dozen had drowned—had successfully eluded them. There was panic in the region that the
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fugitives would create mayhem, though they were believed by the authorities to be interested only in gaining the safety of the Upper Rangitikei. In an attempt at interception Resident Magistrate Buller unsuccessfully took a joint expedition of police and kupapa (‘friendly Maori’ warriors) to Te Reu Reu. Its failure however had no significance beyond the propaganda value for pai marire of a ‘great escape’. For it was at this time that pakeha forces were, although not subjugating insurrectionist tribes, certainly exiling them behind fairly specific boundaries: the escapees slipped through to one of these no-go areas, causing no further problems for pakeha settlers. Moreover at the time of the dispersal of the escaped prisoners Chute had been conducting his return march between Wanganui and New Plymouth, destroying en route the means of production in rebel regions of Taranaki to prevent their being used as a springboard for invasion of white areas. Dissident tribes and hapu were concluding that, at least for the present, while the pakehas could be defied from remote, forested mini-states of difficult terrain they could not be forced from the good land, let alone be conquered: a modus vivendi had to be reached. The trend of events was reflected in formal submission to state authority by the Wairarapa Kingites, beginning with Wi Waka in March 1866 and culminating in Ngairo’s submission a year later. 121
The worsening provincial economy and the decreasing threat of racial insurrection within the province prompted the Wellington politicians to yet again include policing in their latest and most swingeing general economising exercise early in 1866. At one fell swoop a third of the privates were removed from the established strength, making the total 22, and most of the men who had been on the higher rate of pay were reduced to the basic 6s per day. This drastic pruning of numbers in turn put greater pressure upon the few constables in the countryside, since city men could be spared less often for duties involving journeying. Stationed now at Rangitikei, Turakina, Featherston, Porirua and in the remotest area at Castle Point in the pastoralist east of the province, the five district constables correspondingly now received extra remuneration, about half the rate of a regular private, and that May they were relieved of mail carrying duties. 122
But district constables had to supplement their police incomes with other employment and even with the divestment of post office duties they could not cope, at least not always, with the extra workload generated for rural police by the de facto exclusivism of town police. The problem was exacerbated because it was a time of swelling countryside population as small and medium farms were
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carved out in the wake of cessation of the perceived Maori threat, and ‘bad characters’ were drifting into the still-raw centres of provincial Wellington. In early 1867, for example, residents of Masterton complained of ‘disgraceful scenes of drunkenness and indecency’ centred on the town’s two public houses, and of the unchecked activities of a ‘lunatic’ who specialised in appearing nude on roads and ‘indulged in other unseemly behaviour’ such as attempting to gain entry to houses at night. The fact that the only locally resident policeman was a ‘native constable’ whose duties were part-time and tribally orientated drove them into regular paroxysms of rage. By April of that year the provincial government was however forced despite the economy drive to bow to some degree to settler pressure: although Masterton was not catered for, regular privates replaced district constables at Castle Point, Rangitikei and Turakina, hitherto one-man regular stations in the Hutt and the Wairarapa were each to be joined by an extra private, and the Manawatu was soon to receive its first constable. The pattern of control remained, with for example the six privates stationed at the only sizeable urban area outside the capital, Wanganui, still responsible directly to the Superintendent rather than to Atchison, via their NCO and his subordinated relationship with the magisterial bench. 1 ”
Of course policemen both inside and outside the urban areas were frequently aided by supplementary forms of policing—by ‘official runanga’ constables, by Colonial Defence Force personnel, by runholders’ control over the numerous employees on their vast estates, by imperial military police, by volunteer and militia units, by the employment of paid or unpaid ‘specials’ when necessary. In the conquered areas to the north of Wanganui three Military Settler communities were created on confiscated land in 1866, two in southern Taranaki and one in Wellington Province, the Okutuku Block centred on Wairoa (later Waverley). In these pioneer establishments, as in other military settlements in the North Island, formalised armed self-policing was one of the prices the men paid for their land. This policing was conducted collectively vis-a-vis the Maoris, but also individual settlers were ‘told-off ’ for constabulary duties amongst local pakehas. As elsewhere in the colony, too, the schemes suffered because of the settlers’ farming inexperience, their lack of resources and state support services, and harassment by actively or passively hostile Maoris from whom the land had been confiscated. By the opening of the great warrior chief Titokowaru’s fighting campaign in the area in 1868 the majority had abandoned the settlements. But meanwhile their role
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in manning policing villages had added another strand to the interwoven coercive socio-racial control structure of Wellington Province. 12 *
The drastic cuts in regular policing of 1866 had deeply affected, in particular, the policing of the Wellington urban area. Inspector Atchison reported in April 1867 that his two city sergeants controlled 15 privates, ‘a number barely sufficient to patrol the main thoroughfare alone’, especially since one man was permanently stationed at the gaol and four or five were normally on summons or station duty. The increasingly populous working class and subproletarian Te Aro area was under-policed, its men working from a station and lockup which consisted of only a small room and two cells. It was ‘almost imperative’ that a patrol begin on the outskirts of the city. The Inspector pleaded for an extra five men, the minimum required for efficiency in his calculation, and a pay rise to ensure recruits of ‘good character and integrity’. His men received no more pay, he received no extra men. Of necessity he was forced to continue a policy of filling gaps in establishment size by recruiting unmarried personnel, although he preferred—unlike the heads of the Victorianised forces of the South Island—an element of married men as an anchor of stability and security in a city force controlled by only two NCOs: he knew that married men, unable to keep their families on police pay, would quickly leave the force. 122 In the past, Inspector Atchison’s strong will had tended in general to be expressed in accord with the wishes of the provincial government, and therefore of Featherstonism. But disharmony was increasingly creeping into his relationship with the legislature and executive as a result of the state’s economy measures. In response to Atchison’s resistance to retrenchment there was a corresponding propensity for the government to take additional measures of direct control over Wellington Armed Police Force activities, a trend heightened by the ascendancy in the Council, for a two year period from mid 1866, of Charles Borlase’s ‘Constitutional Reformers’. It was no more than a changeover in factions amongst the dominant group in control of government, but there was a distinct difference of emphasis between Superintendent Featherston, who remained the unabashed advocate for unfettered large-scale pastoralism but who had now come to appreciate the wisdom of tactical withdrawals, and an executive which this time did reflect the composition of the Provincial Council. The Boriase government stood for concentrating on stimulating smaller business and farming interests, at least more so than in the past, and in viewing Atchison as a creature of Featherston it was accordingly determined to keep closer watch over him. 126
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The new government utilised the services of the police no more than had Featherston’s tame governments, but spirited though abortive Atchisonian resistance to various econoray-minded instructions highlighted the fact that customarily Wellington policemen had been undisguisedly creatures of the political executive. This drew the insistence of ‘official ideology’ that constables held ‘original authority’ back into the scrutiny of the public arena. Executive control, in fact, seemed to have tightened, to the dismay of the proponents of the theory of police accountability to ‘the law’ alone. Once again the battle lines were formed. When contractors who had not been paid by the provincial government for extensions to Wellington’s wharf took their case to court, meanwhile taking control of the waterfront area, battle commenced in earnest. The struggle between the executive and judicial wings of the state led inevitably to a worsting of the latter. Atchison’s men, acting under executive instruction, seized the wharf by force and stood guard as workmen removed the barricade which had been erected by the contractors, ignoring the fact that the whole affair was sub judice. There was considerable concern expressed along the lines that the ‘duty of the police is to protect life and property, not to interfere without warrant of law for the purposes of enabling a plaintiff to gain advantage over a defendant.” 27
But the significance of the incident was clear enough, whatever the stated claims of ‘official ideology’, namely that policemen were agents of a state run essentially by the executive rather than the judiciary—which normally operated complementarity with policing rather than in command of it. However varied the styles, ‘targets’ and social/racial context of policing, its object remained constant throughout the colony: the imposition or maintenance of govern-ment-approved modes of behaviour, the securing of what missionary James Buller (father of Resident Magistrate W Buller of Wanganui) called ‘law, order and industry’. The police occupied a central position in this grand design, the judiciary occupied a discrete—if overlapping—one. It was this overarching function of securing ‘order and regularity’ which was the point of contact between say the paramilitary constable of Twelve Mile, the urban policeman of Te Aro and the district constable of Turakina. The enormous differences in modes of policing arose not from differences in function but from the need for differentiated means and dosages of coercive social and racial control to meet specific regional or local problems which were disrupting ‘regularity, tranquillity and profit’. There might well be, therefore, little common ground involved in the actual work of policemen in different parts of central New Zealand, even in the case of those whose style of
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organisation was similar: the paramilitary goldfields constables of Nelson and Marlborough and the policemen-soldiers of the Colonial Defence Force, for example. Here the key difference lay in the race of the collectively targeted subject of the policing exercise.
The existence within Wellington’s boundaries of imperial and CDF troops on the one hand, and ‘native policemen’ on the other, represented opposite ends of a complicated and diverse regionalised coercive continuum of specialist nature. This had developed to meet state difficulties in subjugating perceived Maori threats to the official pakeha concepts of ‘order and regularity’ which were forever changing from place to place, time to time. Enmeshed with the mechanisms for controlling the indigenous race, and equally if not—at times—more important than them, were the coercive institutions thrown up by the logic of the province’s socio-economic base and political superstructure. The extraordinarily complicated differences in the degree and nature of ‘order’ from place to place within the region ensured that a more variegated pattern of control modes arose in Wellington than in other provinces. Atchison’s men at the capital, neither particularly paramilitarised nor particularly demilitarised, marked out Wellington Province too as a point of transition between the policing of the South Island and that of the centre and north of the North Island, where the absence or presence respectively of a potentially or actually hostile subject race had led to strikingly disparate evolutions of coercive control modes.
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CHAPTER X
Policing and the ‘Collision between the Races’
‘Parties to their Own Submission’: the ‘Official Runanga’ Police
Ever since annexation —and indeed before 1840 —the pakeha state had used Maoris in policing roles. Chiefs and/or their followers had been employed as informal policemen, usually in return for material rewards; individual Maoris had been enrolled in Armed Police Forces operating under the 1846 legislation, and in police departments operating under provincial police Ordinances. The machinery provided for in the Resident Magistrates Ordinance of 1846 had been designed to introduce European concepts of law and order and behaviour to predominantly Maori areas, simultaneously with the beginnings of white penetration. This process however had begun to occur with any great significance in but a very few areas by the late 1850s, when Resident Magistrates normally resided at British settlements in well-penetrated areas and relied to a great extent for any dealings with Maoris in the countryside upon a small number of chiefs given salaries as Assessors.
Sir George Grey’s overall perspective of the ‘buying off’ of the Maori wherever possible was vilified by most settlers as the ‘flour and sugar’ policy, but it was nevertheless significantly less conciliatory to the indigenous race than that designed by the authorities in Britain. Earl Grey at the Colonial Office had intended that regions of the country which remained entirely Maori-controlled should be designated Native Districts, and in these there would initially be little interference from the state. Pakeha authority would only gradually impinge, by such means as titling certain ‘friendly’ rangatira ‘Chief Constables’ with a view ultimately to promoting them to the position of Maori ‘Resident Magistrates’. Greyite ideas of ‘rapid assimilation’ pushed aside the application of such a gradualist scheme. Success for the Governor’s ‘civilising mission’ policy rested upon a close relationship between the European Resident Magistrate and his state machinery on the one hand and chiefly
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authority on the other, with tribal authority to be incorporated as quickly as possible into that machinery.
That Grey’s mode of ‘assimilation’ had not progressed very far when he left New Zealand in 1853 reflected the fundamental flaw in the scheme. Ethnocentrism on the part of the pakeha, together with the settlers’ overwhelming desire for land, precluded any genuine approach to biracial sharing of state power. The logic of the situation dictated that any pakehaised chiefly authority would be subsumed, indeed engulfed. In any case since most collaborators were cooperating with the white man for their own limited and often short-term purposes a burgeoning rangatira sector of state bureaucracy seldom proved to be a viable scenario. The provincial constitution which Grey had set up, however, took no heed of the failure of ‘rapid assimilation’ and encompassed the perpetuation of its enabling machinery. The Governor, the Secretary of State was told by Grey, should retain his present power of appointing Resident Magistrates and Maori Assessors ‘for the purpose of carrying out English laws in any district which from its large Native population might in his opinion require the presence of such officers’. Moreover Grey urged a levy upon the provinces to provide the Governor with funding for ‘native purposes’, including the ‘maintenance of a Native Police’, a reflection of his (well founded) distrust of the tactical intentions of provincial settler governments. Although the Maori police corps never eventuated, Grey’s submissions did ensure the survival of the Resident Magistrate/Assessorsystem, albeit intermittently applied. 1
By 1861 its ad hoc development meant that the Assessor network was unevenly spread: 13 such officials reported to the longest serving Resident Magistrate, W B White in the relatively quiet Mangonui District, double that number in the also pacific Bay of Islands, yet more volatile areas hosted (for example) only four in Taranaki and 10 apiece in Hawke’s Bay and Wanganui. A quarter of the appointees, indeed, were in the South Island, where race relations problems were of much lesser gravity. The institution had, in short, ceased to be the cutting edge of the old plan to incorporate the larger, ‘semi-barbarian’ concentrations of the Maori into pakeha ways in order—at first —to neutralise them. Apart from White the only other Resident Magistrates receiving their directions from the Native Department in mid year and thereby operating, in purest form, the Greyite machinery of ‘amalgamation’ were H H Turton (with responsibility for Auckland Province’s ‘West Coast’), J R Clendon based at the Hokianga, Henry Halse in the Waikato, H T Clarke at the Bay of Plenty, and Herbert Warded in the Hutt/Wairarapa. Only one of the Maori
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employees within the machinery was called a policeman: ‘Native Policeman’ John Hobbs who penetrated ‘Native Districts’ on spying missions from the capital.
Many Assessors—there were around 200 at any given time, the longest-serving dating back to early 1847 —however acted as ‘high’ and/or ‘low’ policemen. Among the high police were leading ‘friendly’ chiefs such as Wanganui’s Mete Kingi, Ahuriri’s Te Hapuku, Te Rauparaha’s son Tamihana Te Rauparaha at Otaki, and Tamati Waka Nene working with Clendon. Some of the high police were retained on the state payroll for their ‘political’ importance alone, as indicated by officials’ comments such as ‘Nearly useless; no energy, great man of influential tribe.’ Other Assessors were crucial agents of local social control; in 1878 Wanganui’s Resident Magistrate R Woon was to characterise his oldest Assessor, Hakaraia Korako, appointed in 1851, as having long been the most efficient, influential and useful policeman in his district. By the 1860s, to be sure, some of the Assessors had gone partly or wholly over to Kingism, but such happenings did not necessarily lead to dismissal because their very payment as officials proffered hope that they and their tribe or hapu might be weaned away from ‘insurrectionary’ thoughts by the cash nexus. 2
The Assessors, called in Maori kaiwhakawa, the same word as that for magistrate or judge, frequently (it was reported) ‘set up as independent founts of justice and administered law with much vigour’ to their own people. They or their agents, acting as policemen in enforcing their own mores—often with a mix of customary and European norms —drew upon their mana and traditional tribal modes of coercion as well as upon the white man’s authority. This was tacitly accepted by the Government: paying ‘friendly’ or even ‘neutral’ or oppositional chiefs would help ensure that their pacification procedures at least approximated those desired by the state in its personalised form of the nearest Resident Magistrate. Frequently, actual practice differed from even this makeshift form of theory. Assessors were wont to impose, in the view of Chief Justice William Martin, a ‘lawless law, grievously oppressive, the work of strong wills acting ignorantly’. Chiefs might act as they wished for their own purposes without reference to pakeha officialdom, but at the same time using their state-given authority as ‘Magistrates’ (the term commonly used to describe Assessors) to bolster their mana and more forcefully authenticate their actions. ‘ln some parts of the country, it seems that the Magistrates construe into an offence anything that is offensive to the tribe generally, and then deal with it according to such a rule of judgement as they can frame for themselves from a passage of the Old Testament or the New, or
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from some rude notion of what the Pakeha would do in such cases. The fines levied are often most unreasonable in amount. Rules are made hastily, and enforced at once mercilessly.’ All the same the state found the ad hoc and fragmented kaiwhakawa system a useful first step in social control, especially in large areas which acted as buffer zones between regions under pakeha control and de facto Maori sovereignty respectively. Officials came to note moreover that it worked best where the Assessor chiefs were backed by local runanga, or councils. 3
Overt resistance to the encroachment of the pakeha was subdued after the ending of the rebellions of the mid 1840s. By the beginning of the provincial system of government, however, the spirit of direct opposition had begun to revive in a number of areas, and it was strengthened by the accession to power in the North Island provincial governments —as Grey had feared—of settler representatives whose ‘solution’ to the ‘native problem’ was one of ‘physical force’, up to (and, for some, including) genocide. Meanwhile the lesson of the overall lack of success of their insurrection in the previous decade had led a significant number of opposition-minded Maoris to a crucial politico-military conclusion: any chance of successful resistance against the might of the pakeha demanded intertribal coordination. The first major intertribal meeting had been held just before the first convocation of the General Assembly in 1854, in that most racially troubled province of Taranaki. Three years later, in April 1857, the Waikato tribes —holders of the rich lands so coveted by Auckland whites—met at Rangiriri to discuss the matter of installing the consensual candidate of the intertribal resistance movement, Potatau Te Wherowhero, formerly the leader of Grey’s unofficial ‘Maori police force’ defending Auckland at Mangere, as king of the parallel Maori state that many desired to set up.*
The sole Resident Magistrate for the Waikato area at that time, Dr W Harsant, had typically been provided with a support mechanism comprising only a skeletal Assessor system. This was a cogent symbol of how the old Greyite notion of rapidly introducing the Maori to European mores by ever encroaching officially-directed contact between the races, including the incorporation of Maoris in pakeha institutions of state, had largely fallen by the wayside—particularly insofar as the Waikato was the major area targeted for land alienation. The neglect of ‘rapid assimilation’ policy and machinery was something which significant sections of the colonial state had always regretted, for in their perception many Maori chiefs were searching for a substitute for those parts of the chiefly mana and authority which had been eroded by the impact of the
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pakeha and his religion. It was considered that their requirement for, in Wiremu Tamihana’s phrase, ‘order and laws’ which were Europeanised but would at the same time allow them to maintain their own pre-eminence amongst their own people, could be used for pakeha purposes of socio-racial control. Indeed a number of chiefs were prepared to accept that some form of Resident Magistrate/Assessor system was the most suitable machinery for preserving and enhancing their rangatiratanga. European officials and others who believed that pakehaised ‘order’ might be imposed in a fashion whereby the Maori would be relatively painlessly and cheaply assimilated to European mores were to a greater or lesser degree aware of what later became the sociological truism that new institutions are not created in a vacuum. Many of the Maori institutions in interpenetrated or semi-penetrated areas however were crumbling under the eroding impact of the pakeha. One of the postcontact developments, the missionary-influenced komiti (committee) gathering, widely scoffed at as the ‘weakest form of local government which could be devised’, was considered useless as a vehicle for order-assimilation precisely because it institutionalised the emasculation of chiefly power. 5
As early as 1847 the Reverend J Whiteley had urged that local and general runanga be encouraged to revive, but ‘under the superintendence of the Government’. The runanga was an ancient advisory body for chiefs, flexible in composition and occurrence, meeting mainly at hapu/village level but occasionally at tribal level. It was the Maori equivalent of institutions in every tribal society which deliberated on matters of war and peace, public policy and order. After the coming of the pakeha, and the consequent diffusion of power in Maori societies in and near interpenetrated areas, the institution had tended to fall into desuetude in those very places where the state increasingly sought to impose racial control. But during the beginnings of intertribalism in the mid 1850s the runanga had been extensively revived. The new-look runanga, although essentially indigenous, were often now partially Europeanised in form and concepts, agencies for making and implementing decisions which Maoris increasingly saw as vital were they to avoid ultimately being swamped by the Europeans.
On the one hand, then, the adaptive runanga could be a viable means of creating Unified politico-social adjustment mechanisms at various intertribal and intratribal levels; on the other they were increasingly seen as the means of providing a powerful and attractive alternative to a fully Europeanised concept of order, even amongst tribes not hostile to the presence of the European state. Tribespeople had before them examples such as the Turanga
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runanga, which ran affairs on the East Coast in the late 1850s with often hardly a nod to the presence of Resident Magistrate Wardell. It was, paradoxically, this very mode of resistance to Europeanisation which was perceived by a number of pakehas to be suitable as a vehicle for the submergence of Maoridom: an anti-assimilationist resurgence would be utilised for purposes of assimilation. Thus influential commentators from time to time echoed Whiteley in urging their rulers to take advantage of the re-emergent runanga, which frequently already incorporated some pakeha modes of procedure, by placing them where possible under ‘English supervision’ and making them ‘the means of civilizing’ the ‘savage’ Maori. Some of these observers viewed such a step as preferable to ‘dangerous’ implications in revised versions of oligarchic runanga of old; numbers of the new councils had become, said the official John Gorst (later the moderniser of the British Tory party) with distaste, ‘the most democratic assembly that can be conceived’. 6
By the time of the meeting at Rangiriri in the Waikato in April 1857 Governor Browne had been influenced by advice urging accommodation with and utilisation of the runanga. In particular Francis Dart Fenton, Resident Magistrate at Whaingaroa, had impressed upon him the usefulness of the runanga as it was developing amongst the Waikato Maori: as an instrument for local order, complete with its own law-giving and law enforcement agencies, it could legally be made a vehicle of indirect pakeha rule, of self-policing by Maoris on behalf of the state. Anxious to head oft the King movement the Governor had arrived in person at the Waikato meeting in order to take advantage of the chiefly aspiration for ‘regularity’ by suggesting a combined runanga/Assessor system. He agreed to send to the Waikato a strong Resident Magistrate who would, assisted by Assessors, guide the Maoris in the framing of local laws acceptable to both local Maori and central pakeha institutions of state. Back in Auckland he secured the replacement of Harsant by Fenton, who would pioneer this new attempt at biracial state partnership in the Waikato-Waipa, and with the consent of the colonial ministry his staff set about updating the list of Waikato Assessors (although under Fenton’s suggested plan kaiwhakawa were supposed to be elected by runanga). As yet there would be no runanga police forces, but when Assessors required help in applying coercion they were to appoint tribesmen as temporary ‘constables’. These part-time police would be remunerated only for the duration of their service, and during that period the Assessors would give them batons to carry as symbols of their office as well as for use. 7
It was important, wrote the colonial ministers, ‘to impose upon
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the Native mind a sense that the executive authority’ to be exercised by state-sanctioned runanga was ‘derived from the Crown’, a point not necessarily incompatible even with the credo of at least most factions of Kingism. Certainly very few sectors of the pantribalist movement supported Taupo chief Te Heu Heu’s call for the ‘expulsion of Europeans by force’ from the Kingite areas. The majority envisaged their King as the ruler of dominantly Maori areas, but in cooperation with the pakeha: ‘let the Queen and the Pakehas occupy the coast, and be a fence around us’, and have controlled access to Kingite territory. This was a concept which did not in most Maori minds at the time preclude the acknowledgement of British sovereignty over New Zealand, so long as the European state tolerated indigenous imposition of most facets of customary tribal law within what would be in effect de facto Kingite states —a practical devolution of sovereignty. Even Kingite runanga, then, were generally not initially subversive of British sovereignty in intention; they were, rather, institutions of local and regional Maori self-government. Hence all runanga were seen by some Europeans of influence as being suitable for utilisation as organs of indirect and preparatory control, given firm guidance by selected pakeha officials. 8
The Stafford ministry was however too Eurocentric to concede even in selected non-white areas any de facto state autonomy to Maoris, albeit controlled, guided ‘sovereignty’ under pakeha state suzerainty. Resident Magistrate Fenton’s experiment rapidly became in the eyes of the ministers—especially of C W Richmond, to whom he reported and whose views he was obliged to carry into effect—one of utilising the runanga to establish a rival authority to Kingism rather than to subvert Kingism from within. In consequently polarising the Waikato tribes between those whom he dubbed ‘Queenites’ and those who followed the Maori King and with whom therefore he would not communicate, Fenton cut across Browne’s hopes that the idea of the legalised runanga could be made use of to ‘capture’ Kingism. The position taken by Donald McLean was complex. It stood for continuity of the uneasy Greyite combination of rapid ‘amalgamation’/land alienation and ‘flour and sugar’ coaxing of chiefly authority so that in his eyes indirect rule was a workable though long-term facet of the latter policy—a component of a strategy which could be drawn upon to bypass dangers of armed confrontation generated by the more direct approaches to subjugation. It was primarily on McLean’s advice in early 1858 that the Governor withdrew his Waikato Resident Magistrate before further damage could be done to the fragile state of race relations. But the fact that since 1856 McLean had headed
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both Land Purchase and Native Departments, which now functioned as one, indicated where the future lay. To most ministers and officials the institutionalised runanga/Assessor idea was a subsidiary policy in which they had no faith as a panacea. In whatever guise it was implemented, it seemed unlikely to rapidly yield what they sought—both Maori subjugation and Maori land. As Fenton moved out of the Waikato, Te Wherowhero moved in from Mangere to be installed as King. 9
The colonial ministry had in effect sabotaged any chance of the pilot ‘official runanga’ scheme working in the fashion intended by the Governor. Its agent in the Waikato had not been authorised to offer even the friendliest of runanga any legal and police jurisdiction over the scattered Europeans residing in the territory, or even adequate provision for the enforcement upon Maoris of runanga decisions. Not only was the ‘temporary constable’ scheme (itself a second-best expedient) no more than half-heartedly implemented, but a suggestion by Fenton that the state convene a general meeting of Assessors which would with pakeha permission sanction their wielding of policing powers was ignored. Yet the abandonment of the stillborn first ‘official runanga’ experiment did not mean the end of the Resident Magistrate/Assessor system, even in Kingite-dominated areas . During Fenton’s travels in the Waikato many of the ‘friendly’ chiefs who were receptive to his ideas proved to be motivated mostly by receipt of gifts and salaries as Assessors, or by the extra kudos a pakeha title added to rangatiratanga. The only influential chief of the Upper Waikato to express real interest, Takerei Te Rau, so recognised the value to chiefly power of the Assessorship that he wished to be ‘President over all the native magistrates in the Waikato district’. Such willingness by rangatira to serve the pakeha state —for whatever motives —could not be ignored. Moreover there was even held out the possibility of moving the Assessor system towards a revived ‘official runanga’ mode of ‘indirect rule’ in the future, should state requirements so dictate.
When the General Assembly met in 1858 for its first full session since the assumption of ‘responsible’ government in 1856 it passed the measures which provided the legislative basis for such a development. Of particular importance was the Native Districts Regulation Act allowing the establishment of Native Districts for which the Governor-in-Council, with the consent of the Maori inhabitants (ie, via the runanga), could issue local laws on specific subjects. Complementing the measure, the Native Circuit Courts Act gave the Resident Magistrates control of any such system. Such revamped continuation of Greyite politico-administrative machinery had been urged by McLean since his appointment to the Native
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Secretaryship, partly to ensure that Europeans inside Maori-dom-inated districts could be readily controlled—a Resident Magistrate could order runanga police to arrest Europeans. He also now wished to ensure that any envisaged official runanga structure, by being under the tight control of the political agents of state, emphasised the word ‘rule’ rather than the word ‘indirect’. Prior to Grey’s utilisation of the legislation from 1861 to implement a col-ony-wide scheme of official runanga, two pilot projects were established in the ‘friendly’ far north amongst the Rarawa and Ngapuhi; under Resident Magistrate W B White at Mangonui and, informally, in the Bay of Islands. 10
Elsewhere the old Assessor system had been still relied upon, to the chagrin of a Governor starved of the funds necessary for its proper application: the ‘largest salary which the funds at my disposal will admit of is inadequate for the services required of the Assessors’. Whilst an attempt was made to revamp this system too by circularising ‘Native Assessors’ about their duties in 1859, and in particular by McLean’s extending of the Resident Magistracy/ Assessor system ‘by gradual and almost imperceptible steps’ so as not to commit what were seen as Fentonite errors, proponents of the ‘legal runanga’ system were arguing for comprehensive reform. Chief Justice Martin urged the Governor to incorporate Maori selfgoverning institutions into the state —as did, unanimously, a parliamentary select committee established in 1860 to examine the failure of the policy set out in Fenton’s original terms of reference. McLean and co-thinkers had testified to the committee that it was the practice rather than the concept that had been counter-produc-tive; that Fenton’s methods had encouraged harsher divisions between Kingites of the Upper Waikato and ‘friendlies’ of the Lower Waikato. Moreover a number of the latter, interested only in the material rewards held out in return for cooperation, could hardly have been expected to remain loyal given the state’s nonfulfilment of the promise of salaries for Assessors and, eventually, policemen. Advocates of pacifying and Europeanising by means of ‘capturing’ the existing runanga had pointed out that the virtual abandonment of the ‘legal runanga’ idea in the Waikato had disillusioned the ‘Queenites’ further, even causing many to change sides; supporters of some form of indirect governance and policing all noted that the expenses involved would be ‘trifling’ compared to the cost of conquest by warfare."
Various types of policing within an official runanga context had been mooted. It was noted by Bishop George Selwyn that Resident Magistrate Henry St Hill of Wellington had successfully operated a system of Maori self-policing on his itinerant visits to Otaki, his
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and the Assessors’ judicial assessments being carried into effect by ‘the natives themselves’ acting as policemen. There was testimony that Assessors were wont to act in the capacity of constable, sometimes sworn for the purpose but usually not. A missionary told the select committee of how the two Waikato Assessors had tracked and arrested a man accused of stealing some linen from an Auckland house; Fenton had then ordered the pair, acting as temporary oolicemen, to take the culprit back to the authorities at the capital. Whatever the modes of policing employed under an official runanga scheme, and most assessments considered full-time ‘native police forces’ to be essential were it to work properly, the committee, which included Domett and Fox, agreed that the dropping of the major official runanga experiment had been a mistake. It accepted the arguments of those who urged the peaceful ‘amalgamation’ (subjugation) of the Maori race through state-controlled institutionalising of the context and content of Maori self-government; in areas outside the pale of Tegular authority’ the Maori themselves should enforce, through approved means, runanga decisions which were sanctioned as suitable by the pakeha state. 12
Enthusiasts for the official runanga had before them the telling example of Kingite governing and policing regimes. Travelling in the Waikato in early 1858 Fenton had found the royal headquarters newly built in Ngaruawahia, and heard talk that the Kingites had already imitated the pakeha in establishing a European-style police force and army. That June a number of tribes and hapu had formally elected the Maori King at two big meetings, and it was at the second of these, at Rangiaowhia, that a policing regime headed by Superintendent of Police Aihipene Kaihau was established. Although the latter later defected to the government side and became Resident Magistrate Halse’s Assessor at Waiuku, the King movement was to retain a corps of police run by the King’s court at Ngaruawahia—‘a better sort of Runanga’ in the grudging admission of one pakeha—as well as a guard of ‘drilled soldiers’. Individual runanga giving allegiance to the King continued to operate under their own code of laws and with their own coercive mechanisms, some of these including units of policemen. In the heart of Ngatimaniapoto territory Chief Reihana even had a force of 80 ‘soldiers’ drilled by Hemara at his headquarters at Whataroa on the Waipa River, these retainers, paid, uniformed and equipped from the fees and fines levied by his runanga, carried out policing enforcement as well as military duties. 13
South of the Mangatawhiri River the Kingite police—both those based at Potatau’s capital and those employed by other Kingite runanga—made it quite clear to pakeha travellers and the few
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white residents that they were on territory over which the pakeha state had no control other than in theory. Kingite police were therefore the agents of a rival, extralegal—but very real —state, or more correctly, federation of states. While war came to seem increasingly likely as a result of such resistance to the pakeha, advocates of various official runanga schemes stepped up their activities in order to deflect such a possibility. Fenton urged before the 1860 committee that the state establish a three-tiered official runanga system: the village runanga, comprising every resident adult and presided over by chiefs, would be under the umbrella of district councils consisting of chiefs and elected Assessors and presided over by the Resident Magistrates. The third Fentonite tier would be a central state runanga of selected chiefs and Assessors convened by the Governor whenever necessary. Browne had never become completely unsympathetic to such ‘indirect rule’ ideas, even after the first Taranaki war. By mid 1861 he was planning a dual system whereby ‘friendly’ chiefs of powerful disposition and abilities would be appointed as salaried government officers, aided by an English official apiece, and responsible direct to the political executive in Auckland; whilst in less ‘loyal’ Maori districts European magistrates would be appointed to tour the areas with Assessors and attempt to influence their runanga in appropriate methods of peacekeeping. Maori police would be required in both instances. But the plan was mainstream neither for him nor for the Stafford ministry, which had been increasingly confrontationist in orientation. Officially sanctioned runanga authority and police had to await the return of Sir George Grey as Governor that September. 14
However seriously Grey intended to attempt the implementation of the wishes of the Colonial Office for a conflict-free and therefore cheap resolution of the New Zealand problem, the race relations heritage left by Colonel Browne was not auspicious. He had spumed Wiremu Tamihana’s peacemaking efforts in the Waitara area in March 1861, even after the Ngatihaua chief gained the franchise to act as spokesman for the ‘rebels’; as a result the peace with Chief Hapurona on 1 April which formally ended the first Taranaki war was inconclusive, and few of the white settlers of that province dared to return permanently to land nominally secured from the ‘rebels’. In May the Governor had sent the Maori King a proclamation saying that he had been instructed by the imperial power ‘to suppress unlawful combinations’ and therefore demanding submission to British sovereignty and ‘the authority of the law’. This was in effect an ultimatum for subjugation, with war the alternative, and the Kingite tribes met at Ngaruawahia on 3 June to discuss it. They rejected demands that they pay compensation
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for damage caused during the Taranaki war, noting that the British had, at Kingi’s pa at Waitara, been the first to plunder. They noted how their own regime had suppressed drunkenness and kept order in a manner unknown in pakeha areas, and highlighted the hypocrisy of Government accusations of ‘murder’: in Taranaki, they reminded the Europeans, Chief Katatore had been made drunk so that he could be ‘waylaid and killed by Ihaia. That was a foul murder. You looked on and made friends with Ihaia. That which we regard as a murder, you have made naught of.’ In light of the Kingite response the Governor made the decision to invade the Waikato, and both sides began to mobilise for war. After word came that because of Browne’s failure to subjugate by peaceful means he was to be replaced, this was postponed and the various factions waited to see whether Grey’s skills could prevent full-scale race war. 15
As always, Grey’s plans and motives were extraordinarily complex. As Governor in 1846 he had introduced the Resident Magistracy/Assessor system, refining what he had instituted in South Australia. John Gorst later summarised Grey’s views on the rapid ‘amalgamation’ of the Maori: ‘lt was by resident missionaries that they were converted to Christianity; it is by resident magistrates that they must be taught institutions and laws.’ Towards the end of Grey’s first term as Governor it had become apparent to him that Resident Magistrates required much more comprehensive administrative support mechanisms if they were to be even partially successful in such a task. Moreover, this machinery would need to incorporate ‘intelligent’ rangatira so that they would be capable of quickly learning European ways and passing them on in a practical manner to their people. The original idea of giving places in the existing state machinery to chiefly Maoris had never gone very far, except in the police, and therefore needed complementing. Furthermore, Grey’s idea had initially been that of the swift erosion of chiefly power by the very device of using the chiefs as the mediators of the ‘amalgamation’ process, but he now realised that matters were far more complicated. The ‘civilising mission’ would require the longer term support of a rangatira stratum which meanwhile might even need reinforcing. He had thus talked in 1851 about ‘municipal’ institutions being established in Maori areas. 1 '
The Colonial Office made Grey’s reappointment to the Governorship in the context of his experimentation, from his South Australian days, with the concept of indirect rule, the peaceful road to the subjection of indigenous races. The New Zealand Government, warned the permanent head of the Colonial Office, should not be ‘too specific or unyielding about the exact nature’ of the
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‘supremacy’ of white over brown at the present time but ‘allow it to grow’. One important way forward, added one of his staff, was ‘that the chiefs in native districts should be made use of Even if ‘legal institutions’ failed to permeate Kingite sectors of the Maori, an ‘official runanga’ system would have the very great advantage, if carried into effect with more panache than the Fenton experiment, of undermining the Maori trend towards unity; ‘divide and rule’ was perhaps the best method of subjugating the Maori, the Secretary of State for the Colonies believed. Grey therefore at once upon arrival focused his mind upon reviving the two prongs of his ‘civilising mission’ policy: incorporating selected Maoris into the pakeha state whilst at the same time encouraging state-sanctioned Maori self-government and law enforcement of a type that was to be significantly and increasingly influenced by the pakeha.
His intention to apply his own longstanding ideas was acclaimed in many quarters, particularly by those who argued that the King movement had arisen through the pakeha state’s neglect in failing to replace the eroded base of chiefly authority with some sort of governmental alternative. These were the publicly stated views of 26 year old Gorst, a Cambridge-educated sympathiser with those chiefly Maoris who wished to introduce and administer at least partly European-based concepts of order within their territories. Given the failure of the state to take advantage of the willingness of such rangatira to cooperate, he argued, they had formed their own ‘rude form of government’ with the (especially Kingite) revivalist runanga movement and had thereby ‘done more for themselves than we had ever done for them. Person and property were as safe on the Waikato as in the town in Auckland, Even during the excitement and irregularity consequent on the Taranaki war, neither traders nor missionaries suffered from violence.’ Grey was to give Gorst the crucial post of Resident Magistrate in the Upper Waikato towards the end of 1861, after the pair had journeyed in the Waikato together—and Gorst’s opinions had strengthened Grey’s own determination to introduce a greater state presence to Maori areas. But first the returned Governor had to acclimatise himself to a New Zealand very changed from that which he had left. 17
In the Cape Colony Grey had introduced an ‘indirect rule’ scheme under which European officials, each assisted by a District Council of leading chiefs and a network of subordinate councils, controlled indigenous regions. Attached to each Council was a ‘chief policeman and a certain number of subordinate constables, all being
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natives’. The system allowed the Councils to formulate their own laws on specified subjects, and if these were approved by the white administration they would then be enforced by the black constables. Within a few weeks of arrival in New Zealand Grey presented to the Fox ministry, which had assumed office on 12 July 1861, a ‘Plan on Native Government’ which was little more than a crude transplant of that which he had applied at the Cape. He would use the powers of the 1858 Native Districts Regulation Act to delegate policing and governing powers to regionally-established runanga, subject to tight control by the political executive in Auckland. The ‘Native portions of the Northern Island’ were to be divided into about 20 Districts, each headed by a pakeha Civil Commissioner, who would preside over the District Runanga and coordinate the activities of Resident Magistrates in his territory. Every District would be divided into about six Hundreds, ‘from the Runangas of each of which will be selected two persons to represent each Hundred in the Runanga of the District, and to act as Assessors or Native Magistrates.’ These ‘Native Officers’ (on salaries of £5O and £4O) were generally to be selected by the Governor from names submitted to him by the Hundreds’ runanga. ‘A Warden or Chief Police Officer will be appointed to each Hundred, with a salary of £3O per annum’, and he would control five constables each earning £lO and receiving a free uniform annually. The role of the 120 new police forces so created, at annual cost of £12,600, would be to enforce those District Runanga bylaws which had beerapproved by the Governor-in-Council. These would cover such diverse subjects as cattle trespass, land use, ‘the suppression of common nuisances’, preventing drunkenness, adjusting disputed land boundaries and establishing and maintaining gaols. 18
The use of the term ‘Hundred’, the ancient English administrative subdivision, symbolised the Eurocentric organisational schema of the ‘indirect rule’ plan which had been presented. Grey was soon forced to rethink the structure which he had mooted, partly as the result of his study of the various ideas of advocates of runangabased municipalised government. There was a common thread which linked the various schemes presented since Fenton’s day: the fundamental recent development in Maori society had been the strengthening of the hapu-level runanga. This was confirmed by the reports of trusted emissaries sent at once by Grey to spy in Maori areas, and it was a point made with considerable force by William Fox and his ministers. While approving the Grey plan in principle, the General Government executive ‘regarded it in a more local aspect, and with a desire to feel certain that practical effect can, in the existing circumstances of the Colony, be given to what
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is proposed.... In introducing the system, therefore, it will be desirable, as far as possible, to use the rude Native institutions already existing; to begin by giving to them a recognised standing, and promoting their development and activity.’ The ‘indirect rule’ system should therefore be based on the ‘only deliberative and legislative institution of the Maori race’, the runanga at village/ hapu level. ‘Ministers attach much importance to the gradual initiation of the system, by beginning in practice from the bottom, and not from the top’, so that the key bylaw-making authority under the Native Districts Regulation Act would be the village runanga. It was in the latter, therefore, that the necessary ‘firm foundation’ existed upon which to build the framework of the new organ of state.
Grey accepted in essence the legitimacy of the forcefully expressed arguments of his Government, whilst altering, negating or confusing sufficient of the ministerial recommendations to avoid losing face. Instead of runanga policemen and other officials being ‘elected or recommended’ by tribespeople for endorsement by the Governor, for example, Grey wanted a panel of names submitted from which he could select ‘men of good repute’—in other words, those acceptable to him. He required too that the Civil Commissioners quickly assemble ‘the larger Runangas’ so that bylaws passed at village level would supplement those made at District level rather than vice versa. Having cast aside a numerically rigid system, the Governor now decreed merely that each District would be ‘subdivided into Hundreds’, and that in each Hundred ‘there will be Policemen, and one Chief Policeman, who will be under the Assessors’. The sitting Assessors, selected by the ‘legal runanga’ subject to the Governor’s confirmation, constituted courts whose directions the policemen were bound to obey, and from the kaiwhakawa would be chosen representatives to sit in the District Runanga convened by the Civil Commissioner. ‘This Runanga will propose the laws for that district, about the trespass of cattle, about cattle pounds, about fences, about branding cattle, about thistles and weeds, about dogs, about spirits and drunkenness, about putting down bad customs of the old Maori law, like the Taua, and about the various things which specially concern the people living in that district.’ All such laws were, of course, subject to the Governor’s veto, and the fundamental purpose of the ‘new institutions’ scheme remained, as a commentator put it, that of making the Maoris ‘parties to their own submission’. 19
‘This work will be a work of time, like the growing of a large tree’, the Maori were told; the ‘growth of the tree is slow—the branches, the leaves, and fruit did not appear all at once, when the
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seed was put in the ground: and so it will be with the good laws of the Runanga.’ The gradual flourishing of the system would be ‘the Work of Peace . . . and the heart of the Queen will be glad when she hears that the two races are living quietly together, as brothers, in the good and prosperous land of New Zealand.’ And indeed Grey quickly abandoned Browne’s plans for imminent invasion of the Waikato. It is probable that he actually did initially hold out some hope that the official runanga system could avert an armed showdown between the races; on the other hand, he realised that the pakeha quest for land, ‘order’ and de facto control over the entire country, and the determination of Kingism to resist, meant that avoidance of at least a degree of war was unlikely. Thus he continued to build up the military and logistical resources necessary for a full-scale invasion of the heartland of the Kingites. The runanga system was envisaged not only as a last-ditch chance of averting, but also as a complement to, race war. If such a system could ‘pacify’ large areas of the North Island, Kingism would be denied recruiting grounds and significant regions would at very least be neutralised in the event of war, thereby enabling the British troops to singlemindedly concentrate on overcoming the resistance in the Waikato.”
Meanwhile, the official runanga system would be given a prototypal trial run, and for this reason Grey visited the far north: partly to ‘secure his rear’, mainly because here the problem of race relations had since the ending of the 1845-6 war loomed less large than in other interpenetrated areas and hence the region had previously been chosen for pilot schemes under the 1858 legislation. Clearly the Assessors were to be a crucial component in the success or otherwise of ‘indirect rule’, and that their office was now to be—subject to Governor’s veto —democratised was more a theoretical than an actual development. Assessors had usually been ariki or rangatira, powerful mainly by dint of the mana which still accrued to their chiefly positions rather than by their possession of pakeha salary and authority; much the same men, it was envisaged with confidence, would now represent the Hundreds as their ‘Native Magistrates’. Their previously ad hoc enforcement procedures would now however be legalised and regularised and they were provided, since each Hundred’s Assessors controlled its Warden or Chief of Police, for the first time with specialised police personnel.
On his visit into the Ngapuhi heartland in association with special emissary Fenton (still seen as an expert on indirect rule of the Maori) the Governor appointed veteran missionary George Clarke as the colony’s first Civil Commissioner. In conjunction with the regional Resident Magistracy Clarke would inaugurate the official
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Runanga District of the Bay of Islands or Waimate. The role of the Civil Commissioner was essentially political; he would act, in the words of J E FitzGerald, as ‘a sort of Government spy’, and as a corollary of this intelligence-gathering function utilise his network of white and brown police and judicial agents to enforce the will of the state. Assisting Clarke were Resident Magistrates White at Mangonui, Clendon at Hokianga, E M Williams (son of Henry Williams) at Waimate, and R C Barstow at Russell. Yet although the far north had hosted an indirect rule experiment for some time, and although the Bay of Islands District was officially proclaimed under the 1858 legislation on 7 December 1861, Clarke’s first report indicated grave difficulties in the way of incorporating into the pakeha state the runanga of even ‘friendly’ tribespeople located in a relatively compact area. Hapu rivalries were intense and complicated, and ‘indescribable’ chaos had arisen from the oppressive activities of previous Assessors in the area, even those operating under the experimental scheme. 21
In setting out to overcome such problems Civil Commissioner Clarke secured alterations to the neat arrangements of Grey’s scheme even in its revised version, for that too needed to be tempered by blending with the realities of the pre-existing indigenous authority structure. Historic tribal divisions dictated the existence of only three Hundreds in the District, with six chiefs from each Hundred selected as Assessors to meet at District Runanga level. Other chiefs, including most of the old salaried Assessors who were ‘unfit’ for service in the new runanga scheme, were designated honorary Assessors with very little power. Each of the 18 official runanga Assessors could select two ‘native constables’, or karere (literally ‘messengers’); six of the karere could be designated Wardens or chiefs of police, and have Assessor status and hence seats on the District Runanga. Since some of the nominated Wardens were selected for their tribal significance and were ill-versed in European learning and ways, it was deemed crucial that the ordinary constables be ‘educated’ and ‘intelligent’. It was suggested too that the karere be uniformed in ‘something pleasing to the Maori taste, and distinctive’. By the end of the year 10 of the 18 District Runanga Assessors had been chosen, and one of the six Wardens—former resistance prophet Papahurihial—whilst 16 karere had been chosen for the Hokianga and Waimate Hundreds. Five of the District Runanga chiefs had selected their quota of two constables, two had selected a constable apiece, and a remaining four ‘native police’ appointments indicated the scheme’s flexibility: two were attached to Resident Magistrate Clendon’s establishment and two to that of Civil Commissioner Clarke himself. 22
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Thus from the beginning, as the Fox ministry had predicted, departures from the theoretical scheme which had been presented originally by Grey were necessary to fit the tribal and sub-tribal actuality of Maori life. Even the modified version would itself need to be continually modified. A well publicised report by Turton had indicated the extraordinary difficulties in adopting any rigid framework of ‘indirect rule’. In a wide ranging North Island journey he had encountered a broad spectrum of functioning runanga, some of them Kingite, some Queenite, some neither, some split between factions, some specialised, some tiered, some working with Assessors and/or British officials permanently, temporarily or not at all; in some cases there were no runanga, and Maoris lived under the superintendence of chiefs, Assessors, missionaries or magistrates. In regions where Resident Magistrates had gained influence over Assessors and/or runanga, even if the Maori institutions had ‘acted with strange impropriety or great injustice, yet had they not failed to impress a certain amount of fear on the people at large, which resulted in better behaviour.’ Turton perceived little but ‘evil’ where runanga were allowed to take their own course, unguided by the pakeha, and Grey was determined to keep the official runanga under the very close control of state ‘guiding minds’. He increasingly appreciated that to ensure this required great adaptation of the legal runanga tactic in order to meet disparate localised circumstances of the nature of those portrayed by Turton.
It was to the most important area of all, the Waikato, that Grey, still in conjunction with Fenton, next turned his attention. The problematic Upper Waikato was constituted the second District under the ‘new system’ on 16 December and the job of Civil Commissioner handed to Grey’s co-thinker Gorst, developments which arose after a grand meeting of chiefs which the Governor’s envoys had secured at Taupari. To exemplify what he intended with the runanga system, moreover, Grey installed Fenton’s most loyal ally in the past, Waata Kukutai, as Chief Assessor of the embryonic Taupari Hundred in the Lower Waikato; and early the following year Fenton, on Grey’s behalf, appointed Ruka Taurua as Chief of Police and President of that Hundred, supplying him with the wherewithal for a staff of six karere. A month after the stateconvened meeting the Lower Waikato was officially constituted a district, a prelude to formal merging with the Upper Waikato, but thereafter progress was halting. 23
By the beginning of 1862 it was clear that to be viable the indirect rule system required that extant runanga be taken at their local and
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current state of development, and a linkage established with, in Fox’s words, ‘whatever other machinery of government it may be considered desirable to organize’ on the spot. Often this would be by the placement of a Resident Magistrate in supervision over a local runanga, or more likely a cluster of runanga, and their policing mechanisms. With Government willingness to depart greatly from the standardised ‘indirect rule’ format, the Bay of Islands District was quickly remodified before the end of January 1862. Acting Native Secretary Henry Halse notified Clarke that W B White had been granted ‘independent management’ of the farthest north, centred on Mangonui, the only previous District gazetted under the 1858 legislation before the introduction of the ‘new system’. Although Mangonui was hived off and White made ‘Superintendent’ of the reconstituted District, the Bay of Islands District retained a three-fold political and policing division as a result of the carving out of a new Hunched based at Kororareka, At the same time the Government had approved the names of those Assessors, Wardens and karere who had so far been suggested by Clarke, their appointments and salaries to be dated from the first day of the year. The Government had, however, considered Clarke’s recommendation for 36 constables excessive: there were for now to be 20, divided amongst the three Hundreds police forces in a fashion to be determined at the regional official level. Their uniforms were already ordered, it being intended that Maori police should receive a free uniform issue annually. By early in 1862, then, four new police forces (including White’s) had been formally established in the Bay of Islands District. In practice the Civil Commissioner, the Resident Magistrates and key Assessor-chiefs rather than the majority of tribespeople customarily eligible for participation in runanga deliberations were to have virtually autonomous operational control over ‘their’ karere, even in this first, model runanga policing scheme."
The formal runanga structure initially drawn up for presentation by Clarke to the Ngapuhi and other local tribespeople at his Waimate headquarters at the founding meeting of the District Runanga was thus already outmoded, and the chiefs did not bother considering it. The karere distributed between the three Hundreds centred at Waimate (where they were to be formally headed by Warden Kingi Hori Hira), Kororareka (Warden Mangonui Kerei, soon to be dismissed for a number of assaults) and Hokianga constituted in reality a number of small police forces operating under Assessors at village level and/or aiding pakeha officials. In Clarke’s words, the ‘minor Runangas of Hapus deserve consideration; they exist, and, however inconvenient, they cannot at present be got rid of, but
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doubtless may be used under skilful guidance to accomplish the great object of the Government, without offending the Natives.’ The diverse runanga could be ‘tamed’, he felt, by ensuring that salaried officials, pakeha and Maori, became involved in their proceedings. Thus a ‘formidable heterogeneous mass without order’ could become harmonised with the Civil Commissioner’s plans for local self-government; Wardens and karere would be an integral part of this process, and by the end of 1862 their numbers for the northern official runanga system had been fixed at three and 25 respectively. 25
A severe test came before mid year, with a feud between Chief Matiu of Mangakahia and influential ‘friendly’ chief Tirarau Kukupa over tribal land rights. The former, a chief of the Waimate Hundred, wished the matter to be placed before the official runanga, in which forum there was reason to believe he would triumph. But Halse —very conscious that a significant pro-pakeha chief should not be alienated —instructed Clarke that in such cases the pakeha Government needed to show what he saw as neutrality. The state could not allow discussion of the dispute in ‘its’ runanga system without the consent of the other party, which was not forthcoming. Matiu opted therefore for a customary solution and gathered together a taua which attacked Tirarau’s people at Whangarei; included in it were Arama Karaka and other chiefs who had adhered to the runanga plan and received salaries from the pakeha state, and they were now stripped of their positions. The implications were great. The runanga scheme could preserve pakehaised ‘order’ in ‘Native Districts’ only if all principal parties agreed to be bound by it, yet that had quickly proved not to be the case even in this ‘model’ runanga establishment. In the absence of such agreed jurisdiction, it was obvious that traditional solutions to disputes would be implemented regardless of the position of the participants in the ‘legal runanga’ scheme. If those resorting in these circumstances to such methods as war-party raids were always to be expelled then the scheme would lose a great deal of its utility. 26
All the same, the General Government saw considerable advantages in retaining the official runanga system, and increasingly sought out compromises when such situations arose in the future. It continued to treat the northern system as an experimental model. Within a year the Bay of Islands District Runanga had been convened three times by Clarke, and fees collected by the Resident Magistracy/Assessor courts were being put towards the building of a District Runanga headquarters. At the third meeting an important regulation to lower the prevailing level of drunkenness had been drawn up and this, having been urged by the Governor in the
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first place, received his approval and became law within the District. There were difficulties with bringing Europeans under runanga law, however, and recommended bylaws to prevent cattle trespass were held over by the General Government so that the local pakeha population could meet the District Runanga and help frame regulations acceptable to and enforceable over both races. In an effort to get European compliance with Maori-originated law, it was agreed that eight pakehas (half of them nominated by the Government, the others selected by the runanga) should join the legal runanga setup. 2 ’
By mid 1862 Orders-in-Council had officially constituted, besides the Bay of Islands and Mangonui Districts and the amalgamated Waikato District, eight others under the Native Districts Regulation Act and its accompanying Native Circuit Courts legislation, each with several Hundreds police forces, many of these consisting de facto of several small devolved forces. Waiuku District, headed by Resident Magistrate Major J Speedy, was gazetted into existence on 3 January 1862. Designed to secure the area north-west of the Lower Waikato, one of its two Assessors was exKingite head of police Aihipene Kaihau. There were teething problems, and its first Warden/chief of police, Maihi Katipa, had been dismissed ‘on account of bad Conduct’ by the end of the year and replaced by Tipene Te Tahua. The police force in this compact area consisted of only six karere, whereas the next Districts to be gazetted—Tokomaru and Waiapu, on 8 January, just before the Lower Waikato was gazetted—covered the sprawling East Coast area. Little penetrated by pakeha settlement and, although run in ‘orderly’ fashion by regional tribal authority, assessed to be of potential military danger for the state, this region was seen as requiring a more sizeable official Maori police presence—particularly for surveillance purposes. On 7 March the Waihou (Thames), Manawatu (or Wellington West Coast), Ahuriri (Napier) and Bay of Plenty Districts were added, followed by Taupo a month later. The institutions of each district, often of each Hundred, were constituted in accord with differing local circumstances, although there were common factors—in particular the establishment of police forces of karere headed by Chief Karere or Wardens (sometimes also called Sergeants, Sergeants-Major or ‘Heads of Police’). In this way, at least in theory and not infrequently in practice from place to place, the key North Island Native Districts were placed under close surveillance by indigenous police responsible to both Maori and—in the last instance—pakeha officials acting out the traditional role of top policemen, that of coordinators of those watchdog and enforcing activities desired by the state. 28
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In each District the projects began cautiously, normally with a probing operation by a Resident Magistrate or some similar state agent. Resident Magistrate William Baker, for example, was sent to the rugged and isolated East Coast (Turanga) region where he was guided by ‘loyalist’ Assessors already on the state payroll; one of these, Mokena Kohere, he made ‘Chief Assessor’ of the entire region, over which he presided as Civil Commissioner of the two Districts, which were later merged into one ‘East Cape District’. The road to this development was clogged with difficulties, partly because he had initially relied too much on hitherto ‘friendly’ chiefs and omitted taking other equally or even more important chiefly strata into his confidence. More fundamentally, as Bishop W Williams later recalled, many Maoris in this determinedly independent region were soon reportedly ‘speaking of the salaries as money paid with a view to getting possession ultimately of the land’. In the south of the region—from where Wardell’s Resident Magistracy had previously been withdrawn—most tribespeople elected to ignore the official runanga system whilst further north, where Baker’s efforts were focused, some of the Ngatiporou opted for Kingism and others were alienated by the authoritarian Chief Assessor.
In the northern of his two Districts, Waiapu, Baker had however early on established four Hundreds, each to be headed by an Assessor and three of them to have a Warden (earning £24 annually) apiece. There was also a complement of two Wardens at the headquarters at Waiapu itself. The District Runanga was to select 14 karere at £lO each, for distribution amongst the Hundreds forces. In the District of Tokomaru Baker established two Hundreds, each to have an Assessor, a Warden and two karere. The respective District Runanga meetings were held in February and March, and at them elections were held for karere; discussion on the choice of one of the six karere of Waiapu Hundred was intense, some Runanga representatives feeling that the man was too ‘bombastic’ to be a policeman, and compromise was reached by an agreement that he would be given a trial run. Those relatively few constables who were actually elected in different parts of the colony under the official runanga system were the first and last elective constables in New Zealand’s history. 29
Many of the karere in the various regions were quickly disillusioned and there was a consequent high turnover of staff. The promised annual issue of uniforms often did not eventuate, the salary was low, the constable often reviled by Maori and European alike. To cut down the fall-off rate pakeha officials were soon seeking compensatory perquisites for their Maori staff. By late March
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1862 Baker sought a travel allowance for his Assessors, Wardens and karere, all of whom had to visit his headquarters on at least the first day of each month to report on the state of their Hundreds and to receive instructions and advice. This was a burden which they were not able to avoid as it was on these occasions that they were paid from the Native Department funds at Baker’s disposal. At those times too the Civil Commissioner would group all his officials together and inculcate a ‘proper degree of discipline’ and a ‘spirit of harmony and goodwill’. Baker considered these regular visits and instruction (during which the Maori ‘magistrates’ and policemen were a strain on the hospitality of Chief Assessor Mokena) to be of more importance than his ‘flying visits’ in the field, during which ‘the Assessors and people together assume an inspection behaviour’. The formal monthly visit by staff to headquarters, he urged, had to be made worth the while of his Maori officials were he to get the best value out of the system. 30
Baker was satisfied with the performance of most of the karere. T find, however, that considerable jealousy exists among the different hapus of which the large tribes in the two districts are composed, relative to the persons elected to this office. They look upon it as an honor to be represented by one of their own hapu, and evince great dislike to the exercise of the duties of karere within their boundary by a member of a distinct hapu.’ It was a common complaint throughout the ‘indirect rule’ system; all hapu of any significance which were offering to participate, Baker pointed out, expected at least one karere apiece. He urged compliance with this demand because the expense would be trifling compared with the advantage of ‘enlisting their sympathies with the individuals thus bound to the Government service.’ Yet although such a concession would mean only four extra karere in the Tokomaru District, where the four existing men had to cover a coastline of two days’ journey, a precedent established there would have significant ramifications elsewhere: it was not therefore an expense that the Government was prepared to undertake. Calls from runanga for extra salaried Maori police and magistrates were indeed very frequent, and usually fruitless, throughout the North Island. 31
Even had there been an increase in ‘native constables’ in the East Cape region it would not have altered the fact that, in common with other Districts, parallel to the ‘official runanga’ system the indigenous runanga system and/or chiefly authority continued to operate as the major governing and policing power. Certainly the Civil Commissioner built upon parts of the pre-existing regional runanga network, and received valuable intelligence reports from ‘his’ runanga officials, but continuous and meaningful control of
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the social order in each locality more often stayed with runanga unconnected, or in some cases connected only formalistically, with the pakeha state. A highly complex situation existed. The unofficial runanga tended, on the East Coast, to be dominated by rangatira whom Baker characterised as ‘pert young fellows’ whose ‘arrogance’ was a ‘source of great annoyance to the older and more sensible portion of the community’. The ‘indirect rule’ idea, of course, postulated that chiefs of potential or actual ‘loyalist’ or ‘neutral’ leanings were in control of official runanga; it was not however necessarily true that Queenite or uncommitted chiefs, or the upper stratum of rangatira, or even chiefs at all, were or remained in such control. When unofficial runanga metamorphosed into official runanga, some of them did so only nominally, and some legal runanga fell under the sway of the ‘pert young fellows’ and other ‘undesirables’. In parts of the East Cape region it was not even possible to establish a dual system of social control whereby ‘Government Maori’ institutions coexisted with non-official runanga. The new forms of indigenous Maori authority which had emerged there in the 1850s with their own policing mechanisms ensured that the envisaged comprehensive framework of a Europeanised runanga system could not be created in strong enough form to supersede non-state systems. Yet the state persevered, and by the end of 1862 there were seven heads of police in the Turanga region (Erimana Otakorau, Mohi Wharepoto, Timoti Te Maemae, Kemara Te Rape, Maaka Te Ihutu, Pekama Te Whata, Patihana Aukomiro) controlling a total of 16 karere. 32
More success for the Government was to be had in the greater Bay of Plenty region. In mid December 1861 Resident Magistrate T H Smith, an official with long experience of handling Maori issues in the region and soon to be Civil Commissioner of the District, was given the important task of securing the allegiance of the region’s tribes to the Government at a time when they were reportedly uncertain whether to join the British Queen or the Maori King. His instructions made it quite explicit that the Civil Commissionership was essentially a political appointment: he was to tell the Maoris ‘through the medium of that institution with which they are familiar, the Runanga’ that there would be inevitable race conflict if Kingism were persisted in, that the way of the pakeha would lead to ‘institutions for the social advancement of their race’. On arriving at his headquarters in Tauranga just before Christmas, Smith found that the authority of each Government Assessor did not extend beyond his own runanga in a region where runanga proliferated, there being several in the main settlement alone. By Boxing Day he had concluded —as had officials in various
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other parts of the North Island—that the Grey blueprint was impracticable in its emphasis upon Assessors meeting at District Runanga level, and that the basic unit of police and government had of necessity to be the local hapu/village runanga. 13
Smith’s path had been smoothed by Tauranga Resident Magistrate H T Clarke (son of George Clarke) who had established a close control over Assessors in the greater Bay of Plenty. With his help and against some considerable opposition the new Civil Commissioner was quickly able to establish five runanga sub-districts, and to recommend police forces for three which were clustered in the inland thermal area. The forces comprised five ‘chiefs of police’, located at Rotoiti, Okataina, Rotorua, Tarawera and Tapahora, controlling 10 sub-policemen between them. By early March Smith had greatly exceeded his allocation in recommending 24 Assessors, 16 Wardens or Chief Karere and 29 karere. This was in line with his determination to concentrate upon runanga as they were rather than as they might be arranged if they were willing to let the state so arrange them. In this District the salaries of the chiefs of police were fixed at £2O, and those of constables at the standard rate of £lO plus uniform, all appointments dating from 1 January 1862. By now the Government was stressing more than ever the flexibility of the runanga plan, partly because of the reports it was receiving from its officials in the various regions but also as a result of emphasising that in view of the tentative and experimental nature of the effort to bring the ‘rural Maori’ under the wing of the pakeha state, not too much should be attempted if any great expense were involved. 1 *
By early April 1862 Smith had mastered some of the internal difficulties of the Tauranga sub-district or Hundred and secured agreed nominations for three Chief Karere and seven karere. By late May he had established a Hundred in Ngatiawa territory in the east of the District, securing nominations for two Wardens and seven karere, while a number of other positions—such as those at Whakatane—were left vacant ‘until the people at those places are prepared to select men to fill them’. Chief Karere selected to that point were based at 10 pa: in the Tauranga Hundred, Tawaewae was based at Maungatapu, Hamiora Tangiawa at Opoueta and Rawiri Taukawe at Motuhoa; in the Rotoiti Hundred, Rawiri Kerarape at Komuhumuhu and Hamiora Te Rewhare at Okataina; in the Rotorua Hundred, Kereopa Te Hore of Te Ngae; in the Tarawera Hundred, Kihirinu Tuahu and Poia Te Kiri were at Te Wairoa and Tapahora respectively; in the Whakatane Hundred, Te Makarini Te Uhiniko was based at Te Awa-o-te-Atua (later Matata) and Hoani Matenga Paruhi at Rangitaiki.
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By mid June Smith was revising his suggestions and proposing a staff of slightly fewer high officials (23 Assessors, 14 Wardens) but as many as 37 karere, thereby redistributing money available for salaries to give a greater coverage by constables. It had been suggested, and he agreed, that the latter be in office for only six months or a year apiece, ‘so that all the young men may in turn take part in the work of administering the law and preserving order’. By the end of the year rearrangement had been necessary: two extra Wardens in Rotorua Hundred, Witanihaua Ngatara and Terehi Te Aura, the renaming of Whakatane Hundred as that of Te Awa-o-te-Atua to better suit the power realities of that part of the coast, the replacing of Kihirinu Tuahu by Te Pirihi Kahitaiki in Tarawera Hundred, and the creation of a Maketu Hundred whose police force was headed by mixed-race Warden Retireti (Retreat) Tapsell. Nevertheless Smith’s original framework remained and his system functioned reasonably satisfactorily in the eyes of the state; his District’s established staff of (now) 38 karere indicated that he had been given what he requested in order to overcome the problems inherent in ‘indirect control’ of such a tribally complicated region. 35
There were similar problems—those of operating in areas where pro-Government, neutral and anti-Government Maoris of differing and rival tribes and hapu—intermingled, in the Central Wanganui District, where in October 1862 Resident Magistrate John White began to construct an official runanga system. By the end of the year he had 11 official runanga police forces, headed by Rio Haeatarangi, Hakopa Rangitikara (soon replaced by Te Peina), Hone Timango, Paramena, Romene, Huiria Te Ripeka, Marino Taukapa, Erueti Turangapito, Rairi Hemoata, Kereti Iwitahi and Toma Tahupotiki; between them, by March 1863 they controlled some 40 karere. But White had considered that a series of small, isolated Maori police forces was an inadequate means of pervading European norms of behaviour throughout his district; far better, he argued, to throw caution to the winds and attempt to forcibly impose pakeha rule upon the recalcitrant, a conviction strengthened by several successful usages of concerted armed action by runanga police. He had therefore at first appointed only a limited number of karere and applied to the Governor for permission to establish a 40-man ‘Native Police’, which would be instructed in its duties by the clerk to the Resident Magistracy acting as an Inspector. Grey, in view of the raison d’etre of the official runanga system, could give the plan but short shrift: even had it not been too expensive a precedent, it clearly risked provoking rather than pacifying the Maori. Regional adaptations were quite acceptable, but
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not adjustments which altered the entire concept of the scheme — let alone those which endangered its very success. Instead of being given control over an indigenous occupation-police force, the overzealous White found himself foisted with a further level of bureaucracy through which to work: Executive Councillor Walter Mantell, recently Minister of Native Affairs, had been given direction of Maori affairs in Wellington Province by the central Government from late 1862. 36
The application of Grey’s notions of ‘indirect control’ of the Maori led to enormous differences of runanga policing setups in the various Maori-dominated regions of the North Island. In the far north of New Zealand at Mangonui, where for 13 years the Resident Magistrate had been in sole official overlordship of the Rarawa tribe, there had been little problem in turning the existing runanga structure, already dominated by W B White through his Assessors, into an agency of the pakeha state. By mid April 1862 three Wardens —Waka Rangaanu, Reihana Kiriwi and Heremaia Te Ara —had been appointed (all at £3O, as in the Bay of Islands) to control a total of 14 karere. Continuity with the past was illustrated when White applied for all the various official appointments to be backdated to the beginning of the year ‘as all have been actively engaged in the work of the Government’. In another hiveoff from the broad Bay of Islands region, Mahurangi District, a sole Assessor controlling three karere was deemed quite adequate. Though both areas were relatively quiescent, it was seen as important that they should have Maori police surveillance and response capacities; the state was satisfied that these indigenous monitoring and enforcement agencies were providing an adequate service, particularly in view of its minimal financial outlay.
In the North Island’s central Taupo District, by contrast, the odds were stacked against successful implementation of a legal runanga system. George Law, a local mission teacher selected at the request of an influential pro-pakeha chief, had to struggle against strongly entrenched Kingism before and after his appointment as Civil Commissioner in late March 1862, and he had no pre-existing Resident Magistrate/Runanga system upon which to build. Setting up at Oruanui, he could secure the election of Assessors only in the hospitable oasis around his headquarters. He was forced to make a deal with the King’s representative at Taupo to the effect that the official runanga’s jurisdiction extended only over Queenites: pending a visit of the Governor for a ‘general explanation’ there would be joint jurisdiction in cases of dispute involving members of both factions. The four local ‘friendly’ tribal groups each selected its own police force headed by a ‘Sergeant’: Hare
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Tetoroa for Ngati-te Pahe, Eru Oho for Ngatiruirange, and Ihakara Kahuao for Ngatiranhoto each controlled a karere apiece, and there was also a two-karere force headed initially by Pirihi Taiki and then by Pouaka. The Crown later alleged, with karere as witnesses, that Law’s isolation from the rest of pakeha officialdom allowed him to embezzle large quantities of Native Department money. 37
In the above-mentioned ‘Native Districts’ there had been little pakeha penetration, except in the original settlement areas to the far north and there comparatively few pakehas now remained in any case. The presence and activities of individual and clustered settlers and traders in these Districts had caused complications, and such problems were sometimes exacerbated, in places where the legal runanga machinery had begun operating, because of Maori dissatisfaction that the system’s jurisdiction did not cover Europeans. But by and large the tasks of the Districts’ Civil Commissioners, Resident Magistrates and their Maori policing and governing officials had been relatively unencumbered by on-the-spot problems of racial interaction. In the remainder of the North Island by the end of 1862, apart from no-go areas such as Kingite Waikato, insurgent-held portions of Taranaki, and the Urewera (where ‘Upper Wairoa’ Resident Magistrate C Hunter Brown was forced out), it was the old Assessor/Resident Magistracy system which dealt with specialised problems of Maori policing. Except, that is, in two southern interpenetrated regions. The more racially delicate of the pair was Hawke’s Bay, where in later 1861 a public meeting of settlers had requested the Governor’s intervention in worsening relations between the races. European cattle feeding on Maori grasslands had been seized by local runanga authority and, in the absence of a strong provincial police, compensation had been exacted from the owners in lieu of payment of appropriate lease money. Even settlers not unsympathetic to the Maori side of such disputes would not contemplate that pakehas could be subject to (especially unofficial) runanga jurisdiction, and armed strife seemed possible. 38
Fox had therefore sent South Island politician Crosbie Ward to mediate with the Maori, to suggest means of establishing an official runanga system, and —in a significant expansion of the methods of the legal runanga system’s purpose of involving Maori authorities in their own subjection—to force the squattocracy to resolve their land problems through negotiation with runanga. Ward’s assessment had been that the majority of Hawke’s Bay Maoris would agree to the constitution of a Native District, and that this was the
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'Collision between the Races
only viable alternative to a dangerous status quo: even the prolandselling Maoris would not accept the enforcement of purely British law by purely British officials, whilst runholders were spoiling for a showdown. With an official runanga system established, legal occupation of Maori lands by pakehas could be arranged. Profits accruing to the tribal owners would be distributed without disruption by the village runanga to the rightful recipients, with the ultimate say in Maori land matters to be vested in the District Runanga. Prominent local settler Colonel A H Russell, who had already secured an enormous run and who was therefore all the more attuned to the desire of the state to preserve order and race harmony in the area, had been appointed Civil Commissioner of the Ahuriri Native District in early March 1862 and briefed in terms of Ward’s recommendations. 39
In the District there were to be 20 Assessors, plus an equal number of karere on the standard £lO plus uniform; the police would be distributed between three Hundreds, each with its own Chief Karere. Responsibility for the Waipukurau and Ngaruroro Hundreds was delegated to land purchase official (and ex-Taranaki Police Inspector) George Sisson Cooper, and another Resident Magistrate would be appointed to head the Wairoa Hundred in the north of the District. Widespread scepticism among squatters about the efficacy of any such ‘new institutions’ in the area seemed vindicated when central and southern Hawke’s Bay chiefs were revealed to be uncooperative, suspicious of the state’s intentions towards their lands and their futures. However Russell pressed ahead and established the institutions of the first two sub-districts. He then travelled to Wairoa, where he found the Maori runanga authorities more ‘civilised’ than the Europeans of that and the neighbouring Mohaka area—to cut down drunkenness, especially amongst Europeans, the runanga had ‘suppressed’ a public house licensed by the provincial government but located on Maori land. This was an encouraging start, but throughout the province the seeds of conflict remained as the legal runanga system struggled into existence; by June straying cattle were still being seized by tribespeople, and the convening of a general District Runanga by the Civil Commissioner had been delayed by the opposition of some Maori factions. By the end of the year only eight Assessors had been selected for the Governor’s approval, and a mere six karere, and in the search for viability rearrangements at the top level were to be made during 1863: Hunter Brown appointed Resident Magistrate for the Hundred at Wairoa that February, followed by Major George Whitmore being appointed Civil Commissioner and J H Campbell being shortly thereafter placed in delegated
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Polking the Colonial Frontier
charge as Resident Magistrate over the Ngaruroro Hundred. All the while, powerful squatters resisted state decrees that they were to subject their designs on the land and its resources to the scrutiny of the ‘new institutions’. A state of high tension prevailed. 10
The other interpenetrated region where the runanga system had been established, Wellington Province, hosted legal runanga for conventional ‘indirect rule’ reasons. In the sprawling West Coast District where Kingite ideas were strongly entrenched, the Government had chosen fluent Maori linguist Walter Lawry Buller as Resident Magistrate in charge of putting the runanga system into effect. His empathy with Maori culture, in which as the son of a Bay of Islands missionary he was steeped, ensured that even the ultra-Kingites treated him with some respect. Appointed in February 1862, by the middle of the year he planned to establish a runanga structure centred on Otaki (3 Assessors, 2 Wardens, 6 karere) with devolved bases in the Manawatu (2, 1, 4), Rangitikei
(3, 2, 6), Turakina (2, 1, 4) and Waikanae (1, 0, 2) areas. He envisaged that when the system was seen to ‘bear fruit’, even Kingites would gradually apply to join. With their chiefly strata then given official positions and salaries, Kingism would be subverted from within.
Under the influence of important Assessor chiefs such as Tamihana Te Rauparaha and Matene Te Whiwhi, the legal runanga system took root quickly and by the end of the year there were 17 Assessors and 11 Wardens in the region. Three of the chiefs of police, from their headquarters at Otaki, jostled regional Kingite leaders domiciled close by. These ‘Government Maoris’ were Horomona Toremi (later promoted to Warden at Rangitikei), Arapata Hauturu and Te Aromarere Te Puna. Two of the Wardens were at Parewanui (Utiku Te Matiaha and Wiremu Mokomoko) and the others presided at Poroutawhao (Tamihana Te Hoia), Haukaretu (Narehana Te Whare), Puketotara (Te Warena Mahuri), Turakina (Reupeua Kewetone), Matutaera (Tahana Tauhanake) and Mangawhero (Hunia Teiki). Distributed between the Wardens, Duller, and Lieutenant J T Edwards (who was delegated control as Resident Magistrate over the south of the District, stationed at Porirua) were distributed 34 karere, and more would soon be added. By the end of 1862 the state authorities had established a close surveillance network along the western coast of Wellington Province, and Resident Magistrate Wardell was on the point of establishing an official runanga network in the more compact Wairarapa, appointing within a number of months three Wardens (Karaitiana Te Kirou, Anaru Tuokairangi and Komene Piharau) and 11 karere. In both of these areas the runanga system
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‘Collision between the Races
would have to be supplemented by pakeha military garrisons after the outbreak of the Waikato campaign/ 1
In most regions the power relationships pervading the localised admixture of tribes and hapu precluded much chance of the District Runanga ever meeting on even an inaugural occasion. Only in North Auckland, at Waimate and Mangonui, did the District Runanga work in the originally envisaged manner, convening at approximately nine-monthly intervals. Elsewhere the pakeha officials, as the ministers had predicted, were obliged to forge as best they could governing and policing agencies from existing village/ hapu runanga configurations. Many Maoris, in the words of the historian of racial ‘amalgamation’ policies, made ‘intelligent but selective use of the new modes of social control’; whatever their motives, their actions vindicated the state’s viewpoint that the runanga system was at very least a convenient and inexpensive way of maintaining a degree of order acceptable in the meantime. Karere fed an enormous amount of intelligence information through to the state officials, facilitated communications by acting as mailmen and message carriers, protected and acted at the behest of the Civil Commissioners and Resident Magistrates; performed, in short, in the classical overall role of policemen as all-purpose agents of the state/ 2
Although intrinsically significant for general purposes of racial control, however, the runanga network’s most prominent initial maximal role in the eyes of the state was that of attempting to head off Kingism. The Government was exploring the possibility that it could provide a cheaper and less disruptive alternative than war as a means of subjugation and assimilation. The crucial area for these purposes was of course the Waikato, with Gorst having been given responsibility for its upper region. Grey had entrusted initial preparations in the Lower Waikato to Fenton, with the understanding that when the area was constituted a Native District the official’s former business partner, prominent local squatter James Armitage, would become its Resident Magistrate. Fenton set to work at once to begin preparing the groundwork in the most ‘loyalist’ area of the Lower Waikato. Gorst was sent upriver despite the Maori King’s government having passed a law forbidding pakehas to enter his territory without permission, and was on the point of being ejected by two of ‘the King’s policemen’ when Wiremu Tamihana interceded and caused the convening of a King’s Council to deliberate on the matter. The majority of Kingites, it emerged, were prepared to accept a situation of contiguous power in the colony, and Gorst could stay as the Queenite representative in the Maori portion of the territory. In his initial assessments the Kingite Maoris were ‘of
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
a much better stamp than the loyal ones’ and there was hope of ‘indirect rule’ through even the most ultra-Kingite chiefs. After the introduction of such a dual power system, there would be, he believed, a gradual withering of Kingism as a potential rival to the pakeha state."
It was far too ethnocentric a judgment, for the Maori King movement groupings would cooperate with the ‘new system’ only so far as it suited them. It was also too gradualist an approach: the state could tolerate a parallel de facto Maori territorial sovereignty only until powerful enough to eliminate the rival power. Indeed the Kingites could see before them portents of that second facet of Greyite policy, the course urged by most pakehas—preparation for war. Even at the end of the Taupari meeting, where he had first tried to ‘sell’ the official runanga plan to Waikato chiefs, the Governor had aroused great suspicion. For he had announced that the dirt road from Drury, south of Auckland, through the Hunua Forest to the Waikato River would be metalled by the troops now stationed at Otahuhu, and that a detachment of soldiers would be stationed on the northern bank of the river: clearly war was on his agenda should he fail to achieve his objectives by other means, and these did not rely only on the osmotic processes held out by Gorst. At least a number of key Kingite chiefs were fully aware, moreover, that however long it took the imposition of pakehaised order was but a prelude to the alienation of the rich Waikato land."
Grey had become far less optimistic than his ministry that his own ‘new institutions’ could avert war. His announcement on the question of the road sabotaged a trip which head of Government William Fox and John Gorst planned to make to Ngaruawahia, where Fox was to announce to the Kingite runanga the establishment of a commission to investigate the ownership of the Waitara block over which the Taranaki war had broken out. As soon as news of the intended military road reached Ngaruawahia, the Kingite chiefs dispersed on the assumption that cooperation was no longer possible. Fox followed the King to Hangatiki, deep in the rugged interior territory of Ngatimaniapoto, but here he was given an ultimatum that as soon as British forces crossed the Mangatawhiri River, which together with the lower reaches of the Waikato formed the northern boundary of the Kingite Waikato region, the forces of Kingism would take up arms. This was followed by a pronouncement by the King’s runanga that the Queen’s magistrates were barred from Kingite dominions.* 6
Nevertheless the scheme for an Upper Waikato official runanga machinery was persisted with, and Gorst set about making his headquarters at the mission station at Otawhao within the Kingite
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‘Collision between the Races
domain. Despite some continued attempt by the Ngatimaniapoto to expel him, the majority of the Kingites decided not to provoke confrontation with the accredited representative of the Queen and decreed instead that pakeha state institutions were to be boycotted. The Civil Commissioner quickly discovered that Kingism was not what he had thought it to be, merely a ‘sensible’ means of infilling a governmental vacuum until pakeha institutions were introduced. It was instead, to his Eurocentric eyes, the embodiment of ‘lawlessness and anarchy’ and required a policing presence far stronger than that which any reasonable chance of success with the current official runanga policy offered. To be sure, along the entire length of the Waikato were sub-tribal fragments either disaffected with Kingism and/or whose leaders wanted salaried European positions, but Gorst recognised the futility of accommodating their wishes when the vast majority of Waikato area Maoris were Kingites. In such circumstances, the official runanga system could have but little ultimate purpose. This could be seen in his attitude to Hone Te Kotuku, head of a small but strategically important Ngatiwhauroa hapu of some five dozen people. A Fentonite Assessor who had gone over to Kingism when no salary eventuated, the chief applied for the ‘indirect rule’ system to be operative in his area and requested salaries for 10 of his people, including five policemen. Gorst declined his application on the ground that being so close to the Kingite capital this would be a provocative step without tangible corresponding rewards—although the more usual official attitude to ostensibly ‘friendly’ chiefs triumphed when the ex-Assessor subsequently went to Armitage, who accepted his general propositions though not the high asking price.* 6
From the beginning of the ‘new institutions’ policy the state had been anxiously monitoring its progress in the all-important Waikato region. At the inaugural meeting of the first of the legal runanga of the area, that of the Ngatitipa runanga at Taupari in January 1862, new appointees Resident Magistrate James Armitage and Assessor Waata Kukutai were sworn in as JPs by Fenton. The chief had already procured consensus among his people over the appointments of the six constables for which the government had agreed to pay, but when Fenton examined the list he demurred upon observing that two were from Pungapunga. This was near Ngatinaho chief Wiremu Te Wheoro’s village of Te Kohekohe (later Meremere), some 20 miles away, and he ordered the Pungapunga Ngatitipa to join with their neighbours to form another official runanga. This was an important tactic, and not only for bringing kaiwhakawa mechanisms firmly on to Kingite territory, for with the exception of Te Wheoro and a few of his closest
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
colleagues most of the Ngatinaho were Kingites. Bringing them nominally into the system of indirect control would be a symbolic coup at very least, the first official policing inroad into a tribal grouping which was not only domiciled on the King’s lands but whose majority owed allegiance to the King.
Meanwhile the Taupari Hundred was made more useful by other inter-hapu linkages: the ‘Natives at the Kakenga (some two miles from Taupari, but a different tribe)’ had been invited to the meeting and were now urged to join the Hundred ‘as otherwise constant differences and disputes would arise’. Waata told these Ngatikahu of the supposed ‘benefits that would accrue to both tribes by having one Runanga to arrange all disputes, etc., about their horses, sheep, cattle, pigs, etc.; and, on the part of the Ngatitipa, agreed to have one Runanga for both tribes.’ Chief Pirata Taukawe accepted the offer but expressed reservations when Waata suggested Tini Pakete as policeman at Kakenga for ‘he is not a steady man’. ‘Waata: Don’t be afraid of that; if he accepts the office, we will see that he behaves properly.’ Thus an extra policeman joined the Taupari Hundred police force, and all were sworn in by Fenton; despite some objections among the Ngatitipa that ‘his rank as a Chief would be compromised thereby’, Te Rewiti Paui Kuhukuhu was selected from them as effective ‘head of the Police’. Resolution number 11 of the combined runanga would decree: ‘The policeman shall go about in the midst under the authority of the law; and the people shall uphold the law and the policemen.’'’
With the Taupari forces of coercion agreed upon, discussion centred upon an appropriate headquarters for this model first runanga in the Waikato. General agreement revolved around one chiefs view; ‘lf this work emanated from us, then I would say let it be a raupo house; but, as it is the Governor’s, let him provide a wooden house.’ In recommending that the request be acceded to, Armitage noted that a wooden building of ‘dignity and importance’ would be a ‘mark of sovereignty’ and should stand on land ‘ceded by Deed to His Excellency or to the Runanga, in perpetuity.’ The focus of official attention had meanwhile turned to Te Kohekohe/ Pungapunga, where it had turned out that the majority of neither hapu was happy about the proposed intertribal scheme of indirect rule. But at a combined meeting of the Ngatitipa and the Ngatinaho section of Ngatimahuta at Pungapunga, Waata and Te Wheoro and their key advisors talked the majority of their respective tribespeople who were locally resident around to agreeing to combine to form a single official policing/administrative unit, it being said that state-provided benefits would flow to the communities without the tribespeople having to renounce any of their
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‘Collision between the Races
beliefs. Te Wheoro was selected as ‘lst Kaiwhakawa’ or Chief Assessor of the resultant Hundred, the second official runanga establishment in the Waikato, and he was also appointed Chief of Police in overall command of the Ngatinaho police system. Tipene Hon Aripata was selected as Upoko (Warden) of the Ngatinaho component of the runanga and placed in command of the four dispersed constables of his tribe as their effective or working head. This unusual differentiation of function was applied only in name in the Ngatitipa component of the runanga, where the Upoko, Noa Te Tawhara, was also made Chief of Police over the two policemen selected from his own tribe. These, both residents of Pungapunga, were the original names presented by Waata at Taupari, Paora Tarawhete and Ropati Tira. The Ngatitipa agreed to headquarter the system at Te Kohekohe, since Pungapunga was prone to flooding; indeed during the meeting, Armitage recorded, a ‘violent thunderstorm here occurred which flooded the hut, and rendered reporting a matter of great difficulty’.* 8
Like official runanga elsewhere, those of the Waikato passed and enforced laws relating to important local issues such as cattle trespass. But such matters had little to do with the grand European design of ‘amalgamation’ of the races by means of ‘educating’ the Maori to obey European authority and codes of behaviour. Gorst was told that the population of the Te Kohekohe Hundred remained Kingite, only the official staff excepted—and one of the policemen handed back his uniform and returned to Kingism when summonsed for adultery. Such defections proved to be not uncommon throughout the legal runanga system. When Chief Aihipene Kaihau of the Ngatiteata hapu of Waikato, having left the position of Kingite chief of police to be Assessor at Waiuku, told one of his police that the uniform implied obedience to his superior, the man tore it off in the street and ‘marched off in his shirt and his freedom’. Nor did Aihipene himself prove as reliable as the pakeha had hoped; when he and fellow Assessor Ihaka Te Tihi of Manukau later went to the Waikato they and other salaried ‘government Maoris’ urged the Te Kohekohe people to destroy the ‘native police school which the Government was building’, an attitude for which the former Kingite police chief was punished by suspension from state service."
While Gorst argued in vain for a massive policing imposition upon the Waikato in an all-out attempt to ‘tame’ Kingite ‘turbulence’, the state persisted in attempts to apply the ‘indirect rule’ system, often by use of discredited ‘friendly’ chiefs. ‘The only result was to draw a small minority of greedy and mercenary men into our employment, who could render us no other service than to make us
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utterly contemptible in the eyes of the disaffected but more honourable chiefs’, Gorst concluded. Waata Kukutai had borrowed his salary in advance to prevent being gaoled for debt, had threatened to resign when the Government objected to his monetary machinations, and had extracted not only a salary increase from £5O to £l5O but also a salary for his wife. His first joint governmental activity with Armitage was to order his police to return the errant wife of a ‘native constable’ to her husband and ensure that she did not again ‘stray’, and many of his directions to his karere were of similar ilk or smacked of intratribal politics. The King movement did not bother disciplining those—to them—renegade Waikato officials who operated inside the Kingite dominions, instead extracting from them a portion of their salaries as tithes to help upkeep the Kingite police and army. This attitude stemmed from the belief that at very least those working for the pakeha posed no danger to the foundations of Kingism—and the knowledge that sometimes their words and actions revealed avarice and other unsavoury characteristics and thereby undermined even further the foundations of Queenism in the Waikato. 50
Meanwhile inroads by the official runanga system had been made in and near the fringes of Kingite territory, including the establishment of another Hundred in the coastal region north of Taranaki: the Horea (or Te Ahau) Hundred, based at Rangikahu, united conflicting Ngatitahinga and Tainui villages, although the Maoris insisted that two chiefs of police (Hemi Whakatari at Horea and Wirihana at Waikawau) be appointed. Four karere were scattered between the area’s villages, which were located at 10 mile intervals. Even more importantly, there was success to the north of this Hundred with the setting up of legal runanga machinery at Raglan Harbour. Here, hosts of the Ngatimahana runanga of the newly proclaimed Whaingaroa Hundred, Fenton, Armitage and Waata Kukutai attended the selection meeting for state officeholders. This took place in Chief Wiremu Nera’s house in the European port of Raglan (near the Maori settlement of Whaingaroa), the only sizeable pakeha settlement on the Kingite side of the aukati.
But organisational success was marred by an incident which epitomised the reality that ‘amalgamation’ really meant the ‘assimilation’ into the white race of an increasingly Europeanised brown race. After Hone Piripi had been chosen chief of police for the Whaingaroa Hundred it was decided, because of the size of the European population, that it would be expedient to appoint a pakeha carpentry and shipbuilding labourer, Richard Philp, as a runanga policeman to work alongside the Maori karere in the headquarters town and with the four other karere scattered throughout
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the Hundred. Two days later Philp had to request permission from Armitage to resign: the local European employers had intimated that they would give him no work if he continued in office as karere, race arrogance having removed any ability on their part to foresee the logical consequences of such attitudes. Pakeha state officials, often worried at the ethnocentric stances adopted by Europeans in such small enclaves, were particularly concerned about Whaingaroa for it was the only area within Kingite boundaries where a model mixed-race community of integrated dual power (as opposed to the parallel dual power option of Kingism coexisting as a de facto sovereign nation) might possibly be established. So that attention could be focused on it, it was hived off from the broad Lower Waikato administrative region in June 1862 and placed, as the District of Raglan, under Resident Magistrate Major R H McGregor, who would be helped by the appointment of a second Warden of Police. Grey considered this District to be of key significance, because from February it had been official policy for Wiremu Nera’s people to build a strategic road from the port inland to the Waipa just south of Ngaruawahia—although the plan was later abandoned by Nera when it emerged that his own forces would have to bear the brunt of Kingite wrath (which would take the form of military attack) after the road passed beyond the border of that area of land within his and the state’s purview. 51
By April 1862 the Hundred of Aotea to the south of Raglan had been established, after Armitage overcame rivalry between tribespeople situated respectively on the northern and southern shores of Aotea Harbour. But although he succeeded in averting prospective twin sets of official runanga establishments, he allowed a Warden to be selected from each camp, Hepata Turingenge of Ngatiteweti and Kewene Te Haho of Ngatihaua, Although the Hundred’s population was little more than 400, Armitage had great difficulty in convincing either faction that two police each, rather than four, were sufficient. It was soon deemed expedient to incorporate the Aotea Hundred into the Raglan District, giving the latter a force of 16 karere. Arrangements and adjustments went on apace in the Waikato and its fringes, many of them proving to have few overall benefits for the pakeha state. On his return to Te Kohekohe fresh from creating the Aotea Hundred, Armitage learned from Te Wheoro that when the locals had refused to hand over a Ngatitipa woman living adulterously in their village to Taupari karere sent to seize her back, ‘Te Wheoro directed his policemen to assist those of Taupari in restoring her to her husband.’ This was, the Resident Magistrate reported, ‘a very favourable proof of the relinquishment of Native customs, and the substitution of law and
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order in their stead.’ He was, clearly, searching hard for examples of ‘success’. 52
Indeed by 1 May 1862, when Armitage was appointed to the position of Civil Commissioner, grave difficulties were already manifest. Quite apart from widespread non-cooperation in the Waikato and the existence of embarrassingly avaricious state runanga officials, there were ‘internal’ bureaucratic difficulties for the official runanga system. His karere, for example, had been given no government guidelines, although instructions to Assessors had been published in the official paper Karere Maori in March. By April the Whaingaroa men had yet to receive their uniforms, and heads of police had been complaining that even where uniforms had arrived they did not distinguish Wardens from ordinary karere. Armitage had ordered sets of sergeant’s stripes for the Wardens in order to supplement the all-blue uniforms. By June Warden Tipene Hori Aripata of the Te Kohekohe Hundred had been suspended for ‘immorality' and his runanga had nominated Puteruka Te Nokore as replacement, and Armitage was forced also to recommend that the other Warden of the Hundred be requested to resign because of inattention to duty despite cautions from the Civil Commissioner and the Chief Assessor. Moreover the attempt to widen Hundred coverage was stalling. A twin runanga was allowed for the planned Hundred of Tuakau, and the skeletal framework of an official establishment set up—with Te Wirihana Tikapu as Warden of its Northern Division—but the two halves of the projected machinery, separated by more than 40 miles, did not come together to form a viable administrative/policing unit. An attempt to create another Hundred at Kawhia Harbour initially failed when three-quarters of the Ngatihikairo publicly declined Armitage’s invitation to make the arrangements, although at the beginning of the following year the unit was established as yet another part of Raglan District with Warden Wi Hikairo heading its three karere. 53
The sixth ‘indirect rule’ establishment set up in the Waikato was not one of the seven envisaged originally; it was, rather, that of the small Ngatiwhauroa Hundred of Kahumatuku which had been sanctioned by Armitage after rejection by Gorst. An official runanga meeting was held on 12 June 1862, even though most of the tribespeople were absent at Kawhia. Hone Te Kotuku, Chief Assessor, repeated his request for a sizeable number of officials as the price of the opportunity he was offering the pakeha—the penetration of state institutions so much further into Kingite territory. But the Civil Commissioner insisted on Warden Winiata Nga Pu having two karere only (with a third to be granted upon presenta-
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tion of evidence that an extra policeman was required), a recognition that this tiny Hundred had greater symbolic than actual significance: it formally extended the boundaries of the Lower Waikato District through to the approaches to Ngaruawahia, the Kingite capital at the confluence of the Waikato and Waipa rivers some three or four miles upstream. Armitage was highly conscious of the delicacy of the situation and instructed Hone Te Kotuku ‘to be firm, but conciliatory’ to the Kingites; ‘great attention’ should be paid, the Civil Commissioner reported, to the proceedings of the Runanga Assessors and Policemen of this Hundred, as nothing, in my opinion, would be so much regretted as an unnecessary conflict between the King party and the Officers of this Hundred.’ But he had been too anxious to spread the official runanga system: the Chief Assessor proved as duplicitous as his previous history implied, vacillating between the two sides. After the invasion of the Waikato began in 1863, he was suspected by Europeans and ‘friendly’ Maoris alike of being privy to the death of Armitage in an ambush “
The official runanga system has not well survived the withering gaze of historical scrutiny, and of course it was a manifest failure in terms of one of its maximal aims—that of eschewing all need for warfare as a means of racial subjugation. Fox, realising this by August 1862, acknowledged that the great majority of pakehas were all for conquest of the Maori and resigned as Premier, his place being taken by the hard-line Domett. Backing the new head of Government were New Zealand’s two leading land speculators, lawyers Thomas Russell and Frederick Whitaker, a signal that the state would increasingly be far from averse to alienating vast areas of rich Maori land by force. All the same, the ‘new institutions’ continued to be an important element of a state holding operation of social control across many areas with large Maori populations at a time when resistance to the white man was escalating. FitzGerald noted in the Assembly that the pakeha policeman was seen by the Maori as a ‘badge’ representing their ‘racial servitude’, but the runanga constable was frequently a different matter altogether, treated even by enemies as a tribal or hapu component of traditional intraMaori struggles. To be sure only two runanga laws were ever officially gazetted, but the significance of the system was that in many Maori areas—whatever the motivations of the indigenous authorities—an effective measure of devolved and indirect social control was imposed on behalf of the pakeha state, superintended on a day-to-day level by karere. It was successful in such terms and was therefore to be continued by the Domett ministry up to and
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beyond the point of war in the Waikato and elsewhere. Every Maori district had supervisors of order, in Kingite and non-Kingite areas alike, but in the latter the state could by means of the official runanga system often ensure that at a cheap cost outlay the concepts of order involved approximated those it desired. Where it worked most successfully the scheme went beyond that of a holding operation toward —as had been originally envisaged by its planners —a ‘preparatory’ role of acclimatising ‘uncivilised’ Maoris to European ways and/or a ‘neutralising’ role of keeping tribespeople out of the armed anti-pakeha camp. In many areas then it succeeded to a greater or lesser extent in its minimalist aims, while in others there was a component of success for some of its maximalist purposes. But it had got virtually nowhere in Kingite Waikato.
By the time of the establishment of the Kahumatuku Hundred, Potatau’s son had succeeded as King Tawhiao (or Potatau II) and on 25 June 1862 issued ‘A Manifesto establishing laws’ for his kingdom. But the Kingite state was a loose federation of tribes and hapu, and Tawhiao’s writ was extended to followers outside his immediate control only if their chiefs so decided. Wiremu Tamihana feared that some of the more or less autonomous sectors that comprised the King movement might indulge in actions which would hand to the pakeha state a casus belli, and attempted at very least to secure a binding commitment to centralised jurisdiction by the King’s Council and its enforcement agencies over any disputes involving Europeans within the Kingite dominions. But Kingism remained no more than the sum of its parts and when Rewi Maniapoto, ensconced in his own quasi-kingdom at Hangatiki, and other chiefs objected to such encroachment upon their own powers, control over interracial affairs again reverted to local runanga. The King’s officers in the localities owed the source of their mana (and, sometimes, salaries) to local tribal authority bases and did little more than use ‘the King’s name as a badge of opposition to the English Government.’ Even the uniformed, ‘drilled soldiers’ protecting the King for a standard daily pay of threepence were commanded by chiefs not amenable to the jurisdiction of the Ngaruawahia Council; these detachments of men were led by their own, usually Ngatimaniapoto, military chiefs.”
Upon the return of young men from the Taranaki war to their own people a number had been formed into militarised police units drilling with muskets or captured rifles. They were to be shaped into disciplined cadres who were often dressed in uniforms—typically, white trousers, blue coats and white caps with red crosses
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embroidered on them. Chief Reihana’s ‘well-organised military police force’ was the largest and most disciplined manifestation of localised coercive capacity in Kingite territory. Apart from this force, and the rotating detachments forming the King’s guard at the capital, others existed at Kihikihi and Rangiaowhia (between them the largest population centre in the Waikato), at places such as Moaunui, Mokau, and Upper Waipa, even in areas relatively close to official runanga forces such as Kawhia. Forces like Reihana’s were paid from runanga-inflicted fines, ‘so that they have a very strong and obvious interest in the vigorous administration of justice’. The pakeha government was a supplementary source for funding many Kingite police: Rangiaowhia chief and former Queenite Taati Te Waru’s policemen had the monopoly on carrying official mail downriver from Otawhao, and even Reihana received payment for mail carrying services. Gorst’s assessment was that the Kingite militarised police forces in themselves posed no extra danger to the pakeha state since in warfare all Maori warriors would take up arms. On the contrary, so long as the forces brought the ‘young men into order and discipline’ it was ‘good’ for both them and the general condition of the area pending the full establishment of Europeanised ‘order’.“
Civil Commissioner Gorst, having by the middle of 1862 concluded that the official runanga system in its current form was an inadequate means of subjugating the Waikato Maori, saw its machinery as part of a ‘very madness of law-making infesting the country’: most persons, Maori or pakeha, who were in authority or possessed or aspired to property, he argued, desired a state of order and the key to this was not great amounts of legislation. ‘lt is the last link between the sovereign and the subject, it is the police which is defective. If there existed a power which could take up and punish offenders against the 6th and Bth of the Ten Commandments, the sores of the land would be healed. Who will dare to organise and use such a power? The Runangas dare not; the Maori King dares not; the European Magistrate dares not; the paid Assessors and constables dare not.’ Kingism, Gorst believed, was still essentially a non-insurrectionary effort to fill the government and policing vacuum in predominantly Maori areas, albeit misguided and unsuccessful in his eyes because of its orientation to Maori ideas of behaviour. The remedy for what he saw as the chaos of the Waikato was ‘government, vigorous government: authority which is able to protect life and property by enforcing obedience to the law.’ Pending this, ‘the news of any authority in the district’, even Kingite coercive activity, was ‘cheering’. But it was no satisfactory substitute for the imposition of a strong pakeha-controlled policing
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regime upon the Upper Waikato. To impress upon the Kingites the allegedly beneficial results of ‘submission to the British authority’ he would have first to demonstrate an efficacious policing regime in a contiguous ‘friendly’ runanga district.”
Grey had always been amenable to such ideas, and blamed the cautious Fox regime for the state’s neglecting to supply its political agent in the Upper Waikato with enforcement resources. As coordinator of the various schemes to penetrate official runanga systems deep into the Kingite domain from the foothold bases in the lower reaches of the Waikato, Gorst now gained permission to concentrate upon professionalising Waikato runanga police forces. The process would begin with the creation of a model force. More Europeanised and stricter official runanga control, ‘by at once proceeding to govern and civilize the well-affected’, would ‘exhibit to the disaffected tribes of the Upper Waikato the results of submission to the British authority’. For this he advocated emulating and exceeding in impressiveness the large police-armies of some of the Kingite chiefs. Whereas such an approach had not been seen as appropriate for the Wanganui River region Grey, the formulator of the plan for an all-Maori force in 1845, sanctioned the idea for the Waikato. It was a last-chance alternative to conquest, the military road from Auckland having almost reached the aukati before winter set in. Militarised Maori police forces would nominally be controlled by the District Runanga government, but in reality would be under the operational directions of Civil Commissioners and Resident Magistrates. Although he had never been impressed by the several puppet runanga of the Lower Waikato, Gorst decided to establish his prototypal police-army at the most loyalist of them, that of Wiremu Te Wheoro of Te Kohekohe. This Hundred was headquartered inside the Kingite border and to choose it for the first militarised ‘native police force’ was a provocative testing of the water of insurrection. If it failed to become a model for export into the heart of Kingism—and there was a good chance that it could, on the contrary, precipitate military showdown—it could be used as part of the arsenal to subdue the rival sovereignty by force.”
Permission to built requested ‘court houses’ for Waata’s and Te Wheoro’s administrations had been granted, and Gorst now asked Grey for a barracks capable of housing some five dozen Maori police to be added to the court to be built at Te Kohekohe. In response the Governor, mindful of the military potential that such a ‘police station’ would provide the state, secured plans by the military for a structure of twice that size. There an intertribal, uniformed paramilitary police force would be ‘carefully and constantly drilled by a sergeant who could no doubt be procured from
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one of the regiments’ which were now poised at the very edge of the much coveted Waikato. The ‘most select’ young Maoris would be attracted by pay of sixpence daily, ‘double the King’s pay’. In the face of threatened Kingite repulsion of any attempt to build such a police station, preparations went ahead and at the end of 1862 the timbers were cut and ready for erection; now was the time, in the Civil Commissioner’s view, ‘for commencing to enlist and organise the intended Police Force’.
Meanwhile Gorst held that upriver ‘it is not possible to organise a Police force, without provoking the hostility of the King’s adherents, before it would be strong enough to resist it with success; neither do I see any possibility at present of obtaining the command of any of the numerous bodies of armed Police which already exist in that District. I propose to establish in that District an industrial school for big lads and young men which may grow into a Police Station hereafter.’ Church Missionary Society land at Te Awamutu, near Otawhao, had been offered for the project, which would be based on an existing school for Maori boys. At the industrial school young Maori men —‘the most dangerous class in the native community’—were to be boarded, placed under strict discipline, and indoctrinated with British-accepted ways of seeing and doing. From them, ‘indirect rule’ officials could ultimately be selected; meanwhile there would be created a ‘body of disciplined young, accustomed to obey, who might be used as police’. 59
The Kingites were fully aware of the implications of Government policy in the Waikato. Although differences existed within their movement as to how best to resist, even the ‘moderate’ factions meeting at Tamihana’s village of Peria in October 1862 passed resolutions which were, implicitly, ultimatums: should either the Great South or Nera’s road enter Kingite territory, or one of the armed steamers that the Government was in the process of acquiring proceed up the Waikato, such provocation would be forcibly resisted. A wary eye was kept on Gorst’s activities in the Waikato: both the ‘police station’ at Te Kohekohe and the ‘school’ at Te Awamutu could be used potentially as military posts of significance given a land and/or river invasion. Despite Kingite objections young chiefly Maoris had enrolled at the industrial school, includ ing several of the King’s soldiers who defied a Kingite law forbidding entry on penalty of a £5 fine. In its main objective, ‘the collection of a body of Maori accustomed to obey’, Gorst reported that it worked, and it continued to work right up until the outbreak of war.
In March 1863, when 22 rangatira boarded at the ‘school’, work finally began on the ‘police-barracks’ at Te Kohekohe and the
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creation of militarised Maori police to fill them. The wages offered for joining the new force were confirmed as double those for service in the King’s police-army, and Gorst expected recruits from amongst Upper Waikato Kingite policemen. As well as classical policing jobs such as that of arresting ‘dangerous offenders’, ‘the native police’ were also directed to ‘protect the District against incursion from lawless tribes and to interfere at the command of Government to prevent bloodshed in inter-tribal wars.’ The prototypal nature of the project was no secret. ‘Should this experiment succeed, it can be at once repeated in other places.’ Ultimately, Gorst envisaged, the entire North Island would come under the auspices of such forces, with a ‘Chief Commissioner of Police for the whole island’ having ‘subordinate local commissioners’ controlling the types of detachments suitable for each locality’s racial composition and state of order or disorder. 60
It was not to be. Regarding the prospective barracks and its police—to be supplied principally by the Te Awamutu ‘school’— not only as a provocative violation of the aukati but also as a spearhead for inevitable military attack, an opinion seemingly confirmed by the chameleonic Aihipene Kaihau and indeed by words spoken by Gorst himself, the King’s runanga decreed that Te Wheoro should send the wood for the barracks back to Te la, back to ‘Queen’s land’. When Chief of Police Te Wheoro remained firm in his intention to host the barracks, a war party (‘army’) from the Upper Waikato left Ngaruawahia on 20 March, forcibly seized the timber, and rafted it out of Kingite territory for return to its owners. Meanwhile Gorst had been operating an anti-Kingite printing establishment at Otawhao, attempting to counter the King’s newspaper Te Hokioi. On 24 March 80 of Rewi Maniapoto’s warriors from Hangatiki seized this press, also for transportation back to the pakeha state, and ordered the Civil Commissioner’s establishment from Kingite territory. Whilst Gorst was negotiating with the ‘moderate’ Kingites to be allowed to stay on at his headquarters, news arrived indicating definitively that Grey had abandoned any final remaining possibility of a peaceful mode of solving the ‘native problem’. Mainstream thinking in the state, including that of the Governor, had not shared Gorst’s analysis of the problem as one merely of policing. The fundamental struggle was between sections of two races for control of the land and its resources. Although useful, the runanga police system as a solution to the problem of the dual sovereignties had been tested and found wanting: insurrection would now be crushed militarily, and the only question was not ‘if’ but ‘when’.
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There existed great pressure upon Grey amongst Auckland owners of capital to quickly seize the fertile Waikato. He had now prepared the groundwork with his military road from Drury to Te la, where a redoubt overlooking the river was erected; three miles north of this fortification a branch road headed off to the Mangatawhiri, where the enormous Queen’s Redoubt was under construction. In January 1863 Grey had told Tamihana’s people at Taupiri that he would reoccupy Tataraimaka in Taranaki, and military preparations for this had begun in that province early in March. It was a sign which the Waikato understood, and as news spread they too had seized their chance to send an equally unmistakable message back to the British state —the rafting of what was intended to be the police station back to Te la. On 4 April British troops in effect reopened the Taranaki war by their occupation of the Tataraimaka Block, which had been retained by the Maoris as a bargaining lever for the return of Kingi’s Waitara lands. On 18 April Gorst, along with most of the scattered European settlers in the Waikato, obeyed an ultimatum to abandon his post when warned by Kingite elements still hopeful for peaceful resolution that they could not ensure his safety, and the Te Awamutu ‘school’ was closed down. A month after the Tataraimaka occupation, the shooting war began again in Taranaki. 61
Since Grey’s return war had in essence—notwithstanding ‘indirect rule’ institutions —merely been postponed whilst he gathered together adequate resources for what the state assessed would probably be required, all-out showdown with the most powerful combination of Maori resisters. In particular, by a consistent flow of misinformation to London he coaxed military manpower out of an imperial government which had specifically appointed him to resolve the ‘native problem’ by cheap, peaceful means. Some commentators, especially South Islanders, had continued to pin their hopes on classical Greyite concepts of involving the Maori in the processes of police and government, both directly and indirectly, some of them taking up the revised Gorst view on the need to turn the official runanga system in recalcitrant areas into almost solely order-enforcement agencies. The ‘slow, certain, irresistible, inexorable march of the civil power’ by means of a network of magistrates and a ‘thoroughly good police to execute their decisions’ was often urged. ‘We would play the constable instead of the soldier as the winning card.’ Yet Grey’s aspirations were those of rapid subjugation, while in a great many ‘native’ areas the legal runanga system had not yet functioned as an organ of ‘preparatory control’ of brown by white. As his partial ‘power-sharing’ experiments of the
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1840s had foreshadowed, there was a key flaw in the runanga system of ‘new institutions’ if they were to be regarded—at least in the meantime —as anything more than a holding operation. Although the runanga were supposed to be indigenous bases for a new, pakeha-orientated system of law, government and police, in practice the operation more usually meant in the short term that the state was doing no more than sanctioning and paying rangatira and runanga to continue—but now with police coercive backing—behaving more or less as they would have done in any case. Such activities, even as practised by non-Kingite tribes and hapu, might frequently be antithetical to European agricultural and commercial penetration. By 1863 it was commonly said, even by those who saw the official runanga system as no more than a useful assimilationist supplement to coercive subjection of the Kingite heartland, that the experiment had failed.”
How, it was asked in the Bay of Plenty, could pakeha ideas of order and behaviour be implemented by giving a position and salary to a local chief who during the Taranaki war had advocated killing local pakehas? How, many pakehas in the colony were asking, could the state tolerate a policing system administered by people who were in their eyes ‘thieves and murderers’? Even the ‘friendliest’ of Maori chiefs were reviled as being hopelessly ‘savage’; the cultural gap was virtually unbridgeable. Important Whaingaroa karere Piripi was discharged by a Raglan magistrate from one of Nera’s government-paid road gangs for threatening to steal from a shopkeeper the shilling deducted from his pay for absence from work, yet to the chagrin of the Raglan Europeans he remained the official runanga policeman at Whaingaroa. Moreover the terms of reference of runanga karere often gave Maoris the ‘subversive’ notion that, just as ‘native constables’ could not arrest pakehas (at least not without a JP present), so too pakeha policemen could not arrest Maoris. Civil Commissioner Russell of Hawke’s Bay reported a typical such occurrence between the races. When the policeman at Clive, H McGreevy, imprisoned a Maori for theft of a pair of trousers, the accused’s fellow tribespeople resisted the constable and a magistrate and released him from the lockup: even pro-Government Maoris in Hawke’s Bay were determined to ‘insist on sole jurisdiction over their own people, as they offer to judge this case and all others, committed by the Maoris against Europeans, themselves.’ Principal Ngatikahungunu chief Karaitiana Takamoana himself precipitated the affair and wrote that ‘there is no policeman who has the power to take a Maori in charge.’ Russell concluded, in a statement which summed up mainstream pakeha feeling in 1863, that while the Maori ‘strongly repudiate any wish
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for war ... it is evident a perseverance in their present course must lead to it.’ 63
‘The Shadow Behind the Constable’: War, Pacification, and the Contraction of the ‘Official Runanga’ Policing System
In the eyes of state decision-makers, particularly Grey, the debate between ‘new institutions’ versus ‘conquest’ had become anachronistic. The two policies were now complementary, and it was for this reason that during the quickening drift to war in the first half of 1863 the Governor continued developing the ‘indirect rule’ network. At the very least, when the Kingite dominions were invaded the system could be used to defuse Maori opposition elsewhere. It had proven important for socio-racial control in a number of areas, certainly in a form far from perfect from the point of view of official ideology but with medium-term and long-term scope for evolution in an Anglocentric direction. Even where its ‘preparatory’ role had scarcely got under way, its holding operation functions were viewed as sufficient to neutralise most such areas when the armed confrontation with Kingism arrived. In areas of doubtful and mixed ‘loyalty’, then, new policing structures continued to be erected and existing ones strengthened. In March 1863 extra Wardens were allocated to the Wanganui and Wellington West Coast Districts. Karere were valuable for providing intelligence on Maori intentions and for undertaking detective work of a type that would be detrimental to insurgency—or to armed Maori resistance to European onslaught against Kingism. Constable Topi of Otaki, for example, entrapped a Wellington storekeeper who was selling gunpowder to Maoris.
In May and June the bulk of the British troops were in Taranaki, yet even with Auckland exposed to the tribes of the Waikato the Kingites did not attack the colonial capital. This was proof enough that their movement stood essentially for self-deter-mination within areas still predominantly Maori, that it was not a millennial movement wishing to sweep the pakeha into the sea, but the state continued to use such fears as a propaganda tool in gearing up for military conquest. As part of war preparations ‘friendly’ chiefs of the Lower Waikato and their officials and police moved across to new pa in and around Te la, but attempts to form their followers into soldiers and police corps failed through ill-discipline. Moreover many were ‘loyalist’ for only as long as they materially
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benefited from the pakeha state, and Grey now had sufficient manpower resources from the imperial regiments to be able to treat rangatira he regarded as avaricious with scant regard. In June, after what was touted as a convincing show of strength against the Taranaki rebels, most British troops returned to Auckland. The leader of a Kingite peace mission to the capital was apprehended and later given two years’ gaol for his role in the seizure of Gorst’s printing press. In July Grey decided that the time was ripe to invade the Waikato. 64
The first move was against Maoris living between the Mangatawhiri River aukati and Auckland. They were mainly old and/or powerless, but as they were related to the Waikato tribes and seen to constitute potential fifth columnists they were ordered by the Governor either to disarm and take an oath of allegiance to the Queen or to retire (voluntarily or forcibly) south of the Mangatawhiri. Gorst believed that even had they taken up arms, 20 Maori police could have quelled them—‘but the Government had not a single Maori policeman upon whose obedience they could depend.’ The Maori inhabitants of the area interpreted Grey’s move, correctly, as a declaration of war and most chose to leave, their properties then being looted. On 12 July General Sir Duncan Cameron’s forces crossed the Mangatawhiri and invaded the Waikato. ‘Rebels’ under the guidance of Rewi Maniapoto now conducted guerilla warfare in the Hunua Forest, north of the old boundary with the King’s dominions, whilst the bulk of the Kingite forces led by Tamihana and others in the Waikato opposed Cameron in what Gorst called ‘civilized warfare’. By the end of 1863, after what was seen as a major defeat for the Kingite forces at Rangiriri in November, Cameron had reached the now abandoned Kingite capital of Ngaruawahia; withdrawn from ‘unconventional’ fighting, a substantial force led by Rewi was defeated at Orakau on 2 April 1864 and the Waikato war —at least as seen in retrospect —effectively ended. Fertile ‘rebel’ land was confiscated and divided amongst Military Settlers, who would defend themselves and fellow colonists against further Maori resistance. 66
With war breaking out in Taranaki and the Waikato there had been many premature obituarists of the official runanga system: ‘a large proportion of the Native population have learnt to discredit altogether the power and intentions of the governing authority. Every year has increased the difficulty of enforcing the power of the Government. Tribe after tribe has lapsed into insubordination, until the greater part of the Native population may now be included as disaffected. Sir George Grey sought to unravel the difficulty by his scheme of Native institutions, but the favourable
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time for their application had passed. It was useless to attempt to force on an alien population codes and laws when they disputed the right which assumed to apply them. The entanglement has gone on, until now it has become another Gordian knot, to be severed only with the sword.’ 66
To be sure direct coercion had replaced ‘indirect rule’ in Taranaki and the Waikato; but in the rest of the North Island the runanga system was continued as a useful holding and/or preparatory operation of social control as well as a complement to methodology of war. Even the Superintendent of Taranaki Province, Charles Brown, representative of some of the most intransigent pakehas in New Zealand, expressed a belief just before the opening of the second Taranaki campaign that the best way to prepare the ground for future pakeha penetration of Maori areas was to encourage the development of state-supervised self-governing and self-policing institutions. Some observers still saw the runanga system as the key to a prosperous pakeha future. Gorst, back in London, railed at Grey for invading the Waikato and condemned the Governor’s abandonment of ‘indirect rule’ before allowing it a chance to flourish; he advocated a return to the plan, albeit his revised version emphasising strong policing. In each Maori region, he argued, a ‘British resident’ representing the Crown directly, in effect a Deputy Governor, should govern with a Council consisting of chiefs from each tribe in the local confederation. Each Council of Chiefs would have at its disposal a ‘native police force, consisting of young men instructed and disciplined on a plan similar to that pursued at Te Awamutu, and officered at first by Europeans, but ultimately by natives promoted from the ranks.’
The European head of the District would in Gorst’s scheme be the ‘virtual ruler’, influencing the Council’s laws and controlling its police, their pay and promotion lying in his hands. The General Assembly had voted £50,000 annually for Grey’s official runanga scheme; large ‘native police forces’, at payment of £2O annually to the constables, would cost no more. This, Gorst insisted, was the solution to the conflict between the ‘rival races’: utilising indigenous forms of organisation in such manner would lead to the painless absorption of the less by the more ‘civilised’. There was by now however no support at governing level in New Zealand for any expansive runanga-based schemes, especially after Frederick Whitaker formed a ministry with Fox from late October 1863. AttorneyGeneral since the beginning of the year, Whitaker starkly represented Auckland speculative interests whose major concern was to alienate all fertile Maori land as quickly and inexpensively as possible, indeed preferably by confiscation. He would utilise ‘Runanga
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institutions’ elsewhere than the Waikato, but only if they were more effective than other methods of hastening pakeha ascendancy over the Maori. In the eyes of the state it was time to begin to move beyond a holding operation in those parts of the countryside where this still prevailed, and the ‘indirect rule’ system would now have to prove itself as a set of organs of ‘preparatory control’. 67
This meant in practice that official runanga police forces quickly came to approximate, on a much smaller scale, one of the very characteristics which Gorst was advocating. While some runanga institutions continued to direct the operations of their karere, many ‘native constable’ establishments became little more than units attached to and responsible to Civil Commissioners’ or Resident Magistrates’ offices. ‘Preparation’ for the penetration of European concepts of regularity could be interpreted in the broadest of senses. By 1864, for example, Wanganui Resident Magistrate John White was employing Maori constables in assessing the viability of projected purchases of land by the Land Purchase Commissioner. Superintendent Featherson —who, as Mantell’s replacement as General Government Agent in Wellington Province, superintended Native Department officials —commented that a Maori policeman ‘by a timely warning’ could frequently prevent a Resident Magistrate from ‘committing errors dangerous to the public peace’. Hun-dred-level runanga seldom —and decreasingly—met as such, and an expansion of the ‘runanga police’ often made no pretence of being based on selection and control by legal runanga institutions. A suitable man would be selected from a ‘friendly’ tribe or hapu by a Resident Magistrate or Civil Commissioner in conjunction with the chiefly strata, although also usually with the endorsement of the appropriate runanga meeting whether or not this was convened as part of the ‘new institutions’ system. After this, the karere was normally a functionary in a runanga-based ‘indirect rule’ system in name only.
John White made such frequent use of his Maori police that they often worked full-time, during which periods he paid them at double rates or more. In May 1864 he employed a special unit of ‘Native policemen’ to guard Wanganui’s Colonial Hospital where wounded kupapa, Maoris fighting on the British side, were being treated. By building an elaborate and complex system of ‘native police’ surveillance and other activity he aimed to create the tight socio-racial control denied him when his plan for a paramilitary Maori force had been rejected. The concept of part-time Maori ‘like policing like’ operations in the countryside even spread beyond General Government appointments, with for example the
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Marlborough provincial government’s appointment of ‘Native Constable’ Pukekohatu to police fellow tribespeople working the Wakamarina goldfields; liaising with the provincial police, he could help avert racial tension. Many runanga police knew little about what the pakeha state expected of a policeman, particularly when they moved outside their tribal or hapu areas, but they were deemed to be an adequate interim arrangement until the Maori were more fully integrated into pakeha behavioural norms —and, increasingly, to have a significant role to play in that socialisation process. 68
In Maori areas suppressed by military conquest there was little initial requirement for Maori police. In the Waikato-Waipa, where huge areas of confiscated land were placed in the hands of Military Settlers, policing was carried out by the military occupation authorities. The Suppression of Rebellion Act of 1863, a copy of the 1799 British legislation to suppress the Wolfe Tone rebellion in Ireland, enabled the military in effect to do what they wished in the conquered areas in order to repress any continued ‘combination for the subversion of the Authority of Her Majesty’s Government’. Meanwhile a military force had landed in January 1864 at Tauranga on the eastern seaboard to block the channels by which manpower and equipment were getting through to the Kingite front; after Orakau, military attention switched to this area (where later in April the British received their greatest defeat of the Anglo-Maori Wars, at Gate Pa), and to hauhau resistance in Taranaki and Wanganui. But by 21 June, with the defeat by lower Wanganui ‘loyalists’ at Moutoa of upper Wanganui pai marire forces heading downstream towards Wanganui town, and then the British defeat of Tauranga ‘rebels’ at Te Ranga, no pakeha-settled areas in New Zealand were in any immediate serious danger despite the continuation of insurgence in various localities. 89
The Government and military, let alone the pakeha outsettlers, were however far from relaxed. It was not at all clear that the backbone of Kingite resistance had been broken, and by now more frightening still were the hauhau attacks, begun on 6 April when a troop detachment led by Captain Thomas Lloyd was ambushed at Ahuahu near New Plymouth. Moreover not only did the hauhau campaign quickly spread beyond Taranaki but also the Maori King forged an alliance with pai marire during a visit to rebel-held Taranaki during the second half of the year. The huge confiscations of ‘rebel’—and other—lands of 1864-5 threatened to provoke Maori military resurgence. From the beginning of 1865 hauhau emissaries took the message of resistance through the Waikato and
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across to the eastern coastline. The pakeha shuddered at (usually exaggerated or mendacious) reports of hauhau ‘atrocities’ and worried at the intentions of the Kingites, who faced the military along the limits of the conquered Waikato land.
In the event the King movement did not go on to the offensive. Thus fighting during 1865 and 1866 remained sporadic, scattered throughout certain areas where pai marire, originally a movement of peaceful resistance, had become transformed by circumstantial necessity into an instrument of desperate, aggressive confrontation with the pakeha. In areas converted to the principles of the new adjustment cult, pakeha-nuanced military and policing organisations were established as they had first been in the no-go areas of Taranaki: majors (meiha) and sergeants (hahaioa) controlled rank and file soldiers of the movement, and various ranks of policemen, including corporals, were appointed, their duties including patrolling borders with pakeha-held areas and checking out travellers. Hauhau police charged ‘strangers’ for crossing borders, with pakeha policemen having to pay highest tolls of all—on the rare occasions when their presence was tolerated inside the aukati. The various manifestations and ramifications of the ‘hauhau rebellion’ were suppressed one by one, and by 1867, a year of relative military peace, most settlers believed that generalised subjugation had occurred.™
Meanwhile in conquered and other areas of increasing ‘quiescence’ Resident Magistrates, sometimes in conjunction with Assessors and ‘native constables’ not even formally incorporated into a runanga system, gradually moved in to complement military/police occupation; Resident Magistrate R 0 Stewart controlled the Lower Waikato Maori policing system, R C Mainwaring that further upstream, W G Mair presided at Taupo. Mediating between Maori and soldiery was fraught with difficulty, with settler militia initally able to loot and plunder ‘rebel’ property virtually without check. But the state desired as rapid a normalisation as possible in ‘disturbed’ areas, and here the Resident Magistracy/'native officialdom’ system played an important role. In particular it was often able to prevent the military from alienating pro-Government or neutral hapu in the extraordinarily confused social dislocation of the war and post-war period. Smith and Clarke in the Bay of Plenty were particularly skilled at this, as was the peripatetic James Mackay.
Not all of the runanga institutions operated so efficiently, however, during and after the period of the Waikato war. John White, for example, confirmed Grey’s fears about his over-ambitiousness
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by indulging in enthusiastic but counter-productive activity. He took it upon himself—typically—to prohibit the movement of Maoris in the Central Wanganui District unless they possessed ‘passports’, which he handed out only to ‘loyalists’. This had posed the risk of provoking resistance to the control of the pakeha in an area where the holding operation was working, had poisoned relations between the executive (for whom White was an intelligence agent) and the local magistracy (which had not been consulted) and had created chaos since so many Maoris travelled so frequently from place to place. When Buller, the Wellington West Coast Resident Magistrate who with his official runanga ‘Native constabulary’ was more often commended than scolded by the Government, sent a Maori policeman into Central Wanganui on official business the man was reprimanded by White for not having first procured a pass. White was himself severely reprimanded by his political masters for exceeding his duty in this and other instances. In mid 1864 for example he was in trouble for refusing to cooperate with the military officer at Wanganui, who doubled as General Government Agent for the whole river basin. Resident Magistrates and their ‘indirect rule’ establishments were in fact frequently at odds with local military commanders, both colonial and imperial, over matters of policing and pacifying. Quite apart from conflicting jurisdictions, there were many misunderstandings; when Maketu was attacked in 1864 mixed-race runanga police Sergeant Tapsell hastened down the beach to Tauranga to procure reinforcements, only to be arrested on arrival as a suspected ‘enemy’ spy. 71
In many areas the official runanga policing system, with or without meaningful runanga participation, continued to function throughout the periods of localised ‘hauhau troubles’. From November 1864 the Weld Government’s ‘self reliant’ policy (acquiescence in the gradual withdrawal of the British regiments, but at the price of settler control of Maori affairs) gave greater operating freedom to white state officials at local level; ‘these are not times for routine’, the Premier told McLean, whom he made General Government Agent for the pai marire-influenced eastern North Island tribal areas. McLean was authorised to use even extralegal methods to crush hauhauism, utilising Maori allies in any necessary capacity. Under Native Minister Walter Mantell flexibility of local response to pai marire was, within limits, encouraged. Although Buller’s activities in Wellington West Coast were sometimes viewed by the state as ‘irregular and reprehensible’, the Government reposed considerable trust in him and eventually allowed him to do that which White had been prohibited from
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initiating: he was allowed in March 1865 to gradually reduce his scattered runanga police to 14 of the best men and concentrate them into a ‘Manawatu Constabulary Force’. In a distinction which was increasingly applied elsewhere, the best men were to be designated 1/c karere and paid £2O salary, the others were to be 2/c at £l5, with a chance to prove themselves for promotion. Their uniforms were more closely to approximate those of the Wellington provincial police, and they would act as the nucleus of a larger armed Maori force of ‘friendlies’ should it prove necessary to organise one. Similar constabularisation of selected runanga police forces under the new ministry was hastened by Weld’s policy of appointing further military officers to vacant Resident Magistracies, with White’s replacement up the Wanganui by Major M Noake heralding that paramilitarisation of the area’s ‘native constables’ which the previous incumbent had sought in vain. Runanga policing was to be steamlined, and existing officer-cum-officials were given greater discretionary powers over the Maori police network in order to achieve this. J Edwards, Major Commanding the Wellington CDF and now based at Waikanae, was even given carte blanche to appoint constables as needed. 72
Under the Weld-Mantell regime, indeed, there was a great deal of tightening of the Maori police machinery throughout the land by the white officials in charge, even in areas within which decentralised official runanga policing continued to be the organisational norm. Weak links in the chain of control were to be as far as possible minimised. Warden Kereopa of Te Ngae was suspended as the result of getting ‘into a scrape’, Edwards was allowed to dismiss two Porirua ‘native constables’ for drunkenness. The reason for such tighter discipline within the legal runanga system was twofold. First, if ‘native policing’ were to have a role of ‘preparing’ the Maori for ‘civilisation’ and white penetration, the slacker days of the holding operation which had prevailed in so many official runanga areas would have to be left behind. Secondly, and more urgently, hauhauism was on the upsurge, and Maori police were the best fitted agency to at least monitor if not defeat it. There were panics indeed when it appeared as if whole official runanga institutions might succumb to the teachings of the pai marire emissaries. To meet the changing situation, alterations in control of Maori districts took place. H T Clarke (T H Smith’s replacement as Bay of Plenty Civil Commissioner) was given powers equivalent to McLean’s and in January 1865 T A White and James Mackay were appointed Resident Magistrates for the Native Districts of Waiapu and Hauraki respectively. In an expansion of Civil Commissioner-
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ship coverage aimed at pre-empting successful hauhau proselytisation in new pastures, Hunter Brown was transferred from Wairoa to the superior post in the South Island —for Canterbury, Otago and Southland —and in May John Rogan was made Civil Commissioner for Kaipara. By then W E Thomas had established a new official runanga system among the six hapu on the distant Chatham Islands, and the regulations passed by his new institution were policed by Assessors helped by ‘native constables’. A pakeha constable, David Mickle, was also appointed in order to superintend the runanga constables. He was given a salary of £5O plus extras for controlling police activities on the islands and for being in charge of the local lockup. At the end of May, with the move of the colonial capital to Wellington having left an administrative gap in Maori affairs in Auckland, the problem was resolved by transferring the able James Mackay to that city. Here he acted as a kind of super-Civil Commissioner coordinating the activities of the Civil Commissioners of the northern North Island, those for the Mangonui, Tauranga, Bay of Plenty, Kaipara and Waimate Districts; certain Resident Magistrates were also soon ordered to place themselves under his general aegis. This rearrangement was not however allowed to interfere with localised official runanga systems which, like W B White’s at Mangonui, were still functioning satisfactorily without need of outside intervention. Mantell, indeed, gave full support to the quasi-autonomous regime in the far north, with its own tightly controlled ‘native constabulary’. 73
Despite the very imperfect construction of the Native District official framework formally linking rangatira and runanga to the state, the Government continued to place importance upon its order-keeping and ‘preparatory’ role even in areas where the system had degenerated to that of a Resident Magistrate using ‘native constables’ with no pretence of consulting any runanga, official or unofficial. The officials had always to work in with chiefs, however, and on the latter’s insistence the Maori constables were not infrequently given the heightened title—and salary—of Warden. In mid 1865 the Native Department employed eight Civil Commissioners, 22 Resident Magistrates, 42 officially designated Chiefs of Runanga, 161 Assessors, 69 Wardens and an equal number of karere. Indeed the General Government was still attempting to expand the network of runanga policing in response both to state readiness for intensified settler penetration and to continued and potential armed resistance by followers of the cult of pai marire. At this time, for example, three new Maori heads of police were appointed in areas considered vulnerable to pai marire teaching,
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Wiremu Parata operating under the Waikanae Resident Magistrate, and Hone Turongo and Peina Rangihurahia in Wanganui.
All this being said, in the overall scheme of racial control and subjugation the official runanga policing and government system was decreasingly significant. In many regions, particularly those where conquest had replaced ‘coaxing’ as the major approach to the ‘native problem’, the onrush of events was passing it by, so that even ‘preparatory control’ became an ever more peripheral official activity. It was by 1865 widely perceived that Orakau had broken the back of large-scale Kingite resistance, and that the major Kingite forces, pushed into the mostly rugged and inaccessible Ngatimaniapoto territory which now became known as ‘The King Country’, were not contemplating any offensive against the pakeha. In August there was pakeha panic when J E FitzGerald, hitherto widely regarded as a ‘philo-Maori’, (briefly) took over the position of Native Minister. But settler alarm had soon turned to relief as FitzGerald pursued the same policies as before, their main effect being to continue the process of the rapid alienation of Maori land. Indeed the 1862 Native Lands Act —which paved the way for direct purchase by pakehas from individual Maoris—was soon to be superseded by a piece of legislation of the same name which bowed even more than its predecessor to speculating pressure: with it, the Native Land Purchase Department was disbanded and the Crown ceased negotiating for any land.
With Maori landsellers —their individualised ‘rights’ determined by the Native Land Court of Chief Judge Fenton —and pakeha buyers now interfaced, there were only pakeha entrepreneurs to mediate. Under the impact of a ‘predatory horde of storekeepers, grog-sellers, surveyors, lawyers, land agents and money-lenders’ traditional Maori social organisation in all penetrated areas began to disintegrate at a much greater pace than hitherto, greatly reducing the perceived need for state coercive institutions of ‘preparatory’ nature. To be sure this process might well be initially accompanied by an upsurge in ‘turbulence’, but pakeha state coercive machinery would follow the settlers into newly opened areas to depress such phenomena to ‘acceptable’ levels. Maoris living in areas alleged to be sheltering ‘rebels’ sought by the state for the killing of ‘civilians’—such as Government spy the Reverend Carl Volkner of Opotiki—were moreover to be punished by confiscation of land under FitzGerald’s Outlying Districts Police Act. This measure was partly a compromise attempt to assuage feeling in South Island ruling circles that peaceful provinces were being
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forced to pay for the suppression of pai marire; from now on the military campaign would supposedly pay for itself, since tribes and hapu refusing to hand over fugitives would lose more than sufficient land to pay for the cost of garrisoning occupation police in their districts.’ 4
A concomitant premise of the Outlying Districts Police Act was Gorstian, and here FitzGerald’s relative empathy with the Maori could be detected. Quite apart from the ‘King Country’ and other non-penetrable areas there still existed large tracts of territory where the official runanga system was either non-existent or little more than nominal. Many chiefs in such areas, and their runanga, were believed to want Europeanised order in preference to the ‘disorder’ inspired by pai marire, by reaction to land alienation, by pakeha grogsellers, by the continued erosion of traditional chiefly power and by manifold other factors. Such chiefs in particular, and rangatira in general, were now invited to surrender a portion of their lands to the state, which in return would maintain, upon the proceeds of selling the donated territory, a militarised police force in their area. Thus by means of the new legislation it was envisaged that the police network would extend in some form or other over all but insurrectionist no-go areas in the North Island.
In a number of areas pro-state Maori leaders would help to superintend the imposition of Europeanised concepts of order and regularity by using their own and extant official runanga policing mechanisms as in the past. Here, J C Richmond told the parliamentarians on behalf of the Weld regime, the Maori would be temporarily left largely to their own devices whilst the official runanga and other ‘preparatory’ institutions were used to take ‘every opportunity to quietly push forward the frontier of law and civilization’. In areas presenting graver problems of control, willingly or—in the case of anti-state Maoris in ‘disturbed areas’— unwillingly the indigenous populations were to bear the burden of militarised police forces organised by the General Government. Gorst’s prescription of providing receptive rangatira as far as possible with strong policing regimes was now received wisdom in the departments of state. The other side of this coin was that pai marire and other ‘outrages’ would be suppressed with ‘a stronger hand’ than in the past. ‘They would appeal to the Maori to furnish the constable, but they would not forget that in the shadow behind the constable must stand the soldier ready to support him, if need be, by force.” 5
Although Resident Magistrates and other officials were authorised to invite chiefs and runanga to participate in the management of police—indeed to control such forces—and other social
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control institutions funded by revenues raised from local land sales, response was minimal. As predicted by opposition politicians, there was ‘profound distrust’ of the intentions of the General Government, with uncommitted and hostile runanga viewing the measure as an audacious effort to get them to finance their own subjection. Despite Government promises that the measure would enhance their authority over their tribespeople, even most of the ‘friendliest’ of rangatira viewed it as a new way of alienating land. Why should they surrender receipt of pakeha money for the official runanga forces, which coped with localised order problems and which (unlike the new proposal) they did not perceive as a threat to the survival of their traditional communities? Richmond himself had openly acknowledged that the new police legislation was a supplement to the ‘great card of the Colony’, the Native Lands legislation. From its first introduction Maoris had noted that the draft Outlying Districts Police legislation actually incorporated punitive provisions of the 1863 New Zealand Settlements Act—confiscation of land of ‘rebels’ engaged in ‘acts of warfare’—whilst applying them to Maoris who were accused of no more than the ‘commission of certain outrages’; and that it provided mechanisms for an occupation police to follow up such measures at no further cost to colonial reserves. When the measure became law towards the end of the Weld ministry, despite concern over such clauses they had not been removed and it remained therefore in effect a charter for further confiscation and for follow-up coercive control over the dispossessed. Soon military offensives against the hauhau along the eastern seaboard, and the confiscation of rebel land in the Waiapu District, indicated that the Government was engaged in what was designed to be the final suppression of Maori rebellion and the removal of the remaining obstacles to large-scale land alienation. 76
There still remained many Maori-dominated areas not on the agenda for conquest, areas not ‘rebellious’ but ‘resistant’ to ‘amalgamation’ and land sales, controlled by leaders who were clearly not going to finance their own submission to the ways that the pakeha decreed things should be. FitzGerald had meanwhile therefore turned to yet another alternative direction for the general concept of devolved runanga-based forces, here too heavily influenced by Gorstian advice. In a Native Provinces bill he envisaged the creation of a number of partly autonomous Maori provinces which would each be policed by a unified force under the guidance of a provincial Civil Commissioner. White’s administration in the far north was viewed as a model, with the envisaged ‘Native Provincial police’ organisations to be very much like highly expanded and
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professionalised versions of those clusters of official runanga forces which had been fused and fine-tuned to form constabularised police forces. The scheme was so designed as to ultimately attract even those insurgent tribes who had retreated beyond the aukati into the no-go King Country. First, pro-state areas, usually already hosting legal runanga forces, would be organised along prototypal, Mangonui lines, thereby receiving greater largesse and ‘better order’. Then the chiefs of wavering tribes and hapu would be invited similarly to administer and police their districts with Government approval and state funds, liaising with a Crown representative to be called a Resident. Finally the ultra-recalcitrant tribespeople would be wooed by example. Since for the time being white settlement would be banned in Native Provinces, there seemed to be a chance that such a scheme to ensure an increasing degree of ‘obedience’ to pakeha ideas of authority in at least some troublesome areas might work. But not only would the measure be expensive, there was also great opposition among politicians who represented interests not prepared to wait any longer for the chance to alienate land, particularly in Auckland Province, and the bill—accused of perpetuating ‘Maori communism’—failed. Although the Weld regime was allegedly ending the warfare against hauhauism, the foundering of the Native Provinces legislation plus the renewed confiscations and the military expeditions to Opotiki and Waiapu indicated on the contrary a new offensive—what was regarded as the final reopening of confrontation necessary to quench the pakeha thirst for land and profit, to forcibly ‘tame’ the Maori and impose ‘civilisation’ upon him.
FitzGerald and Weld, the so-called ‘moderates’, had been swept along by the inexorable press of the interests of the pakehas who wielded economic power. The ministry’s incessant quest for new modes of indigenous policing to match varied local circumstances reflected, inter alia, a desire to alleviate the damage to race relations and therefore to order and regularity which inevitably resulted from accommodating such pressures. Even though most ‘native police’ schemes were to little or no avail, there were still some things which could be done to mediate between the races: the relatively pro-Maori Parris, for example, was appointed Civil Commissioner for Taranaki that August. But settler pressure ensured that sometimes even the land of friendly hapu was confiscated, and in a prevalent atmosphere of pakeha aggressiveness FitzGerald was very definitely on the defensive. There were increasing calls to abolish the ‘new institutions’, with particular exception taken to the continued full functioning of the most successful official runanga system of all, that in the far north. Europeans claimed
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that the Mangonui establishment had fulfilled its function of ‘preparatory’ social control and should now be disbanded. Instead, it was said, whites were there being placed in the impossibly humiliating and frustrating position of being subject in effect to brown governance and policing rather than—d la the ‘natural order’ of things—the other way round. There were also growing pressures for ‘immediate retrenchment’ of state spending on Maori affairs. The race, it was said, had been conquered and should receive no special treatment: its members could adapt to the new order or perish. The Native Minister was forced into accepting the need for a reassessment of the entire, rambling official runanga system, with reorganisation, streamlining and retrenchment in mind; pending this he declined to refill vacancies in runanga officialdom, and suggested ways of saving money such as persuading most Maori police and judicial officials to carry out their services gratis. Because they did not address the perceived problem such measures and proposals were insufficient to quell escalating settler frustration at being held back from untrammelled access to New Zealand’s resources. The recent ministerial attempt to establish expensive new indigenous policing/governraental regimes had exemplified how out of touch the political leadership was with its constituency. On 16 October the ministry fell and the hard-line Stafford regime took office. 77
The ruthlessness of the approach thereby introduced was illustrated when early in 1866, at the wish of the Premier and the Governor, Chute implemented—to Civil Commissioner Parris' protests —his ‘scorched earth’ campaign between Wanganui and New Plymouth; ‘the law’ was set aside and extralegal activity by the state included the summary execution of prisoners. Meanwhile former Hawke’s Bay Civil Commissioner Colonel A H Russell had quickly been made Native Minister and had begun his allotted task of phasing out the Native Department: the intertwined concepts of holding operation, preparatory social control and neutralisation which were embodied in the ‘new institutions’, indeed all forms of differential treatment between Maori and pakeha, were now unacceptable as anything but the most short-term of expediencies in the transition to universal operation of the pakeha state code of behaviour. ‘The object of the Government must be to identify the Natives with ourselves, to become one people’; ‘true policy requires that all exceptional law should gradually cease’ and with it, indeed even more quickly, the runanga system in its various permutations. The runanga system, then, was formally abandoned, although there was to be a transitional period to allow time for relatively orderly dismantlement. First to be phased out would be the official runanga
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of the far north, which had served the pakeha purpose, together with those of the Chathams —where at once two of the three ‘native police’ and two of the four Assessors were made redundant —and the Bay of Plenty, where the plethora of racial control agencies was to be rationalised.
The retrenchment cut broad and deep. Two of Raglan’s karere had already been removed from salary for joining the insurrectionists, and five more were discharged from the end of 1865. As a result of the special racial circumstances in this area the karere had been joined by two part-time pakeha policemen, paid from ‘Native Funds’ but placed nominally under provincial government control to avoid a repetition of the Philp affair. The Auckland Superintendent was now told that they were to be removed from the Native Department roll from the end of January 1866 and would have to become, if they were to remain in operation, fully a provincial responsibility. Mackay was prevented from proceeding with his plans to establish an official runanga at Hauraki. Fully two-thirds of Maori recipients of salary in coercive control apparatuses experienced their state remuneration being at least heavily cut if not cancelled altogether, and new vacancies were to be left unfilled. The retrenchment applied also to a number of top white officials. The Kaipara and Eastern Bay of Plenty Civil Commissioners were made judges of the Native Land Court, W B White reverted to Resident Magistrate status at Mangonui, and George Clarke at the Bay of Islands was dismissed from government service. The intention was to abolish the position of Civil Commissioner altogether, although in view of continuing hostilities three were temporarily retained as coordinators of state surveillance and control (but without regular direction of the activities of the Resident Magistrates). Covering larger territories than before, and bereft of most backup staff, Mackay at Auckland, H T Clarke at Tauranga and Parris in Taranaki had the capacity in emergencies to provide semi-autono-mous response mechanisms far from the colonial capital.™
Colonel Russell’s intentions also included reducing the number of Native Department Resident Magistracies—that at Ngaruroro Hundred, for example, was to be absorbed by the Waipukurau Resident Magistracy. Those who remained were to reduce their Assessor/karere numbers to four each, if not at once at least by refraining from refilling vacancies. Although the runanga machinery was to be formally dismantled, then, components of its policing regime were to survive. Yet even this was, it soon emerged, far too a priori an approach to the realities of socio-racial control. The Resident Magistrates could frequently do little without their network of Maori juridical-policing officials, and many more of the old official
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runanga police appointees than the four allotted each Resident Magistrate stayed on the payroll (albeit often at reduced salary) as Resident Magistracy functionaries after the formal abolition of the legal runanga system at the turn of 1865-6. Indeed as subjugated areas were gradually opened for settler penetration new Resident Magistrate positions were created to superintend the imposition of European codes of behaviour, and for these officials the services of Native Department constables were of great importance.
It was quickly being realised by a number of settlers, the very sector responsible for the policy in the first place, that—from the point of view of those on the spot in the countryside—the politicians had gone too far, too fast. When during 1866 Russell continued to implement his run-down of the social control institutions based upon the ‘friendly Maori’ and ‘neutral’ rangatira, growing settler alarm at the increasing and connected alienation of even ultra-loyalist tribes like the Ngapuhi and Arawa finally forced a political revolt which led to Russell’s resignation on 24 August 1866. All the same, official policy remained that of ultimately abolishing the Native Department and forcing total assimilation, a sentiment still echoed by the great majority of whites and reinforced by the recent report of the Civil Service Commission. Although ex-Weldite J C Richmond took over ministerial direction of the Native Office, he was not designated Minister for Native Affairs. State-sanctioned indigenous policing, which although in very truncated form had under Russell continued operating much as it had under the evolving runanga system preceding his ministry, could not now be expanded and, if anything, would in the future be further retrenched. 79
The consolidating Resident Magistrates Act of 1867 did retain most of the existing special provisions relating to control of Maoris outside the main towns, but in deference to majority pakeha opinion such exemptions from and alterations to ‘the law’ were generally to be left in abeyance. By now the ‘indirect rule’ mechanisms envisaged in the legislation of 1858 and set up by Grey during 1861-3 had been all but abandoned. Bereft of the possibility of incorporating indigenous institutions into the state and thereby gradually socialising the Maori to European mores, the Native Department’s Resident Magistrates now had to use their remaining Maori police mainly as their ‘eyes and ears’. The institution of ‘native constable’ had become too debilitated to be used to any great extent as the ‘hands’ of the state, or as the exemplar or proselytiser of pakeha mores, except on the most localised of levels. The attempt made over the years to Europeanise the Maori by means of making key elements of (mainly) the rangatira strata of
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tribal society paid state agents had only sometimes resulted in pakeha modes of behaviour being thereby percolated throughout the hapu, and where it had happened the process was generally considered too tortuous to continue as anything but a temporary expedient. The emphasis of state policy had consequently moved definitively to subjugation and imposition, to harsher and swifter modes of control and dispossession.
That the old runanga police forces had by early 1866 survived in new guise the purge at all, however weakened their form, was due primarily to the indispensability of Maori police for the outdistrict Resident Magistrates who collectively constituted ‘a department of political agents’ for the Government. The base of the pyramid of state surveillance over many of the ‘rural’ Maori, ‘friend’ and foe, remained then the ‘native constable’, with each Resident Magistrate still in control of a small police unit headed by a Warden/ Chief Karere/Sergeant/Sergeant-Major. Although ‘native constables’ continued to be used for ‘low police’ duties, many of the latter were handled (and increasingly so) in other ways, by different pakeha policing mechanisms and, indigenously, by giving informal ‘guidance’ to unofficial runanga which continued to deliberate, to ‘legislate’, and to police. Sometimes non-official but informally state-sanctioned Maori policing operations were highly organised. The Ngatiporou, for example, ran a tight informal policing regime for J C Campbell, who was appointed Resident Magistrate at Waiapu in 1866. The critical significance of the ‘native constables’ after the abolition of the official runanga lay in their ground-level positioning in the state’s surveillance network.*
Between 1865 and 1867 the basic settler demand, that Maori land be quickly and extensively alienated and indigenous resistance to European ways crushed, was being met by the colonial politicians. Maori police had played a part in this, sometimes at considerable cost to themselves—particularly in terms of estrangement from their own communities, and occasionally even by way of the supreme sacrifice. When ‘native policeman’ Kereti Te Ahum was ambushed and mortally wounded by hauhau outside Weraroa Redoubt, having been seconded by Wanganui’s Resident Magistrate to act as ‘guide and messenger’ to the military, his dying words identified his attackers as ‘men of his own immediate hapu’ of the Ngarauru. To reassure ‘loyalist’ Maori the Native Department under Secretary Rolleston offered £lOOO reward for the ‘apprehension and bringing to justice’ of any one man of the ambush party, plus £lOO for each extra captive, offers which were to receive the ‘utmost publicity’.
By 1867, the year when Grey again left the colony, the Maori
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had—or at least so the pakeha thought during that relatively quiet year—been subjugated. To be sure there were still pockets of resistance and still some insurrectionist Maori regimes operating behind aukati, especially the King movement, but already negotiations were occurring between pakeha and Kingite state leaders and cross-border trade was increasing; it was realised even by increasing numbers of rejectionist Maoris that Kingite political and policing autonomy could remain viable only in the short or at most medium term, John White had told Mantell in 1863 that the Maori could not be ‘led driven or coaxed unless the power used be definitely Maori; any purely European power is looked upon by them as the shadow of a reality of future oppression.’ The official runanga system which he and others had superintended did more than act as a holding operation in many areas, more even than facilitate—albeit disappointingly slowly for the state—the process of acclimatising significant sectors of the Maori to a number of European norms. It had, as designed, proved in its various functions to be an integrated portion of the state approach of making the Maori ‘parties to their own submission’; when as part of this overall process it had failed to remove the need for war, it had then become also a factor in what was perceived as the final conquest of Maori insurrection, the prelude to the evacuation of the imperial regiments and the long-awaited handing of ‘native policy’ in toto to the settler Government. The cooptation of the Maori was an infinitely flexible device, even for the Native Department after the formal abolition of the legal runanga system. Not only were ‘native constables’ now to be retained on the payroll to help white officialdom ensure the continuance of subjugation and pakehaisation, but Maoris were also soon to be fighting and policing alongside European soldiers and policemen when the final phase of the AngloMaori wars broke out on both seaboards of the North Island in 1868. 81
Policing Both Races in ‘Distracted’ Taranaki and ‘Complicated’ Hawke’s Bay
The Taranaki Provincial Police, basically confined to the New Plymouth urban area with imperial and colonial soldiers protecting those relatively small areas of the countryside not held by ‘rebel’ Maoris, remained only three strong after the 1861 peace treaty which uneasily ended the first Taranaki campaign. In town it was helped by regular internal military policing mechanisms, and its
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activities were also, when necessary, supplemented by military policemen specially appointed by Colonel H J Warre. The latter, in charge of the troops in Taranaki Province, which remained under martial law, had ultimate control over ‘peace preservation’. When Warre’s own house was burgled in early 1863 he ‘struck off ’ from all regimental duty a corporal and six men so that ‘acting as constables’ they could carry out deterrent patrolling in town. Operations in the countryside were conducted mostly by soldiers, the complexity of interracial and intraMaori interactions in the region having precluded the erection of a viable legal runanga policing machinery. Even in the town policing matters were unusually complicated because the head of the provincial police, Sergeant John Dunn, had several masters among the local representatives of state. Apart from having to obey Warre at the top, his duties were also ‘to execute all orders issued direct by His Honor the Superintendent’ and to undertake functions demanded by the Resident Magistrate. All available police attended the offices of Superintendency and Resident Magistracy daily to report and to receive orders, except during periods of military crisis when they were ‘at the service exclusively of the Imperial Officers of the Colony’. 82
The Native Police Force under Sergeant Karira (Creed) performed duties similar to those of Dunn’s police, except of course that its activities were orientated towards Maoris and people of mixed race. There was yet another master for Karira as well as those to whom his pakeha colleague reported, the Inspector of Native Police, but on a day-to-day basis the ‘Native Sergeant’ and his men followed much the same routine as that of Dunn’s force. It was on missions of search and surveillance into the countryside that they became police of a different character, their sphere of influence, however, normally ending at ‘rebel’ territory borders. When in mid 1862 Native Constable Penetana chased two escaped prisoners into the countryside, the latter were given protection by Chief Parenga Kingi, who warned the policeman not to return ‘lest evil should befall him’, 83
The definitive nature of such borders was indicated when in early September 1862 Assistant Native Secretary Parris brought word of the shipwreck of the Lord Worsley at Te Namu. The five dozen or so passengers and crew had been detained since they were on the ‘rebel’ side of the aukati operated by the insurrectionists. The ramifications of initial plans for a military expedition of rescue were soon seen to be disastrous: it was no time to attempt a landbased version of the Alligator rampage. Colonel Warre, Superintendent Brown, Parris and others then reconnoitred the beach road in an attempt to find out more, but less than 20 miles south of New
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Plymouth they were ‘stopped by a half naked Native with his back rested against a signboard about eight feet high with a table of fees chargable on persons passing either South or North’—if they received permission, that is, to pass. The fees still began at £s—for an ordinary pakeha—and, typical now of aukati toll demands, culminated in a charge of £5OO for both ‘traitors’ and European policemen. The party was ordered to retreat. ‘As we turned our horses heads around we were told we must pay for having come as near to the line as we had done.’ The detained passengers and crew, having had first to submit formally to the King’s law and surrender articles of war (during which process Te Ua experienced the visions which led to his establishment of pai marire) were then released—for a fee—by local Kingite leader Erueti Te Whiti. Pleasure at their return was soon outweighed by the sense of humiliation experienced by the state and the white populace. ‘We are shut out of their district by their own law and yet they come into our Town at pleasure’ a settler lamented in a cry which would become—albeit aimed mainly at the King Country Maori within a few years—a familiar one in the North Island." 4
Although the local commander of troops put a different interpretation upon the whole affair—that it was the ‘wholesome dread of our rifles’ that had induced the Maori to hand back the shipwrecked pakehas—the fact remained that after the ‘peace’ agreement of March 1861 the pakeha occupied even less Taranaki land than before the war. Moreover even within the effective limits of European settlement a handful of miles on either side of the capital—Omata in the west and Bell Block in the east, with also a forward frontier military position at Waitara—there were continu ing ‘native problems’. Colonel Warre, the son of a Major-General, had seen much conventional officer service in the Crimea, India and elsewhere, but control of a condition of permanent near-war between the races and endemic Maori factionalism in what he called the ‘distracted settlement’ was a supreme test.
Trouble frequently occurred between military personnel and the Maori, especially when Sergeant Karira’s Native Police were not in the vicinity to mediate. In particular military officers often sought to administer their own form of ‘direct’ policing upon the Maori, and counter-productive results therefrom were not uncommon. At the beginning of 1862, for example, the warrior chief Hapurona, with whom the treaty had been signed, was angered when his son was given ‘a cut or two’ from an officer’s supplejack after allegedly using abusive and ‘treasonable’ language in the streets of town. When the police heard the chief claiming that he would retaliate by burning Matarikoriko Blockhouse (which he now as a ‘friendly’ ally
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commanded at a salary of £100) and by shooting the first pakeha who approached him after he had retreated into the bush, they felt that they had been pushed into a situation wherein they had no choice but to arrest him. Warre, acknowledging that his ‘officers provoked the occurrence’, and fearing serious consequences when the subsequently bailed Hapurona did not turn up at court, removed the matter from the jurisdiction of the civil court to that of the military and resolved it by conciliation. The commander was frequently called upon for the ‘high police’ role of negotiating truces between settlers or soldiers and Maoris, with the possibility of war always on the agenda, and in this task he found the Native Police an indispensable substitute for the official runanga police utilised by pakeha officialdom elsewhere in the North Island. But in the circumstances the services that the tiny force could provide, apart from enforcement work among Maoris in the streets of New Plymouth, were little more than surveillance and mediation facilities. Warre therefore wanted—particularly after Grey provoked the resumption of war in Taranaki in 1863—but was not given a militarised police corps of Maoris which could apply coercive as well as mediatory skills to interracial and even intraMaori disputes. 85
There were other grave problems for Warre. Just after the Hapurona incident he was plunged into the recurring problem of relations between civilians and military, a situation in which the civil or military police, or both, were frequently involved and in which tension between the politico-judicial and military wings of state also often featured. In attempting to serve a distress warrant for example Sergeant Dunn refused to leave the tent of a lieutenant of the 65th Regiment, and was assaulted in the course of being physically ejected. As the presiding magistrate in the ensuing case, Warre had no choice but to fine his own officer for assaulting a constable, though he was far from happy at Dunn’s actions in giving priority to his policing and judicial functions in the face of opposition from a military officer. The Colonel was angered too at the allegedly ‘vindictive spirit’ evinced by Acting Superintendent George Burton in bringing a case involving the regiment to court. Later that year Warre dismissed on the spot a civil policeman who happened to be on duty the night that prisoners escaped from the Gaol, using his overarching powers with scarcely a hint of wise discretion. Cutting across the various white factions in the beleaguered province was a fundamental mutual detestation between the settlers and the military. Soldiers increasingly saw the former as cowardly in wanting all their ‘dirty work’ of dispossessing the Maori carried out by proxy, while they in turn were regarded by
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civilians not only as cowardly but also as the source of moral corruption (particularly given their propensity for drunkenness) in the pakeha areas of Taranaki Province. 86
The network of factions amongst the pakeha represented, inter alia, differing conclusions as to the appropriate methods of subjugating the Maori and alienating their land. Warre himself believed in decisive methods of force majeure to make the Maori ‘respect’ British ascendancy. ‘There is no position so false as that which entails responsibility without conferring authority’, he complained in October 1862: the martial law nominally in effect in Taranaki he regarded as farcical in view of his instructions at that stage to maintain the status quo. Warre believed that Grey was keeping the regiments in New Zealand for the purpose of opening up the country, particularly by a gradual, often militarily ‘messy’ encroachment which also included tasks for the soldiers such as building roads —not appreciating that the Governor’s real intentions encompassed any ‘necessary’ measures of conquest when the time was deemed right. At the end of that month Warre began to publicise his own preferred solution to the ‘native problem’, a military showdown followed by the establishment of an Irish-style ‘Military Police’ recruited from the imperial troops and supplemented by ‘companies’ of Maoris and by Military Settler detachments. The commander put great energy into developing such ideas, longing to be free of the settlers, Maoris and quasi-war of Taranaki, for all of which he had contempt. His propagation of the concept of conquest followed by occupation policing helped create the ideological climate in which Grey’s decision to reopen warfare was almost universally welcomed by the pakeha. 8 '
By March 1863 the Governor had accumulated sufficient military resources to once again turn his attention to Taranaki, where a second campaign had been inevitable all along. In preparation for the reclamation of the Tataraimaka Block south-east of the Omata fortifications, a strong redoubt was built at Poutoko overlooking Maori-held territory and imperial reinforcements began to arrive. In the first week of April Colonel Warre’s forces moved to Tataraimaka without Maori opposition and established themselves at St George’s Redoubt, with Governor Grey, ministers and civil and military officials arriving to inspect the preparations for conquest further southwards. At the same time Grey was engaged in labyrinthine political manoeuvres. It was inexpedient to be seen as succumbing to ‘blackmail’ by acceding to the longstanding Maori demand that Waitara be handed back in return for Tataraimaka, but the post was a military embarrassment at a time when the major priority was to invade the Waikato; after a hasty official
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investigation which would be programmed to find in favour of Wiremu Kingi’s undoubtedly just claims on the area, Waitara was to be abandoned by the state.
There was a chance that this apparent concession in the direction of ‘justice’ for the Maori might induce further voluntary alienation of Tebel’-held territory, but this was not pivotal to Grey’s plans; nor could it take into account what was soon to be the enormous escalation of interest in the pai marire teachings of Te Ua Haumene. Meanwhile hostilities broke out when the Maoris of Taranaki Province first retaliated against the renewed European encroachment on 4 May 1863, just over a week before Waitara was to be evacuated, ambushing a party of soldiers returning from Tataraimaka to town. Following a month of preparations General Sir Duncan Cameron, commander of the imperial forces in the colony, took the offensive. After several victories whose significance was greatly exaggerated for propaganda reasons, particularly the capture of the Taranaki-Ngatiruanui pa at Katikara, Cameron quickly departed with most of his troops to head the Waikato invasion. Worn down by constant skirmishing, including a determined Maori attack on Poutoko in early October, Warre received news of the defeat of Kingite forces at Rangiriri with elation, considering it to be the most important lesson yet to the Maoris that they ‘must submit to Rifles and Rule’. Yet little pakeha headway had been made in Taranaki; indeed St George’s Redoubt itself had been abandoned owing to its vulnerability, and other areas that the military moved into from time to time were held only very tenuously. The process of land alienation and imposition of ‘regularity’ in Taranaki was to be a slow and arduous one. 88
The territory to be policed, therefore, if expanding remained small. But the complexity and frustrations of the situation produced policing problems out of all proportion to acreage and population figures. In the period between the first and second Taranaki campaigns Colonel Warre had often protested that the miniature pakeha police unit provided by the Provincial Council was inadequate. The entire annual provincial expenditure on policing for 1862 totalled less than £400: £125 for Dunn, including remuneration for his position as Sergeant-at-Arms for the Provincial Council (where his duties included menial tasks such as cleaning the Chambers), £lOO for forage and contingencies, £lO for the poundkeeper and £BO each for the two privates. The civil policing vacuum led not only to soldiers being detailed to patrol the streets but also to vigilantism. After becoming one of a number of victims of hard-ship-induced property crimes even Warre had resolved to ‘keep my revolver ready and take good care to mark anyone who attempts an
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entrance again’. The fact that the local commander could and did delegate military personnel to various types of policing duties from time to time allowed the local politicians to avoid encroaching further upon a precarious provincial Treasury—by declining to increase the police budget. Of this Warre was well aware. When the Provincial Council responded in January 1863 to public protest about the spate of burglaries by pointing to the seven soldiers whom the local commander had placed on duty, Warre in turn responded angrily that ‘the Military Police are not acting as Police Constables’. They were ‘purely Garrison’ police, they were not under instructions to interfere with the activities of civilians, and they would normally intervene in disturbances and the like only when soldiers were involved. The number of men in the provincial force, he reiterated, was ‘wholly unequal to the duties required of them’. 89
Quite apart from its size, the operations of Dunn’s tiny force were in any case severely constrained by the confused circumstances of the province. Politicians recognised, for example, that the sergeant had performed in the ‘most exemplary manner’ in attempting to locate the Maori owners of a thistle-ridden reserve, thistles being a serious menace to agriculture. His lack of effective result in the matter was considered far from surprising since local Maori affairs were Byzantine in their complications, and the pakeha writ did not extend far beyond New Plymouth itself. After the departure of Cameron with the bulk of the troops, indeed, no civilian was allowed to proceed more than two miles from the stockade surrounding New Plymouth without military escort or permission. Even more than before the police capacity for ‘protecting civilians’ was now confined to the provincial capital alone, and it was this which prompted many demands —including from Warre, who also continued to press upon the General Government the need for a constabularised police corps—for the local government to rectify its policing incapacity. The Taranaki government’s defence of its position had a logic to it which was far from ‘philoMaori’: supplying police protection would only encourage the settlers to indulge in irresponsible aggression towards the Maori, leading to a process that would again culminate in fullscale war at a time when the bulk of the imperial troops were required in the Waikato. The current role of the state, it argued, was to caution pakehas about the dangers of provoking the Maoris in a countryside at most only semi-pacified: if such provocations persisted the settlers would as individuals have to learn by the ‘bitter fruit of experience’. 90 14- : I *xl_ II J _ r x i.L xL.x 1.
It was widely alleged—with a small degree of truth —that such
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arguments were in reality little more than a rationale for frugality in provincial spending on policing. Pressure mounted for countryside policing by other than military expeditions to and fortifications in ‘cleared’ areas which remained subjected to ‘rebel’ guerrilla incursions. Such calls were partially met by the arrival from February 1864 of Military Settlers, many of them ex-goldminers recruited in Melbourne and Otago on promises of grants of land confiscated from the ‘enemy’. They would simultaneously push outwards the frontier of settlement and vigorously police the resulting alienated spaces. As well as securing areas of countryside—especially to the north and east of New Plymouth—against successful attack, particularly from those whose land they now occupied, their units of organisation contained self-policing control mechanisms. Yet paradoxically, since ‘morally there are some who do not bear the best of characters’, their presence on first arrival at the provincial capital and on subsequent visits produced even more insistent calls than before for an enlarged provincial police force. On 1 April 1864 the provincial government responded to such pressures and to the expansion of the militarily settled areas by giving Dunn two extra constables, and a year later it was to follow up the process by bringing the force to a total of six members. When policing had been confined largely to a fortress New Plymouth, Karira’s Native Police Force had fallen in strength to two, but with the expansion of settled territory this was now doubled. ‘Crime’ and disorder in the urban area had fallen noticeably by early 1865, partly—it was believed —as a result of the increased police surveillance but also because of the dispersal of colonists to conquered and confiscated areas. Distress, tension and hardship were diminishing amongst the pakeha. In the first half of 1866, of a mere 92 cases reaching the Taranaki courts most were for drunkenness, with but a single case of larceny. 91
In the countryside, the imperial or colonial military authorities still generally handled police duties amongst even the pakeha population. Regular troops assigned temporarily to perform constabulary duties, though often unsworn, policed soldier and non-soldier alike. Imperial soldiers were frequently sworn in as ‘specials’ for specific purposes—to catch an escaped prisoner, or to hunt for slygrog outlets near military posts. This could lead to problems from inexperience: a ‘policeman of the 57th Regt.’ gave such unsatisfactory evidence in a slygrog case ‘as to call forth the severest censures from the Bench’. But in the circumstances such expediencies proved generally satisfactory to the authorities as crucial means of
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coercive social control in a turbulent region, supplemented as they were by police appointed within each company of Lieutenant-Colo-nel Maxwell Lepper’s Taranaki Military Settlers. Indeed the latter, as well as the imperial regimental police, operated even in New Plymouth itself. Constables James and Thomas Crawford of the Military Settlers Regimental Police, for example, patrolled the streets of the capital at night. Their duties were indistinguishable from and conducted in full cooperation with those of the provincial police constables, although they concentrated their attention upon members of the colonial military corps. This alleviated tensions between soldier-settlers and others, and was therefore widely appreciated. In the outposts too Military Settlers generally preferred to be policed by their ‘own’ constables, but problems of jurisdiction arose with regard to some of the appointees. Local ‘armed settlers’ protested, for example, that Mataitawa Constables Patrick Quirk and William Harding of No 7 Company Military Settlers, a unit based upon Victorian recruits, were not ‘recognised as Melbourne men’. Since one of them had been only a short while in Victoria and the other was a locally recruited ex-soldier, they had to struggle to gain local legitimation as policemen.**
The Taranaki Military Settlers collectively policed their expanding frontier from strategic points such as the Sentry Hill redoubt at Te Morere. Within days of what proved to be the final major battle against Waikato Kingism at Orakau in April 1864 the new and home-grown pai marire form of armed resistance manifested itself in the ambush upon Captain Lloyd’s party of soldiers at Ahuahu, eight miles west of New Plymouth. In the subsequent expansion of the movement, Lloyd’s impaled head was paraded through the North Island as a symbol of the potency of resistance; that the forces of hauhau meant business had been made clear on the last day of April when Sentry Hill itself was attacked in a determined fashion. For Taranaki settlers, any hope of ‘normalisation’ of settlement in the countryside was once again postponed. This armed pai marire resistance occurred within days of the added strength being given to Sergeant Dunn, but its ramifications prevented any significant expansion of the civil provincial police beyond the New Plymouth urban area itself. Yet even with the larger civil force firmly concentrated in town the policing service was frequently deemed inadequate. Not long after Ahuahu, for example, in the Provincial Council Gledhill called for the importing of ‘two efficient police or detectives’ to rectify what he characterised as the inefficiency of Dunn’s force. In an atmosphere of general condemnation of the quality of policing he managed to gain major-
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ity support for the principle of one such appointment, and this was later followed up in practice. 83
If the ‘quality’ of provincial policemen was as low as alleged this could only have been the fault of the politicians themselves. The Taranaki provincial force offered very low wages in return for very long hours of unpleasant and sometimes dangerous work. To be sure the province was always in dire economic straits, but ‘gentlemen’ still received massive state rewards for little work. In the critical period of the first Taranaki campaign the Councillors had actually lowered police wages, while subsequent rises in 1862 and 1863, following increases in the cost of living in the beleaguered province, had taken privates’ salaries to only £B4. Even after further cost of living increases the privates had yet to reach £lOO and morale consequently remained low. In 1865 the Councillors risked further upsetting chief of police Dunn, upon whom they so relied despite their criticisms, by lopping £25 off the salary that the government had projected for him. There was no other excess in the force which they could pare off; by making his income £l5O they could lower total estimated annual police spending to £750. It was a familiar policing story. ‘Crime rates’ had fallen, a phenomenon usually perceived to be the result of greater police efficiency; with less ‘crime’, policing became of lower priority, whatever the ‘new police’ theory about a dearth of offending being the true measure of an efficient preventive force. In the conception of Taranaki politicians the provincial force comprised in essence an ‘old police’ complement to those militarised policing methods which were the responsibility of the General Government in territories which were in effect under occupation, besieged by ‘hostiles’ on all sides and ‘subverted’ from within. The General Government, on the other hand, viewed the military in the secured area centred on New Plymouth as no more than the supplementation of civil policing. Caught in the middle were the provincial constables, overworked, starved of backup resources, and often under attack for inefficiency.
By mid 1866, public criticisms of the provincial police had reached a crescendo, despite the lack of any real problem of order in the provincial capital, certainly as compared to the recent past. ‘Where Are The Police?’ screeched a headline reporting a brawl between Europeans and Maoris who were in town attending a Land Court hearing. What had not so long ago been acceptable in terms of both policing and public order was now decreasingly so. The growth of ‘stability’, itself aided by the police, in turn placed greater pressures upon the constables. The disillusioned Sergeant
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Dunn considered that his mandate over his men could now realistically consist of no more than seeing that the ‘Policemen are sober and correct on their beats at all times, and to explain their duty to them’; they were, deplored a politician, ‘merely street orderlies’ and not like policemen at all.
It was not just a question of the force being short staffed. The popular imagery of ideal policemen was now that of the Victorianised forces of Branigan and Shearman, and Taranaki politicans were beginning to think likewise, yet Dunn had neither the expertise nor the resources to create such a force. Expectations of an ‘improved’ standard of police competence, too, accompanied the ‘improved’ situation of the gradual conquest of the province from the Maori. Morale was high after Chute’s ‘scorched earth’ marches early in 1866 made the likelihood of incursion from ‘rebel’ areas remoter than ever; even formerly no-go south Taranaki could now be garrisoned and farmed by Military Settlers, particularly after ‘mopping up’ campaigns by Major Thomas McDonnell’s colonial and kupapa forces between June and November 1866. There had been, certainly, a trade depression resulting from the withdrawal of many of the imperial troops in 1865 (hence further retrenchment in police spending) but longer-term prospects seemed much more hopeful. There was therefore buoyancy in the air, heightened by the last of the settler refugees returning from Nelson and the influence of pai marire declining locally. Further expansion of business and farming prospects, however, was seen to require a greater degree of order and stability and a lesser amount of time able to be spared for settler-policing activities: a stronger and more efficient provincial police was widely felt to be vital. 84
Yet nothing much changed, and the politicians increasingly tended to make the constables the scapegoats. In late June 1866 Provincial Councillors berated the police for ‘disgraceful scenes of drunkenness among the natives’ in New Plymouth streets and for neglecting enforcement of the Municipal Police Ordinance; when constables were not to be found during disturbances or the like they were alleged to prefer to ‘stand about’ rather than to police. Even the Provincial Secretary agreed that such charges were ‘in some measure true’, that the police carried out their duty only ‘to a certain extent’. On behalf of the government he laid the blame squarely on the laxity of supervision by Sergeant Dunn, although no one disputed a characterisation of Dunn as a ‘respectable, civil, worthy man’. For a period Dunn had been referred to as a ‘SubInspector’, but altering his title had made no difference to the type of force he controlled; the fact remained that it was a police which
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was orientated towards low-key urban coercive surveillance. When more than a few ‘hands’ were needed to keep the peace, the state had to look beyond the Taranaki Province force. Indeed it was the availability of military police which had obviated any need to attempt to turn the force into the stronger, paramilitary unit that would otherwise be needed in order to cope with the influx of soldiers and military settlers, let alone with the hostility of Maoris in the countryside.
Garrison police bore the brunt of such functions in the town, Military Settlers had their own policemen in the country, the two military organisations surveilled and suppressed the Maori throughout the occupied areas and in various spaces of no man’s land. The provincial government intended that what for it was an inexpensive situation should continue. Taranaki had of necessity to be subsidised by the Colonial Government and its politicians regarded the circumstances of policing, including the Native Police, as part of that subsidy. It therefore rejected a call for a ‘sharp, shrewd, active man’ to be appointed Inspector to implement a more coercive style of policing by a revamped (and more expensive) provincial force. But something had to be done to meet all the criticisms, so new Superintendent Henry Richmond (brother of C W and J C Richmond, successor to Brown from September 1865) would draw up Police Regulations which Dunn would be instructed to enforce strictly. 95
The policing regulations of Wellington Province were adapted by the Taranaki scholar-politician to suit local conditions, and the police of his province were placed under close scrutiny to ensure their obedience to the new rules. Their system of surveillance over New Plymouth tightened: three ‘day duty’ men each conducted a six-hour patrol between 6 am and midnight. They were to concentrate upon enforcing town Ordinances, particularly those relating to controlling wandering stock, upon preventing Maoris from having access to liquor and upon watching the five public houses observable from the town square. At 10 pm a ‘night duty’ constable came on duty to take over charge of the prisoners from the gaoler; he was joined at midnight by a beat colleague, one of whose key duties was to arrest drunks lying in ‘stables or houses in the course of erection’. Association with New Plymouth’s disease-ridden, squalid Gaol was one of the factors which had given the police a bad public image in the first place. Deaths in and escapes from it were not uncommon, and there was considerable publicity over the case of a 10 year old boy kept there for six months awaiting trial for breaking into a house, during which period he almost died. 96
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Meanwhile the nature of policing in the countryside had experienced a gradual change, with the burden now falling not on imperial troops but on Military Settlers. In 1864 Colonel Warre had sealed off attack routes to New Plymouth which passed on either side of Mount Egmont, and at the end of the year Grey decided upon the conquest of the area southwards from Tataraimaka to the Stony (Hangatahua) River, which then became the effective southern frontier of control and settlement for the north of the province. Settled expansion halted at this point for many years, despite the establishment south of the border in April 1865 of two forward posts at Warea and Opunake. These were set up at the same time as a military expedition built a forward frontier redoubt at Pukearuhe (White Cliffs), north-east of New Plymouth, its purpose being to consolidate recent expansion to Waitara and beyond and to seal off the invasion route from the King Country. It was the relative security ensured by a series of frontier positions and military posts both behind and in advance of the effective boundary of settlement which gave rise to the decision finally to completely phase out the imperial troops from Taranaki.
The process of gradual withdrawal of troops and their policemen had been partly responsible for the perceived need to tighten control by the provincial police, although not as much as might be expected since the rate of loss of military policing was proportionate to the pace of removal from the region of that very sector of society—the soldiers —which had created many of the urban disturbances in the first place. More important was the discontent caused amongst Europeans in the countryside as imperial troops pulled out: between the self-policed Military Settler communities situated in the military frontier areas and the still-garrisoned town of New Plymouth, policing vacuums were being created. This was particularly the case after Colonel Wane left Taranaki in March 1866, his successors as local commanders of troops inheriting a circumstance under which it was now possible for policing by military policemen to apply to soldiery alone —something Wane had wanted all along but from which he had frequently of necessity been forced to depart. 97
Military Settlers were both inappropriate and unwilling to fill the policing lacunae in those areas where ‘normalisation’ was occurring, and where the police ‘targets’ might well be pakeha civilians rather than Maoris. To complement the upgrading of the town police, who increasingly had to make forays into pacified portions of the countryside, the local politicians now conceded that there was a need to appoint civil police to ‘country districts’ between the provincial capital and the new aukati. Citizens of
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Oakura had requested a policeman because of the ‘lawlessness of some of the settlers’ who, for example, regarded unfenced cattle as ‘wild’ and for the taking. It was time, the government decided, to borrow the principle of the district constable, and an ex-Irish Constabulary settler (William Savage) had been found who was willing to accept the job of part-time policing at Oakura. The Council now approved the appointment of district constables in other country areas where necessary, to be paid annually at £25 together with 5s per day for the performance of special duties. On 18 July Savage was enrolled as the sixth private in Dunn’s force, although the bulk of his work was, as with most district constables, conducted under the auspices of the local magistracy. Although settlers in other country areas, including in the military settlements, applied for positions as part-time police, continued financial constraints upon the provincial state meant that the system did not expand as planned. Visits to rural areas by the provincial and ‘Native’ forces became, accordingly, the more frequent, whilst the Taranaki Military Settlers continued officially to carry out most regulatory duties in the countryside until a relative state of pacification enabled their substantial disbandment as state-sanctioned military and policing units by the General Government on 22 October 1867.“
Those Military Settlers in the southern portion of the province, moving on to land in the wake of Chute’s and McDonnell’s conquests, were isolated from the mainstream life of the province by the hostile territory separating their settlements from the provincial capital and its hinterland. Their focus was southwards towards Wellington Province. Their policing activities were conducted in conjunction with the region’s imperial troops, the bulk of whom from March 1865 (after the large imperial campaign northwards from Wanganui under Cameron) were distributed in garrisons between Wanganui and the Waingongoro River aukati, their headquarters at Manawapou where Kingism had originated. Most of the southern Taranaki Military Settlers felt little love for the politicians, who had given them few backup resources for the difficult task of breaking in bush territory confiscated from resistanceminded tribespeople who were still in the vicinity. Many walked off the land, and those who remained were frequently too busy trying to scrape a living to conduct policing activities; the regular military coped instead.
Towards the edges of the now expanded New Plymouth hinterland, however, a network of Military Settlements continued to superintend socio-racial control. This was not always a successful exercise, for the Military Settlers were frequently inclined to provoke rather than placate the Maori, a situation related in part to
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their ethnocentrism and in part to their desire for definitive conquest and subjugation. In September 1865, the month when the entire coastline area from Wanganui through to north of Waitara was declared confiscated although a sizeable proportion remained no-go for the pakeha, Colonel Warre requested that the Military Settlers at the forward position of Mataitawa ‘use more discretion and not fire on every Maori merely because he is a Maori’. Indeed some regular military officials, acting as ‘high policemen’, frequently had cause to regret aggressive behaviour by Military Settlers when delicate negotiations were under way. It was a problem which, however, except in the forward positions became increasingly less severe in northern Taranaki as the grip of the new farmers upon the land was consolidated. Thus it was that in 1867, when it seemed clear that overt resistance within those areas had been crushed, most of the Military Settler corps had been disbanded per se, with only advance posts thereafter remaining under military garrison occupation. Yet although the run-down of regular troops and partially-mobilised Military Settler units had reflected a general racial subjugation, it still left a policing vacuum which the provincial politicians were not about to fill. 98
To be sure the Taranaki government had early on acknowledged that Military Settler policing was far from ideal when operating away from the rawest edges of the frontier, but the provincial Treasury was always virtually empty and so no alternative resident policing apparatus had eventuated in the problem areas. This situation had been rendered even more alarming for rural settlers when in November 1866 the financial problems of the troubled province had led to a decision to continue even the Oakura constable only until mid 1867, and to pay for no further country police from provincial funds. Instead local magistrates were to swear in specials whenever necessary and if these men required payment it was up to the local settlers to respond accordingly. In addition the Councillors, on the advice of their executive, voted to make three of the five town patrol constables redundant at the same time: Sergeant Dunn and two privates, the government stated, were sufficient police ‘for a service which is chiefly for the protection of the town’, thereby downplaying their reactive role in the countryside. Moreover it was correctly predicted that police morale and therefore efficacy would further drop because police salaries were to be lowered, back to £B4 for privates and with a more drastic percentage reduction for Dunn. Some politicians also wished to remove the annual £5O forage allowance given the head of police in compensation for official usage of his own horse, an attempt defeated only when it was pointed out that this ‘most useful horse in the Prov-
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ince’ was frequently borrowed by the Superintendent and other officials; even so the allowance was subsequently reduced to £2O. 1o °
Not only was there concern in the countryside at the reversion to a three-man police, but also considerable outcry in New Plymouth itself. The first public report of the retrenchment move coincided with another ‘Where Are the Police?’ headline, and some politicians took up the swelling demand in the capital for retaining the status quo. The government’s defensive response was that if the inhabitants of a part of town considered their area underpoliced, they could ‘have a private night watchman as was done in England’, whilst of course in emergencies specials could always be sworn; as an alternative to private police coverage, if concern throughout New Plymouth was widespread the Town Board could employ police by levying a special rate. At a meeting of ratepayers on 1 February 1867 it was resolved that the Town Board Ordinance should be amended to give the inhabitants of any part of the urban area, by two-thirds majority, ‘the power to rate themselves for different purposes, connected either with the improvement or safety of that particular portion.’ 101
This result indicated the problems involved in establishing a municipalised police. The meeting was packed with outer suburban dwellers ‘averse to a vote being levied upon all for the protection and safety of the few’ who lived or held property in the central part of town where ‘crime and disorder’ was highest. Even in the central area the interests of businessmen did not completely coincide with those of residents. The latter wanted, largely, peaceful streets rather than secure commercial premises, and Dunn’s men could by and large provide this. There was no chance of a two-thirds majority for a rate-paid nightwatch type of policing to patrol commercial premises. Thus central area businessmen were forced to take on one of the three discharged policemen, George Chamock, as a hired nightwatchman.
Taranaki then, amidst controversy, reverted to a three-man provincial police force, and this remained its established pakeha civil policing strength until the abolition of the province; expenditure on policing had at once halved as a result of the retrenchment. Even greater burdens were now thrown upon the small Native Police complement to the provincial force, the more so because of the escalating crisis of morale amongst Taranaki’s tiny pakeha police force. Criticisms mounted from those who did not appreciate the constraints of attempting an urban surveillance police system with such scant human resources. Whilst wandering stock broke down fences and fed on crops, people would complain, Dunn’s men were ‘stuck about at the corners of the streets in the centre of the town,
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apparently as though they were living under a law which gave the indulgence of good pay and nothing to do’. 102
In September 1867 the effectiveness of the province’s struggling police resource was further reduced when after a week’s illness with measles Sergeant Karira, regarded by influential pakehas as an ‘honest, conscientious, and loyal native’ ever since his first entry into the police in 1852, died at his suburban home at Henui, thereby depriving Dunn of one of his best allies. With the initial onset of generalised war and disruption in the countryside Karira and his Native Police Force —never more than three-strong—had normally (but with notable exceptions, far more so than with Dunn’s force) worked in New Plymouth, with ‘friendly’ allies undertaking scouting and surveillance work for the regimental authorities in the field. In effect Karira’s men had behaved as pakeha constables, with a specialist interest in handling cases involving members of their own race —though not exclusively so, particularly after Dunn’s force was retrenched. In an increasingly typical incident Native Constable Rawiri Paora had found a soldier breaking windows in town and had taken him to Sergeant Karira; the two had then escorted the drunken man to the town police, during which trip Karira had been attacked with a bottle.
On his deathbed the Sergeant showed how little even he had been Europeanised. Attributing his impending death to violating a tapu whilst burning the bones of his ancestors, he believed that a ngarara (reptile-shaped devil) had fastened on to his throat as a consequence and would hold on until death.™ The Maori, for all that they were prepared to accommodate to European mores only insofar as it suited them, were however now in the northern, settled portion of Taranaki a subjugated race. By 1867 most of the fighting had been left behind, many of the regular soldiers had gone. The province was still primarily policed by military means, but the increasing lack of necessity to conduct operations of warfare was leading inexorably to a real shift in the type of mechanisms of social and racial control which were used: in a direction away from the overtly coercive extreme of the control continuum.
In Hawke’s Bay most of the interracial confrontation which occurred during the 1860s took place in the northern border area, the Wairoa hinterland, but problems of race relations dominated the entire province throughout the decade. The surveilling presence of (purely reactive) imperial military garrisons at Napier, Waipukurau and Ruataniwha, and the general absence of overt insurrectionary activity, were insufficient factors to keep the pro-
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vincial police out of the debate as to the best methods of racial control. But the force’s largely reserve capacity for troubleshooting intervention in socio-racial matters of significance ensured that attention tended to focus elsewhere: on the runanga system once it was introduced (and found wanting by most whites) and on desired and actual constabularised and other fighting forces. Meanwhile what had been mounting up to constitute a considerable degree of public criticism of Inspector Charles LaSerre’s provincial police focused on alleged deficiencies in its control over the pakeha, particularly over those in the provincial capital. Why should the provincial Treasury pay out £lOOO per annum for a ‘dandy inspector’ and policemen who could not prevent Napier citizens from ‘being insulted by boys or driven off the road by furious driving’? The beat constables, it was claimed, allowed children ‘to sleep on the streets all night’, centred their attention entirely upon the main street of town, and generally did (or omitted to do) the type of things for which the New Plymouth police were frequently castigated for doing (or neglecting to do).
Such complaints added up to a criticism not only of the formal head of police but also of the effective head, John Davern, who had been promoted to corporal on 1 November 1861 after the dismissal of Henry Groom. A committee appointed by the Provincial Council to investigate economy in state spending recommended both the abolition of the expensive Inspectorate and the appointment of a ‘working Sergeant Major’ who would be quite capable of acting out the role of ‘high policeman’ as well as that of day-to-day controller of a small force. Thus in April 1862 the politicians voted that LaSerre, who had already lost his Paymaster position, be removed at the end of June from his joint offices of Inspector of Police and Clerk to the Provincial Engineer; a Sergeant-Major at a salary of £l4O (as opposed to LaSerre’s £210) would then head the police. This position was not to be given to Davern, who was transferred to that of Gaol Turnkey at the end of May. There was to be a clean sweep of the leadership, symbolised by the provision for a uniform for the new head of police, with his men to receive badges of office to distinguish them from civilians—a revelation of the lack of depth achieved in earlier efforts at paramilitarisation. 104
The man chosen for the task of superintending policing in this socially and racially ‘complicated’ province was a 42 year old soldier of repute, Thomas Scully, an Irishman who had come out to New Zealand with the 65th Regiment. It was intended that he use military techniques to impose a more disciplined regime upon the Napier police. From 1 June he was appointed corporal in place of Davern and then exactly a month later Sergeant-Major in charge of
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the police in place of LaSerre. By now the politicians had realised that fundamental reform, including proper provision of reserveforce interventionary capacity, required a larger force of constables, and the official police establishment was now pegged at nine regular policemen: a corporal and seven privates as well as the head. To lessen the increased policing cost thereby incurred, two part-time posts were disestablished, leaving a sole district constable position at Mohaka in the north. The men remained far from content, for their salaries had barely risen: now at £lOO per annum, they still earned less than labourers, and in face of their continuing propensity to combine the Councillors were in general unsympathetic. Even those politicians who in vain supported the police case for a pay rise wanted to reduce by one private to compensate. Yet this was at a time when the benefit of increased force numbers was being more than outweighed by governmental imposition of specific new tasks upon constables, such as controlling the pound and registering dogs, quite apart from having to guard the Gaol and cope with post-Taranaki campaign racial tensions in the countryside. The introduction of the official runanga policing system certainly led to some successful interracial mediations, but it could also exacerbate race problems, particularly by infuriating a squattocracy eager to remove all impediments to their amassing of freehold land and profit."*
In the painful process of setting up a legal runanga framework both Crosbie Ward and Civil Commissioner A H Russell had a difficult time carrying out the Government’s instructions that the squatters should come to terms with the Maori landowners through the ‘new institutions’, and Crown and Crown-inspired prosecutions against recalcitrant runholders heightened tensions. On the other hand so too did the resistance of the Ngatikahungunu, guided by the formerly ‘loyalist’ Te Hapuku, to regularisation of land leasing and alienation procedures through the official runanga machinery. Many Hawke’s Bay rangatira continued to deal directly with the squatters, who liked the deals they were being offered as little as they liked the idea of state-sponsored runanga acting as intermediaries in the fundamental matter of their entire economic future. On a less weighty but seriously ramified level, Maori retaliations against European provocation continued to be rife, normally by way of the impounding of livestock until rents or compensation were paid. In a typical case soon after Scully’s promotion a runholder, complaining that Maoris would not allow him to develop a certain part of his leasehold run, quoted Russell as saying that ‘we can put the law in force against an European, but there is no use blinking the fact, we cannot against a Native’. One of the
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complainant’s pakeha employees had been fined £6 by a runanga for killing Maori pigs, and although there was no law compelling pakehas to obey runanga, in such circumstances they ignored Maori wishes at their peril.
In the heavily interpenetrated Hawke’s Bay, official runanga institutions were designed to have a different major role in the process of ‘amalgamation’ from those in most legal runanga areas: to act as direct regulators of the racial interface, especially with a view to alienating the land without recourse to warfare. But quite apart from a great deal of chiefly resistance to state subsumption of tribal institutions the Maori, and state officials said to be collaborating with them, were despised by many settlers. The latter wanted a quick cleansing of the Augean stables, unencumbered by Government sensibilities. The provincial police, although precluded by General Government policy from intervening in the policing ramifications of the ‘indirect rule’ institutions, sometimes had no other choice were ‘the peace’ to be kept and thereby picked up some of the general opprobrium attaching to legal runanga. All the same, as Judge Johnston pointed out, despite a high degree of interpenetration and land rivalry conflict between the races remained considerably less overt and serious in Hawke’s Bay than in a number of other areas of the North Island, and policing in the region was as efficient as ‘might be fairly expected under the existing circumstances of the Colony’. 108
The main body of police to whom this complimentary assessment was directed, the Napier men, were increasingly discontent, not only with their pay but also with the weight of the burdens imposed upon them. Manpower resources were still stretched to the limit, given the increasing racial mediation role of the constables, the fact that three of the regular force were stationed away from the provincial capital, and the seconding of another to help Davem at the Gaol. Whenever there was an emergency it was hard to cope, whatever the theory about the concentrated reserve-force capacity of Scully’s men. Even the escape of a single prisoner in November 1862 meant that policing suffered badly, for both the SergeantMajor and his corporal—J Evans —were obliged to search the countryside for the fugitive in the absence of a pakeha rural policing network of any significance. In December the Napier police once again organised to protest. The provincial government, to its chagrin, had to acknowledge that the men were currently irreplaceable and conceded their main demand in respect of working conditions: that the private seconded to gaol duties be returned to the beat force.
Scully’s difficulties were compounded by the fact that his power
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over his force was not complete. Quite apart from the inclination of the Napier men to combine, he had inherited a situation in which the south of the province, now covered by privates at Waipawa and Waipukurau, came under the policing control of the chairman of the Waipukurau bench of magistrates, ‘Lord’ Henry Russell. Both privates were obliged to report to and receive instructions from Russell, a man of immense regional power, with the SergeantMajor being little more than their nominal superior. Yet there was a quid pro quo for Scully in this arrangement, for their organisational as well as geographical isolation from the Napier privates meant that they were not part of the ad hoc police unionisation which in his eyes was adversely affecting discipline. The southern constables did however benefit in 1863 when, as a result of still further agitation, the privates of the provincial capital managed to gain a pay increase for the force. Indeed, as part of the general reassessment by politicians prompted by the men’s submissions even the salary of the isolated Mohaka man rose. 107
With the provincial police now reasonably content with their lot, public discussion on policing could again focus almost entirely on the ever-simmering problem of relations between the races. While the man at the top of the regional legal runanga machinery—Civil Commissioner Russell —was pessimistic about the possibility of avoiding bloodshed, some state officers attempted to reassure the white populace that all was well. In particular John Carter’s replacement (from late February 1863) as provincial Superintendent, Donald McLean, who had extensive runholding interests in the province, took this attitude. This inversion of the normal postures of regional and central state leaders was symptomatic of the complications of the Hawke’s Bay situation. In his opening address to the Provincial Council a month after appointment McLean stressed that serious manifestations of Maori resistance to the pakeha in Hawke’s Bay were neither unduly collectivised nor particularly widespread. Matters such as opposition to the building of roads, obstructing the passage of mail through Maori land or levying compensation for trespass by Europeans’ livestock were mostly carried out as isolated actions by individuals or small groups of Maoris. To be sure, in McLean’s view the actions of small bands of Kingites ‘irritate and annoy to such an extent that at any moment’ a white backlash could occur. To be sure, too, the influential ‘friendly’ chief Karaitiana had led the assault upon the Clive lockup to release a member of his hapu and this had prompted his widely reported comment that pakeha police had no power to ‘take a Maori in charge’. But such actions were, McLean opined from the
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vantage point of his years of experience in policing and negotiating with the Maori, no more than the types of incident that were inevitable when one race was displacing another so dissimilar. From the perspective of the pakeha there was a problem, then, but a drastic reaction by the state and/or civilians might provoke worse. 108
Acts of Maori resistance were nevertheless, when viewed in aggregate, holding back the economic interests of the pakehas in the province, most particularly those of the socio-political landholding oligarchy at the apex of which stood McLean himself. In addition there were real fears that the drift to race war elsewhere might overspill into Hawke’s Bay, particularly if localised attitudes of defiance to European norms of behaviour were not at once repressed. As in the rest of the colony, Hawke’s Bay ‘men of affairs’ were expectant throughout the first half of 1863 of the now inevitable invasion of the Waikato. Runholder J D Ormond of Porangahau noted that, in response, the local runanga were ‘thoroughly alienated’ from the white man. Tensions all round were heightened by the possibility that the imperial troops might be withdrawn from the province in order to handle insurrection elsewhere in the North Island, or even transferred from the colony. In February five members of the province’s dominant class had petitioned the General Government for the provision of an ‘armed police’ or ‘constabulary’ force in Hawke’s Bay to suppress acts of resistance and serve ‘as a means of enabling the Government to insist more fully than at present on a recognition by the Natives of English Authority’. The fifth signatory was former Police Inspector McLean, whose election as Superintendent had been based on this hard-line stance. Although he had worked to avert hysteria, vigilantism and statepromoted measures which smacked overtly of conquest, he was a firm believer in the paramilitary approach to policing the Maori. Indeed his optimism that the regional subjugation of the Maori race was nigh was based to a degree upon confidence that the ‘solution’ to the Hawke’s Bay ‘problem’ so clearly required a proper constabulary that the General Government could scarcely avoid embodying one. 109
It was on the previous 15 September that the new ‘no-nonsense’ General Government ministry headed by Domett had passed the Colonial Defence Act as one of its priority pieces of legislation, providing for up to £30,000 annual expenditure upon a corpus of colonially funded and controlled armed men. They would be under none of the constraints applicable to imperial regiments, and it was envisaged that they would be organised along constabulary lines
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and used especially for occupation-police duties, able to be transferred at will across the North Island. This legislation had lain ‘on the books’ as an enabling measure which could be implemented whenever necessary, and the Hawke’s Bay proposal suggested that a hundred men be embodied under it for service within the province’s boundaries, half of them to be mounted, a few of them to be Maori guides. The partially implemented official runanga system, it was argued, had failed in Hawke’s Bay, certainly—although this had not been its primary immediate function—as a weapon of subjugation. The Civil Commissioner was ‘powerless without police’, yet the General Government had not allowed him to constabularies Maori employees for fears that this would aggravate the region’s delicate problems of race. The mooted unit then, to be recruited from the military and amongst young colonists, would operate as an enforcement constabulary to fill the policing vacuum perceived to exist in view of the purely reactive function of garrison troops, the smallness and largely urban character of the provincial force, and the weakness and negotiation-orientation of the runanga police system.
Although the legislation had clearly allowed the construction of a military force per se, it did not preclude the possibility of having the magistracy swear in as constables all recruits for such a corps. Moreover the type of armed body which would most likely be necessary, it had been envisaged, would normally act as a militarised constabulary, albeit with an inbuilt capacity to fight as well as to police. Domett needed little persuading to now put into practice this concept —particularly in view of the expected reaction in sensitive areas to the imminent invasion of the Waikato. In Hawke’s Bay, argued the petitioners, the ‘native problem’ was still of manageable proportions but might not remain so for much longer without the presence of a strong and mobile police. The General Government accepted that their province was the best place, for symbolic and practical reasons, to take a firm constabularised stand against Maori opposition to encroachment by the pakeha and the accompanying imposition of Anglo-Saxon modes of behaviour upon indigenous tribespeople.' 10
Furthermore, were the General Government to act upon the request of McLean and his colleagues, not only would the Hawke’s Bay pastoralists be propitiated but there would be North Islandwide ramifications. The Maori race would be given an exemplary warning that resistance anywhere would be met with determined application of constabulary force, and that would be greeted with enthusiasm by the dominant class in all the affected provinces. The Hawke’s Bay CDF would be a prototypal experiment whereby, in
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an area where official runanga policing was operating successfully neither as a mode of holding or preparatory racial control nor in its prime purpose as a means of regulating racial interaction, an attempt was made to create a more repressive mode of socio-racial control which could conduct pacification policing and even warfare where needed. But crucially, to avoid constabulary behaviour which might ‘excite’ rather than subdue the Maori, such operations would be firmly in the hands of General Government agents. When the legislation had been steered through the House, both ‘Military Police’ and ‘Police Corps’ had been terms used to describe the nature of the proposed force, which would comprise a series of units to be centred on those districts in which ‘there may have been or may be a state of war or insurrection’. The Hawke’s Bay constabulary would operate generally as a paramilitary police corps, deflecting rather than provoking any warlike development, but would always be poised to play a more exclusively military role in the event of hostilities. 1 "
Coincident with McLean’s accession to the Superintendency an event in Napier graphically indicated the thin line between war and peace in the province—and it was seen as such, being reported in those terms around the colony. The town beat constables had arrested important chief Paora Rerepu for being drunk and disorderly, but he had been rescued en route to the lockup by his followers. The constables had been about to seize the chief again by force, helped by Europeans in the vicinity, when McLean intervened in person and ‘ordered them to desist, and let the native go’. He was aware of the ramifications of such an apprehension. The Maori considered that their own kind, particularly rangatira, should be dealt with only by ‘customary law’ as administered by the runanga, whether or not that institution had been incorporated into the pakeha state. Karaitiana had said, upon defying the provincial police at Clive, ‘You know that our law is that we shall try our own criminals.’ European punishment of the chief, and any associated humiliation, could have led to grave consequences, with any violent collective response by the Maori at least temporarily uncontrollable in the absence of a strong regional enforcement mechanism. 112
In Auckland McLean negotiated with the Government over the plan for a militarised constabulary and in the Provincial Council Ormond, who was later to succeed McLean as Superintendent, argued on behalf of the provincial executive in support of the agreement which resulted from those discussions. The General Government, welcoming the opportunity to introduce the experiment of a ‘semi-mounted’ constabulary in Hawke’s Bay, was prepared to pay for the men so long as the provincial authorities were
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willing to provide accommodation and stabling. This was estimated at a massive £4OOO annually, given the need to station the militarised police at various locations through the province. ‘Nearly all the settlers were agreed as to the necessity for this force’, Ormond argued. Despite some demur from a few nonrunholding men of influence (mainly businessmen whose premises were secure enough in the garrisoned provincial capital) on the grounds that Scully’s force was quite adequate to cope with any rural work when so called upon by the magistracy, Ormond had no difficulty in securing political agreement to draw upon existing loan moneys for the necessary funds." 3
The General Government, then, proceeded to secure the organisation of a Hawke’s Bay Colonial Defence Force. It did not stress the sine qua non of a mounted, militarised constabulary—that it should be able to be quickly mobilised at all times for rapid deployment, if necessary, anywhere in the colony. Although race war was looming, because of their weighty provincial contribution to the corps the Hawke’s Bay decision-makers did not envisage the possibility that ‘their’ force or any part of it might be transferred elsewhere in a colonial emergency, although the General Government did view it as the founding detachment of a North Islandwide mobile constabulary. By June 1863 preparations were well in train. Captain LaSerre —chosen as Inspector in charge of the force—and Scully had been sent to Otago to examine the Branigan phenomenon and to sign up men with Victorianised policing experience. There they had recruited 80 of the required 100 personnel, whilst the Hawke’s Bay Civil Commissioner accepted applications from within his own province. ‘lt is as clear as daylight’, opined a Napier editor, ‘that if the natives are to obey the law, it must, as in all other places be by having the constable at hand and by that constable being strong enough, when necessity calls for the exercise of such power to enforce it. An efficient mounted constable is infinitely better for police purposes, than a military force; and we cannot but feel that, with the organization of the proposed troop, a new era of security and tranquillity will dawn upon the district.’ But events of colonial significance were rapidly overtaking regional developments in Hawke’s Bay. 1 "
These constabulary measures which had originated in Napier and its rural environs had been set in train on the assumption that ‘to be prepared for war is the best guarantee of peace’, but the Greyite showdown with Kingism was fast approaching. On the day that the Napier newspaper assessed that although Hawke’s Bay Maoris
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were currently ‘quiet’ nevertheless ‘the signs of the times’ were clearly ‘somewhat ominous’, Governor Grey deemed that the time was right to order the beginning of the Waikato campaign. The Colonial Defence Force of Hawke’s Bay, with its founding officers confirmed only two days before, now automatically became part of a larger war machine. It was to gain particular significance in helping to prevent the spread of Kingite insurrection into the province. When questioned by Maoris during the opening of a mill at Pa Whakairo as to why he was ‘erecting barracks and bringing police’, Superintendent McLean replied that ‘these preparations were not the result of any suspicion of danger from the Maoris of the district’ but were ‘for the mutual defence of both groups against outsiders’. He was, at least in part, telling the truth, but the authorities placed great store upon surveillance of the region’s dominant Ngatikahungunu tribe in case significant numbers of them should be inspired to emulate the Kingite stand against the Government.
The Hawke’s Bay experiment had from the beginning implicitly taken on a prototypal significance within the province that placed it well towards the coercive extreme of the control continuum. This was now firmed up by the turn of events, especially with the force being rapidly placed in a broader context —but not in practice that of the supra-provincial mobile constabulary which the Government had been working towards, for developments had now overtaken this concept. Thus LaSerre and his second in command, John C George, found themselves heading what was in theory only now classified as a detachment of a North Island-wide Colonial Defence Force. In fact their specialist corps of colonial soldier-police, with mounted operations stressed, were integrated into a regional military machine—a devolved part of the process designed to be the final physical suppression of resistance to the pakeha takeover. As soon as the invasion of the Waikato had been placed on the shortterm agenda the Government had begun recruiting drives for CDF detachments elsewhere, with the intention that these units of a colonial CDF theoretically able to range far and wide across provincial borders should in actuality operate as practical components of a provincially-orientated fighting structure. 115
As soon as the drive against Kingism began, therefore, LaSerre’s command in Hawke’s Bay was subsumed beneath a broader regional military organisation headed by a recently settled local runholder of considerable military experience: George Stoddart Whitmore, 33 year old grandson of a general, son of a major, bom into military life. He had seen policing/military service in the ‘Kaffir Wars’ and in the Crimea, and had come to New Zealand in 1861 as General Cameron’s military secretary. It was Whitmore who
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thaving replaced A H Russell as Civil Commissioner for Hawke’s Bay from 1 March 1863) in LaSerre’s absence recruited for the Colonial Defence Force. On 5 May, the day after the ambush which occasioned the beginning of the second Taranaki campaign’s combat operations, Grey at New Plymouth—in anticipation of the general war he was about to unleash as much as providing an enabling measure for the Hawke’s Bay CDF troop—proclaimed the Colonial Defence Act operative. A month later Whitmore participated in the hostilities which culminated in the capture of Katikara pa at Tataraimaka, during which time—on 21 May—he was appointed Major Commanding the Napier Military District. In this capacity he was in overall charge of the defence of the province, and under his general guidance the CDF detachment became a body more of soldiers than of police. 116
The onset of large-scale war in the North Island, therefore, had overtaken the initial concept of the Hawke’s Bay Colonial Defence Force, that of a body of militarised policemen, and changed it into something different. For Grey and the ministry the conduct of the war, the neutralisation of potential Kingite allies and the controlling of any foreseeable aftermath of war would all be materially aided by the use of locally raised forces under much greater colonial control than were the regiments. And elite corps of mounted orientation, with some constabulary-type training, were to play a key role within such levies. They could supplement the imperial troops’ fighting capacities, help garrison areas which had been conquered, and complement or replace runanga policing in those localities outside the war zone where Maoris who might be tempted towards sympathy for Kingism required coercive neutralising. Colonial troops were, over the next few years, to be raised under many guises, and those detachments made up of mounted and dismounted Colonial Defence Force cadres were consistently given key roles in the process of coercive subjugation.
Into this wider congeries of military forces, then, the Hawke’s Bay experimental CDF was absorbed, and it would enrol some 150 members into its ranks before retrenchment requirements outweighed the need for more recruiting in the latter half of 1864. On 11 July 1863, soon after the appointments of LaSerre and George, Whitmore was nominally designated its Chief Inspector, to formally place the corps within the regional colonial military structure. Its effective head remained Inspector LaSerre, who controlled it with the help of four Sub-Inspectors: his second in command plus Frederick Gascoigne (later known as Gascoyne), Charles Hudson (appointed the same day as Whitmore) and (soon) Captain C Anderson. In July too the Domett regime appointed Thomas Rus-
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sell as Minister in charge of the Department of Colonial Defence, to whom Whitmore reported. This was a move symptomatic of the much harder line now being taken towards the Maori. It was Russell, a lawyer and land speculator par excellence, who had been instrumental the previous year in securing the passage of the first Native Lands Act which, in abolishing Crown pre-emption in the purchase of Maori land and enabling Maori individuation of title, had opened the way for large-scale land alienation to pakehas of capital. 117
A few months earlier, when the embryonic Hawke’s Bay CDF was still conceptualised as a constabulary force proper, a correspondent warned that only a small proportion of its membership should be ‘military men’. These were necessary in order to form a ‘nucleus for disciplining the entire body’, but the ‘chief qualifications’ for the bulk of a paramilitarised police force should be those virtues possessed by constables already skilled in operating amongst Maoris: ‘discretion’, some ability with the Maori tongue and, ‘more imperative still’, knowledge of the ‘manners habits and prejudices of the natives, who hate the name of soldier’. Integral to the force’s character should be the recruitment and training of young chiefly Maoris, with ‘no pains spared to imbue them with the views of the Government’, particularly by' ensuring that they mixed with their pakeha comrades who, by dint of their selection as constables, would be of higher ‘quality’ than ‘mere’ soldiers. ‘Whilst this body is likely to be of great service for purposes of protection and the gradual development of law, it will derive its main strength from its half-caste formation and non-military character.’ 118
Such an evolution would have been probable had the force not become a supplement to the war of conquest begun by the Governor. After circumstances altered so dramatically in mid 1863 little of this could be, CDF men would now of necessity be primarily soldiers, and Maori help for the state in the wars was generally to be provided by means of kupapa fighting out traditional tribal wars with, this time, temporary or permanent new allies. The state had again been about to experiment with Grey’s concepts of 1846, at least with respect to militarised pakeha constables, but had abandoned the idea paradoxically as a result of the same man’s sanctioning the assessment that it was now precisely the time to deal a definitive blow against Maori resistance to pakeha authority. What survived of the original plans for the Hawke’s Bay CDF was, indeed, little more than a terminology of ranking reflecting theory rather than practice. Senior appointees under the Colonial Defence Act continued to be gazetted as Inspectors and Sub-Inspectors, and other ranks, high and low, had a constabulary ring to them. At the
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very top, slotting in with the command structures of the regional colonial military networks, were Commandants, the first of these posts (backdated to 1 July) being given to Whitmore. The lowest ranks were usually named, in Australian constabulary fashion, troopers. Among the appointments were men later to become important militarised police officers, such as Gascoigne, or Wellington’s Maillard Noake, appointed Sub-Inspector of CDF from 11 September 1863 and Inspector two months later.
But the fact remained that CDF positions were essentially for soldiers rather than for policemen. At the time of the Waikato invasion and its aftermath the troopers formed the mainstay of the physical defence of Hawke’s Bay Province, together with militia and volunteer units and (for use in emergencies) the imperial garrison. It was soon being reported that a combination of the ‘Military Police’ presence in Hawke’s Bay and news of the rolling back of Kingism from the Waikato had chastened ‘renegade’ sectors of the Ngatikahungunu. By as early as the end of 1863, Ormond claimed, they had lost any insurgent potential. But the socio-political elite realised that the CDF detachment in particular was still needed, representing as it did both the symbol and the reality of state coercive power—even though it was soon to be run down in size, especially after the authorities’ assessment that the might of Kingism had been fully suppressed. By 1865, when Commandant Whitmore’s permanent CDF detachment in the province had been reduced to 25, a quarter of its original strength, and pai marire emissaries threatened to disturb that ‘good order’ seemingly achieved amongst the Maori of the province, pre-emptive militarised policing activity was centred upon the vulnerable and volatile Wairoa district in the far north of Hawke’s Bay. The introduction the previous year of the Military Settlers scheme had resolved the major security problem in that area; from blockhouses at Wairoa and Te Kapu (later Frasertown), towns located on opposite sides of the border with Auckland Province, the Military Settlers both patrolled and cultivated, sometimes operating with colonial troops far north of the border in order to quell what was seen as ‘infectious’ rebellion in the East Coast/Poverty Bay region." 8
The missionary headquarters at Waerenga-a-hika in Poverty Bay had been evacuated in April 1865 resultant, Bishop Williams later recalled, on Maori feeling that the missionaries had come to the country to pave the way for the forcible seizure of their land, ‘and this fact need excite little surprise when all the circumstances are taken into consideration’. The settlers of the East Coast, although within Auckland Province boundaries, naturally orien-
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tated themselves to closer and more accessible Hawke’s Bay, and indeed in vain sought permission to swap rule from Auckland for representation at Napier. In turn Hawke’s Bay had a vital interest in the ‘stability’ of its Maori-dominated neighbour to the immediate north. In September 1865 reinforcements for the pakeha side of the struggle travelled northwards from Hawke’s Bay, 30 Military Settlers and an equal-sized unit of CDF soldiers gathered together for the occasion under LaSerre. With the showdown against pai marire in the southern East Coast rapidly approaching, most settlers of the area moved into Turanganui. McLean, appointed General Government Agent that March with plenary and extralegal powers to crush hauhauism along the eastern seaboard, the movement’s remaining stronghold, sailed in with kupapa and colonial mercenaries. In November an assault upon the main hauhau force at Waerenga-a-hika was successful, and the military back of what was seen as the most menacing section of pai marire had been broken. The Colonial Defence Force and Military Settler police-soldiers stayed on at Turanganui for some time guarding the captives, including some who like the future resistance prophet Te Kooti Rikirangi had fought on the pakeha side but whose motivations were distrusted, pending their (non-legal) deportation to imprisonment on the Chathams; other colonial forces went back to Wairoa, in whose vicinity skirmishes with hauhau remnants continued to take place from time to time. 120
Throughout Hawke’s Bay, soldiers complemented the provincial police network. As in any region where troops were permanently garrisoned, soldiers in the province (including CDF men, especially mounted troopers) were drafted from time to time to policing duties. And, a quite different matter, coercive control of imperial and colonial rank and file by military personnel ‘told off ’ for policing purposes continued. There were of course also the activities of runanga police, both official (controlled by Civil Commissioner and Resident Magistrate, sometimes also indirectly by legal runanga) and unofficial, to supplement the efforts of Sergeant-Major Scully’s provincial policemen. Hawke’s Bay, then, was in common with the other provinces policed by a number of methods, although with its own peculiar mix. In case these procedures should prove inadequate, and in view of prevailing race tensions and continuing criticism of the smallness of the provincial police force, in 1863 the government had voted funds for the employment of ‘special constables’ whenever more help was required. State policing resources were always expandable. At the Napier races, as on similar occasions requiring crowd control, Scully’s police were supplemented by the most appropriate means to hand: ‘The picket of the 14th and a
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body of troopers were also on the ground to keep order, and a good service they did, for we noticed several noisy worshippers of Bacchus being conveyed from the course by this means. Nor were the Maori policemen idle, for, so soon as they saw one of their brothers misbehaving himself, he was immediately seized and conveyed to some place.’ 121
The consequences in Hawke’s Bay, particularly in its urban areas, of the increased social turbulence of the North Island in the wake of the invasion of the Waikato caused Superintendent McLean to secure in 1864 a provincial Police Ordinance which tightened state control over people’s activities. These measures were of broadest range: persons wishing to drive cattle into Napier, for example, now required police permission. This tightened approach to social control, in turn, required even stricter discipline within Sergeant-Major Scully’s force. Here McLean personally intervened and drew upon his former experience as the head of a Greyite Armed Police Force; stiff fines were now enforceable upon any constable resigning without either permission or a month’s notice, or guilty of ‘any wilful neglect or violation’ of duty, or omitting to wear his ‘distinguishing badge on his right arm’ and so forth. In mid year £l3O was voted to provide a sergeant for Scully, thereby enabling more effective scrutiny over both police and population in the provincial capital. There was talk of re-elevating the position of head of police to an Inspectorship, to fit the increasingly paramilitaristic policing response to the challenge of Maori and pakeha public disorder. 122
The presence of sizeable garrisons of soldiers in the province, and the propensity of military rank and file not stationed in Napier to visit the town at every opportunity, presented—typically—a crucial part of the problem for the civil police. In 1864 the Ted light’ and ‘low life’ port area of The Spit, two miles from the town centre, was given an ‘extra policeman’ who was in effect an urban ‘district constable’, a part-timer. That year too another corporal was added to Scully’s force, and the following year another private. The increases, which brought the force to a strength of 13, were deployed entirely in the provincial capital, which now boasted five privates regularly available for beat duties. Scully, recognised by men of influence as possessing ‘more than ordinary zeal’ in his duties as head of a disciplined force, was at the end of 1865 at last promoted to Inspector, following the precedent set in several provinces for the elevation of NCOs to commissioned rank. When a few vacancies were imminent he was allowed to revisit Otago to recruit experienced constables able to deal firmly with Hawke’s Bay’s problems of order. 123
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The urban focus of the civil police was unpopular with country and small-town dwellers of modest means. Particularly amidst the pai marire scares, they demanded for their own areas a share of the relatively high provincial expenditure on police—more than £l5OO annually, soon approaching £2OOO. With renewed confidence born of military defeats of Kingism in the interior, economic activity was stepping up, especially in the centre and south of the province. This area had been settled as far as the edge of the variously named Forty/Seventy Mile Bush that blocked the spread of settlement and communications southwards to the Wairarapa and the Manawatu. The residents of both Havelock and Hampden (later Tikokino) complained that it was farcical to be ‘protected’ by a mere one-man station at Clive, and there were other such protests. The runholder-dominated controlling group, however, conceived of rural policing as being conducted to a great extent through their own formal and informal social control mechanisms. For them the help of the odd nearest constable, Maori or pakeha, or perhaps the temporary importation in a difficult situation of Scully’s Napier policemen, was an adequate supplementary policing resource. This was more especially so because in real or imagined emergencies such as pai marire scares, troop garrisons would comfortingly provide protection for the duration of need: the Ruataniwha stockade, amongst others, provided such security for the southern settlers in the middle of the decade, whilst in some rural areas such as Hampden blockhouses were built to serve as defensive refuges if required. Indeed, with the harshest race confrontation being located in the north of Hawke’s Bay, Henry Russell’s two-man Waipukurau detachment of police was halved by the transfer of the second regular private’s position to Mohaka in 1864 and on to Wairoa in 1865. At this border post there was soon added a district constable to aid in the difficult task of controlling both turbulent soldier/settlers and Maoris who were resistant to being socialised into European modes of behaviour. 124
In March 1865, when under the ‘self-reliant’ policy the Government had abortively planned a 30-company (each of 50 men) Armed Constabulary to replace the Colony’s imperial troops, it had been deemed necessary to place only four of the companies in Hawke’s Bay despite the recent arrival of pai marire advocates in the province. McLean and his fellow members of the political ruling group saw the local ‘native problem’ as manageable—so long as any ‘outside’ influences of Kingism, hauhauism and so forth could be kept at bay. If necessary, frontiers could be garrisoned in operations such as the combined colonial scratch troop/Military Settler/ provincial police/CDF presence (albeit the latter soon to be phased
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out) at Wairoa. Yet a psychological vulnerability remained. In 1866 a hundred pai marire adherents from Taupo arrived unexpectedly by inland route at Petane, north of Napier, and were said to be intending to attack the provincial capital. There was panic because the incident occurred in a period of hiatus, with imperial troops confined to barracks as a result of the self-reliant policy and Colonial Defence Force units in the province having, on the grounds of cost and relative ‘public tranquillity’, recently been disbanded rather than reorientated towards more typical policing activities as many had urged. On the other hand McLean had assiduously wooed the key Hawke’s Bay chiefs away from hauhauism, and so decided that it was time for a definitive showdown. Whilst Whitmore gathered together militia and volunteer units, Captain James Fraser brought the skirmish-seasoned Wairoa Military Settlers south, and with the help of kupapa led by Ngatikahungunu chief Tareha Te Moananui—whose opposition to hauhauism overrode all else —the hauhau insurgents were attacked by overwhelming force and defeated on 12 October at Omarunui. In the event the affair proved to be the last of the perceived threats from pai marire within the province, and by 1867 it was clear at least that there were no remaining indigenous insurrectionary propensities amongst Hawke’s Bay tribespeople—with even the intransigent sectors of the Wairoa Maori accepting without resistance punishment for violation of pakeha law. 125
With whites sleeping easy in their beds, no longer afraid of attacks by ‘savages’, the ‘luxury’ of placing the civil police—never free from criticism at any time —under increasing scrutiny could be indulged in more frequently. This was particularly the case after the province became enveloped by the economic depression encroaching gradually, if unevenly, throughout the colony. As a result of the state of their Treasury substantial reductions in police expenditure were made by the provincial politicians in October 1867, drastically lowering the police profile. Inspector Scully, instructed by McLean to greatly reduce his estimates, presented an establishment truncated from 13 regulars to seven, including the removal of half of the Napier beat coverage. He also withdrew the privates at Clive and Meeanee, where district constables were substituted, and Waipawa, where only a single constable (though of corporal rank) now remained. There was provision if necessary to once again increase policing in the latter area, whose boundaries extended to the southern edge of the province, and the Wairoa private was given the extra assistance of a provincially employed ‘native constable’ on a part-time salary of £5O, in view of this being the most ‘troubled’ and populous Maori area in Hawke’s Bay.
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The downgrading of the provincial force, which of course doubled as a mobile reserve, certainly reflected to a degree a lessening of race tension. But the apparently subjugated position of the Maori along the eastern coast was at this very time producing strident European demands that alleged ‘Pakeha Maori officials’ such as Waipukurau’s Resident Magistrate G S Cooper should take harsher measures against individual Maori violators of ‘the law’. This could not be done by the handful of ‘native constables’ working under Native Department aegis. With the collective ‘native threat’ perceived as having been suppressed, it was time to begin once again the moulding of behaviour of each individual Maori to suit European mores, and the process would have to begin in a fashion devoid of nicety. How could this be done with civil police reducing in strength, and with the imperial troop withdrawal that was on the colony’s self-reliance agenda removing any backup should violent resistance occur? The answer was seen to lie in the North Island-wide, mobile militarised police which was being planned: there was to be another colonial effort to establish that type of quasi-military constabulary which had been initiated in Hawke’s Bay four years before. Socio-racial subjugation in Hawke’s Bay would, therefore, in common with that of other North Island areas, continue to take place in the shadow of soldier/police who wielded and embodied as well as symbolised the coercive might of the state. 126
War and Police in the ‘Unwieldy Province’ of Auckland
When warriors from Waikato area hapu joined the Taranaki insurrection in 1860 ‘the excitement and terror in Auckland became intense’. The capital, with the imperial troops temporarily concentrated in the neighbouring province to the south-west, seemed vulnerable to attack, particularly from the uncompromisingly militant Ngatimaniapoto, When the body of a Maori was found at the Manukau and a Kingite taua came north to investigate rumours that a pakeha was responsible, intending to demand that the alleged offender be handed to the King’s criminal justice system for trial, Aucklanders’ fears intensified until intervention by Wiremu Tamihana secured the peaceful retreat of the party. Panics about invasion, fed on rumour and misinterpretation, were to be frequent over the next few years. At the beginning of the decade Inspector James Naughton’s Armed Police Force totalled 34 across the entire
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province. Although the majority were concentrated in the city, such a number could be of little consequence in repelling determined mass invasion from the south. Most settlers wanted conquest of the Waikato, pre-emptive or otherwise, for Auckland Province had never really prospered considering its size and potential. This languishment was significantly bound up with its government’s dearth of ‘waste lands’ acquired for selling to pakehas, despite colonist pressure for land increasing as a result of state immigration schemes from the late 1850s. Of the sprawling province’s 34,500 pakeha residents in 1861, fewer than a sixth lived southwards of Otahuhu, itself a mere 10 miles from the provincial/ colonial capital. Race tension was endemic, and policing was fraught with a difficulty that was far from eased by an ailing economy which had been heralding state retrenchments for some time. 127
The panics sparked by the beginning of race war in 1860 caused Governor Browne to provide stronger military defence of the capital in the period before the Taranaki insurrectionists concluded peace terms, a development which allowed the financially overextended provincial state machinery in Auckland to decrease the size of its police to 27 by March 1861, when the truce negotiations were proceeding in Taranaki. Although his command structure was intact —Sergeant-Major Henry Syms, Sergeants William Evers and James Foster, Corporals William Smith and John Scott— Naughton now had only 21 privates with whom to police the province, and the politicians were soon to further reduce that number to the 18 they had intended in the first place. The retrenchment was posited on the force’s reactive reserve role—mobility rather than size being of the essence, particularly if the civil power had plenty of military aid to draw upon in emergencies. The reduced size of the police created grave difficulties for its regular patrol and surveillance tasks. The heightened workload was increased in the city even further, moreover, by the very factor which had enabled —or rationalised—the police reductions: the presence of garrisoned soldiers able to act as a collective force against Maori or pakeha generated, as in all garrison towns, its own problems of order. Furthermore the constables were frustrated by the spirit of resistance to pakeha authority in the street amongst Maoris from the Waikato who knew that the state was concerned to avoid any incidents which could lead to a declaration of war from their tribespeople: if there was to be war, it would be at pakeha convenience. It was difficult for Naughton’s men to mediate in interracial disputes since the final Maori in the regular police, Private George, had
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been squeezed out, Maori police being by this time totally unacceptable to the pakehas of Auckland. The fact that there were none now available to mediate between the authorities and the capital’s Maoris, who were allowed by instructions from the top to violate certain European mores ‘under the eyes of the police’ because of the fear of provoking unscheduled war, in itself sometimes led paradoxically to situations in which open conflict was a potential result of the Maori overstepping the bounds of their quasi-official new freedom to behave as they wished. 128
Settlers were anxiously awaiting the return of George Grey as Governor, foreseeing definitive actions a la 1845-7 to secure the settled countryside against insurrection and to gain vast new areas of exploitable land. Confidence was at once boosted when he took up control of New Zealand’s affairs again in early October 1861, three months after James Naughton’s elevation to the title of Commissioner of Police. Although the promotion was based upon a desire by the provincial government to finally clarify that the judiciary had no residual rights of interference with the executivecontrolled police, it was a position in keeping with the responsibilities of heading what was still—at a period when Branigan’s reforms were just beginning in Otago—the largest police force in the colony. All the same, in the new Governor’s assessment, it was too small to patrol-surveil the city or to be a proper mobile reserve for a province of the size and complexity of Auckland. He would attempt to persuade the provincial politicians of the need to once again expand their policing coverage, or at least to refrain from reducing it further.
Grey at once began operating, characteristically, at several points on the coercive continuum. At one extreme was his almost immediate decision to override his predecessor’s caution and employ the regimental soldiers to upgrade to military specifications the rough dry-weather road from Drury to the border with the Waikato. As the Kingites well realised, the invasion of their territory would be a viable option once the road was finished, and it was when this had occurred in early 1863, accompanied by the building of the Te la and Queen’s Redoubt forts poised on the riverine edge of the King’s territory, that the countdown began. It was at a point much further along the continuum that Grey’s officials began to establish the runanga police forces throughout the province. Whether the subjugation was to be by direct or indirect coercion or by a combination of the two, there was general agreement that the state was seriously addressing the ‘native problem’. At the same time as the implementation of this twin approach the provincial government, in close
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cooperation with Grey, made policing decisions reflecting the new assurance: in anticipation of a boosted economy police spending cuts were halted and the number of privates fixed again at 20. The police item remained by far the most expensive for any provincial department of state. Simultaneously social control in the streets of the capital—for Maori and pakeha alike —was tightened, a factor aided by stricter Municipal Police legislation in March 1862, replacing that of 1858. 129
Concomitantly Grey strove to strengthen control over Maoris in the countryside by his ‘iron fist in velvet glove’ strategy of preparation for war coupled with conciliation and negotiation. By the latter means, for example, the Maori of the Coromandel area, when told of the newfound wealth of Otago, were persuaded despite Kingite opposition to allow pakehas once again to extract gold from the local quartz reef. The Fox Government had warned Grey upon his arrival of the dangers should miners ‘force themselves into Native Districts against the will of the Native owners, the result of which would probably be a Collision between the races’. The deal made, this prospect was now avoided and gold seekers moved back into specified areas of the Coromandel from November 1861, a factor which helped to stay some outflow of enterprise from Auckland to Otago.
Additionally many remote pakeha authorities, hitherto forced to rely upon banding together local settlers in order to conduct any necessary ‘policing’ activity, certainly pending the arrival of Naughton’s men or of regimental soldiers, welcomed the runanga police. Prior to the arrival of Grey’s ‘new institutions’ Raglan’s Resident Magistrate William Harsant had been several days’ overland journey from the nearest policeman. It is true however that large and influential numbers of settlers were impatient with the slowness of the ‘civilising mission’ envisaged in the maximalist programme of the runanga system, and looked more hopefully to Grey’s preparations for confrontation; when the Maori ‘new police’ did not behave exactly as European police such critics were quick to condemn, longing for a definitive military thrust into the fertile Kingite areas whose tribes denied European authority so far as occasionally to send their own ‘policing’ missions into the capital itself. The progress of the military roads pointed at the Waikato from Drury and Raglan was watched intently. 1 ”
Bound by the General Government policy of continuing delicacy in dealing with the Maori at least until war preparations were complete, and despite some tightening of control especially over street behaviour in Auckland city and nearby urban areas, the provincial police came in for a great deal of criticism. It was alleged
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that the policing system of the capital continued to operate paradoxically so far as race was concerned: if a white were found drunk he was locked up, if a Maori were intoxicated he was allowed to be dragged away by his friends. Yet even had it been given a totally free hand to indulge in so-called non-differential policing (which would be biased against Maoris unaccustomed to, or ignorant of, the pakeha codes) the force was scarcely sizeable enough to cope with its various current tasks of order imposition in the rapidly populating town, let alone to tackle the task of subjugating members of an indigenous race stiffening in its resistance to displacement. There was a lesser chance still that it could conduct any meaningful policing of the Maori away from the capital, even less that it could adequately police within and between the races at Coromandel as the goldfield grew.
As elsewhere, the self-regulation of mining and policing by diggers in Auckland Province was clearly no more than an interim service. Moreover there was an added factor of gravity in this North Island goldfield. By April 1862 there were 240 miners working the authorised area and wishing to expand their operations. Local Maoris were however blocking access to some of the best sites, and there were fears that Maori retaliation to provocation by a number of prospectors might easily lead to warfare. Grey soon intervened to negotiate widened access and remove some such fears, but the overall problem of policing the field remained. Moreover, the new leases sometimes bypassed local Kingite owners in favour of ‘friendlies’ with dubious claim to the land, and so race tension remained. The Southern Cross suggested that a militarised police be formed from discharged imperial soldiers, men capable not only of policing what might become a major goldfield but also of acting as the nucleus of a military force in the event of Maori insurrection or the hoped-for invasion of Kingite territory. This was seen as a solution preferable to that adopted by Otago of importing from Victoria a ‘police with “black-fellow” traditions’ which —it was claimed—would automatically be viewed as oppressive by northern diggers. 131
The prevalence of the type of ideas expressed in the newspaper, of feelings which were essentially orientated in the final analysis towards racial subjugation, was to lead inter alia to legislation enabling the creation of the Colonial Defence Force. Events at Coromandel however overtook the theorists; the expansion of mining territory, the presence of an increasing number of diggers, the fear of racial conflict, caused the authorities to apply Otago-style regulatory control under an officially proclaimed goldfields regime. It was thought that the diggers’ own policing regime would prove
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adequate for a time, but the new arrangements of necessity brought to the field a Social Darwinist perspective which demanded state intervention: on 30 June 1862 when the goldfield was officially opened chaos ensued as men scrambled and fought for the best positions, all prior ‘claims’ having been invalidated. Thus on the following day the local state representatives were forced to organise an officially-sanctioned emergency force of special constables from amongst small businessmen, ‘respectable’ diggers and the like, and its numbers were increased upon the arrival of a large contingent of Australian miners from Otago. By the time that an advance detachment of four regular police was despatched from the capital, a fair degree of order had been imposed.
In the event, the expected escalation of the field did not eventuate. Soon men were leaving because of the non-alluvial nature of the gold deposits, and steady rather than spectacular prosperity was the experience of even the successful of those who remained. Police were still needed, partly because of the propensity amongst sections of the diggers to share the disgust expressed by mercenary soldier Gustavus von Tempsky that a ‘gang of tattooed savages’ could continue to block white access to auriferous land. Yet at the same time it became clear that the policing of the Coromandel area did not require priority treatment by the provincial government. By the time of the invasion of the Waikato in mid 1863 only two privates remained, both stationed at the supply town of Coromandel rather than on the diggings themselves; after that invasion, because of potential local Kingite armed resistance to the pakeha most of the diggings population voluntarily or otherwise (some were called up for military service) evacuated the area. When they began to drift back in 1864 a single regular private of Naughton’s force, George Hastie, was initially posted to the small goldfield. 1 ”
By that time the Waikato conquest had greatly expanded the area of settlement in the province, and therefore the scope of pakeha policing, which had hitherto been focused largely upon the capital, its satellite townships and the bustling roads between. Prior to the invasion the Auckland Armed Police Force had been in the doldrums despite Grey’s watching brief against the earlier trend towards retrenchment, for not only were the men ill-rewarded they were also subject to abuse from many quarters. Some local politicians, noting the geographical limitations of Naughton’s effective power and his completely subordinate position to the Superintendent —including the requirement, for example, that he consult the provincial head of state over selection of police personnel and their location—had even attempted to reduce his salary to below its standard £3OO. With the Commissioner vulnerable, the more were
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‘Collision between the Races
his constables demoralised. Not until March 1862 had the privates managed to win a pay rise from 5s 6d to 6s per day, a quite possibly ephemeral ‘success’ which itself not only left them dissatisfied but also made the sergeants and corporals—still on 7s fid and 6s 6d respectively—embittered at the small margin between NCOs and rank and file. Additionally, quite apart from a burdensome workload which increased the unpleasantness of beat duty, conditions at headquarters were primitive. Their standard can be gauged by Resident Magistrate Beckham’s testimony to a Select Committee that he felt ‘perfectly horrified at remanding men to the present lock-up; in fact I remand them to the gaol instead.’ The police lockup, an integral unit of the police station, was indeed a ‘disgraceful place’, Committee members concurred. 133
By late 1862 an enormous degree of race tension had built up in the northern province, surpassing even that which had prevailed for some years at New Plymouth. Speculators held all land available for development, and were selling dear. Struggling small-farm-ers and landless immigrants considered that the simplest solution to their problems was the conquest of the Waikato, subjugation by ‘indirect rule’ being far too gradualist an approach to meet their needs. The prospect of invasion also appealed to the speculating interests which dominated the Auckland provincial government. The replacement of John Williamson by Robert Graham as Superintendent at this time meant little more than the substitution of one large-scale speculator for another, whilst the Domett ministry controlling the Genera] Government was dominated by the same Auckland landholder/merchant ruling class. Pressures on Grey to invade before he was ready were great. Tension, frustration and depression amongst whites urged on to agitation by politicians and the newspapers which they controlled, and consequent expectation and fear on the part of the Maori, all contributed to make policing an employment more stressful than ever. 13 *
Naughton, meanwhile, was attempting to extract better conditions for his men from a provincial regime less than sympathetic to the plight of its policing agents: given unemployment levels, constables could easily be replaced should they choose to leave the force. All the same the politicians were able —with Grey’s help—clearly to perceive that their retrenchment policy had in the circumstances been too severe. It was as a result of this realisation that by early 1863 morale had improved, to a degree at least, by the boosting of the number of privates to 25. This figure was increased pro tem to 31 in March in line with the continuing upsurge in race tension. Although there remained a certain number of resignations because of the paucity of even the 6s pay, the easy filling of these vacancies
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together with the additional men recruited meant that the workload was lessened. There was, too, the appointment to the crucial position of Sergeant-Major of a member of the force who had the confidence of the men, even if the circumstances of his appointment—the bypassing of Sergeants Evers and Foster—caused bitterness at NCO level. Despite his previous lowly rank of corporal, new Sergeant-Major William Smith had a great deal of policing experience. He had joined the Auckland Armed Police Force under Atkyns at its inception in 1846, following active service in the war in the north. Within two years he had been promoted to corporal in charge of the Onehunga police station, and had since been a bastion of stability in the force. He now began to secure alterations to the organisation of the city police which worked towards alleviating the most burdensome causes of the men’s complaints about working conditions, at the same time tightening discipline and efficiency. 138
From the beginning of the year, with Grey’s abandonment of all ambiguity it was apparent to most people, Maori and pakeha, that a war of conquest was now on the short-term agenda. The populace of Auckland experienced panic after panic as rumours about Kingite pre-emptive attacks scuttled around the capital, particularly after the bulk of the regimental troops left for Taranaki, Tension was most severe at the frontier towns south of Auckland, especially Drury, Mauku and Waiuku, which were surrounded by kinsfolk of the Kingites across the lowest reaches of the Waikato which, together with the Mangatawhiri, formed the aukati. Both Provincial Councillors and General Government had shied away from providing readily available police/military protection for the outsettlements, a fact criticised by the Secretary of State for the Colonies: if the colonists’ leaders could not provide a military police force for such areas, they could not expect the regimental troops to fill the policing gap.
With war approaching the firm grip of the new Sergeant-Major in his capacity as effective head of the city police was required more than ever. In the last week of June the Auckland militia was embodied, and it patrolled the streets of the capital to supplement the beat police and allay citizens’ fears, but both there and in the satellite townships reports soon arrived of increased general turbulence consequent upon the drift towards race conflagration. Each account from the King’s territory—the prevention of the erection of the Te Kohekohe ‘courthouse’, the expulsion of Gorst in April—had heightened Aucklanders’ anxiety. The capital seemed so exposed to insurgence from the south. By July there were reports from Drury, for example, that Maoris were looting farmhouses
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abandoned by frightened settlers, although it was known to the authorities that pakehas were involved in some if not all of the thefts. Now that a symbolic defeat had been inflicted on the Taranaki Maori and most troops had been returned to Auckland, Grey (in connivance with speculator/politicians such as Thomas Russell, the power behind the throne in the colonial ministry) set the date for the invasion of the Waikato as 16 July. In view of continuing extreme fear in Auckland of pre-emptive Kingite attack, however, he made his move a week early. Troops were moved to the front line at the Mangatawhiri/lower Waikato border, and it was at this point that all Maoris between there and the capital were ordered to either swear allegiance to the Crown or move to Kingite territory. Most abandoned their houses and crops to pakeha looters, the few young men amongst the refugees slipping into the Hunua Forest in order to conduct guerrilla warfare operations, the rest moving across the border. On 12 July troops crossed the Mangatawhiri, beginning the invasion. 136
Suddenly, in both town and country north of the Waikato, there was an emergency requirement for policing by and of the pakeha. In the capital the militia and police patrols were supplemented by a citizens’ nightwatch, beginning in Parnell and spreading to other suburbs—although responses to requests for ‘night patrol duty’ were not good, the majority believing it the duty of the state to provide full policing coverage. Maoris in the city were notified publicly that the police and military were unable to distinguish at night between dark faces: all ‘friendly disposed’ Maoris were to remain indoors from dusk until daybreak or face the consequence of arrest, a better fate than that which they were likely to receive at the hands of a vigilantist citizenry. As a result of the war the capital’s population swelled from 8000 to more than half as much again, producing obvious problems for policing. These were somewhat alleviated, however, by help from military police in controlling the regimental and colonial soldiers quartered from time to time in and around Auckland city. The handful of constables south of Auckland and its satellites, including district constables and settlers who occasionally acted as constables paid from a small fund allotted to specific magistrates, were unable to cope with the alarms, panics and skirmishes which accompanied the outbreak of guerrilla war. In such exposed areas during the emergency period, until local militia and volunteer units were firmly established JPs swore in as specials any reasonably ‘reliable’ local pakehas who happened to possess arms. 13 ’
Especially vulnerable districts were given priority attention. The Waiuku-Mauku area was sent a column of two dozen armed special
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constables recruited hastily in Auckland by Joseph May, JP at Epsom, at pay of 3s 6d per diem plus rations. With them came government arms for distribution to local pakehas wishing to place themselves under the military police discipline required in the new corps. The thereby expanded unit of special police was drilled and coordinated by local Resident Magistrate Major J Speedy, who organised the building of a blockhouse at Waiuku, the fortifying of the church at Mauku, and mounted police patrols along the road to Drury. Even so, the safety of travellers could not be guaranteed—they were advised to carry with them classical mounted police weaponry of short carbines or revolvers. ‘A line of sentinels is posted around the settlement at night and the settlers share this duty with the specials. False alarms are occasionally given ... but these must be expected until the men get more accustomed to the duty, when I have no doubt they will be able to distinguish between shadows and realities.’ 138
Colonial military units composed of men who became knowledgeable in bush fighting enabled such emergency measures to be gradually phased out. The first of these corps was the Forest Rangers, headed by Lieutenant William Jackson, which took its initial scouting expedition into the Hunua Forest that August. It contained two men who were to be of great significance in the military policing of New Zealand, John M Roberts and von Tempsky, the latter having failed to raise his own corps amongst the goldfields diggers. When No 2 Company of Forest Rangers was formed in November, von Tempsky headed it and Roberts acted as his second in command. By early 1864 the region between Auckland and the Mangatawhiri/lower Waikato was sufficiently ‘safe’ as a result of British military success in the Waikato to enable this second company of Rangers to be released to join the southern advance against Kingism, and they were participants in the battle of Orakau. By February 1864 farms previously abandoned north of the Mangatawhiri/lower Waikato were being reclaimed. The Waiuku area, as it turned out, had presented few of the originally feared problems, partly because of the cooperation of the flexibly apostate Aihipene Kaihau of the Ngatiteata hapu of Waikato. 139
Military occupation policing came into operation in the conquered areas in the wake of an advance which was itself accompanied by quasi-police corps. A mounted force, initially one hundred strong, had been formed in Auckland Province under the Colonial Defence Force legislation, complementing the equivalent-sized unit in Hawke’s Bay and the 150-strong Wellington Province corps. Lieutenant-Colonel Marmaduke G Nixon, Member of the House of Representatives and founder of this cavalry policing corps, had
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attempted to raise a troop earlier in the year in Taranaki, an effort foiled partly by the low pay proffered. The Auckland CDF however was much better paid, its troopers earning 5s per day with the Government providing inter alia horses and forage. Its members, mostly young farmers from the areas south of Auckland, were fighting for their livelihood on the land and gained a reputation as formidable as that of the Forest Rangers. Headquartered at Otahuhu, ‘Nixon’s Horse’ had a similar policing command structure to that of the other CDF troops; Nixon was designated an Inspector, and was aided by two other Inspectors, some SubInspectors, a Sergeant-Major and a complement of sergeants (earning the princely sum—by Auckland standards —of 7s 6d per day) and corporals (6s 6d). But Nixon’s death from injuries received during the taking of Rangiaowhia in February 1864 highlighted the real nature of the Auckland CDF: in terms of the dictum about policemen being soldiers acting separately, the CDF troopers were at this stage policemen principally only insofar as, being mounted, they had more operational independence when confronting the enemy than did foot soldiers. Taking over from Nixon, Inspector Charles Pye VC led the troop into other battles, always liable—as with his predecessor—to strategic decisions taken by superiors in the military structures into which the CDF was integrated. Once conquest had been achieved, however, the CDF cavalry evolved more into the role of militarised policemen, albeit conducting occu-pation-policing in close conjunction with the military. By the end of 1864 the unit comprised Inspector, Sub-Inspector, sergeant, corporal and 30 privates, a classically tight constabulary corps. 140
More importantly, the colonial military establishment made provision for units of soldiers who would become resident corps of specialists in socio-racial control. It was to control the territory about to be conquered in the Waikato and elsewhere that the Military Settler scheme was implemented. Auckland Province’s soldier/settlers would occupy especially a buffer zone between the rugged interior held by the Kingites and the colonial capital. The ‘armed settlers’ would therefore act at first as military adjuncts to, and later as replacements for, the regular imperial and colonial troops of conquest. Under their terms of service they were to be divided into ‘Waikato Militia’ regiments and concentrated in buffer-zone settlements, especially those at strategic intervals along the new frontier. The men would serve the state as paid coercive agents—fighting and policing—when required and where directed, anywhere in the North Island, for three years and in return each would be given town and rural acreages of land. Thereafter they would be subject to normal militia duty in their locality, acting as a
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military/police reserve force in the event of further insurrectionary activity. Grey had long ago developed such a scheme for British Kaffraria. 141
The boundary between the King’s territory and that of ‘the Queen’ now ran in part along the Puniu River, and the British frontier headquarters were established at nearby Te Awamutu where a sizeable military-policed town grew up. As state control over the conquered areas was consolidated, the imperial and colonial regulars would gradually withdraw and pass socio-racial control over to the Auckland Military Settler regiments. The first such regiment—headed successively by Lieutenant-Colonels G D Pitt and P Harington—established itself at Tauranga, the others in the Waikato. Lieutenant-Colonels T M Haultain, W C Lyon and W Moule were in charge of the second, third and fourth regiments based respectively at Alexandra (later Pirongia), Cambridge and Kirikiriroa (soon renamed Hamilton), and they established sol-dier-policing routines in and beyond the garrison towns strung along the border with the ‘King Country’. The Forest Rangers, who had been offered similar terms to those of the Waikato Militia, settled at and policed in a similar fashion from Harapipi and Kihikihi. The Colonial Defence Force troopers missed out on grants of land because they had been enrolled prior to the Waikato Military Settler announcements, although some of them were still, 15 years later, attempting to procure state ratification of a verbal promise made to them at the time of the enrolment of the ‘armed settlers’ that they too would receive the same land grants. 1 "
While the settler-police schemes were being worked out in practice, those parts of the province which were unaffected directly by fighting, or in which guerrilla activity had been suppressed (northwards of the Mangatawhiri), required closer policing attention than before because of the influx of actual, would-be and discharged regular and irregular soldiers. On 1 September 1864, with a backward glance at the period of the invasion and its aftermath, it was said—typically—that ‘our population was largely increased, and this increase has for the most part been composed of men who have entered into a new course of life, and instead of being employed in the peaceful arts involving fewer temptations, have been occupied in an arduous, dangerous and exciting one.’ The turmoil emanating from the rootless was feared by the state. Beckham had testified in 1862 that provincial crime was ‘trifling’, but war and its ramifications had led to increased crime and disorder. A few years later a journalist recalled of Auckland’s post-invasion period that ‘the
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The Otago Gold Escort leaves Clyde
The Canterbury Gold Escort, 1865.
Inspector Robert Shallcrass, in charge of the Nelson Provincial Police.
Sergeant-Major Robert Strange, in charge of' Collingwood Goldfields police.
Francis McAnulty, Wellington Provincial Police.
Robert Bullen, Otago Provincial Police.
Ax Interior View.—A place where we put the Gold in Dunedin.
Otago Punch mocks Branigan’s police, 1866.
Sergeant Walter Haddrell, Bealey.
Canterbury Provincial Police Station, Bealey
Brighton, Nelson South-West Goldfields.
Stafford, West Canterbury Goldfields
Hauhau prisoners aboard prison hulk, Wellington Harbour, early 1866.
Canterbury Provincial Police baton.
Otago Provincial Police handcuffs and leg irons.
Kaniere township, West Coast goldfields.
Andrew Thompson, Otago Provincial Police.
Goldsborough, on the Waimea diggings.
The future: the Armed Constabulary Depot, Wellington
‘Collision between the Races’
rush of criminals to this part of the country caused quite a sensation . . . and scarcely a night passed without an outrage of some sort being committed —a house entered, a settler stuck up on his way home, or some offence of an equally heinous character.”"
This intensified societal movement centred on the capital and its environs. On Auckland harbour all was bustle and chaos, and thefts from the confused wharf areas became rife. In the past, harbour police problems had been handled by the ordinary police, who were given reward payments as an incentive for the return of absconders from shipboard service. Naughton had then ‘told off three policemen from his regular strength and constituted them as a water police. One of their main jobs required them to board inwards vessels ‘and use their best cunning’ to obtain from the captain, mate or some ‘respectable’ passenger all interesting information on its passengers and crew, so that ‘undesirable’ people could be placed under surveillance upon disembarking. They also boarded departing vessels in order to survey passengers, capture absconders from state custody and so forth. They regulated waterways traffic, patrolled wharves, gathered information on smuggling. Yet as a contribution to more effective policing the efforts of the water police were deemed by the Commissioner himself to be a ‘failure’. Although he lambasted them for their ‘negligence’ and ‘want of interest’, more likely the extent of the task had overwhelmed them just as the city beat police had been engulfed. Even before the Waikato invasion there had, despite police membership increases, been persistent demands for the upgrading of the degree of coverage, as well as the quality, of patrol policing. Criticism of the service was epitomised by sneers at the police uniform, ‘the most slovenly apology for one that could be well devised’, a uniform which caused a new arrival to the capital to enquire innocently as to the identity of the men in blue shirts. Police tasks on the streets escalated when civilians evacuated from the war zone began to flock into the city. 1 "
In face of the turbulence of the war period, by early October 1863 Commissioner Naughton, having built up some powerful support in the Provincial Council, had extracted from Superintendent Robert Graham’s government a promise of extra policemen. In line with requests for an increase in country as well as urban policing, including suggestions of a mounted constabulary for outlying districts, the executive began to re-examine the whole scheme of policing in the province. But when the government used the fact of this investigation to insist upon delaying implementation of the promised increases until the following year, public pressure mounted. In the 26 miles of city streets, it was claimed, there were
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
normally only a couple of privates on beat duty at any time: ‘it is ridiculous in the extreme to think that two constables, however diligent, can render the protection required in a city like ours’, especially at night. The vulnerability of the capital in an emergency was indicated by a December storm which flooded the Gaol: the evacuation and guarding of the prisoners required the services of every policeman in the city but one left at headquarters.
By the beginning of 1864 debate raged in public over the nature of the police response most adequate to meet the new magnitude of urban disorder. One newspaper acknowledged that no branch of the public service was of greater importance than the police, to whom ‘the safety of persons and property is committed, and on their vigilance depends the peace and security of the community.’ It was accepted wisdom that in ‘former years with a small population and few new arrivals—when in fact everyone in the community was known to the police—the police force may have been and no doubt was adequate.’ ‘With less show and much less expense than has been incurred elsewhere, the Auckland police have managed to discharge their duty in an acceptable manner to the public’; but it was now time for reform. Already there had been calls for higher police pay to avoid the recruitment of labourers ‘dull of comprehension’, and the editor opined that ‘no inducements are held out to intelligent steady men’ to join the ‘badly clothed’ force. The men were ‘underpaid and overworked’ compared with those of Dunedin, whose 11s per day contrasted vividly with the Auckland constable’s 6s; the latter sum could also be contrasted with a local day labourer’s pay of 7s to Bs. Even the Commissioner’s salary was less than that of a ‘Superintendent of Police in a second rate English manufacturing town for controlling the municipal constables’. 1 * 6
The first priority was to increase the number of privates: the establishment figure was still 25, it was pointed out, the extra men having been classified as supernumeraries. Even with the latter ‘the police force of Auckland is not now nearly sufficient to discharge its police duties, and give fair play to the Commissioner and his men.’ The invasion of the Waikato and its demographic and economic ramifications for the capital had created a ‘land mania’ in Auckland suburban property, and extra policemen were needed for the central city and for Parnell, Onehunga and Otahuhu, as well as perhaps for Papakura, Drury, Newton and Freeman’s Bay. Further afield, trade and population increases in the far north required extra constables, as did the Coromandel, to which miners were beginning the return drift. In response to such pressure, and urged on by the Governor, William Daldy announced in the Provincial Council on behalf of the government that the £4OOO annual police
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expenditure would be increased by £1750. The executive had been called upon to desist from acting in a ‘niggardly’ and ‘pettifogging’ spirit, and it now acknowledged that it would ‘cheerfully grant’ the increase as an absolute necessity. It could now afford to do so because of the boom associated with the war of conquest. There was loud approval from the majority of politicians, who were soon to insist that the proposed 11 new privates on normal authorised strength be increased to 13; total force size would then be 44, and later in the year yet another six privates were ordered to be recruited for beat duty after it was deemed expedient by the merchants to withdraw the city’s private nightwatch. 1 * 7
The related issue of interest to policemen employed by the Auckland government was that of a pay rate of increasing inadequacy in the face of cost of living rises. In November 1863 the overseers of Mt Eden Gaol, on salaries comparable to those of the police privates, had combined to demand a pay increase because of the escalating prices of foodstuffs and rent; ultimately their action had been successful, and this gave confidence to the constables to organise their own stand. The police were championed by a number of influential people inside the Council and out, and dire consequences from driving out the ‘good’ men currently in the force were predicted. The first policing item considered by the Councillors in the 1864 estimates, that of the Commissioner’s salary, set the tone of the debate, Many considered that, since it could be regarded as the pace-setter for all police salaries, even the government’s proposed increase to £325 was too low. After attempts to put it as high as £4OO, £350 was settled upon by a majority of one. The government now put up only feeble resistance to further pay increases: the Sergeant-Major went up from 8s 6d to 9s 6d, sergeants up a shilling to 8s 6d, corporals’ pay rising from 6s 6d to 7s 6d. Finally, an increase in privates’ wages from 6s to 7s was carried by the large majority of 15 to five. Things were going relatively well for the police, the result of prolonged lobbying orchestrated from within the force by what amounted to a union. 148
But the government was slow to implement its concession on the size of the police establishment by the recruitment of a sufficient number of new men, and complaints about coverage were soon again being loudly voiced. By late April, after a spate of burglaries, the executive was forced to act with a concerted recruiting campaign, to generally expressed relief. It was a common observation that Auckland had ‘other enemies to contend with besides the Maoris, in the black sheep which are always to be found in every community’ and who had perceptibly increased with the continuing inflow of people. The overall increase in police work carried out
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that year was indicated by the amount of money collected for the Police General (‘Good Conduct’) Fund, £312 13s as compared to £lB4 10s during the previous year. The Fund, annually distributed amongst the men in proportion to rank and number of months served during the preceding year, was based largely upon payments made in return for police apprehension of naval and military deserters and stragglers: with extra men available, this important function could now be performed more adequately. Its hand forced by pressure, the government had taken remedial steps. The resulting increased police numbers and activity led to a huge rise in state expenditure on policing during the second and third quarters of the year.” 9
The government had not been stalling on grounds of economy alone. The most strident demands for an increased police presence had been related to the city and suburbs, whereas the provincial executive was also concerned about policing deficiencies in rural areas not covered by military policing. These were highlighted in September when all 200 of the Kingites captured at Rangiriri and placed under guard on Kawau Island escaped to the mainland north of the capital, where they remained at large with impunity. Although there were high matters of state behind the lack of policing action against the escapees, many settlers blamed the situation upon the absence of any strong rural constabulary network. The government had no intention of implementing a constabularised policing mesh in the countryside, but it did want to completely overhaul the pattern of policing throughout the province to resolve the problems of irrational distribution which had arisen, particularly in view of the growth of military-police units in occupied areas. Moreover, accompanying the demands for more and betterpaid police there had been doubts voiced about the ad hoc growth of the policing arrangements for the capital. The government had responded prior to the new intake with its investigation of suitable reforms, and a certain amount of innovation—such as the purchase of a boat for the three water police—had been implemented.
Expansion however had been forced upon the government before it was fully prepared, and quick decisions had to be made. The government considered that Sergeant-Major Smith, having served the state by tightening the organisation of the Auckland police, was too much a creature of the past. It therefore replaced him in this position by a man of harsher and more decisive disposition who until February had been a mere private, William N Meredith. The succeeding head of the city police was given a new sergeant to replace the incompetent James Foster, who in turn was demoted to private. Meredith, the just-promoted Sergeant John Scott and the
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long-serving second sergeant, Evers, set about implementing government-desired reform and reorganisation. The helplessness of the old force when confronted by mass resistance was indicated by an incident involving a large number of men off HMS Esk who were angry with the ‘peace party’ organ The New Zealander for publishing an account of how the naval brigade had fled the battle of Gate Pa. Unimpeded by constables, who made themselves scarce, the crowd had marched to the newspaper office and, by carrying out preparations for the demolition of the building with rope and tackle, had extracted an agreement from the proprietor to print a rebuttal of the charges against themselves. 150
Whilst complaints about urban ‘crime’ and ‘nuisances’ continued to flow in, the new policemen were integrated, patrols rearranged and the older members put under considerably more rigid control than before. For the first time in years a private was actually fined for misconduct, and with the pay increases having widened the choice of potential recruits the government could now decline to renew the annual contracts of unsatisfactory men: only 13 constables were recorded as having been privates of police right through 1864. Work began that year too on a new police barracks next to the Resident Magistrate’s Court, complete with the much needed new lockup and comfortable sitting and sleeping rooms for the men. By the time that the city men were able to occupy these quarters in March 1865, the police had some time since donned symbols of their new organisational efficiency. At the beginning of the previous year the Southern Cross had noted that only in Auckland were the police ‘compelled to do duty for five years in one suit of uniform’, for all they knew no replacement uniform being forthcoming for perhaps another 15 years. After a great deal of such criticism the government had decided to discard the ‘blue shirt’ uniform in favour of a ‘closely fitted frock coat with fastenings up the front and embroidered with broad braid’. These the men were required to purchase themselves, although the government would provide a ‘Sunday dress’ uniform supposed to last for seven years. 151
On 3 August 1864 22 of the new-uniformed city police, together with the three water police, paraded for inspection and reportedly ‘presented a very smart appearance. The material of the uniform is a fine dark blue cloth ... and the cap which is of a somewhat novel shape bears the initial letters A.P.’ The water police uniform was a ‘midshipman’s round jacket with brass buttons, and waistcoat similarly trimmed’ and with appropriate indications on the cap as to the wearer’s function. The presentation was one of public relations; the Superintendent accompanied Naughton on the inspection and ‘expressed himself well pleased with their appearance and smart
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
bearing’. Publicity was given to his ‘belief that they would never be found wanting in efficiency.’ 1 ’ 2
Yet within a month the debate over police pay, numbers and efficiency was raging as strongly as ever as offences against property continued apace, and extra men were again called for. There was also a new element amongst the demands for efficiency, following trends elsewhere in the colony—the recruiting of a detective police. The recurring application for a pay rise was heightened in urgency by recent quick increases in a cost of living behind which wage rates lagged, increases which prompted the Gaol overseers again to petition for a pay rise. The aftermath of invasion had not brought the full economic benefits that had been expected. A large Maori trade with the pakeha had been choked off by the war, and (as businessmen were already forecasting) to counteract benefits from the acquisition of the new territories the ‘captive market’ in troops would not last for too much longer once post-conquest pacification had been handed mainly to the Military Settlers. Such factors not only affected police pay but also increased social distress and therefore police duties, creating public demands for both a greater number of constables and a higher proportion of the staff to be men of ‘high quality’. The Southern Cross joined in the campaign for a better-paid and therefore more efficient police: their current pay ‘certainly does not, with the high rate of living, appear likely to tempt good and efficient men to enter the force, or having entered to remain longer in it than they can possibly help.’ 1 ”
The provincial politicians took the first of these demands seriously. By October 1864 the figure of 38 privates agreed to at the beginning of the year had been increased to 48, four of the additional men having been placed in the countryside. Initially the provincial government had intended reraining the system of parttime constabulary help for JPs in country areas not under military or quasi-military control, with those areas far from a policing presence obliged to establish informal self-policing mechanisms or to call in the provincial or other reserve force in emergencies. The military was to provide its own discipline for the behaviour of soldiers outside as well as inside war zones. This general arrangement caused great dissatisfaction, however. In a place like Raglan, without even a district constable, the Resident Magistrate could not keep order amongst the colonial and imperial troops to his satisfaction; neither would the military authorities allow him to use the local runanga police for the control of soldiers. The white residents, who had in conjunction with the leading local ‘friendly’ chief defended the town from its fortified courthouse during the war, were not slow to protest at the absence of a police station. But
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they initially received short shrift, for the General Government’s major preoccupation was with racial control, while the provincial government did not want to create a precedent in such a thinly settled area at a time when it would contemplate no further sizeable increases in the police vote. All the same, through 1864 Auckland Province had been forced gradually to make some concessions to the clamour about the quality of rural policing. First, acknowledging the increasing workload accruing to district constables and encouraging them to give full regard to what needed doing locally, it arranged to pay them for days actually worked rather than merely by their (low) retaining salaries. It then succumbed to pressure from influential settlers in Mangere and Kaipara and added to the total of the authorised establishment by placing a regular constable apiece in those areas. 151
After the defeat of the Kingite forces at Orakau and the consequent opening of the way to full military occupation/settlement of the Waikato, the provincial government attempted to avoid all financial responsibility for policing the large areas of land about to be broken in for European farming. Planning for the four main soldier settlements on the confiscated Waikato land began in June; the site of Hamilton was selected in July; and here in August the first Military Settlers in the region dug redoubts in the context of military discipline, keeping a close eye upon the surrounding bush for guerrilla attack. As in other Military Settlement areas the corps had their own police, but the placing of the socio-racial management of the Waikato and other confiscated lands in the hands of Military Settlers was to be no more than a transitional phase between military seizure per se and the establishment of pakehaised ‘normality’. Almost from the beginning the General Government was concerned to impress upon the provincial government that it should begin to plan for the gradual extension of civil policing to the farthest corners of the sprawling province. Clearly it would be premature to extend the part-time district constable network to territories yet to be fully ‘pacified’; an expansion of Commissioner Naughton’s provincial Armed Police Force was needed. Under pressure from the General Government the Province of Auckland had, as a beginning, recruited an additional two privates to the strength of Naughton’s force to aid the Resident Magistracy in coping with pakeha civilians in the Waikato, whither a regular steamer service from the Manukau had begun in mid year. One of the new privates was stationed at Port Waikato, the other at the former Kingite capital of Ngaruawahia. 155
Quite apart from these extra personnel, with the water police now accepted as a unit over and above the establishment figure
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Naughton could release three of his policemen for placement at the burgeoning suburbs of Newton and Parnell —the original plan of 1863, before a trio of constables had instead been seconded to found the water police. The envisaged cost of provincial policing for the year, excluding arms and ammunition, was by October approaching £ll,OOO. Yet the Commissioner, attempting to take advantage of the known views of the General Government and of a climate of public opinion in which most people, despite the economic downturn, were anticipating eventual vast new sources of wealth from both purchased soil and the confiscated lands of Waikato, Waipa and Tauranga, now went farther: urban and country areas alike, he submitted, urgently required even more policemen. Whatever the attrition caused by pai marire, with Kingite resistance subdued there would inevitably be a winding down of military control in the province; not only would it be replaced only temporarily by the frontier military settlements, but also such latter coverage would be unevenly distributed. What would happen in country areas not yet fully pacified that were far from the settler corps headquarters at Tauranga, Hamilton, Cambridge, Kihikihi and Alexandra?
This was an argument which was to become even more cogent in the future, when the military settlements, starved of any significant state resources, failed to prosper and many of their residents were forced to abandon their primitive ‘farms’. In addition, with the General Government avowedly about to phase out the mounted Colonial Defence Force unit, the Commissioner predicted pressure from within the province to replace it with a mounted police corps under his control. He urged his government to buy the CDF horses and equipment (cheaply) and establish a specialist horse branch of the provincial force. In any case, Naughton argued, even in areas where Maori resistance posed little or no threat police numbers were frequently inadequate to cope, with both pakeha population and turbulence having been increased by the effects of the war. lss
The police increases in town and country had, in Naughton’s assessment, been inadequate for the efficient imposition of acceptable modes of behaviour within the disparate and ‘unwieldy’ Auckland Province. The force totalled 54 besides the Commissioner. Apart from the ‘New Districts’ posts in the Waikato, only eight of the 48 privates were stationed outside the area of the city and its satellites; two each at Russell and Coromandel, with one-man stations at Mangonui, Whangarei, Kaipara and rural Mangere. At Mahurangi a special constable on private’s pay had been seconded to the magistracy. There were another eight men at the capital’s
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outlying settlements: two each at Otahuhu, Onehunga and Papakura, one each at Panmure and Howick. At headquarters were based five men available for duty as court orderly, lockup keeper and water police. The first day relief in the city and suburbs, serving as ‘Town Guard’ as well as undertaking normal police duties of a wide-ranging nature, comprised a sergeant, corporal and seven privates. The second, with similar functions, consisted of another seven men headed by a sergeant, whilst the night duty consisted of 11 privates headed by a corporal. The Sergeant-Major coordinated all aspects of urban policing. Every single member, it was said, was overworked. 157
As well as perceiving a need for a larger force, Naughton remained most concerned about the retention of quality. In preparing the estimates for 1865, he noted that some of his men were of excellent ability but that he would not be able to retain staff of such calibre upon expiry of their terms of engagement unless new rates of pay were conceded. He therefore recommended a shilling increase in privates’ daily pay to take it to Bs, and Is 6d per day increase to other ranks to restore relativity. This would bring corporals to 9s, sergeants to 10s, and the Sergeant-Major to the amount that Otago paid its lowliest foot constable, 11s. The construction of bigger and better accommodation at headquarters being already conceded, it was at this point that Naughton requested suitable fittings to make it comfortable and attractive, including the provision of bedsteads and bedding for single men’s quarters. He also urged the provision of greatcoats, the last issue having been made years before.
This did not mean that the Commissioner intended turning policing into a ‘soft’ occupation. On the contrary, accompanying aspects of the esprit de corps at which he aimed in order to attract and keep ‘good men’ were those that stressed ‘discipline and pride’ in a force geared to instant response to any problem of order. In his drive to attempt accordingly to professionalise the force, the Commissioner faced many difficulties. He lamented that half of the men of his ‘Armed Police Force’ did not possess any firearms, while of the weapons on issue scarcely any two were of the same type and most were obsolete; yet it was important that each man should possess at least a working revolver for duty in the bush and for escorting prisoners. It was important too that a better system for covert intelligence-gathering be established. In line with the public calls for a detective force following the recent increases in population and crime in town and country, Naughton requested the urgent establishment of a plain clothes division to be headed by a
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1/c detective (12s per day) and to comprise also two 2/c detectives on 10s per day, with an extra appropriation of £6O for ‘special detective service’. 158
Great pressure was now placed upon a government reluctant to accept Commissioner Naughton’s recommendations in full. The Southern Cross, in response to what amounted to merely the vaguest of government commitments to provide more police resources, demanded immediate action, beginning with increased police pay and at least 10 extra policemen. Quite apart from pressure from within the capital, Resident Magistrates demanded more police for their areas; Captain J J Symonds of the Onehunga bench attributed local crime to an inadequate police presence, a typical assessment. In the sizeable concession of an additional appropriation in mid November, the government agreed to an interim measure of 10 extra headquarters privates, an organisationally separate water police consisting of a sergeant and two constables, and three extra constables to be distributed in the Kaipara and the Waikato (but seconded to Resident Magistrates). There was by no means universal satisfaction with these measures: pay had yet to rise, and it was a discrete detective unit rather than specialist water police which had been most desired. But in general, sufficient had been won to placate a number of key critics of government on the issue of policing. As it turned out, the period of police reform and of rising numbers of constables had already peaked. The impact of this frenetic period of policing debate and rearrangement can be gauged by citizens’ later recollections. These indicate that the net public impression of the results of the revamping of the force had been that of ‘reducing the amount of crime and restoring confidence in the people, who had previously been actually afraid to go about the streets at night.’ 1 ”
All the while the provincial government haggled with the General Government over the division of responsibility for the policing of those areas of the huge province which were still definable as ‘disturbed’. Superintendent Graham argued that the large military presence in his region necessitated policing and judicial costs far in excess of those of other provinces. This was true enough insofar as urban policing was concerned. On the other hand the General Government argued, more cogently, that the imperial and colonial forces in the countryside, including the Military Settlers in the frontier areas, acted in lieu of constabulary in ‘pacifying’ recently defeated indigenous resistance. Moreover not only did they in addition largely police themselves, they also acted as agents of state control over civilian pakehas in outlying areas. The logic was indisputable, and therefore the demarcation dispute increasingly
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addressed itself to the mechanics of the phase-out of those policing functions hitherto conducted by the General Government, particularly with the accession of a firm ‘new direction’ central executive late in 1864.'“
On 24 November 1864 Weld took up the premiership, pledged to implement the policy of colonial self-reliance. With official policy now being that the imperial troops were eventually to leave New Zealand, the Auckland provincial government was all the more concerned about the protection of the lives and property of the 42,000 whites now living within its boundaries. The General Government acknowledged that outsettlers might well suffer from an occasional foray by hauhau bands; that, however, was an eventuality that even current garrisoning levels could do little to prevent. Settler self-defence in conjunction with ‘friendlies’ —a formula which added up in most places to Military Settler and/or runanga policing—was seen by Weld as the solution, with the assistance in Auckland Province of 13 companies of the projected 30company Armed Constabulary. Although his scheme for a militarised police to replace the imperial regiments was postponed in line with the delayed phase-out of the redcoats, its projected deployment of personnel within Auckland Province indicated the most problematic areas of racial control; six companies in the conquered Waikato/Waipa, three manning a line of communications stretching from the Queen’s Redoubt across to Pukorokoro on the Firth of Thames (blocking any advance on the capital by pai marire forces from the eastern coastal regions), and another based at Tauranga, the remaining three companies to be held in reserve at Papakura. In areas still partially, or at times wholly, in a state of rebellion, such as greater Bay of Plenty, the General Government conceded that suitable Military Settlers would be designated fulltime policemen on full pay and placed under magisterial control to provide a civil police presence, since Naughton’s regulars—let alone district constables—were not designed to operate in conditions of endemic warfare. 161
Gradually as areas were pacified regular provincial police were moved in, sometimes on secondment to the magistracy and in general terms always subject, where tense situations of collective Maori resistance might yet arise, to the overriding control of the senior military officer in the area. To keep order in the rough soldier/settler ‘garrison’ towns, where wild bouts of drinking relieved the monotony and misery of breaking in new land and drowned the tensions produced by vulnerability to attack from
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across the aukati, privates who were formerly soldiers or members of crack constabularies were normally chosen for these postings. The first civilian policeman for Hamilton, Francis McGovern, was a veteran of the Irish Constabulary, and well able to bear the strains of having to lock up prisoners in his own house—including ‘criminals’ who had been fleeing Auckland city for the sanctuary of the King Country, whose own policing regime looked kindly on those who had defied the pakeha state. Even those conditions were an improvement on his previous nine months’ service (from September 1864) as founding constable in the ‘most miserable place’ of Ngaruawahia, where for the first third of his stay he ‘had to sleep in a blacksmith’s shop’. ‘They were a pretty rough lot in Hamilton in those days’, he later recalled, with ‘many of the women being as bad as the men.’ As time passed and the end of the three-year period of Waikato Militia service drew ever nearer, the Military Settler regiment centred on Hamilton gradually shrank. When its remnants were formally disbanded in late 1867, policing of the local pakehas was left entirely in the hands of the civil police of the province, while policing of the Maori was handed to detachments of the Armed Constabulary newly created to fill the military/police vacuum in the countryside of a ‘self-reliant’ colony now bereft of formalised ‘armed settler’ paramilitary organisation. 162
In the intervening years there had been much debate over how best to control and socialise to approved European norms of behaviour the ‘pacified’ indigenous population of the province. When the Kingites were exiled behind the new aukati, many pakehas expected the hardest of lines to be taken against those Maoris in pakeha-controlled areas who were non-cooperative in the process of subjection. But General Government policy was soon in broad terms that the Maori, having suffered crushing (and expensively procured) defeat of their mainstream rebellion could now be swiftly (and inexpensively) conciliated and coaxed into the British socioeconomic mode and its accompanying behavioural requirements. This created fury amongst many pakehas, particularly on such dramatic occasions as when the ‘rebel’ prisoners escaped from Kawau Island. The state decided that it was best to let them go—the more so in view of the fact that they were protected by the ‘friendly’ Ngapuhi, upon whom the foundations of ‘order and regularity’ in the north rested. The Government’s reliance upon official and unofficial runanga police/judicial operations in a number of areas was ridiculed; ‘swarms’ of Maori police were paid ‘to look after each other’, but were ‘on no account to protect a white man’s person or estate’. The Maori was regularly castigated as ‘ungrateful, treacherous, a drunkard, a thief and a liar’, and these were not
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merely words but deep-held beliefs —hence the trepidation which had prevailed when the Weld ministry announced its ‘self-reliant policy.'* 3
White public opinion on such matters was generally not interested in the demarcation disputes between central and provincial governments. Although the provincial government continued to feel that General Government police efforts in its troubled countryside were inadequate, strident commentary never allowed it to forget the fact that (delegated) responsibility for the state of order within its boundaries in non-warfare conditions belonged to it alone. In response to such pressures, and to the clamour for a tightening of social control in the towns too, the Graham government attempted to combine more intensive surveillance and control mechanisms over the countryside with long-evolving plans to strengthen state control in urban areas. But politicians from both city and non-rebellious countryside alike voted this down, the former because of unhappiness at a change in the balance of human policing resources to favour rural areas more than in the past, and the latter because theirs were seen as classic peaceful rural communities where there was need, at most, only for district constables to supplement JP and informal communal policing. Both groups of politicians were fully in favour of strong policing of ‘disturbed districts’, but neither wished to subsidise this and saw it as predominantly the General Government’s responsibility. When the provincial government tried to bypass the alliance of convenience by splitting off from its consequently aborted legislation a Rural Police Bill, that measure too ran into difficulties. This was largely because its deliberate non-differentiation between control over the Maori, the real target of significant sectors of country pressure on the government, and that over the pakeha, estranged other political line-ups. In its attempts to reform existing policing methods, too, the government had run into civil libertarian opposition. When it attempted to give the police greater control over the ‘dangerous classes’ of pakeha society fears were held that constables would abuse the discretionary power to arrest on suspicion given them under projected vagrancy legislation, that such a measure would ‘disturb the liberty and tranquility of society’ rather than promote it.'* 4
It was not in any case greater legislative authorisation that the state needed, as the shrewdest observers saw, since constables already possessed huge discretionary repressive power. Instead informed suggestions for improvement continued to focus upon increasing the size of the force, on maintaining or enhancing its quality by bettering pay, conditions and therefore esprit de corps,
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
and by creating a detective unit for ‘keeping crime in a scientific surveillance’. By March 1865 an influential body of opinion, headed by the Chief Justice who was concerned at Auckland’s burgeoning offending figures, had built up behind the cause, with the call for a police pay increase particularly stressed. Councillor R Wynn took advantage of this groundswell of feeling amongst the influential and moved to gain both a payment-by-results police reward system and a pay increase based proportionately upon a huge increase for the Sergeant-Major. To the executive’s unhappiness the Sergeant-Major’s remuneration was fixed by the Councillors at £230 annually, a rate higher even than Naughton’s recommendation (although lower than that suggested by Wynn).
But then the leaders of the ‘caution’ lobby fought back, rounding up support by pointing out the financial consequences for the provincial Treasury should all police salaries be raised and insisting therefore that the Sergeant-Major item stand alone. When Councillor J Foley attempted in turn to raise NCOs’ and privates’ pay, he and his supporters were condemned by the majority for ‘petty delays that had been caused by discussions and arguments that were of no moment’. Hard-headed members of the socio-political ruling group could see the economic writing on the wall: the consequences of ‘self-reliance’ together with the recent loss of the colonial capital to Wellington would mean a fall off in economic activity which would not be compensated for in the foreseeable future by any significant production from the already ailing military settlements. In regrouping their forces in the ensuing days the police and their allies highlighted the discrepancy between the private’s daily 7s and the labourer’s 8s or 9s. Towards the end of the month the government opted for a compromise, rejecting the maximum demands but accepting the validity of Naughton’s recommended 8s per day basic pay for privates, with higher ranks raised in proportion. When the politicians heard from their executive that the best men in the force were about to leave unless their pay improved, a number of hardliners amongst them changed their minds and ensured that the new amounts were voted. 165
This situation had come about, paradoxically, because of the oncoming depression. ‘Crime’ was perceived to be descending even more rapidly than before upon Auckland Province as a result of it, and coping with that would require the retention of ‘quality’ police. Another consequence of this perspective had also cut across the wishes of the pro-economising lobby; the majority acceded to demands for an increased force to handle present and anticipated disorder. Remarks made by the Chief Justice to the Grand Jury on the ‘rampant’ state of crime in the province, the Grand Jury’s
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endorsement of his call for extra police, and pressure from influential sectors of society to repress offending which was increasing as a result of economic want and stress, had all borne weight. Of the 33 prisoners awaiting trial, it was noted, 20 were of the ‘night marauder’ variety, half of these soldiers by calling. The solution was said by the exponents of preventive policing to lie in the exemplary exercise of ‘speedy justice and prompt retribution ... and at the head stands the necessity for an increased Police force. It is our firm belief that this, and this alone, will stop the crime that now, like an epidemic rages through our whilom peaceful city. Facile elusion of punishment encourages crime.’
A permanent establishment figure of less than four dozen police privates for the entire province was said by a number of critics to be far from sufficient, in view of the upsurge of disorder within the last few months, to ‘keep order and decorum’. This was seen as particularly the case in the city with its recent influx of thousands of people, including jobless discharged soldiers. Greater police numbers should also, it was argued, be complemented by the establishment of more suburban stations, for many of the offences against property were occurring in such relatively ‘unprotected’ areas. In early March the government had conceded both the need for a doubling in expenditure on uniforms (in line with Naughton’s requests), which was considered an adequate response to the demand for a high-visibility preventive force, and the desirability of increasing the permanent establishment of privates to total 55. Although this figure was below the interim maximum it was not acceptable to some politicians who, while prepared to increase wages in the cause of efficiency, were unwilling to burden the provincial Treasury with an ongoing commitment to provide extra salaries. But their views were counterbalanced by a pro-police group attempting to gain both suburban stations and an increase of up to 20 permanent extra men. In the end the Council voted by 11 to six to endorse the government recommendation for a total of 55 privates, once again taking what was perceived as the middle, compromise line.‘“
Thus the provincial police establishment, including water police Sergeant John Jervis and his two constables, now totalled 65, not counting district constables conducting part-time country policing. In a few years, particularly as a result of the wars of conquest, policing expenditure within the province had almost trebled. The pakeha population of Auckland Province was at a peak of turbulence in 1865: the Police General Fund gained £445 10s from rewards for apprehending military and naval runaways, deserters and stragglers, much more than the amount collected from these
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categories in 1864, itself a busy year. Of 1460 prisoners received into Mt Eden Gaol during 1865 more than a fifth were soldiers and sailors, a mere handful were Maori. The daily average of inmates had risen from 87 in 1861-2 to 104 in 1863, 159 in 1864, and now 208. With the encroachment of depression, one final component was needed to fully modernise the police to cope with the extra problems of order, particularly in the city: the long sought-after fully professional detective section. 181
Naughton’s request for a specialised three-man detection service over and above the normal complement of personnel had in the squabbles and debates of early 1865 been ignored. Now, however, public attention was dramatically drawn to detection policing: one of the privates normally detailed for any necessary plain clothes duties, John King, returned from a mission to Australia with some jewel thieves whom he had tracked and captured in a chase across several colonies. It was a case sensationalised by the newspapers and it drew attention that April to the need widely perceived among experts in policing for upgrading the province’s covert surveillance facilities: people were aware that it had been an affair unusual in its very efficiency, and contrasted the skill of the man who was widely regarded as a bona fide detective with gross misconduct on the part of his assistant on the journey, regular private R Donnelly, When the latter was dismissed by Naughton after an investigation, and all the minutiae of the case eventually reached the newspapers, the importance of detective work was again highlighted. Further successful apprehensions by King caused people to rail against the government’s ‘unprincipled’ conduct in occluding an expansion of detective policing resources. The provincial executive’s attitude was that if a plain clothes section was necessary, it could be created from existing resources within the force. 168
The provincial force was already in a turmoil with so many nonexperienced men: even with the wage increase, privates could still earn more money elsewhere upon resigning at termination of their periods of engagement. During 1865 a total of 85 men were employed at some stage or other as privates, only 36 of them serving throughout the year, with a further three being promoted to NCO level in the course of it. In June Sergeant-Major Meredith, whose services in modernising the force were widely recognised, resigned. While Naughton was, in the resulting hiatus, examining his force in search of an adequate replacement for the essential post of second in command and head of the city police, he set about in response to public pressure to create a more distinct and regular detection arrangement amongst the expanded number of men already allowed him, taking personal control over their activities.
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Then on 1 September 1865 yet another bold choice to bypass senior NCOs was made: Patrick Molloy, who had joined as a private at the beginning of 1859 and had been promoted corporal only a few months previously, was elevated above the heads of Sergeants Evers and Scott to become Sergeant-Major. That month too the first issue of the Auckland Province Police Gazette , modelled on the publications of the South Island forces and compiled by the Commissioner himself, appeared: it was a landmark on the road to increased professionalism. 168
But shortly after Molloy implemented tighter than ever surveillance and control over Auckland’s streets, the depression hit the province with severity and there was soon ‘misery and starvation’ haunting the capital. With departments of state quickly ordered to retrench by the executive of speculator-politician Whitaker, who succeeded to the Superintendency in October 1865, the police estimates of the following February envisaged not only some redundancies but also a pay cut of Is per day for all members of the force. There was an immediate outcry. Few observers denied the need to cut police spending, which together with that on prisons constituted a fifth of provincial state expenditure, and politicians who not long before had been converted to the view that greater social distress and hence greater offending of necessity required more and better police now quickly jumped on the retrenchment bandwagon. A number of influential people, however, believed that despite the rising unemployment in the city the best policemen would still be able to secure higher pay elsewhere and the force would become the ‘refuge for the destitute’: better then to lower its numbers even further than to decrease police pay. This argument implied a major decline in the size of the force, since the estimates had already reduced the number of privates to 50, and the government’s stated intention was that of soon further reducing it by a quarter. A significant counter-argument to redundancy-based retrenchment proposals contended that although military-associated crime was falling (and Police Fund contributions from military and naval authorities plunged by three-fifths to £lBl Os 7d in 1866) unemployment was inducing a noticeable upsurge in petty property crime. In order to prevent or at least contain this, quantity of police was preferable to quality. 1 ™
A considerable amount of the public sympathy evinced for the plight of the police stemmed from a shrewd appraisal that efficiency required a contented and therefore adequately paid force. How could a married man, particularly in a period of fluctuating rents, maintain a family on the reduced wages about to be offered? How could single men marry? ‘Let the pay of the police be such as
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to induce experienced and able men to remain in it, and afford sufficient attraction for properly qualified men to fill up vacancies that may from time to time occur. The duties of a policeman are not those of an ordinary official nor is his post by any means an enviable one—forebearance from resenting insults; the frequent reference to their menial position, though the guardians of those who deprecate them; and the responsibilities that are attached to them being greatly inductive of a desire to embrace the first opportunity of relinquishing them.’ There was unease in the air, partly the result of a growing awareness of the significance of the Auckland police as the standing reserve force; the military settlements were declining, certainly as a policing mechanism, the CDF had had its day and the Forest Rangers had been disbanded in February as a General Government retrenchment measure in the colonywide depression. 1 ”
In the provincial legislature heated debate enveloped all Councillors, several calling for restoration of pay and/or numbers. But spirited opposition to the proposed cuts, led by David Sheehan, failed and the estimates passed intact. Given escalating unemployment the police had no leverage with which to fight their pay reduction. The provincial state, conscious of its need to control the fast-rising tide of unemployment and the offences which would inevitably be churned up in its wash, was already at work on legislative substitutes for the policemen to be removed from employment. These added up to little more than giving privates more power in the hope that this would result in greater arrest rates and therefore greater deterrent capacity. Most importantly, Hugh Carleton had introduced, on behalf of the government, a measure designed to consolidate all anti-vagrant legislation and make crystal clear to constables their powers to suppress the various open-ended categories of ‘vagrancy’. To protests from civil libertarians that it was unjust to penalise people who had been made unemployed by recession, the government pointed out that Naughton had been calling for new anti-vagrancy laws for years and arguing all along that their absence meant of necessity higher police numbers; and that now, with the police about to be reduced, the Commissioner had made urgent representations on the matter. ‘We must recollect’, lectured a newspaper in support of the measures, ‘that the peculiar circumstances of settlement in this Province has introduced into it, amongst many excellent settlers, the dregs of other Provinces and Colonies. So violent a disease requires a violent remedy’. 112
In the event the initiative on this aspect of social control passed to the General Government, with its procurement in October of the
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first colony-wide Vagrant Act, a measure actually harsher than that proposed by the Auckland provincial government. ‘A clean sweep of the class of professional loafers will, we trust be at once made. There is no longer need to wait until they can be found in actual commission of a crime. Where they are known by the police to be bad characters they may at once be apprehended, and we trust will be, and being committed to gaol will be made to labour for their food.’ Such pre-emptive prevention policy was a reflection of the deepening economic problems throughout the country. Meanwhile the Auckland government had turned to yet another substitutive remedy for some of the problems of disorder on the streets of the provincial capital, again in response to representations by the energetic Commissioner Naughton: Draconian municipal police regulation, the idea for which had originated in the uncertainty surrounding the future of vagrancy legislation, was seen as an adequate, even superior, replacement for anti-vagrant laws in controlling urban areas. Under certain sections of the provincial Municipal Police Act the politicians extended to citizens the ability to legally detain; in such circumstances they were to take the perpetrators of ‘nuisances’, which were broadly defined, to the nearest constable. The Act was applied to the provincial capital at once and within a couple of years extended to Tauranga, Opotiki, the Thames and the four main satellite towns of Auckland city. 171
The depression-initiated intensification of the policing debate had of course been intimately bound up with the ‘native problem’ of the countryside. Here the various modes of policing which had corresponded to the varying degrees of pacification of the Maori race now underwent critical scrutiny. In particular the very effectiveness of the new Native Land Court in alienating land from the Maori without the need to resort to expensive and disruptive warfare resulted in the reordering of the policing agenda in many Maori-populated areas. The effects of the Court, which operated under the legislation allowing Maoris to individualise—as per the Land Court Judges’ decisions—their customary communal possession of land, have been almost universally regarded by scholars as ‘scandalous and deplorable in their effects on Maori society’. In the aftermath of subjugation by pakeha arms and pakeha laws, a despair which weakened further will to resist set in among a number of tribal communities, heightened by the ability of a handful of Maoris in each collectivity to activate the alienation of land by individuation of title. Although such demoralisation frequently precluded the need for further military activity by the state, it also
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further weakened the traditional tribal and sub-tribal bonding of Maori society which had worked in favour of maintaining, in conjunction with official runanga or otherwise, a certain degree of holding operation ‘order’ in the countryside. Short- or mediumterm widening of rangatira-based tribal control had not, in the overall perspective, been unwelcome to the state. On the contrary, pivotal to Grey’s Resident Magistracy/Assessor system had been the aim of utilising expanding chiefly authority to undermine itself, the same factor looming large in the intellectual origins of a legal runanga system designed to ultimately prepare the Maori for the physical and ideological dominance of the pakeha. But now, with indigenous societal bonding fragmenting and the existence of a growing Maori indebtedness resulting from the necessity to fight long and costly Land Court cases, the resultant disorder —aggravated by an excessive consumption of alcohol which was born of despair—itself provided weighty interim problems of policing in the rural countryside. 174
The non-implementation of Weld’s earlier-mooted but expensive Armed Constabulary, coupled with the abortiveness of the Outlying Districts Police Act and the phasing out of the Military Settler, CDF and other specialist corps’ policing roles, meant that extant modes of repressing disillusion-induced and other types of disorder in predominantly Maori areas on the pakeha side of the aukati were few. Apart from those areas where regular and part-time provincial police were stationed, two types of policing had complemented ‘armed settler’ and quasi-constabularised policing, although they too were rapidly being run down by 1867. First, in the wake of military conquest of the insurrectionists varying degrees of colonial and imperial military control had been imposed, with martial law control methods gradually passing into military policing. This process was exemplified in microcosm by the handling of Ngatiawa warriors and their allies who were captured during the suppression of pai marire in the Bay of Plenty. Tried first by court martial, they were then placed in Naughton’s custody: policing rather than soldiering was now on the agenda, with some of the captives executed for acts such as the execution of Volkner which they considered part and parcel of warfare but which were given criminal justice definition by official declaration that the situation had been that of non-war. Soldiers in conquered areas were increasingly placed on policing-type duties and continued these until their units were disbanded or their regiments withdrawn.
Frequently troops-as-policemen had worked in conjunction with
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the second type of socio-racial control which filled the gap left by the absence of any large-scale paramilitary rural force —the Native Department’s governing/policing machinery. This operated in many and varied forms across many types of Maori districts, sometimes far from the nearest pakeha soldier or policeman. Some of the runanga police, such as the ‘half caste’ Sergeant Tapsell in charge of the ‘Native Police’ at Maketu, even exercised de facto policing control over local Europeans as well. In a few locations in which both central and provincial government had omitted to place European agents of coercion but where white feeling against being policed by Maori was intense, the Native Department had been persuaded for a period to supplement runanga policing by paying for part-time pakeha police to work alongside its karere. Constables G Dyke and I Carson, employed in this category at Raglan and declared for the purposes of race decorum to be servants of the provincial state rather than part of the local runanga police system, each received £lB 5s per annum, as opposed to £lO for karere. 175
The majority of the colony’s runanga policing regimes were located within the boundaries of Auckland Province, which at the time of the changeover to the Stafford ministry in October 1865 hosted seven of the nine Civil Commissioners and half of the Native Department Resident Magistracies. In pursuit of its declared policy the new Government had then begun greatly to accelerate the pace of the dismantling of the ‘indirect rule’ system; amalgamating the complex Bay of Plenty racial control machinery under the headship of the Tauranga Civil Commissioner, abolishing all other Commissionerships except Parris’ and Mackay’s, refusing to fill vacancies for karere and other legal runanga system officials, making redundant many of the ‘native policemen’ from the end of 1865. Such measures affected non-urban Auckland more than anywhere else, but conversely Auckland Province stood to gain most when their effects were mitigated once, almost immediately, reality began to intrude upon theory. Certainly Colonel Russell’s policy required that ‘the Natives should be encouraged to conform to English Law’ as quickly as possible, by force if necessary. Yet in the absence of sufficient state funds to pay for an expensive instrumentalist police-army of coercion, he had quickly been compelled to acknowledge an interim degree of reliance upon chiefly power and state employees—white and brown—who had been operating what had until now been called the official runanga system. He would have to use such people, and their mechanisms of control, to impose and maintain order, even to prepare the way for pakeha encroachment. Whilst continuing to retrench the Native
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Department, then, he had abandoned all immediate ideas of abolishing it. He had come to see it as a means of aiding the implementation of his revised policy, under which ‘all exceptional law should gradually cease': the emphasis was to be upon evolutionary assimilation, albeit guided and propelled, and there was a place in the process of guidance and propulsion for the truncated ‘native constable’ network —even after the formal abandonment of the notional existence of a legalised runanga executive and legislative system. Native Department police continued, then, to play a significant role in socio-racial preparatory control even under a regime initially pledged to eliminate almost immediately all differential treatment between the races. 116
In European-dominated areas outside the city a handful of provincial police coped with the burden of normal policing, either as regulars or as part-timers responsible to local JPs. In early September 1865 the judge at Auckland had observed that the ‘vast increase of crime’ in the province affected the outlying areas as well as the capital. In his view this was due not to lack of vigilance on the part of the country police, particularly in view of their small numbers, but rather to the ‘unsettled state of the population’ and its ‘comparatively unsettled pursuits’. A great deal of pakeha offending consisted of men (and a few women) getting ‘beastly drunk’ and accordingly disrupting order and regularity; this was so frequent an occurrence, and policemen were so dispersed, that it was seriously suggested that the sale of spirits be banned in all country areas. The government’s response, as with the urban police, was to provide the small number of police in the countryside likewise with greater powers—under the Rural Police Act of 1866 —despite opposition assertions that quite sufficient powers were already vested in the police for the securing of ‘peace, order and good government’. Rather than reflecting inadequate authority the problem was, for critics, one of too few police resources in the short run, one of social, economic and racial dimension in the broader perspective. It was inevitable that settler discontent would continue, even at somewhere like Onehunga which, with a corporal and two privates (its third private had drowned), was comparatively well served in terms of police presence. 1,1
More laws, more powers, could not alter the effects of economic depression upon the pakeha, of social/psychological depression amongst many Maoris, of determination to resist the pakeha amongst many others. Nor could they make an again-shrinking and demoralised police force more efficient, although the increased
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amount of social disruption resulting from the war and the subsequent economic downturn ensured, by providing constables with a larger catchment area of clientele, that the smaller number of policemen apprehended a larger number of offenders. The daily average of prisoners in Mt Eden Gaol was 220 for 1866, the peak figure for the decade. Although many influential people acknowledged that the police were doing all they could in the circumstances, increasingly during the year there were claims that Auckland city was infected with ‘haunts’ of ‘bad characters’ to which constables were turning a blind eye. These charges culminated in the establishment of a ‘police efficiency’ committee of the Provincial Council late in November, preparatory to consideration of the 1867 estimates. This development was at the instigation of the man chosen to be committee chairman, David Kirkwood, who had branded the provincial police organisation as ‘highly reprehensible’, largely because of alleged deficiencies in Commissioner Naughton’s management. The debate upon the motion for the investigation foreshadowed the various lines of criticism which the committee intended to develop. It had here emerged that the chief specific indictment presented by Kirkwood was no more than that, despite great pressure from influential people in Onehunga, Naughton was determined to transfer its corporal of police into the city. 178
Former Superintendent John Williamson, who had raised the Commissioner from the rank of Inspector, noted that coming from a politician who allegedly wished to make the police more efficient this charge was ironic. In a paramilitary police force, periodic transfers of personnel were of course required in the interests of ‘discipline and control’. To be sure, in the city-orientated Auckland provincial force this had been only very partially practicable, but it was necessary wherever possible so that police ‘should not be led, by familiarity with the inhabitants, to show favor or affection to them’. Indeed Williamson’s appointment of a single ‘active’ head of police at a time when ‘high policing’ was still to a small degree compartmentalised had been intended precisely ‘to provide for the periodical removal of the police’. Although this argument had telling effect for experts in colonial policing, in the debate there were calls to fragment the force so that provincial coverage could be divided between the ‘metropolitan’ force and a number of rural forces under local magistrates. At the other extreme, Sheehan advocated a larger unified force on higher pay rates. Councillor James O’Neill testified to Naughton’s great energy and noted that although the politicians ‘had taken away his horse’ in the reductions at the beginning of the year, the ‘Commissioner provided one
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himself, and was ever on the spot when wanted.’ No one could dispute the energy and activity of the head of police. His profile was always high and the Councillors and their executive had never been averse to heaping new duties upon him; earlier in the year, for example, fire prevention legislation made the Commissioner the controller of persons and property at the scenes of the frequent fires which ravaged parts of the city. 179
The government and Naughton had already jointly worked out new policies to meet public criticism. The political executive now ensured that, whatever its conclusions might be, the committee of enquiry became irrelevant: the planned police estimates were pushed through at once. Despite the Auckland government’s programme for ongoing APF redundancies Superintendent Whitaker had felt unable, because of the quantity of police work, to recommend reduction of the force substantially below the numbers voted early in the year. His executive, having accepted the logic that maximum retrenchment had already been attained, had therefore recommended fixing the establishment of privates at the now status quo figure of 47. All the familiar debates had then been repeated in the Council. To arguments by hard-line economising Councillors that the removal of the imperial regiments reduced the targeted clientele of police and thereby enabled greater urban police reductions, it had been pointed out that as elsewhere the military themselves had during their dominant presence in the province relieved pressure on the provincial police by providing a large internal policing apparatus which could be utilised for broader purposes when necessary. Another contention, which captured votes from both rural and urban Councillors, was that further reductions would hit isolated country districts unless the payment of private watchmen by city businessmen —something they were not in the habit of doing without great reluctance —could release constables from urban beat duties.
Although the estimates had been passed intact and therefore checked further retrenchment in numbers, they added up to another blow to police morale since the prevailing low rates of pay (based upon a private’s 6s daily) were retained. This was all the more serious now with the Police General Fund, reflecting the departure of the bulk of the military, suffering a sharp downturn in income early in the year: there would be little supplementary income to distribute, and what money was earmarked for rewards was increasingly given (in order to retain ‘quality’ men) to a handful of policemen skilful (or lucky) enough to be involved in spectacular cases leading to convictions. In actuality however, given that the provincial state was nearly bankrupt, retention of the status
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quo in pay and size was a better result than the police might have expected. 1 " 0
When the select committee met on 7 December 1866 the vote had already determined the broad outline of the force. This included for the first time, as part of the government-approved reforms to allay public alarm, a distinct detective branch. It would comprise two 2/c detectives, together with a 1/c detective in charge whose importance was indicated by his receipt of the same wage (8s 6d) as that of the Sergeant-Major. With the main public demand met, and Naughton still firmly in the Commissioner’s chair, there was little that the politicians on the committee could do except investigate a case of alleged incompetence by Otahuhu private William Negus in his handling of the disappearance of a family later discovered to have been murdered. Although Kirkwood began by acting as an inquisitor, evidence soon emerged that the private was ‘very highly spoken of ’, however much he regretted in retrospect not having arrested on suspicion the man who turned out to be the murderer. Kirkwood had already abandoned the Onehunga transfer accusations, for which Naughton had a definitive case in answer. In his pursuit of irregularity in the force he could instead only extract a confession from an ex-policeman that he had during work hours made some boots which the Commissioner needed urgently, and which had been paid for from Naughton’s own pocket. On the second day of the enquiry most of the committee members did not bother even to turn up, and the results of the whole ‘investigation’ were officially recorded in the words ‘no report’. 181
From this time onwards there was general satisfaction expressed in ruling circles over the performance of the city police. There was a proliferation of newspaper headlines such as ‘Clever Capture of Thieves’, a story about the detection skills of Private Richard Gamble who was said to have a knack of sensing ‘guilty’ passers-by. The noticeable downturn in disorder and irregularity which produced this appreciation had its roots, said observers, in a combination of the tightening of detection surveillance and the stay on any further loss of manpower for preventive surveillance. But in reality the key reason was that as 1867 progressed it seemed ever clearer that the local depression would persist for the foreseeable future, and thus the unemployed and homeless were drifting away from the city in search of prospects elsewhere, joining the exodus of soldiers and their hangers-on. ‘The departure of the troops and of the wandering Arabs, the waifs and strays of society, always accompanying an army in wartime, has materially decreased the crime committed in the Province.’ But even though it was widely believed that police efficiency had much to do with the ‘cleaning up’ of
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
Auckland there was —at the very height of depression—no sentimentality with regard to job security for men of the force once the task was perceived to have been accomplished. The Herald voiced this point of view; ‘With less crime, and a more settled population, it is quite evident we ought to be able to manage with a less number of those whose duty it is to prevent or detect crime. The city police, therefore, it would appear, ought to be reduced in number.’ 182
The politicians, immersed in continuing consideration of retrenchment measures, needed no persuading. Five policemen were removed from Naughton’s force by the government, again headed (from April) by Superintendent Williamson; the remainder were fortunate not to have their salaries further reduced, as had also been advocated by the (well-paid) editor of the Herald on the grounds that in the depression the price of food and rent had fallen. Rather there prevailed a feeling that police morale needed boosting as much as possible to counter disillusion resulting from the uncertainty of continued employment in the force. So in the Council debate on policing retrenchment attention instead tended to focus upon the mooted exemption of the Commissioner from a 20 percent salary reduction for all officials earning more than £250. A secondary centre of interest which also had ramifications for Naughton’s force was the re-emergence of the idea of locally rated and controlled municipal policing. This had become a pertinent topic again because it was intended that the city be made a corporation, but it soon emerged that the provincial government and its backers were not willing to relinquish the advantages of a centrally controlled provincial police. The status quo was retained, with the privates less unhappy than they would have been had the state spending reductions incorporated a lowering of their remuneration —or had the policing of Auckland city been municipalised, for this would almost certainly have meant drastic lowering of expenditure on the expensive item of policing. 183
Meanwhile, in the far-flung and diverse countryside of what was generally characterised as the ‘unwieldy’ province the running down of its proactive and reactive General Government-financed policing—military. Native Department and Military Settler—continued to create problematic lacunae of control. Commissioner Naughton’s regular constables were either few—Francis McGovern on his own at Hamilton undertook ‘the overlooking of the whole police force’ in the surrounding region—or, as in Poverty Bay, nonexistent. District constables and Armed Police Force privates in the countryside, moreover, were starved of the most basic resources
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by the cost-minded Auckland government. At Whatawhata in the Upper Waikato Resident Magistrate R C Mainwaring noted in late 1866 that the local constable had not possessed any facility for locking up prisoners since the disbandment of the Military Settler unit, complete with its guardrooms. Knowing that only serious offenders could be incarcerated (by being chained to a wall of the constable’s house), local drunks and ‘rioters’ disturbed the peace with impunity, which made ‘the Police small in the eyes of the settlers, and subjects them to repeated insults’. Moreover during the first half of 1867 rural problems of social ‘irregularity’ heightened since the destitute Aucklanders abandoning the charity soup kitchen queues of the capital for the roads in a desperate, often futile, search for work frequently stayed within provincial boundaries. A number of urban-based politicians were singularly unimpressed by the exigencies faced by rural ‘peace-keepers’. Indeed there had been an attempt at the beginning of the year to cut the pay of district constables (whose retainers, as an economy measure, had been restored in preference to the expensive ‘payment for duties actually performed’) from £3O to £2O per annum. Protests that ‘no respectable and competent person will be found to accept the responsibility for so small a remuneration’ won out, but country dwellers were again later in the year forced on to the defensive to reject suggestions that—because of the ever worsening state of the provincial coffers—financial responsibility for the policing of their own areas should be devolved upon the local inhabitants.'**
That such proposals could be fairly easily deflected was a consequence of an extraordinary piece of luck for the province, the opening of the Thames goldfield, which temporarily injected both optimism and capital into the louring provincial economy. Unemployed people had been drifting to the old established Coromandel goldfields in search of a scratch living, and by mid 1866 the provincial government had accordingly upgraded facilities in terms of policing and other services. More than two years previously James Mackay, while negotiating the surrender of Kingite Maoris further south, at the Thames, had learnt of the presence of gold in that area. In his capacity as Civil Commissioner he had, since then, been attempting to persuade the Ngatimaru owners of the auriferous land to allow access for pakeha diggers, to no avail. Then in 1867 when he did negotiate some supervised access by prospectors and gold was found on the banks of the Karaka Stream, there was ‘immediate excitement’ in the provincial capital. With business stagnating, bankruptcies of ‘frequent occurrence’ and labouring people ‘starving for want of employment’, officials ‘were besieged with applications for permission to go to the Thames’. The ‘danger
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
of the district being rushed and a quarrel ensuing with the Maoris was so imminent’ that Mackay and Deputy Superintendent Daniel Pollen at once proceeded to the area. Overcoming Ngatimaru resistance on the grounds that the pakeha would flood in anyway so it would be beneficial for the Maori were the flow regulated, they secured agreement on 27 July for a Crown lease on certain goldbearing lands for mining purposes. 186
On 30 July Pollen proclaimed the Thames goldfield, and the provincial authorities hastened to arrange for administration and policing. Mackay was appointed Goldfields Commissioner with full delegated powers to regulate all aspects of goldfields life; he would have his own police, paid for from the goldfields vote. When he returned on 1 August, the first official day of digging, he brought with him the two constables who comprised his founding force, and with their help he laid out the town of Shortland. In those first days, policing duties included controlling the anger of many diggers who, used to working alluvial gold, had not initially adapted to the need to extract Thames gold from quartz; and that of others prevented by the constables from trespassing on blocks of land the Maoris had not opened up for mining. But from 10 August big finds were being made which helped cancel out such teething problems, and hopeful diggers began to converge on Shortland, boosting its population to 5000 by the end of the year. From a ‘filthy old whare’ which served as Mackay’s headquarters, police station, courthouse and gaol, the policemen—soon joined by a third colleague—worked under the direction of the Commissioner and (from the end of August) his assistant, Warden Alan Baillie, who had been made redundant in his previous position in charge of the Coromandel goldfield. Constables John Wallace and George Bird, detective William Crick and the superior officials had, Mackay wrote, ‘the most wretched officed and lodging accommodation conceivable’ from which to conduct their difficult job of controlling an escalating, turbulent population. 186
Although diggers here too were generally reported to be ‘agreeable set of fellows; ready to do a good turn, ready to render a helping hand, ready to sympathise, to give good advice to all who are in need of it’, there were also said to be ‘many very indifferent characters among them, ready to take every mean advantage of ignorance, simplicity, or helplessness.’ In particular, claim jumping was rife, and race relations were threatened by continued efforts to invade lands which the Ngatimaru had not leased and by racist behaviour: ‘the men amused themselves by teazing and hustling a Maori’. The handful of policemen could barely cope with these two problems, let alone the usual booze-related problems of urban disorder in raw
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‘Collision between the Races
digging communities or the extra duties heaped upon constables in such circumstances —Wallace for example having as ‘tide waiter’ to board and surveil all vessels in the busy port. But although the rush had revitalised the economy of the province, the state had incurred considerable expenditure in establishing the goldfield, and could not rely on its continued success. Thus there could be no possibility of the creation of an Otago-style paramilitary police, ‘a force costing nearly as much as the whole present revenue of this province amounts to’. Mackay was aware of such constraints, and in lieu of gaining a specialist force made strong submissions for doubling the size of his existing force. He also took steps to have his urban area placed under municipal police legislation, liaised with Naughton—who visited the area from time to time, having overall supervisory control of non-military policing in the province and being mindful that his own force was in theory the mobile reserve for any trouble spots therein—and alleviated tension amongst the diggers by securing 24 delegates (including von Tempsky) ‘to confer with him on the subject of revising the rules and regulations, many of them being of a most unreasonable and arbitrary nature, and which give rise to much dissatisfaction and bad feeling.’ 187
Mackay, with previous experience of goldfields policing, was a skilled operator and able to make do with minimum resources. In a dispute between two young rangatira and a digger, the Commissioner and his two constables arrested all three and when the Maori prisoners could not pay the resulting fines he negotiated for their father a loan which the man could then pay to the state on their behalf, a stipulation being that it was an advance on miners’ rights to dig on the land. He secured the opening of the coveted Waiotahi Block in September by deft manoeuvring, but he was firm on prohibiting access to the sacrosanct Ohinemuri region to the south, managing to persuade diggers of the counter-productiveness of invading the area en bloc and provoking race war. Although Commissioner Mackay was to get an increased police force, the pakeha presence in the area remained a vulnerable one in the absence of a paramilitary police garrison and with individual diggers, in blissful Eurocentric disregard of the possible consequences, frequently trespassing on Maori land. Observers could dismiss any ‘necessity for maintaining a heavy police force’ on the grounds that offenders would eschew ‘taking to the bush’ to escape because it was a ‘dangerous locality—native land’; but the fact remained that the lore of fabulous wealth attracted offenders and non-offenders alike into hostile territory. A contingency plan was worked out by the Shortland Resident Magistrate in September; the enrolling of 300 special constables under von Tempsky, to be mobilised (and paid) only if
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race confrontation ensued. Any security vacuum could now therefore be filled with an immediacy not available from Naughton’s city-based resources, and this created new confidence. But in the event of serious emergency Commissioner Mackay was resting his hopes mainly upon the long-promised mobile constabulary force which the General Government had agreed to establish—the Armed Constabulary, which would be concentrated at various points in Auckland Province and made available for reactive police/military response to any significant disruption of the desired state of order in the colony. 188
The essential target of constabularised policing in the province remained, of course, the Maori. Towards the end of 1867 the Auckland Provincial Council, supported by Superintendent Williamson, unanimously requested of the General Government a ‘general amnesty for all political offences’ committed by Maoris who had in the past rebelled. In the Auckland politicians’ assessment, the defeated Maori in the areas on the pakeha side of the aukati realised by now that their future lay in peaceful coexistence with the pakeha; an amnesty would be both a practical and a symbolic signal for their fuller cooperation with the state, its modes of social and racial control, and its desire for land alienation. Any future resistance by pockets of Maoris, it was reasoned, could be crushed by the Armed Constabulary substitute for the ad hoc colonial troop levies, the wound-down Military Settler coercive machinery and the departing imperial regiments, the last of these (excepting a single regiment with strict instructions not to engage in active operations) having left in May 1867. That year Grey, the last Governor to hold substantial executive power in the colony, was replaced. From now on New Zealand was almost fully in the hands of those elite colonists who controlled the great majority of its organs of state. Amongst their agencies of control the Armed Constabulary was designed to be a crucial mechanism, a backup standing army as well as a police force.
The General Government’s projected Armed Constabulary, indeed, featured prominently in Auckland’s plans for the policing, as well as for the military control, of the races within its borders. Despite the welcome injection of capital from the Thames goldfield, at the end of 1867 the lumbering province, with as yet little farming production in relation to its size, was still in very serious financial trouble. Suggestions were being made from within and from without, especially from the South Island provinces, that its state affairs ‘be handed over to the General Government for administration’. Some Auckland opponents of this idea called instead for their
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‘Collision between the Races
departments of state, including the police, to further ‘feel the pruning knife of economy’, and amongst frantic searching for solutions the old arguments in favour of locally financed and controlled police were regurgitated. Crisis point was being reached: provincial police costs, although being reduced constantly throughout the year, now worked out at around £BOOO annually, yet some estimates for the entire provincial revenue over the ensuing year were as low as £20,000.
When the police devolutionists brought their ideas into the Provincial Council in December 1867, it was made public that Superintendent Williamson had told Naughton that there might be no funding available for provincial police purposes after the year’s end; soon it was revealed that the provincial deficit for the year had totalled a massive £18,165. With the Armed Constabulary being assembled in the Waikato, Bay of Plenty and East Coast regions (as well as south of the provincial borders), the provincial government, rejecting either its own absorption into a wider polity or the fragmenting of provincial policing, could count upon this close-to-hand mobile, militarised police reserve force in the event of any emergencies. The scene was set for one of the most drastic police force purges in the provincial period: in the new year almost half of the constables were discharged, leaving the remainder not merely suffering reductions in remuneration but also fully aware that their employment might well be terminated at any time. It was a knowledge shared by policemen in the other provincial forces: the police calling was by and large as insecure and ill-paid as it had been at the founding of the colony. 1 *
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Postscript
The Armed Constabulary, in conception a combined standing army and occupation/pacification police, was designed essentially for North Island use. Its brief as a mobile militarised constabulary however covered the entire colony, and indeed the force would twice be used to impress the might of the state upon pakeha South Islanders—on one of those occasions to replace the services of the Dunedin police, who had been dismissed for resorting to strike action. Taking over the tasks of several military and quasi-military bodies, the Armed Constabulary was nevertheless intended to be — in line with a state re-evaluation of the situation of socio-racial control—more a constabulary proper than a fighting corps per se. This projected state move at fairly rapid pace along the coercive continuum away from the repressive pole was to be retarded by renewed outbreaks of insurrection on both North Island coastlines, but from 1869 Government strategy could get back on track again. With the Armed Constabulary ‘demilitarised’ under former Otago Commissioner St John Branigan, its evolution from a constabularised military operation into a semi-military police force proceeded apace.
Concomitantly, the years of provincialised state governance were numbered, and a momentum towards centralised coercive social and racial control built up in step with centripetal economic and related trends. The General Government, encouraging this direction of affairs, sought to phase out regionalised pakeha policing in favour of the centrally controlled Armed Constabulary; in 1870 Auckland Province was to voluntarily surrender its police force to absorption by the Armed Constabulary. In 1877, after the abolition of the provincial governments, the police forces of the eight other provinces were likewise fully incorporated into the police/army Constabulary headquartered at Wellington. In 1881 the Maori King made his peace with the state and the Armed Constabulary invaded Parihaka, the last major bastion of resistance —albeit ‘passive resistance’—to land confiscation; and on 1 September 1886 the policing and military functions of state were finally organisationally separated by statute.
This would not signal the severing of all links between the newly created New Zealand Police Force and its militarised past—constables were recruited almost exclusively from the ranks of the
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Postscript
colonial military for some years, and were viewed by the government as a reserve military force. However it did reflect the increased ‘stabilisation’ of socio-economic activity in the colony and, relatedly, the increasing success of hegemonic social control. By the late nineteenth century the normal duties of New Zealand policemen were—as with those of their ‘new police’ counterparts in the ‘Mother Country’—fairly fixed in a general area on the coercive continuum which was closer to routine ‘order maintenance’ than to ‘order imposition’. By the twentieth century the legend of a model, conflict-free society, its policemen no more and no less than unarmed ‘civilians in uniform’, with Great Britain alone in the world supposedly sharing such desirable characteristics, was well under construction in New Zealand.
Yet by the outbreak of the First World War New Zealand policemen had suppressed confrontational manifestations of class struggle in mining and urban areas, and during the War the Commissioner of Police headed a mass armed police expedition into the Urewera to crush Maori refusal to adopt European ways — a journey which culminated in what has been seen as the last battle of the Anglo-Maori Wars. These and later reversions to the subjugator roots of colonial policemen serve to remind that the continuum of coercive methodology was very much that of a modal sliding scale which could be very quickly adjusted. The year 1867 had represented a pivotal point in the complex development of modes of approach along the New Zealand policing continuum. Organisationally, policing was still dominated by the devolved arrangements of the past. But the colony’s future now lay with a centralised politico-economic structure and an accompanying series of hierarchically organised, bureaucratic controls over facets of New Zealand life which had hitherto been unregulated or less regulated: compulsory education in the year of the unification of the colony’s police, for example, or the passing of the regulative Hospital and Charitable Aid Institutions Act in the year prior to the emergence of the New Zealand Police Force. The policing legislation of 1886 culminated an almost 20 year journey in pursuit of a complementarity centralised and homogeneously organised constabulary in the colony—a dramatic departure from prevalent coercive arrangements in Britain and her ‘white empire’.
The centrally controlled Irish Constabulary model, which had so proven its worth to the Crown in a territory presenting extreme problems of social control that the appellation Royal was prefixed to its title in 1867, had turned out to be more relevant to the organisation of the New Zealand police than had the bureaucrati-
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Policing the Colonial Frontier
cally fragmented norms of British policing. Although in Canada a similar constabularised police would soon be created which would coexist with devolved policing arrangements, it was within a mere decade of the founding of the antipodean Armed Constabulary that New Zealand’s regionalised police forces had been absorbed by that semi-militarised policing corps. By the time of the establishment of the Armed Constabulary in 1867, then, the heyday of the devolved armed police forces was over. Provincial state apparatuses, struggling to cope with ongoing economic depression, were unable to afford the size of force deemed appropriate to fully meet their requirements of ‘law and order’. The artificially-induced ‘boom’ of the 1870s proved to be unevenly spread and, even for those regions which gained most benefit, of temporary duration. The economic and settlement configuration of New Zealand, together with its special problems of race, demanded central state intervention into a greater number of aspects of life than in the ‘Mother Country’ and other British settler territories —including by means of the policing function.
New Zealand policing was continuously altering—usually in evolutionary fashion, sometimes radically—its methods of control in line with the socio-racial and economic development of the colony. But in the final analysis its function remained the same. The fragmented policing systems of 1840, 1846 and 1853, the impinging upon devolved policing arrangements by centralising tendencies from 1867, the moulding of a disciplined and effective modern Police Force at the beginning of the twentieth century and again after the ad hoc measures made necessary by the First World War—throughout all these developments a marked continuity of purpose, the imposition and safeguarding of state-depicted criteria of order and regularity, remained —as elsewhere —the overarching framework within which circumstance-impelled changes of methodology operated. Alterations were those of form rather than of substance, of mode rather than of purpose. Policemen, the frontline defenders of the state and the socio-economic order it served and preserved, constantly monitored the condition of society and acted proactively or reactively as required to deter potential and actual violators of the desired codes of behaviour. The state, and those who most benefited from the trinity of ‘order, regularity and profit’, owed the constables a debt that was (except on comparatively rare occasions) acknowledged only grudgingly, if at all. Wages and conditions of service were consistently poor for a body of men of crucial importance as the major and übiquitous state agents of coercive social and racial control. In consciously holding constables up as exemplars of the virtues desired of the lower
942
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Postscript
classes from which they were drawn, those who dominated the decision-making sectors of state unwittingly revealed the imperatives and attitudes underpinning their ruling definitions of order and regularity.
Maps
577
Maps
578
Maps
579
Maps
580
Maps
581
Maps
582
Maps
583
Maps
951
Maps
585
Maps
586
Maps
587
Maps
588
Maps
589
Maps
957
Maps
591
592
Maps
Maps
593
References
First Appearance of Later-abbreviated Sources
Andersen & Petersen Mair Family , I, 50
Adams Fatal Necessity, chap I, note 18
Alexander Bush Fighting, IX, 121
Allan Nelson, III, 14
Amos Criminal Justice , Intro, 5
Andersen South Canterbury, VI, 99
Archer Courts, Intro, 3
Armitage Runners , II, preamble
Ascoli Queen’s Peace , Intro, 3
Avery Force or Service?, Intro, 13
Babington Bow Street , II, preamble
Bagnall Wairarapa , IV, 100
Bailey Nelson Directory , VI, 139
.7 iicwuii VI, 109 Bailey (ed) Policing and Punishment, Intro, 24
Banton Policeman , Intro, 2
Banton ‘Police’, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Intro, 23
Barr Old Identities, IV, 169
Barton (ed) Earliest NZ, I, 31
Bathgate Colonial Experiences , VII, 125
Bayly ‘Busby’, I, 62
Beaglehole Hobson, II, 80
Beale Seventy Years , VI, 20
Beard Justice of the Peace, Intro, 6
Beattie Pioneers, VI, 112
Belich ‘The NZ Wars’, III, 49
Bidwill Rambles, I, 119
Binney Legacy, I, 27
Bittner Functions, Intro, 1
Brayshaw Canvas , IX, 58
Broad Nelson, III, 22
Brocker ‘Stories’, II, 91
Brodie Remarks, II, 103
Brown Aborigines, I, 6
Browne 'Otago Goldfields’, VI, 140
Buick Akaroa, II, 92
594
References
Buick Marlborough, I, 48
Buller Forty Years, VI, 59
Bunbury Reminiscences, II, 63
Bunyan Political Police, II, 42
Burgess ‘Autobiography’, VII, 65
Burnett Executive Discretion, II, 81
Burnett Transportation, II, 113
Burns Te Rauparaha, I, 48
Calder ‘Stick-Up’, VII, 17
Campbell Napier , VI, 42
Canterbury Govt 1872 Select Committee , VIII, 15
Canterbury Govt Police Regulations, VIII, 16
Carleton Henry Williams , I, 41
Carman Birth, II, 79
Carrington Godley, IV, 144
Cheyne ‘Search for a Constitution’, I, 63
Clark ‘ Hauhau X, 70
Clarke Notes, III, 65
Clarke & Hough Effectiveness of Policing , Intro, 13
Clendon ‘Journal’, III, 126
Clune Murders , VIII, 85
Clyne ‘96th Regiment’, IV, 2
Cohen ‘Working-class city’, Intro, 18
Colbert ‘Working Class’, III, 87
Colquhoun Treatise, Intro, 18
Cooper Digger’s Diary, X, 186
Cox Men of Mark, VI, 84
Critchley Conquest, I, 112
Critchley History of Police, II, 41
Crowley (ed) Australia, II, 56
Cull ‘Enigma’, Intro, 7
Curtis Irish Constabulary, II, 22
Cyclopedia Co Cyclopedia, Vol 1: VIII, 53; vol 5: VI, 138
Dalton War & Politics, VI, 40
Dalziel ‘Settlement’, II, 80
Dawson Judges, Intro, 3
DeLacy ‘Grinding Men Good?’, Intro, 24
962
References
Dilnot Scotland Yard, II, preamble
Domett (ed) Ordinances, IV, 35
Downes Whanganui , III, 1
Eccles Old Identities, I, 121
Ehrman Reluctant Transition, Intro, 9
Elder (ed) Lieutenants , I, 23
Eldred-Grigg Southern Gentry , I, 3
Fairburn ‘Local Community or Atomized Society?’, Intro, 12
Fairburn ‘Vagrants’, Intro, 12
Fargher ‘McLean’, IV, 100
Fans Charleston, IX, 40
Featon Waikato War, X, 136
Field ‘Police, Power & Community’, II, preamble
Foden Constitutional Development , I, 31
Foden Legal History, I, 88
Foucault Discipline & Punish, II, preamble
Galbraith Anatomy of Power, Intro, 1
Galliher ‘Police Behavior’, Intro, 19
Gardner Amuri, VI, 133
Gash Peel, II, 26
Gattrell & Hadden ‘Criminal Statistics’, Intro, 22
Gibbons Hamilton, X, 136
Gilkison Central Otago, VII, 14
Gilkison Dunedin, VII, 139
Gillespie South Canterbury , VI, 90
Glasson Golden Cobweb , VII, 19
Gledhill ‘Journal’, VI, 79
Glynn NZ Policeman, Intro, 21
Godley (ed) Letters, III, 47
Goldman Jews in NZ, I, 56
Goodway Chartism, II, preamble
Gorst Maori King, VI, 15
Gorton Home Truths, IX, 100
Grabosky ‘Politics of Crime & Conflict’, II, preamble
Grabosky Sydney in Ferment , II, preamble
Grace (ed) Maungatapu Murderers, IX, 29
Grainger Thames, X, 185
Greymouth Borough Council Greymouth, VIII, 84
596
References
Hight & Bamford Constitutional History , I, 38
Right & Straubel (eds) History of Canterbury , II, 91
Griffiths King Wakatip, VII, 88
Grover Cork of War, I, 108
Gurr ‘Comparative Analysis’, Intro, 9
Gurr ‘Police & Policing’, II, 6
Gurr ‘Preface’ in Gurr et al (eds), Intro, 21
Gurr et al (eds) Crime & Conflict, Intro, 9
Hall-Jones Bluff Harbour, VI, 119
Hall-Jones Goldfields , VIII, 120
Hall-Jones Pioneers , VI, 119
Hamilton ‘Organisation’, Intro, 21
Hanham ‘Auckland’, VI, 7
Harlow (ed) Scotland Yard, II, preamble
Harrop England & Maori Wars, VI, 19
Hay ‘Property, Authority and the Criminal Law’, Intro, 10
Hay Reminiscences, III, 73
Haydon Trooper Police , I, 112
Heaphy Narrative, II, 88
Heinz (ed) Gold, VII, 17
Henderson Grey , IV, 59
Hetherington Political Connection, I, 8
Hill Land League, VI, 53
Hill ‘Maori Policing’, I, 20
Hill ‘Unquiet Land’, III, 26
Hocken Library NZ in the 1830s, I, 49
Hoffe ‘Bushranging’, VII, 50
Holcroft Invercargill, VIII, 110
Holdaway Inside the British Police, Intro, 21
Holford ‘Evolution NZ Police’, IV, 92
Holt Strangest War, VI, 160
Horsman Coming of the Pakeha, I, 40
Hoskins Thatcher, VII, 92
Howard Rakiura, VIII, 154
Howe Scotland Yard, V, 83
Hursthouse Zealandia, IV, 110
597
References
MacDonald Pages, III, 17
McIntyre (ed) Sewell, III, 67
Ignatieff Pain, Intro, 23
Isdale (ed) Hauraki Chronicle, X, 131
Isdale ‘Court House’, X, 187
Johnson ‘Journal’, IV, 24
Johnson Lyttelton, IV, 145
Johnston Justice of the Peace, I, 124
Jones Crime, Protest, Community, Intro, 23
Kelly ‘Law Enforcement’, Intro, 3
Kelly Thames, IV, 105
Kettle ‘Keepers’, II, 6
King ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, II, 32
King ‘Problems of Police Administration’, II, 4'
Lambert Taranaki, IX, 123
Lee Bay of Islands, I, 13
Lee History, I, 113
Leonard Motuarohia, III, 98
Locke Gaoler, IV, 14
Lyons Ireland, II, 23
McCarthy First Fleet , II, 76
McCaskill ‘Goldrush Population’, VIII, 42
McCaskill ‘Miner, Merchant & Mountain’, VIII, 42
McConville Prison Administration, II, 24
MacDonald ‘Notes’, IV, 114
McIntosh (ed) Marlborough, III, 93
McKillop Reminiscences , IV, 17
McLean ‘Diary’, I, 77
McLintock Otago , IV, 113
McNab Tasman to Marsden , I, 9
McNab Whaling Days, I, 6
McNeish Mackenzie, VI, 90
Maitland Justice. Intro, 8
Manning Police Work, II, 26
Manson ‘Wellington’s First Police’, V, 19
o X Hob X U1U-C , V , 117 Marais Colonization , II, 68
Man ‘Mackenzie’, VI, 90
Marriott ‘Stewart Island’, VIII, 155
Marsh Black Beech, VI, 82
Marshall Personal Narrative, I, 63
965
References
Newman & Thomson Mackenzie, VI, 90
Marshall Police & Government, Intro, 17
Martin Letters, I, 116
Martin & Wilson Police , II, 41
Mathew ‘Views’, IV, 27
May Gold Rushes, VI, 142
Mayhew Tuapeka, VII, 6
Meurant ‘Diary’, III, 17
Miller Cops & Bobbies, V, 31
Miller Death, VI, 131
Miller Early Victorian NZ, II, 80
Miller Lake County, VII, 91
Miller ‘London’s Police Tradition’, II, 31
Miller ‘Police Authority’, Intro, 14
Milte Police in Australia, Intro, 1
Milton Magistracy, II, 2
Monkonnen Urban America, Intro, 3
Mooney Hawke’s Bay, VI, 42
Monson ‘Journal’, IV, 170
Morrell Gold Rushes, VII, 29
Morrell Provincial System, III, 131
Morris & Heal Crime Control , Intro, 1
Morton Whale’s Wake, I, 6
NZ Govt LC Journals, 1861, IX, 86
NZ Govt LC Journals, 1862, IX,
NZ Govt Minutes & Proceedings of LC, V, 17 & 4
NZ Govt Officers, VI, 102
NZ Govt Rules & Regulations, 1852 , V, 102
NZ Govt Statistics. 1920, VII, 1
NZ Police College ‘Rowan & Mayne’, II, 30
Niederhoffer Shield, Intro, 19
Nimon ‘Autobiography’, VII, 51
Nolan Trails of the Coromandel, IV, 105
Nolan Trails of Nelson & Marlborough, VI, 139
Norris Armed Settlers, X, 141
O’Brien Australian Police, II, 47
O’Callaghan ‘Police Establishment’, II, 49
966
References
Ogilvie Purau, III, 116
Oliver (ed) Oxford History, I, 1
Oliver & Thomson Challenge & Response, VI, 17
O’Sullivan Mounted Police , II, 55
Otago Govt Police Regulations, VII, 30
Owens ‘NZ before Annexation’, I, 1
Parekh Bentham, II, 15
Parham Von Tempsky, X, 132
Parsonson ‘Hongi Hika’, I, 4
Patterson ‘Land, Men & Sheep’, VI, 26
Patterson ‘Land Politics’, VI, 26
Patterson ‘Settler Feeling’, III, 62
Peirce et al ‘London’, Intro, 8
Perkin Origins, Intro, 9
Petre Settlements, II, 80
Phillips ‘Social History’, II, 100
Pike Paradise of Dissent, IV, 2
Platts Lively Capital , III, 2
Poff ‘Fox’, III, 20
Polack Narrative, I, 73
Preshaw Banking , VII, 20
Prickett ‘Military Frontier’, VI, 63
Pyke Gold Discoveries , VII, 15
Quinney Class State & Crime , Intro, 13
Radzinowicz Criminal Law, I, 112
Radzinowicz & King ‘Concepts of Crime’, Intro, 22
Ramsay Peel, I, 113
Ramsden Busby, I, 63
Reed (ed) Gabriel’s Gully, VII, 14
Richardson Urban Police , II, preamble
Richter Victorians, Intro, 5
Ritchie (ed) Bigge Reports , I, 36
Roberts ‘Bentham’, II, 15
Holleston Ormond, VI, 42
Roshier & Teff Law & Society, Intro, 13
oss ‘Busby’, I, 85
oss First Capital , II, 76
09s ‘McDonnell’, I, 80
967
References
Rutherford (ed) Founding, II, 58
Scholefield (ed) DNZB, II, 76
Sherrin & Wallace Early History , I, 9
Smart & Bates Wanganui, III, 1
Rutherford Grey, III, 94
Rutherford & Skinner New Plymouth Settlement , III, 25
Ryan ‘Diary’, VII, 45
Sadleir Recollections, VII, 25
Sanderson ‘Maori Christianity’, X, 6
Saunders History, I, 66
Scholefield Hobson , I, 100
Scholefield (ed) Richmond-Atkinson Papers, VI, 79
Scholefield Statesmen, IV, 151
Scotter Port Lyttelton , IV, 56
Seager ‘Escapades of Mackenzie’, VI, 82
Seager ‘Reminiscences’, IV, 154
Seager ‘Edward William Seager’, IV, 175
Serle Golden Age , VII, 16
Seth Specials, II, 6
Shane Police & People, Intro, 3
Shaw Convicts , II, 46
Shaw Tramp to the Diggings, IV, 70
Shawcross ‘Bay of Islands’, I, 4
Sheehan Lora Gorge, IX, 31
Shortland Southern Districts , III, 28
Shubert ‘Private Initiative’, I, 112
Silver ‘Demand for Order’, Intro, 15
Sinclair History , I, 106
Sinclair Origins, I, 5
Sinclair & Mandle Open Account, VII, 20
Sinclair & Scully Arresting Memories, II, 22
Smith ‘Otago Police’, VII, 65
Sopenoff ‘Policeman’s Lot’, II, 38
Sorrenson ‘Maori & Pakeha’, X, 14
968
References
Thompson ‘Diary’, III, 14
Unstead & Henderson Police in Australia, I, 112
Spencer Sociology, Intro, 2
Stafford Te Arawa, X, 33
Standish ‘Government Administration’, III, 63
Standish Waimate, III, 41
Stephen Criminal Law , VI, 78
Stewart Rolleston, VIII, 55
Stokes Tauranga County, III, 28
Stone Makers of Fortune, VI, 20
Storch ‘Crime & Justice’, II, preamble
Storch ‘Locusts’, Intro, 14
Storch ‘Policeman as Domestic Missionary’, Intro, 14
Straubel ‘Maori & European’, II, 91
Stronge ‘Harriet’, I, 76
Swanton ‘Police of Sydney’, II, preamble
Tapp Early NZ, I, 2
Taylor Banks Peninsula, II, 91
Taylor (ed) Ensign Best , II, 81
Taylor Past & Present, III, 3
Taylor ‘Police’, VI, 92
Thatcher Canterbury Songster, VIII, 9
Thomas ‘Journals’, IV, 76
Thompson Whigs & Hunters , Intro, 10
1— ”'“8° O, XU HU, XU Thompson Working Class, II, 21
Thomson Story of NZ, II, 112
Tilly et al ‘Visibility of Crime’, Intro, 20
Tobias Crime & Industrial Society, Intro, 22
Tobias Nineteenth Century Crime, II, preamble
Treadwell NZ Trials, III, 101
Trendle ‘Constable’, IV, 35
Trickett ‘Lost City’, II, 99
Tullett Industrious Heart, III, 25
Turner Victoria. VII, 25
Van der Voom ‘Dunstan’, VII, 14
Vance High Endeavour, VI, 89
Vennell Brown Frontier , I, 10
Victoria Govt Victoria Police Regulations, VII, 30
602
References
Victoria Police Police in Victoria, IP, 58
Wakefield Adventure , II, 65
Ward Australian Legend, VII, 25
Ward British Policy, I, 7
Ward Early Wellington, II, 104
Ward ‘Law-enforcement’, III, 98
Ward Show , I, 6
Wards ‘Army’, I, 40
Wards ‘Fencibles’, IV, 70
Wards ‘Militia’, III, 23
Wards Shadow, I, 33
Warre ‘Diary’, X, 82
Watson ‘Impact’, X, 127
Webb ‘Canterbury Association’, IV, 141
Webber ‘Revolt and Repression’, Intro, 6
Weisser Crime & Punishment, II, 29
Wells Taranaki, III, 25
White ‘Reminiscences’, III, 66
Williams East Coast Records, I, 10
Wilson ‘Papahurihia’, I, 74
Wilson et al Hawke’s Bay, IV, 178
Wily South Auckland, VI, 16
Woodhouse Rhodes , I, 121
Wright Western Contact, I, 10
Wrigley (ed) Nineteenth-Century Society, Intro, 22
Yarwood Marsden, I, 11
Yeo ‘Ways of Seeing’, Intro, 19
Other Abbreviations
ADB Australian Dictionary of Biography , Melbourne University Press, 1966f
AJHR Appendices to the Journals of the House of Representatives, New Zealand
AONSW Archives Office of New South Wales
AP Auckland Province
APC Auckland Provincial Council
APL Auckland Public Library
ATL The Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington
BR British Resident
CM Canterbury Museum, Christchurch
970
References
CO Colonial Office, London, archives on microfilm
CP Canterbury Province
CS Civil Secretary series, NA
EC Executive Council series, NA
G Governor series, NA
GBPP Great Britain Parliamentary Papers
HB Hawke’s Bay Province
HBM Hawke’s Bay Museum, Napier
HL The Hocken Library, Dunedin
HRA Historical Records of Australia, 1914f
HRNZ Historical Records of New Zealand, 2 vol, ed Robert McNab, Wellington 1908, 1914
HSANZ Historical Studies of Australia and New Zealand
IA Internal Affairs series (includes Colonial Secretary archives), NA
J Justice Dept series, NA
JC Justice Dept (courts) series, NA
JPS Journal of the Polynesian Society
LC Legislative Council
Le Legislative series, NA
MA Maori Affairs series, (includes Native Department archives), NA
NA National Archives, Wellington
NM New Munster series, NA
NP Nelson Province
NZC New Zealand Company series, NA
NZJH New Zealand Journal of History
NZPD New Zealand Parliamentary Debates
OLC Old Land Claims series, NA
OP Otago Province
P Police series, NA
PRO Public Record Office, UK
RAHS Royal Australian Historical Society Journals and Proceedings
SSD Superintendent of the Southern Division
T Treasury series, NA
TP Taranaki Province
WP Wellington Province
971
References to Introductory Interpretation
Introductory Interpretation
1. Egon Bittner, The Functions of the Police in Modern Society, Rockville 1970, pp 42, 46, 108, 114, 119; John Kenneth Galbraith, The Anatomy of Power, Boston 1983; Kerry L Milte, Police in Australia: Development, Functions and Procedures, Sydney 1977, p 33; Pauline Morris and Kevin Heal, Crime Control and the Police: A Review of Research, London 1981, p 5
2. Bittner, Functions, p 46; Richard D Schwartz and James C Miller, ‘Legal Evolution and Societal Complexity’, American Journal of Sociology, Sept 1964, p 161; Maureen E Cain, Society and the Policeman’s Role, London 1973, chap I; Herbert Spencer, Principles of Sociology (ed Stanislav Andreski), London 1969, pp 424-5, 441; Michael Banton, The Policeman in the Community, London 1964, pp 1-5; Eugene P Wenniger and John P Clark, ‘A Theoretical Orientation for Police Studies’, in Malcolm W Klein (ed), Juvenile Gangs in Context, Englewood Cliffs (NJ) 1967, p 162
3. William and Nora Kelly, ‘The Development of Law Enforcement’, Royal Canadian Mounted Police Quarterly, Winter 1977, pp 35-6; James Fitzjames Stephen, A History of the Criminal Law of England, I, London 1883, p 185; Milte, Police in Australia, pp 12-13; John P Dawson, A History of Lay Judges, Cambridge (Mass) 1960, pp 116-18; Peter Archer, The Queen’s Courts, London 1956, pp 100-5, 128; Paul G Shane, Police and People, St Louis 1980, pp 10-11; Tony Paterson, ‘Delving Down to Our Roots’, Police Review, 17 Sep 1982, pp 1810-11; David Ascoli, The Queen’s Peace, London 1979, p 14; Erik H Monkkonen, Police in Urban America 1860-1920, Cambridge 1981, pp 32-3
4. Archer, Courts, pp 102-6; Ascoli, Queen’s Peace, pp 15-16; Kelly, ‘Law Enforcement’, p 36; Milte, Police in Australia, p 15; Dawson, Judges, pp 294-5
5. Ascoli, Queen’s Peace , pp 16-18; Kelly, ‘Law Enforcement’, pp 37-8; Milte, Police in Australia, pp 13-14; Monkkonen, Urban America, pp 32-3; Donald C Richter, Riotous Victorians, Athens (Ohio) 1981, p 3; Maurice Amos, British Criminal Justice, London 1940, 1957 ed, p 20
6. Stephen, Criminal Law , I, p 185; Richter, Victorians , p3; Charles Austin Beard, The Office of the Justice of the Peace in England , New York 1904, p 11; Frances Webber, ‘Six centuries of revolt and repression’, Race and Class 23, 1981/2, p 245; Dawson, Judges , pp 136-9; Kelly, ‘Law Enforcement’, p 38
7. Ascoli, Queen’s Peace, pp 18-21; Dawson, Judges, pp 136-7, 296; Helen Ann Cull, ‘The Enigma of a Police Constable’s Status’, Victoria University of Wellington Law Review 8, 1975,
972
References to Introductory Interpretation
pp 149-51; F W Maitland, Justice and Police, London 1885, pp 106-7; Amos, Criminal Justice , p 11
8. Maitland, Justice, pp 80-2; Beard, Justice of the Peace, p 165; David Peirce, Peter N Grabosky and Ted Robert Gurr, ‘London: The Politics of Crime and Conflict, 1800 to the 19705’, in Gurr, Grabosky and Richard C Hula (eds) The Politics of Crime and Conflict, Beverley Hills 1977, p 97; Milte, Police in Australia, p 11; Ascoli, Queen’s Peace, pp 23-4
9. Dawson, Judges, p 297; Ascoli, Queen’s Peace, pp 23-4; Ted Robert Gurr, ‘The Comparative Analysis of Public Order’, in Gurr et al (eds), Crime & Conflict, p 297; Harold Perkin, The Origins of Modern English Society 1780-1880, London 1969, pp 66-7; John Ehrman, The Younger Pitt: The Reluctant Transition, London 1983, pp 121f; Clive Emsley, Policing and its Context 1750-1870, London 1983, p 10
10. Douglas Hay, ‘Property, Authority and the Criminal Law’, in Douglas Hay, Peter Linebaugh, John G Rule, E P Thompson and Cal Winslow (eds), Albion’s Fatal Tree: Crime and Society in Eighteenth-Century England, Harmondsworth 1975; Perkin, Origins, pp 1-2; E P Thompson, Whigs and Hunters: The Origin of the Black Act, London 1975; John Locke, Two Treatises of Government (ed Peter Laslett), Cambridge 1960, 1970 ed, p 101
11. Ralph Miliband, Capitalist Democracy in Britain, Oxford 1982, p 110; Milte, Police in Australia, p 7; Ehrman, Reluctant Transition, p 130
12. Ralph Miliband, ‘The State and the Ruling Class’, in Tom Bottomore and Patrick Goode (eds), Readings in Marxist Sociology, Oxford 1983; Bob Jessop, ‘On Recent Marxist Theories of Law, the State, and Juridico-Political Ideology’, International Journal of the Sociology of Law, Nov 1980, pp 342-3; Miles Fairburn, ‘Local Community or Atomized Society? The Social Structure of Nineteenth-Century New Zealand’, NZJH, October 1982; Miles Fairburn, ‘Vagrants, “Folk Devils” and 19th Century New Zealand as an Atomised Society’, typescript of forthcoming article in Historical Studies, provided by author
13. Richmond in NZPD, 10.7.1868, p 14; Steve Chibnall, Law-and-Order News, London 1977, pp 207-224; Bob Roshier and Harvey Teff, Law and Society in England, London 1980, pp 21-2; John Avery, Police —Force or Service?, Sydney 1981, p 20; James S Campbell, Joseph R Sahid and David P Stang, Law and Order Reconsidered, Washington nd, pp xix, 7-8; R V G Clarke and J M Hough (eds), The Effectiveness of Policing, Farnborough 1980, pp ix, 9; Richard Quinney, Class State and Crime: On the Theory and Practice of Criminal Justice, New York 1977, pp 46-7; Bittner, Functions, p 119
606
s *g 22
References to Introductory Interpretation
14. Robert D Storch, ‘The Plague of the Blue Locusts: Police Reform and Popular Resistance in Northern England, 1840-1857’, International Review of Social History, 20, 1975; Robert D Storch, ‘The Policeman as Domestic Missionary: Urban Discipline and Popular Culture in Northern England, 1850-1880’, Journal of Social History, Summer 1976; Ann Congleton, ‘Two Kinds of Lawlessness’, Political Theory, Nov 1974; G V Butterworth, ‘Policing an increasingly troubled, divided democracy’, National Business Review Outlook, Mar 1982; D B Kerr, ‘Philosophy of Police Discretion’, typescript provided by NZ Police; R Mark, ‘ln comparison with Canada’, The Times Literary Supplement, 26.9.1975; Wilbur R Miller, ‘Police Authority in London and New York City 1830-1870’, Journal of Social History, Winter 1975; Isaac D Balbus, The Dialectics of Legal Repression, New York 1973, p 5; William C Hodge, Criminal Procedure in New Zealand, Sydney 1984, chap 12
15. Hay, ‘Property, Authority and the Criminal Law’; Balbus, Dialectics, p 5; Doreen J Mcßarnet, Conviction: Law, the State and the Construction of Justice, London 1981, p 167 et passim; Roshier & Teff, Law & Society, pp 21-2; Quinney, Class State and Crime, pp 45-7; Thompson, Whigs and Hunters, pp 250, 262 et passim; Allan Silver, ‘The Demand for Order in Civil Society’, in David J Bordua (ed), The Police: Six Sociological Essays, New York 1967; Storch, ‘Blue Locusts’ and ‘Policeman as Domestic Missionary’; Miller, ‘Police Authority’; Robert Reiner in International Journal of the Sociology of Law, Nov 1980
16. Thompson, Whigs & Hunters, p 262; Hay, ‘Property, Authority and the Criminal Law’, p 51 et passim
17. Cull, ‘Enigma’, pp 148-9 et passim; B J Barton, ‘Control of the New Zealand Police’, LIB Hons thesis, Auckland University, 1978, pp 40-68; Geoffrey Marshall, Police and Government: The Status and Accountability of the English Constable, London 1965; J Morgan, ‘The Constitutional Development of the NZ Police: Soldier or Civic Guard?’, typescript, pp 3-5, NZ Police; Michael Brogden, ‘The myth of policing by consent’. Police Review , 22.4.1983; Michael Brogden, The Police: Autonomy and Consent, London 1982, p 172; Bittner, Functions; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 13.5.1862
18. P Colquhoun, A Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis, London 1795, 1806 ed, Preface and pp 311-12, 347-8, 385-6; Perkin, Origins, pp 271-3, 286-8; Cyril Philips, ‘Police and public: balancing the scales’, Police Review, 29.4.1983; Phil Cohen, ‘Policing the working-class city’ in Bob Fine, Richard
974
References to Introductory Interpretation
Kinsey, John Lea, Sol Picciotto and Jock Young (eds), Capitalism and the Rule of Law, London 1979; J S and R W Murray, Costly Gold, Wellington nd, p 63; Bittner, Functions, p 6; Anthony Trollope, Australia and New Zealand, Melbourne 1873, p 632; Galbraith, Anatomy of Power, p 27 19. Cohen, ‘Working-class city’; Silver, ‘Demand for Order’; Storch, ‘Blue Locusts’ and ‘Policeman as Domestic Missionary’; Miller, ‘Police Authority’; Clarke & Hough, Effectiveness of Policing, Introduction; John F Galliher, ‘Explanations of Police Behavior: A Critical Review and Analysis’, Sociological Quarterly, Summer 1971; Arthur Niederhoffer, Behind the Shield: The Police in Urban Society, Garden City 1967; Eileen and Stephen Yeo, ‘Ways of Seeing; Control and Leisure versus Class and Struggle’, in Yeo & Yeo (eds), Popular Culture and Class Conflict 1590-1914, Brighton 1981
20. Monkkonen, Urban America, pp 16-18; Charles Tilly, Allan Levett, A Q Lodhi and Frank Munger, ‘How Policing Affected the Visibility of Crime in Nineteenth Century Europe and America’, typescript provided by Allan Levett; Mary Mclntosh, The Organisation of Crime, London 1975, p 19; David Philips, Crime and Authority in Victorian England: The Black Country 1835-1860, London 1977, p 283; Hay, ‘Property, Authority and the Criminal Law’, p 25
21. Gurr, ‘Preface’, in Gurr et al (eds), Crime & Conflict, p ix; John Baldwin and A E Bottoms, The Urban Criminal, London 1976, pp 1, 4; Morris & Heal, Crime Control, p 6; Simon Holdaway, Inside the British Police: A Force at Work, Oxford 1983, pp 19f; A K Bottomley and C A Coleman, ‘Police effectiveness and the public; the limitations of official crime rates’, in Clarke & Hough (eds), Effectiveness of Policing] D J Hamilton, ‘Organisation and Environment’, typescript, p3, NZ Police; J F Glynn, The New Zealand Policeman: The Developing Role of the New Zealand Police, Wellington 1975, pp 27f; Stephen, Criminal Law, 11, p 241; Avery, Force or Service?, pp 2-3, 20; Banton, Policeman, pp 1-7; B Gibson, ‘Address to the 91st Recruit Wing’, typescript 1984, NZ Police; Christchurch Press, 5.10.1875
22. J J Tobias, Crime and Industrial Society in the 19th century, London 1967, p 10, chap 2 and pp 150-1, 256-67; VAC Gatrell and T B Hadden, ‘Criminal Statistics and their Interpretation’, in E A Wrigley (ed), Nineteenth-Century Society , Cambridge 1972; Tilly et al, ‘Visibility of Crime’, pp 65, 79-81; Monkkonen, Urban America, pp 18-23; Ted Robert Gurr, ‘Problems and Policies of Urban Public Order’ in Gurr et al (eds), Crime and Conflict, pps-14, 20; Gurr, ‘Comparative Analysis’, pp 697, 761; Leon Radzinowicz and J F S King, ‘Concepts of Crime’, The Times Literary Supplement,
975
Sig. 22*
References to Introductory Interpretation
26.9.1975; Quinney, Class State and Crime-, Thompson, Whigs and Hunters
23. Michael Ignatieff, A Just Measure of Pain, New York 1978, pp 159, 162-3; Colquhoun, Treatise, Preface; Georg Rusche and Otto Kirchheimer, Punishment and Social Structure, New York 1939, pp 95-6; Gatrell & Hadden, ‘Criminal Statistics’, pp 377-8; Michael Banton, ‘Police’, in The New Encyclopaedia Britannica, XIV, Chicago 1977, pp 662-3; Avery, Force or Service?, p 19; David Jones, Crime, Protest, Community and Police in Nineteenth-Century Britain, London 1982, p 31; Gurr, ‘Comparative Analysis’, p 697
24. Tilly et al, ‘Visibility of Crime’, pp 65, 79-81, 99; Monkkonen, Urban America, pp 85, 133-4; Gurr, ‘Comparative Analysis’, pp 666, 674; Gurr, Preface, in Gurr et al (eds ),Crime & Conflict, pp ix, x; Tobias, Crime and Industrial Society, pp 150-1; Margaret E DeLacy, ‘Grinding Men Good? Lancashire’s Prisons at Mid-Century’ in Victor Bailey (ed), Policing and Punishment in Nineteenth Century Britain, London 1981, pp 205f; Jones, Crime, Protest, Community, p 31; Peirce et al, ‘London’, pp 209-12; for weak pakeha social organisation in early colonial New Zealand, see Fairbum, ‘Vagrants’, ‘Local Community or Atomized Society?’ and forthcoming material
25. Gatrell & Hadden, ‘Criminal Statistics’, pp 377-8
26. Tilly et al, ‘Visibility of Crime’ p3; Clarke & Hough, Effectiveness of Policing, p 8; Bittner, Functions, pp 3, 30, 60f, 108; Tony Jefferson in The International Journal of the Sociology of Law, Nov 1980, pp 457-9; Holdaway, Inside the British Police, pp 16f
27. Bittner, Functions, p 30; Glynn, NZ Policeman, p 61; Monkkonen, Urban America-, Victorian Police Journal, June 1938, p 89
28. Elaine Gumming, lan Gumming and Laura Edell, ‘Policeman as Philosopher, Guide and Friend’, in Richard Quinney (ed), Crime and Justice in Society, Boston 1969; Glynn, NZ Policeman-, Hamilton, ‘Organisation’, p 8; Marti Grdnfors, ‘Police Function and Role in Western Capitalist Societies’, typescript provided by NZ Police, pp 6f; Niederhoffer, Shield, pp 130f; Tom Bowden, Beyond the Limits of the Law, Harmondsworth, 1978, p 30 et passim
29. Arthur L Waskow, ‘Community Control of the Police’, TransAction, Dec 1969; William A Gamson and James McEvoy, ‘Police Violence and its Public Support’, Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 391, Sep 1970; Galliher, ‘Police Behavior’; Bittner, Functions ; Otago Colonist, 22.9.1874
609
References to Chapter I
Chapter I
1. J C Beaglehole, The Life of Captain James Cook, London 1974, pp 198, 205, 226; J C Beaglehole (ed), The Voyage of the Endeavour 1768-1771, Cambridge 1968, Introduction; J M R Owens, ‘New Zealand before Annexation’ in W H Oliver (ed), The Oxford History of New Zealand, Wellington 1981, pp 29-30; Isabel Ollivier and Cheryl Hingley, Extracts from Journals Relating to the Visit to New Zealand of the French Ship St Jean Baptiste in December 1769 Under the Command of J.F.M. de Surville, Wellington 1982; Allan Frost, ‘New South Wales as terra nullius : the British denial of Aboriginal land rights’, HSANZ, Oct 1981, pp 521-3; John Ehrman, The Younger Pitt: The Years of Acclaim, London 1969, pp 409-10
2. HRNZ I, pp 36-63; E J Tapp, Early New Zealand: A Dependency of New South Wales 1788-1841, Melbourne 1958, pp 3, 66; Bill Gammage, ‘Early Boundaries of New South Wales’, HSANZ, Oct 1981, pp 525-8
3. HRNZ I, pp 67-71, 179-81; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 8-9; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 31; Stevan Eldred-Grigg, A Southern Gentry: New Zealanders who Inherited the Earth, Wellington 1980, p 6
4. HRNZ 11, pp 386, 393, 417; Kathleen Shawcross, ‘Maoris of the Bay of Islands, 1769-1840: A Study of Changing Maori Responses to European Contact’, MA thesis, Auckland University, 1967; G S Parsonson, ‘The Life and Times of Hongi Hika’, Historical News, May 1982
5. eg, Keith Sinclair, The Origins of the Maori Wars, Wellington 1957, p 13, for decline of utu and tapu
6. HRNZ I, p 197; Harry Morton, The Whale’s Wake , Dunedin 1982, p 270; HRNZ I, pp 262-3; Robert McNab, The Old Whaling Days: A History of Southern New Zealand from 1830 to 1840, Dunedin 1913, 1975 ed, Auckland, pp 100-1. Chiefly authority structures and their reliance on tapu, as well as the breakdown of tribal bonds as a result of European contact, is well documented; for contemporary accounts see eg, BR 1/2, p 50, and William A Brown, New Zealand and its Aborigines, London 1845, p 12; also Allan S Arlidge, ‘Some Thoughts on the History of the Local Government of the Maori People’, JPS, Sep 1980, pp 329-31; Sinclair, Origins, pp 13-14; Alan Ward, A Show of Justice: Racial ‘Amalgamation’ in Nineteenth Century New Zealand, Auckland 1973, chap 1
7. HRNZ I, pp 179-81, 239; John M Ward, British Policy in the South Pacific, 1786-1893 , Sydney 1948, p 35; ADB 11, 1967, pp 57-9
8. HRNZ I, pp 253-5, 257-8; J I Hetherington, New Zealand: Its
610
References to Chapter I
Political Connection with Great Britain, vol I, Dunedin 1926, p 60
9. HRNZ I, pp 258-68; Robert McNab, From Tasman to Marsden, Dunedin 1914, pp 109-12, 115; Tapp, Early NZ, p 67; ADB 11, pp6o-l; R A A Sherrin and J H Wallace, Early History of New Zealand, Auckland 1890, p 127
10. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 160-1; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 109-12, 115; Harrison M Wright, New Zealand, 1769-1848: Early Years of Western Contact, Cambridge (Mass) 1959, pp 83-4; W L Williams, East Coast (N.Z.) Historical Records, Gisborne nd, p 4; C W Vennell, The Brown Frontier, Wellington 1967, chap 1; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, chap XV, & pp 180, 188
11. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 163-5; HRNZ I, pp 293-6, 299-300, 308, 336; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 139-43, 147, 173; A T Yarwood, Samuel Marsden, Melbourne 1977, p 128; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, chap XVIII, & pp 130-1; Robert McNab, Murihiku and the Southern Islands, Invercargill 1909, pp 225-30
12. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 166-8; Tapp, Early NZ, p 68; Yarwood, Marsden, p 128; HRNZ I, pp 313-14, 337, 354-5; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 100-1; Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 137; Alfred Eccles, Records of Early Days, Dunedin 1929, p 1
13. Milte, Police in Australia, pp 22, 25; HRNZ I, pp 296-7, 323-7; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 64, 109; Tapp, Early NZ, p 68; HRA I, vol VII, pp 296-7, vol XVI, p 299; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 138-43, 158; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 210; Jack Lee, 7 have named it the Bay of Islands .. Auckland 1983, pp 56-7; Yarwood, Marsden, p 182
14. Hetherington, Political Connection, I, pp 53, 55
15. HRNZ I, pp 316-8, 321; Tapp, Early NZ, p 69; Ward, British Policy, pp 36-7; Hetherington, Political Connection, I, pp 61-2; Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 197; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 161-2
16. Ward, British Policy, p 35; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 62-4; HRNZ I, pp 338-343; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 163-6; Yarwood, Marsden, p 166; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 141, 222-3
17. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, p 156; HRNZ I, pp 323-7, 344-5 Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 223; Hetherington, Politi cal Connection I, p 62; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, p 168-9
18. Yarwood, Marsden, p 167; Peter Adams, Fatal Necessity: British Intervention in New Zealand 1830-1847, Auckland 1977, p 52; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 223; HRNZ I, pp 328, 330; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, p 170
19. HRNZ I, pp 328-9, 407; Tapp, Early NZ , pp 23-4; McNab,
978
References to Chapter I
Tasman to Marsden, p 170; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History , p 225
20. HRNZ I, pp 329-30; Tapp, Early NZ, p 69; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, p 170; Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 137; Yarwood, Marsden, pp 169-72; for discussion of state use of Maoris for policing purposes, see Richard Hill, ‘Maori Policing in Nineteenth Century New Zealand’, Archifacts, 1985/2
21. HRNZ I, pp 387-8; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 172-5, 183-4; Yarwood, Marsden, p 178; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 226-234
22. HRNZ I, pp 405, 408-9; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 65; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 195, 202, 206; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 212-13; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 75
23. HRNZ I, pp337, 502; John Rawson Elder (ed), Marsden’s Lieutenants, Dunedin 1934, pp 91-2; HRNZ I, p 502; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 187, 196; E V Sale, Historic Trails of the Far North, Wellington 1981, p 5; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 76
24. Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 55-7; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, p 161; Ward, British Policy, p 38
25. Ward, British Policy, pp 74-5; HRNZ I, pp 419-20; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 57; Tapp, Early NZ, p 66
26. HRNZ I, pp 407, 409-10, 419, 424-5; HRA I, vol IX, p 264;
Vennell, Brown Frontier, chap 2; Elder (ed), Lieutenants, p 121 27. Judith Binney, The Legacy of Guilt: A Life of Thomas Kendall, Auckland 1968, pp 38-9, 44; Elder (ed), Lieutenants, pp 121, 131; HRNZ I, pp 442, 501-2; Parsonson, ‘Hongi Hika’, pp 4-8; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 79, 81-3
28. Binney, Legacy, pp 45-7; HRNZ I, pp 455-6; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 39-40; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 87, 91, 104, 109; ADB 11, p 42; Yarwood, Marsden, p 194
29. HRNZ I, p 420; Ward, British Policy, p 39; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 44, 70; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 253; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 52-3; McNab, Tasman to Marsden, pp 206-7
30. Ward, British Policy, pp 50-3; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 110-11; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 52-3
31. N A Foden, The Constitutional Development of New Zealand in the First Decade (1839-1849), Wellington 1938, p 26 et passim; J R Barton (ed), Earliest New Zealand: the Journals and Correspondence of the Rev. John Butler, Masterton 1927, pp 28, 197
32. HRNZ I, p 488; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 66-7; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 255; Lee, Bay of Islands p 88
33. Lan Wards, The Shadow of the Land: A Study of British Policy
979
References to Chapter I
and Racial Conflict in New Zealand 1832-1852, Wellington 1968, p 3; HRNZ I, pp 484-5, 497, 521-30; Richard A Cruise, Journal of a Ten Months' Residence in New Zealand , London
1823, 1957 Christchurch, ed A G Bagnall, pp 78-9; Barton (ed), Earliest NZ, p 88; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 255; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 95
34. HRNZ I, pp 490-2; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, pp 44-5; HRA I, vol X, pp 619-21; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 92-3
35. HRNZ I, pp 496, 547; Parsonson, ‘Hongi Hika’, p5; Yarwood, Marsden, p 242; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 200-1; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 104-5
36. John Ritchie (ed), The Evidence to the Bigge Reports I, Mel bourne 1971, p 165; HRNZ I, pp 498, 587-9, 593-5
37. HRNZ I, pp 593-4
38. HRNZ I, p 580; Ward, British Policy, ppsl-3; J Hight and H D Bamford, The Constitutional History and Law of New Zealand, Christchurch 1914, p 44
39. Tapp, Early NZ, p 72; HRNZ I, p 615
40. HRNZ I, pp 601-5, 661-3, 667; Wards, Shadow, pp 4-5; lan Wards, ‘The Army in New Zealand’, typescript provided by author, pp 5-6; Wright, Western Contact , pp 24-5, 33-4; Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 138; John Horsman, The Coming of the Pakeha to Auckland Province, Wellington 1971, p 15; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, chap XXVIII; Darling to Huskisson 10.4.1829, CO 201/192, pp 457-8
41. HRNZ I, pp 627-8, 663-5, 668; Ward, British Policy, p 52; Parsonson, ‘Hongi Hika’, p 7; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 137-8; Hugh Carleton, The Life of Henry Williams, Auckland 1874-7, 1948 ed, p 89
42. Tapp, Early NZ, pp 47-8; HRNZ I, pp 594, 612, 627-8; Wards, Shadow, pp 3-5
43. ADB I, p 284; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 74-5
44. HRNZ I, pp 610, 616, 686; Wright, Western Contact, p 33-4; Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 230; Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, fig X; Yarwood, Marsden, pp 243-4
45. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 317-19; Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 107; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 355
46. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 322-3; Ward, Show , p 14; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, chap XXXII, pp 322-4; Carleton, Henry Williams, pp 86-8, 95-6; HRNZ I, pp 668-9, 673; Tapp, Early NZ, p 74; HRA I, vol XIII, pp 103-4, 159-60; Vennell, Brown Frontier, chap 4
47. Eldred-Grigg, Southern Gentry, p6; McNab, Whaling Days, p 336; Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 188, 331-4, fig XIX; Ritchie (ed), Bigge Reports I, pp 121-2
980
References to Chapter I
48. Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 33; Morton, Whale's Wake, p 243; Eldred-Grigg, Southern Gentry, pp 7-11; McNab, Whaling Days, p 336; T Lindsay Buiek, Old Marlborough, Palmerston North 1900, pp 113-16; Patricia Burns, Te Rauparaha: A New Perspective, Wellington 1980, p 182
49. Morton, Whale's Wake, pp 113, 243; HRA I, vol XV, p 702; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 100-5, 115; Thomas McDonnell in New Zealand in the 1830s, Hocken Library, Dunedin 1979, p 14
50. Morton, Whale's Wake, p 269; J C Andersen and G C Petersen, The Mair Family, Wellington 1956, p 16; HRNZ I, p 675; Wards, Shadow, pp 7-8; Ward, British Policy, pp 80-1; HRA I, vol XV, p 702
51. Williams, East Coast Records, p4; Wright, Western Contact, pp 83-4; Vennell, Brown Frontier, p 28; Wards, Shadow, pp 5-6; HRNZ I, pp 702-3, 705; HRA I, vol XV pp 70-5; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 340-4; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 154f; Jocelyn Chisholm, Brind of the Bay of Islands, Wellington 1979, pp 34-9
52. HRNZ I, pp 707-8; HRA I, vol XV, p 703; Wards, ‘Army’, p 7
53. HRA I, vol XV, pp 702-3, vol XVI, pp 237-8; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 73; HRNZ I, p716, 11, pp 578-84; Bums, Te Rauparaha, pp 158-9; McNab, Whaling Days, chap 2 and App A
54, HRNZ 11, pp 578-84, 588-9; HRA I, vol XVI, p 240
55. HRNZ 11, pp 589-603; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 77-8; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 77-9; HRA I, vol XVI, pp 404-5, 512-13, 650-5, vol XVII, p 347; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 36-7, 206-8, 217
56. HRNZ I, pp 717-18, HRA I, vol XVI, pp 240-1; Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, p 290; Lazarus Morris Goldman, The History of the Jews in New Zealand, Wellington 1958, p 31
57. HRNZ I, p 716; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 77-9; ADB I, p 57; HRA I, vol XVI, pp 240-1, 263; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 42
58. HRA I, vol XVI, pp 240-1, 264, 482-3
59. Ward, British Policy, pp 74-5, 83; HRA I, vol XVI, pp 482-6, vol XVIII, p 172; ADB I, pp 130-3; Wards, Shadow, pp 7-9
60. HRNZ I, p 742; Tapp, Early NZ, pp42-3, 79-83; Wards, Shadow, pp 7-9; Adams, Fatal Necessity, p 65; HRA I, vol XVI, pp 505, 562-3, 573
61. HRNZ I, p 665, Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 98-9: HRA I, vol XVI, pp 573-5
62. Nora Bayly, ‘James Busby; British Resident in New Zealand 1833-40’, MA thesis, Auckland 1949, pp 24-5; Hetherington,
614
References to Chapter I
Political Connection I, p 89; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 84-8; HRA I, vol XVI, pp 562-3; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 65-6
63. Sec of State to Chiefs, 14.6.1832, CO 209/1, 104-5; William Barrett Marshall, A Personal Narrative of Two Visits to New Zealand, London 1837, p 334; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 42; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 54, 66; Ward, British Policy, pp 72-3, 89-90; Bayly, ‘Busby’, p 89; HRA I, vol XVI, p 664, vol XVIII, pp 172, 506; Sonia Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution: People and Politics in New Zealand’s Crown Colony Years’, PhD thesis, Otago University, 1975, p 3; Eric Ramsden, Busby of Waitangi, Wellington 1942, pp 153, 189
64. HRA I, vol XVII, pp 40-3, 253, vol XVIII, p 173; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 82, 105; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 90-1, 93; Ramsden, Busby, pp 46, 64, 81
65. HRA I, vol XVII, pp 49, 100, 645-6; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 82; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 430-2
66. HRA I, vol XVIII, p 173; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 81, 102; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 62-5; Eugene Grayland, Coasts of Treachery, Wellington 1963, pp 123-6; Alfred Saunders, History of New Zealand I, Christchurch 1896, pp 106-7; Hight & Bamford, Constitutional History, p 57
67. Hocken Library, NZ in the 1830s, p 36; Bayly, ‘Busby’, p 23; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 81-3; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 79-81; HRA I, vol XVI, p 512
68. William Richard Wade, A Journey in the Northern Island of New Zealand, Hobart Town 1842, p 182; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 83-4, 89
69. Wards, ‘Army’, pp 10-11; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 21-3, 55; Ramsden, Busby, pp 70-1
70. Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp 78, 147; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 93; HRA I, vol XVII, pp 412, 608; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 432-3
71. Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 160, 184; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 85; Carleton, Henry Williams, pp 202-3
72. Adams. Fatal Necessity, pp 69-70; HRA I, vol XVIII, pp 170-1 173; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 95-6; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 102, 106; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 107-9
73. Brown, Aborigines , pp 92-3; Ramsden, Busby, pp 82-5; Carleton, Henry Williams, pp 203-6; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 86; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 292-4; HRA I, vol XVII, p 646, vol XVIII, p 174; J S Polack, New Zealand: Being a Narrative of Travels and Adventures I, London 1838, pp 221-2
74. Wright, Western Contact , pp 177-8; Judith Binney, ‘Papahurihia: Some Thoughts on Interpretation’, JPS 75,
615
References to Chapter I
pp 321-3, 329-30; Ormond Wilson ‘Papahurihia: First Maori Prophet’, JPS 74, p 474
75. Ramsden, Busby, p 75; Hocken Library, NZ in the 1830s, pp 35-6; Carleton, Henry Williams, pp 203-4; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 349-51; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 433; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 175
76. Wards, Shadow, p 11; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 99; HRNZ I, p 720; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 162, 342-8; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 435f; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 115-16; Jack Stronge, The “Harriet” Story: The Clash of Redcoats and Maoris on the Egmont Coast, 1834’, typescript in possession of Mrs M Stronge, provided by Wade Mickelson
77. Wards, Shadow, pp 11, 13; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 149-240; HRA I, vol XVII, pp 544-5; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 117-30 and App C; Donald McLean, Diary 1845-6, QMS, ATL; Stronge, ‘Harriet’
78. HRNZ I, p 720; Wards, Shadow, pp 10-13; Marshall, Personal Narrative, pp 107-9, 149f, 203, 236; Ramsden, Busby, p 73; Tapp, Early NZ, p 91; Ward, British Policy, p 61; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 129-30
79. Ward, British Policy, pp 62, 78; Marshall, Personal Narrative, p 343; HRA I, vol XVII, p545, vol XVIII, p 171; Wards, ‘Army’, pp 9-15
80. John O Ross, ‘McDonnell of Hokianga: The Life and Times of Lieutenant Thomas McDonnell R.N.’, typescript, ATL, pp i, 33-8 et passim; Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp 105-7; HRA I, XVI, pp 61-6; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 368
81. HRA I, vol XVII, pp 472-3; Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp 106-7
82. Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 49-50; Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp96-7, 111-12; Andersen & Petersen, Mair Family, p 24; Tapp, Early NZ, p 101; HRA I, vol XVIII, p 354; Horsman, Coming of the Pakeha, pp 8-9; Wright, Western Contact, pp 30-2; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 180-1
83. Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 50-2; Ramsden, Busby, pp 110-11; HRA I, vol XVII, p 472, vol XVIII, p 354; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 372
84. Ramsden, Busby, pp 110-11
85. Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 52-5; John 0 Ross, ‘Busby and the Declaration of Independence’, NZJH, Apr 1980, pp 87-9; Wards, Shadow, pp 13-14; HRA I, vol XVIII, pp 352-5, 427; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 43; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 461-2
86. Wards, ‘Army’, pp 15-16; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 113; Ward, Show, p 26
983
References to Chapter I
87. Ross, ‘Busby’, p 89; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 55, 78-9; Ramsden, Busby, pp 98-9; HRA I, vol XVIII, p 506
88. HRA I, vol XVIII, p 427; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 113; Ward, British Policy, pp 75-6, 78; Adams, Fatal Necessity, p 68; Wards, Shadow, p 14; N A Foden, New Zealand Legal History (1642 to 1842), Wellington 1965, p 36
89. BR 1/2, ff 45, 70; Hocken Library, NZ in the 1830s, p 36; Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp 119-20
90. Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 55, 73-95; Ross, ‘Busby’, p 87; BR 1/2, ff 45-6; J D Raeside, Sovereign Chief: A Biography of Baron de Thierry, Christchurch 1977, p 156
91. Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp 96-7; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 85-6, 109
92. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 353-4; Ramsden, Busby, p 177; Barton (ed), Earliest NZ, p 403
93. BR 1/2, ff 42, 45, 85; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 57-64; R O Garrick (ed), Historical Records of New Zealand South Prior to 1840, Dunedin 1903, pp 71-2; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 373-4
94. BR 1/1, IF 88-9; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 88-95; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 47; Ramsden, Busby, chap 6; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 373
95. BR 1/1, f 112; BR 1/2, ff 119-21
96. HRA I, vol XVII, pp 495, 645-6, 709-10, vol XVIII, pp 170-3
97. Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, pp 359-60, 371 and fig XIX; Bayly, ‘Busby’, p 89; Polack, Narrative, pp 222-4; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 192
98. HRA I, vol XIX, p 85; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 105, 115; Ramsden, Busby, pp 146-52; Adams, Fatal Necessity, p 67
99. Wilson, ‘Papahurihia’, p 480; HRNZ I, p 721; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 465; Carleton, Henry Williams, p 249; Andersen & Petersen, Mair Family, pp 42-3
100. Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 96-7; Tapp, Early NZ, p 105; Ramsden, Busby, p 179; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 42; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 465; Guy H Scholefield, Captain William Hobson, London 1934, pp 54-6; Andersen & Petersen. Mair Family, pp 42-3
101. BR 1/2, f 92; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 87-8; Tapp, Early NZ, p 108; McNab, Whaling Days, chap XII
102. Wards, Shadow, pp 20-1; Adams, Fatal Necessity, ppB6-7: Scholefield, Hobson, pp 63-4, 194
103. Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 101-3, 115; Wards, Shadow, p 20; Ramsden, Busby, p 154; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 87-8; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 105-7; Ward, British Policy, pp 105-6
617
References to Chapter I
104. Wards, Shadow, p 18; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 105,115; Hetherington, Political Connection I, p 27; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 103-4; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 11-31; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, p 41
105. Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 107-8
106. Wards, ‘Army’, p2; Wards, Shadow, esp chap 1; Adams, Fatal Necessity, for the pre-revisionist view see Sinclair, Origins, and A History of New Zealand, London 1959, 1969 ed, pp 54-69
107. Nopera Panakareao’s speech, May 1840, G 30/1, p 249
108. HRNZ I, p 742; Tapp, Early NZ, p 109; Hetherington, Political Connection I, pp 100-1; Burns, Te Rauparaha, p 193; McNab, Whaling Days, pp 224-30; Ray Grover, Cork of War, Dunedin 1982, pp 89-90
109. HRNZ 11, pp 604-13; Wards, Shadow, pl 5
110. Wards, Shadow, p 24; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 39-40, 45; HRA I, vol XIX, p 690; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 118-22
111. BR 1/2, ff 116a,117; Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, pp 47-8; HRA I, vol XIX, p 602; Bayly, ‘Busby’, pp 57-60; Ramsden, Busby, pp 185-8
112. T A Critchley, The Conquest of Violence: Order and Liberty in Britain, London 1970, pp 68,100; Leon Radzinowicz, A History of English Criminal Law and its Administration from 1750, 4 vols, London 1956-68, 11, pp 209-12; Adrian Shubert, ‘Private Initiative in Law Enforcement: Associations for the Prosecution of Felons, 1744-1856’, in Bailey (ed), Policing and Punishment; A L Haydon, The Trooper Police of Australia, London 1911, p 11; R J Unstead and W F Henderson, Police in Australia, London 1973, p 42
113. Critchley, Conquest, p 134; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law IV, p 234; Shubert, ‘Private Initiative’; W L Melville Lee, A History of the Police in England, London 1901, pp 290-1; A A W Ramsay, Sir Robert Peel, London 1928, pp 131-2
114. BR 1/1, ff 92-4. For Kororareka, see eg, Hocken Library, NZ in the 1830s, p 30, and Edward Markham, New Zealand or Recollections of it (ed E H McCormick), Wellington 1963, p 63
115. BR 1/1, ff 92-4; Wards, Shadow, pl 9
116. W Wakefield, journal entry 29.12.1839, NZC 3/1; Wright, Western Contact, pp 32-3, 187-8; S M D Martin, New Zealand: In a Series of Letters, London 1845, pp 56-60; Wards, Shadow, p 19; Kororareka Association Rules, App D, BR Series List, NA; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 196-7
117. Sinclair, History, p 54; Andersen & Petersen, Mair Family, P 22; Morton. Whale’s Wake, pp 268, 273-4; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 196-7
618
References to Chapter II
118. Kororareka Association Rules, App D, BR Series List, NA; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 163-70; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 471-2; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 306-8
119. BR 1/1, ff 103-4; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 470-1; Wards, Shadow, p 19; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, p 146; John Came Bidwill, Rambles in New Zealand, London 1841, p 3; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 209-10; Martin, Letters, pp 56-60
120. Hobson to Gipps, 24.12.1839, G 36/1, 40/1; HRNZ I pp 749-50; Ward, Show, pp 26-31; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Con stitution’, pp 46-55
121. Wards, Shadow, pp 23-4; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 151-6; Foden, Constitutional Development, pp 13-14, 188-90; Tapp, Early NZ, p 120; Ward, Show, p 30; Shawcross, ‘Bay of Islands’, fig XIX; A E Woodhouse, George Rhodes of the Levels and his Brothers, Auckland 1937, pp 10-12; Alfred Eccles, The Old Identities: Early History of Otago, Dunedin 1931, pp 4-5
122. HRNZ I, pp 729-39, 748; Scholefield, Hobson, p 79; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 66-7
123. Thompson to Russell, 11.3.1840, CO 209/8, p 366 a; Sinclair, History, p 70; Scholefield, Hobson, pp 82-3, 87; Foden, Constitution Development, pp 26, 37-8; Tapp, Early NZ, p 127; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, p 45
124. Minutes and Proceedings of the Legislative Council of New Zealand, Session I, 22.12.1841, CO 211/1; Foden, Constitutional Development, p 29; Foden, Legal History, p 18; Alexander James Johnston, The New Zealand Justice of the Peace, Wellington 1864, App 1; Wards, Shadow, pp 32-3
125. HRNZ I, pp 754-5; CO 209/4, p 163; Tapp, Early NZ, pp 122-3
126. Wards, Shadow, pp 36, 46; Tapp, Early NZ, p 123
127. Owens, ‘NZ before Annexation’, pp 52-3; Martin, Letters, pp 79, 81-2, 335-8
Chapter II
For the first section of this chapter, ‘Panopticism and the British and Colonial Police Magistracy’, the most frequently sourced works are: Gilbert Armitage, The History of the Bow Street Runners 1729-1829 , London c 1935; Ascoli, Queen’s Peace ; Anthony Babington, A House in Bow Street: Crime and the Magistracy: London 1740-1881, London 1969; Bailey (ed), Policing and Punishment; George Dilnot, The Story of Scotland Yard, London nd; Ehrman, Reluctant Transition; John Field, ‘Police, Power and Community in a Provincial English Town: Portsmouth 1815-1875’ in Bailey (ed), Policing and Punishment; Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish, New York 1977; David Goodway, London Chartism 1838-1848,
986
References to Chapter II
Cambridge 1982; Peter N Grabosky, Sydney in Ferment, Canberra 1977; Peter N Grabosky, ‘Sydney: The Politics of Crime and Conflict, 1788 to the 19705’ in Gurr et al (eds), Crime and Conflict, Gurr, ‘Comparative Analysis’ in ibid ; Eve Harlow (ed), Scotland Yard: The First 150 Years, London 1979; Ignatieff, Pain; Jones, Crime, Protest, Community, Kelly, ‘Law Enforcement’; Lee, History; Mary P Mack, Jeremy Bentham, London 1962; Maitland, Justice; Milte, Police in Australia; Monkkonen, Urban America; Peirce et al, ‘London’ in Gurr et al (eds), Crime and Conflict; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law; Ramsay, Peel; James F Richardson, Urban Police in the United States, New York 1974; Richter, Victorians; R D Storch, ‘Crime and Justice in 19th-Century Britain’, History Today, Sep 1980; Bruce Swanton, ‘A Chronological Account of the Police of Sydney 1788-1862’, typescript provided by author; Tilly et al, ‘Visibility of Crime’; J J Tobias, Nineteenth Century Crime, Newton Abbot 1972; Barbara Weinberger, ‘The Police and the Public in Mid-Nineteenth Century Warwickshire’ in Bailey (ed), Policing and Punishment. These works are cited for this section (up to note 53) by author alone except for Grabosky.
1. HRNZ I, p 737
2. Frank Milton, The English Magistracy, London 1967, pp 23-6; Elizabeth Burney, J.P.: Magistrate, Court and Community, London 1979; Armitage, pp 25-7; Ascoli, pp 32-4
3. Archer, Courts, p 108; Milton, Magistracy, pp 26-8; Harlow (ed), pH; Ignatieff, pp2s-6; Dilnot, pp 11-13; Armitage, pp 37-8
4. Milton, Magistracy, pp 15-16, 26-8; Armitage, pp 47-8; Peirce et al, p 87
5. Ascoli, pp 38-40, 42, 44; Armitage, pp 61-6, 124-5; Kelly, p4l
6. Norman L Weiner, The Role of the Police in Urban Society: Conflicts and Consequences, Indianapolis 1976; Home Office, Home Office 1782-1982, London 1981, p3; Ronald Seth, The Specials: The Story of the Special Constabulary in England, Wales and Scotland, London 1961; Gurr, ‘Police and Policing’ in Gurr et al (eds), Crime & Conflict, p 702; Webber, ‘Revolt and Repression’, pp 246-7; Martin Kettle, ‘The Keepers of the Queen’s Peace’, New Society, 25.3.1982; Ehrman, pp 12-13
7, Gurr, ‘Police and Policing’ in Gurr et al (eds), Crime and Conflict, p 702; Tilly et al, p 76; Kelly, p 42; Kettle, ‘Keepers’; Banton, ‘Police’, in Encyclopaedia Britannica, p 663
8. Peirce et al, p 88; Ascoli, pp 39-42, 45; Harlow (ed), pp 11-12; Armitage, pp 56-8, 61-3; Kettle, ‘Keepers’
9. Ascoli, pp 49-50; Harlow (ed), p 13; Peirce et al, p 88; Kelly, p 42; Bittner, Functions, p 45; Tilly et al, p 76; Ignatieff, pp 82-93, 118-19; Ehrman, pp 123-5
10. Armitage, pp 66, 101, 123; Peirce et al, pp 88-9; Ascoli, pp 42, 50-1; Harlow (ed), p 15; Babington, pp 171-2; Seth, Specials’, p 36; Dilnot, pp 11-13; Lee, pp 171-4; Ehrman, p 195
987
References to Chapter II
11. Radzinowicz 11, p 402; Babington, p 169; Peirce et al, p 88; Kelly, p 42; Ascoli, p 67; Lee, pp 171-4; Ehrman, p 195; Maitland, p 108
12. Esther Moir, The Justice of the Peace, Harmondsworth 1969, p 127; Maitland, p 108; Milte, p 18; Radzinowicz 11, pp 411-18; Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia, pp 29-30
13. Ascoli, ppso-l; Milte, pp 18-19; Radzinowicz & King, ‘Con cepts of Crime’
14. Ignatieff, pp 76-8, 212-14; Mack, pp 182-3, 227, 296-8, 314-15, 391; Tilly et al, p 1; Shubert, ‘Private Initiative’, p 37
15. James Steintrager, Bentham, London 1977, pp 65-71, 79; Mack, pp 204, 227, 297-8, 314-15, 367, 402; John Fauvel, ‘Panopticon Years’, The Listener (UK), 31.12.1981; Foucault, pp 184, 208-9; Ignatieff, pp 76-8, 111; David Roberts, ‘Jeremy Bentham and the Victorian Administrative State’, in Bhikhu Parekh (ed), Jeremy Bentham: Ten Critical Essays, London 1974, p 190
16. Colquhoun, Treatise-, Ignatieff, pp 76-8; Ascoli, pp 52-3; Peirce et al, pp 82-3, 89; Monkkonen, pp 40-2; Stephen, Criminal Law I, pp 195-6
17. Mack, p 343; Foucault, pp 201-3, 293; Ignatieff, pp xiii, 3, 11, 84, 93; Peirce et al, p 89; Storch, pp 33-4; DeLacy, ‘Grinding Men Good?’ in Bailey (ed), Policing and Punishment, pp 182-6; Parekh (ed), Bentham, pp xviii-xxiv
18. Peirce et al, p 90; Ascoli, pp 53-6; Kelly, pp 42-3; Gurr, ‘Police and Policing’, in Gurr et al (eds), Crime & Conflict, p 702; Maitland, p 100
19. Roberts, ‘Bentham’, pp 189-201; Parekh (ed), Bentham, pvii Foucault, pp 216, 221-2, 228; Ascoli, pp 59-60; Jones, p 3
20. Ascoli, pp 56-7; Milte, pp 11-12; Harlow (ed), pp 15-16 Armitage, p 129; Babington, p 211
21. Henry Felling, Popular Politics and Society in Late Victorian Britain, London 1968, pp 68-9; E P Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class, London 1963, p 81; Peirce et al, pp 90-2; Tobias, Nineteenth Century Crime, p 101; Armitage, p 130
22. Ramsay, pp 21-2, 37, 42; R Curtis, The History of the Royal Irish Constabulary, Dublin 1871, pp3-ll; Kelly, p 43; Ascoli, pp 66-8; Monkkonen, pp 37-8; R J K Sinclair and F J M Scully, Arresting Memories, Belfast nd
23. Thompson, Working Class, p 81; FS L Lyons, Ireland Since the Famine, London 1971, p 64; Milte, p 19
24. Ascoli, pp46-8, 62; Jones, pp 3, 11, 13-14, 17, 198; Ignatieff. pp 153-4, 157-9, 162-3, 171, 174; Webber, ‘Revolt and Repression’, p 248; Storch, pp 33-4; Bailey (ed), p 12; Tobias, Crime
988
References to Chapter II
and Industrial Society, pp 34, 40-1, 44, 52; Richter, pp 2, 4; Tilly et al, pp 64, 70; Sean McConville, A History of English Prison Administration: Vol I, 1750-1877, London 1981, pp 235-6
25. Richter, p 14; Goodway, p 222; Field, p 47; Armitage, pp 126-35
26. Richter, p4; Bailey (ed), p 13; Monkkonen, p 38; Norman Gash, Peel, London 1976, p 70; Harlow (ed), p 17; Peirce et al, pp 91-2; Kelly, pp 43-4; Armitage, p 128; Peter K Manning, Police Work: The Social Organization of Policing, Cambridge (Mass) 1977, p 73
27. Ignatieff, pp 179-80, 183-5, 215; Goodway, pp 5-9, 224; Storch, pp 33-4; Peirce et al, pp 82-5; Ascoli, pp 69-73; Tilly et al, p 64; Louise A Tilly and Charles Tilly (eds), Class Conflict and Collective Action, Beverly Hills 1981
28. Ignatieff, pp 210-11; Lee, p 165; Ramsay, pp 87-8; Shane, Police & People, p 3
29. Gash, Peel, pp 104-5, 135; Babington, pp 213-16; Harlow (ed), p 19; Peirce et al, pp 92-3; Ascoli, pp 73-5; Gurr, p 706; Mack, p 346; Lee, pp 201-2; Ramsay, pp 82-8, 124, 128; Goodway, p 222; Monkkonen, pp 151, 154; Armitage, p 258; Tobias, p 81; Michael R Weisser, Crime and Punishment in Early Modern Europe, Hassocks 1979, p 159; Richardson, pp 21-2
30. NZ Police College, ‘Charles Rowan and Richard Mayne, the founders of the Metropolitan Police’, paper 432 in ‘The Development of our British Police System’ course; Ascoli, pp 79-85, 88-90; Peirce et al, pp 92-3; Monkkonen, pp 38-9; Ramsay, pp4l, 87-8; Radzinowicz IV, pp 160-3; Goodway, p 100; Harlow (ed), p 22; Ignatieff, p 189; Richter, p 5
31. Foucault, pp 213-16; Monkkonen, p 42; Miller, ‘Police Authority’, p 91; Richardson, pp 8, 16; Ascoli, p 93; Critchley, Conquest, pp 119-20; Storch, ‘Locusts’; Wilbur R Miller, ‘London’s Police Tradition in a Changing Society’ in Simon Holdaway (ed), The British Police, London 1979, pp 15-16
32. Ben Whitaker, The Police in Society, London 1979, p 45; Hazel King, ‘Some Aspects of Police Administration in New South Wales, 1825-1851’, RAHS, 42(5), 1956, pp 206-7, 218-19
33. Weinberger, p 65; Storch, pp 32-3; Monkkonen, pp 151, 154; Jones, p 10; Ascoli, pp 39-40, 81-3, 86-7; NZ Police Department Bulletin, Dec 1969
34. Ascoli, pp 39-40; Milte, p 206; Cull, ‘Enigma’, p 161; ‘Police Principles’ in NZ Police Department Bulletin , Jul 1970
35. Milte, p 206; Ascoli, p8; Maitland, p 92; Wilbur R Miller, Cops and Bobbies: Police Authority in New York and London
622
References to Chapter II
1830-70, Chicago 1977; Geoffrey Marshall, Police and Govern ment: The Status and Accountability of the English Constable London 1965, pp 16, 28; Cull, ‘Enigma’, pp 148-69
36. NZ Police College, ‘Rowan & Mayne’; Ascoli, pp 85-6, 97-100; Shane, Police & People, p 15; Gash, Peel, pp 106, 135-6; Lee, pp 236-7; Goodway, pp 123-4; Jones, p 21; Field, p 47
37. Storch, p 34; Jones, pp 21-3; Harlow (ed), pp 19, 28; Weinberger, pp 83-4; Ignatieff, pp 186, 211-12; Tobias, pp 115-18
38. Ignatieff, p 192; Richardson, p 16; Robert C Sopenoff, ‘The Victorian Policeman’s Lot’, Police Studies, Dec 1978, pp 47-51; NZ Police College, ‘Rowan & Mayne’; Ascoli, pp 88-9; Field, ppso-l; Storch, ‘Locusts’, p 61; Miller, ‘London’s Police Tradition’, p 16
39. Monkkonen, pp 6, 39; Foucault, pp 168, 184; Goodway, pp 3, 102-3; Bailey, p 14; Peirce et al, p 74; Weinberger, p 66
40. Weinberger, p 67; Harlow (ed), pp 29-30; Peirce et al, pp 94-5; NZ Police Department Bulletin Jul 1970
41. Babington, pp 233-4; Dilnot, pp 32-4, 49-50; Goodway, p 99; Richter, p 5; Ascoli, pp 113-14; Field, pp 48-9; Peirce et al, p 95; Radzinowicz IV, p 255; J P Martin and Gail Wilson, The Police: A Study in Manpower, London 1969, p8; T A Critchley, A History of Police in England and Wales, 900-1966, London 1967, pp 62-7
42. Tony Bunyan, The History and Practice of the Political Police in Britain, London 1976, p 74; Lee, p 268; Ascoli, pp 113-14; Goodway, pp99, 103-5; Bailey, p 110; Storch, ‘Locusts’, pp 64-5, 70-1, 78-83
43. Jones, p 21; Storch, p 34; Bailey, p 12; Shane, Police & People p 32; Bittner, Functions, p 20; Roger Lane, Policing the City Boston 1822-1885, Cambridge (Mass) 1967, pp 34-8; Tilly e al, pp 34, 54, 64
44. Storch, p 34; Bailey (ed), p 12; Goodway, pp 102-5; Field, pp 47, 59; Peirce et al, pp 94-5; Yeo, ‘Ways of Seeing’, pp 138-9
45. Swanton, pp 15-31; Bruce Swanton, A Chronological Account of Crime, Public Order and Police in Sydney 1788-1810, Phillip (ACT) 1983, p 34; Grabosky, ‘Politics of Crime and Conflict’, pp 350-1; Grabosky, Sydney in Ferment, ppsl-5, 64; Milte, p 23; Ritchie (ed), Bigge Reports I, pp 41-4
46. HRA I, vol XVII, pp 253-5; Sydney Police Act, 4WmIVNo 7, 6.8.1833; Swanton, pp 39-40; Milte, p 23; A G L Shaw, Convicts and the Colonies, London 1966, pp 198-200; King. ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 218-19
47. HRA I, vol XVII pp 234-5; Ramsay, p 41; G M O’Brien, The Australian Police Forces, Melbourne 1960, p 19; Shaw, Convicts, pp 192-200; Milte, p 23; Swanton, pp 40-1; Hazel King,
990
References to Chapter II
‘Problems of Police Administration in New South Wales, 1825-1851’, RAHS, 44(2), 1958, pp 57-60
48. Swanton, pp 40-7; Weisser, Crime & Punishment, p27; Haydon, Trooper Police, p 36; Milte, pp 23-4; O’Brien, Australian Police, pp 13-21
49. Tilly et al, p 17; Bailey, p 12; Richter, pp 5-6; Swanton, pp 48-9; Silver, ‘Demand for Order’, pp 1-24; Richter, pp 5-6; Hazel King, Richard Bourke, Melbourne 1971, p 187; Thomas O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment in New South Wales’, RAHS, 1923; Grabosky, Sydney in Ferment, p 69; Grabosky, ‘Politics of Crime & Conflict’, p 354; King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 219-20
50. Swanton, p 50; Adams, Fatal Necessity, p 158; Scholefield, Hobson, ppBo-l; Martin, Letters, ppBl-2, 117-18; Col Sec NSW to Hobson, 3 & 4.4.1840, IA 1/1, 40/98 & 40/99; Hobson to Gipps, 24.12.1839, G 36/1, 40/1; Hobson to Gipps, 13.1.1840, G 36/1, 40/2
51. Gurr, p 689; Grabosky, ‘Politics of Crime & Conflict’, pp 352-3
52. Swanton, p 25; Col Sec Papers, 4/3802, f 21, 4/4840, & 4/4780, f 372, AONSW; info provided by K Slattery & Mrs D Harlen; McDonogh to Col Sec, 11.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/663
53. Hobson to Gipps, 13.10.1840, G 36/1, 40/2; Tapp, Early NZ, p 123; Thomson to Asst Military Sec, 8.2.1840, 4/3802, 40/29, AONSW; letters by Harrington, 13.1.1840, & Thomson, 22.1.1840, 4/3844, 40/29 & 40/58, AONSW
54. Lee, History, pp 194-5; Ramsay, Peel, pp 40-1
55. John O’Sullivan, Mounted Police in N.S.W., Adelaide 1979, p 2; HRA I, vol XVI, p 68; King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 223-4 et passim
56. O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment’, pp 303-4; O’Sullivan, Mounted Police, pp 2-7, 10-13, 17; Shaw, Convicts, pp 198-9; Darling to Murray, 5.10.1830, desp 63, HRA I, vol XV, p 770; info provided by J Osborne; Grabosky, Sydney in Ferment, p 63; Frank Crowley (ed), A Documentary History of Australia, Vol 2: Colonial Australia 1841-1874, Melbourne 1980, p 27
57. O’Sullivan, Mounted Police, pp 16-17, 25-6; info provided by NSW Police; HRA I, vol XIX, pp 396-9, vol XX, pp 73, 245-8, 250-6, 439-40
58. Victoria Police Management Services Bureau, Police in Victoria 1836-1980, Melbourne 1980, p 5; NZ Journal, 20.6.1840; Gipps to Russell, 9.2.1840, GBPP 1841, 311, p3; HRA I, vol XX, p 494; info provided by NSW Police; 1840 Return, NSW Col Sec Papers, ‘Special Bundles’, Returns 1831-50, 4/7420, AONSW; Harrington letter, 13.1.1840, 40/29, NSW Col Sec
991
References to Chapter II
Papers, Copies of letters 1826-1856, 4/3844, AONSW; J Rutherford (ed), The Founding of New Zealand: The Journals of Felton Mathew, Dunedin 1940, p 19
59. TD H Hall, Captain Joseph Nias and the Treaty of Waitangi, Wellington 1938, p 13; Scholefield, Hobson, pp 82-4; Blue Book 1841, IA 12/2, p 62; NZ Police Journal, Jun-Jul 1958, p 145; AH McLintock, Crown Colony Government in New Zealand, Wellington 1958, p 98
60. Wright, Western Contact, pp 32-3; Hobson to Gipps, 16.5.1840, G 36/1, 40/37
61. Rutherford (ed), Founding, pp 85-6; Thomson to Nicholson, 25.1.1840, ff 286-7, 40/15, Col Sec Papers, Copies of Letters to the Master Attendant, AONSW; Thomson to Nunn, 22.1.1840, f 429, 40/50, Col Sec Papers, Copies of Letters to Magistrates, 4/3844, AONSW; info provided by Mrs D Harlen
62. Hobson to Gipps, 9.3.1840, G 36/1, 40/16
63. Hobson to Stanley, 4.8.1841, GBPP 1843, 134; New Zealander, 16.5.1846; Martin, Letters, pp 118-19; Hobson to O’Connell, 20.3.1842, CO 209/14, 197b; T Bunbury, Reminiscences of a Veteran, vol 111, London 1861, p 57; Bidwill, Rambles, pp 3, 91
64. Williams to Col Sec, 19.6.1840, IA 1/2, 40/213; Williams to Col Sec 23.6.1840, IA 1/2, 40/217; O’Sullivan, Mounted Police, p 29
65. New Zealander, 16.5.1846; O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment’, p 305; Edward Jerningham Wakefield, Adventure in New Zealand from 1839 to 1844, vol 11, London 1845, p 45
66. Return of Militia, Blue Book 1841, IA 12/2; Col Sec to Smart, 30.11.1841, IA 4/1, p 303; Thomson to Brigade Major, 4.10.1841, f 211, 41/100, NSW Col Sec Papers, Copies of Letters, 4/3802, AONSW; 1841 Return, NSW Col Sec Papers, ‘Special Bundles’, Returns 1831-50, 4/7420, AONSW; Thomson to Brigade Major, 6.10.1841, f 211, 41/100, NSW Col Sec Papers, Copies of Letters, 4/3802, AONSW; Thomson to NZ Col Sec, 2.10.1841, f 133, 41/8622, 4/3527, AONSW
67. Hobson to Sec of State, 24.3.1842, CO 209/14,193b; Hobson to O’Connell, 20.3.1842, CO 209/14, 197b; NZ Gazette, 1842, No 4, 26.1.1842; Schedule of pay and allowances, T 1/1, 62/41; 43/2956, 22.4.1843, p 156, AONSW
68. Blue Book 1842, IA 12/3, p 48; J S Marais, The Colonization of New Zealand, Oxford 1927, p 228; Hobson to Bunbury, private, 2.4.1842, G 36/1; CO minute, CO 209/14, 195 a; O’Sullivan. Mounted Police, pp 29-32; info provided by J Holmwood, NSW Police
69. Hobson to Gipps, 8.2.1840 and 18.2.1840, G 36/1, 40/10 and 40/15
70. Hobson to Normanby, 17.2.1840, G 36/1, 40/2; Hobson to
992
References to Chapter II
Gipps, 18.2.1840, G 36/1, 40/10; Hobson to Shortland, 18.2.1840, IA 4/277, 40/1
71. Hobson to Gipps, 9.3.1840, G 36/1, 40/16; Martin, Letters, pp9s-6; Saunders, History I, pp 140-1; New Zealand Advertiser and Bay of Islands Gazette, 19.6.1840, end with IA 1/2, 40/293
72. Acting Col Sec to Col Storekeeper, 25.3.1840, IA 4/277, 40/3; info provided by Mrs D Harlen and K Slattery
73. Hobson to Gipps, 8.2.1840, G 36/1, 40/10; McEwen and Trevor to Col Sec, 23.6.1840, IA 1/2, 40/218; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, p 531; Swanton, ‘Police of Sydney’, p 50; McDonogh to Col Sec, 3.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/632; Kirkland to Col Sec, nd [but Jan 1841], IA 1/5, 41/43; Woods to Col Sec, 1.9.1840, IA 1/4, 40/582; info provided by K Slattery
74. Gash, Peel, p 106; Bidwill, Rambles, p2l
75. Hobson to Normanby, 17.2.1841, G 36/1, 40/2; Hobson to Gipps, 18.2.1841, G 36/1, 40/14; Ignatieff, Pain, pp 184-5; R W Connell and T H Irving, Class Structure in Australian History, Melbourne 1980, pp 33-4, 81
76. Ruth M Ross, New Zealand’s First Capital, Wellington 1946, pp 16-19; Darry McCarthy, The First Fleet of Auckland, Auckland 1978, pp 40-1; G H Scholefield (ed), A Dictionary of New Zealand Biography, Wellington 1940, vol 11, p 365
77. NSW Civil Establishment, Returns of Mounted Police 1835, 4/7420, AONSW; Hobson to Gipps, 18.2.1840, G 36/1, 40/14; Harrington, 25.2.1840, 40/1423, NSW Col Sec Papers, Copies of letters to NZ, 4/3527, AONSW; Gipps to Hobson, 4.4.1840, CO 209/6, 97b; Col Sec NSW to Hobson, 3.4.1840, IA 1/1, 1840/98
78. Blue Book 1840, IA 12/1; Thomson to Hobson, 29.5.1840, IA 1/2, 40/258; Col Sec to Murphy and to Robinson, 30.6.1840, IA 4/1, pp 37-8; Col Sec NSW to Hobson, 4.4.1840, IA 1/1, 40/99
79. Radzinowicz, Criminal Law IV, p 279; Wards, Shadow, p 46; Shirley Maddock, These Antipodes, Auckland 1979, p 154; New Zealand Advertiser and Bay of Islands Gazette, 17.9.1840, end with IA 1/11, 42/537; Petition, 15.12.1841, IA 1/10, 42/79; A H Carman, The Birth of a City, Wellington 1970, p 2
80. Wards, Shadow, pp 49-51; Ward, Show, p 110; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 59-65, 68-77, 229; Henry William Petre, An Account of the Settlements of the New Zealand Company, London 1842, p 38; Raewyn Dalziel, ‘The Politics of Settlement’, in Oliver (ed), Oxford History, p 87; John Miller, Early Victorian New Zealand, Wellington 1958, 1974 ed, pp 48-52; J C Beaglehole, Captain Hobson and the New Zealand Company: A Study in Colonial Administration, Northampton (Mass) 1928, pp 38-41, 52; Agreement of Settlers,
626
References to Chapter II
1839, CO 208/284; for the New Zealand Company, see Michael Turnbull, The New Zealand Bubble, Wellington 1959
81. Petre, Settlements, pp 22, 34-5; Beaglehole, Hobson, pp 52-3; Nancy M Taylor (ed), The Journal of Ensign Best 1837-1843, Wellington 1966, pp 38-9; Foden, Legal History, pp6l-4; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 229-233; Wakefield, Adventure I, p 271; Scholefield, Hobson, pp 141-2; Dalziel, ‘Settlement’, p 87; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 499-500; Carman, Birth, pp 5-6; Scholefield (ed), DNZB I, p 31; R I M Burnett, Executive Discretion and Criminal Jus-
tice: The Prerogative of Mercy: New Zealand 1840-1853, Wellington 1977, pp 29-30; C Snow, ‘Police Gazettes’, Meltzer Papers, NZ Police Association
82. Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 271-2, 300-1; Petre, Settlements pp 35-6
83. Ward to Wakefield, 4.11.1839, CO 209/4, 62bf; NZ Journal, 20.6.1840
84. Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 273-9; Petre, Settlements, pp 36-8; Barton (ed), Earliest NZ, pp 416, 418, 420; Scholefield, Hobson, pp 143-4; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 234-8; Carman, Birth, pp 8-9
85. Hobson to Sec of State, 23.5.1840, G 36/1, 40/3; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 237-8; Beaglehole, Hobson, p 56; Hight & Bamford, Constitutional History, pp 141-3; Carman, Birth, p9; Wards, Shadow, p 51; Taylor (ed), Ensign Best, pp 38-42; Wakefield, Adventure I, p 391; Foden, Legal History, pp 70-4; Sinclair, 25.5.1840, CO 208/9, 484
86. Shortland to Hobson, 20.6.1840, GBPP 1841, 311, p 79; Hobson to Sec of State, 23.5.1840, G 36/1, 40/3; Taylor (ed) Ensign Best, p 42; Scholefield, Hobson, p 144
87. Shortland to Hobson, 3.10.1840, IA 1/3, 40/535; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 50; Burns, Te Rauparaha, pp 204, 211; Martin, Letters, pp9s-6; Wakefield to Sec NZC, 27.6.1840, NZC 3/1, desp 30; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 502-3; Beaglehole, Hobson, p 57; Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 277,
298-9; Scholefield, Hobson, pp 144-6; Carman, Birth, p 10: Shortland to Hobson, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/296
88. Charles Heaphy, Narrative of a Residence in Various Parts of New Zealand, London 1842, p9; Carman, Birth, pp 10-11; Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 301-3; Shortland to Hobson, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/296; Petre, Settlements, pp 22, 39-43
89. Foden, Legal History, pp 69-70; Taylor (ed), Ensign Best, p 226
90. Wakefield to Sec NZC, 27.6.1840, NZC 3/1, desp 20; Shortland to Robinson, 17.7.1840, IA 4/1, p 47; Hobson to Gipps, 21.7.1840, G 36/1, 40/51
627
References to Chapter II
91. Morton, Whale’s Wake, p 286; W A Taylor, Banks Peninsula, Christchurch 1937, p 134; Etienne Brocker, ‘Stories of the Peninsula’, Brocker Papers, CM;. Scholefield, Hobson, pp 125-8, 131-2; Expenditure for NZ, 1841, GBPP 1843, 134, p 26; C R Straubel, ‘Maori and European to 1850’, in James Hight and C R Straubel (eds), A History of Canterbury, vol I, Christchurch 1957, pp 67-73
92. Straubel, ‘Maori & European’, pp 67-73, 75-7; Brocker, ‘Stories’, CM; T Lindsay Buick, The French at Akaroa, Wellington 1928, pp 134-5, 145-7; Robinson to Murphy, 21.12.1840, end with IA 1/6, 41/366; Stanley to Hobson, 17.9.1840, GBPP 1843, 311, pp 81-2
93. Murphy to Gov, 18.3.1841, and Robinson to Murphy, 15.10.1840, 8.11.1840 & 21.12.1840, all end with IA 1/6, 41/366; Buick, Akaroa, pp 145-7; Straubel, ‘Maori & European’, pp 75-9; Morton, Whale’s Wake, pp 307-8; info provided by R Dobbie
94. Robinson to Murphy, 21.12.1840, IA 1/6, 41/366
95. Dawson to Shortland, 3.12.1840, and Shortland’s minute, 4.12.1840, IA 1/4, 40/738; Murphy to Shortland, 23.12.1840, IA 1/5, 41/64
96. Gipps to Hobson, 4.4.1840, CO 209/6, 97b; Scholefield, Hobson, p 130; NZ Journal, 13.11.1841; Taylor (ed), Ensign Best, pp 236-7; Harrison to Wakefield, 8.11.1840, NZC 108/1, p 72; Sydney Gazette and NSW Advertiser, 21.4.1840; info from T Hoggard; Heaphy, Narrative, p 12; Scholefield, Hobson, p 151
97. Shortland to Murphy, 25.10.1840, IA 4/1, pp 118-19; Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 409, 436-7, Scholefield, Hobson, p 154
98. Col Sec NSW to Hobson, 3.4.1840, IA 1/1, 40/98; Col Sec to Symonds, 20.5.1840, IA 4/1, 40/42, p 23
99. McCarthy, First Fleet, pp 40-1; Peter Trickett, ‘The Lost City of Cornwallis’, The Listener (NZ), 14.6.1980; Ross, First Capital, pp 16-19; Scholefield, Hobson, pp 148, 151; Sherrin & Wallace, Early History, pp 478, 493
100. J R Phillips, ‘A Social History of Auckland 1840-53’, MA thesis, Auckland University, 1966, pp 22-3; Lee, Bay of Islands , p 237; Hobson to Gipps, 23.10.1840, G 36/1, 40/88; Ross, First Capital, pp 16-19; Symonds to Col Sec, 28.12.1840, and Hobson’s minute, 3.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/117; Symonds to Col Sec, 1.10.1840, IA 1/4, 40/585; Symonds to Col Sec, 14.11.1840, and Hobson’s minute, 24.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/698
101. Hobson to Gipps, 21.7.1840, G 36/1, 40/51; Col Sec to McDonogh, 12.9.1840, IA 4/1, p 72; Col Sec to Beckham, 9.11.1840, IA 4/1, p 131; Beckham to Col Sec, 24.8.1840, IA 1/3, 40/389; Scholefield (ed), DNZB I, p 54
102. Beckham to Hobson, 7.10.1840, IA 1/4, 40/596; Shortland to
995
References to Chapter II
Beckham, 17.11.1840, and Beckham’s minute, end with IA 1/4, 40/683; Beckham to Col Sec, 15.12.1840, IA 1/4, 40/789; McDojiogh to Col Sec, 19.6.1842, IA 1/13, 42/1198; McDonogh to Col Sec, 3.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/632; Col Sec to McDonogh, 18.11.1840, IA 4/1, pp 147-8; Col Sec to McDonogh, 29.12.1840, IA 4/265, 41/6; Col Sec to Woods 14.9.1840, IA 4/1, p 73; Col Sec to Symonds, 9.12.1840, IA 4/1, p 173
103. Walter Brodie, Remarks on the Past and Present State of New Zealand, London 1845, pp 19, 24; Thomson to Hobson, 14.10.1840, IA 1/4, 40/644; Col Sec to Acting Auditor, 9.11.1840, IA 4/1, p 132; Dawson to Col Sec, 26.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/717; New Zealand Gazette and Wellington Spectator, 3.1.1844, end with IA 1/30, 44/608
104. Thomson to Hobson, 17.1.1840, and end, IA 1/1, 40/28; Shortland to Hobson, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/296; Beckham to Col Sec, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/265; Louis E Ward, Early Wellington, Auckland 1929, p 61; Carman, Birth, p 14
105. Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 49, 398, 403-5; Martin, Letters p 89; Murphy to Col Sec, 16.10.1840 & 1.11.1840, IA 1/5, 41/51 & 41/54
106. Murphy to Col Sec, 1.11.1840, IA 1/5, 41/54; Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 398, 403-5
107. Murphy to Hobson, 1.11.1840, and Hobson’s minute, IA 1/5, 41/54; Murphy to Col Sec, 2.11.1840, and Shortland’s minute, 9.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/56; Murphy to Hobson, 27.12.1840, and Hobson’s minute, 6.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/70; Murphy to Col Sec, 23.12.1840, IA 1/9, 41/1681; Wards, Shadow, pp 57-8
108. Hobson to Shortland, 18.2.1840, IA 4/277, 40/1; Shortland to Smart, 21.3.1840, IA 4/277
109. Hobson to Gipps, 21.4.1840, G 36/1, 40/29; Murphy to Col Sec, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/273; McDonogh to Col Sec, 3.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/634
10. Robinson to Murphy, letters end with IA 1/6, 41/366
111. Murphy to Col Sec, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/273; Hobson to Gipps, 18.2.1840, G 36/1, 40/15; Shortland, 27.8.1840 and 29.8.1840, GBPP 1841, 311, pp 83-4; Robinson to Murphy, 15.10.1840, end with IA 1/6, 41/366; Phillips, ‘Social History’, p 31
112. Bunbury, Reminiscences III, pp 53-4; Taylor (ed), Ensign Best, pp 217-8; Ward, Show, p 47; Adams, Fatal Necessity, p 217; Wards, Shadow, pp 52, 57-8; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, p 173; HRA I, vol XX, p 706; Arthur S Thomson, The Story of New Zealand, London 1859, 1970 ed, New York, vol II, pp 25-6; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 227; Johnson to Col Sec, 13.6.1840, IA 1/2, 40/199; Hobson to Gipps, 21.4.1840, G 36/1,
996
630
References to Chapter 111
40/29; Murphy to Col Sec, 23.12.1840, IA 1/9, 41/1681; Hob son to Shortland, 18.2.1840, IA 4/277, 40/1
113. Wards, Shadow, p 379; Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 436-7; RIM Burnett, Penal Transportation: An Episode in New Zealand History, Wellington 1978, pp 5-7
114. Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia, pp 42-3; Blue Book 1840, IA 12/1; Memorial to Hobson, 29.5.1840, IA 1/2, 40/186
115. Smart to Col Sec, 15.12.1840, IA 1/4, 40/790; Woods to Col Sec, 1.9.1840, IA 1/4, 40/582; McDonogh to Col Sec, 3.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/632; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, pp 180-3, 187
116. NZ Advertiser and Bay of Islands Gazette, 17.9.1840; Robinson et alto Col Sec, 14.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/259; Cheyne, ‘Search for a Constitution’, p 189
117. Murphy to Col Sec, 28.12.1840, and Hobson’s minute 11.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/71; Robinson to Murphy, 21.12.1840, end with IA 1/6, 41/366
118. McDonogh to Col Sec, 3.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/632; Col Sec to McDonogh, 9.11.1840, IA 4/1, pp 127, 134; Col Sec to Murphy, 4.1.1841, IA 4/265, 41/2
119. Stephen to Smith, 21.7.1840, CO 209/7, 41a; Murphy to Col Sec, 21.11.1840, and Hobson’s minute, 6.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/58; Cretnay to Col Sec, 14.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/670; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 18.12.1840, IA 4/1, p 178; Marais, Colonization, p 236
120. NZ Gazette, 1841, No 1, 7.7.1841, Supplement B; Symonds tc Col Sec, 2.12.1840, IA 1/4, 40/744; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 19.1.1841, IA 4/265, 41/12
121. Bunbury, Reminiscences 111, p54
Chapter 111
1. Maxwell J G Smart and Arthur P Bates, The Wanganui Story, Wanganui 1972, pp 52, 55, 185; T H Downes, Old Whanganui, Hawera 1915, p 203; NZ Gazette, 1841, No 15, 27.10.1841; ‘Wanganui City History’, vol 11, pp 234-6, ATL
2. Col Sec to Dawson, 5.1.1841, IA 4/265, 41/1; Dawson to Col Sec, 6.4.1841, IA 1/6, 41/355; Dawson to Col Sec, 9.6.1841, and ends, IA 1/7, 41/639; NZ Gazette, 1841, No 1, 7.7.1841, Supplement B; Una Platts, The Lively Capital: Auckland 1840-1865, Christchurch 1971, p 22 3. Dawson to Col Sec, 14.9.1841, IA 1/8, 41/1201; Greenacre et al to Dawson, 13.2.1843, end with IA 1/30, 44/608; NZ Journal, 7.8.1841; E J Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 47, 82; info provided by Wanganui Regional Museum; James Garland Woon, Wanganui Old Settlers, Wanganui 1902, pp 13-14; Richard Taylor,
References to Chapter 111
The Past and Present of New Zealand with its Prospects for the Future, London 1868, pp 329-31
4. Dawson to Col Sec, 14.9.1841, IA 1/8, 41/1201; Wards, Shadow, pp 306-8; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, pp 55-7
5. Heaphy, Narrative, p 139; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 129-30; Downes, Whanganui, p 209; W Wakefield to Wilson, 24.1.1842, NZC 3/2, p 53
6. Dawson to Col Sec, 11.10.1841, IA 1/9, 41/1391; Dawson to Col Sec, 16.8.1842, IA 1/15, 42/1693; Col Sec to Dawson, 21.1.1843, IA 4/265, 43/43
7. Dawson to Col Sec, 8.11.1841, IA 1/10, 42/198; Greenacre et al to Dawson, 13.2.1843, and other ends with IA 1/30, 44/608; Wakefield, Adventure 11, p 306
8. Col Sec to Dawson, 20.1.1843, 43/2062, end with IA 1/30, 44/608; letters from Wilson, Nixon & King, 6.11.1843, and Dawson, 3.10.1843, in NZ Gazette and Wellington Spectator, 3.1.1844, end with IA 1/30, 44/608
9. Col Sec to Dawson, 20.1.1843, and Dawson memorial, 10.1.1844, ends with IA 1/30, 44/608; Col Sec to Dawson, 20.1.1843, IA 4/265, 43/50
10. Dawson letter, 8.12.1843, NZ Gazette and Wellington Spectator, 3.1.1844, end with IA 1/30, 44/608; Dawson to Col Sec 8.11.1841, IA 1/10, 42/198; Smart and Bates, Wanganui pp 185-6; info provided by Wanganui Regional Museum; Tay lor, Past & Present, pp 329-31
11. Wakefield to Col Sec, 17.11.1841, 41/1523, end with Wakefield to Col Sec, 12.1.1842, IA 1/10, 42/151
12. NZ Gazette, 1842, No 5, 2.2.1842; Saunders, History I, pp 171-2; Burns, Te Rauparaha, p 240; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 70; Martin. Letters, pp 168-70; H A Thompson Papers, incl J Abel Smith to A Wakefield, 19.7.1841, Nelson Provincial Museum; Nelson Examiner, 1.4.1844
13. Col Sec to Thompson, 2.2.1842, IA 4/265, 42/13 & 42/15; Co Sec to Thompson, 9.4.1842, IA 4/265, 42/70; Saunders, History I, pp 171-2; Nelson Examiner, 23.4.1842
14. eg Col Sec to Thompson, 17.9.1842 & 23.9.1842, IA 4/265, 42/208 & 42/214; Ruth Allan, Nelson: A History of Early Settlement, Wellington 1965, pp 149-50; Nelson Examiner 30.7.1842, 3.12.1842, also 18.6.1842, 25.6.1842, 2.7.1842 : 9.7.1842, 16.7.1842; H A Thompson’s diary, 8.9.1842 13.10.1842, 20.1.1843, H A Thompson Papers, Nelson Provincial Museum
15. Allan, Nelson, pp 225-7; Grover, Cork of War, pp 156-8; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 71; Wards, Shadow, p 77; J Halket Miller, Beyond the Marble Mountain: Tales of Early
998
References to Chapter 111
Golden Bay, Motueka and Nelson, Nelson 1948; Saunders, History I, pp 188-93; Thompson, diary, 19.10.1842, 15.11.1842, 18.11.1842, Nelson Provincial Museum
16. NZ Gazette, 1843, No 11, 15.3.1843; Thompson, diary, 14.9.1842, 21.1.1843, 1.3.1843, Nelson Provincial Museum; Allan, Nelson, p 156; Martin, Letters, p 171
17. Murphy to Col Sec, 30.1.1843, and ends, IA 1/19, 43/272; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Port Nicholson, 11.2.1841, IA 4/265, 41/22; W A Chambers, Samuel Ironside in New Zealand, 1839-1858, Auckland 1982, pp 127-9, 132-3; Buick, Marlborough, pp 240-3; Grover, Cork of War, pp 147-50; Burns, Te Rauparaha, pp 230, 238; ‘Dairy of Edward Meurant, 1842-1847’, 10.5.1843 entry, APL; C A Mac Donald, Pages from the Past, Blenheim 1933, pp 157-60
iB. Allan, Nelson, pp 251-4; Wards, Shadow, pp 76-7; McDonald to Col Sec, 20.7.1843, and ends, IA 1/24, 43/1559; Buick, Marlborough, pp 244-5, 306f; Grover, Cork of War, pp 158-69; Burns, Te Rauparaha, pp 232-5, 239-40; Marlborough Press, 11.7.1863; Mac Donald, Pages, pp 160f
19. Saunders, History 1, pp 191-5; Wards, Shadow, pp 77-8; Allan, Nelson, pp 251-4; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 396-7; Grover, Cork of War, p 181; Burns, Te Rauparaha, pp 240-2; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 75; Buick, Marlborough, pp 267-302; Mac Donald, Pages, pp 172-3, 177; Nelson Examiner Supplement, 23.12.1843; info from W Tyrrell
20. McDonogh to White, 1.7.1843, 43/1564, end with IA 1/24, 43/1730; Martin, Letters, pp 190-1; Thompson, diary, 9.9.1842, Nelson Provincial Museum; B J Poff, ‘William Fox: Early Colonial Years 1842-1848’, MA thesis, Canterbury University, 1969, pp 34-6; July payments, 2.7.1845, Accounts Book May 1845-Oct 1848, Police Dept, Nelson, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum; NZ Gazette and Wellington Spectator, 21.6.1843
21. White to Col Sec, 5.8.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1722; Col Sec to White, 10.8.1843, IA 4/264, 43/157; Col Sec to White, 12.7.1843, IA 4/265, 43/141; Nelson Examiner, 29.7.1843; NZ Gazette, 1843, No 28, 12.7.1843
22. Poff, ‘Fox’, p 76; NZ Advertiser and Wellington Spectator, 31.12.1842; Carman, Birth, p 108; Lowther Broad, The Jubilee History of Nelson from 1842 to 1892, Nelson 1892, pp 83-4; Blue Book 1844, IA 12/6, p 92; Wards, Shadow, pp 81-2; FitzRoy to Stanley, 15.4.1844, CO 209/27, 268 a; Col Sec to Richmond, 15.7.1843, IA 4/265, 43/144; Col Sec to White, 15.7.1843, IA 4/265, 43/145; White to Col Sec, 5.8.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1723
23. Fitzßoy to Stanley, 15.4.1844, CO 209/27, 268 a; NZ Gazette
999
References to Chapter 111
1844, No 9, 16.3.1844; lan Wards, ‘The First Militia’, typescript provided by author
24. Grey to Sinclair, 15.9.1847, G 36/2, p 197; Blue Book 1847, IA 12/8; PofF, ‘Fox’, p 72; Nelson Examiner, 4.5.1844, 22.5.1847, 5.6.1847, 19.6.1847; Saxton diary, 111, pp 52-9, 17.5.18476.6.1847, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum
25. Blue Book 1842, IA 12/3, pp 111-2, 135-6; Col Sec to King, 23.3.1842, IA 4/265, 42/56; NZ Gazette, 1842, No 12, 23.3.1842; J S Tullett, The Industrious Heart, New Plymouth 1981, pp 11, 45, 188; J Rutherford and W H Skinner, The Establishment of the New Plymouth Settlement in New Zealand 1841-1843, New Plymouth 1940, 1969 ed, pp 54, 101, 105, 221-2; B Wells, The History of Taranaki, New Plymouth 1878, p 64; NZ Gazette, 1841, No 15, 27.10.1841
26. Tullett, Industrious Heart, p 188; Wakefield, Adventure 11, p 306; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, pp 60-1, 78, 82-5, 87; Wells, Taranaki, p 97; E 0 E Hill, ‘Chronicles of an Unquiet Land: Taranaki, 1861-1881’, typescript provided by author, pp 24-33
27. Col Sec to King, 31.3.1842, IA 4/265, 42/63; Tullett, Industrious Heart, p 188; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, pp 126-7; Marais, Colonization, pp 138-9
28. NZ Gazette, 1842, No 32, 10.8.1842, notice of 4.8.1842; Edward Shortland, The Southern Districts of New Zealand, London 1851, pp 251-3; Sinclair, Origins, p 29; E M Stokes, A History of Tauranga County, Palmerston North 1980, p 60
29. Col Sec to Symonds, 17.11.1841, IA 4/265, 41/172; Thomson to Hobson, 14.12.1840, IA 1/5, 41/95; NZ Herald and Auckland Gazette, 10.7.1841; Mrs Felton Mathew, ‘Journal of a Voyage to New Zealand’, 12.9.1840, p 83, APL; John Pascoe, Explorers and Travellers, Wellington 1971, 1983 ed, pp 19-21
30. Trickett, ‘Lost City’; Platts, Lively Capital, pp 24-5; NZ Journal, 14.5.1842; Dick Scott, Fire on the Clay: The Pakeha Comes to West Auckland, Auckland 1979, pp 32-3
31. NZ Gazette, 1841, No 2, 14.7.1841; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 19.1.1841, IA 4/265, 41/12; Dawson to Col Sec, 3.4.1841, IA 1/6, 41/338; Return of Port Nicholson Police, 15.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/296; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 6.1.1841, IA 4/265, 41/3; Beckham to Col Sec, 17.12.1846, IA 1/53, 46/1919
32. Col Sec to Mathew, 31.1.1842, IA 4/265, 42/20; Col Sec to Beckham, 2.3.1842, IA 4/265, 42/44; Blue Book 1842, IA 12/3; NZ Gazette, 1842, No 1, 5.1.1842, 1844, No 18, 2.7.1844; Sec of State to Gov, 27.6.1843, CO 209/16, 309b; Mathew to Col Sec, 1.6.1843, IA 1/22, 43/1194; Platts, Lively Capital, pp 33, 62, 74; EC 1/1, 26.12.1844; Grey to Sinclair, 21.7.1846, G 36/2, p 182;
1000
References to Chapter 111
Blue Book 1845, IA 12/7; Mathew to Col Sec, 23.8.1847, 47/1556, end with IA 1/61, 47/1683
33. Ross, First Capital, pp 58-9; Martin, Letters, pp 135, 151 Scholefield (ed), DNZB I, p 259; Blue Book 1841, IA 12/2 Platts, Lively Capital, p 32; Phillips, ‘Social History’, p 126 Marais, Colonization, p 235
34. Beckham to Col Sec, 2.5.1842, IA 1/12, 42/762; Beckham to Col Sec, 22.3.1843, and ends, IA 1/20, 43/555; expenditure estimates 1842, in Hobson to Stanley, 4.8.1841, GBPP 1842, 568; Hobson to Stanley, 30.6.1842, GBPP 1843, 58, letter 12; Stanley to Shortland, 14.3.1843, GBPP 1843, 25, letter 13; Lee, Bay of Islands, pp 244-5
35. Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, p4; Thomson to Col Sec, 31.10.1840, 41/31, with IA 1/9, 41/1434; Col Sec NSW to Col Sec NZ, 16.8.1841, and end Shaw to Gipps, 2.7.1841, IA 1/8, 41/1095; Beckham to Col Sec, 10.11.1841, and end Shaw to Hobson, 14.10.1841, 41/1187, IA 1/9, 41/1443; Col Sec to Acting Police Magistrate, Russell, 7.12.1841, IA 4/265, 41/187; Col Sec to Acting Police Magistrate, Auckland, 7.12.1841, IA 4/265, 41/189; info provided by NSW Police
36. Beckham to Col Sec, 10.11.1841, and end Shaw to Hobson, 14.10.1841, 41/1187, IA 1/9, 41/1443
37. Hector to Shortland, 7.1.1843, end with IA 1/20, 43/555; Beckham to Col Sec, 25.7.1842, IA 1/14, 42/1397; Col Sec to Beckham, 13.8.1842 & 27.3.1843, IA 4/265, 42/179 & 43/45; Beckham to Col Sec. 29.3.1843, IA 1/20, 43/558; Col Sec to Beckham, 7.4.1843, IA 4/265, 43/61; Watson to SSD, 17.6.1846, 46/312, end with NM 8/23, 50/1166
38. Col Sec to Beckham, 11.1.1843, IA 4/265, 43/3; NZ Gazette 1843, No 3, 18.1.1843
39. Col Sec to McDonogh, 12.1.1841 & 9.2,1841, IA 4/265, 41/9 & 41/21; Beckham to Col Sec, 11.1.1841, and Hobson’s minute, IA 1/5, 41/35; McDonogh to Col Sec, 15.1.1841, IA 1/5, 41/85; Domett to Col Sec, 9.5.1848, and ends, IA 1/69, 48/1330; McDonogh to Col Sec, 12.1.1843 & 29.1.1843, IA 1/18,43/82 & 43/136
40. Col Sec to Beckham, 11.1.1843, IA 4/265,43/3; OLC 1/22, 468; Beckham to Col Sec, 7.11.1843, and ends, IA 1/26, 43/2262; John Webster, Reminiscences of an Old Settler in Australia and New Zealand, Christchurch 1908, p 258
41. Col Sec to Beckham, 10.10.1843, IA 4/265, 43/223; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, p 130; Blue Book 1843, IA 12/5, pp 96-7; M W Standish, The Waimate Mission Station, Wellington 1962, pp 34-5
42. Col Sec to Beckham, 10.10.1843 & 6.8.1844, IA 4/265, 43/223
1001
References to Chapter 111
& 44/91; NZ Gazette, 1844, No 19, 23.7.1844; Sinclair to Beckham, 10.7.1844, GNZ MSS 245, Grey Collection, APL; Brodie, Remarks, pp 147-51
43. Clarke to Col Sec, 30.9.1844, 44/2055, end with IA 1/75, 49/158; Col Sec to St Aubyn, 30.12.1844, IA 4/265, 44/125; Sinclair to Beckham, 10.7.1844, GNZ MSS 245, Grey Collection, APL
44. St Aubyn to Col Sec, 31.12.1844, and Hobson’s minute, 15.2.1845, IA 1/40, 45/124; Col Sec to St Aubyn, 18.2.1845, IA 4/266, 45/19; Grey to Sinclair, 12.4.1847, G 36/2, p 160; Beckham to Fitzßoy, 10.1.1845, GNZ MSS 240, Grey Collection, APL; Fitzßoy to Beckham, 25.1.1845, GNZ MSS 245, ibid ; Beckham to Fitzßoy, 14.1.1845, 16.1.1845, 11.2.1845, 27.2:1845, 28.2.1845, 9.3.1845, 11.3.1845, GNZ MSS 240, ibid-, Wards, Shadow, pp 116f; Andersen & Petersen, Mair Family, pp 39-40; Martin, Letters, pp 340-1; Fitzßoy to Stanley, 26.3.1845, GBPP 1845, 517; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, pp 87f; Southern Cross, 22.3.1845; Godfrey Charles Mundy, Our Antipodes, vol 11, London 1852, pp 188-9; James Cowan, The New Zealand Wars, vol I, Wellington 1922, 1955 ed, pp 31-2
45. Col Sec to Symonds, 24.1.1845 & 19.3.1845, IA 4/266, 45/9 & 45/31; Symonds to Col Sec, 4.4.1845, IA 1/42, 45/584; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian, 8.3.1845; NZ Gazette, 1845, No 6, 25.3.1845; Symonds to Col Sec, 19.3.1845, 45/16, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
46. Col Sec to Beckham, 1.4.1845, IA 4/226, 45/37; Col Sec to Berrey, 1.4.1845, IA 4/266, 45/38; Col Sec to Beckham, 3.7.1845, IA 4/266, 45/49; NZ Gazette, 1845, No 7, 12.4.1845; Wards, ‘Militia’; Platts, Lively Capital, pp 122-4; Southern Cross, 22.3.1845; Symonds to Gov, 17.3.1845, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland; L Barber, ‘The Militia’, typescript provided by author
47. NZ Gazette, 1845, No 5, 3.3.1845; Col Sec to Watson, 18.2.1845, 23.6.1845 & 27.10.1845, IA 4/266, 45/22, 45/47 & 45/79; Blue Book 1845, IA 12/7; NZ Gazette, 1845, No 21, 2.8.1845; John R Godley (ed), Letters from Early New Zealand by Charlotte Godley 1850-1853, Christchurch 1951, p 264
48. Col Sec to St Aubyn, 10.6.1845, IA 4/266, 45/42; Southern Cross, 29.3.1845; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian , 10.5.1845
49. Kororareka Police Report, 3.6.1840, IA 1/2, 40/293; Col Sec to Clendon, 11.4.1845, IA 4/266, 45/43; NZ Gazette , 1845, No 7, 12.4.1845; Standish, Waimate, p 37; Lee, Bay of Islands ,
1002
References to Chapter 111
pp 261f; L Barber, ‘The Red Tribe Arrives’, typescript provided by author; James Belich, ‘The New Zealand Wars 1845-1870: An Analysis of their History and Interpretation’, PhD thesis, Oxford University, 1981, p 22
50. Clendon to Gov, 22.5.1846, IA 1/49, 46/692; Gov to Sec of State, 20.5.1846, G 25/2; Clendon to Col Sec, 19.3.1846, 46/366, and other ends, with IA 1/49, 46/714; NZ Gazette, 1846, No 23, 30.12.1846; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 26.3.1846, IA 4/266, 46/16; Col Sec to Clendon, 12.11.1846 & 17.12.1846, IA 4/266, 46/109 & 46/136
51. Wakefield, Adventure I, p 476
52. Sydney Gazette and NSW Advertiser, 21.4.1840; NZ Journal, 19.6.1841, 24.4.1841; Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 412-3, 11, p 305; Wards, Shadow, pp 57-8
53. NZ Journal, 19.6.1841; Somes to Stanley, 23.7.1842, Report from Select Committee, GBPP, App D, No 114, p 523; Wakefield, Adventure I, p 472; Carman, Birth, p 24
54. NZ Journal, 7.8.1841; Wards, Shadow, pp 74-5; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 52
55. W Wakefield to Sec NZC, 8.2.1842, NZC 112/1, desp 83; W Wakefield to Sec NZC, NZC 3/21, desp 97; Wards, Shadow, p 58; Wells, Taranaki, p 81
56. NZ Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, 25.7.1843; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 304-6; Murphy to Col Sec, 20.1.1843, IA 1/19, 43/268
57. Murphy to Col Sec, 20.1.1843, IA 1/19, 43/268; Col Sec to Murphy, 24.1.1843, IA 4/265, 43/34; Col Sec to Murphy, 21.3.1843, IA 4/1, 43/39; Allan, Nelson, p 158; Wakefield, Adventure 11, p 305; Carman, Birth, p 172; Wells, Taranaki, p 82
58. NZ Gazette 1843, No 11, 15.3.1843; McDonogh to Col Sec, 29.3.1843, IA 1/22, 43/1036; Col Sec to McDonogh, 14.3.1843, IA 4/265, 43/16; Home to Col Sec, 12.11.1843, 44/1656, end with IA 1/27, 44/36
59. NZ Gazette, 1841, No 1, 7.7.1841; Shortland to CO, 18.5.1843, ff 69 & 70, CO 209/21, desp 33
60. NZ Gazette, 1843, No 28, 12.7.1843; Col Sec to Richmond, 15.7.1843, IA 4/265, 43/144; Col Sec to Thompson, 2.2.1842, with ends, IA 4/265, 42/13
61. Poff, ‘Fox’, pp 37-9; Martin, Letters, pp 173-4; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 527-8
62. Martin, Letters, p 173; Fitzßoy to Stanley, 15.4.1844, CO 209/27, 268 a, desp 12; Stanley to Fitzßoy, 24.1.1845, CO 406/4, 129bf, desp 1; B R Patterson, ‘Rising Settler Feeling:
1003
References to Chapter 111
The Politics of Frustration’, typescript provided by author, p 10
63. Col Sec to Robinson, 19.5.1842, IA 4/265, 42/106; Murphy to Col Sec, 27.9.1842, IA 1/16, 42/1788; Richmond to Robinson, 1.3.1844, NM 10/1, 44/19; M W Standish, ‘Government Administration in New Zealand, 1848-1852’, MA thesis, Wellington 1948, pp 5, 38; NZ Gazette, 1847, No 24, 23.11.1847
64. Stanley to Fitzßoy, 24.1.1845, CO 406/4, 129b f; Blue Book 1844, IA 12/6; EC 1/1, 4.2.1845; NZ Gazette, 1844, No 3, 20.1.1844; Murphy to Hobson, 18.3.1841, IA 1/6, 41/366; Sec of State to Hobson, draft of 24.6.1842, CO 209/10, 279; McDonogh to SSD, 13.8.1844, IA 1/36, 44/1955
65. Saunders, History I, pp 213-4; SSD to Symonds, 28.3.1844, GBPP 1845, 369; Eccles, Old Identities, pp 9-10; George Clarke, Notes on Early Life in New Zealand, Hobart 1903, pp 60-6
66. Symonds to Col Sec, 4.4.1845, and minutes, IA 1/42, 45/584; Col Sec to Symonds, 24.1.1845, IA 4/266, 45/9; McDonogh to Gov, 14.9.1848, NM 8/12, 48/1046; Wards, ‘Militia’, p 23; Patterson, ‘Settler Feeling’, p 10; William Bertram White, ‘Reminiscences 1821-1908’, typescript, ATL, p43
67. Fitzßoy memo, 20.3.1845, 45/59, end with IA 1/46, 45/2057; Scholefield (ed), DNZB 11, p 270; NZ Gazette, 1845, No 9, 3.5.1845; W David Mclntyre (ed), The Journal of Henry Sewell 1853-7, vol I, Christchurch 1980, p 218; Agreement of Settlers, 1839, CO 208/284
68. SSD to St Hill, 28.5.1846, NM 10/6, pp 92-4; Wards, Shadow, pp 268, 271; Patterson, ‘Settler Feeling’, pp Ilf; Wellington Independent, 31.5.1845
69. Richmond to Gov, 7.5.1844, NM 10/2, 14A; 24/1/116, f 10, folder 375, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
70. NZ Gazette, 1844, No 21, 5.9.1844; Blue Book 1844, IA 12/6; Col Sec to SSD, 11.2.1845, NM 8/2, 45/98; SSD to Police Magistrate, Petre, 10.6.1845, NM 10/5, p 166; Downes, Whanganui, pp 227-9, 232-3, 235-6; Fitzßoy to Col Sec, 2.1.1845, and other ends, IA 1/40, 45/272; King to Col Sec, 2.7.1845, IA 1/44, 45/1486; Wards, Shadow, pp 313f, 322, 326-7
71. SSD to King, 18.3.1847, NM 10/6, p 219; 24/1/116, f 10, folder 375, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Wards, Shadow, p 328
12. Mclntyre (ed), Sewell I, p 218; Stanley to Fitzßoy, 15.12.1843, CO 406/4, 34af
73. James Hay, Reminiscences of Earliest Canterbury (Principally Banks’ Peninsula) and its Settlers, Christchurch 1915, p 133; Burnett, Executive Discretion, p5; Col Sec to Robinson, 10.12.1841, IA 4/265, 41/192; NZ Journal, 4.9.1841, end with IA 1/11, 42/430
1004
References to Chapter 111
74. Robinson to Col Sec, 2.9.1842, IA 1/16, 42/1770; Robinson to Col Sec, 19.5.1845, IA 1/43, 45/1141; Mclntyre (ed), Sewell I, p 331; Brocker, ‘Stories’, CM
75. Desps to Fitzßoy, 5.6.1843 and 20.11.1843, CO 209/21, pp 161-2, 169-70; Addington to Stephen, 6.11.1843, CO 209/25, 77; Fitzßoy to Col Sec, 2.1.1845, end with IA 1/40, 45/272; SSD to Robinson, 9.1.1845, NM 10/3, p 86
76. Robinson to SSD, 31.1.1845 & 23.4.1845, NM 8/2, 45/80 & 45/183
77. FitzRoy to SSD, 21.1.1845, NM 8/2, 45/40; Southern Cross. 29.3.1845; Robinson to Col Sec, 30.6.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1779; Morton, Whale's Wake, pp 290-1; Robinson to Gov, 16.7.1845, 45/1189, end with IA 1/45, 45/1791
78. Robinson to SSD, 10.3.1845, NM 8/2, 45/129; Robinson to Col Sec, 30.6.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1779; Robinson to Col Sec, 20.3.1844, and minutes by Swainson, 44/1719, end with IA 1/35, 44/1793; Taylor, Banks Peninsula
79. Watson to Gov, 1.1.1846, 46/214, end with IA 1, 50/743; NZ Gazette, 1845, No 21, 2.8.1845; Blue Book 1847, IA 12/8, pp 94-5; Hay, Reminiscences, pp 136-7; E J Burke, ‘Reminiscences of Old Canterbury’, p 7, MS, ATL; Buick, Akaroa, p 273; Straubel, ‘Maori & European’, p 84; Brocker, ‘Stories’, CM
80. Blue Book 1842, IA 12/3, p 57; LC minutes, 21.1.1842, Supplement in NZ Gazette, 1842, No 6, 9.2.1842; Thompson to Col Sec, 18.2.1843 & 21.2.1843, IA 1/19, 43/321 & 43/323; Fisher to Col Sec, 26.2.1842, IA 1/11, 42/337; Robinson to Col Sec, 20.3.1844, and minutes by Swainson, 44/1719, end with IA 1/35, 44/1793
81. Murphy to Gov, 18.3.1844, IA 1/6, 41/366; Murphy to Gov, 17.9.1842, with ends, IA 1/15, 42/1687; Robinson to Murphy, 28.2.1842, and Hobson’s minute, 13.5.1842, end with IA 1/12, 42/825; Col Sec to Robinson, 19.5.1842, IA 4/265, 42/102-3
82. Lavaud to Robinson, 28.12.1842, including extracts of Hobson to Lavaud, 21.9.1841, 43/257, and other ends, with IA 1/23, 43/1425; Hobson to Sec of State, 5.11.1841, GBPP 1842, 569, 41/24; Robinson to Col Sec, 1.8.1842 and 7.8.1842, end with IA 1/15, 42/1687; Shortland to CO, 30.3.1843, and ends, CO 209/20, 56f; Robinson to Col Sec, 30.9.1842, IA 1/17, 42/2145
83. Robinson to Col Sec, 28.2.1843, 43/866, end with IA 1/23, 43/1425; Shortland to CO, 30.3.1843, and ends, CO 209/20, 56f; Buick, Akaroa, pp 251-5; Straubel, ‘Maori & European’, pp 79-80; Col Sec to Robinson, 11.4.1843, IA 4/265, 43/63
84, Robinson to Col Sec, 28.2.1843, 43/866, end with IA 1/23, 43/1425; Col Sec to Robinson, 11.4.1843, IA 4/265, 43/63; Murphy to Col Sec, 17.9.1842, and ends, IA 1/15, 42/1687;
1005
References to Chapter 111
Thompson to Col Sec, 31.1.1842, IA 1/10, 42/177; Col Sec to Thompson, 2.2.1842, IA 4/265, 42/17
85. King to Col Sec, 21.5.1842, IA 1/13, 42/1053
86. Col Sec to Thompson, 3.2.1842, IA 4/265, 42/13
87. Wards, Shadow, p 84; C J Colbert, ‘The Working Class in Nelson under the New Zealand Company, 1841-1851’, MA thesis, Wellington 1948, pp 36-40; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, pp 120-3; F C Mather, Public Order in the Age of the Chartists, Manchester 1959, pp 6-9; Goodway, Chartism, pp 125-6, 221
88. Allan, Nelson, pp 278-80
89. Wards, Shadow, p 85; Allan, Nelson, p 279; Richmond to White, 8.9.1843, and other ends, with IA 1/27, 44/36; Col Sec to Richmond, 16.11.1843, IA 4/265, 43/256; Col Sec to White, 16.11.1843, IA 4/265, 43/257
90. Allan, Nelson, pp 278-9; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 123; White to Richmond, 31.8.1843 & 4.9.1843, end with IA 1/27, 44/36
91. White to Richmond, 25.9.1843, end with IA 1/26, 43/2024; Home to Shortland, 15.10.1843, CO 209/23, 529-36; Col Sec to Home, 12.11.1844, 44/1656, and White to Richmond, 4.9.1843, both end with IA 1/27, 44/36; Wards, Shadow, pp 85-7; Allan, Nelson, pp 281-4; Broad, Nelson, p 64
92. Wards, Shadow, pp 86-7; Allan, Nelson, pp 354-6; Poff, ‘Fox' pp 80-3
93. Grimstone to Police Magistrate, Nelson, 17.6.1844, NM 10/3, p 21; Colbert, ‘Working Class’, pp 60-3, 67; Allan, Nelson, pp 355-6; Poff, ‘Fox’, pp 80-3, 86-7; Miller, Early Victorian NZ, p 125; Wellington Independent, 20.2.1850; A D Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough: A Provincial History, Blenheim 1940, p 133
94. Wards, Shadow, p 54; Ward, Show, pp 37-40, 46-54; J Rutherford, Sir George Grey, London 1961, p 77; Brodie, Remarks, p 108
95. Murphy to Col Sec, 24.4.1841, IA 1/6, 41/502; Murphy to Col Sec, 29.4.1841, IA 1/7, 41/754
96. Murphy to Col Sec, 14.4.1841, IA 1/6, 41/444; Burns, Te Rauparaha, pp 226-7; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 24-5; NZ Journal, 13.11.1841
97. Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 34-7; Dawson to Hobson, 24.9.1841, and end, IA 1/10, 42/195; Miller, Early Victorian NZ
98. Hobson to Beckham, 5.12.1841, private, G 36/1; Hobson to Sec of State, 16.12.1841, GBPP 1842, 569; Alan Ward, ‘Lawenforcement on the New Zealand Frontier, 1840-1893’, NZJH, Oct 1971, p 132; Wards, Shadow, p 54; Brodie, Remarks,
1006
References to Chapter 111
pp 147-51; Maurice Lennard, Motuarohia, Auckland 1959, pp 18-31
99. Hobson to Beckham, 5.12.1841, private, G 36/1; Fisher to Col Sec, 1.12.1841, IA 1/9, 41/1502; Beckham to Col Sec, 3.12.1841, IA 1/9, 41/1556; Kororareka petition, 15.12.1841, IA 1/10, 42/79
100. William Swainson, New Zealand and its Colonization, London 1859, pp 56-61; Lennard, Motuarbhia, pp 18-31; Hobson to Stanley, 12.3.1842, CO 209/14, 86f; EC 1/1, 29.12.1843
101. Kirk Page, A Tangled Web, Auckland 1982; Platts, Lively Capital, p 133; CAL Treadwell, Notable New Zealand Trials, New Plymouth 1936, pp 1-12; Phillips, ‘Social History’, pp 178-181; Dudley G Dyne, Famous New Zealand Murders, Auckland 1969, chap 2; CS 48/699 and CS 48/1377, end with P 1, 93/243; EC 1/1, 29.12.1843
102. Gardner to Hobson, 5.10.1842, CO 209/14, 346f; Wards, Shadow, p 55; Shortland, Southern Districts, pp 131-5; Wakefield, Adventure 11, p 332; Beckham to Col Sec, 19.2.1842, and Hobson’s minute, IA 1/11, 42/340
103. Ward, Show, pp 58-9, 62, 65-7; Burnett, Executive Discretion, p 10; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 218-22; Wards, Shadow, pp 65-9; Auckland Chronicle, 21.12.1842; W H Gifford and H Bradney Williams, A Centennial History of Tauranga, Dunedin 1940, pp 127-32; Stokes, Tauranga County, p 60
104. Heaphy, Narrative, pp 65-6; Mathew to Col Sec, 21.2.1842, IA 1/10, 42/293
105. Murphy to Col Sec, 17.9.1842, and end Robinson to Murphy, 30.6.1842, IA 1/15, 42/1687; Murphy to Col Sec, and end Robinson to Murphy, 31.1.1842, IA 1/12, 42/825
106. Martin, Letters, p 159; Clarke to Col Sec, 13.12.1841, and ends, IA 1/15, 41/249
107. King to Col Sec, 2.12.1842, 43/55, and Hobson’s minute, end with King to Col Sec, 5.1.1843, IA 1/18, 43/54; Col Sec to King, 9.2.1843, IA 4/265, 43/51
108. Dawson to Col Sec, 30.4.1842, IA 1/13, 42/1021; Dawson to Col Sec, 24.2.1842, and Hobson’s minute, 2.5.1842, IA 1/12, 42/674; Clarke, Notes, pp 52-4
109. Murphy to Col Sec, 20.1.1842, and ends, IA 1/11, 42/422; Murphy to Col Sec, 14.4.1841, IA 1/6, 41/444; Murphy to Col Sec, 29.4.1842, 42/1049, end with Murphy to Col Sec, 11.6.1842, IA 1/14, 42/1287; Hobson to Murphy, 29.7.1842, IA 4/265, 42/169; W Wakefield to Sec NZC, 28.4.1842, NZC 3/2, desp 83; Clarke, Notes, pp 52-4
110. Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 190-2; Murphy to Col Sec, 24.9.1842, 42/1786, end with Murphy to Col Sec, 18.1.1843, IA 1/19, 43/357
1007
References to Chapter 111
111. NZ Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, 20.6.1843, 27.6.1843; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 399-400; Burns, Te Rauparaha, p 247; Col Sec to McDonogh, 15.7.1843, IA 4/265, 43/146; McDonogh report, 27.6.1843, end with IA 1/290, 70/3598
112. Wards, Shadow, pp 78-81; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 403-5; McDonogh to Col Sec, 1.8.1843, 43/1644, end with IA 1/25, 43/1956; Richmond to Col Sec, 12.8.1843, and end proclamation, 26.7.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1709; Col Sec to Richmond, 11.9.1843, IA 4/265, 43/190; Poff, ‘Fox’, pp 37-8
113. Richmond to Col Sec, 12.8.1843, and ends, IA 1/24, 43/1709; Wards, ‘Militia’, p 26; McDonogh to Col Sec, 1.8.1843, 43/1644, end with IA 1/25, 43/1956; Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 406-11,418; Richmond to Col Sec, 12.8.1843 & 13.9.1843, NM 10/1
114. Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 423-4, 490-1, 501; Ward, Show, p 65; Burnett, Executive Discretion, p 13; Richmond to Col Sec, 11.12.1843 & 21.12.1843, IA 1/27, 44/11 & 44/17; W Wakefield to Sec NZC, 12.12.1843, NZC 3/3, desp 83; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 191-2; Grover, Cork of War, pp 199-200
115. Robinson’s reports, end with Murphy to Col Sec, 11.6.1842, IA 1/14, 42/1284; Hay, Reminiscences, p 58; Robinson to Col Sec, 28.2.1843, 43/865, end with Robinson to Col Sec, 8.7.1843, IA 1/23, 43/1425; Col Sec to Robinson, 15.5.1843, IA 4/265, 43/73
116. Robinson to Col Sec, 8.7.1843, and Hobson’s minute, 12.7.1843, IA 1/23, 43/1425; Col Sec to Robinson, 15.7.1843, IA 4/265, 43/147; Hay, Reminiscences, pp 23-6; Elisabeth Ogilvie, Purau, Christchurch 1970, pp 22-7, 36
117. Broad, Nelson, pp 92-4; Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 28-31; Poff, ‘Fox’ pp 63-71
118. Col Sec to King, 20.6.1843, 17.7.1843, 29.8.1843, 30.8.1843 10.11.1843, 23.11.1843 & 25.3.1844, IA 4/265, 43/120, 43/152 43/171, 43/172, 43/235 & 43/265, 44/48
119. Ironside to Richmond, 12.7.1843, end with IA 1/24, 43/1709; Wakefield, Adventure 11, p 483
120. Reports, pp 2-7, GBPP 1844, 556; Wards, Shadow ; Martin, Letters, pp 192-4; Platts, Lively Capital, pp9o-l; Phillips, ‘Social History’, p 27; Burnett, Executive Discretion, p 13; Mathew to Col Sec, 20.2.1844, 44/22, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
121. Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 224-6; Ward, Show, p 66; Burnett, Executive Discretion, p 13; Stanley to Fitzßoy, 13.8.1844, CO 209/31, 407f, desp 31; V C Butler, ‘Captain Fitzßoy’s Governorship’, MA thesis, Auckland 1939, pp 45-6; info from J Adams
1008
References to Chapter IV
122. Coates to de Thierry, 27.3.1841, G 36/1, 41/20; Coates to McDonogh, 4.4.1841, G 36/1, 41/23; St Aubyn to Col Sec, Aug 1844 with St Aubyn to Col Sec, 12.8.1844, and Clarke to Col Sec, 30.9.1844, all end in IA 1/75, 49/158; St Aubyn to Col Sec, 9.9.1844, IA 1/36, 44/1991
123. Fitzßoy to Stanley, 19.10.1844, and ends, GBPP 1845, 369, p3l; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian, 9.11.1844; info provided by K Slattery; Southern Cross, 19.10.1844
124. Fitzßoy to Stanley, 19.10.1844, GBPP 1845, 369, p 31; ends 44/2090, 44/2155, 44/2227, in IA 1/75, 49/158; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 24.10.1844, IA 4/265, 44/109; Ward, Show, pp 69-71; Wards, Shadow, pp 103, 229-30; Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 7-8; Fitzßoy to Beckham, 15.1.1845, GBPP 1845, 517; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian, 21.6,1845; Brodie, Remarks, pp 146-50; info provided by K Slattery
125. St Aubyn to Col Sec, 3.3.1845, 45/505, and minutes by Fitzßoy and Clarke, 20.3.1845, end with IA 1/75, 49/158
126. Clarke, Notes, pp 73-80, 87-8; ‘Journal of J R Clendon 1839-1872’, p 7, MSS 476, APL
127. Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 5-11; Sinclair to SSD, 10.4.1845, IA 1/42, 45/850
128. Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 18-21; Grimstone to Chief Police Magistrate, Wellington, 19.6.1845, NM 10/5, pp 170-1; SSD to FitzRoy, 20.11.1845 & 6.1.1846, NM 10/2
129. Robinson to SSD, 12.3.1845, IA 1/42, 45/673; Robinson to SSD, 23.4.1845, NM 8/2, 45/181; Grimstone to Robinson, 10.4.1845, NM 10/3, pp 105-7; SSD to Robinson, 28.6.1845, NM 10/3, p 125; Robinson to Col Sec, 16.6.1845 & 30.6.1845, IA 1/44, 45/1309 & 45/1310
130. Southern Cross, 29.7.1843, 4.11.1843, 23.12.1843, 1.2.1845 131. Carman, Birth, pp 24-8, 34f, 46-7, 56, 95-6; W P Morrell, The Provincial System in New Zealand, 1852-1876, Christchurch 1964, pp 27-30
132. Carman, Birth, pp 118, 124, 152, 156-7, 169
133. Southern Cross, 8.6.1844
134. Wards, Shadow, pp 95,166-7,170-3,352; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 224-6, 228; Ward, Show, pp 70-1
Chapter IV
1. Critchley, Conquest, pp 68-9; King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 206, 212; P S O’Hegarty, A History of Ireland under the Union 1801 to 1922, London 1952, pp 401-2; Lyons, Ireland, p 64; Sinclair & Scully, Arresting Memories
642
References to Chapter IV
2. Haydon, Trooper Police, pp 249-51; Douglas Pike, Paradise of Dissent: South Australia 1829-1857, London 1957, pp 288-91, 293; Robert Clyne, ‘The 96th Regiment and the West Coast subdued: 1842’, typescript provided by author, pp 1-6; f 58, 4.3.1847, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Rutherford, Grey, pp 5-7, 24
3. NZ Journal, 30.10.1841; Rutherford, Grey, pp 18-19, 52-4, 58, 61
4. Clyne, ‘96th Regiment’, pp 13-22
5. Stanley to Hobson, 10.9.1842, CO 209/14, p 195; Russell to Hobson, 25.12.1840, CO 209/6, pp 190-6; Wards, Shadow, pp 52, 57, 59; Adams, Fatal Necessity, p 217
6. Stanley to Fitzßoy, 13.8.1844, CO 209/31, 402f; Wards, Shadow, p 188
7. Russell to Hobson, 25.12.1840, CO 209/6, pp 190-6; Grey to Stanley, 11.12.1845, CO 209/38, p 145; Grey to Stanley, 6.11.1846, CO 209/46, pp 18-23; Pike, Paradise of Dissent, p291; Adams, Fatal Necessity, pp 215-7; New Zealander, 18.7.1846; Clyne, ‘96th Regiment’, p 13; Hill, ‘Maori Policing’
8. Grey to Stanley, 6.11.1846, CO 209/46, pp 18-2:
9. Grey to Despard, 5.12.1845, end with Grey to Stanley, 11.12.1845, CO 209/38, p 145; Grey to Stanley, 10.12.1845, CO 209/38, p 129; Anne Allingham, Taming the Wilderness, Townsville 1977, p 148; Celia Thomas, ‘Native Police’, Police Life, Nov 1983; Wards, Shadow, pp 210-2; Ward, Show, p 75; Rutherford, Grey, pp 93-4; Col Sec to SSD, 46/500, end with IA 1/48, 46/599
10. Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 39-42
11. Grover, Cork of War, p 259; Wards, Shadow, pp 210-2, 243-5
12. Grey to Stanley, 22.4.1846, and memo of 19.4.1846, G 30/9, No 36; Field, ‘Police, Power and Community’, p 48; Burns, Te Rauparaha, p 271; Foucault, Discipline & Punish, p 166
13. Grover, Cork of War, pp 266-70; Grey to Stanley, 6.11.1846 CO 209/46, pp 18-23; Stephen, Criminal Law I, p 215
14. McDonogh to Grey, 14.9.1848, NM 8/12, 48/1046; SSD to Durie, 9.4.1846. NM 10/5, p 293; Blue Book 1847, IA 12/8, pp 94-5; Grover, Cork of War, p 293; Agreement of Settlers, CO 208/284; Durie to McDonogh, 30.6.1843, CO 209/22, p 394; Wards, Shadow, p 254; NZ Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, 13.1.1843; NZ Journal, 4.10.1851; NZ Gazette, 1846, No 8, 7.5.1846; Elsie Locke, The Gaoler, Palmerston North 1978, pp 24-5; Wards, ‘Militia’, p 23
15. SSD to Durie, 9.4.1846, NM 10/5, pp 290-1; Wards, Shadow, p 254; Sayer to SSD, 17.2.1846, NM 8/4, 46/29; info from W Houston; pay extracts, Wellington Police Dept, Oct 1846,
1010
References to Chapter IV
NM 8/SA, 46/489 A; Durie to SSD, 14.4.1846 & 16.4.1846, NM 8/4, 46/210 & 46/212
16. Wards, Shadow, pp 253-9; Grey to Stanley, 22.4.1846, end memo of 19.4.1846, G 30/9, No 36; Richmond to Col Sec, 13.5.1846, NM 10/4; Col Sec to SSD, 20.6.1846, 46/500, end with IA 1/48, 46/599
17. NZ Journal, 26.9.1846; Wards, Shadow, p 266-90; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian, 30.5.1846, 29.7.1846, 8.8.1846, 29.8.1846; Wellington Independent, 19.12.1846; Grover, Cork of War, pp 301-11, 318-9; SSD to McDonogh, 27.5.1846, NM 10/6, p 42; Burns, Te Rauparaha, pp 273-4, 277-82; Elsdon Best, ‘Old Redoubts, Blockhouses and Stockades of the Wellington District’, Transactions of the New Zealand Institute, vol 53; H F McKillop, Reminiscences of Twelve Months’ Service in New Zealand, London 1849, p 199; Wards, ‘Militia’, p 27
18. Grimstone to Strode, 27.6.1846, NM 10/6, p 53; Durie to SSD, 26.10.1846, NM 8/SA, 46/477 A; SSD to Durie, 8.12.1846, NM 10/6, p 153; NZ Journal, 26.9.1846, 10.10.1846; Wards, Shadow, p 292
19. Wicksteed to W Wakefield, 30.4.1846, NZC 105/5, pp 73-8; McLean diary, 27.4.1846, ATL
20. Col Sec to McLean, 20.6.1846, IA 4/266, 46/52; SSD to McLean, 18.4.1846, end with NM 8/4, 46/192; McLean to G Clarke, 22.8.1846, first and second drafts, ff 38-9, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
21. McLean to Col Sec, 18.6.1846, 46/875, end with IA 1/58, 47/1111; Wells, Taranaki, p 63; Wicksteed to W Wakefield, 31.7.1846, NZC 105/5, pp 137-42; McLean diary, 15.6.1846, 17-18.6.1846, 20.6.1846, ATL; McLean to G Clarke, 22.8.1846, first and second drafts, ff 38-9, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
22. McLean diary, 24.6.1846, 18.9.1846, 14.11.1846, ATL
23. McLean to Halse, 25 & 28.12.1846, in McLean diary, & 4.4.1850 entry, ATL; McLean to Halse, 2.5.1848, Official Letterbook 1848, f 8, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
24. McLean to Col Sec, 7.8.1846, McLean Letterbook 1846-7, f 11, and McLean to Richmond, 12.8.1846, draft, f 34, & Taranaki Land Claims, 4.3.1847, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; John Johnson, Journal 1847-54, e.g., 4.3.1848 & 23.8.1850, MS Papers 1662, ATL
25. New Zealander , 31.10.1846, reporting Grey in LC, 25.10.1846
26. Grey to Col Sec, memo 4.5.1846, 45/598, end with IA 1/49, 46/838; Atkyns to Col Sec, 13.6.1846, 45/776, end with IA
1011
References to Chapter IV
1/55, 47/717; Col Sec to St Aubyn, 5.5.1846, IA 4/266, 46/28; Col Sec to Atkyns, 5.5.1846, IA 4/266, 46/27; Grey, 14.5.1846, CO 209/43, desp 47 (military); New Zealander, 2.5.1846
27. Felton Mathew, ‘Views on the Present Condition and Future Prospects of N.Z.’, Jun 1847, letter 6, pp 21-4, Mathew Papers, APL; New Zealander, 30.5.1846, 6.6.1846, 18.7.1846,29.8.1846
28. Atkyns to Col Sec, 13.5.1846, IA 1/48, 46/599; New Zealander, 16.5.1846, 30.5.1846, 6.6.1846, 18.7.1846; Grey to Col Sec, memo of 4.5.1846, 45/598, end with IA 1/49; Mathew, ‘Views’, pp 21-4, APL
29. New Zealander, 29.8.1846
30. Grey to Stanley, 12.5.1846, CO 209/43, desp 46 (financial); Grey to O’Connell, 5.5.1846, end with Grey to Stanley, 14.5.1846, CO 209/43, desp 47 (military)
31. White, ‘Reminiscences’, p 53, ATL; McKillop, Reminiscences, p 126; NZ Gazette, 1845, No 7, 12.4.1845; Kirk Page, ‘A Public Circus: Auckland’s First Murder’, Metro, Sep 1982, p 82; Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 14-16
12. New Zealander, 30.5.1846; Atkyns to Col Sec, 14.5.1846 & 23.5.1846, IA 1/49, 46/598 & 46/840; Atkyns to Col Sec, 22.2.1847, IA 1/55, 47/353; Col Sec to Atkjms, 18.5.1846, 10.6.1846, & 11.6.1846, IA 4/266, 46/37, 46/43 & 46/49; Meurant diary, APL; Leslie George Kelly, ‘Edward Meurant: An Account of his Ancestry, Life and Descendants’, APL
3. Clendon to Beckham, 15.1.1846, Clendon Journal, p3l, APL; Atkyns to Col Sec, 5.5.1846, and Grey minute 7.5.1846, IA 1/48, 46/557; Atkyns to Col Sec, 26.6.1846 & 28.7.1846, 46/880 & 46/1029, end with IA 1/50, 46/1033; Grey to Sinclair, 4.5.1846, G 36/2, p 66; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 149-50; New Zealander, 27.6.1846
34. Grey to Gladstone, 7.10.1846, and ends, CO 209/45, p 282, desp 102; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian, 11.11.1846
35. N Trendle, ‘The Office of Constable’, typescript, NZ Police; Grey to Stanley. 6.11.1846, CO 209/46, desp 116, pp 18-23; Constabulary Force Ordinance, Sess VII, No 2, 9.10.1846, in Alfred Domett (ed), The Ordinances of New Zealand passed in the first ten sessions of the General Legislative Council A.D.1841 to A.D.1849, Wellington 1850, section Al3
36. Trendle, ‘Constable’, p6; NZ Journal , 27.2.184'
37. McLean to Halse, 19.12.1846, 46/1, McLean diary. ATL
38. New Zealander , 10.10.1846 39. NZ Journal , 27.2.1847; New Zealander , 10.10.1846, 28.11.1846
40. Wards, Shadow , p 255; NZ Journal , 22.5.1847
41. NZ Gazette 1846, No 22, 16.12.1846; SSD to Durie, 1.1.1847,
1012
References to Chapter IV
NM 10/6, p 180; Col Sec to Atkyns, 10.12.1846 & 23.12.1846, IA 4/266, 46/132 & 46/138; Col Sec to Atkyns, 21.7.1847, IA 4/266, 47/42
42. Grey to Stanley, 6.11.1846, and end 1847 expenditure for police, CO 209/46, desp 116, pp 18-23; NZ Journal, 27.2.1847; NZ Spectator and Cook’s Straits Guardian, 30.12.1846; New Zealander, 31.10.1846
43. Grey to Sec of State, 14.11.1846, G 30/11, desp 127, pp 457-8; Ward, Show, pp 74-5; Marais, Colonization, pp 273-4; Resident Magistrates Courts Ordinance, Sess VII, No 16, 7.11.1846; NZ Govt, Ordinances of the Legislative Council 1841-1853, pp 229f
44. Grey to Sec of State, 27.11.1846, G 30/11, desp 135, p 766; Ward, Show, pp 74-5; Marais, Colonization, pp 273-4; Standish, ‘Government Administration’, p 38; Rutherford, Grey, pp 18-19; Grey to Earl Grey, 30.8.1851, G 25/4, desp 121, p 462
45. Ward, Show, pp 74-81; Grey to Sec of State, 14.11.1846, G 30/11, desp 127
46. Meurant diary, 22-24.7.1846, 30.7.1846, 30.11.1846 et passim, APL
47. Beckham to Col Sec, 19.1.1846, IA 1/47, 46/64; Col Sec to Beckham, 17.1.1846 & 22.1.1846, IA 4/266, 46/1 & 46/2; Beckham to Col Sec, 17.12.1846, and Sinclair’s minute, 19.12.1846, IA 1/53, 46/1919; Col Sec to Atkyns, 19.12.1846, IA 4/266, 46/134; NZ Gazette. 1846, No 22, 16.12.1846; Col Sec to Atkyns, 23.12.1846, IA 4/266, 46/138; Beckham to Col Sec, 17,12.1846, 46/192 & 15.1.1847, 47/7, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland: Proclamation, 17.11.1846, App, p xlii, Domett (ed), Ordinances
48. Beckham to Col Sec, 17.12.1846, and Sinclair’s minute, 19.12.1846, IA 1/53, 46/1919; Col Sec to Atkyns, 16.2.1847, IA 4/266, 47/9; Beckham to Atkyns, 26.10.1847, and Atkyns’ minute, 26.10.1847, IA 1/62, 47/2065; Beckham to Col Sec, 17.12.1846, 46/192, and to Atkyns, 21.9.1847 & 25.10.1847, 47/66 and 47/74, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
49. H King to Col Sec, 26.12.1846, 47/37, end with IA 1/62, 47/2189; King to McLean, 4.4.1847, 2/1/114, f 13, folder 374, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; McLean to Durie, nd [Jan 1847], ff 51-2, and to King, 21.12.1847, f 176, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
50. ‘Return of cases’, Clendon to Col Sec, Jun 1846, IA 1/50, 46/967; Johnson to Col Sec, 17.6.1840, 40/209, end with IA
1013
References to Chapter IV
1/3, 40/533; Clendon to Col Sec, Dec 1846, p 73, Clendon Journal, APL; Lee, Bay of Islands, p 270
51. SSD to Durie, 8.12.1846, NM 10/6, p 153; Grimstone to S King, 15.2.1847, NM 10/6, p 200; King to SSD, 23.1.1847, and Richmond’s minute, NM 8/6, 47/665; Smart & Bates, Wanganui, pp 66-7
52. Col Sec to Atkyns, 16.2.1847, IA 4/266, 47/10; Col Sec to Patience, 17.12.1847, IA 4/267, 47/19; Wards, Shadow, p 328; Beckham to Col Sec, 13.7.1853, IA 1/119, 53/1711; Col Sec to Beckham, 14.6.1853, IA 4/266, 53/28
53. Col Sec to Bridge. 28.10.1847, IA 4/267, 47/112; Atkyns to Col Sec, 26.10.1847, IA 1/62, 47/2009
54. NZ Gazette, 1847, No 8, 20.5.1847; Sinclair to Col Sec, 21.5.1847, IA 1/59, 47/1206; Police Dept Nelson, Accounts Book 1845-8, and Record of Criminal Charges 1846-7, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum; Wellington Independent, 27.12.1847; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 11.11.1846, 6.1.1847; NZ Journal, 11.9.1847; Nelson Examiner, 20.3.1847, 8.5.1847, 22.5.1847, 5.6.1847; Meltzer Papers, NZ Police Association
55. Grey to Stanley, 6.11.1846, and end expenditure for police 1847, CO 209/46, desp 116, pp 18-23; SSD to Watson, 13.2.1847, NM 10/6, p 195
56. Watson to Col Sec, 31.3.1846, and end Richmond to Col Sec, 8.1.1846, 46/128, & St Hill to SSD, 3.12.1845, & SSD to Te Rauparaha, 8.12.1845, IA 1/49, 46/869; Ogilvie, Purau, pp 32-5; W H Scotter, A History of Port Lyttelton, Christchurch 1968, pp 14-15; info from R Dobbie; Watson to SSD, 17.6.1846, 46/312, end with NM 8/23, 50/1166
57. Wards, Shadow, pp 287-9, 330; NZ Spectator & Cook’s StraiU Guardian, 24.2.1847; New Zealander, 13.3.1847; Mathew ‘Views’, APL; NZ Journal, 18.12.1847
58. Wards, Shadow, chap 10
59. Durie to SSD, 26.3.1847, IA 1/57, 47/633; Grimstone to Durie, 13.5.1847 & 1.9.1847, NM 10/7, pp 36, 143; Grey to SSD, 30.4.1847, NM 8/6, 47/269; Grey to Earl Grey, 25.1.1847 & 29.3.1847, G 30/12, pp 123 & 466; Earl Grey to Grey, 25.10.1847, CO 209, desp 31, p 345; Earl Grey to Grey, 8.6.1847, GBPP 1847, No 72, p 87; Wards, Shadow, pp 392-3; Ward, Show, pp 79-81; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, pp 134, 136; Rutherford, Grey, pp 213-5; Sinclair, Origins, p 36; William Fox, The Six Colonies of New Zealand, London 1851, p 127; Geo C Henderson, Sir George Grey, London 1907, pp 10-11, 116, 118-9; Earl Grey to Grey, 27.12.1848. G 1/22, No 97
60. Col Sec to Atkyns, 21.5.1847, IA 4/266, 47/32; Grey to Earl Grey, 9.7.1849, GBPP 1850, 1136, p 194; Ward, Show, pp 90-1;
1014
References to Chapter IV
Wards, Shadow, p 300; McKillop, Reminiscences, pp 250-1; Mathew, ‘Views’, APL
61. Atkyns, 12.7.1847, 47/1282, end with Atkyns to Col Sec, 19.7.1847, and Atkyns to Col Sec, 16.7.1847, & Grey’s minute, IA 1/59, 47/1317 and 47/1300; Col Sec to Atkjms, 5.5.1847, 18.5.1847 & 15.7.1847, IA 4/266, 47/22, 47/30 & 47/41; Meurant diary, 10.5.1847 et passim, APL
62. McKillop, Reminiscences, pp 89, 250; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, p 35; White, ‘Reminiscences’, p 53, ATL; McLean diary, box 1, 1.1.1847, ATL; McLean to Col Sec, 6.10.1847, Official Letterbook 1846-7, p 70, and H King to McLean, 24.4.1847, 2/1/114, f 15, folder 374, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
63. McLean to Col Sec, 24.5.1847, Official Letterbook 1846-7, p 52, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, p 134
64. New Zealander, 27.7.1847; Mathew, ‘Views’, APL; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, pp 136-7
65. Grey to Stanley, 6.11.1846, and end expenditure for police 1847, CO 209/45, desp 116, pp 18-23; Supplementary return of expenditure, 1846-7, New Ulster Gazette, 1849, No 19, 27.8.1849; NZ Journal, 27.3.1847; Mathew, ‘Views’, APL; Col Sec to McLean, 20.9.1847 & 16.11.1847, IA 4/266, 47/52 & 47/57; entry of 4.3.1847, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, f 58, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
66. McLean to Halse, 19.12.1846, letter 46/1, box 1, McLean diary, ATL; entry of 4.3.1847, & McLean to Atkyns, nd, & McLean to Col Sec, nd [Oct 1847], ff 58,117 & 144, Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; McLean to Halse, 24.4.1847 & 12.5.1847, Official Letterbook 1846-7, pp 43 & 49, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Wells, Taranaki, p 147; Johnson, ‘Journal’, 1.1.1847, 21.3.1847, ATL; White, ‘Reminiscences’, pp 49-50, ATL
67. White, ‘Reminiscences’, pp 29. 32-8, 41, 47-8, 53, ATL; Blue Book 1847, IA 12/8, pp 96-7; Col Sec to Atkyns, 11.5.1847 & 9.6.1847, IA 4/266, 47/26 & 47/36
68. Col Sec to Atkyns, 5.1.1847, 9.1.1847, 16.2.1847, 5.3.1847 & 19.4.1847, IA 4/26, 47/1, 47/2, 47/8, 47/15, & 47/19; Grey to Sinclair, 19.4.1847, G 36/2, p 162
69. NZ Journal, 27.3.1847; White to Col Sec, 1.5.1847, and Sinclair’s minute, IA 1/57, 47/822; Col Sec to Atkyns, 30.8.1847, IA 4/266, 47/48
70. William Gisborne, The Colony of New Zealand: Its History, Vicissitudes and Progress, London 1888, p 105; John Shaw, A Tramp to the Diggings: Being Notes on a Ramble in Australia and New Zealand in 1852, London 1852, p 288; lan Wards,
1015
References to Chapter IV
‘The Royal New Zealand Fencibles’, typescript provided by author
71. McKillop, Reminiscences, p 250
72. Col Sec to Atkyns, 6.1.1848,1 A 4/266, 48/3; Atkyns to Col Sec 11.5.1848, IA 1/68, 48/1016
73. Col Sec to Atkyns, 19.6.1848 & 29.6.1848, IA 4/266, 48/27 & 48/31; Grey to Sinclair, 16.6.1848, G 36/2, p 234
74. Atkyns to Col Sec, 10.4.1848, and ends, IA 1/67, 48/779; Atkyns to Col Sec, 1.5.1848, & minutes by Sinclair and Atkyns, IA 1/68, 48/909 & 48/910; Col Sec to Atkyns, 15.4.1848, IA 4/266, 48/15
75. Grey to Atkyns, 9.1.1847, IA 4/266, 47/2; Atkyns to Col Sec 21.7.1848, & ends, IA 1/70, 48/1630; Beckham to Col Sec 19.10.1850, & end Grey memo, 1.8.1848, IA 1, 50/1918
76. Thomas to Merriman, 31.8.1848, Sir Godfrey Thomas Jour nals, vol I, NA
77. Grey to Sinclair, 1.8.1848, 48/2387, end with IA 1, 50/1918; Col Sec to Beckham, 11.8.1848, IA 4/266, 48/39; New Ulster Gazette, 1848, No 18, 4.8.1848
7 8. Grey to Sinclair, 1.8.1848, 48/2387, end with IA 1, 50/1918; New Zealander, 31.10.1846, reporting Grey in LC, 25.10.1846; New Ulster Gazette, 1849, No 19, 27.8.1848; Johnson, ‘Journal’, 6.1.1848 et passim, ATL; Medland to Chamberlain, 2.6.1848, Official Letterbook 1848, f 23, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; H King to McLean, 8.1.1848, 2/1/114, f 23, folder 374, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; McLean to St George, 17.1.1849, Official Letterbook 1848-9, f 23, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
J 9. Johnson, ‘Journal’, 27.7.1848, 29.7.1848, 3-4.8.1848 et passim, ATL; Rutherford & Skinner, New Plymouth Settlement, p 230; Norma Bethune, ‘John and Mary Johnson of New Plymouth’. NZ Genealogist, 13, 1982; Tullett, Industrious Heart, pp 189-90; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, pp 36-40; McLean to Col Sec, 14.8.1848, and ends, IA 1/71, 48/1899
80. McLean to Col Sec, 25.8.1849, IA 1/81, 49/1865; Ward, Show , p 79; McLean diary, box 3, 15.11.1851, ATL; H King to McLean, 14.12.1850, 2/1/114, folder 374, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
81. White, ‘Reminiscences’, pp 54-5, ATL; Col Sec to Atkyns, 14.4.1848 & 3.8.1848, IA 4/266, 48/14 & 48/30
82. White, ‘Reminiscences’, pp 54-5, ATL; Southern Cross, 5.5.1849; Col Sec to White, 16.11.1848, IA 4/266, 48/65; Wards, ‘Fencibles’, pp 545-6; Ward, Show, p 78; for the revisionist interpretation of the outcome of the ‘war in the north’, which perceives the Maoris as having won a ‘limited’ victory.
1016
References to Chapter IV
see Beiich, ‘The New Zealand Wars’, Part I, and his forthcoming publication The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict for a comprehensive revision of the various Anglo-Maori Wars
83. Bridge to Col Sec, 6.9.1848, and ends, IA 1/71, 48/1992; Ross, ‘McDonnell’, pp 154-5, ATL
84. Grey to Sinclair, 28.10.1848, G 36/2; Col Sec to Beckham, 26.10.1848, IA 4/266, 48/51; Atkyns to Col Sec, 2.11.1848, 48/2473, and Beckham memo, 25.10.1848, IA 1/74, 48/3070
85. Minutes, 9.11.1848, EC 1/1; Col Sec to Beckham, 30.10.1848, 1.11.1848 & 3.11.1848, IA 4/266, 48/56, 48/57 & 48/60; Atkyns to Col Sec, 2.11.1848, 48/2473, end with IA 1/74, 48/3070
86. Atkyns to Col Sec, 14.11.1848, 17.11.1848 & 25.11.1848, 48/2671, 48/2583 & 48/2614, all end with IA 1/74, 48/3070; Col Sec to Atkyns, 14.11.1848, IA 4/266, 48/66
87. Col Sec to Atkyns, 23.11,1848, IA 4/266, 48/68; Atkyns to Col Sec. 17.11.1848 & 25.11.1848, 48/2614 & 48/2671, and other ends with IA 1/74, 48/3070; Atkyns to Col Sec, 6.12.1848, and ends, IA 1/74, 48/2773; New Zealander, 13.12.1848; Col Sec to Atkyns, 16.12.1848, IA 4/266, 48/80-1
88. New Zealander, 28.4.1849; Col Sec to Atkyns, 26.1.1849 & 24.2.1849, IA 4/266, 49/3 & 49/5; Atkyns to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, 49/209, and other ends, with IA 1/75, 49/241
89. Phillips, ‘Social History’, p 264; Southern Cross, 10.3.1849; Smith to Dillon, 31.3.1849, and annotations, IA 1/77, 49/701
90. Col Sec to Beckham, 28.5.1849, IA 4/266, 49/16; Figg to Col Sec, 28.4.1849, IA 1/77, 49/898; Berry to Col Sec, 16.5.1849, IA 1/78, 49/1014; New Ulster Blue Book 1849, IA 12/10; Wards, Shadow, p 375
91. Col Sec to Atkyns, 22.3.1849, IA 4/266, 49/8; ends 48/2387 & 48/2480, IA 1, 50/1918; Southern Cross, 10.3.1849; H King to McLean, 26.5.1849 & 11.6.1849, 2/1/114, ff 34 & 35, folder 374, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
92. Southern Cross, 2.6.1849; Stuart Richard Holford, ‘The Evolution of the New Zealand Police Force, 1840-1920’, typescript, 1974, NZ Police, pp 225-9
93. McLean to Col Sec, 25.8.1849, IA 1/81, 49/1865; Mahon to Beckham, 15.6.1849, and to Hickson, 3.3.1849 & 24.4.1849, 49/513 & 49/893, all end with IA 1/79, 49/1235; Wicksteed to McLean, 10.4.1849, and McLean to Col Sec, 24.10.1849, both end with IA 1/82, 49/2222; New Ulster Gazette , 1849, No 19, 27.8.1849; New Zealander, 21.8.1849; Southern Cross 18.8.1849
94. Col Sec to Beckham, 7.11.1849, with 51/1282, end with IA 1/105, 52/1181; Col Sec to Commissioner, 7.11.1849, IA 4/266,
1017
References to Chapter IV
49/39; Holford, ‘Evolution NZ Police’, pp 228-9; Grey to Earl Grey, 9.7.1849, GBPP 1850, 1136, p 194; Ward, Show, p 75
95. Atkyns to Col Sec, 4.4.1848, IA 1/67, 48/724; New Zealander, 15.4.1848, 21.8.1849
96. Bridge to Col Sec, 12.2.1849, IA 1/76, 49/367; Beckham to Col Sec, 17.4.1851, IA 1/94, 51/683; Ward, Show, p 82; Rutherford, Grey, p 94; Wards, ‘Fencibles’, pp 575-7; Thomson, Story of NZ 11, p 177; Graham Butterworth, ‘Maori Gangs—A forced cultural resurgence’, NZ Police Association Newsletter, Jan 1979; ‘Ngati Paoa Invasion of Auckland’, Graham Papers, MS 141, APL
97. Col Sec to Beckham, 28.10.1851, IA 4/266, 51/42
98. Ends 51/1228, 51/1282, 51/1399 and 51/1856, all with Beckham to Col Sec, 5.6.1852, IA 1/105, 52/1181; Col Sec to Commissioner, 5.6.1851, IA 1, 51/39; Col Sec to McLean, 25.4.1851, & to Beckham, 9.6.1852, IA 4/266, 51/15 & 52/50
99. McLean to Col Sec, 3.9.1851, IA 1/98, 51/1985; H King to McLean, 14.12.1850, 2/1/114, f 46, folder 374, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; ‘Extracts of Estimates’, 1851-2, TP 5/7; Johnson, ‘Journal’, 12.12.1850, ATL
100. Col Sec to McLean, 3.10.1849, 6.11.1849 & 19.11.1849, IA 4/266, 49/29, 49/36 & 49/40; McLean diary, box 2, 5.10.1850, ATL; New Munster Blue Book 1850, NM 11/2, pp 98-9; New Munster Gazette, 1850, No 18, 21.9.1850; Thomas, ‘Journals’, Vol 11, 8.3.1849, NA; A G Bagnall, Wairarapa: An Historical Excursion, Masterton 1976, pp9o-l; B Patterson, ‘National objectives versus Provincial ambitions: the context of the rationalisation of survey administration’, typescript provided by author; R W S Fargher, ‘Donald McLean; Chief Land Purchase Agent and Native Secretary’, MA thesis, Auckland 1947
101. New Ulster Blue Book 1852, IA 12/12; New Munster Gazette, 1852, No 10, 12.5.1852; Col Sec to Cooper, 16.10.1852 & 7.12.1852, IA 4/266, 52/76 & 52/87; Platts, Lively Capital, p 136; Wells, Taranaki, p 174; Cooper to McLean, 25.8.1852, folder 126, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
102. Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, pp 55-62; Wards, ‘Fencibles’, p 546
103. White to Col Sec, 27.1.1851, and ends, IA 1/92, 51/253; White to Col Sec, 2.1.1852, end with Beckham to Col Sec, 9.1.1852, IA 1/101, 52/85; White to Col Sec, 7.7.1852, end with IA 1/107, 52/1601; Ward, Show, pp 78-9
104. McLean diary, box 3, 15.11.1851, ATL; Beckham to Col Sec 13.2.1852, and ends, IA 1/102, 52/326; J G Wilson et al, His tory of Hawke’s Bay , Dunedin 1939, pp 138-9
105. Beckham to Col Sec, 5.6.1852, and ends, IA 1, 52/1181; Col Sec to Grey, 11.5.1841, and Grey 22.4.1851, end with IA 1/94,
1018
References to Chapter IV
51/1007; Col Sec to Beckham, 8.3.1852, 52/63, and other ends, with IA 1/104, 52/914; Col Sec to Beckham, 11.4.1850, 30.7.1850, 8.3.1852, 15.11.1852, 9.12.1852, 15.12.1852 & 17.12.1852, IA 4/266, 50/5, 50/10, 52/23, 52/81, 52/88, 52/90 & 52/92; William A Kelly, Thames: The First 100 Years, Thames 1968, p 7; Tony Nolan, Historic Gold Trails of the Coromandel, Wellington 1977, pp 8-9
106. Col Sec to Wynyard, 19.11.1853, and ends, IA 1/123, 53/2618
107. Col Sec to Cooper, 26.11.1853, IA 4/266, 53/41; Brown to Cooper, 7.11.1853, end with Cooper to Col Sec, 10.11.1853, and Grey’s minute, 30.12.1853, IA 1/123, 53/2645
108. McLean to St George, 17.1.1849, and to Rowe, 10.2.1849, Official Letterbook 1848-9, pp 23-24, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
109. Mathew, ‘Views’, APL
110. Charles Hursthouse, New Zealand, or Zealandia: The Britain of the South, vol I, London 1857, p 302
111. Grimstone to Durie, 13.5.1847, and end 47/426 et al, NM 8/7, 47/595; Eyre to Grey, 14.9.1847, NM 4/1, No 30, p 29
112. Eyre to Grey, 3.12.1847, NM 4/1, No 84, p 97; Domett to Durie, 18.5.1848, NM 10/9, p 36; Statement of sums required, 1.7.1847-30.9.1847, NM 8/7, 47/405; Morrell, Provincial System, p 39
113. Marais, Colonization, p 308; A H McLintock, The History of Otago, Dunedin 1949, pp 253-60
114. Domett to Strode, 5.4.1848 & 21.6.1848, NM 10/8, p 167, & NM 10/9, p 121; Eyre to Domett, 4.4.1848, NM 8/10, 43/324; Durie to Domett, 6.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/340 a; Domett to Durie, 25.4.1848, NM 10/8, p 163; letter of 20.4.1848, Thomas, ‘Journals’, I, NA; McLintock, Otago, pp 253-4; James MacDonald, ‘Notes—Trip to Wellington September 1903’, pp 3, 6, MS 1903 P, ATL
115. Cargill to Domett. 5.5.1848, 48/593, end with NM 8/34 a, 52/1327; Eyre to Domett, 8.7.1848 and memo of same date, NM 8/11, 48/770 and 48/768; Domett to Strode, 7.7.1848, NM 10/9, p 183
116. Domett to Strode, 7.7.1848, NM 10/9, p 183; Locke, Gaoler, pp 34, 36
117. Locke, Gaoler, p2B
118. Domett to Strode, 21.6.1848, NM 10/9, p 121; Durie to Domett, 18.12.1848, NM 8/13, 48/1376; McLintock, Otago, pp 253-9
119. Locke, Gaoler, pp 24-5, 29-32, 81; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 15.4.1848
120. Southern Cross, 10.5.1850, 14.5.1850
1019
References to Chapter IV
121. Domett to Eyre, 2.6.1848, 48/588, end with NM 8/10, 48/340 a; Durie to Col Sec, 24.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/445
122. Domett to Eyre, 2.6.1848, 48/588, end with NM 8/10, 48/340 a
123. Ibid; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 24.5.1848
124. Durie to Col Sec, 24.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/445; Eyre to Domett, 8.7.1848, 48/769, & 6.7.1848, 48/765, end with NM 8/11, 48/861
125. Richmond to Domett, 24.7.1848, and ends, NM 8/11, 48/861; Domett to Richmond, 10.7.1848, NM 10/9, p 172
126. Richmond to Domett, 24.7.1848, NM 8/11, 48/861 127. Durie to Domett, 18.12.1848, & end Eyre to Domett, 5.12.1848, 48/1312, NM 8/13, 48/1378; Domett to Durie, 15.8.1848, NM 10/9, p 245; Eyre to Domett, 10.10.1849, end with NM 8/17, 49/1079; Domett to Durie, 7.12.1848, NM 10/9, p 423
128. Durie to Col Sec, 24.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/445; Hamilton to Durie, 19.5.1851, NM 8/35, 52/1485
129. Durie to Col Sec, 24.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/445; Domett to Eyre, 2.6.1848, 48/588, and Eyre, 3.6.1848, end with NM 8/10, 48/340a; Durie to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/70; Domett to Durie, 2.10.1848, NM 10/9, p 303
130. Domett to Durie, 17.8.1848, NM 10/9, p 246; Durie to Col Sec, 2.3.1849, & Eyre, 2.3.1849, end with NM 8/14, 49/195; Grover, Cork of War, pp 327-42; James G Wilson, Early Rangitikei, Christchurch 1914, pp 48-51; M H Holcroft, The Line of the Road: A History of Manawatu County 1876-1976, Dunedin 1977, p 19; info from R Knight
131. Eyre to Domett, 17.10.1848, NM 6/1, p 12; Domett to Durie, 2.10.1848, NM 10/9, p 303; McDonogh to Grey, 14.9.1848, and Eyre’s minute, NM 8/12, 48/1046
132. EC minutes, 11.10.1848, NM 7/1, p 117; Eyre to Domett, 12.10.1848 & 17.10.1848, NM 6/1, pp 11-12; Domett memo, 16.2.1853, NM 10/12, 53/96; Eyre to Grey, 6.11.1848, NM 4/1. No 107, p 237; White, ‘Reminiscences’, p 43, ATL; New Munster Gazette, 1848, No 21, 9.11.1848
133. Domett, 11.1.1849, 48/1321, end with Durie to Col Sec, 5.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/25; Durie to Col Sec, 16.8.1849, and Eyre’s minute, 18.8.1849, 49/858, end with NM 8/16, 49/860: New Munster Blue Book 1849, NM 11/2, pp 96-7
134. Domett to Durie, 9.4.1849, NM 10/9, 49/278; Durie to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/70; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 12.5.1849, 9.6.1849; Holford, ‘Evolution NZ Police’, p 225
135. King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 226-7; Eyre to Domett, 10.10.1849, end with NM 8/17, 49/1079
1020
References to Chapter IV
136. Durie, weekly report, 6.8.1849, 49/858, end with NM 8/16, 49/860; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 5.9.1849
137. Swainson and Daniell to St Hill, 6.10.1849, and Domett’s minute, 9.10.1849, NM 8/17, 49/1079; clause V, Constabulary Force Ordinance, 9.10.1846, Domett (ed), Ordinances
138. Domett to Durie, 19.12.1849, NM 10/10, 49/1045; Swainson and Daniell to St Hill, 6.10.1849, & Domett’s minute, 9.10.1849, & end Eyre to Domett, 10.10.1849, NM 8/17, 49/1079
139. List of the Armed Police Force, Wellington, 1.12.1848, NM 8/13, 48/1378; Durie to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/70; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 4.12.1852; Tobias, Nineteenth Century Crime, pp 115-6
140. NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 26.5.1849; An Ordinance to increase the efficiency of the Constabulary Force, NM Ordinance, No 9, 23.8.1849, pp 407f, NZ Government, The Ordinances of the Legislative Council of New Zealand 1841-1853, Wellington 1871
141. EC minutes, 22.2.1850 & 15.11.1850, NM 7/1; Eyre to Domett, 6.6.1849, & estimates, NM 8/15, 49/575; Strode to Col Sec, 23.8.1849, and Eyre’s minute to Domett, 18.9.1849, NM 8/17, 49/1017; Domett to Resident Magistrates, Wanganui and Canterbury, 19.5.1851, NM 10/11, 51/586 and 51/587; New Munster Gazette, 1850, Nos 3, 8. 20 & 22, 23.2.1850, 27.5.1850, 11.10.1850 & 29.11.1850; Wards, Shadow, p 255; L C Webb, ‘The Canterbury Association and Its Settlement’ in Right & Straubel (eds), History of Canterbury I, p 153
142. New Munster Blue Book 1849, NM 11/2, p 99; Webb, ‘Canterbury Association’, pp 151-2
143. Col Sec to Watson, 3.9.1849, NM 10/9, 49/765; Watson to Domett, 1.8.1850, and end 49/846 & 49/1036, NM 8/21, 50/887
144. Watson to Col Sec, 11.1.1850, end with Watson to Col Sec, 2.8.1850, NM 8/21, 50/890; Webb, ‘Canterbury Association’, pp 151-2; Scotter, Port Lyttelton , pp 20-2; C E Carrington, John Robert Godley of Canterbury, Christchurch 1950, pp 99-102; New Munster Gazette, 1849, No 20, 9.8.1849
145. Gouland to Eyre, 10.12.1849. 49/1282, & McDonnell to Col Sec, 31.12.1849, 50/4, both end with NM 8/21, 50/890; Domett to Gouland. 24.12.1849, NM 10/10, 49/1059; Domett to Durie, 24.12.1849, NM 10/10, 49/1060; Domett to Watson, 24.12.1849, NM 10/10, 49/1062; John Johnson, The Story of Lyttelton 1849-1949 , Lyttelton 1952, p 28
146. New Munster Blue Book 1849, NM 11/2, p 99; Wards, Shadow, p 375
147. Info from Mrs M Grant
1021
References to Chapter IV
148. Col Sec to Durie, 25.1.1850, NM 10/10, 50/61; Domett to Gouland, .24.12.1849, NM 10/10, 49/1059; Watson to Col Sec 2.8.1850, and end 50/80, NM 8/21, 50/890
149. Watson to Col Sec, 20.2.1850 & 10.4.1850, 50/227 & 50/285, both end with NM 8/21, 50/890
150. FitzGerald to Col Sec, 13.1.1853, NM 8/36, 53/98; Webb, ‘Canterbury Association’, pp 175-7
151. Mclntyre (ed), Sewell I, p 118; G H Scholefield, Notable New Zealand Statesmen: Twelve Prime Ministers, Christchurch [1946], pp 11-13
152. Godley to Col Sec, 3.6.1851, and end FitzGerald, 21.2.1851, NM 8/26, 51/820; Webb, ‘Canterbury Association’, p 176; Carrington, Godley, pp 24-6; Shaw, Tramp to the Diggings, p 315
153. Godley to Col Sec, 3.6.1851, and ends, NM 8/26, 51/820
154. Godley to Col Sec, 24.11.1851, and ends, NM 8/29, 51/1619; Lyttelton Times, 22.11.1851; Godley (ed), Letters, pp 246-7, 256, 277-8; E W Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, No 1, Seager Papers, CM; Simeon entry, G R Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM
155. Grey to Domett, 11.12.1851, NM 8/29, 51/1683; Domett to Sheriff, Canterbury, 8.9.1852, NM 10/12, 52/882; New Munster Blue Book 1852, NM 11/3, pp 130-1
156. Mclntyre (ed), Sewell I, pp 122f; Godley (ed), Letters. pp 257-8; Edward Gibbon Wakefield, The Founders of Canterbury, vol I, Christchurch 1868, p 318
157. Durie to Col Sec, 18.8.1850, & end Domett, 24.8.1850, & Eyre 26.8.1850, NM 8/21, 50/781
158. Styles’ memorial to Grey, and Hamilton to Durie, 19.5.1851, both end with Baker to Col Sec, 16.11.1852, NM 8/35, 52/1485; McDonogh to Domett, 19.9.1851, NM 8/28, 51/1272; Domett to Durie, 4.6.1851, NM 10/11, 51/674; Domett to McDonogh, 20.9.1851, NM 10/11, 51/1130; New Munster Gazette, 1851, No 10, 11.4.1851
159. McDonogh to Col Sec, 12.12.1850, and minutes, NM 8/21 50/1113
160. King, ‘Problems of Police Administration’, pp 65-7; Curtis, Irish Constabulary, pp 98-104; Domett to Durie, 22.7.1850, NM 10/10, 50/517; Eyre to Domett, 22.7.1850, NM 8/21, 50/657
161. Durie to Col Sec. 18.8.1850, NM 8/21, 50/781; Godley to Col Sec, 17.2.1851, 51/1747, and other ends, NM 8/33, 52/878; Simeon to Col Sec, 20.12.1852, and ends, NM 8/35, 52/1621; Domett to Wright, 26.12.1851, NM 10/11, 51/1595; McLean to Durie, draft, 10.8.1850, f 54, Letterbook 1850, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
1022
References to Chapter IV
162. Durie to Col Sec, 10.9.1850, NM 8/21, 50/849
163. Domett to McDonogh, 27.5.1851, NM 10/11, 51/631; Domett to McDonogh, 5.7.1852, NM 10/12, 52/654; McDonogh to Domett, 1.7.1852, NM 8/33, 52/890; Durie to Col Sec, 29.3.1852, and ends, NM 8/31, 52/417
164. New Munster Blue Book 1850, NM 11/2, pp 98-9; Richmond to Col Sec, 8.12.1852, NM 8/36, 53/22; Shaw, Tramp to the Diggings, p 299; annual cashbook returns 1849-53, T-Nelson 1/1
165. Nelson Examiner, 22.11.1851, 29.11.1851; Shaw, Tramp to the Diggings, p 299; annual cashbook returns 1849-53, 1853 return, T-Nelson 1/1; Nelson Government, Statistics of Nelson, New Zealand, From 1843 to 1854, Nelson 1855, chart 24
166. Eyre to Grey, 5.1.1850, NM 4/1, No 4, p 500; Godley (ed). Letters, pp 3, 10, 229; item 58, pp4-11, 15-21, 26-7, 29, 31, Letterbook 1850-64, E G Wakefield Papers, CM
167. Wakefield to Col Sec, 26.1.1852, and ends, NM 8/31, 52/244
168. NZ Journal, 4.10.1851
169. Locke, Gaoler, pp3o-l; Harris et al petition, received 7.11.1851, 51/1513, end with Cargill to Col Sec, 10.2.1852, NM 8/31, 52/301; J Barr, The Old Identities, Dunedin 1879, pp 124-6
170. Strode to Col Sec, 29.11.1851, 51/1693, end with NM 8/31, 52/301; Domett to Strode, 10.2.1852, NM 10/11, 52/170; Domett to Cargill, 24.3.1852, NM 10/11, 52/324; Barr, Old Identities, p 141; Locke, Gaoler, pp 32-3, 38, 41-3, 54-5, 73; 26.1.1852 entry, Henry Monson Journal, MS 88, HL
171. Strode to Col Sec, 29.11.1851, 51/1693, end with NM 8/31, 52/301; Locke, Gaoler, p 44; Godley (ed), Letters, pp 23, 65; Barr, Old Identities, pp 145-6, 148; Monson Journal, 26.1.1852, HL
172. Domett to St Hill, 9.5.1850, NM 10/10, 50/234; Eyre to Grey, 19.8.1850, NM 4/2, p 65; Durie to Col Sec, 5.1.1849, and end St Hill to Domett. 7.1.1848, NM 8/14, 49/25; Locke, Gaoler, pp 62-3; Wellington Independent, 14.4.1852; Mac Donald, ‘Notes’, ATL
173. Locke, Gaoler, pp 62-3, 74, 76, 81; info from A Findlater and Mrs T France
174. Simeon to Domett, 20.12.1852, and end Simeon to Domett, 9.8.1852, 52/1078, NM 8/35, 52/1621; FitzGerald to Domett, 13.1.1853, NM 8/36, 53/98; Domett to Simeon, 18.2.1853, NM 10/12, 53/108; Domett to Bowen, 16.2.1853, NM 10/12, 53/105
175. Simeon to Col Sec, 28.5.1852, and Grey to Domett, 15.6.1852, NM 8/32, 52/730; Domett to Simeon, 22.6.1852, NM 10/11, 52/607; Domett to Resident Magistrates, 31.8.1852, NM 10/12,
1023
References to Chapter V
52/844-7; Godley (ed), Letters, p 45; Hight & Bamford, Constitutional History, p 189; Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, No 1, CM; Madeleine E Sealer, ‘Edward William Seager’, typescript provided by author, p 7
176. McDonogh to Domett, 20.10.1851, NM 8/28, 51/1433; FitzGerald to Simeon, 27.2.1852, and Domett to Grey, 15.3.1852, end with Simeon to Col Sec, 9.3.1852, NM 8/31, 52/346; Godley (ed), Letters, p 53; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 17.4.1850
177. Gibson to Baker, 9.12.1852, NM 8/35, 52/1286; Domett memo, 16.2.1853, NM 10/12, 53/96; Durie to Civil Sec, 14.6.1853, and ends, CS 1/6, 53/682; Patterson, ‘Settler Feeling’, p 16
178. Baker to Col Sec, 1.1.1853, and Domett’s minute, NM 8/36, 53/3; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 4.12.1852; J G Wilson et al. History of Hawkes Bay, Dunedin 1939, p 300
179. Baker to Col Sec, 16.11.1852, and ends, NM 8/35, 52/1485; LC minutes, 12.1.1853, NM 7/1; Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, CS 1/5, 53/405; info from Mrs M Alington
180. Domett to Durie, 15.3.1852, 22.3.1852 & 7.4.1852, NM 10/11, 52/268, 52/307 & 52/362; Durie to Col Sec, 29.3.1852, and end Weekly State of the Armed Police Force, NM 8/31, 52/417
181. Durie to Col Sec, 8.7.1850, and end Weekly State of the Armed Police Force, NM 8/21, 50/657; Durie to Domett, 10.9.1850, NM 8/21, 50/849; NZ Journal, 18.12.1847; P K Mayhew, ‘The Penal System of New Zealand 1840-1924’, typescript, Dept of Justice, Wellington, 1959, p 10; Taylor, Past & Present, pill; O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment’, p 308
182. Mclntyre (ed), Sewell I, pp 340-1; Sinclair, Origins, p6B
Chapter V
1. Hobson to Stanley, 4.8.1841, GBPP 1843, 134; Estimate of Probable Expenses, GBPP 1842, 568, pp 5-6; Murphy to Gov, 18.3.1841, & end Robinson to Murphy, 15.10.1840, IA 1/6, 41/366; McDonogh to Col Sec, 8.1.1841, IA 1/5, 41/42; Murphy to Col Sec, 4.1.1841 & 5.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/176 & 41/171; FitzGerald to Col Sec, 28.8.1841, IA 1/8, 41/1051
2. Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, pp 235-7; King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 218, 221; O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment’, p 294; Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia, pp 42-3
3. Memorial from Russell prisoners to Hobson, 29.5.1840, IA 1/2, 40/186; H Roth, Trade Unions in New Zealand Past and Present, Wellington 1973, p 3; McDonogh to Col Sec, 3.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/632; Col Sec to McDonogh, 9.11.1840, IA 4/1, p 127
4. Dawson to Col Sec, 7.4.1841, and Hobson’s minute. 12.4.1841
1024
References to Chapter V
IA 1/6, 41/357; King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’ p 219; info from C Hirst; Wakefield, Adventure 11, p 82
5. Mathew to Col Sec, 14.1.1842, and Hobson’s minute, 17.1.1842, IA 1/10, 42/68; Thompson to Col Sec, 11.5.1842 and Hobson’s minute, IA 1/13, 42/1059; Col Sec to Thompson, 22.6.1842, IA 4/265, 42/141; Mathew to Col Sec, 13.1.1842, 42/1, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
6. H King to Col Sec, 30.9.1842, IA 1/16, 43/1749; H King to Col Sec, 4.1.1843, IA 1/19, 43/240; Col Sec to Thompson, 22.6.1842, IA 4/265, 42/141; White to Col Sec, 10.8.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1749; Thompson to Col Sec, 11.5.1842, IA 1/13, 42/1059; Dawson to Col Sec, 16.9.1842 & 5.10.1842, IA 1/17, 42/2005 & 42/2007; Col Sec to McDonogh, 18.8.1843, IA 4/265, 43/162; Colbert, ‘Working Class’, pp 25, 63
7. Murphy to Col Sec, 28.12.1840, and Hobson’s minute, 11.2.1841, IA 1/5, 41/71; Murphy to Gov, 18.3.1841, and ends, IA 1/6, 41/366
8. McDonogh to Col Sec, 28.9.1841, IA 1/8, 41/1147; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Hokianga, 29.10.1841, IA 4/265, 41/166; Col Sec to Robinson, 17.5.1843, IA 4/265, 43/78; Col Sec to Police Magistrates, 4.6.1842, IA 4/265, 42/126-9; St Hill to Col Sec, 4.7.1845, IA 1/44, 45/1484; St Hill to SSD, 4.7.1845, NM 8/2, 45/271
9. Murphy to Col Sec, 15,8.1842, IA 1/15, 42/1544
10. Col Sec to Mathew, 13.7.1841, 5.5.1842, & 5.10.1843, IA 4/265, 41/100, 42/93 & 43/220
11. Col Sec to Beckham, 25.8.1842 & 21.2.1843, IA 4/265, 42/189
& 43/7; Col Sec to Police Magistrates, New Plymouth and Wanganui, 5.5.1842, IA 4/265, 42/96-7; Thompson to Col Sec, 23.8.1842, and Shortland’s minute, IA 1/15, 42/1567; Thompson to Col Sec, 3.9.1842, IA 1/15, 42/1700; Thompson to Col Sec, 21.2.1843, & end Thompson to Col Sec, 18.2.1843, 43/322, IA 1/19, 43/324.
12. Blue Book 1842, IA 12/3, pp 135-6; Blue Book 1843, IA 12/5, pp 116-7; Col Sec to Robinson, 13.10.1842, and end Col Sec to Robinson, 5,5.1842, 42/94, IA 4/265, 42/240; Robinson to Col Sec, 2.9.1842, IA 1/16, 42/1771; Col Sec to Robinson, 20.5.1843 & 30 [May] 1843, IA 4/265, 43/104 & 43/114; Beckham to Col Sec, 7.11.1843, and ends, IA 1/26,43/2262; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Hokianga, 21.2.1843, IA 4/265, 43/8; Beckham to Col Sec, 14.9.1840, and Hobson’s minute, 29.9.1840, IA 1/3, 40/459; Beckham to Hobson, 14.9.1840, IA 1/3, 40/460; Col Sec to Beckham, 2.10.1840, IA 4/1, p 97
658
References to Chapter V
13. Wakefield, Adventure 11, pp 73, 246, 406; Burnett, Transportation, p 18; Allan, Nelson, pp 151-2; Sopenoff, ‘Policeman’s Lot’, p 48
14. Richmond to Col Sec, 18.10.1843, IA 1/26, 43/2021; Col Sec to Chief Police Magistrate, Wellington, 16.11.1843, IA 4/265, 43/254; Blue Book 1843, IA 12/5, p 17; Col Sec to Chief Police Magistrate, Wellington, 9.9.1843, IA 4/265, 43/184
15. Nelson Police Dept Accounts Book, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum
16. White to Col Sec, 10.8.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1749; Col Sec tc Police Magistrate, Nelson, 9.9.1843, IA 4/265, 43/186; Nelsor Examiner, 23.12.1843
17. Sinclair to SSD, 29.2.1844, IA 1/32, 44/1063; SSD to Sinclair, 17.6.1844, NM 10/3, p 21; Mathew to Col Sec, 9.4.1844, IA 1/31, 44/866; SSD to Robinson, 23.7.1844 & 19.9.1844, NM 10/3, pp 37 & 49-51; SSD to Chief Police Magistrate, Nelson, 23.7.1844, NM 10/3, p 34; SSD to Police Magistrate, Wellington, 23.7.1844, NM 10/5, p 50; Richmond to SSD, 3.8.1844, and end McDonogh to SSD, 23.7.1843, IA 1/35, 44/1803; NZ Government, Minutes and Proceedings of the Legislative Council of New Zealand, Session 111, Auckland 1844, p'4l, 4.6.1844
18. NZ Advertiser and Bay of Islands Gazette, 17.9.1840, end wit! IA 1/11, 42/537; NZ Journal, 30.1.1841, 7.8.1841; Wakefield Adventure I, p 472, & 11, pp 42-3
19. Wakefield, Adventure I, pp 472-3, & 11, p 43; NZ Journal , 30.1.1841, 19.6.1841 & 7.8.1841; Cecil and Celia Manson, ‘Policemen were Tough for Early Days in Wellington’, & ‘Wellington’s First Police Make Trouble on Beach’, folder 2, Meltzer Papers, NZ Police Association
20. Thomson to Hobson, 17.1.1840, and end, IA 1/1, 40/28; Beck ham to Col Sec, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/265; Shortland to Hobson, 17.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/296; Murphy to Col Sec. 29.3.1841 IA 1/6, 41/462
21. Hobson to Murphy, 25.7.1842, IA 4/265, 42/150; O’Sullivan, Mounted Police, p 29; Curtis, Irish Constabulary, p 87
22. Robinson to Col Sec, 31.7.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1780; Mathew tc Col Sec, 1.6.1843, IA 1/22, 43/1194; Auckland Chronicle 28.9.1843; New Zealander, 18.7.1846
23. New Zealander, 20.12.1845
24. Robinson to Col Sec, 19.5.1845, IA 1/43, 45/1141; Sayer to SSD, 17.2.1846, NM 8/4, 46/29; NZ Journal, 22.6.1844; info from W Houston
25. Minute by Sinclair, 29.3.1845, IA 1/42, 45/548; Robinson to SSD, 6.2.1845, NM 8/2, 45/81; Hore to Col Sec, 21.7.1841, and annotations, IA 1/8, 41/913
1026
References to Chapter V
26. SSD to S King, 23.7.1844 & 5.8.1844, NM 10/5, pp 49-50 & 59-60; Fitzßoy to Col Sec, 2.1.1845, end with IA 1/40, 45/272; Richmond to Col Sec, 31.1.1845. & epd Fitzßoy to Sinclair, nd, IA 1/40, 45/272; SSD to Sinclair, 20.5.1845, NM 10/3, pp 114-6; LC minutes, 27.3.1845, GBPP 1846, 337; Blue Book 1845, IA 12/7, p 184; NZ Government, Estimate of Probable Expenditure 1845-1846, Auckland 1845
27. SSD to Police Magistrate, Akaroa, 20.5.1845, NM 10/3, p 116; SSD to Police Magistrate, Petre, 10.6.1845, NM 10/5, p 166
28. St Hill to SSD, 22.5.1845, NM 8/2, 45/223
29. Col Sec to Mathew, 2.10.1843 & 5.10.1843, IA 4/265, 43/217 & 43/220; Mathew to Col Sec, 3.10.1843, and annotations, IA 1/25, 43/1871; Beckham’s Return of Constables, Mar 1845, IA 1/42, 45/548; Col Sec to Beckham and Berrey, 1.4.1845, IA 4/266, 45/37 & 45/38; Brothers to Col Sec, 7.11.1844, 44/2295, end with IA 1/75, 49/158; J Symonds to Gov, 17.3.1845, and Beckham to Col Sec, 1.7.1845, 45/50, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
30. St Hill to Col Sec, 9.2.1843, 43/338, and circular memo, 19.5.1843, 43/864, end with IA 1/22, 43/1014; Beckham to Col Sec, [Jun 1846], and minutes, IA 1/52, 46/1527
31. Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, pp 83-9 and chap 9, and IV, pp 222-4; Sopenoff, ‘Policeman’s Lot’, p 47; Wilbur R Miller, Cops and Bobbies: Police Authority in New York and London 1830-70, Chicago 1977, pp 39-40
32. Miller, Cops & Bobbies, p 28; Dilnot, Scotland Yard, p 47; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, chap 9, & IV, pp 170, 222-4, 266-7; NZ Journal, 7.8.1841; NZ Herald and Auckland Gazette, 23.2.1842; C & C Manson, ‘Wellington’s First Police’
33. Resident Magistrate, Auckland, to Col Sec, 29.4.1847, and end Mathew to Col Sec. 10.11.1842, IA 1/57, 47/802; Col Sec to Mathew, 16.11.1842, IA 4/265, 42/266
34. Woods to Col Sec, 14.9.1844, IA 1/36, 44/1999; Mathew to Col Sec, 3.3.1842 & 19.3.1842, IA 1/11, 42/350 & 42/474; White to Col Sec, 31.8.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1967; Col Sec to Mathew, 11.3.1842, IA 4/265, 42/50; Circular to Police Magistrates, 21.4.1842, and annotations, IA 4/306, p 37; Col Sec to Murphy, 18.11.1842, IA 4/265, 42/267; Mathew, 3.3.1842, 42/14, JCAuckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
35. Minutes 19.2.1842, EC 1/1; NZ Advertiser and Bay of Islands Gazette, 17.9.1840, end with IA 1/11, 42/537
36. NZ Gazette, 1842, No 33, 17.8.1842; NZ Gazette , 1844, No 1, 6.1.1844, No 16, 8.6.1844; Col Sec to Murphy, 11.2.1841, IA 4/265, 41/36 A; Sopenoff, ‘Policeman’s Lot’, p 50; Miller, Cops
660
References to Chapter V
& Bobbies, pp 39-40; Fisher to Col Sec, 1.12.1841, and Hobson’s note, IA 1/9, 41/1502; Record of Criminal Charges 1846-7, Nelson Police Dept, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum; Phillips, ‘Social History’, p 101
37. Marshall, Police & Government, pp 24-5; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, chap 14, & 111, p 8, & IV, p 172; Milte, Police in Australia, p 18
38. King, ‘Aspects of Police Administration’, pp 208-9; Miller, Cops & Bobbies, pp 14-16; Marshall, Police & Government, pp 16, 21 et passim; Milte, Police in Australia, pp 18-21; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law IV, pp 172f
19. Miller, Cops & Bobbies, pp 14-16; Lee, History, pp 258-60; King, ‘Problems of Police Administration’, pp 65-6; O’Sullivan, Mounted Police, pp 48-50; Milte, Police in Australia, pp 23-4, 206
40. Thompson to Col Sec, 31.1.1842, and end, IA 1/10, 42/177; Circular 44/4, 30.5.1844, and end, NM 10/3, p 19; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, p 193; David Williams, Keeping the Peace: The Police and Public Order, London 1967, p 3p; Bunyan, Political Police, p 63; for the typical JP mandate, see NZ Gazette, 1846, No 16, 12.10.1846
41. NZ Government, Minutes and Proceedings of the Legislative Council of New Zealand, Session 11, Auckland 1843, 15.3.1842; FitzGerald to Col Sec, 16.7.1841, and Freeman’s minute, 20.7.1841, IA 1/7, 41/827; Brothers to Col Sec, 7.11.1844, 44/2295, end with Brothers to Police Magistrate, Auckland, 31.3.1845, IA 4/266, 45/36; Col Sec to Robinson, 20.5.1843, IA 4/265, 43/104; Col Sec to Mathew, 22.10.1842, IA 4/265, 42/258; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Russell, 24.10.1844 & 5.12.1844, IA 4/265, 44/109 & 44/116; affidavit, 19.10.1844, 44/2227, end with IA 1/75, 49/158
42. Murphy to Col Sec, 20.1.1842, and Hobson’s comments, IA 1/11, 42/422; SSD to Chief Police Magistrate, Wellington, 2.8.1844, NM 10/5, p 60; McDonogh to SSD, 6.8.1844, IA 1/35, 44/1802; Richmond to Col Sec, 11.12.1843, IA 1/27, 44/11
43. Richmond to Col Sec, 13.9.1843, and Shortland’s note, 11.11.1843, and Home to Col Sec, 12.11.1843, 44/1656, both end with IA 1/27, 44/36; Col Sec to Chief Police Magistrate, Auckland, 26.2.1844, IA 4/265, 44/38
44. Dilnot, Scotland Yard , p 15; Charles Reith letter, 14.10.1949, folder 2, Metzer Papers, NZ Police Association; Martin & Wilson, Police , p 7
45. Lee, History , p 156; Martin & Wilson, Police , p 7
46. Charles Reith letter, 14.10.1949, folder 2. Meltzer Papers, NZ Police Association
1028
References to Chapter V
47. Dilnot, Scotland Yard, p 37; Sopenoff, ‘Policeman’s Lot pp 50-1; Lee, History, pp 241-3
48. Dawson to Col Sec, IA 1/6, 41/504; Wards, Shadow, p 379; Burnett, Transportation, p 28; NZ Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, 6.1.1843, 21.4.1843; Murphy to Col Sec, 16.8.1842, IA 1/15, 42/1654; Murphy to Col Sec, 31.10.1842, IA 1/17, 42/2128
49. Phillips, ‘Social History’, pp 69, 189, 271-2; NZ Herald & Auckland Gazette, 14.8.1841, 28.8.1841 & 2.3.1842; Southern Cross, 29.7.1843, 16.12.1843; Auckland Chronicle, 6.9.1843, 22.11.1843; Mathew to Col Sec, 14.11.1843, 43/38, and [Jan 1844], 44/2, both JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland; Symonds to Col Sec, 24.2.1845, IA 1/41, 45/394; Mathew to Col Sec, 28.3.1843, IA 1/22, 43/967; Mathew to Col Sec, 18.3.1844, 44/688, and Rough to Col Sec, 22.11.1843, 43/2156, with IA 1/30, 44/710; Platts, Lively Capital, p7B
50. Robinson et al, 14.7.1840, IA 1/2, 40/259; Phillips, ‘Social History’, pp 173, 273-6, 284, 293; Beckham to Col Sec, 19.6.1845 and minutes, IA 1/43, 45/1002; Sinclair to Col Sec, 10.1.1845 45/379, end with IA 1/49, 46/859
51. Petition, 20.4.1846, end with SSD to Col Sec, 8.5.1846, IA 1/49, 46/859; St Hill to SSD, 24.4.1846 and 7.5.1846, 45/171, end with IA 1/49, 46/859; Home Office, Evidence to the Royal Commission on Criminal Procedure: Memorandum No III: The Powers of the Police to Arrest or Otherwise Stop a Person, to Search Him, to Stop and Search Vehicles, and to Enter and Search Premises, London 1978, p 4
52. Murphy to Col Sec, 16.8.1842,1 A 1/15, 42/1654; Police Magistrate, Hokianga, 15.9.1842, IA 1/15, 42/1718; Murphy to Col Sec, 11.6.1842, IA 1/14, 42/1286; Mathew to Col Sec, 2.7.1844, 44/45, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
53. Beckham to Col Sec, 15.8.1842, IA 1/14, 42/1478; McDonogh to Col Sec, 22.4.1843, IA 1/22, 43/1034; Shortland’s circular, 19.5.1843, 43/864, end with IA 1/22, 43/1014; Chief Police Magistrate, Auckland, 8.1.1844, IA 4/265, 44/4; Burnett, Transportation, p 16; Brodie, Remarks, pp 128-9
54. Wards, Shadow, p 326; Auckland Chronicle, 9.1.1845; EC 1/1, 8.1.1845; Beckham to Col Sec, 18.11.1840, IA 1/4, 40/685; Col Sec to Clendon, 27.6.1846, IA 4/266, 46/61
55. Col Sec to Smart, 21.3.1840, IA 4/277; Col Sec to Murphy, 2,12.1840, IA 4/1, p 163; Col Sec to McDonogh, 4.12.1840, IA 4/1, p 167; Ward, Show, pp 66-8; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, p 133; Shortland, Southern Districts, pp 266-7
56. Ward, Show, pp 45, 57-8; Blue Book 1840, IA 12/1; King,
662
References to Chapter V
‘Problems of Police Administration’, pp 64-5; Victoria Police Police in Victoria, pp 4-5
57. McDonogh to Col Sec, 28.9.1841, IA 1/8, 41/1147; Dawson to Col Sec, 16.9.1842, and end Dawson, 6.11.1841, 42/197, IA 1/17, 42/2005; Murphy to Col Sec. 2.11.1840, IA 1/5, 41/56; Clendon to Col Sec, 22.5.1846, IA 1/49, 46/692; Clendon to Col Sec, 19.3.1846, 46/366, with IA 1/49, 46/714
58. desp (executive), 22.11.1845, CO 209/38, pp 16f; Ward, Show p 74; Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, pp 215, 219-21; Critchley Conquest, p 59; Seth, Specials, p 38
59. Radzinowicz, Criminal Law 11, pp 194, 223; Seth, Specials, p44
60. Seth, Specials, pp 44-50; Critchley, History of Police, p 60; Johnston, Justice of the Peace, pp 300-1; Maitland, Justice, pp 107-8
61. Seth, Specials, pp 44-53, 57-61; J Daniel Devlin, Police Proce dure, Administration and Organisation, London 1966 pp 11-12
62. Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Hokianga, 28.12.1840, IA 4/1 p 183; Blue Book 1840, IA 12/1; Col Sec to Police Magistrate Wellington, 18.5.1843, IA 4/265, 43/88; Col Architect to Co! Sec, IA 1/2, 40/148
63. Symonds to Col Sec, 13.8.1841, IA 1/8, 41/965; Col Sec to Symonds, 14.10.1841, IA 4/265, 41/151; McDonogh to Col Sec, 1.5.1843, and Shortland’s minutes, IA 1/22, 43/971 & 43/973; Col Sec to McDonogh, 19.5.1843, IA 4/265, 43/91
64. St Hill to SSD, 9.5.1845, NM 8/2, 45/186; Hobson to Sec of State, 28.2.1842, and ends, G 30/2, No 6, p 42; Beckham to Col Sec, 23.6.1842, and ends, IA 1/13, 42/1141; Martin to Col Sec, 15.8.1842, and Hobson’s minute, IA 1/14, 42/1461; Mathew to Col Sec, 28.1.1842, 42/7, JC-Auckland, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
65. White to Col Sec, 12.12.1843, and ends, IA 1/27, 44/36; Richmond to Col Sec, 19.10.1843, IA 1/26, 43/2036; Col Sec to Richmond, 16.11.1843, IA 4/265, 43/256; Poff, ‘Fox’, pp 84-6; Colbert, ‘Working Class’, p 62; Accounts Book 1845-8, Nelson Police Dept, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum
66. H King to Col Sec, 11.7.1843, IA 1/24, 43/1659; St Aubyn to Col Sec, 16.9.1844, 44/1992, end with IA 1/37, 44/2181; Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Hokianga, 26.9.1844, IA 4/265, 44/100
67. NZ Journal, 5.2.1842, 11.10.1845; Wakefield, Adventure 11. pp 34-6
68. Col Sec to Richmond, 18.1.1844, IA 4/265, 44/13; Richmond to Col Sec, 4.10.1843, and end McDonogh, 16.8.1843, 43/1710, IA 1/26, 43/2018; Col Sec to Richmond, 15.11.1843, IA 4/265,
1030
References to Chapter V
43/247; EC 1/1, 8.9.1843; Sinclair to SSD, 10.4.1845, IA 1/42; Phillips, ‘Social History’, pp 25-6; Wards, ‘Militia’, pp 10-11
69. Col Sec to Police Magistrate, Auckland, 26.6.1845, IA 4/266, 45/48; Beckham to Col Sec, 25.6.1845, IA 1/43, 45/1024; Atkyns to Col Sec, 14.3.1848, IA 1/66, 48/541; Richardson, Urban Police, p 9
70. McLean to Col Sec, 27.4.1846, and Grey’s minute 46/794, end with IA 1/58, 47/1111
71. Atkjms to Col Sec, 22.2.1847, IA 1/55, 47/353; White, ‘Reminiscences’, p 53, ATL; New Zealander, 27.6.1846, 25.7.1846; Beckham to Col Sec, 17.12.1846, 46/192, and 15.1.1847, 47/7, to Atkyns, 14.1.1847, 47/6, and 20.7.1846, 46/130, JC-Auck-land, Accession 21, No 1, Police Office Letterbook 1842-9, NA Regional Office, Auckland
72. New Zealander, 18.7.1846
73. Col Sec to Atkyns, 12.10.1846, IA 4/266, 46/97; Atkyns to Grey, 2.10.1846, IA 1/57, 47/687; New Zealander, 1.8.1846
74. Col Sec to Atk>ms, 12.10.1846, IA 4/266, 46/97; Jackson to Grey, 29.9.1846, 46/1505, and Newman & Kemp to Grey, 29.4.1846, and Atkyns to Grey, 2.10.1846, all end with IA 1/57, 47/687
75. New Zealander, 12.12.1846; Wakefield to Col Sec, 26.1.1852, and ends, NM 8/31, 52/244; McLean diary, box 1, 21.12.1846, and end McLean to Halse, 19.12.1846, ATL; McLean to H King, 22.6.1846, p 2, and McLean to Col Sec, 14.7.1846, p5, Official Letterbook 1846-7, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
76. NZ Journal, 27.3.1847; New Zealander, 10.10.1846; Ward, Early Wellington, p 138
Jl. Col Sec to Atkyns, 22.9.1846, IA 4/266, 46/89; McLean to Col Sec, 9.10.1846, IA 1/52, 46/1610; New Zealander, 10.10.1846, 6.3.1847; NZ Journal, 27.2.1847; Constabulary Force Ordinance, Session VII, No 2, 9.10.1846, Domett (ed), Ordinances
78. New Zealander, 10.10.1846
79. NZ Journal, 27.2.1847, reporting LC, 7.10.1846; New Zealander, 28.11.1846; Schultz report, 31.7.1847, end with IA 1/61, 47/1753; preamble and clauses 3 & 4, Constabulary Force Ordinance, Session VII, No 2, 9.10.1846, Domett (ed), Ordinances
80. Atkyns to Col Sec, 10.12.1846, IA 1/53, 46/1881
81. Phillips, ‘Social History’, pp 274-293; Shearman to Supt, Jim 1864, No 1054, CP Inwards letters, CM
82. White, ‘Reminiscences’, p 63, ATL; Lee, History, pp 311, 367
83. Babington, Bow Street, pp 89-90, 186-8; Ronald Howe, The Story of Scotland Yard, London 1965, pp 17-19; Weisser,
664
References to Chapter V
Crime & Punishment, pp 159-60; Manning, Police Work, p 72; Ramsay, Peel, p 87; Lee, History, pp 191-4
84. Babington, Bow Street, p 218; Lee, History, pp 253-6; Dilnot Scotland Yard, pp 41-2, 53-4; Howe, Scotland Yard, pp 33-7
85. O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment’, pp 291, 308; J S Levi and G F J Bergman, Australian Genesis: Jewish Convicts and Settlers 1788-1850, Adelaide 1974, pp 62-70; Locke, Gaoler, p 72
86. Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, pp 37-8; Durie to Col Sec 24.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/445; Grey to Earl Grey, 7.7.1849 GBPP 1850, 1136, p 176
87. Registry of Criminal Matters 1842-9, and Record of Criminal Charges 1846-7, Belt Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum; McLean to Halse, 19.12.1846, 46/1, and draft McLean to King, 12.11.1846, box 1, McLean diary, ATL; McLean to Col Sec, 9.10.1846, Official Letterbook 1846-7, p 15, and McLean to Col Sec, [Dec 1846], Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, f 47, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
88. Johnson, ‘Journal’, 12.2.1848, 14.3.1848, 23.3.1848, 27.4.1848, 15.5.1850, 9.8.1850, ATL; McLean to Col Sec, 25.8.1849, IA 1/81, 49/1865
89. Durie to Col Sec, 29.3.1852, and ends, NM 8/31, 52/417
90. Durie to SSD, 7.10.1847, NM 8/8, 47/776; FitzGerald to Col Sec, 27.11.1851, NM 8/29, 51/1606; Col Sec to McLean, 16.11.1847, IA 4/266, 47/58; Johnson, ‘Journal’, 9.2.1848, 21.2.1848, 29.2.1848, ATL; Halse to McLean, 13.5.1850, No 39, and 27.5.1850, No 73, 2/2/16, folder 124, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
91. Beckham to Col Sec, 5.6.1852, and end Beckham, 31.5.1852, 52/1137, IA 1/105, 52/1181; Col Sec to Beckham, 1.11.1848, IA 4/266, 48/59; Durie to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/70; Col Sec to Durie, 10.8.1848, NM 10/9, p 242
92. Col Sec to Atkyns, 20.3.1849, IA 4/26, 49/7; Col Sec to Commissioner, 9.6.1852 & 30.7.1852, IA 4/266, 52/50 & 52/69; McLean to Col Sec, 8.8.1851, and ends, NM 8/23, 51/1038; New Munster Blue Book 1849, NM 11/2, p 99; S King to McLean, 5,2.1849, f 3, 24/1/116, folder 375, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL
93. Locke, Gaoler, pp 47-9; EC minutes, 8.8.1852, NM 7/1, pp 359f
94. Southern Cross, 28.8.1849, 4.9.1849, 10.5.1850, 14.5.1850
95. Ibid, 14.5.1850, 6.8.1850, 16.8.1850
96. Godley to Col Sec, 3.6.1851, and ends, NM 8/26, 51/820; Murphy to Col Sec, 4.6.1842, IA 1/14, 42/1278; FitzGerald to Simeon, 15.1.1852, NM 8/32, 52/486; Lyttelton Times, 17.1.1852
1032
References to Chapter V
97. Simeon to Col Sec, 19.4.1852, NM 8/32, 52/503; FitzGerald to Col Sec, 13.1.1853, NM 8/36, 53/98; Beckham to Col Sec, 16.10.1848, IA 1/72, 48/2317
98. McDonogh to Col Sec, 20.10.1851, and end, NM 8/28, 51/1433; Baker to Col Sec, 1.1.1853, NM 8/36, 53/3; Fitzßoy to Simeon, 2.2.1852, and end, NM 8/33, 52/1017
99. Baker to Col Sec, 1.1.1853, and Domett’s reply, NM 8/36, 53/3
100. ‘Armed Police Force: Rules to be observed’, WP 3, 57/118
101. O’Callaghan, ‘Police Establishment’, pp 298-9
102. Atkyns to Col Sec, 22.6.1846, and ends, IA 1/49, 46/838; McLean to Col Sec, 14.7.1846, 46/1043, end with IA 1/58, 47/1111; Atkyns to Col Sec, 11.5.1848, and end Atkyns, 7.12.1846, IA 1/68, 48/1016; Durie to Domett, 18.10.1849, NM 49/1107, & Eyre to Domett, 8.10.1849, 49/1074, & AuditorGeneral’s memo of 6.10.1849, all end in CS 1/5, 53/405; New Zealand Government, Rules and Regulations of the Constabulary Force of New Zealand, Wellington 1852, No 18
103. Col Sec to Inspector, 6.1.1848, IA 4/266, 48/3; Atkyns to Col Sec, 11.5.1848, IA 1/68, 48/1016; Durie to Col Sec, 24.4.1848, NM 8/10, 48/445; Eyre to Domett, 8.10.1849, NM 49/1074, end with CS 1/5, 53/405
104. McLean diary, box 1, 19.6.1846, ATL; Atkyns to Col Sec, 28.5.1846, IA 1/49, 46/650; Durie to Gov, 18.3.1847, NM 8/6, 47/143; NZ Gazette , 1846, No 9, 21.5.1846, No 11, 9.7.1846; McLean to King, 6.7.1847, Police and Native Land Purchase Dept Letterbook 1846-7, p 60, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Col Sec to Atkyns, 6.1.1848, IA 4/266, 48/3; Beckham to Col Sec, 1.4.1853, IA 1/115, 53/748; Col Sec to Commissioner, 24.4.1851, IA 4/266, 51/16; Simeon to Col Sec, 28.5.1852, and ends, NM 8/32, 52/730
105. NZ Govt, Rules & Regulations, 1852 , No 41; Simeon to Col Sec, 28.5.52, and ends, NM 8/32, 52/730; McLean to H King, 22.6.1846, Police & Native Land Purchase Dept Letterbook 1846-7, p 2, McLean papers, MS 32, ATL; Durie to Col Sec, 14.4.1848, and ends, NM 8, 48/370 a
106. Atkyns to Col Sec, 29.7.1846, and end Atkyns, 17.6.1846, 46/785, IA 1/50, 46/1033; Atkyns to Col Sec, 12.10.1846, IA 4/266, 46/97
107. McLean to Col Sec, [late 1846], Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, f 43, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Mathew, ‘Views’, APL; SSD to Durie, 6.11.1847, NM 10/8, p 57; Durie to Col Sec, 21.1.1851, and ends, NM 8/24, 51/105; Domett to Sub-Inspector, Wellington, 14.9.1852, NM 10/12, 52/906; New Munster Gazette , 1847, No 5, 23.11.1847
1033
References to Chapter V
108. FitzGerald to Col Sec. 16.7.1850 [sic], NM 8/32, 52/642; Hamilton to Col Sec, 9.11,1850, NM 8/22, 50/1036; Durie to Col Sec, 18.8.1850, and Eyre’s minute, 26.8.1850, NM 8/21, 50/781
109. Col Sec to Commissioner, 10.10.1848, IA 4/266, 48/47; Supt of Works to Col Sec, 5.4.1850, and ends, IA 1, 50/525; Beckham to Col Sec, 18.4.1853, IA 1/116, 53/912
110, FitzGerald to Col Sec, 16.7.1850, NM 8/32, 52/642; Hamilton to Col Sec, 16.7.1850, NM 8/22, 50/1036; Duncan to Col Sec, 3.7.1852, and ends, NM 8/34, 52/1110
111. Johnson, ‘Journal’, 18.10.1849, 12.4.1850, ATL; NZ Govt, Rules & Regulations, 1852, No 50; Godley to Col Sec, 3.6.1851, and ends, NM 8/26, 51/820; Seager, ‘Old Lyttelton’, ‘Reminiscences’, No 3, CM
112. NZ' Govt, Rules & Regulations, 1852, No 18; Col Sec to Resident Magistrate, Wellington, 7.8.1848, NM 10/9, p 236; desp 73,19.8.1848, and end, CO 209/62; White to Col Sec, 1.7.1850, 50/1621, with IA 1/110, 52/2392
113. McLean to Col Sec, [late 1846], Private Letters and Native Correspondence 1846-7, f 43, McLean Papers, MS 32, ATL; Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, CS 1/5, 53/405
114. Eyre to Domett, 6.6,1849, NM 8/15, 49/575; Watson to Col Sec, 16.4.1852, and ends, NM 8/32, 52/626; Durie to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/70; New Munster Blue Book 1849, NM 11/2, pp 98-9
115. Johnson, ‘Journal’, 1.4.1848,14.9.1848, 17.11.1848,11.12.1848, 4.3.1849, 10.11.1849, 21.11.1849, 2.6.1850, 12.8.1850 et passim, ATL
116. Phillips, ‘Social History’, pp 296-300
117. White, ‘Reminiscences’, p 65, ATL; Durie to Col Sec, 18.12.1848, & end Eyre to Domett, 5.12.1848, 48/1312, NM 8/13, 48/1378
118. Domett to Durie, 3.9.1850, NM 10/10, 50/649; SSD to Durie, 23.9.1850, NM 10/10, 50/704; Durie to Col Sec, 18.12.1848, and ends 48/1212 & list, NM 8/13, 48/1378; Wakefield to Col Sec, 26.1.1852, NM 8/31, 52/244; Locke, Gaoler, p 55
119. Domett to McDonogh, 1.9.1851, NM 10/11, 51/1030
120. Atkyns to Col Sec, 22.6.1846, IA 1/49, 46/838; Clauses 7-9, Constabulary Force Ordinance, Session VII, No 2, 9.10.1846, Domett (ed), Ordinances
121. NZ Journal, 27.2.1847, reporting LC, 7.10.1846
122. Clause 13, Constabulary Force Ordinance, Session VII, No 2, 9.10.1846, Domett (ed), Ordinances
123. Col Sec to Atkyns, 9,10.1846, IA 4/266, 46/96; Col Sec to SSD, 13.10.1846, NM 8/5, 46/556; NZ Journal, 27.2.1847
124. Resident Magistrate, Auckland, to Col Sec, 29.4.1847, IA 1/57,
1034
References to Chapter V
47/802; Col Sec to Atkyns, 11.8.1847, 18.9.1847 & 27.3.1848, IA 4/266, 47/46, 47/53 & 48/12
125. NZ Gazette, 1847, No 21, 28.9.1847; Atkyns to Col Sec, 16.9.1847, IA 1/61, 47/1723; Woods to Bridge, 16.10.1849, and ends, IA 1/82, 49/2179; Col Sec to Atkyns, 11.4.1849, IA 4/266, 49/14
126. Col Sec to SSD, 13.10.1846, NM 8/5, 46/556; EC minutes, 7.10.1848, NM 7/1; Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/5, 53/405
127. Col Sec to Durie, 24.1.1849, NM 10/9, 49/67; Eyre to Domett 6.7.1849, NM 6/1, p 29; Col Sec to Durie, 27.7.1849, NM 10/9 49/618; Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/5 53/405
128. Beckham to Col Sec, 13.9.1849, IA 1/81, 49/1866; Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/5, 53/405
129. McLean to Col Sec, 20.11.1849, IA 1/83, 49/2412; Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/5, 53/405; Johnson, ‘Journal’, 15.1.1850, ATL
130. Durie to Col Sec, 25.1.1849, NM 8/14, 49/70; New Zealander, 13.6.1846; H G Longley, The New Zealand Wars 1845-1866, Auckland nd; Ellen Connell’s petition to Grey, 4.12.1851, and ends, NM 8/29, 51/1651; EC minutes, 17.10.1851, NM 7/1
131. Col Sec to Inspector, Auckland, 15.6.1848, IA 4/266, 48/26; EC minutes, 21.7.1848, NM 7/1; Eyre to Domett, 27.2.1849, NM 8/14, 49/191; Col Sec to Inspector, New Plymouth, 18.4.1853, IA 4/266, 53/19; Col Sec to Commissioner, 18.1.1849, IA 4/266, 49/2
132, Col Sec to Resident Magistrate, Russell, 19.5.1847, IA 4/267, 47/51; Simeon to Col Sec, 12.8.1853, CS 1, 53/1125; Domett to Resident Magistrate, Canterbury, 6.5.1851, NM 10/11, 51/531; Col Sec to Baker, 14.1.1853, NM 10/12, 53/37
133. McDonogh to Col Sec, 26.6.1852, NM 8/33, 52/861; Dune to Civil Sec, 14.6.1853, and ends, CS 1/6, 53/682; Col Sec to Baker, 14.1.1853, NM 10/12, 53/38
134. McLean to Col Sec, 8.8.1851, and ends, NM 8/28, 51/1038; Col Sec to Atkyns, 12.10.1846, IA 4/266, 46/97; McDonogh to Col Sec, 2.10.1852, and Col Sec’s minute of 4.10.1852, NM 8/34, 52/1302; NZ Govt, Minutes and Proceedings of LC , 5.6.1849; St Hill to Col Sec, 4.10.1852, NM 8/34, 52/1304
135. Col Sec to Resident Magistrate, Lyttelton, 14.1.1853, NM 10/12, 53/36; Simeon to Col Sec, 23.12.1852, and ends, NM 8/35, 52/1623; EC minutes, 12.1.1853, NM 7/1
136. Mclntyre (ed), Sewell I, pp 14. 414, 418, 461, 11, pp3B-9; defaulters’ roll, end with Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, CS 1, 53/405; Baker to Civil Sec, 24.6.1853, and Grey’s minute, 16.7.1853, CS 1, 53/744
668
References to Chapter VI
137. Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1, 53/405; Baker to Civil Sec, 24.6.1853, & Grey’s minute, 16.7.1853, CS 1, 53/744; Baker to Civil Sec, 2.7.1853, CS 1, 53/800
138. Johnson, ‘Journal’, 12.12.1848, ATL; Durie to Col Sec 17.5.1848, and attachments, NM 8/10, 48/509
139. Col Sec to Resident Magistrate, Akaroa, 25.8.1849, NM 10/9, 49/730; Simeon to Col Sec, 8.7.1862, & ends, NM 8/33, 52/1017; Godley to Col Sec, 24.11.1851, & ends, NM 8/29, 51/1619; Beckham to Col Sec, 16.12.1852, IA 1/111, 52/2837; Beckham to Col Sec, 1.9.1853, IA 1/121, 53/2062; Col Sec to Beckham, 16.9.1853, and attachment, IA 4/266, 53/37
140. Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/5, 53/405; Baker, ‘Armed Police Force: Rules to be observed’, WP 3, 57/118
141. NZ Govt, Rules & Regulations, 1852, Nos 52, 54, 58-61
142. Ibid, Nos 11, 17, 24-6, 31, 32, 45, 49
143. Ibid, Nos 12, 62, 74, 89; draft, McLean to Raise, 19.12.1846 46/1, box 1, McLean diary, ATL
144. NZ Govt, Rules & Regulations, 1852, No 19
145. Zillwood inquest, J 46/5; info from Ms J Mould; Watson to Col Sec, 16.4.1852, and ends, NM 8/32, 52/626; Domett to Watson, 18.5.1852, NM 10/11, 52/501; Domett to Civil Sec, 9.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/4, 53/339
Chapter VI
1. Provincial Officers’ Committee, ‘lnterrogation of Thomas Beckham...’, and ‘Notes for Report of Provincial Officers’ Committee’, No V, Police, and ‘General Finance: Revenue and Expenditure, estimates 1853-4’, No 7, Police Dept, all in APC Papers, Sess I, APL; Acts and Proceedings, AP, Sess I, Minute IV, estimates to 30.9.1853, and Report of Provincial Officers’ Committee, 15.11.1853; New Zealander 5.11.1853, 16.11.1853, 3.12.1853; Morrell, Provincial Government, pp 60, 62-3
2. Revenue & Expenditure, estimates 1853-4, No 7, Police Dept, and papers, APC Papers, Sess I, APL; estimates for 1854. Ordinances, AP, Sess I, No 3; New Zealander, 18.5.1853
v/1 unwin CO, , ucaa x, nu o, , iu.u.iouo 3. Revenue & Expenditure, estimates 1853-4, No 7, Police Dept, and Beckham and Wynyard corresp 14-17.9.1853, and No 10, Sheriffs Dept, and end Sheriff to Supt, 14.9.1853, and ‘Notes for Report of Provincial Officers’ Committee’, APC Papers, Sess I, APL; estimates for 1854, Ordinances, AP, Sess I, No 3; Blue Books, 1853, IA 12/13, pp 90-1, 1854, IA 12/15, pp 168-9; New Zealander, 5.11.1853, 16.11.1853, 3.12.1853; OP Gazette, I, No 4, 4.2.1854; AP 6/1, 1854 ledgers, esp p 25
4. Col Sec to Supt, Wellington, 18.2.1865, WP 3/17, 65/151
1036
References to Chapter VI
5. Provincial Officers’ Committee, ‘lnterrogation of Thomas Beckham...’ and ‘Notes for Report of Provincial Officers’ Committee’, APC Papers, Sess I, APL; Report of Provincial Officers’ Committee, 15.11.1853, Acts & Proceedings, AP, Sess I; Ward, Show, pp 92-3; New Zealander, 26.11.1853; 1860 & 1861 police rolls, Kenderdine Scrapbook, MS 18, 1855/1863, Auckland Institute & Museum
6. ‘Notes for Report of Provincial Officers’ Committee’, APC Papers, Sess I, APL; Col Sec to Supt, 30.11.1854, ‘Prisoners for Public Works, Military Guard for’, and Petition to Clendon, 26.10.1854, & Clendon to Supt, 31.10.1854, ‘Request for Police in Russell’, and Estimate of Expenditure for 1855 (Schedule B), APC Papers, Sess 11, APL; estimates for 1855, Ordinances, AP, Sess 11, No 8; New Zealander, 9.12.1854; Blue Book 1854, IA 12/15
7. ‘Appointment of Edward Mayne’, APC Papers, Sess 111, APL; Journals, AP, Sess XXVI, A-9, pp 14-15; AP Gazette, 111, No 1, 10.1.1855; NZ Gazette, 1855, No 5, p 28, 15.2.1855; H J Hanham, ‘The Political Structure of Auckland 1853-76’, MA thesis, Auckland 1950
8. Carleton to Supt, 12.4.1845, ‘Mangonui Road’, and White to Supt, 3.4.1855 & 14.4.1855, ‘State of the Lock-up, Mangonui’ & ‘Mangonui—lnterpreter Required’, APC Papers, Sess 111, APL; New Zealander, 9.12.1854; J T Stewart, ‘A Trip in Northern New Zealand, July-August, 1857’, Historical Review, May 1984
9. AP Gazette, 11, No 27, p 181, 31.8.1855; NZ Herald & Auckland Gazette, 28.8.1841, 2.3.1842; Naughton to Supt, 3.8.1855, end ‘State and Distribution of the APF at Auckland on this day 3rd of August 1855’, APC Papers, Sess IV, APL
10. ‘Police Dept, suggested salaries and list of duties’, 3.8.1855, and ‘lnspector of Police re Police Dept’, 1.8.1855, incl Petition, APC Papers, Sess IV, APL; estimates, Ordinances, AP, Sess I, No 3, Sess 11, No 8, Sess IV, No 2, Sess V, No 11; AP Gazette, 111, No 30, 9.10.1855, No 32, 9.11.1855; New Zealander, 18.9.1855; Southern Cross, 18.9.1855
11. Stafford to Supt, 8.12.1857, ‘Bay of Islands —military post estimates’, APC Papers, Sess VIII, APL; AP Gazette, IV, No 2, p7, 11.1.1856; AP 6/1, pp 74-5; Auckland Almanack and Directory, 1856; Nelson Examiner, 6.9.1856; Kay Boese, Tides of History: Bay of Islands County, Whangarei 1977, p 1
12. Hanham, ‘Auckland’, p 12; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’ pp 136-7
13. AJHR, 1860, E-IC, Journal of F D Fenton, end in No 3, pp 14f
14. Ibid
670
Siz.24
References to Chapter VI
15. Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, pp 137-8; J E Gorst, The Maori King (ed K Sinclair), London 1864, 1959 ed, pp 65-81
16. Gorst, Maori King, pp 79, 270; Henry ERL Wily, South Auckland, Pukekohe 1939, p 146
17. Williams, East Coast Records, pp 16, 18, 31; W H Oliver and Jane M Thomson, Challenge and Response: A Study of the Development of the Gisborne East Coast Region, Gisborne 1971, pp 62, 65-7
18. Hawke's Bay Herald, 18.9.1858, 27.11.1858, 11.12.1858
19. Hay to Browne, 1.9.1857, ‘Auckland Militia—Arms’, APC Papers, Sess VIII, APL; Col Sec to Supt, 18.12.1856, APC Papers, Sess VII, APL; AJHR, 1860, E-l, pp 4-7; Col Sec, ‘Defence Storekeeper’ boxes, Aug 1868, NA; Gorst, Moon King, pp 32-3; A J Harrop, England and the Maori Wars , London 1937, pp 48, 107; Hursthouse, Zealandia, I, p 302
20. Enclosure with Appropriation Bill 1856, Schedule B, APC Papers, Sess V, APL; Hanham, ‘Auckland’, pp 86, 115; R C J Stone, Makers of Fortune, Auckland 1973, p 7; G C Beale, Seventy Years In and Around Auckland, Dunedin [1937], p 24
21. Estimates for 1857 & 1858, APC Papers, Sess VIII, APL ‘Return of all officers serving under the Provincial Govern ment’, APC Papers, Sess IX, APL; Evidence of John Jones tx Police Committe 1866, APC Papers, Sess XX, APL; Stone Makers of Fortune, p 8; New Zealander, 27.3.1858; Aucklam Municipal Police Act 1858, AP Gazette, No 9, Sess VIII, No 7 pp 38-42
22. Estimate for 1859, APC Papers, Sess IX. APL; ‘Enquiry int dismissal of Provincial Surgeon’, APC Papers, Sess XII, APL Journals, AP, Sess XXVI, A-9, p 14
23. Williamson to Col Sec, 29.1.1859, APC Papers. Sess XII, APL; Naughton to Resident Magistrate, Waiuku, 28.11.1859, letters in possession of E Scanned
24. Votqs & Proceedings, AP, Sess XII, 22.3.1860, p 76; Journals, AP, Sess XV, 19.3.1863, p 69; Ordinances, AP, Sess XII, No 14, estimates for 1860; Sep 1860 police roll, Kenderdine Scrapbook, Auckland Institute & Museum; Southern Cross, 9.3.1860
25. Expenditure to 11.11.1856, APC Papers, Sess XII, APL; Ordinances, AP, Sess XIII, No 1, estimates for 1861; Main Scrapbook, vol 14, 1900, p 130, Auckland Institute & Museum; NZ Herald, 28.10.1946
26. B R Patterson, ‘Provincial Land Politics’, passim, and ‘Land, Men and Sheep: The Development of a Regional Economy’, pp 14, 39, typescripts provided by author
27. Wellington Independent, 18.6.1853, 17.12.1853, 28.12.1853,
1038
References to Chapter VI
16.2.1856; Charles Percy Cox, Personal Notes and Reminiscences of an Early Canterbury Settler, Christchurch 1915, p 8; Taranaki Herald, 1.2.1854
28. Wellington Independent, 3.1.1855, 16.2.1856, 21.5.1856; NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 11.11.1857; WP Gazette, 11, p 16, 11.4.1855; info from Ms M Styles, Ms C Styles & Mrs M Alington; St Paul’s Register of Burials, ATL
29. Wellington Independent, 29.4.1854, 19.9.1865, 28.6.1856
30. Ibid, 16.2.1856, 17.5.1856, 21.5.1856, 7.6.1856, 28.6.1856
31. Ibid, 4.6.1856, 7.6.1856
32. Patterson, ‘Land Politics’, pp 13-15; info from T Hoggard
33. Wellington Independent, 28.6.1856
34. Ibid
35. NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 11.11.1867, 19.11.1859; Wellington Independent, 17.5.1856, 21.5.1856, 4.6.1856, 7.6.1856, 24.4.1858
36. WP 3/1, 56/19; info from T Hoggard; Wellington Independent, 19.9.1855, 25.11.1857; Patterson, ‘Land, Men & Sheep’, pp 33, 39
37. NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 31.10.1857, 11.11.1857; Wellington Independent, 25.11.1857; Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 164-6
38. Patterson, ‘Land Politics’, pp 14-23; Wellington Independent, 16.12.1857, 23.12.1857; Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 164-6
39. Supt to Tylee, 12.9.1859 & 28.9.1859, WP 6/2, 207/59 & 217/59; Patterson, ‘Land, Men & Sheep’, pp 10, 40, 58-9; info from R Startup; Tylee to Fox, 20.1.1857, & J Mcßeth et al to Supt, WP 3/3, 57/103; Tylee to Supt, 6.10.1859, & end petition, WP 3/7, 59/433
40. Supt to Durie, 2.2.1857, WP 6/1, 59/57; Supt to Dunleavy, 18.5.1857, WP 6/1, 180a/57; McDonogh to Col Sec, 26.6.1852, NM 8/33, 52/861; Resident Magistrate, Wanganui, to Civil Sec, 14.6.1853, and ends, CS 1/6, 53/682; B J Dalton, War and Politics in New Zealand 1855-1870, Sydney 1967, p 83
41. Supt to Trafford, 28.9.1859, WP 6/2, 219/59; Speaker of Provincial Council to Rees, 5.7.1858, WP 6/2, 150/58; Supt to Atkinson, 24.1.1861, WP 6/3, 31/61; Supt to Smith and bench, 11.3.1862, WP 6/3, 77/62; info from Ms D Peterson
42. Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 90-2, 136; Patterson, ‘Land, Men & Sheep’, p 59; Fargher, ‘McLean’, pp 31-4, 49-51; Hawke's Bay Herald, 10.6.1878; M D N Campbell, Story of Napier 1874-1974, Napier 1975, pp 4-5; Kay Mooney, History of the County of Hawke’s Bay, vol I, Napier 1973, pp 1-4; Rosamond Rolleston, The Master: J.D. Ormond of Wallingford, Wellington 1980, pp 17-19; Domett to Prov Sec, 4.3.1854, 1/1854,
672
References to Chapter VI
4.12.1854, 39/1854, 13.11.1855, 26/1855, Domett to Supt, 9.1.1856, 2/1856, Domett to Col Sec, 28.2.1856, Resident Magistrate’s Letterbook, HBM; A H Reed, Story of Hawke’s Bay, Wellington 1958, pp 64, 134; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, p 248
43. Domett to Groom and Murray, 2.10.1856, Resident Magistrate’s Letterbook, HBM; NZ Gazette, 1857, No 15, 2.6.1857, p 92; Supt’s memo, 6.7.1857, WP 6/1, 241/57; Supt to bench, Ahuriri, 3.3.1857 & 7.7.1857, WP 6/1, 75/57 & 245/57; Supt to Curling, 8.9.1857, WP 6/1, 347/57; Supt to Ogilvy, 29.5.1858, WP 6/2, 129/58; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 23.1.1858
44. Curling to Supt, 29.8.1857, Resident Magistrate’s Letterbook, HBM; Campbell, Napier, p 7; Fargher, ‘McLean’, pp 75-6; Mooney, Hawke’s Bay I, pp 5-6; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 3.10.1857, 24.10.1857; Wellington Independent, 30.9.1857, 14.10.1857
45. Curling to Supt, 9.3.1858, Resident Magistrate’s Letterbook, HBM; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 73-5; Fargher, ‘McLean’, pp 78-9, 84; Mooney, Hawke’s Bay I, pp 5-7; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 9.1.1858, 16.1.1858, 6.2.1858, 9.2.1858, 6.3.1858, 13.3.1858, 14.3.1858, 10.4.1858; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, p 209; info from C H Mac Donald
46. Ogilvy to Supt, 17.8.1858, Resident Magistrate’s Letterbook, HBM; Mooney, Hawke’s Bay I, pp 6-7; Campbell, Napier, pp 10-11; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 2.10.1858, 16.10.1858; Wellington Independent, 24.3.1858; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, pp 382-4
47. Supt to Deighton, 22.4.1861, WP 6/3, 98/61; Fitzherbert tc Styles, 19.7.1859, WP 9/2, 247/59
48. Dalton, War & Politics, p 83; Harrop, England & Maori Wars, p 63; Police Association Newsletter, May 1969; ‘Wairarapa Police History’, typescript provided by NZ Police; info from H Byrn
49. Wellington Independent, 4.11.1857, 16.12.1857, 23.12.1857
50. NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 11.11.1857; Patterson, ‘Land Men & Sheep’, p 33; WP 3/1, 56/19; Fitzherbert to Styles, 26.8.1856, WP 9/1, p 23; info from T Hoggard; Wellington Independent, 18.3.1857
51. Wellington Independent, 8.7.1859
52. Baker to Civil Sec, 22.4.1853, and ends, CS 1/5, 53/405; St Paul’s Burial Register, ATL; info from Mrs M Alington; Australia and New Zealand Gazette, 2.3.1861; Fitzherbert to Atchison and Styles, 12.4.1859, WP 9/2, 126-127/59; Fitzherbert to Styles, 30.4.1859, 1.11.1859, WP 9/2, 142/59, 331/59; Featherston to Col Sec, 29.5.1861, WP 6/3, p 95
53. Morrell, Provincial System, pp 50,55; Flight to Supt, 26.8.1853,
1040
References to Chapter VI
TP 5/7; Edward 0 Hill, There was a Taranaki Land League, Wellington 1969
54. Brown to Col Sec, 7.11.1853, and Grey’s minute, 22.12,1853, T 1, 56/127; Sinclair to Supt, 23.12.1853, TP 4/2, letter 12; Cooper to Col Sec, 10.11.1853, and end, IA 1/123, 53/2645; New Plymouth Gazette, I, No 3, 29.10.1853; Taranaki Herald, 10.11.1852, 17.11.1852, 24.11.1852, 1.12.1852, 5.1.1853, 19.1.1853, 11.5.1853, 2,11.1853, 17.5.1854; New Zealander, 9.11.1853
55. Flight et al to Supt, 28.2.1854, TP 5/1; New Plymouth Gazette, I, No 5,12.11.1853; clause 8, Municipal Police Ordinance 1854, Ordinances, New Plymouth, I, No 6; ibid, 11, No 15, 10.6.1854 and 111, No 1, 6.1.1855; Taranaki Herald, 26.10.1853, 27.12.1854
56. Cooper to Brown, 17.10.1853, end with Tl, 56/127; Hill, Land League, p 10; Taranaki Herald, 25.8.1852, 10.11.1852, 24.11.1852
57. Brown to Col Sec, 7.11.1853, and Grey’s minute, 22.12.1853, T 1, 56/127; Sinclair to Supt, 23.12.1853, TP 4/2; Grey to Earl Grey, 30.8.1851, desp 121, para 71, G 25/4
58. New Plymouth Gazette, 11, No 8, 15.4.1854, VI, No 9, 19.5.1858; Brown to Col Sec, 21.3.1854, end with T 1, 56/127
59. Gorst, Maori King, p 88; Taylor, Past & Present, p 116; J Buller, Forty Years in New Zealand, London 1878, p 389; Sinclair, Origins, p 125; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 25-7, 63-4; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, pp 62f, & Land League-, Taranaki Herald, 17.1.1855; Provincial Council to House of Representatives, New Plymouth Gazette, VI, No 9, 19.5.1858
60. New Plymouth Gazette, 11, No 25, 21.12.1854, p 109, and 111 No 5, 7.3.1855, Sinclair to Supt, 26.12.1854, 10.2.1855; Hill ‘Unquiet Land’, p 64
61. Taranaki Herald, 7.2.1855, 7.3.1855, 14.3.1855; McLean to Col Sec, 1.11.1854, Supt to Wynyard, 8.1.1855, Sinclair to Supt, 10.2.1855, New Plymouth Gazette, 111, No 5, 7.3.1855; Provincial Council to Queen, 8.3.1855, ibid, 111, No 6, 15.3.1855; Provincial Council to House of Representatives, 19.5.1858, ibid, VI, No 9
62. Taranaki Herald, 7.3.1855; Sinclair to Supt, 10.2.1855, & Provincial Council Resolution, 1.3.1855, New Plymouth Gazette, 111, No 5, 7.3.1856; Provincial Council to Queen, 8.3.1855, & Notice of Resolutions passed, 10.3.1855, ibid, 111, No 6, 15.3.1855
63. Dalton, War & Politics, pp 25-7; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, pp 69, 92; Sinclair, Origins, pp 125-7; Nigel Prickett, ‘The Archaeology of a Military Frontier: Taranaki, New Zealand, 1860-1881’, PhD thesis, Auckland University, 1981, vol I, p 25;
674
References to Chapter VI
Taranaki Herald, 11.4.1855; Supt’s notice, New Plymouth Gazette, 111, No 7, 21.4.1855, pp 143-4; Provincial Council to House of Representatives, ibid, VI, No 9, 19.5.1858; New Plymouth Government, Statistics of New Plymouth, New Zealand, From 1853 to 1856, New Plymouth 1857, No 28
64. Sinclair, Origins, p 126; Taranaki Herald, 27.12.1854, 9.5.1855, 11.7.1855, 17.1.1857; Municipal Police Ordinance 1854, Ordinances, New Plymouth, I, No 6
65. Taranaki Herald, 10.1.1855, 7.2.1855, 28.11.1855, 26.12.1855
66. Cooper to Brown, 17.10.1853, end with Tl, 56/127; Taranaki Herald, 26.12.1855, 17.10.1874; New Plymouth Gazette, IV, No 1, 12.1.1856, p 185; ibid, XII, No 25, 16.11.1864, pB7; W E Gudgeon, ‘Autobiography’, manuscript in family possession
67. Taranaki Herald, 28.11.1855
68. Taranaki News, 11.6.1857; Taranaki Herald, 11.10.1856, 22.11.1856, 27.12.1856; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 25, 40; Richmond to Supt, 17.9.1856, TP 4/4, letter 36; Brown to Flight, 11.9.1856, and draft reply, 16.9.1856, end with T 1, 56/127
69. Brown to Col Sec, 13.10.1856, end with Tl, 56/127; Stafford to Supt, 17.11.1856, TP 4/4, letter 59
70. Brown to Col Sec, 13.10.1856, and Halse to Gisborne, 4.12.1856, both end with T 1, 56/127; Stafford to Supt, 17.11.1856, TP 4/4, letter 59; McLean’s note, 10.11.1856, end with Gisborne to Halse, 17.11.1856, TP 4/4
71. Halse to Gisborne, 4.12.1856, and minutes, end with T 1, 56/127; Taranaki Herald, 17.10.1874; TP Gazette, XII, No 13, 14.5.1864, p 47
72. Taranaki Herald, 27.12.1856; Prov Sec to Supt, 16.6.1856, and ends, TP 5/2
73. Taranaki Herald, 27.12.1856
74. Dalton, War & Politics, p 72; Taranaki Herald, 27.12.1856 17.1.1857, 31.1.1857, 7.2.1857, 18.4.1857.
75. Taylor, Past & Present, pp 116-7; Gorst, Maori King, pp 88-9; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, pp 80-2; Fargher, ‘McLean’, p 94; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 26-7, 72-5; Taranaki Herald, 6.2.1858, 13.2.1858, 20.2.1858, 27.2.1858; Cutfield to Browne, 29.1.1858, New Plymouth Gazette, VI, No 2, 11.2.1858; Stafford to Supt, 17.2.1858, ibid, VI, No 3, 23.2.1858; Provincial Council to House of Representatives, ibid, VI, No 9, 19.5.1858; NZ Gazette, 1857, No 15, 2.6.1857, p 92, & No 18, 14.7.1857, p 108
J 6. Taranaki Herald, 6.2.1858, 20.2.1858, 20.3.1858, 19.6.1858, 1.1.1859
77. Tancred to Supt, 25.11.1859, TP 4/7, letter 56; Fargher.
1042
References to Chapter VI
‘McLean’, pp 95-100; Sinclair, Origins, pp 139-56, 188-92; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 93-103
78. Taranaki News, 23.2.1860, 8.3.1860, 5.4.1860; Sinclair, Origins, pp 187-92; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 103-4; Stephen, Criminal Law, I, p 215
79. Taranaki Herald, 10.3.1860, 17.3.1860, 21.4.1860; Taranaki News, 23.2.1860, 8.3.1860, 5.4.1860; Declaration of Martial Law, 22.2.1860, TP Gazette, VIII, No 2, 5.3.1860, p 5; Journal of F U Gledhill, NZ Militia, 1860, typescript, Taranaki Museum, 7.3.1860 entry; Sinclair, Origins, pp 187-92; Stephen, Criminal Law I, p 215; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp4l, 45-7, 56; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 103-4; Tullett, Industrious Heart, pp 274-5; Guy H Scholefield (ed), The RichmondAtkinson Papers, Wellington 1960, vol I, p 515; Michael King, New Zealanders at War, Auckland 1981, p 37
80. Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, No 10, CM; info on provincial Canterbury from R Greenaway
81. Ibid; Lyttelton Times, 10.1.1852, 6.3.1852
82. Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, CM; M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp 1-7, 16, 29-32; E W Seager, ‘The Escapades of Mackenzie’, in Canterbury Old and New, Christchurch 1900, p 107; Ngaio Marsh, Black Beech and Honeydew, Auckland 1966, pp 23-6; FitzGerald to Col Sec, 13.1.1853, and Simeon’s & Grey’s notes, NM 8/36, 53/98
83. Webb, ‘Canterbury Association’, pp 167-8, 191-7, 212-3, 219; Scholefield, Statesmen, pp 14-5; Penelope Pocock, ‘John Robert Godley—a study in practice and theory’, MA thesis, Canterbury 1949, pp 53-61; Supt to Simeon, 13.9.1853, No 47, Supt Letterbook A, CM
84. Alfred Cox (ed), Men of Mark of New Zealand, Christchurch 1886, pp 18-19; Lyttelton Times, 29.10.1852; Johnson, Lyttelton, ppso-l; Simeon to Governor, 4.8.1863, No 28, and to Civil Sec, 12.8.1853, No 67, CP Inwards letters, CM; Bowen to Supt, 17.9.1853, No 74, and Simeon to Supt, 25.10.1853, No 155, ibid; Domett to Bowen, 16.2.1853, NM 10/12, 53/105
85. Wellington Independent, 26.11.1853; New Zealander, 7.1.1854; Lyttelton Times, 19.11.1853; LCD Acland, The Early Canterbury Runs, Christchurch 1930, p 173; Supt to Watson, 8.10.1853, No 119, and to Bowen, 1.11.1853 & 2.11.1853, Nos 150 & 151, and to Simeon, 2.11.1853, No 151, Supt Letterbook A, CM
86. Appropriation Ordinance, 24.3.1854, Ordinances, CP, 11, No 8, p 45; Supt to Bowen, 8.4.1854, No 5, Supt Letterbook A, CM
87. Bowen to Prov Sec, 10.4.1854, No 19, CP Inwards letters, CM; Supt to Bowen, 25.2.1854, 8.4.1854,11.4.1854, Nos 399, 5 & 16, and to Revell, 19.4.1854, No 33, Supt Letterbook A, CM
1043
References to Chapter VI
88. CP Executive minutes, 24.11.1854, CM; Bowen to Godley, 22.3.1854, box 3, R B O’Neill Collection, CM; Revell entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM; Bowen to Supt, 31.10.1854, and to Prov Sec, 20.2.1855, Nos 256 & 553, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Inspector, 3.11.1854 & 25.11.1854, Nos 378 & 274, and to Bowen, 3.11.1854 & 26.11.1854, Nos 377 & 347, Prov Sec Letterbook A, CM
89. Woodhouse, Rhodes p 63; Eldred-Grigg, Southern Gentry, William Vance, High Endeavour: The Story of the Mackenzie Country, Wellington 1965, 1980 ed, p 11
90. Seager, ‘Escapades of Mackenzie’, pp 107-16; Vance, High Endeavour, pp 12-27; Woodhouse, Rhodes, chap 7; M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp 24-25; O A Gillespie, South Canterbury: A Record of Settlement, Timaru 1958, 1971 ed, chap 7; S F Newman and lan Thomson, Mackenzie: Man and Myth, bulletin, Dept of Education, Wellington 1978; James McNeish, The Mackenzie Affair, Auckland 1972, pp 219-225, and appended documents, esp Tancred to Gisborne, 7.1.1856; Sheriff to Prov Sec,
14.5.1855, No 743, CP Inwards letters, CM; C Marr, ‘ “Mackenzie the Sheep Stealer”—hero or common thief before 1900?’, research paper, Victoria University of Wellington, 1979 91. M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 16; Bowen to Prov Sec, 12.1.1855, 20.2.1855, CP Inwards letters, Nos 442, 553, CM; Prov Sec to Bowen, 15.1.1855, 30.1.1855, 5.2.1855 & 19.2.1855, Nos 24-25, 61, 82 & 114, Prov Sec Letterbook A, CM
92. Johnson, Lyttelton, pp 41, 44; W A Taylor, ‘Police’, typescript CM; Simeon to Prov Sec, 9.5.1855, 14.5.1855, 16.6.1855 2.7.1855 & 28.8.1855, Nos 726, 743, 814, 829 & 951, CF Inwards letters, CM
93. Appropriation of 5.7.1855, Ordinances, CP, IV, No 5, p 70; CP Executive minutes, 21.8.1855, CM; Tancred to Prov Sec, 22.10.1855, No 1050, CP Inwards letters, CM
94. Tancred to Prov Sec, 1.12.1855 & 25.1.1856, Nos 1143 &81 CP Inwards letters, CM
95. McNeish, Mackenzie, p 237 & documents; Newman & Thomson, Mackenzie ; Seager, ‘Escapades of Mackenzie’, p 116; Woodhouse, Rhodes, p 107; Wellington Independent, 5.3.1853; Samuel Butler, A First Year in the Canterbury Settlement, Auckland 1863, p6l; Shepherd to Supt, 22.4.1858, AG 168/1/1, HL; Marr, ‘Mackenzie’
96. Hamilton to Prov Sec, 2.10.1856, Nos 597 & 702, CP Inwards letters, CM; Tancred to Prov Sec, 27.10.1856, Harman to Prov Sec, 18.6.1856, & Hall to Prov Sec, 4.12.1856, Nos 589, 683 & 691, ibid
97. M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 39; Harman to Prov Sec, 18.6.1856, & Seager to Prov Sec, 24.9.1860, Nos 683 & 597, CP Inwards
677
References to Chapter VI
letters, CM; Hall to Prov Sec, 1.12.1856, 15.1.1867, 31.3.1857 & 9.4.1857, Nos 662, 41, 279 & 311, ibid-, CP Executive minutes, 11.4.1857, CM; Taylor, ‘Police’
98. CP Executive minutes, 9.1.1857, CM; Prov Sec to O’Neill, 12.1.1857 & 23.1.1857, and to Commissioner, 10.2.1857 & 1.6.1857, Nos 22, 59, 93 & 276, CP Prov Sec Letterbook B, CM; petition to Supt, received 8.12.1856, No 688, CP Inwards letters, CM; Donald to Prov Sec, 5.5.1857 and Hall to Prov Sec, 31.3.1857, 23.5.1857 & 30.5.1857, Nos 386, 298, 423 & 464, ibid; Watson to Prov Sec, 4.11.1857, No 799, ibid; Nelson Examiner, 18.11.1857; Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, CM
99. Woodhouse, Rhodes, p 121; Lyttelton Times, 21.4.1858; Johannes C Andersen, Jubilee History of South Canterbury, Auckland 1916, p 576; Prov Sec to Woollcombe, 29.7.1857 & 7.9.1857, and to Commissioner, 14.1.1858, 18.1.1858 & 8.6.1858, Nos 348, 387, 12, 21 & 167, Prov Sec Letterbook B, CM
100. Hall to Prov Sec, 23.5.1857, c Feb 1858, 10.9.1858, Nos 422, 64, 417, CP Inwards letters, CM; CP Executive minutes, 23.6.1858, CM; Taylor, ‘Police’
101. CP Executive minutes, 11.10.1858, CM; Taylor, ‘Police’; scrapbook, obit and p 49, Seager Papers, CM; M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp 17, 34-5, 50-1, 53; Marsh, Black Beech, pp 23-6
102. Lyttelton Times, 30.10.1858; Hall to Prov Sec, c Nov 1858, Torlesse to Prov Sec, 14.11.1859, Watson to Prov Sec, 3.3.1860, Nos 616, 911 & 202, CP Inwards letters, CM; New Zealand Government, Officers of the General Government, 1861, Auckland 1861, pp 70-1; M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 27
103. Woodhouse, Rhodes, p 145; Andersen, South Canterbury, pp 154, 576; M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp 28, 32; Conditional Licence 1860, Hurunui Hotel, North Canterbury; Donald to Supt, 30.3.1858, No 145, and Seager to Hall, end with 27.5.1859, No 316, CP Inwards letters, CM; Hall to Prov Sec, 16.6.1859, and Woollcombe to Prov Sec, 24.10.1859, Nos 750 & 845, ibid-, CP Executive minutes, 7.2.1859, CM; Prov Sec to Commissioner, 3.12.1858 & 8.12.1858, Nos 342 & 364, Prov Sec Letterbook B, CM
104. NZ Govt, Officers, pp 20-1; Andersen, South Canterbury, pp 157,465; Gillespie, South Canterbury, pp 148, 174; Woollcombe entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM; CP Executive minutes, 7.2.1859, CM; Prov Sec to Commissioner, 2.11.1859, and to Woollcombe, 15.2.1861, Nos 425 & 675, Prov Sec Letterbook C, CM; Woollcombe to Prov Sec, 24.10.1859, Timaru Letters to Prov Sec 1859-71, NA Regional Office, Christchurch
678
References to Chapter VI
105. Canterbury Police Ordinance, Ordinances, CP, X, No 1; M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 37
106. Nelson Examiner, 11.5.1859; M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp 36-7, 48; Hall to Prov Sec, 27.5.1859, and end Seager to Hall, nd, No 316, and Hall to Prov Sec, 8.11.1859 & 10.1.1860, Nos 872 & 50, CP Inwards letters, CM; CP Executive minutes, 11.6.1859, CM; Prov Sec to Commissioner, 19.5.1859, No 169, Prov Sec Letterbook B, CM; Prov Sec to Commissioner, 10.11.1859, No 441, Prov Sec Letterbook C, CM
107. Hall to Prov Sec, 11.1.1860. 30.1.1860 & 6.3.1860, Nos 42, 146 & 206, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Hall, 25.1.1860, No 38, CP Prov Sec Letterbook C, CM
108. Seager to Prov Sec, 2.4.1860, and Hamilton to Prov Sec, c May 1860, Nos 260 & 334, CP Inwards letters, CM; CP Executive minutes, 28.3.1860, CM; Martin Cash, The Bushranger of Van Diemen’s Land, Hobart 1870; Margaret Cullen, ‘Police Records as material for social history in the Provincial period’, typescript provided by author, pp 1-2; Cash entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM; scrapbook pp 27, 37, Seager Papers, CM; ADB I, pp 214-5
109. Lyttelton Times, 19.12.1860, 26.12.1860; M Seager, ‘Seager’ Seager to Prov Sec, 22.3.1860, & Hamilton to Prov Sec 10.8.1861, Nos 253 & 1677, CP Inwards letters, CM
110. M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp9-15, 75-8
111. Barr, Old Identities, pp 126, 167; Acts & Proceedings, OP, Sess I, App; Strode to Supt, 30.1.1854, OP 6, 1854/11; Tom Brooking, And Captain of their Souls, Dunedin 1984
112. Locke, Gaoler, p 84; Barr, Old Identities, p 262; Herries Beat tie, The Pioneers Explore Otago, Dunedin 1947, pp 37-9, 107 Executive minutes, 11.2.1854, OP 4/1
113. Locke, Gaoler, p 81; William Ayson, Pioneering in Otago, Dunedin 1937, pp 22-32; OP Gazette, I, No 4, 4.2.1854; Shepherd to Prov Sec, 2.3.1854, OP 6, 1854/15; Executive minutes, 11.2.1854, 16.2.1854, OP 4/1; Alma M Rutherford. The Inch, Balclutha 1958, pp 10, 19-21; info from D Green
114. Locke, Gaoler, p 87; OP Gazette, I, No 5, 11.3.1854; Executive minutes, 27.2.1854, 9.3.1854, 11.3.1854, 1.5.1854, OP 4/1
115. OP Gazette, 11, No 28, 6.8.1855; Rules and Regulations. OP 11/1, pp 67-8; Shepherd to Warren, 31.12.1855, AG 168/1/1, HL; Locke, Gaoler, p 87
116. Executive minutes, 1.5.1854, OP 4/1; Appropriation Ordinances, OP Gazette, 11, No 16, 27.12.1854, No 23, 1.5.1855, No 24, 19.5.1855; ‘Copy of Estimates for the Year Ending Oct Ist 1856: Police Department’, AG 168/1/1, HL
117. OP Gazette, I, No 16, 27.12.1856; Ordinances , OP, Sess IV, No 8, Appropriation Ordinance 1856, p 388
1046
References to Chapter VI
118. Barr, Old Identities, p 280; Shepherd to Monson, 14.4.1855, to Logan, 11.5.1855, to Supt, 22.8.1855, 31.12.1855, 9.8.1856 & 17.10.1856, to Warren, 31.12.1855, to bench, 15.4.1856, AG 168/1/1, HL
119. Barr, Old Identities, pp 276-80; F G Hall-Jones, Invercargill Pioneers, Invercargill 1946, p 14; John Hall-Jones, Bluff Harbour, Bluff 1976, pp 53-6; Executive minutes, 14.10.1856, OP 4/1; Appropriation Ordinances 1856-7, 1857-8, Ordinances, OP, Sess V, No 11, sess VI, No 20; Shepherd to Commissioner of Police, Melbourne, 14.3.1856, and to Elies, 14.10.1856, 26.2.1857 & 16.3,1857, and to Ross, 25.11.1856 & 6.2.1857, and to Walker, 23.3.1857 & 24.4.1857, AG 168/1/1, HL
120. Barr, Old Identities, pp 330-2; Hall-Jones, Bluff Harbour, p5B
121. Shepherd to Warren, 6,10.1856, to Walker, 24.4.1857, to Supt,
15.6.1857, 18.3.1857 & 29.6.1857, AG I£B/1/1, HL 122. Locke, Gaoler, p 224; Barr, Old Identities, p 340; Prov Sec to Shepherd, 28.6.1859, OP 11/3, p 370; Shepherd to Supt, 17.10.1856, 4.11.1856 & 21.7.1857, AG 168/1/1, HL; OP Gazette, 111, No 77, p 190; Appropriation Ordinances 1856-7 & 1858(No 2), Ordinances, OP, Sess V, No 11, & Sess VII, No 33; Shepherd to Supt, 13.8.1857 & 23.12.1857, OP 6, 1857/334 & 1857/469
123. Nelson Examiner, 12.5.1858,1.10.1859, 8.10.1859; Shepherd to Cutten, 10.9.1857, to Supt, 14.9.1858 & 12.10.1859, to Prov Treasurer, 14.10.1859, AG 168/1/1, HL
124. Shepherd to Supt, 12.10.1859, to Walker, 12.4.1860, AG 168/1/1, HL; Appropriation Ordinance 1859, Ordinances, OP, Sess VIII, No 34, p 125
125. Shepherd to Supt, 12.10.1859, 21.11.1859 & 7.12.1859, AG 168/1/1, HL; Prov Sec to Shepherd, 24.11.1859, OP 11/3, p 462; Appropriation Ordinance 1859, Ordinances, OP, Sess VIII, No 34, p 125
126. Shepherd to Fraser, 26.3.1860 & 23.4.1860, to Walker, 26.3.1860, to Supt, 4.4.1860, to Kilgour, Fraser and Outram, 26.4.1860, AG 168/1/1, HL; info from Ms A Rutherford
127. Shepherd to Supt, 4.4.1860, ibid; Shepherd to Prov Sec, 24.4.1860, OP 6, 1860/214; Appropriation Ordinance 1860, Ordinances, OP, Sess IX, No 41
128. Shepherd to Fraser, 13.8.1860, 5.9.1860 & 17.5.1860, AG 168/1/1, HL
129. Prov Sec to Shepherd, 4.1,1860, OP 11/3, p493; OP Gazette, 111, No 58, p 105; Appropriation Ordinances 1860 & 1860-1, Ordinances, OP, Sess IX, No 41, & XI, No 44; Shepherd to Fraser, 17.5.1860, 21.1.1861 & 4.2.1861, to Supt, 12.7.1860 & 17.11,1860, to Kilgour, 20.7.1860 & 13.2.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL
130. Locke, Gaoler, pp 181-5; Shepherd to Fraser, 10.7.1860, to
680
References to Chapter VI
Walsh, 21.1.1861, to Supt, 12.4.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; Otago Colonist, 26.4.61
131. J Halket Miller, Death Round the Bend, Nelson nd, pp 88-9; Nelson Examiner, 4.2.1854, 8.11.1854, 3.2.1855, 5.4.1856; estimates to 30.9.1854, and schedule of expenditure, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess I, 14.12.1853, pp 163 & 166
132. Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess I, pp 93-4 (message No 29), 97, 113, 115 (message No 38); ibid, Sess 11, p 69, Sinclair to Supt 25.1.1855; ibid, Sess 111, estimates for 1856
133. Cashbook, T-Nelson 1/1; Mac Donald, Pages, pp 199-203, 236, 256-8; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 99, 109-12, 140-1, 153-4, 404, 422; W J Gardner, The Amuri: A County History , Culverden 1956, pp 21, 31
134. Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 146-7, 157-8, 164-8; Mac Donald, Pages, gp 260-5
135. Nelson Examiner, 10.1.1857; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough pp 112-3, 146-8, 198; Mac Donald, Pages, pp 256, 258
136. Nelson Examiner , 10.1.1857, 18.2.1857, 25.4.1857; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 149, 405
137. Mac Donald, Pages, pp 296-7; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough. pp 142, 189-90, 195-6, 199-200; Nelson Examiner, 22.8.1857
138. A L Kennington, The Awatere: A District and its People, Blenheim 1978, pll5; Mac Donald, Pages, p 264; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 149, 172-6, 199-200, 203-7, 405; Morrell, Provincial System, pp 106-7; Nelson Examiner, 9.5.1857, 5.8.1857, 22.8.1857; Greenfield to Resident Magistrate, Wairau, 10.8.1859, NP 11/3, 59/372; Robinson’s address, NP Gazette, VI, No 1, 6.1.1858; estimates for 1857, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess IV; ‘Blenheim Police Offices’, typescript provided by NZ Police; Cyclopedia Company Ltd, Cyclopedia of New Zealand, vol V, Christchurch 1906, p 366
139. Mclntyre (ed), Sewell 11, p 251; Tony Nolan, Historic Gold Trails of Nelson and Marlborough, Wellington 1976, p 43; J L Bailey, The Nelson Directory and Companion to the Almanack for 1859, Nelson 1859, p 16
140. Nelson Examiner, 28.2.1857, 18.3.1857; Broad, Nelson, pp 143-6; A P F Browne, ‘The Otago Gold Fields, 1861-1863: Administration and Public Life’, MA thesis, Canterbury University, 1974, pp 10, 55
141. Nelson Examiner, 25.3.1857, 1.4.1857, 4.4.1857, 8.4.1857
142. Philip Ross May, The West Coast Gold Rushes, Christchurch 1962, p 255; Nelson Examiner, 11.4.1857, 15.4.1857, 18.4.1857, 25.4.1857
143. Nelson Examiner, 25.4.1857, 16.5.1857, 20.5.1857
144. May, Gold Rushes, p 255; estimates for 1856 & 1857, Votes &
1048
References to Chapter VI
Proceedings, NP, Sess 111 & Sess IV; Nelson Examiner, 16.5.1857, 17.6.1857
145. Nelson Examiner, 15.8.1857
146. Ibid, 5.9.1857, 21.10.1857, 2.12.1857, 28.4.1858, 5.5.1858, 12.5.1858, 15.5.1858; Domett to Resident Magistrate, Collingwood, 6.11.1857, NP 11/2, 57/346; NP Gazette, V, No 24, 1.12.1857, p 125, VI, No 1, 6.1.1858
147. Nelson Examiner. 11.4.1857,13.6.1857, 24.10.1857, 31.10.1857, 7.11.1857, 12.12.1857, 15.9.1858; NP Gazette, VI, No 10, 29.5.1858; Prov Council Resolution, 26.2.1858, NP 2/2, No 12; Nelson Gold Fields Occupation Ordinance 1858, NP 2/2, Sess V, No 13; Nelson Gold Fields Administration of Justice Ordinance 1858, NP 2/2, Sess V, No 14
148. Nelson Examiner, 27.3.1858, 1.5.1858, 9.6.1858, 21.8.1858
149. Ibid, 24.7.1858, 7.8.1858, 11.8.1858, 18.8.1858
150. May, Gold Rushes, pp 255-6
151. Nelson Examiner, 9.2.1859, 7.5.1859, 21.12.1859, 1.2.1860, 18.4.1860, 30.6.1860; Gardner, Amuri, p 34; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 56-8; Strange Papers, in possession of M Strange; Bailey, Nelson Directory, p 41; Greenfield to Kennedy, 11.1.1859, NP 11/2, 59/18; NP Gazette, VII, No 4, 17.2.1859
152. Nelson Examiner, 21.11.1857, 25.11.1857, 28.11.1857, 27.3.1858; Bailey, Nelson Directory, pp 30-1; estimates for 1858, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess V
153. Nelson Examiner, 11.8.1858, 11.5.1859, 19.1.1861; Cyprian Bridge Brereton, Vanguard of the South, Wellington 1952, p 113
154. Nelson Examiner, 18.8.1860, 20.10.1860, 15.12.1860, 23.1.1861, 17.7.1861, 12.10.1861
155. Ibid, 7.5.1859, 7.1.1860; Domett to Resident Magistrate, Collingwood, 13.7.1860, NP 11/3, 60/302
156. Nelson Examiner, 22.9.1858, 11.5.1859, 14,5.1859, 7.1.1860
157. Ibid, 7.1.1860, 18.4.1860; info from Miss R McGlashen & the Boyes family; Bailey, Nelson Directory, p 16; NP Gazette, 111, No 1, 12.1.1855
158. Info from Miss R McGlashen; Greenfield to Boyes, 6.8.1859, 59/363, to Taylor, 6.8.1859, 59/364, Domett to Taylor, 6.2.1861, 61/50, to Purcell, 17.6.1862, 61/265, all NP 11/ si Greenfield to J and T Boyes, Jan-Aug 1866, NP 11/5, pp 224, 269, 284, 410; Greenfield to T Boyes, 14.7.1869, NP 11/7, p 297; Rout to Inspector, Nelson, 21.12.1874, NP 11/13, p 304; NP Gazette, XIV, No 5, 21.2.1866, p 13; Appropriation Act 1863, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess X, No 8; Nelson Examiner, 26.12.1857
1049
References to Chapter VI
159. Dalton, War & Politics, pp 110-1; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 41-2, 49; Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, pp 101-2; TP Gazette, VIII, No 4, 31.3.1860, p 11; ibid, IX, No 22, 15.10.1861, p 72, Supt’s notice of 15.10.1861
160. Sinclair, Origins, pp 207, 227; Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 27.3.1860, 8.9.1860, 11.3.1863, Taranaki Museum; Edgar Holt, The Strangest War, London 1962, pp 146, 155; for Maori modifications of traditional fighting methods, see Belich, ‘NZ Wars’
161. Nelson Examiner, 11.12.1860, 9.2.1861; Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 26.9.1860, 17.9.1860, 7.3.1861, Taranaki Museum; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 111-2; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 57-65
162. Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, pp 117f
163. Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 6-8.9.1860, 11.9.1860, Taranaki Museum; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 121-3; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, p9B; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 33-5, 50, 52; Sinclair, Origins, p 228; Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, pp 142f; TP Gazette, IX, No 12, 10.7.1861, No 22, 15.10.1861
164. Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 31.3.1861, 8.4.1861, 30.4.1861, Taranaki Museum; Gorst, Maori King, pp 100-8, 121; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 123-4, 126; Tullett, Industrious Heart, p 43; Hill, ‘Unquiet Land’, pp 101-2; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 50, 52; Sinclair, Origins, p 232; Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, p 149
165. Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 15.4.1861, Taranaki Museum; Ward, Show, pp 115-8; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 83, 87-8,127-30; Harrop, England & Maori Wars, pp 117, 131-4; Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, pp 162-3
166. AP Gazette, IX, No 15, 24.7.1861, p 85; estimates of 11.12.1860, 30.1.1861, Votes & Proceedings, AP, Sess XIII, pp 21, 44-5; Appropriation Act 1861, Ordinances, AP, XIII, No 1; Stone, Makers of Fortune, p 112; Arms Act, 1860, 24 Vic No 38, NZ Govt, Statutes 1854-60, Wellington 1871, pp 495f; proclamation, NZ Gazette, 1860, No 10, 26.3.1860, p 61; police paysheets 1860-1, Kenderdine Scrapbook, Auckland Institute & Museum; info from C Hirst
167. Sinclair, Origins, pp 241-2; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, pp 209-10, 430; order, F G Steward. 1.11.1858, NZ Gazette, No 28, 3.11.1858, pp 136-7
168. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 27.11.1858, 23.4.1859, 5.11.1859, 4.2.1860; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, pp 238, 273; estimates of revenue 1.11.1858-31.12.1859, Acts & Proceedings, HB, Sess I
169. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 6.4.1859, 30.7.1859, 22.10.1859; Supt to Curling, 3.5.1859, HB 6/1, 59/9; HB Gazette, I, No 7, p 35, expenditure 1.11.1858-30.6.1859
170. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 3.12.1859
171. Ibid, 3.12.1859, 25.2.1860; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, pp 265, 275
1050
References to Chapter VII
172. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 3.3.1860; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, p 265; Kay Mooney, History of the County of Hawke’s Bay, vol 11, Napier 1974, p 90; petition by Groom et al, HB 1/6, Sess 11, Petitions
173. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 31.3.1860; Roper to Curling, 26.5.1860, HB 10/1; estimates for 1860, Acts & Proceedings, HB, Sess II
174. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 8.12.1860; Supt to Campbell, 4.3.1861, HB 6/2, 61/41; Fitzgerald to Campbell, 12.2.1861, HB 6/2, 61/77
175. Supt to Campbell, 4.3.1861 & 12.3.1861, HB 6/2, 61/41 & 61/74; Supt to Russell, 4.3.1861, HB 6/2, 61/42
176. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 11.3.1861, 11.5.1861; Carter to Campbell, 15.5.1861, HB 6/2, 61/160; HB Gazette, 11, No 46, pp 66; ibid, expenditure for year ending 31.3.1861, p7l
177. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 11.5.1861; Supt to LaSerre, 23.4.1866, HB 6/6, p 152; Carter to Campbell, 22.4.1861, HB 6/2, 61/141, to LaSerre, 27.5.1861, HB 6/2, 61/191
178. Hawke’s Bay Herald 27.7.1861, 3.8.1861; Ward, ‘Law-enforce-ment’, p 139; Carter to LaSerre, 27.5.1861, HB 6/2, 61/191; draft rules, esp Nos 10, 13, 24 & 48, HB 10/1; Hodges to LaSerre, 2.10.1861, & Roper to Curling, 26.5.1860, HB 10/1
179. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 9.10.1861; Carter to LaSerre, 27.5.1861. HB 6/2, 61/191
180. Taranaki Herald, 21.4.1860; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 21.4.1860; Buller, Forty Years, p 113
181. C J Carle, Gateway to the Wairarapa, Masterton 1957, p 78; Dunmore to Supt, 14.12.1860, WP 3, 60/510; ‘Wairarapa Police History’, typescript provided by NZ Police
182. Patterson, ‘Land Politics’, pp 21-3, NZ Spectator & Cook’s Straits Guardian, 11.11.1857
183. Supt to Finucane, 2.2.1861, WP 6/3, 38/61
184. Supt to Braggins & Finucane, 24.1.1861, 28-29/61, to Finucane, 2.2.1861, 38/61, to Col Sec, 29.5.1861, p 95, WP 6/3; WP Gazette, VIII, No 9, 11.3.1861, p 25
185. Treadwell, NZ Trials, pp 32-4
Chapter VII
1. Otago Witness, 6.4.1861; Otago Colonist, 4.1.1861; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 7; Shepherd to Simpson, 25.3.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; New Zealand Government, Statistics of the Dominion of New Zealand for the Year 1920, vol IV, Wellington 1922, p 230; G T Bloomfield, ‘New Zealand: Abstract of Historical Statistics’, table 11-4, typescript 2. Locke, Gaoler, pp 199-206; Otago Colonist, 24.5.1861; Otago
684
References to Chapter VII
Punch, 5.10.1866; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 10-22, 129; Cox, Men of Mark, pp 157-9; Robert B Booth, Five Years in New Zealand: 1859 to 1864, London 1912, pp 55-68; F Lingard, Prison Labour in New Zealand, Wellington 1936, p 8; Supt’s address, 19.6.1861, OP Gazette, IV, No 147, p 220
3. Otago Colonist, 31.5.1861; Locke, Gaoler, pp 187-190; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, ppsB-9; Shepherd to Supt, 1.5.1861, to Simpson, 9.5.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; Short to Supt, 16.5.1861, OP Gazette, IV, No 145, pp 189-90
4. Otago Witness, 25.5.1861; Otago Colonist, 24.5.1861; Shepherd to Dow, 24.6.1861, to Outram, 8.6.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL
5. Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 11; papers relating to appointment of Branigan, OP 6, 1861/557; Shepherd to Supt 28.6.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; Richardson to Fenwick, 2.5.1861 OP 11/4, p 256
6. Otago Witness, 29.6.1861, 6.7.1861; Otago Colonist, 5.7.1861; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 13, 15; W R Mayhew, Tuapeka: The Land and Its People, Christchurch 1949, pp 25-6; Shepherd to Supt, 30.5.1861 & 10.6.1861, to Dow, 1.7.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL
7. Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 15-26; Otago Witness , 29.6.1861, 6.7.1861; Votes & Proceedings , OP, sess XII, 6.7.1861, p 39; papers relating to appointment of Branigan, OP 6, 1861/557; Standish to Fenwick, 13.5.1861, Branigan Papers, Otago Early Settlers’ Association, Dunedin
8. Richardson to Standish, 2.7.1861, OP 11/4, p 339; Richardson to Standish, 8.8.1861, OP 6, 1861/557; 1861 U695 (Chief Sec), Victoria Public Record Office, Melbourne; info from T Reynolds, archivist, Battye Library, Perth
9. Otago Colonist, 12.7.1861, 25.7.1861; Mclntyre (ed), Sewell, 11, p 299; ‘The Old Identity’, Charles Thatcher, Thatcher’s Dunedin Songster, Dunedin 1862
10. Locke, Gaoler, pp 217-8; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 15-17; Otago Colonist, 2.8.1861, 6.9.1861, 20.9.1861; OP Executive minutes, 15.7.1861, OP 4/3; Branigan’s appointment, OP Gazette, IV, No 150, p 234; Pyke's report to Supt, 1.10.1862, ibid, V, No 127, pp 219-31
11. Shepherd to Supt, 29.5.1861, 30.5.1861,10.6.1861, AG 168/1/1 HL; Shepherd to Simpson, 23.7.1861, AG 168/1/2, HL
12. Shepherd to Supt, 9.7.1861, 17.7.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; Shepherd to Simpson, 23.7.1861, AG 168/1/2, HL; Otago Witness. 13.7.1861
13. OP Executive minutes, 17.7.1861, 20.7.1861, 24.7.1861, OP 4/3; Shepherd to Supt, 17.7.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; Shepherd to Simpson, 23.7.1861, AG 168/1/2, HL
14. Otago Witness, 13.7.1861, 20.7.1861; Otago Colonist, 19.7.1861
1052
References to Chapter VII
9.8.1861; Mayhew, Tuapeka, p 27; Robert Gilkison, Early Days in Central Otago, Dunedin 1930, p 33; Marianne Van der Voorn, ‘The Police Department on the Otago Goldfields: Dunstan 1861-1864’, BA(Hons) thesis, Otago University, 1979, pp 16-17; Shepherd to Supt, 22.7.1861, to Simpson, 23.7.1861, AG 168/1/2, HL; A H Reed (ed), Gabriel’s Gully and Dunedin in 1861, Wellington 1957, p 16
15. Locke, Gaoler, p 190; OP Executive minutes, 24.7.1861, OP 4/3; Supt to Fenwick, 3.8.1861, OP 11/4, p 394; Shepherd to Outram, 14.8.1861 & 24.8.1861, AG 168/1/2, HL; OP Gazette, IV, No 150, p 234; Vincent Pyke, History of Early Gold Discoveries in Otago, Dunedin 1887, p 62
16. Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 61; Geoffrey Serle, The Golden Age: A History of the Colony of Victoria 1851-1861, Melbourne 1963, pp 95-101; OP Executive minutes, 24.7.1861, OP 4/3
17. Otago Colonist, 9.8.1861, 16.8.1861, 1.11.1861; Otago Witness, 26.10.1861; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 61; OP Executive minutes, 6.8.1861, OP 4/3; Supt to Standish, 8.8.1861, OP 11/4, p 404; George Calder, The Stick-Up’, in William F Heinz (ed), Bright Fine Gold, Wellington 1974, p 144
18. Otago Witness, 27.7.1861; OP Gazette, IV, No 150, p 234; OP Executive minutes, 18.7.1860 & 24.7.1861, OP 4/3; Supt to Junor, 19.12.1860 & 10.6.1861, OP 11/4, pp 119 & 307
19. Otago Witness, 8.8.1861, 10.8.1861, 17.8.1861; Otago Daily Times, 1.1.1862; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 139; Reed (ed), Gabriel’s Gully, p 8; H A Glasson, The Golden Cobweb: A Saga of the Otago Goldfields, 1861-64, Dunedin 1957, pp 26-30
20. Otago Colonist, 23.8.1861; Otago Witness, 24.8.1861, 31.8.1861; G 0 Preshaw, Banking under Difficulties, or Life on the Goldfields, Melbourne 1888, pp 38, 68-82; Pyke, Gold Discoveries, p 50; OP Gazette, V, No 217, pp 219-31; OP Executive minutes, 27.8.1861, OP 4/3; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 135; Keith Sinclair and W F Mandle, Open Account: A History of the Bank of New South Wales in New Zealand 1861-1961, Wellington 1961, p 13
21. Otago Colonist, 9.8.1861; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 130; Shepherd to Simpson, 5.8.1861, to Supt, 6.8.1861, to Mackay, 15.8.1861, to Commissioner, Melbourne, 17.8.1861, to Barter, 23.8.1861, to Kilgour, 30.8.1861, AG 168/1/2, HL; Jun-Aug 1861 entries, Charge Book, Commissioner’s Office, Dunedin, HL
22. OP Executive minutes, 24.7.1861, OP 4/3; Otago Witness, 27.7.1861
23. OP Executive minutes, 6.8.1861, OP 4/3; Otago Witness, 31.8.1861; Supt to Standish, 8.8.1861, OP 11/4, p 404; NZPD, 1867, pp 482-3, 15.8.1867
686
References to Chapter VII
24. Patrick Shea, Voices and the Sound of Drums, Belfast 1981, pp 2-3; William Nott-Bower, Fifty Two Years a Policeman, London 1926, pp 26-9, 37-8; NZPD, 1867, pp 482-3, 15.8.1867; Peter Pender, in Fair Play, 25.11.1893
25. Serle, Golden Age, pp 20f, 97-9; Crowley (ed), Australia, 11, pp 27-8, 250-1; Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia, p 56; Russel Ward, The Australian Legend, Melbourne 1958, 1965 ed; Henry Gyles Turner, A History of the Colony of Victoria, Melbourne 1904, vol I, p 344, vol 11, pp 10-12; John Sadleir, Recollections of a Victorian Police Officer, Melbourne 1913; Robert Travers, Rogue’s March: A Chronicle of Colonial Crime in Australia, Richmond 1973, pp 21-2
26. Ward, Australian Legend, pp 109, 118-20; Serle, Golden Age, pp 99-101; Preshaw, Banking, pp 12-13, 34; Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, p 28
27. Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia, p 57; Sadleir, Recollections, pp 22-4, 26, 265; Serle, Golden Age, pp97-8, 126; Haydon, Trooper Police, pp 231-2; ‘Victorian Police Force’, in NZ Police Journal, Feb 1940
28. Roy D Ingleton, Police of the World, London 1979, p 16; Sadleir, Recollections, pp 64-6, 265-6; Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia, p 58; Serle, Golden Age, p 40; ‘Victorian Police Force’, in NZ Police Journal, Feb 1940
29. Preshaw, Banking, pp 37, 39-41; Unstead & Henderson, Police in Australia pp 62-4; Turner, Victoria, 11, pp 10-12, 17-19, 42-3; Serle, Golden Age, pp 101, 161-9; Sadleir, Recollections, pp 66, 266; Haydon, Trooper Police, p 242; Victoria Police. Police in Victoria, pp 12, 30; Crowley (ed), Australia, 11, pp 291-300; A G L Shaw, ‘Violent Protest in Australian History’, Historical Studies, Vol 15, No 60; W P Morrell, The Gold Rushes, London 1940, pp 240-4
30. Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, p 12; Victoria Government, Manual of Police Regulations for the Guidance of the Constabulary of Victoria, Melbourne 1856; Otago Government, Manual of Police Regulations for the Guidance of the Constabulary Force of Otago, New Zealand, Dunedin 1865, pp 80-1
31. Branigan to Supt, [nd but Sep 1861], 27/61, &to Commissioner, Christchurch, 2.11.1861, 83/61, AG 168/1/2, HL; Preshaw, Banking, pp 34, 84-6; Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, p 12; Victoria Govt, Victoria Police Regulations', Otago Govt, Police Regulations, App, p III; ADB, VI, pp 172-3
32. Otago Witness, 31.8.1861, 13.9.1873; Gilkison, Central Otago, p 111; Sadleir, Recollections, p 303; Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, p 30; Branigan papers, Otago Early Settlers’ Association, Dunedin; info from R Haldane, Victoria Police
33. Cutten to Standish, 28.8.1861, & Supt to Standish, 11.9.1861
1054
References to Chapter VII
OP 11/4, pp 419 & 429; Pyke, Gold Discoveries, p 46; OP Executive minutes, 28.8.1861, OP 4/3; Return of Officers, 30.9.1862, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p4; Branigan papers, Otago Early Settlers’ Association, Dunedin; Branigan to Kilgour, 24.9.1861, & to Chapman [nd but Oct 1861], AG 168/1/2, 17/61 & 29/61, HL; Staff Register, Commissioner’s Office, Dunedin, pp 90f, HL; Standish to Richmond, 23.8.1861, and Richmond to Fenwick, 11.9.1861, end with OP 6, 1861/557
34, Supt’s memo, 1.10.1861, OP 11/4, p476; Supt to Branigan, 7.10.1861 & 8.10.1861, OP 11/4, p 493; OP Executive minutes, 7.10.1861 & 9.10.1861, OP 4/3; Branigan to Junor, 8.10.1861, 37/61, AG 168/1/2, HL; Branigan’s report, 8.4,1862, OP Gazette, IV, No 178, pp 388-91
35. Otago Police Gazette, I, No 1, 28.10.1861; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 106-7; Return of Officers, 30.9.1862, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 4; Branigan to Supt, 9.10.1861, & to Keddell, 10.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 40/61 & 42/61, HL
36. Return of Officers, 30.9.1862, p4, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 4; OP Gazette, IV, No 160, p 294; Richardson to Standish, 26.9.1861, OP 11/4, p464; Branigan to Supt, 10.9.1861 & 9.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 4/61 & 40/61, HL; Standish to Broham, 5.4.1872, end with Broham to Moule, 15.5.1872, p 1/12
37. Otago Colonist, 13.9.1861; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 21.9.1861; OP Executive minutes, 24.9.1861, OP 4/3; OP Gazette, IV, No 178, pp 388-91; Supt to Standish, 19.9.1861 & 26.9.1861, OP 11/4, pp 453 & 464; Standish to Supt, 3.9.1861, OP 6, p 562
38. Branigan circular, 20.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 79/61, HL; Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 38, 40, 43, 48, 64
39. Shepherd to Prov Sec, 14.10.1857, OP 6, 1857/404; draft estimates 1861-2, Sess XIII, OP 1/7, pp 1,4-5; Branigan to Supt, 8.2.1862, OP 7/1, p 153; Otago Govt, Police Regulations, p 37; Otago Daily Times, 4.3.1862, 18.3.1862, 20.3.1862; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 125; Branigan to Supt, 21.9.1861, AG 168/1/2, p 21, HL
40, Marlborough Press, 17.10.1862; Nelson Examiner, 5.7.1862
41. Locke, Gaoler, p 224; Otago Witness, 28.9.1861; Otago Daily Times, 20.3.1862; Otago Govt, Police Regulations, p 36; P-Port Chalmers 1/1, 11.12.1861 & 12.12.1861; Branigan to Supt, 16.9.1861, to Dow [nd but Oct 1861], AG 168/1/2, pp 19 & 29, HL
42. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, p 36; Otago Witness, 14,9.1861, 26.10.1861; OP Gazette, IV, No 178, pp 389-90; Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XIII, 23.10.1861, p5, & 31.10.1861, pp 14-15; Appropriation Ordinance 1861-2, Ordinances, OP, Sess XIII, No 64, p 267, and Police Regulation Ordinance
688
References to Chapter VII
1862, Sess XVI, No 100, clause 27; Supt to Col Sec, 20.1.1862 & 22.2.1862, OP -10/1, pp 342 & 380
43. Otago Witness, 24.8.1861, 7.9.1861, 26.10.1861; Wellington Independent, 22.11.1861; Locke, Gaoler, pp 192,219-21; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 86-7
44. OP Executive minutes, 28.8.1861, 24.9.1861, OP 4/3; Willis to Branigan, 30.7.1866, OP 12/8, p 299; Cutten to Standish, 28.8.1861, OP 11/4, p 419: Branigan to Bracken, 25.9.1861, & to Keddell, 10.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 20/61 & 42/61, HL; Property Receipts, AG 168/1/2, HL
45. Taranaki Herald, 21.12.1861; Otago Daily Times, 22.11.1861; Branigan to Keddell 10.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 42/61, HL; Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 59-62; Diary of Thomas Jervois Ryan 1862-66, CM; OP Gazette, IV, No 178, pp 388-91; Branigan to Supt, 10.9.1861, OP 6, 1861/575
46. Drummond to Fegan, 16.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 60/61, HL: Pyke, Gold Discoveries, pp 56-8; Otago Colonist, 11.10.1861 18.10.1861; Otago Daily Times, 19.11.1861; OP Executive minutes, 7.10.1861, OP 4/3; OP Gazette, V, No 217, p 222
47. Otago Witness, 26.10.1861; OP Gazette, IV, No 178, pp 388-91 No 158, Richardson’s address, 23.10.1861, No 154, p 261 No 169, p 331
48. Branigan to Inspector General, Hobart, 6.10.1861, to Supt 11.10.1861, to Cobden [nd but Oct 1861], AG 168/1/2, 32/61, 47/61 & 59/61, HL
49. Otago Witness, 21.9.1861, 26.10.1861; Branigan to Supt 19.10.1861, AG 168/1/2, 65/61, HL
50. Mayhew, Tuapeka, pp9l-2; Otago Daily Times, 27.3.1862; Otago Colonist, 25.10.1862; Otago Witness, 26.10.1861; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 88-9, 100-4; Calder, ‘Stick-Up’, pp 144-5; K Hoffe, ‘Bushranging and Highway Robbery on the South Island Goldfields 1861-1869’, history research paper, Victoria University of Wellington
51. Otago Witness, 16.11.1861; Wellington Independent, 29.10.1861; Glasson, Golden Cobweb, p 32; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 90-1,104-9; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp67-8; David Gee, The Devil’s Own Brigade: A History of the Lyttelton Gaol 1860-1920, Wellington 1975, pp 78-9; James Nimon, ‘Autobiography’, in family possession, pp 11-12
52. OP Gazette, IV, No 158, 6.1.1862, Richardson’s address. 23.10.1861; Branigan to Supt 21.10.1861, & to Commissioner, Christchurch, 2.11.1861, AG 168/1/2, 72/61 & 83/61, HL; draft estimates 1861-2, Sess XIII, OP 7/1, pp 1, 4-5; Branigan to Supt, 16.11.1861, OP 6, 1861/756
53. Otago Colonist, 25.10.1861, 1.11.1861; Otago Witness, 16.11.1861; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 62; Branigan to Prov
1056
References to Chapter VII
Sec, 24.11.1862, and ends, OP 7/7, f 1345; Hoffe, ‘Bushranging’; Criminals Ordinance 1861, Ordinances, OP, Sess XIII, No 60, p 249
54. Lyttelton Times, 9.10.1861; Otago Colonist, 1.11.1861; Nelson Examiner, 16.10.1861; Otago Witness, 26.10.1861; Preshaw, Banking, p 71; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p62; Pyke, Gold Discoveries, pp 54-5; Gilkison, Central Otago, p 110; Branigan to Supt, 16.11.1861, OP 6, 1861/755; J H M Salmon, A History of Goldmining in New Zealand, Wellington 1963, p 73
55. Otago Colonist, 11.10.1861; Otago Witness, 26.10.1861, 16.11.1861; Otago Daily Times, 13.12.1861; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, p 81; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 46, 62, 134-5, 117-8; Vagrant Ordinance 1861, Ordinances, OP, Sess XIII, No 62, p 257
56. Otago Colonist, 8.11.1861; Otago Witness, 13.9.1873; Property Receipts, AG 168/1/2, HL; General Order No 39, 20.3.1862, Alexandra Police Station General Order Book, NZ Police
57. Gilkison, Central Otago, pill; Nimon, ‘Autobiography pp 1-8,12
58. Branigan to Supt, 16.11.1861, OP 6, 1861/754; Otago Govt Police Regulations, p4; Otago Police Gazette, I, No 2 11.11.1861, No 3, 25.11.1861
59. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pll
60. Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 24, 63, 120-2, 248; Mayhew, Tuapeka, pp 57-9; Nelson Examiner, 8.1.1862, 11.2.1862
61. Sadleir, Recollections, p 302; Otago Daily Times, 4.1.1862; OP Gazette, IV, No 160, 15.1.1862, No 178, pp 390-1
62. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 62-3; J J Smith, ‘Two Dozen Lashes’, in Heinz (ed), Gold, pp 145-7; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 36-7; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 133
63. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 62-3
64. No known relationship to present author!
65. Otago Daily Times, 11.3.1862, 12.3.1862, 14.3.1862; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp9l-3; ‘The Autobiography of Richard Burgess the Murderer’, Nelson Gaol, Sept 1866, typescript, ATL, pp 58-62 [for published edition, see David Burton (ed), Confessions of Richard Burgess: The Maungatapu Murders and other Grisly Tales, Wellington 1983]; L F Smith, ‘Otago Police 100 Years Ago’, NZ Police Journal, Feb 1963
66. Glasson, Golden Cobweb, pp 34-5; Otago Witness, 24.5.1862, 16.8.1862; info from H W Coffey; Branigan to Chapman, 21.6.1862, AG 168/1/3, ff 12-13, HL; Otago Police Gazette, 11.11.1861, 17.3.1862; Supt to Branigan, 21.3.1862, OP 12/1, p616; Branigan to Supt, 14.3.1862, OP 9/1, f 358; return of 30.9.1862, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVI, p 4
1057
References to Chapter VII
67. Otago Witness, .26.10.1861, 16.11.1861, 20.3.1862; Gilkison Central Otago, pp 143-7; Otago Daily Times, 26.11.1861 25.3.1862; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 117; Branigan to Supt 9.1.1862, OP 7/1, f 80
68. OP Gazette, IV, No 178, p 391; Joe Franklin, ‘Branigan’s Catch: Sergeant William Hanlon’, Journal of the Orders and Medals Research Society, Winter 1981, pp 214-8
69. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 4-5, 10, 25-7, 35, 47-8, 54
70. Ibid, pp 23-4; Wellington Independent, 10.12.1861; Otago Daily Times, 2.12.1861, 3.12.1861, 18.12.1861, 21.1.1862, 29.1.1862; OP Gazette, 1862, p 390
71. Shepherd to Supt, 10.6.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL
72. OP Gazette, IV, No 178, p 391; Otago Govt, Police Regulations , pp 34-5
73. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 35, 44, 47, 50-2; circular order 4, 7.11.1861, Otago Police Gazette, I, No 2, 11.11.1861
74. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 35, 44, 47, 50-2; Press , 27.9.1862; circular order 4, 7.11.1861, Otago Police Gazette, I, No 2, 11.11.1861
75. Otago Daily Times, 17.2.1862; Otago Govt, Police Regulations , pp 44, 47, 50-2; OP Gazette, IV, No 178, pp 390-1
76. Leehaue to Supt, 9.4.1862, OP 7/3, f 461; Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 3, 5, 9-11, 16, 40, 42, 49-52
77. Otago Witness, 19.4.1862, 10.5.1867; Supt to Branigan, 14.3.1862, 8.4.1862, 26.6.1862, OP 12/1, pp 611, 624, 647-9; OP Gazette, IV, No 178, p 390, No 179, p 401, No 181, Supt’s address 16.4.1862, p 413; Branigan’s report, 16.10.1862, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 67
78. Victoria Government, Victoria Police Regulations, p 82; Brani gan to Supt, 2.2.1862, and ends, OP 7/1, f 115
79. Supt to Branigan, 4.2.1862, 16.2.1862 & 24.2.1862, OP 12/1, pp 602, 608 & 609; Branigan to Supt, 26.2.1862, OP 7/2, f 233
80. Branigan to Deputy Supt, 22.7.1862, AG 168/1/3, HL; Branigan to Supt, 10.2.1862, and ends, OP 7/1, f 158
81. Otago Daily Times, 18.1.1862, 21.3.1862; Otago Witness, 10.5.1862, 24.5.1862
82. Otago Witness, 10.5.1862; Otago Daily Times, 21.12.1861, 30.12.1861, 3.1.1862, 7.1.1862, 31.1.1862, 14.6.1862, 28.6.1862; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 140; Nelson Examiner, 18.1.1862, 22.1.1862, 11.2.1862; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 12.7.1862; Branigan to Supt, 23.6.1862, f 17, AG 168/1/3, HL
83. Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 26; Taranaki Herald , 31.5.1862; Ryan diary, 23.6.1862, 21.8.1862, 13.11.1862, CM; OP Gazette , V, Pyke to Supt, 1.10.1862, No 217, pp 219-31, No 218, 3.12.1862, p281; Supt to Commissioner, 22.9.1862, OP 12/1.
691
References to Chapter VII
p 695; Branigan to Supt, 24.6.1862 & 30.6.1862, ff 18 & 27, to Deputy Supt, 1.7.1862, ff 30-1, AG 168/1/3, HL 84. Mayhew, Tuapeka, p 33; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 27-8; Ryan diary, 26.7.1862 f, 27.8.1862, CM; Branigan to Bracken, 19.8.1862, ff 184-5, AG 168/1/3, HL; Pyke to Supt, 1,10.1862, OP Gazette, V, No 217, pp 219-31
85. Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 43-4; Glasson, Golden Cobweb, p 36; Otago Witness, 13.9.1862, 27.9.1862; Southland News, 13.9.1862; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp 14-15; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 28, 107; Nelson Examiner, 17.9.1862; Richardson to Branigan, 7.9.1862, OP 12/1, pp 689-91; Keddell to Branigan, 28.8.1862, OP Gazette, V, No 205, p 89
86. Gilkison, Central Otago, p 113; June A Wood, Gold Trails of Otago, Wellington 1970, p6; Pyke, Gold Discoveries, p 46; Southland News, 6.9.1862; Ryan diary, esp from 20.9.1862, CM; Supt to Branigan, 10.1.1862, OP 11/5; Prov Sec to Branigan, 15.10.1862, OP 12/7, p 10; OP Gazette, V, No 209, 1.10.1862, No 215, 12.11.1862, No 218, 3.12.1862; Dunstan Police Station Diary, entries 6-18.10.1862, NZ Police; info from D Green; Branigan to Bracken, 28.8.1862 & 22.9.1862, ff 206-7,290, to Weldon, 23.8.1862, f 199, to Keddell, 2.9.1862 & 22.9.1862, ff 232-3 & 291, to Irwin, 2.9.1862, f 237, to Deputy Supt, 7.9.1862, ff 256-7, AG 168/1/3, HL
87. Otago Witness, 13.9.1862, 27.9.1862, 11.10.1862, 8.11.1862, 28,11.1862; Nelson Examiner, 19.11.1862; Otago Daily Times, 7.1.1863; Dunstan Police Station Diary, entries 19.10.1862, 20.10.1862.1.11.1862, NZ Police; Branigan’s report 16.10.1862, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 67; Pyke’s report 1.10.1862, OP Gazette, V, No 218, p 227; Branigan to Supt, 5.10.1862, ff 347-8, to Bullen 17.10.1862, ff 383-4, AG 168/1/3, HL
88. G J Griffiths, King Wakatip, Dunedin 1971, pp 75-6; Weldon to Keddell, 19.9.1862, ff 277-8, AG 168/1/3, HL; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, p 85; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 144-5; Branigan to Bayly, 20.10.1862, ff 398-9, to Bracken, 20.10.1862, ff 389-90, to Supt, 16.9.1862, to Supt, 3.11.1862, ff 427-8, AG 168/1/3, HL
89. Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 179; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 2.12.1862; Dunstan Police Station Diary, entry 1.12.1862, NZ Police; Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 67; OP Executive minutes, 17.12.1862, OP 4/4; Branigan to Supt, 23.10.1862, OP 7/7, f 1151; Prov Sec to Branigan, 25.10.1862, 20.12.1862, OP 12/7, pp 14,34; Branigan to Prov Sec, 15.12.1862, OP 7/8, 11385; General Order No 55, 23.8.1862, Alexandra Police Station General Order Book, NZ Police; Branigan to Supt, 23.10.1862, ff 404-5, to Bracken, 24.11.1862, ff 488-9, to Prov Sec, 15.12.1862, f 538, AG 168/1/3, HL
1059
References to Chapter VII
90. OP Executive minutes, 17.12.1862, OP 4/4; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp 63-4; Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 67; Otago Witness, 20.9.1862, 4.10.1862, 18.10.1862; Supt’s address, 26.11.1862, OP Gazette, V, No 220, p 299; Branigan to Tuckwell, 27.10.1862, f 412, to Prov Sec, 13.11.1862, 14.11.1862 & 24.11.1862, ff 456-7, AG 168/1/3, HL
91. Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 51-3, 113-4; Otago Witness, 3.1.1863; Otago Daily Times, 8.1.1863; Griffiths, King Wakatip, pp 76f; Southland News, 26.11.1862, 10.12.1862; Branigan to Quirk, 27.11.1862, f 503, AG 168/1/3, HL; F W G Miller, Golden Days of Lake County, Christchurch 1949, 1973 ed, pp 34, 36, 39-45, 79
92. Otago Daily Times, 8.1.1863, 21.1.1863, 22.1.1863, 23.1.1863; Southland News, 10.12.1862, 7.2.1863, 21.2.1863; Robert Hoskins, Goldfield Balladeer: The Life and Times of the Celebrated Charles R. Thatcher, Auckland 1977, p 57; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 119; Miller, Lake County, pp 48-50, 57; Griffiths, King Wakatip, p 79; info from H W Coffey; Glasson, Golden Cobweb, pp 39-40, 49, 66-8, 74, 77; Branigan to Prov Sec, 28.1.1863, OP 7/9, f 1619
93. Otago Daily Times, 6.1.1863; OP Executive minutes, 20.11.1862, OP 4/4; Branigan to Supt, 6.11.1862, OP 7/7, f 1303; Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 67; Supt’s address, 26.11.1862, OP Gazette, V, No 220, p 299, VI, No 154, p 258
94. Branigan to Prov Sec, 15.12.1862 & 10.1.1863, to Supt, 11.1.1863, Z509, Z609 & Z629, AG 168/1/3, HL
95. Branigan to Prov Sec, 10.1.1863, Z629, AG 168/1/3, HL Miller, Lake County, pp 60-1
96. Miller, Lake County, p 268; Beattie, Pioneers, pp 149-50; Ryan diary, 30.11.1862, 3.12.1862, Jan 1863, CM; Branigan to Ryan, 25.1.1863, to Bayly, 25.1.1863, Z705, ff 612-3, AG 168/1/3, HL
97. Griffiths, King Wakatip, p 88; Otago Daily Times, 17.1.1863, 26.1.1863, 2.2.1863; Southland News, 31.1.1863; Ryan diary, 12.1.1863, 16.1.1863, 17.1.1863, 22.1.1863, 27.1.186311.2.1863, et passim, CM; Branigan to Prov Sec, 28.1.1863, OP 7/9, f 1619; Branigan to Bayly, 24.1.1863, ff 614-5, AG 168/1/3, HL
98. Ryan diary, 18-19.4.1863, CM; Gilkison, Central Otago, p 112; Otago Daily Times, 1.1.1863; Miller, Lake County, p 268
99. Miller, Lake County, pp 68-9; Griffiths, King Wakatip, pp 85-6, 90; Branigan to Prov Sec, 28.1.1863, ff 629-30, AG 168/1/3, HL
100. Beattie, Pioneers, p 148; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp 33-4; Ryan diary, 3.4.1863, CM; Branigan to Prov Sec, 8.2.1863 & 28.2.1863, ff 671 & 714, AG 168/1/3, HL; List of Conditions
1060
References to Chapter VII
for Wakatipu Escort, pp 33-4, AG 168/1/3, HL; Branigan to Prov Sec, 13.3.1863 & 25.3.1863, ff 1-4 & 30-1, AG 168/1/4, HL; Escort Schedule, AG 168/1/6, HL
101. Press, 7.3.1863; Miller, Lake County, p 59; Beattie, Pioneers , pp 149-50
102. Southland News, 31.1.1863; Nelson Examiner, 4.2.1863; Otago Daily Times, 2.2.1863; Miller, Lake County, pp 81-3
103. Branigan to Morton, 7.4.1863, ff 92-3, to Prov Sec, 2.6.1863 & 11.6.1863, ff 272-5 & 305, AG 168/1/4, HL; Otago Daily Times, 6.1.1863, 7.1.1863, 7.2.1863, 16.2.1863
104. Otago Daily Times, 28.2.1863, 8.5.1863; W A Taylor, ‘The Amazing Career of “Bully” Hayes’, in The Plainsman, May 1948, p 10; N Gow, ‘Frank Gardiner: Prince of Tobymen’, in Canberra & District Historical Society, The Bushranger Papers, Canberra 1979; Hoskins, Thatcher, pp 66-70; Branigan to Prov Sec, 14.11.1862, f 1302, & 24.11.1862, f 1345, OP 7/7; Miller, Lake County, pp 50-3
105. Otago Daily Times, 9.4.1864; Press, 13.11.1863; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, ppBl-4; Branigan to Prov Sec, 22.2.1863 & 8.3.1863, ff 697 & 723-4, AG 168/1/3, HL; Branigan to Prov Sec, 24.11.1862, and ends, f 1345, and 14.11.1862, f 1302, OP 7/7; Branigan to Prov Sec, 22.2.1863, f 1714, OP 7/9; Prov Sec to Commissioner, 28.2.1863, OP 12/7, p 55
106. Otago Daily Times, 2.4.1863; Branigan to Prov Sec, 10.1.1863, f 1559, OP 7/8; Branigan to Prov Sec, 17.2.1863, end with OP 7/9, f 1675; Supt to Branigan, 20.2.1863, OP 12/7, p 50; OP Executive minutes, 27.1.1863, OP 4/4
107. Branigan to Prov Sec, 22.2.1863, f 1714, OP 7/9; Prov Sec to Branigan, 28.2.1863, OP 12/7, p 55; Otago Daily Times, 18.3.1863; Branigan to Morton, 8.3.1863, ff 721-2, to Prov Sec, 13.2.1863, ff 675-6, AG 168/1/3, HL; Town and Country Police Ordinance 1862, & Police Regulation Ordinance 1862, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVI, No 100, p 455, & No 103, pp 473-488
108. Otago Daily Times, 2.4.1863, 6.4.1863, 22.6.1863; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 115-8; Branigan to Prov Sec, 6.2.1863, ff 644-5, AG 168/1/3, HL; General Order No 79, 18.6.1863, Alexandra Police Station General Order Book, NZ Police
109. Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 118-22; Otago Daily Times, 9.5.1863; Nelson Examiner, 7.7.1863
110. Glasson, Golden Cobweb, p 70; Otago Daily Times, 10.4.1863, 16.4.1863; Southland News, 11.4.1863; Lyttelton Times, 11.4.1863
111. Otago Daily Times, 10.4.1863; Daily Telegraph, 10.4.1863, & other ends, with Branigan to Prov Sec, 14.4.63, f 1890, OP 7/10
1061
References to Chapter VII
112. Otago Daily Times, 10.4.1863; ends with Branigan to Prov Sec 14.4.63, f 1890, OP 7/10
113. Otago Daily Times, 16.6.1863; Branigan to Prov Sec, 14.4.1863, and ends, f 1890, OP 7/10; Prov Sec to Branigan, 15.4.1863 & 8.5.1863, OP 12/7, pp 69 & 73; Willis to Branigan 12.5.1864, OP 12/8, p 16
114. Otago Daily Times, 8.6.1863
115. Ryan diary, 1.6.1863, 9.6.1863, CM; Glasson, Golden Cobweb, pp 99-100; Southland News, 24.6.1863; Otago Daily Times, 15.6.1863; Branigan to Prov Sec, 3.6.1863, and report of 10.6.1863, OP 7/11, f 2082; Branigan to Prov Surgeon, 25.6.1863, ff 349-50, to Bayly, 24.9.1863, ff 645-6, AG 168/1/4, HL; Branigan to Sincock, 19.10.1863 & 18.12.1863, ff 24-6 & 505-8, to Bayly, 23.10.1863, f 49, AG 168/1/5, HL
116. Hardcastle to Branigan, 17.10.1862, and end Branigan to Supt, 17.10.1862, f 1097, OP 7/6
117. Branigan to Sincock, 14.7.1863, ff 396-7, to Prov Sec, ff 472-3, 10.8.1863, AG 168/1/4, HL; Police Regulation Ordinance 1862, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVI, No 100; Branigan to Prov Sec, 22.2.1863, end with OP 7/9, f 1674; Supt to Branigan, nd [but May 1863], Willis to Branigan, 5.6.1863 & 16.6.1863, OP 12/7, pp 82, 89 & 94; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 208
118. Hardcastle to Branigan, 17.10.1862, and ends, f 1097, OP 7/6; Branigan to Acting Prov Sec, 11.5.1863, f 1996, OP 7/10; Appropriation Ordinance 1863-4, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVII, No 128, p 643; Branigan to Bayly, 14.4.1863, f 106, to Acting Prov Sec, 11.5.1863, ff 183-5, AG 168/1/4, HL; Ryan diary, 22.2.1863, 27.3.1863 with note of Sept 1864, 8.4.1863, 7.5.1863, 10.6.1863, CM
119. Otago Police Gazette, 11.11.1861, 28.9.1863; Gilkison, Central Otago, p 113; Prov Sec to Branigan, 15.10.1862, Supt to Branigan, 23.9.1862, OP 12/7, pp 10, 122; Ryan diary, 26.1.1863, 16.4.1863, 6.5.1863, 10.6.1863, CM
120. Otago Daily Times, 19.9.1863; Smith, ‘Otago Police’, p 20; Branigan’s report of 16.10.1862, & return of 22.6.1863, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 67, & XVII, p 44; Appropriation Ordinance 1863-4, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVII, No 128
121. Morrell, Gold Rushes, p 269; Branigan to Prov Sec, 11.6.186 ff 311-2, AG 168/1/4, HL
122. Otago Daily Times, 5.8.1863, 15.8.1863; Marlborough Press, 6.1.1864; Branigan, 3.9.1863, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVI, p 44; Ryan diary, 3.8.1863, 16.12.1863, 26.3.1864, CM; Southland News, 22.8.1863, 3.11.1863; Branigan to Burns, 18.7.1863, f 413, to Prov Sec, 11.8.1863, f 478, to Ryan. 16.8.1863, ff 498-9, AG 168/1/4, HL; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 116-7
1062
References to Chapter VII
123. Branigan to Sincock, 14.10.1863, ff 744-5, AG 168/1/4, HL; Branigan to Prov Sec, 27.10.1863, 29.10.1863 & 16.12.1863, ff 70, 107 & 498, & to Ryan, 20.12.1863, ff 524-5. AG 168/1/5, HL
124. Ryan diary, early 1863 entries, CM; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 65-71; Glasson, Golden Cobweb, pp 92-9, 103-13,117; Otago Daily Times, 3.6.1863, 5.6.1863; Griffiths, King Wakatip, p 106; Nelson Examiner, 17.6.1863; Miller, Lake County, pp 86-9; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp 53-4; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 167-8; Alexandra Police Station Diary, entries for 15-16.8.1863, 9.12.1863, NZ Police
125. Otago Daily Times, 2.10.1863, 6.10.1863; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 70, 114; Ryan diary, 27.11.1863, CM; Southland News, 6.10.1863; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp 21-2; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, pp 113-4,116; Alexander Bathgate, Colonial Experiences: Sketches of People and Places in the Province of Otago, New Zealand, Glasgow 1874, pp 165-6; box 66, A, NZ Police Association archives; E J Murphy, ‘Otago Police 100 Years Ago’, NZ Police Journal, Aug 1963, pp 174-5
126. Branigan to Bayly, 17.6.1863, AG 168/1/4, HL; Branigan to Morton, 24.10.1863, ff 45-6, to Prov Sec, 30.11.1863, ff 353-4, to Sincock, 14.12.1863 & 18.12.1863, ff 477-80 & 505-8, AG 168/1/5, HL; Branigan’s report of 3.9.1863, Departmental Reports, p 44, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVII
127. Otago Daily Times, 28.8.1863, 9.11.1863, 18.11.1863; Southland News, 10.11.1863; Branigan’s report of 3.9.1863, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVII, p 44; Branigan to Prov Sec, 29.10.1863, AG 168/1/5, HL
128. Otago Daily Times, 18.9.1863, 25.9.1863, 30.10.1863, 14.12.1863; Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 94-6; Otago Police Gazette, 31.8.1863; Branigan to Burns, 7.9.1863, ff 574-5, AG 168/1/4, HL; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, pp 75-6; Miller, Golden Days, p 64; Press, 8.5.1863
129. Correspondence, Sess XXI, OP 1/18; Branigan to Prov Sec, 11.1.1864, 64/14, & to Vickter, 21.3.1864, 64/119, AG 168/1/6, HL; return of 31.3.1864, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVIII, p 133; Branigan to Supt, 9.2.1864, end with OP 7/7, f 1151
130. Branigan to Prov Sec, 18.4.1864, 64/151, AG 168/1/6, HL; Branigan’s report of 18.4.1864, and return of 31.3.1864, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XVIII, p 133; Branigan’s report of 21,10.1864, and return of 16.9.1864, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XIV, p 28
131. Otago Daily Times, 21.9.1864; Appropriation Ordinance 1864, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVIII, No 138, p 699; Alexandra Police Station Diary, entry for 16.4.1864, NZ Police
132. Branigan to Prov Sec, 30.5.1864, 64/207, AG 168/1/6, HL
696
References to Chapter VII
133. Branigan to Prov Sec, 24.8.1864, 26.8.1864, 17.10.1864, 23.11.1864 & 14.12.1864, 64/336, 64/339, 64/432, 64/495 & 64/524, AG 168/1/6, HL; Morrell, Gold Rushes, p 270; Otago Daily Times, 29.10.1864, 1.11.1864, 5.11.1864; for an overview of the ebb and flow of the goldfields, see Murray McCaskill, ‘The South Island Goldfields in the 1860s: Some Geographical Aspects’, in ed McCaskill, Land and Livelihood, Christchurch 1962
134. Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, p 165; Scholefield (ed), Richmond- Atkinson Papers, vol I, p 734
135. Branigan to Supt, 31.10.1864, and end Weale to Branigan, 30.10.1864, 64/542, and to Prov Sec, 31.10.1864, 64/453, AG 168/1/6, HL
136. Victoria Police, Police in Victoria, p 18; Otago Daily Times, 5.11.1864; Reports, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXV, p 46; Branigan to Kirkpatrick et al, 1.11.1864, 64/459, AG 168/1/6, HL; petition of 2.11.1864, f 3911, OP 7/22; Prov Sec to Branigan, 3.11.1864, OP 12/8, p 78
137. Otago Daily Times, 8.12.1864, 12.12.1864, 6.5.1865; Correspondence, Sess XXI, OP 1/18
138. Otago Daily Times, 12.4.1864; Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, 4.12.1865 & 8.12.1865; Police Regulation Ordinance 1862 Amendment Ordinance 1864, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVIII, No 141; Willis to Branigan, 28.1.1864, OP 12/7, p 157; Prov Sec memo, Mar-Apr 1864, OP 16/2, p 174
139. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 2, 11, 14; Robert Gilkison, Early Days in Dunedin, Auckland 1938, p 57; Saturday Review, 3.12.1864
140. Willis to Branigan, 21.12.1864, and Cargill to Branigan, 29.12.1864, OP 12/8, pp96 & 102; Nelson Examiner, 5.1.1865; Gilkison, Dunedin, p 57
141. Otago Witness, 13.5.1871; Branigan to Prov Sec, 25.3.1865, 65/114, AG 168/1/7, HL; Police Report, No 5, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, p 14; Willis to Branigan, 18.4.1865 & 13.5.1865, OP 12/8, pp 135-6 & 143; Prov Sec to Branigan, 6.5.1865, 10.5.1865 & 21.4.1868, and Supt to Branigan, 21.2.1868, OP 12/8, pp 139, 141, 423 & 406
142. Info from G Middlemass, & from Barry Thomson, Police Museum, NZ Police College
143. Morrell, Gold Rushes, p 271; Branigan to Prov Sec, 31.12.1864, 64/565, AG 168/1/6, HL
144. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 23.2.1865; Press, 17.1.1865, 28.1.1865; Van der Voorn, ‘Dunstan’, p 86; OP Executive minutes, 9.1.1865, OP 4/4, p 542; Otago Witness, 29.4.1864; Police Report, No 8, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XX, p 42; Branigan to Prov Sec, 13.1.1865, f 4057, OP 7/22; Prov Sec to
1064
References to Chapter VII
Branigan, 2.5.1865, OP 12/7, p 236; Cargill to Branigan, 30.12.1864, and Prov Sec to Branigan, 9.1.1865 & 1.5.1865, OP 12/8, pp 106, 108 & 137; Branigan to Prov Sec, 13.1.1865, 1.4.1865 & 1.5.1865, 65/18, 65/124 & 65/155, AG 168/1/7, HL; Branigan to Rich, 30.1.1865, 65/35, AG 168/1/7, HL; Otago Police Gazette, 1.2.1865
145. Police Report, No 8, and proposed expenditure 1.4.1865-30.9.1865, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XX, p 42; Police Report, No 5, and return 30.9.1865, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, p 14; Appropriation Ordinance 1865, Ordinances, OP, Sess XX, No 194, p 1125; Branigan to Prov Sec, 5.6.1865 & 18.9.1865, 65/212 & 65/368, AG 168/1/7, HL; circular 15, 11.6.1865, & circular 19, 18.10.1866, P-Alexandra 3/1
146. Police Report, No 5, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, p 14; Otago Witness, 16.12.1865; Branigan to Weldon, 29.7.1865, 65/303, AG 168/1/7, HL; Appropriation Ordinance 1865, Ordinances, OP, Sess XX, No 194, p 1125
147. Otago Witness, 30.9.1865; Nelson Examiner, 4.7.1865; Press, 27.6.1865; Gorman to Sub-Inspector, Queenstown, 16.5.1865, AG 168/1/7, HL; Otago Govt, Police Regulations, Nos 7-9; McLintock, Otago, p 472
148. Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, pp 68-9, ATL
149. W H Carson, The Kaiwarra Mystery and More Famous Trials, Wellington 1935, pp 47f; Gilkison, Dunedin, pp 40-53; New Zealander, 5.9.1865, 5.10.1865, 8.11.1865, 24.11.1865; Hawke's Bay Herald, 8.4.1865, 30.9.1865; Branigan to Chief Commissioner, Melbourne, 5.1.1865, 65/5, AG 168/1/7, HL
150. Otago Witness, 16.12.1865; Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, 4.12.1865 & 8.12.1865
151. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 7-10,13
152. Ibid, p 10; ‘Police Regulations’, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, pp 20-1
153. Otago Govt, Police Regulations, pp 72, 77, 81; Police Regulation Ordinance 1862, section 7, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVI, No 100; ‘Police Regulations’, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXI, pp 20-1
154. Ibid; Police Regulation Ordinance 1862 Amendment Ordinance 1864, Ordinances, OP, Sess XVIII, No 141
155. Otago Witness, 2.6.1866, 1.12.1866, 20.4.1867, 16.8.1867; Southland Times, 30.4.1866; Morrell, Gold Rushes, p 271; Police Report, No 7, 15.10.1866, Votes & Proceedings, Sess XXII, p 43; Branigan to Prov Sec, 12.3.1866, 13.3.1866 & 15.10.1866, 66/73, 66/75 & 66/231, AG 168/1/8, HL
156. Gilkison, Dunedin, pp 89-93; Nelson Examiner, 1.9.1866
157. Otago Witness, 1.9.1866, 5.10.1866, 30.8.1867; Glasson, Golden
698
References to Chapter VIII
Cobweb, p 146; Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, pp 169-70, 176-7; Nelson Examiner, 27.6.1866, 23.7.1867; Mayhew, Tuapeka, pp 89-90; Gilkison, Central Otago, p 153; Report of Goldfields Commission, 17.2.1868, Votes & Proceedings, OP, Sess XXIV; entries 14-15.7.1867, 1.9.1867, 10.9.1867, 2-3.11.1867, 23.11.1867, P-Alexandra 2/2; petition from Chinese residents, Lake Wakatipu District, 1872, OP 1/40; Select Committee report on Chinese petition, OP 1/38
158. Tilly et al, ‘Visibility of Crime’, p49
159. Nelson Examiner, 18.7.1867; Daily Southern Cross, 4.12.1863; Branigan to Prov Sec, 15.10.1866 & 16.7.1867, 66/231 & 67/99, AG 168/1/8, HL
160. List of Buildings, 10.9.1866, ff 280-1, and Branigan to Prov Sec, 13.12.1866, 66/257, AG 168/1/8, HL
161. Otago Witness, 23.2.1867; Press, 6.4.1867
162. Branigan to Prov Sec, 25.3.1867 & 27.3.1867, 67/36-7, to Prov Treasurer, 20.4.1867, 67/50, AG 168/1/8, HL; Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, p 166
163. Otago Witness, 13.9.1867, 20.9.1873; Otago Police Gazette, 1.5.1867, p 22; OP Executive minutes, 2.4.1867, OP 4/5, p 258; OP Executive minutes, 21.11.1867, OP 4/10, p 33; return of Dec 1867, No 1353 of 1868, CP Inwards letters, CM
164. P J Whelan, ‘The Care of Destitute, Neglected and Criminal Children in New Zealand 1840-1900’, MA thesis, Wellington 1956, pp 24-35
165. Vogel to Branigan, 7.12.1867, Branigan Papers, Otago Early Settlers’ Association Museum; OP Gazette, XII, No 517, 2.1.1868; Otago Witness, 11.5.1867, 26.7.1867; Morrell, Provincial System, pp 63, 190-1; IA 34/1, 67/1253
166. Bradshaw to Col Sec, telegraph message, 13.5.1867, and 67/1280, IA 34/1
167. Morrell, Provincial System, pp 190-2; IA 34/1, 67/1280
168. Broad to Col Sec, 4.5.1867, Bradshaw to Col Sec, 6.5.1867 & 7.5.1867, Stafford to Bradshaw, 6.5.1867, telegraph messages, IA 34/1
169. Press, 22.8.1867; Otago Witness, 11.5.1867, 26.7.1867; Morrell, Provincial System, pp 63, 190-1; Haughton to Stafford, telegraph message, 8.6.1867, IA 34/1
170. NZ Govt, Statistics, 1920, IV, p 230
Chapter VIII
1. Lyttelton Times, 28.8.1861; Press, 6.7.1861; Hamilton to Prov Sec, 25.7.1861, No 74, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Watson, 15.2.1861, No 674, to Woollcombe, 15.2.1861, No 675,
1066
References to Chapter VIII
to Deighton, 15.2.1861, No 676, to Hamilton, 29.1.1861, No 630, CP Prov Sec Letterbook C, CM; CP Executive minutes, 30.1.1861, CM
2. Lyttelton Times, 28.8.1861; Hamilton to Prov Sec, 25.7.1861 & 27.7.1861, Nos 74 & 1469, CP Inwards letters, CM
3. Hamilton to Prov Sec, 10.8.1861, No 1677, CP Inwards letters, CM; Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, CM
4. Report of Commissioner of Police Hamilton to Prov Sec 17.9.1861, No 1688, CP Inwards letters, CM
5. Ibid; CP Executive minutes, 30.1.1861, CM; Hamilton to Prov Sec, nd [but May 1860], No 331, CP Inwards letters, CM
6. Hamilton to Prov Sec, 17.9.1861, No 1688, CP Inwards letters, CM
7. Press, 23.11.1861; Hamilton to Prov Sec, 23.6.1862, No 750, CP Inwards letters, CM
8. Press, 21.12.1861, 25.1.1862, 2.8.1862; Otago Daily Times , 10.2.1862
9. Christchurch Star, 24.12.1982; C R Thatcher, Thatcher’s Canterbury Songster, Christchurch 1862, p 18; info from P Hosking; Hamilton to Prov Sec, 2.1.1862, No 9, CP Inwards letters, CM
10. Hamilton to Prov Sec, 2.1.1862, No 9, and 6.2.1862, Nos 175, 189 & 190, CP Inwards letters, CM
11. Press, 3.5.1862; info from P Hosking; M Seager, ‘Seager’, pp4o-l; Revell to Prov Sec, 24.1.1862, No 185, Hamilton to Prov Sec, 6.2.1862, No 189, CP Inwards letters, CM
12. Press, 13.11.1867; Sadleir, Recollections, p 307; info from J Wills & Mrs M Hill; info from R Haldane, Victoria Police; Moorhouse to Chief Sec, Victoria, 3.2.1862, 1862-63 V 1364, in 1876 J13638 (Chief Sec), and Victorian Commissioner to James, 17.5.1888, box 344, Series 937, Police Dept file 88/592, both Victoria Public Record Office, Melbourne; info from T Reynolds; Moore to Supt, 4.4.1862, No 897, and ends, CP Inwards letters, CM; R C Shearman’s clippings book, Shearman family possession
13. Hamilton to Prov Sec, 23.6.1862, No 750, and Shearman to Supt, 16.6.1862, No 839, CP Inwards letters, CM; NZ Gazette, 1861, 27.12.1861, p 337; James to Commissioner, 29.3.1888, & Commissioner to James, 17.5.1888, box 344, Series 937, Police Dept file 88/592, Victoria Public Record Office, Melbourne; Guinness entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM
14. Hamilton to Prov Sec, 10.6.1862 & 23.6.1862, Nos 708 & 750,
1067
References to Chapter VIII
CP Inwards letters, CM; Appropriation Ordinances, Ordinances, CP, Sess XI, No 15, p 304, Sess XVII, No 14, p 404 Sess XIX, No 18, p 453
15. Lyttelton Times, 2.8.1862, 6.11.1911; Shearman to Prov Sec, [Jun 1867], No 1054, CP Inwards letters, CM; staff list end with No 332 of 1872, CP Inwards letters, CM; orders Nos 1, 7.8.1862, 2, 2.9.1862, 5, 3.10.1862, 6, 18.10.1862, General Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Canterbury Govt, Report of Proceedings and Evidence Taken before the Select Committee Appointed to Inquire into the Want of Harmony stated to exist between the Superior Officers of the Police Department in Christchurch and its Effect upon the Working of that Department, Christchurch 1872, pp 38 & 115; M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 38; report of 25.8.1862, Prov Council Papers, Sess XIX, No 27, CM
16. Lyttelton Times, 18.10.1862; Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, p 81; circular No 15, 23.2.1863, General Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Canterbury Govt, Manual of Police Regulations of the Canterbury Constabulary Force, Christchurch 1862, pp 9, 26, 90-1
17. Canterbury Govt, Police Regulations, p 10; Appropriation Ordinance, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXII, No 17
18. Police Report, Journals of Proceedings, CP, Sess XXXVI, p5; CP Executive minutes, 12.8.1862, 9.9.1862, 17.2.1863, CM; Appropriation Ordinance 1864, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXII, No 17; Lyttelton Times, 18.10.1862; Press, 7.3.1863, 30.5.1863, 11.6.1863, 23.11.1968; Shearman to Prov Sec, 13.2.1863, No 343, CP Inwards letters, CM; Andersen, South Canterbury, pp 470, 609; M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 58
19. Canterbury Govt, Police Regulations, pp 25-6; P-Christchurch 8/1, orders Nos 3, 24.9.1862, 4, 30.9.1862
20. Canterbury Govt, Police Regulations, pp 22, 28-9
21. Andersen, South Canterbury, p 637; Elizabeth Muter, Travels and Adventures of an Officer’s Wife in India, China and New Zealand, London 1864, p 244; Broham’s report, nd, No 985(i), end with Shearman to Prov Sec, 10.7.1865, No 985, CP Inwards letters, CM
22. Canterbury Govt, Police Regulations, pp 20, 27-30, 74, 80; CP Executive minutes, 17.2.1863, CM; M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 62
23. Lyttelton Times, 17.9.1862, 5.11.1862; Thatcher, Canterbury Songster, p 18; info from P Hosking
24. Lyttelton Times, 17.9.1862; Press, 27.9.1862
25. Lyttelton Times , 5.11.1862, 10.12.1862; Press , 14.2. 27.3.1863
26. Press, 4.7.1867; Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.11.1862, No 1768, end with No 2426, 26.10.1864, CP Inwards letters, CM
701
References to Chapter VIII
27. Canterbury Govt, Police Regulations, pp 8, 11-13, 19, 69, 81, 90-1; order No 81, 19.10.1864, General Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police
28. NZ Govt, Officers, pp 70-1; Deighton to Prov Sec, 26.5.1862, No 615, Hamilton to Prov Sec, 26.6.1862, No 773, & staff list end with No 332 of 1872, CP Inwards letters, CM
29. P-Christchurch 8/1, order No 7, p6, 11.11.1862; Shearman to Prov Sec, 18.2.1863 & 26.10.1864, Nos 381 & 2426, and staff list end with No 332 of 1872, CP Inwards letters, CM; James to Standish, 3.6.1863, and to Commissioner, Victoria, 29.3.1888, & 30.4.1888, box 344, Series 937, Police Dept file 88/592, Victoria Public Record Office, Melbourne; info from R Haldane, Victoria Police
30. Press, 6.5.1863, 15.5.1863; Shearman to Prov Sec, 18.2.1863, No 381, CP Inwards letters, CM; Woollcombe to AttorneyGeneral, 24.12.1862, Timaru Letterbook, NA Regional Office, Christchurch; Andersen, South Canterbury, p 470
31. Canterbury Govt, Police Regulations, p 45; Seager, ‘Reminiscences’, incl No 10, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, No A 604, 12.10.1863, CP Inwards letters, CM
32. Press, 19.5.1863, 22.5.1863, 28.9.1863, 25.11.1863, 1.12,1863, 8.1.1864; staff list end with No 332 of 1872, CP Inwards letters, CM
33. Lyttelton Times, 11.4.1863
34. Press, 21.8.1863, 28.8.1863; orders Nos 29, 29.6.1863, 39, 21.8.1863, 43, 13.10.1863, 45, 18.11.1863, General Order Book, Christchurch, 1862-1900, NZ Police
35. Andersen, South Canterbury, p 517; Press, 21.8.1863; M Seager, ‘Seager’, p 62; R C Lamb, Early Christchurch, Christchurch 1963, pp 27, 48, 63-4
36. Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.10.1863, No 737, and petition, [1863], No 945, CP Inwards letters, CM; CP Executive minutes, 5.1.1864, CM; Preshaw, Banking, p 136; May, Gold Rushes, pp 88-9
37. Shearman to Prov Sec, 4.2.1864, 20.10.1864 & 13.12.1864, Nos 350, 2426 & 2733, and 28.9.1864, with attached Rolleston memo of 4.10.1864, No 2310, and Guinness to Watson, 10.10.1864, No 2384(i), and Watson to Prov Sec, 12.10.1864, No 2384, CP Inwards letters, CM; Rolleston to Watson, 25.10.1864, No 1851, and to Shearman, 1.12.1864, No 2007, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
38. Lyttelton Times, 6.11.1911; Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, pp 38, 59; Peter Pender, in Fair Play, 25.11.1893; Pender entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM; info from Mrs E Mcßae
39. Orders Nos 63, 12.5.1864, 78, 1.9.1864,90, 12.12.1864, General
702
References to Chapter VIII
Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.10.1863 & 10.5.1865, Nos 737 & 651, and 2.5.1864, & end Shearman to Supt, 2.5.1861, Nos 1407 & 1407(i), CP Inwards letters, CM
40. Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, p 59; Press, 15.7.1864, 14.5.1872; info from R Haldane, Victoria Police; James to Victorian Commissioner, 29.3.1888, box 344, Series 937, Police Dept file 88/592, Victoria Public Record Office, Melbourne; Shearman to Prov Sec, 2.3.1863, 12.5.1864 & 27.5.1864, Nos 637,1485 & 1550, to Supt, 2.5.1864, No 1407(i), CP Inwards letters, CM
41. Press, 15.5.1872; James Cleary Papers, in family possession; Shearman to Prov Sec, 12.5.1864 & 27.5.1864, Nos 1485 & 1550, and staff list end with No 332 of 1872, CP Inwards letters, CM
42. Preshaw, Banking, pp 137-8; Rolleston to Shearman, 29.7.1864, and Shearman to Pender, 29.7.1864, end with No 2262, 20.9.1864, and Shearman to Prov Sec, 30.7.1864, No 2101, CP Inwards letters, CM; May, Gold Rushes, pp 92-6 et passim-, Murray McCaskill, ‘The Goldrush Population of Westland’, NZ Geographer, 12, No 1, pp 32-50; Murray McCaskill ‘Miner, Merchant and Mountain; A study in the political geography of goldrush Westland, 1865-1876’, in Proceedings of the Second New Zealand Geographical Conference, Christchurch 1958, pp 49-51; Philip Ross May, Hokitika: Goldfields Capital, Christchurch 1964, pp 15-18
43. Press, 25.8.1864; Journals, AP, Sess XXVI, A-9, p 17; info from R Haldane, Victoria Police; Broham entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM; P-Christchurch 8/1, orders Nos 61, 31.4.1864, 75, 9.8.1864, 89, 6.12.1864, 93, 25.2.1865; Shearman to Prov Sec, 4.8.1864, No 2035, and ends, and 23.2.1865, No 250, CP Inwards letters, CM; Rolleston to Commissioner, 27.2.1865, No 111, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
44. May, Gold Rushes, pp96-7; order No 83, 23.10.1864, General Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Shearman to Prov Sec, 4.8.1864, No 2035, and ends, CP Inwards letters, CM
45. A Kitchingham, Guinness and His Days, Greymouth 1965, p 32; May, Gold Rushes, p 96; Shearman to Prov Sec, 4.8.1864, No 2035, and ends, and Broham’s reports, 22.8.1864 & 24.8.1864, Nos 2293(3) & 2293(4), CP Inwards letters, CM
46. Broham’s reports, 22.8.1864, No 2293(4), and [Sept 1864 2355(2), CP Inwards letters, CM
47. Shearman to Broham, 27.9.1864, end with No 2301, and
703
References to Chapter VIII
Broham’s Report, 23.10.1864, No 2537(1), CP Inwards letters, CM
48. Broham’s Reports, 31.8.1864, Nos 2293(1) & 2293(2), 24.8.1864, No 2293(3), 22.8.1864, Nos 2293(4) & 2293(5), 6.9.1864, No 2301(1), 25.9.1864, No 2355(1), CP Inwards letters, CM; May, Gold Rushes, p 96
49. Preshaw, Banking, pp 105, 111, 167; Broham’s Reports, 31.8.1864, No 2293(1), [Sept 1864], No 2355(2), 18.9.1864, No 2410(1), 25.9.1864, No 2355(1), CP Inwards letters, CM
50. CP Executive minutes, 22.12.1864, CM; order No 81, General Order book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Broham’s Report, end with Shearman to Prov Sec, 3.10.1864, No 2333, CP Inwards letters, CM
51. Press, 25.8.1864; CP Executive minutes, 27.9.1864, 3.10.1864, CM; Preshaw, Banking, p 104; Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.9.1864, & end Rolleston memo, 4.10.1864, No 2310, and 11.11.1864, No 2557, and 16.9.1865, No 1394, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Commissioner, 14.9.1865, No 637, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
52. Preshaw, Banking, pp 104, 114-8; May, Gold Rushes, pp 97-9; Sinclair & Mandle, Open Account, p 19; Broham’s Report, 23.10.1864, No 2537(1), Shearman to Prov Sec, 1.12.1864, No 2660, and end Broham’s Report, 15.11.1864, CP Inwards letters, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, 6.12.1864, No 2688, and end No 2688(1) of 27.11.1864, and Broham’s Report, 21.12.1864, end with Shearman to Prov Sec, 7.1.1864 [1865], No 39, CP Inwards letters, CM
53. Preshaw, Banking, pp 123-4; Sinclair & Mandle, Open Account, p 22; May, Gold Rushes, pp 99, 149; Revell to Prov Sec, 29.11.1864, end with No 2652, and Broham’s Report, 6.12.1864, No 2758(1), end with No 2758, CP Inwards letters, CM; Cyclopedia Company Ltd, Cyclopedia of New Zealand, vol I, Wellington 1897, pp 133-4
54. Press, 1.3.1865; Nelson Examiner, 12.12.1864, 11.3.1865, 14.3.1865, 4.4.1865, 2.5.1865; Preshaw, Banking, pp 131-2; Broham’s Report, 12.1.1865, No 159(1), end with No 159, and Revell to Prov Sec, 28.1.1865, No 167, and Broham’s Reports, 26.1.1865, end with No 187, & 6.3.1865, end with No 359, CP Inwards letters, CM; CP Executive minutes, 2.3.1865, CM
55. William Downie Stewart, William Rolleston, Christchurch 1940, pp 24-6; CP Executive minutes, 14.3.1865, CM; Nelson Examiner, 11.3.1865, 14.3.1865, 23.3.1865, 4.4.1865, 6.4.1865, 15.4.1865, 2.5.1865; P-Christchurch 8/1, orders Nos 102, 4.4.1865, 150, 29.12.1865; Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.3.1865 & 15.6.1865, Nos 367 & 850, and Rolleston to Sale, 13.3.1865, No 215, end with No 1610, 25.10.1866, CP Inwards letters, CM;
704
Sig. 25*
References to Chapter VIII
Rolleston to Supt, 19.4.1865, No 255, to Sale, 6.6.1865, No 347, to Shearman, 16.6.1865, No 403, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; Preshaw, Banking , pp 131-2, 138-9; May, Gold Rushes, pp 113, 151
56. Glasson, Golden Cobweb, pp 141-2; Nelson Examiner, 11.3.1865; Hamilton to Prov Sec, 1.6.1985, No 859, CP Inwards letters, CM
57. Shearman entry, Macdonald Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies, CM; Nelson Examiner, 11.4.1865, 15.4.1865, 25.4.1865, 2.5.1865; May, Gold Rushes, p 391; Shearman to Prov Sec, 26.3.1865, No 537, CP Inwards letters, CM; Rolleston to Supt, 19.4.1865, No 255, and Blakiston to Commissioner, 9.10.1865, No 703, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
58. Nelson Examiner, 25.4.1865; Preshaw, Banking, p 130; May, Gold Rushes, pp 148-9; Stewart, Rolleston, p 26; Charles Money, Knocking About in New Zealand, Melbourne 1871, pp 101-2; entry of 9.1.1865, Police Petty Cash Book, CP, CM; Broham’s Report, 6.3.1865, No 359(1), end with No 359, CP Inwards letters, CM
59. Nelson Examiner, 3.6.1865; Press, 7.6.1865; Rolleston to Commissioner, 27.2.1865, No 111, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, 23.2.1865, No 250, and Nelson to Supt, 27.5.1865, No 738, and ends, CP Inwards letters, CM; PChristchurch 8/1, order No 92, 25.2.1865; Broham to Shearman, 17.4.1865, 21.4.1865, 31.5.1865, P-Hokitika 1/1
60. CP Executive minutes, 14.3.1865, 6.7.1865, CM; Broham to Shearman, 28.4.1865, 11.5.1865, 26.6.1865, P-Hokitika 1/1; order No 106, 10.5.1865, General Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Shearman to Broham, 2.7.1865, No 14, Hokitika Minute Book, NZ Police; Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.3.1865, 16.6.1865 & 4.7.1865, Nos 366, 855 & 954, and Pender to Prov Sec, 28.7.1865, No 1100, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Shearman, 15.3.1865 & 7.7.1865, Nos 173 & 456, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; May, Gold Rushes, p 115; Nelson Examiner, 18.7.1865
61. Otago Witness, 13.5.1865; Press, 22.7.1865; May, Gold Rushes, pp 152-3, 368-9; Broham to Sale, 22.5.1865, to Shearman, 29.5.1865 & 31.5.1865, P-Hokitika 1/1; Shearman to Prov Sec, 15.6.1865, No 1110(1), end with No 1110, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Sale, 31.7.1865, No 507, to Shearman, 16.8.1865, nd, 18.8.1865 & 30.8.1865, Nos 541, 546, 551 & 588, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
62. Nelson Examiner, 14.9.1865; May, Gold Rushes, pp 392-3; Appropriation Ordinance, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXIV, No 21, p 105; Shearman to Prov Sec, 5.9.1865, and Prov Sec’s minute, 5.9.1865, No 1323, and 2.11.1865, 10.11.1865 & 30.11.1865,
1072
References to Chapter VIII
Nos 1619, 1681 & 1802, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Sec for Public Works, 1.9.1865, No 599, to Shearman, 14.9.1865, No 639, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
63. Press, 6.12.1865, 15.5.1872; May, Gold Rushes, pp 114-5; Appropriation Ordinance, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXIV, No 21, p 105; orders Nos 133, 16.9.1865, 145, 17.11.1865, General Order Book, Christchurch 1862-1900, NZ Police; Shearman to Prov Sec, 26.9.1865, No 1441, CP Inwards letters, CM
64. P-Christchurch 8/1, No 148, 27.11.1865; Ryan diary, 12.11.1865, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, 11.11.1865, No 1682, CP Inwards letters, CM; Jollie to Shearman, 15.8.1865, No 537, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
65. Glasson, Golden Cobweb, p 142; May, Gold Rushes, pp 157f, 390-3; Nelson Examiner, 7.9.1865, 14.12.1865, 16.12.1865; Broham to Shearman, 28.1.1866 & 5.3.1866, P-Hokitika 1/1; Shearman to Prov Sec, 25.1.1866, No 161, & Sale to Prov Sec, 5.6.1866, No 431, CP Inwards letters, CM; CP Executive minutes, 20.1.1866, CM
66. Nelson Examiner, 5.8.1865; Hoskins, Thatcher, p 99; Appropriation Ordinance, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXIV, No 21, p 104; Broham to Shearman, 2.7.1865, 2.9.1865, 1.10.1865, 29.10.1865 & 7.1.1866, P-Hokitika 1/1; Shearman to Prov Sec, 13.11.1865, No 1690, CP Inwards letters, CM
67. Heinz (ed), Gold, pp 150-1; Sinclair & Mandle, Open Account, p 22; Nelson Examiner, 4.1.1866, 1.2.1866; Broham to Shearman, 15.10.1865, P-Hokitika 1/1; Preshaw, Banking, pp 123-4; Canterbury Police Gazette, 11, 15.9.1865 & 16.10.1865; Cyclopedia Co, Cyclopedia, I, pp 133-4
68. Prov Sec to Thacker, 18.8.1865, No 547, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; Preshaw, Banking, pp 111-2; Westland County Council Gazette, 1869, No 8, p 52
69. Ryan diary, 20.5.1864, 17.8.1864, 26.8.1864, 29.8.1864, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, and end, 9.11.1864, No 2551, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Shearman, 3.11.1864, No 1907, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
70. Ryan diary, 25.12.1864, 2.2.1865, 3.8.1865, CM
71. Appropriation Ordinance, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXVI, No 18; Otago Witness, 19.1.1867; ‘Maungatapu file’, Nelson Provincial Museum
72. Philip Ross May, Gold Town, Christchurch 1970, p 21; Broham to Shearman, 21.9.1865, P-Hokitika 1/1; Shearman to Prov Sec, 26.9.1865 & 11.5.1867, Nos 1441 & 733, CP Inwards letters, CM
73. Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.11.1865 & 28.7.1866, Nos 1701 & 1184, CP Inwards letters, CM
74. Shearman to Prov Sec, 30.1.1866, No 194, end with No 205,
706
References to Chapter VIII
and 7.3.1866, No 424, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Shearman, 3.3.1866 & 9.3.1866, Nos 248 & 264, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; CP Executive minutes, 9.12.1865, CM
75. Nelson Examiner, 3.4.1866; Sale to Prov Sec, 29.1.1866 & 5.3.1866, Nos 212 & 431, CP Inwards letters, CM; Prov Sec to Shearman, 20.1.1866, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
76. May, Gold Rushes, pp 178-83; Southland Times, 13.4.1866; CP Executive minutes, 29.3.1866, CM; Sale to Prov Sec, 26.4.1866, No 682, and ends, CP Inwards letters, CM
77. Southland Times, 16.4.1866; Nelson Examiner, 7.4.1866 12.5.1866; May, Gold Rushes, pp 181-3; Prov Sec to Shearman 9.4.1866, No 322, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
78. Shearman to Prov Sec, 25.10.1866, No 1610, and ends, CP Inwards letters, CM
79. Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.7.1866 & 23.10.1866, Nos 1184 & 1582, Sale to Prov Sec, 1.11.1866, No 1658, CP Inwards letters, CM; May, Gold Rushes, p 208; Press, 27.12.1866
80. Telegraph messages from Shearman, 27.2.1867 & 4.3.1867, and Sale, 6.3.1867, in No 322 A, and Shearman to Prov Sec, 9.4.1867, No 545, CP Inwards letters, CM; Press, 27.12.1866
81. Broham to Shearman, 11.2.1867, P-Hokitika 1/1; Shearman to Prov Sec, 31.3.1866, 28.7.1866, 6.3.1867 & 11.5.1867, Nos 549, 1184, 687 & 733, CP Inwards letters, CM; Preshaw, Banking, pp 154-6
82. May, Gold Rushes, pp 184-7, 196-201; West Coast Times, 30.4.1866, 12.5.1866, 2.6.1866, 27.7.1866, 17.8.1866; Broham to Shearman, 5.5.1866, 4.6.1866, 28.7.1866, 1.8.1866, 5.9.1866, PHokitika 1/2
83. Grey River Argus, 9.11.1869; Broham to Sale, 10.5.1866 et pas sim, P-Hokitika 1/2
84. Shearman to Prov Sec, 4.1.1867, and end Broham to Shearman, 30.12.1866, No 9, 11.5.1867, No 733, and Supt NP to Supt CP,[c July 1867], No 1060, CP Inwards letters, CM; Greymouth Borough Council, Greymouth: The First 100 Years 1868-1968, Greymouth 1968, p 13; Miller, Death, p 209
85. Press, 15.5.1872; Nelson Examiner, 7.7.1866, 14.7.1866; Miller, Death; West Coast Times, 19.5.1866, 24.5.1866; Frank Clune, Murders on Maunga-tapu, Sydney 1959, pp 53f; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, pp 74,80-2, ATL; Broham to Shearman, 7.6.1866 & 15.1.1867, P-Hokitika 1/2
86. Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, pp 83-9, ATL; Colonist, 19.7.1912; Preshaw, Banking, p 175; ‘Maungatapu file’, Nelson Provincial Museum; West Coast Times, 22.6.1866, 25.6.1866; Nelson Examiner, 12.6.1866, 26.6.1866; Clune, Murders, pp 61f; Broham to Shallcrass, 14.6.1866 & 2.7.1866, to Shearman, 13.1.1867, P-Hokitika 1/2
707
References to Chapter VIII
87. Nelson Examiner, 7.7.1866, 14.7.1866, 7.8.1866, 20.10.1866, 27.10.1866, 17.11.1866, 11.12.1866, 15.12.1866, 1.1.1867, 5.2.1867; West Coast Times, 14.7.1866; Marlborough Press, 28.11.1866; Miller, Death, pp 209-10; Shearman to Prov Sec, 2.7.1866, and to James, 3.7.1866, Broham to Prov Sec, 5.7.1866, and to Shearman, 5.9.1866, 17.10.1866, 3.11.1866 & 2.2.1867, and to Sale, 27.12.1866, P-Hokitika 1/2
88. Marlborough Press, 12.12.1866; Miller, Death, pp 208-9; Broham to Gaoler, Nelson, 1.2.1867, P-Hokitika 1/2
89. Press, 14.7.1866, 17.7.1866; Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.7.1866, No 1184, CP Inwards letters, CM
90. Preshaw, Banking, pp 115, 175; Westland County Council Gazette, 1869, No 8, p52; Nelson Examiner, 2.6.1866; Miller, Lake County, pp 74-5; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, p 71, ATL; Griffiths, King Wakatip, pp 138-9; Broham’s Report, 23.10.1864, No 2537(1), and Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.7.1866 & 11.5.1867, Nos 1184 & 733, CP Inwards letters, CM
91. Shearman to Prov Sec, 28.7.1866, No 1184, CP Inwards letters, CM; Appropriation Ordinances 1 & 2, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXVI & Sess XXVII, Nos 6 & 18; Nelson Examiner, 3.11.1866; Press, 3.6.1867, 4.7.1867; W H Scotter, Ashburton: A History, Ashburton 1972, p 60
92. Appropriation Ordinance No 3, 1867, Ordinances, CP, Sess XXVII, No 18; Press, 22.8.1867; Shearman to Prov Sec 28.7.1866, No 1184, nd [c mid 1868], No 1054, CP Inwards letters, CM
93. Press, 4.7.1867; Lyttelton Times, 19.6.1867, 24.6.1867
94. Lyttelton Times, 24.6.1867
95. Shearman to Prov Sec, 10.12.1863, No Alll7, 14.11.67, No 1663, and nd [c mid 1868], No 1054, CP Inwards letters,’CM
96. Shearman to Prov Sec, 27.5.1867 &nd [c mid 1868], Nos 816 & 1054, CP Inwards letters, CM
97. Shearman to Prov Sec, nd [c mid 1868] & 28.7.1866, Nos 1054 & 1184, CP Inwards letters, CM
98. Press, 4.7.1867; Lyttelton Times, 26.6.1867
99. Press, 12.8.1867, 22.8.1867; Shearman to Prov Sec, 20.7.1867 26.7.1867 & 3.8.1867, Nos 1174, 1209 & 1237, CP Inwards letters, CM
100. May, Gold Rushes, p289; McCaskill, ‘Miner, Merchant & Mountain’, pp 52-3; Southland Times, 27.11.1867; CP Executive minutes, 10.10.1867, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec 31.8.1867 & 26.9.1867, Nos 1362 & 1461, CP Inwards letters’ CM; Prov Sec to Shearman. 11.10.1867, No 806, CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM
101. Prov Sec to Shearman. 5.11.1867 & 30.1.1868, Nos 849 & 75,
708
References to Chapter VIII
CP Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.11.1867, No 1663, & end, CP Inwards letters, CM 102. Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.11.1867, No 1663, CP Inwards letters, CM
103. Press, 16.11.1867, 11.7.1872; CP Executive minutes, 15.8.1867 CM; Shearman to Prov Sec, 14.11.1867, No 1663, CP Inwards letters, CM; Assistant Sec to Pender, 19.8.1867, No 672, CF Prov Sec Letterbook, CM; Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, pp 24, 36f, 107f
104. Press, 15.5.1866, 11.7.1872; CP Executive minutes, 20.7.1866, CM; Canterbury Police Gazette, I, 1.6.1864; Shearman to Prov Sec, 5.6.1866, 25.7.1866, 11.5.1867, Nos 875, 1161, 733, CP Inwards letters, CM; Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, pp 24, 36f, 56f, 107
105. Press, 4.11.1867, 16.11.1867, 11.7.1872; Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, pp 23-4, 42, 49f
106. Canterbury Govt, 1872 Select Committee, pp 7-10,24; May Gold Rushes, pill’, Press, 13.11.1867, 16.11.1867, 11.7.1872
107. May, Gold Rushes, pp 298-9, 312, 339, 414, 431-3, 442, 446; West Coast Times, 25.9.1867, 8.10.1867, 28.10.1867, 2.11.1867
108. West Coast Times, 18.4.1867, 2.11.1867; Shearman to Prov Sec, 6.12.1867, No 1761, CP Inwards letters, CM
109. Canterbury Police Gazette, 1866-8, lists of appointments etc in each issue; ‘Police Return for Dec 1867’, No 1353 of 1868, CP Inwards letters, CM; Stevan Eldred-Grigg, A New History of Canterbury, Dunedin 1982, p 67
110. Shepherd to Fraser, 18.4.1861 & 29.5.1861, to McKay, 15.5.1861, to Supt, 29.5.1861, AG 168/1/1, HL; OP Executive minutes, 29.5.1861, OP 4/3; M H Holcroft, Old Invercargill, Dunedin 1976, pp 33-5
111. Southern News, 20.4.1861; Otago Daily Times, 25.11.1861; Res ident Magistrate to Supt, 7.8.1861, SP 16/19; Holcroft, Inver cargill, p 53
112. Hall-Jones, Pioneers, p 95; Chalmers to Fraser, 14.4.1862, SP 17/1, p 399; Resident Magistrate to Supt, 7.8.1861, SP 16/19
113. Southland News, 11.1.1862, 1.2.1862; Chalmers to Fraser, 14.4.1862, SP 17/1, p 399; Weldon to Supt, 4.4.1865, and Under-Sec, Victoria, to Supt, 6.11.1861 & 14.12.1861, SP 16/19; 1862-3 Vl2 (Chief Sec), Victoria Public Record Office, Melbourne; L F Smith and A B King, ‘lnvercargill Headquarters Opened’, Police Bulletin, Aug 1968
114. Southland News, 11.1.1862, 18.1.1862, 1.2.1862
115. Ibid, 1.2.1862
116. Ibid’, Hall-Jones, Bluff Harbour, p7l
117. Southland News, 1.2.1862, 15.2.1862
1076
References to Chapter VIII
118. Ibid, 24.5.1862; Chalmers to Fraser, 14.4.1862, SP 17/1, p 399; Bird to Fraser, 1.4.1862, SP 16/19; Chapman to Supt, nd, and petition, 11.2.1862, and Fraser to Supt, 12.6.1862, SP 16/26
119. Southland News, 24.5.1862; Supt’s Clerk to Fraser, 29.3.1862, SP 17/1, p368; Police Ordinance 1862, Ordinances, SP, 1862, No 6
120. John Hall-Jones, Goldfields of the South, Invercargill 1982, p 53; Southland News, 9.8.1862, 16.8.1862, 13.9.1862, 20.9.1862, 27.9.1862, 26.11.1862
121. Ibid, 20.9.1862, 1.11.1862, 5.11.1862, 8.11.1862
122. Ibid, 1.11.1862, 19.11.1862, 22.11.1862, 26.11.1862, 31.1.1863
123. Campbell to Supt, 25.10.1862, to Fraser. 1.11.1862 & 5.11.1862, and Fraser to Supt, 3.11.1862, SP 16/19; Supt to Fraser, 23.7.1862, 3.11.1862 & 6.11.1862, pp 552,653 & 675, SP 17/1
124. Southland News, 8.11.1862, 10.12.1862; ‘Applications for Appointments to Police’, 26.11.1862-20.11.1869, SP 1/11; Fraser to Supt, 4.2.1862, and Hartnett to Morton, 5.12.1862, SP 11/9; Morton to Fraser, 4.9.1862, SP 11/4
125. Southland News, 13.12.1862; Holcroft, Inuercargill, p 55; Hoskins, Thatcher, p 58; Miller, Lake County, p 61; Prov Sec to Supt, 27.12.1862, SP 16/12; Branigan to Tuckwell, 7.2.1863, and to Morton, 8.3.1863, ff 681-2, 721-2, AG 168/1/3, HL
126. Southland News, 24.12.1862, 27.12.1862, 3.1.1863, 7.1.1863, 14.1.1863, 17.1.1863, 21.1.1863, 28.1.1863; Coulter to Supt, 29,11.1862, SP 16/12
127. Miller, Lake County, p 60; Griffiths, King Wakatip, pB4; Southland News, 31.1.1863; SP Executive minutes, 16.1.1863 & 2.2,1863, SP 17/1B; ‘Return of escort and goldfields, 16.12.1862-31.3.1863’, SP 16/19; Jackson to Supt, 6.2.1863, SP 11/2; Supt’s address, 21.2.1863, SP 17/78, p217
128. SP Executive minutes, 16.1.1863, SP 17/1B; Weldon to Supt 22.1.1863 & 3.2.1863, SP 16/19; Weldon to Branigan, 6.2.1863, and Branigan to Prov Sec, 13.2,1863, f 1627, OP 7/9; Supt SP to Supt OP, 19.9.1863, and ends, f 2470, OP 7/13; Prov Sec to Branigan, 11.2,1863, 12.2.1863 & 13.2.1863, pp4s-7, OP 12/7
129. Southland News, 11.2.1863, 25.2.1863, 7.3.1863; Otago Daily Times, 27.2.1863, 28.2.1863; Miller, Lake County, p6l; Browne, ‘Otago Goldfields’, p 141; Hoskins, Thatcher, pp 58-9; Pearson to Supt, 12.1.1863, and Jackson to Supt, 6.2.1863, SP 11/2; Tarlton to Supt, nd [c Jan 1863], and Fraser to Chapman, 11.2.1863, and Supt OP to Supt SP, 19.2.1863, SP 16/12; Dow to Fraser, 10.2.1863, SP 16/19
130. Miller, Lake County, pp 61-2; Beattie, Pioneers, p 148; Hoskins, Thatcher, pp 59-60, 153
710
References to Chapter VIII
131. Otago Daily Times 10.3.1863; Hall-Jones, Pioneers, p 95; Southland News, 21.2.1863, 29.4.1863; Southland Times, 27.9.1869; SP Gazette, I, No 38, 28.2.1863, No 44, 5.5.1863; Weldon to Supt, 25.9.1863, SP 16/9; SP Executive minutes, 2.2.1863 & 27.2.1863, SP 17/1B; Supt to Fraser, 21.2.1863, to Weldon, 24.2.1863 & 24.4.1863, to Col Sec, 7.6.1863, pp 199, 200,339 & 538 A, SP 17/2; Supt to Weldon, 22.9.1863, p 125, SP 17/3; Supt SP to Supt OP, 19.9.1863, and ends, f 2470, OP 7/13
132. Southland News, 7.3.1863,11.4.1863, 22.4.1863, 2.5.1863; Glasson, Golden Cobweb, p 73; Hall-Jones, Goldfields, p 63; Jackson to Supt, 9.3.1863, SP 11/9
133. Weldon to Supt, 14.3.1863 & 4.4.1865, and monthly return, March 1863, SP 16/19; proposed estimates for 1863, SP 16/21; Weldon to Menzies, 18.8.1863, SP 16/25; SP Executive minutes, 23.5.1863, SP 17/1B; Supt to Weldon, 14.3.1863, p202, SP 17/2
134. Southland News, 18.3.1863, 3.6.1863; Ryan diary. 19.2.1863, 21.2.1863, CM; Jackson to Supt, 18.5.1863, SP 11/9; Weldon to Supt, 27.6.1863, SP 16/12; Weldon to Supt, 21.7.1863, SP 16/19; Jackson to Supt, 27.7.1863, SP 16/19; proposed estimates for 1863, SP 16/21; SP Executive minutes, 1.7.1863, SP 17/1B
135. Southland News, 29.4.1863; Otago Daily Times, 1.5.1863; Weldon to Supt, 23.2.1863 & 14.3.1863, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 18.8.1863, SP 16/25
136. Jackson to Supt, 13.11.1863, SP 11/2; Jackson to Supt, 15.10.1863, SP 16/12; Weldon to Deputy Supt, 28,11.1863, SP 16/20; Weldon to Supt, 18.8.1863, and end, SP 16/25; Morton to Weldon, 16.7.1863, SP 16/29; Weldon to Supt, 14.7.1863, SP 16/29; Hartnett to Weldon, 20.7.1863, SP 16/29; Deputy Supt to Weldon, 9.6.1864, SP 17/4, p 356
137. Southland News, 22.8.1863; Hall-Jones, Pioneers, p 176; Weldon to Supt, 13.4.1863, SP 16/17; ‘Return of Nuisances, Invercargill’, end with Weldon to Taylor, 2.5.1865, SP 16/17; ‘Distribution of Constabulary on 8.3.1864’, SP 16/19; ‘Return of Arrests in quarter ending 31.3.1864’, SP 16/25; Supt to Weldon, 22.2.1864, p 642, SP 17/3; AJHR, 1881, H-2, p 48
138. Southland News, 29.7.1863; Weldon to Supt, 1.7.1864, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 18.8.1863, SP 16/25; Evening Post, 2.3.1896
139. Southland News, 19.8.1863, 22.8.1863; Press, 11,9.1863 140. Weldon to Supt, 8.3.1864, SP 11/4; Morton to Supt, 2.11.1864, SP 11/5; Weldon to Supt, 1.7.1864, and end, and to Supt 30.7.1864, and end, SP 16/19; SP Executive minutes,
711
References to Chapter VIII
12.10.1863, SP 17/1B; Supt to Weldon, 23.3.1864, and Deputy Supt to Weldon, 9.6.1864, pp 71 & 356, SP 17/4
141. Weldon to Supt, 1.7.1864 & 30.7.1864, SP 16/19; Deputy Supt to Weldon, 1.6.1864, p 330, SP 17/4
142. Weldon to Supt, 30.7.1864 & 4.9.1864, SP 16/19
143. Weldon to Supt, 4.9.1864 & 6.10.1864, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 23.11.1864, SP 16/21; Supt to Weldon, 4.10.1864, p97, SP 17/5
144. Holcroft, Invercargill, pp 61, 63; Weldon to Supt, 4.4.1865, and end, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 23.11.1864, SP 16/21; Regulations of 18.11.1864, SP 16/23; ‘Return of Arrests in quarter ending 31.3.1865’, SP 16/25; Shearman to Prov Sec, 11.11.1865, No 1682, CP Inwards letters, CM; Knowles to Weldon, 5.4,1865, WP 6/5, 119/65, p 104; Weldon to Supt NP, 11.3.1865, NP 7/13, 65/168; Greenfield to Weldon, 21.3.1865, p 52. NP 11/5
145. Otago Witness, 3.6.1865; Weldon to Supt, 4.4.1865, and end, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 26.5.1865, SP 16/21; Supt’s office to Hill, 12.12.1862, p 26a, SP 17/2; Supt to Weldon, 30.6.1865, p 43, SP 17/6
146. Weldon to Supt, 25.1.1865, and end Baker to Weldon, 24.1.1865, and 27.4.1865 & 5.6.1865, SP 11/3; Baker to Weldon, 13.2.1865 & 14.2.1865, SP 11/3; Watson to Supt, 2.6.1865, SP 16/12; Weldon to Supt, 5.6.1865 & 16.6.1865, SP 16/12; Supt to Weldon, 19.6.1865, SP 17/SA, p 268; Hall-Jones, Goldfields, p 51
147. Hall-Jones, Bluff Harbour, pp66-7; Taylor, Past & Present, p 223
148. Weldon to Supt, 4.8.1865, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 26.5.1865 & 6.11.1865, SP 16/21; Supt to Weldon, 30.6.1865, SP 17/6
149. O’Keeffe to Weldon, 21.11.1865, and Weldon to Supt, 28.11.1865, SP 16/29; Supt to Weldon, 28.11.1865, SP 17/6, p 244; Heinz (ed), Gold, pp 158-9
150. Southland Times, 12.2.1866, 16.2.1866, 7.3.1866, 16.4.1866, 4.6.1866; Hall-Jones, Goldfields, pp 35-6; Morton to Supt, 10.2.1866, and Weldon to Supt, 2.3.1866, 6.3.1866, 13.3.1866 & 25.7.1866, SP 11/7; Weldon to Supt, 19.12.1865, SP 16/19; Supt to Weldon, 13.4.1866, SP 17/6, p 536; Supt’s address, 2.5.1866, SP 17/9B; Weldon’s Report, p 72, Votes & Proceedings, SP, App to Sess XVII, 1867
151. Southland Times, 18.5.1866, 11.6.1866, 18.6.1866, 27.6.1866, 2.7.1866, 30.7.1866, 17.8.1866; Holcroft, Invercargill, p63; Weldon to Supt, 5.1.1866, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 6.11.1866, SP 16/21; Supt’s address, 2.5.1866, SP 17/9B
712
References to Chapter IX
152. Southland Times, 18.6.1866; Holcroft, Invercargill, p 70; Weldon to Supt, 5.1.1866, and Manager Bank of Otago to Prov Treasurer, 30.1.1867, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 9.2.1866 & 6.11.1866, SP 16/21; Supt to Weldon, 16.10.1868, SP 17/9
153. Otago Witness, 8.6.1861, 3.6.1865; Southland Times, 10.9.1866; Basil Howard, Rakiura, Wellington 1974, p 262
154. Southland Times, 2.1.1867, 1.2.1867, 4.2.1867; Howard, Raki ura, p 263
155. Nelson Examiner, 23.2.1867; Howard, Rakiura, pp 263-4; SP Executive minutes, 29.6.1867, SP 17/2B; Weldon to Supt, 27.6.1867, SP 30/3; R E Marriott, ‘Police History and Stewart Island’, NZ Police Journal, Feb 1951
156. Southland Times, 29.5.1868, 3.12.1869; Howard, Rakiura, pp 231-5; Marriott, ‘Stewart Island’; Weldon to Supt, 22.4.1868, 27.5.1868, SP 16/3; Weldon to Supt, 21.4.1868, SP 16/19; SP Executive minutes, 24.12.1869, SP 17/2B; Supt to Col Sec, 12.8.1869, and Col Sec to Supt, 13.8.1869, Telegrams Book, pp 167 & 169, SP 17/4B; Supt to Weldon, 15.9.1868, SP 17/9, p 354
157. Southland Times 14.1.1867, 1.2.1867, 4.2.1867
158. ‘Strength and Distribution, 14.9.1867’, SP 16/19; Weldon to Supt, 3.1.1868, SP 16/21; ‘Return of Police for Dec 1867’, No 1353 of 1868, CP Inwards letters, CM; Southland Times, 27.11.1867, 6.12.1867
Chapter IX
1. Nelson Examiner, 11.5.1861; May, Gold Rushes, p 68; Greenfield to Shallcrass, 9.1.1861 & 23.1.1861, NP 11/3, 61/7 & 61/34; NP Gazette, IX, No 1, p 1; info from Mrs M Bridger; info on Robert Shallcrass from Mrs J Reid, Miss Audrey Shallcrass & Mrs Gertrude O’Reilly; Votes & Proceedings, NP, Session XVIII, return of officers at 31.3.1868
2. Greenfield to Shallcrass, 12.1.1863, NP 11/4, p 60; Estimates for 1861-2 & 1862-3, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess VIII & IX; Gardner, Amuri, pp xxix, 58, 196
3. Nelson Examiner, 13.2.1861, 6.3.1861, 13.3.1861, 23.11.1861, 24.5.1862; NP Gazette, X, No 8, 14.5.1862; estimates for 1862-3, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess IX
4. Nelson Examiner, 6.3.1861, 13.3.1861, 20.3.1861; AJHR, 1862, E-l, App to despatches
5. Nelson Examiner, 16.11.1861, 20.11.1861, 14.12.1861
6. Ibid, 13.3.1861, 12.2.1862, 2.7.1862, 19.11.1862. 25.4.1863,
15.9.1863; Nelson Evening Mail, 7.7.1962
7. Nelson Examiner, 24.5.1862, 26.11.1862, 18.7.1863, 15.9.1863, 10.10.1863, 5.11.1863
1080
References to Chapter IX
8. Ibid, 24.5.1862, 7.6.1862
9. Ibid, 29.1.1862, 1.2.1862, 5.2.1862
10. Ibid, 1.2.1862
11. Ibid, 12.12.1861,21.5.1862, 6.9.1862; NP Gazette, X, No 8, p32
12. Nelson Examiner, 18.2.1863, 3.6.1863, 1.8.1863, 8.8.1863, 13.8.1863, 24.9.1863, 12.11.1863, 26.11.1863, 1.12.1863, 3.12.1863, 8.12.1863, 10.12.1863, 9.1.1864; NP Gazette, X, No 8, p 32; May, Gold Rushes, pp 69-71; Hoffe, ‘Bushranging’, p 14
13. Nelson Examiner, 9.2.1864, 3.3.1864, 9.9.1871; ‘Maungatapu file’, Nelson Provincial Museum; Staff Book, vol I, pl, NZ Police
14. Nelson Examiner, 19.4.1864, 23.4.1864, 26.4.1864, 19.5.1864, 24.5,1864; May, Gold Rushes, pp 70, 72; Hoskins, Thatcher, p 175
15. Preshaw, Banking, pp 96-8; Nelson Examiner, 20.10.1864, 25.10.1864, 2.2.1865
16. Nelson Examiner, 26.4.1864, 17.5.1864, 19.5.1864, 31.5.1864, 2.6.1864, 17.11.1864, 29.11.1864; Appropriation Act 1863-4, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess X
17. Nelson Examiner, 29.11.1864
18. Ibid, 8.9.1864, 17.11.1864; Gardner, Amun, p 206; estimates for 1864-5, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess XII
19. May, Gold Rushes, pp 108-9; Nelson Examiner, 4.5.1865, 8.6.1865, 10.6.1865, 11.7.1865, 30.11.1865; Estimates 1865-6, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess XIII
20. Nelson Examiner, 11.6.1864, 23.7.1864, 8.12.1864, 10.6.1865; info from Miss R McGlashen
21. Nelson Examiner, 29.3.1866, 21.4.1866
22. Ibid, 15.8.1865, 22.2.1868; Preshaw, Banking , p 145; Weldon to Supt, 11.3.1865, NP 7/13, 65/168; Greenfield to Weldon, 21.3.1866, NP 11/5, p 52
23. Nelson Examiner, 5.10.1865, 28.11.1865; May, Gold Rushes, pp 157-60, 205-6; Broad, Nelson, p 147
24. Nelson Examiner, 19.9.1865, 28.11.1865; May, Gold Rushes, pp 256, 260; Broad, Nelson, p 147; NZ Gazette, 1865, No 47, pp 369-70; Greymouth Borough Council, Greymouth, p 12
25. Nelson Examiner, 10.3.1866, 15.3.1866, 17.3,1866; May, Gold Rushes, pp 205-7, 210; Greenfield to Branigan, 12.7.1866, NP 11/5,p383
26. Nelson Examiner, 27.1.1866, 17.3.1866, 19.4.1866; Broham to Shearman, 30.12.1866, P-Hokitika 1/2
27. Nelson Examiner, 5.4.1866, 7.4.1866
28, Ibid. 23.11.1865, 19.4.1866, 21.4.1866, 24.5,1866
714
References to Chapter IX
29. Gilkison, Central Otago, pp 93-4; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, pp 70, 92-6 et passim, ATL; Treadwell, NZ Trials, p 47; Goldman, Jews in NZ, p 113; Broham to Shearman, 5.9.1866, P-Hokitika 1/2; McConville, Prison Administration, I, p 376; A A Grace (ed), The Trial of the Maungatapu Murderers in Nelson in 1866, Nelson 1924, p 23
30. Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, pp 97-116, ATL; Preshaw, Banking, pp 56-7; Clune, Murders, p 92; Grace (ed), Maungatapu Murderers, pp 24-7; P W Fairclough article, Seager Papers, CM
31. Nelson Examiner, 19.6.1866, 21.6.1866, 7.8.1866, 14.8.1866, 18.8.1866, 23.8.1866, 11.9.1866; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, p 119, ATL; Clune, Murders, pp 82f; ‘Maungatapu file’, Nelson Provincial Museum; Jack R Sheehan, The Lora Gorge Mystery ... and Other Famous Trials, Wellington 1935, pp 9-12
32. Nelson Examiner, 21.6.1866, 23.6.1866, 30.6.1866, 3.7.1866, 14.8.1866, 15.9.1866, 18.9.1866; Grace (ed), Maungatapu Murderers, pp 14-17,29; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, pp 125, 128, ATL; Sheehan, Lora Gorge, pp 12-14; ‘Maungatapu file’, Nelson Provincial Museum; Preshaw, Banking, p 152; Clune, Murders, pp IlOf
33. Nelson Examiner, 30.6.1866, 4.8.1866, 11.8.1866; Treadwell, NZ Trials, pp 40-7; Sheehan, Lora Gorge, pp 14f; Clune, Murders, p 124; Isaacs to Grey, 29.9.1866, J 22/2; Nairn to Curtis, 5.7.1866, Curtis family corresp, Bett Collection, Nelson Provincial Museum
34. Nelson Examiner, 20.7.1866, 4.8.1866, 11.8.1866, 6.10.1866; Grace (ed), Maungatapu Murderers, p 138; Otago Witness, 27.7.1866; Clune, Murders, pp 147f; Goldman, Jews in NZ, p 113; NZ Herald, 16.10.1866; Saunders to Col Sec, 5.7.1866, J 22/2
35. Treadwell, NZ Trials, pp 46-7; Sheehan, Lora Gorge, p 18; Nelson Examiner, 16.3.1867; NZ Herald, 4.3.1867; Sullivan to Saunders, 4.5.1862 et al, J 22/2; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, clippings attached esp Dominion, 24.2.1912, ATL
36. Nelson Examiner, 15.2.1868, 15.3.1868; Sheehan, Lora Gorge p 20; Burgess, ‘Autobiography’, clippings attached esp Colonist 19.7.1912, ATL; J 22/2, passim
37. Broham corresp, 6.3.1874, 24.3.1874 & 10.4.1874, J 22/2; Grace (ed), Maungatapu Murderers, pp 156-7; NZ Times, 19.10.1874, 24.12.1874, 28.12.1874, 12.2.1875, 5.6.1876; Westport Evening Star, 1.10.1877; Colonist, 19.2.1874, 24.2.1874, 2.4.1874; Miller, Death, pp 211-3; Clune, Murders, pp 178-81; NZ Herald, 25.2.1874, 12.3.1874, 30.12.1874, 9.7.1875; Otago Witness, 14.3.1874, 28.3.1874, 17.10.1874, 27.5.1876; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 30.7.1875, 17.3.1876, 11.8.1876; Preshaw, Banking, p 153
715
References to Chapter IX
38. Nelson Examiner, 23.8.1866, 20.9.1866, 24.1.1867; NP Gazette. XIV, No 24, p 115; Staff Book, Vol I, p 1, NZ Police
39. NZ Gazette, 1863, No 58, p 488; Nelson Examiner, 17.5.1866, 19.7.1866
40. Irwin Paris, Charleston: Its Rise and Decline, Wellington 1941, pp 32-3,87; Nelson Examiner, 7.5.1867; May, Gold Rushes, pp 210f; McCaskill, ‘Miner, Merchant & Mountain’, p 54;
41. Nelson Examiner, 18.12.1866, 20.12.1866, 24.1.1867; Paris, Charleston, pp 103-5; May, Gold Rushes, pp 212-6; NP Gazette, XV, No 5, p 13
42. Nelson Examiner, 25.12.1866, 22.1,1867, 24.1.1867; ‘Return of stores, 1.4.1867’, SW Goldfields Commissioner’s Papers 1865-9, JC-Nelson
43. Nelson Examiner, 24.1.1867, 26.1.1867
44. McCaskill, ‘Goldrush Population’, pp 47-8; May, Gold Rushes, pp 217-20
45. Nelson Examiner, 14.7.1866, 24.1.1867
46. NP Gazette, XV, No 38, p 167; Nelson Examiner, 13.6.1867, 31.10.1867; estimates for 1867-8, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess XVI; Dutton to Prov Sec, 1.4.1867, Votes & Proceedings, NP, Sess XIX
47. Nelson Examiner, 12.9.1867, 28.9,1867, 21.11.1867, 17.12.1867; J 22/4
48. Resolution and petition to Kynnersley from N Anderson et al, SW Goldfields Commissioner’s Papers 1865-9, JC-Nelson
49. West Coast Times, 7.1.1868, 8.1.1868; Westport Times, 1.1.1868, 13.1.1868; Broad to Payne, 3.3.1867, and petition to Kynnersley, SW Goldfields Commissioner’s Papers 1865-9, JC-Nelson
50. McCaskill, ‘Goldrush Population’, p 47; May, Gold Rushes pp 220, 467-8
51. Greenfield to Resident Magistrate, Wairau, 10.8.1859, NP 11/3, 59/372; info from Miss R McGlashen; Cyclopedia Co, Cyclopedia of New Zealand, vol V, p 366; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 208, 213, 217; Mac Donald, Pages, p 266
52. Marlborough Press, 13.10.1860, 9.3.1861, 30.3.1861
53. Adams to McArtney, 9.5.1861 & 3,6.1861, pp 151 & 170, MP 2/2; Marlborough Press, 14.7.1860, 28.7.1860, 4.8.1860 20.4.1861, 25.5.1861
54. Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 219, 228-32,407; Mac Donald, Pages, pp 275-8; Marlborough Press, 6.4.1861, 11.5.1861
55. MP Gazette, IV, No 52, p 27; Marlborough Press, 14.2.1863, 2.5.1863, 28.11.1863, 21.3.1866; Nolan, Trails of Nelson & Marlborough, p 26
716
References to Chapter IX
56. Marlborough Press, 14.3.1863, 9.5.1863, 12.9.1863; Nelson Examiner, 3.6.1863; Buick, Marlborough, p 445
57. May, Gold Rushes, p 107; Nolan, Trails of Nelson & Marlborough, p 27; Hoskins, Thatcher, p 176; Mac Donald, Pages, pp 303-4; Supt’s address, 24.5.1864, Sess VIII, p 263, MP 1/1; Buick, Marlborough, pp 442-3; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 238, 241-2, 407
58. Carter to Supt, 6.5.1864, OP 7/18, f 3433; Marlborough Press, 23.4.1864, 11.5,1864; Nelson Examiner, 3.5.1864; Norman H Brayshaw, Canvas and Gold, Blenheim 1964, p 12
59. Nelson Examiner, 7.5.1864, 10.5.1864; Marlborough Press , 27.4.1864, 30.4.1864, 4.5.1864
60. Press, 24.5.1864; Preshaw, Banking, p 97; Wellington Indepen dent, 2.6.1864; Marlborough Press, 7.5.1864, 11.5.1864 14.5.1864; Brayshaw, Canvas, pp 16-17
61. Branigan to Supt, 17.5.1864, end with OP 7/18, f 3433; Willis to Branigan, 17.5.1864, OP 12/8, p 21
62. Marlborough Press, 18.5.1864, 25.5.1864, 28.5.1864; Nelson Examiner, 19.5.1864, 21.5.1864, 28.5.1864; Otago Daily Times, 21.5.1864; Carter to Supt, 2.6.1864 & 8.6.1864, end with OP 7/18, f 3433
63. Marlborough Press, 1.6.1864, 8.6.1864; Nelson Examiner, 31.5.1864
64. Nolan, Trails of Nelson & Marlborough, pp 27-8; Nelson Examiner, 31.5.1864, 2.6.1864, 7.6.1864, 11.6.1864; Marlborough Press, 22.6.1864, 6.7.1864
65. Marlborough Press, 4.6.1864, 8.6.1864, 22.6.1864; info from Mrs D Harris
66. Marlborough Press, 9.6.1866; Police Regulation Ordinance 1864, Ordinances, MP, Sess X, No 3
67. Marlborough Press, 9,7.1864
68. NZ Gazette, 1861, No 15, p 78, 1862, No 18, p 163; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 223, 244; Buick, Marlborough, pp 448-9; Baillie to Kinsella, 18.8.1864, p 114, MP 2/4
69. Nelson Examiner, 20.8.1864, 27.8.1864, 30.8.1864; Baillie to Goodall, 19.8.1864, & to Kinsella, 19.8.1864, pll6, MP 2/4; Brayshaw, Canvas, pp 13,24
70. Nelson Examiner, 27.8.1864, 17.9.1864, 1.10.1864, 15.10.1864, 5.11.1864, 10.12.1864; Baillie to Goodall, 19.8.1864, p 116, MP 2/4 rr i /~< 11 - \T XT „ nn _ no. IT 0"7 n 1 OCA
71. MP Gazette, V, No 77, p 73; Nelson Examiner, 27.9.1864 1.11.1864; Marlborough Press, 22.10.1864; Otago Daily Times 19.9.1864
72. Marlborough Press, 22.10.1864; Nelson Examiner, 1.11.1864
73. May, Gold Rushes, p 108; Supt’s address, 2.5.1865, Sess XI,
717
References to Chapter IX
P 339, MP 1/1; Nelson Examiner, 1.11.1864, 17.11.1864, 21.2.1865, 11.3.1865; Brayshaw, Canvas, pp 20-2, 27; Marlborough Press, 3.5.1865; MP Gazette, V, No 75, p 69
74. Marlborough Press, 14.6.1865, 21.6.1865; Nelson Examiner, 22.6.1865; Taranaki Herald. 18.2.1865
75. Marlborough Press, 10.6.1865, 24.6.1865, 1.7.1865, 5.8.1865, 26.1.1866, 2.2.1866; info from Mrs D Harris; Supt’s address, 2,5.1865, Sess XI, p 339, MP 1/1
76. Buick, Marlborough, pp 461-2; Mclntosh (ed), Marlborough, pp 208-11, 246-52; Marlborough Press, 21.11.1865; MP Gazette, VI, No 115, p99; Supt’s address, 14.11.1865, Sess XIII, p 410, MP 1/1; Wemyss to Resident Magistrate, Havelock, 2.11.1865, p 308, MP 2/4; Eyes to Baillie, 2.11.1865, p 310, MP 2/4; Free Lance, 22.4.1907; Wemyss to Kynnersley, 2.11.1865, p 310, MP 2/4; Brayshaw, Canvas, p 42
77. Marlborough Press, 21.3.1866, 6.6.1866, 27.6.1866; Police Regulation Ordinance 1864, Ordinances, MP, Sess X, No 3
78. Wemyss to Adams, 27.11.1865, p 350, MP 2/4
79. Weymss to Adams, 9.11.1865 & 27.11.1865, pp 326 & 349-50 MP 2/4
80. Weymss to Adams, 27.1.1866, pp 427 & 429, MP 2/4; Weymss to Emerson, 27.1.1866, p 428, MP 2/4
81. Marlborough Press, 18.4,1866, 4.7.1866; Goodall to Shearman 28.7,1879, p 1, 79/2259; Nelson Examiner, 31.7,1866
82. Marlborough Press, 4.7.1866, 8.4.1868; info from Mrs D Harris; Wemyss to Adams, 4.1.1866, p 394, MP 2/4
83. Wemyss to Emerson, &to Adams, 27.1.1866, pp 428-9, MP 2/4; Wemyss to Emerson, 20.1.1868, p 178, MP 2/5; Staff Register, Commissioner’s Office, Dunedin, HL; info from Mrs D Harris & S Emerson
84. Press, 22.8.1867; Eyes to Col Sec, 19.6.1868 & 5.11.1868, pp 144 & 149, MP 2/3; Marlborough News, 9.3.1867
85. WP Gazette, VIII, No 9, p 25; Patterson, ‘Land Politics’ pp 23-7
86. Wellington Independent. 2.7.1861; Supt to Atchison, 23.5.1861, 131/67, WP 6/3; NZ Govt, Journals of the Legislative Council of New Zealand, 1861. Auckland, App No 1: ‘Papers Relative to the Remission of a Fine by the Superintendent of Wellington, in the case of Newry v. Atchison’
87. Featherston to Attorney-Gen, 20.11.1861, 341/61, WP 6/3- NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1861, App 1
88. Featherston to Ferard, 25.5.1861, 27.5.1861 & 29.5.1861 i?*/ 61 ; 147 /61 & 153/61, to Attorney-Gen, 20.11.1861, 341/61 WP 6/3; NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1861, App 1
718
References to Chapter IX
89. Featherston to Atchison, 28.5.1861, 152/61, WP 6/3; WP Gazette, VIII, No 18, p 63
90. Featherston to Col Sec, 29.5.1861, WP 6/3, p 95; NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1861, App 1
91. Wellington Independent, 2.8.1861; Featherston to Col Sec 19.7.1861, p 133, WP 6/3; Attorney-Gen to Ferard, 10.7.1861 NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1861, App 1
92. Featherston to Col Sec, 19.7.1861, p 133, WP 6/3; NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1861, App 1
93. NZ Govt, Journals of the Legislative Council of New Zealand, 1862, Auckland, return presented 21.8.1862: ‘Further Papers Relative to the Remission of a Fine ..esp Sewell corresp
94. Fenton to Ferard, 6.11.1861, ‘Further Papers’, NZ Govt, LC Journals,lB62
95. Ferard to Attorney-Gen, 22.11.1861, and Sewell corresp, ‘Fur ther Papers’, NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1862
96. Johnston’s ruling, 16,12.1861, and other corresp, in ‘Further Papers’, NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1862
97. Fenton to Ferard, 6.1.1862 et al, ‘Further Papers’, NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1862
98. Supt to Atchison, 27.9.1861, & to Col Sec, 7.2.1862, Nos 273/61 & 27/62, WP 6/3; Wellington Independent, 24.12.1861; WP Gazette, VIII, No 31, p 209; ‘Further Papers’, NZ Govt, LC Journals, 1862
99. Featherston to Atchison, 28.5.1861, 152/61, WP 6/3; Wellington Independent, 3.9.1868; Branigan to Atchison, 26.6.1862 f 24, AG 168/1/3, HL
100. Supt to Atkinson, 22.5.1861, and to Smith et al, 11.3.1862, Nos 130/61 & 77/62, WP 6/3; Edward Gorton, Some Home Truths Re the Maori War 1863 to 1869, London 1901, p 37; info from Ms D Petersen
101. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 29.7.1862; Featherston to Atchison 28.5.1861, 152/61, WP 6/3; info from R Startup
102. Taranaki Herald, 11.7.1863
103. Wellington Independent, 28.10.1862; Otago Witness, 8.11.1862; Alan P Ward, ‘The Origins of the Anglo-Maori Wars: A Reconsideration’, NZJH, I, No 2, 1967, p 164; Wanganui Chronicle, 16.10.1862, 23.10.1862; Taranaki Herald, 8.11.1862
104. Otago Daily Times, 23.1.1863; Taranaki Herald, 28.3.1863, 16.4.1864, 25.6.1864
105. Supt to Domett, 7.7.1863, p 176, WP 6/4; Nelson Examiner. 3.10.1863
106. Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 206-8
107. Patterson, ‘Land Politics’, p 27; New Zealander, 23.6.1865
719
References to Chapter IX
108. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 11.2.1863, 25.2.1863, 25.3.1863, 1.4.1863, 4.4.1863; Otago Daily Times, 17.3.1863; Taranaki Herald, 11.4.1863, 22.8.1863; Southern Cross, 7.11.1863; Marlborough Press, 18.4.1863; ‘Terms on which the Colonial Defence Force in each of the settlements in New Zealand has been raised’, GNZ MSS 193, Grey Collection, APL; return of the Hawke’s Bay CDF, Le 1/1865/110
109. Col Sec to Branigan, Sep 1863, Branigan Papers, Otago Early Settlers’ Association, Dunedin; Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 213-9; Gorton, Home Truths, pp 35-50
110. Taranaki Herald, 8.11.1862; Nelson Examiner, 3.10.1863; Supt to Warded, 23.4.1864, WP 6/4, 220/64; Southern Cross, 10.8.1863
111. Warded to Supt, 31.7.1864, 64/545, WP 3; Police Association Newsletter, May 1969
112. Featherston to Col Sec, 20.7.1863, p 186, WP 6/4; Nelson Examiner, 23.7.1863
113. Wellington Independent, 11.7.1865; WP Gazette, IX, No 29, p 153; Weld to Supt, 18.2.1865, 65/151, WP 3/17; Schultze to Atchison, 20.2.1865, & to Weld, 23.2.1865, 46/65 & 51/65, WP 6/5; Woodward to Atchison, 24.9.1863, p 406, WP 9/3
114. Wellington Independent, 27.5.1862, 18.7.1865; Knowles to Supt, HB, 15.5.1865, p 210, WP 6/5
115. Wellington Independent, 29.7.1865, 3.8.1865
116. Ibid, 29.7.1865, 10.8.1865; Nelson Examiner, 15.8.1865
117. Otago Daily Times, 2.2.1864; M K Watson and B R Patterson, ‘Property, Class and Politics in the Wellington Province during the 1860s and 1870s’, typescript provided by authors
118. Nelson Examiner, 4.7.1865; New Zealander, 28.2.1865
119. Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 222-3; Nelson Examiner, 25.5.1865
120. Bagnall, Wairarapa, pp 223-6
121. Ibid, p 226; Nelson Examiner, 27.1.1866; Taranaki Herald, 3.2.1866; James Edward Alexander, Bush Fighting, London 1873, pp 317-8
122. Bagnall, Wairarapa , p 305; Wellington Independent , 2.6.1866; Halcombe to Willcox, 7.5.1866, 90/66, WP 9/3
123. Wellington Independent , 7.3.1867; Atchison to Supt, 29.4.1867, f 210, WP 3/21; Gail and Ron Lambert, An Illustrated History of Taranaki , Palmerston North 1983, pp 53-4; Bagnall, Wairarapa, p 308
124. Patterson, ‘Land, Men & Sheep’
125. Atchison to Supt, 29.4.1867, f 210, WP 3/21; Stock to Supt 28.4.1867, 68/162, WP 3/23
126. Patterson, ‘Land Politics’, p33
720
References to Chapter X
127. Nelson Examiner, 1.8.1867, 8.8.1867 128. Buller, Forty Years, pp 393-4
Chapter X
1. Ward, Show, p 86; Grey to Earl Grey, 30.8.51, G 25/4, desp 121, paras 54, 71; Henderson, Grey, pp 10-11,116, 118-9; Hill, ‘Maori Policing’
2. Ward, Show, chap 6; return by Woon, 13.4.1878, MA-WG 2/2; AJHR, 1861, E-3, Sec 1, No 5; ‘List of Native Assessors’, App, AJHR, 1862, E-l; Turton’s report, 20.11.1861, ibid, E-SA, No 1
3. Gorst, Maori King, pp 29-30, 172-4; AJHR, 1860, F-3
4. Gorst, Maori King, pp 49-57; Dalton, War & Politics, p66
5. Ward, Show, p 97; Gorst, Maori King, p 61; AJHR, 1862, E-SA, Nos 1 & 2
6, Gorst, Maori King, p 158; Nelson Examiner, 11.8.1862; AJHR, 1862, E-SA; Spencer, Sociology, pp 442-3; Kay Sanderson, ‘Maori Christianity on the East Coast 1840-1870’, NZJH, Oct 1983,p 173
7. Ward, Show, pp 103-5; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 68f; AJHR, 1862, E-5A
8. Gorst, Maori King pp 61-2; AJHR, 1862, E-SA; Ann Parsonson, ‘The Pursuit of Mana’, in Oliver (ed), Oxford History. p 154
9. Ward, Show, pp 105-6; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, pp 138-9; Fargher, ‘McLean’, pp 58,133; AJHR, 1860, F-3
10. Gorst, Maori King, pp 71-6; Fargher, ‘McLean’, pp 114-6; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 78f; desp No 142, and end, AJHR, 1862, E-l, pp 9f
11. Ward, Show, pp 108-13; Halse to Brown, 17.2.1863, MA 1/2, 63/54; AJHR, 1860, F-l, pp 27-23, F-3, pp If; desp No 142, AJHR, 1862, E-l, p9
12. AJHR, 1860, F-3; Gorst, Maori King, pp 80-1
13. Gorst, Maori King, pp 78-9, 171, 175, App; AJHR, 1862, E-l, pp 51-4
14. AJHR, 1860, F-3; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, pp 138-9; Hawke's Bay Herald, 13.7.1861; Sinclair, Origins, pp 253-4; MP K Sorrenson, ‘Maori and Pakeha - , in Oliver (ed), Oxford History, p 180
15. Dalton, War & Politics, pp 142f; Gorst, Maori King, pp 104-17
16. Ward, Show, pp 85-90; Gorst, Maori King, pp xiii, 28; Clyne, ‘96th Regiment’, p 13
17. Gorst, Maori King, pp xi-xiii, 6; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 14.9.1861; Nelson Examiner, 11.8.1862; Sinclair, Origins, pp 240f; Harrop, England & Maori Wars, pp 118, 154
18. Gorst, Maori King, p 134; Otago Daily Times, 9.1.1862;
721
References to Chapter X
Hawke’s Bay Herald, 9.11.1861, 31.12.1861, 12.8.1862; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, No 1
19. Sinclair, Origins, pp 240f; ‘Sir George Grey’s Plan of Native Government’, AJHR, 1862, E-2
20. ‘Grey’s Plan’ and attached documents, AJHR, 1862, E-2 & E-SA; AJHR, 1865, E-l; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 142f; MA 1/1, 61/155; Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, Part 111, for revisionist interpretation of the Waikato War
21. Lyttelton Times, 21.12.1861; Harrop, England & Maori Wars, p 155; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec I
22. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec I; AJHR, 1865, E-2
23. AJHR, 1862, E-5A & E-9, Sec 11, No 2; Gorst, Maori King, pp 140,160; MA 1/2, 63/34 a
24. AJHR, 1862, E-6; Gorst, Maori King, p 160; MA 1/2, 63/34 a
25. Ward, Show, p 143; MA 1/2, 63/34 a; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec I. No 4; AJHR, 1862, E-SA, No 2
26. AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec 111
27. Ward, Show, p 144; Halse to Civil Commissioner, Bay of Islands, MA 4/59, pp 104-6
28. AJHR, 1862, E-6; MA 1/2, 63/34 a
29. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec V; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, p 141; Williams, East Coast Records, pp 31-2; Oliver & Thomson, Challenge & Response, pp 63-4
30. AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec VIII; Halse to Civil Commissioner, Bay of Islands, 3.8.1863, MA 4/59, pp 104-6; Sanderson, ‘Maori Christianity’, p 176
31. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec V; Halse to Civil Commissioner, Bay of Islands, 3.8.1863, MA 4/59, pp 104-6
32. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec V; Oliver & Thomson, Challenge & Response, pp 65-7
33. D M Stafford, Te Arawa, Wellington 1967, pp 302, 358-9; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec IV
34. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec IV, Nos 4, 6; Stafford, Te Arawa, pp 358-9
35. Ward, Show, p 141; MA 1/2, 63/34 a; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec IV Nos 7 & 8; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec IX, No 4
36. Hawke's Bay Herald, 11.11.1862; Ward, Show, pp 145, 154; MA 1/2, 63/34 a; info from R Campbell 37. Halse to Resident Magistrate, Taupo, 2.12.1864, MA 4/59,
P 606; MA 1/2, 63/34 a; Taranaki Herald, 17.12.1864; AJHR 1862, E-9, Secs VII, VIII; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec VII
38. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec VI
39. Ward, Show, p 134; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec VI
40. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec VI; Ward, Show, pp 133-4; MA 1/2, 63/34 a; Hunter to Brown, 17.2.1863, MA 1/2, 63/54- MA 1/3 63/32 a
722
References to Chapter X
41. MA 1/2, 63/34 a; MA 1/3, 63/32 a
42. Ward, Show, chap 9
43. Gorst, Maori King, pp 36, 139-40,. 145; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, No 1
44. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, No 2; Gorst, Maori King, p 149; Dalton, War & Politics, p 148
45. Gorst, Maori King, pp 151-7, 162
46. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 111, No 5; AJHR, 1865, E-l, Sec II; Gorst, Maori King, pp 161-2, 168, 170
47. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, Nos 2& 3; AJHR, 1865, E-l, No 3
48. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, Nos 2& 3
49. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, No 5; Ward, Show, pp 138; Gorst, Maori King, pp 162, 169-70, 214-6
50. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, No 5; Gorst, Maori King, pp 161 165-7; Ward, Show, pp 138-9
51. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, Nos 2, 6, 7
52. Ibid, No 15
53. Ibid, Nos 9,10,12,13 & 16; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec V, No 9; MA 1/2, 63/34 a
54. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 11, No 22; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec V, No 7; Gorst, Maori King, pp 166-7
55. AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 111, No 5; Gorst, Maori King, pp 175-8
56. Nelson Examiner, 11.8.1862; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 111, Nos 4 & 5; Gorst, Maori King, p 175
57. Nelson Examiner, 11.8.1862; AJHR, 1862, E-9, Sec 111, Nos 4 & 5; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec VI, No 2; AJHR, 1865, E-l, No 12
58. AJHR, 1865, E-l, Nos 7, 8, 12 & 16; Gorst, Maori King, pp xiii-xiv; Sinclair, Origins, p 245
59. Dalton, War & Politics, pp 163-7; Ward, Show, pp 155-8; Gorst, Maori King, pp 193-5; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec VI, No 4
60. AJHR, 1865, E-l, No 32f; Sinclair, Origins, p 267; Dalton, War & Politics, p 164; Gorst, Maori King, pp 196-200; Ward, Show, pp 156-7; AJHR, 1863, E-4, Sec VI, No 4
61. Bell to Grey, 30.4.1863, MA 1/2, 63/167; Ward, Show, pp 156-7; Dalton, War & Politics, pp 164-5; Gorst, Maori King, pp 185-6, 214-33
62. Press, 22.11.1862; Taranaki Herald, 14.2.1863, 7.3.1863; Otago Daily Times, 5.1.1863
63. Nelson Examiner, 11.8.1862, 3.1.1863; AJHR, 1863, E-3, desp 4, enclosure 1
64. Otago Daily Times, 15.7.1863; Gorst, Maori King, pp 236-45; info from R Campbell; ‘Warrants to appoint Native Officers’, 20.3.1863, MA 1/2, 63/117
65. Gorst, Maori King, pp 245-54; Ward, Show, p 159
66. Otago Daily Times, 23.6.1863
723
References to Chapter X
67. Gorst, Maori King, pp 259-61; TP Gazette, XII, No 5, pp 17-19
68. MP Gazette, V, No 75, p 69; Otago Witness, 17.3.1866; Featherston memos, 25.5.1864 & nd, and Featherston to White, 10.7.1864, WP 6/11; Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, pp 331-5, et passim
69. Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, chap 10; Tony Simpson, Te Riri Pakeha, Martinborough 1979, p 147; Dalton, War & Politics, chap 7; Sorrenson, ‘Maori & Pakeha’, p 183
70. Belich, ‘NZ Wars’, chap 10; Ward, Show, p 168; Paul Clark, ‘Hauhau’: The Pai Marire Search for Maori Identity, Auckland 1975, pp 11-20, 68, 72
71. Halse to White, 10.8.1863, p 109, and Shortland to White, 5.11.1863 & 9.11.1863, pp 172-4 & 177-8, and Fox to White, 15.7.1864, pp 512-5, and Halse to Resident Magistrate, Manawatu, 12.12.1864, pp 610-11, MA 4/59; Halse to McDonnell, 25.3.1865, MA 4/60, p 55; Ward, Show, pp 170-2; Stafford, Te Arawa, pp 368-70; Enid Tapsell, Historic Maketu, Rotorua 1940, p 72
72. Ward, Show, pp 177-8; Halse to Resident Magistrate, Manawatu, 20.3.1865, 24.3.1865 & 4.4.1865, pp 42-3, 52-3 & 65, and Mantell to Edwards, nd, p 141, and Halse to Noake, 27.3.1865, & to White, 28.3.1865, pp 55 & 57, MA 4/60; return of the Wellington CDF, Le 1/1865/110
73. Halse to White and Mackay, 10.1.1865, pp 18-19, to Edwards, 3.2.1865, p 20, to Resident Magistrate, Chathams, 15.3.1865 & 20.6.1865, pp 39-40 & 159-60, to Civil Commissioners, 25.5.1865, p 125, to Rogan, 29.5.1865, p 128, to Mackay, 29.5.1865, p 128, to Resident Magistrate, Waiuku, 5.6.1865, p 136, to Resident Magistrate, Mangonui, 7.6.1865, p 139, to Resident Magistrate, Waikanae, 7.6.1865, pp 141-2, to Resident Magistrate, Wairarapa, 10.6.1865, p 144, to Resident Magistrate, Rangitikei, 12.6.1865, pp 147-8, all in MA 4/60; Stafford, Te Arawa, p 384; Ward, Show, pp 175, 178-9
74. Rolleston to Resident Magistrate, Waikanae, 30.6.1865, p 173, and to Resident Magistrate, Wanganui, p 180, 3.7.1865, MA 4/60; Ward, Show, pp 183-5, 188; Clark, ‘ Hauhau ’, pp 32-8; Marlborough Press, 20.10.1865; Press, 29.11.1865; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 29.8.1865
75. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 29.8.1865, 2.9.1865; NZPD, 1865, p 348, 24.8.1865; Ward, Show, pp 188-9
76. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 2.9.1865, 19.9.1865, 14.11.1865; Ward, Show, pp 189-90
77. Rolleston, circular to Resident Magistrates and Civil Commissioners, 22.9.1865 & 4.10.1865, pp 326 & 366, and to Civil Commissioner, Auckland, 26.9.1865, p 328, MA 4/60; Ward, Show, pp 189-94
78. Rolleston to Civil Commissioner, Bay of Plenty, 2.12.1865 & 8.12.1865, to Civil Commissioner, Mangonui, 8.12.1865, to
724
References to Chapter X
Civil Commissioner, Kaipara, 8.12.1865, to Civil Commissioner, Auckland, 30.12.1865, pp4sB, 466-468, 496, MA 4/60; Ward, Show, pp 194-7; NZPD, 1865, pp 578-9, 21.9.1865; Stafford, Te Arawa, p 411
79. Rolleston to Hawke’s Bay District Staff, 29.11.1865, p 455, to Resident Magistrate, Ngaruroro, 2.12.1865, p 459, MA 4/60; Ward Show, pp 197-9, 218
80. Ward, Show, pp 203-5
81. Clark, ‘Hauhau’, p 66; AJHR , 1865, E-6; Rolleston to Buller 2.10.1865, p 335, MA 4/60
82. Taranaki Herald. 8.2.1862, 21.2.1863, 29.4.1865; Votes & Proceedings, 24.4.1865, TP 1/18, p 102; Dunn to Supt, 16.7.1866, end with Message 5, 20.11.1866, Sess XV, TP 1/6; Dunn’s report, letter 86, TP 5/26; Supt to Warre, 11.7.1865, TP 7/11, p 91; diary entry of 29.1.1863, H J Warre Papers, MS 570, ATL
83. Taranaki Herald, 24.1.1863; Nelson Examiner, 12.7.1862
84. Warre diary, 2-6.9.1862, ATL; Clark, ‘Hauhau’, pp 4-8; Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 3-13.9.1862, Taranaki Museum
85. Taranaki Herald, 1.2.1862; Warre diary, 26-27.1.1862, 8.9.1862, 10.9.1862, 6-7.2.1863, 18.2.1863, ATL; Warre to Browne, 25.10.1862, No 2, Warre Papers, MS 570, ATL; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 102, 107, 338, 344
86. Warre diary, 24-25.2.1862, 18-19.3.1862, 14.4.1862, 1.5.1862, 26.6.1862, ATL
87. Ibid, 3.8.1862, 24.8.1862, 11.10.1862, 25.10.1862, 2.11.1862, 5.11.1862, 7.11.1862, 8.11.1862, 15.11.1862
88. ‘Statement of services’, folder 6, Warre Papers, MS 570, ATL; Warre diary, Mar-Nov 1863, ATL; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 102f; Gledhill, ‘Journal’, Mar-May 1863, Taranaki Museum; Lambert, Taranaki, p 45; Sinclair, Origins, pp 260f; info from J Belich
89. Taranaki Herald, 8.2.1862, 21.2.1863; Warre diary, 29.1.1863, ATL; Warre to Supt, 23.2.1863, letter 15, TP 5/19
90. Taranaki Herald, 7.2.1863; Supt to Warre, 30.12.1863, letter 197, TP 7/10, p 65; ‘Statement of services’, folder 6, Warre Papers, MS 570, ATL
91. Taranaki News, 9.2.1865; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 116, 127; Dunn to Supt, 16.7.1866, end with Message 5, Sess XV, TP 1/6; Gledhill, ‘Journal’, 14.2.1864, 17.2.1864, Taranaki Museum; TP Gazette, XII, No 13, p 47
92. Taranaki Herald, 13.8.1864, 1.10.1864, 10.12.1864, 15.4,1865, 20.5.1865, 1.7.1865, 28.8.1865
93. Taranaki Herald, 29,4.1865; Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 126-9, 137-8; Clark, ‘Hauhau’, pp 11, 14 94. Taranaki Herald, 29.4.1865, 23.6.1866, 7.7.1866; Taranaki
725
References to Chapter X
News, 4.5.1865; TP Gazette, IX, No 23, p 76; Tullett, Industrious Heart, p 303; Lambert, Taranaki, p 56; Clark, ‘Hauhau’, p 23; Dunn to Supt, 16.7.1866, end with Message 5, Sess XV, TP 1/6
95. Taranaki Herald, 7.7.1866
96. Halcombe to Supt, 27.6.1866, letter 100, TP 5/22; Dunn to Supt, 16.7.1866, end with Message 5, Sess XV, TP 1/6
97. Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 172f; Lambert, Taranaki, p 47; AJHR, 1865, E-8
98. Taranaki Herald, 7.7.1866; TP Gazette, XIV, No 10, p 54; Rutledge to Supt, 31.7.1866, letter 156, Fullerton to Supt, 29.9.1866, letter 221, TP 5/22; Supt to Dunn, 3.9.1866, letter 494, TP 7/11, p 369
99. Prickett, ‘Military Frontier’, pp 347-8; Lambert, Taranaki, pp 47-9, 54; Dalton, War & Politics, p 240; Clark, ‘Hauhau’, p 99
100. Taranaki Herald, 24.11.1866, 1.12.1866, 20.6.1868; proceedings, 27.11.1866, TP 1/18, p417; Supt’s Message 3, 13.11.1866, Sess XV, TP 1/6; Supt to Chairman, Town Board, 4.1.1867, letter 590, TP 7/11, p 447
101. Taranaki Herald, 17.11.1866, 1.12.1866, 9.2.1867
102. Chairman, Town Board, to Supt, 5.2.1867, letter 34, TP 5/23; Dunn’s testimony, 29.12.1869, Select Committee, TP 1/7; TP Gazette, XV, No 14, p 75; Taranaki News, 26.3.1868; Taranaki Herald, 19.10.1867; return for Dec 1867, No 1353 of 1868, CP Inwards letters, CM
103. Taranaki Herald, 20.5.1865, 21.9.1867; TP Gazette, XII, No 13, p 47; Supt to Warre, 16.1.1865, 18.1.1865, pp 11, 12, TP 7/10
104. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 8.3.1862, 27.3.1862, 19.4.1862; HB Gazette, 11, No 58, p 123; Carter to LaSerre, 29.3.1862 & 30.5.1862, HB 6/3, 62/114 & 62/215
105. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 19.4.1862, 8.7.1862, 12.7.1864; HB Gazette, 111, No 10, p 39, No 14, p 55; Carter to Scully, 4.7.1862, HB 6/3, 62/254; Estimates for 1863, 1864, Acts & Proceedings, HB, Sess V, Sess VI; Public Service Association Journal, August 1894; Daily Telegraph, 6.8.1894, 8.8.1894
106. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 26.7.1862, 30.9.1862, 9.10.1862; Ward, Show, pp 134-5, 147
107. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 4.11.1862; Prov Council minutes, 10.4.1863, HB 1/3; Estimates for 1863, 1864, Acts & Proceedings, HB, Sess V, Sess VI; Carter to Russell, 30.12.1861, HB 6/2, 61/444; Carter to Scully, 19.12.1862, HB 6/3, 62/377; Wilson et at, Hawke’s Bay, p 359
108. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 25.3,1863; Ward, Show, p 143; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, p 160
726
References to Chapter X
109. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 25.3.1863; petition from Gollan et al, 3.2.1863, Sess V-VI, HB 1/9; Rolleston, Ormond, p 78
110. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 11.2.1863, 25.3.1863; Nelson Examiner, 29.4.1863; petition from Gollan et al, 3.2.1863, Sess V-VI, HB 1/9
111. Scholefield (ed), Richmond-Atkinson Papers, I, pp 737, 799; Colonial Defence Force Act 1862, No 32, NZ Govt, Statutes, p 149, 15.9.1862
112. Nelson Examiner, 18.3.1863; Ward, Show, p 143; Marlborough Press, 21.3.1863
113. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 4.4.1863
114. Ibid, 10.6.1863, 13.6.1863; Otago Daily Times, 22.6.1863
115. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 8.7.1863, 22.7.1863; Gisborne to Brani gan, 26.6.1863, Branigan Papers, Otago Early Settlers’ Associ ation Museum
116. Hawke's Bay Herald, 8.7.1863; NZ Gazette, 1863, No 15, p 151 No 17, p 167, No 24, p 240; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, p 443
117. NZ Gazette, 1863, No 28, p 273; return of Hawke’s Bay CDF Le 1/1865/110
118. Ibid ; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 1.4.1863
119. Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, pp 443-4; Rolleston, Ormond, pp 27-9; Miriam Macgregor, Pioneer Trails of Hawke’s Bay, Wellington 1975, p 81; R F Gambrill, ‘A History of “The Hawke’s Bay Regiment”, NZ Territorial Army 1863-1964’, typescript, p 6
120. James Cowan, Sir Donald Maclean, Dunedin 1940, p 81; Wil liams, East Coast Records, pp 34-51; Ward, Shaw, p 178
121. Hawke's Bay Herald, 2.3.1864; estimates for 1863-1864, Acts & Proceedings, HB, Sess VI
122. Police Act, Sess VIII, No 3, HB Gazette, 1864, V, No 26, pp 103-5; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 30.7.1864, 2.8.1864, 9.8.1864, 13.8.1864
123. McLean to Scully, 13.10.1864, HB 6/4, 64/355; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 13.8.1864, 7.2.1865, 5.9.1865; Daily Telegraph, 2.1.1866; HB Gazette, VII, No 1, 11.1.1866; estimates for 1864-5, 1865-6, Votes & Proceedings, HB, Sess VIII & IX
124. Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, p 444; petition from residents of Havelock, nd, Sess VII-VIII, HB 1/9; petition from residents of Hampden, 28.10.1867, Sess XII, HB 1/11; estimates for 1865-6, 1867-8, Votes & Proceedings, HB, Sess IX, XI; HB Gazette, VI, No 24, p 113, VIII, No 18, p 88
125. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 9.5.1865, 9.7,1867; Taranaki Herald, 27.10.1866; Wilson et al, Hawke’s Bay, pp 444-5; Mooney, Hawke's Bay, I, pp 33-4
727
References to Chapter X
126. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 19.10.1867, 16.11.1867, 3.3.1868; estimates for 1866-7, 1867-8, Votes & Proceedings, HB, Sess XI, XII
127. Gorst, Maori King, pp 98-9; Stone, Makers of Fortune, p8; John Watson, ‘The Impact of the Threat of the Anglo-Maori Wars on Auckland 1862-3’, MA research essay, Auckland University, 1982; Hanham, ‘Auckland’, pp 2, 8, 12, 93, 96; pay abstracts 1855-63, Kenderdine Scrapbook, Auckland Institute and Museum
128. Ibid; Gorst, Maori King, pp 32-3, 126; estimates, 1861 & 1862, Sess XIII & XIV, APC Papers, APL
129. Balneavis to Supt, 9.4.1862, No 225, and estimates, Sess XIV, APC Papers, APL; Southern Cross, 14.2.1862; Sinclair, Origins, pp 246-7
130. Harsant to Sewell, 28.10.1861, Message No 27, Sess XIV, APC Papers, APL; Otago Daily Times, 21.3.1862; Otago Witness, 11.10.1862, 25.10.1862; Nelson Examiner, 19.11.1862; Gorst, Maori King, pp 17, 190-1; W David Mclntyre and W J Gardner (eds), Speeches and Documents on New Zealand History, Oxford 1971, p 142
131. Southern Cross, 27.6.1862; Sinclair, Origins, pp 248-9; Alistair Isdale (ed), Hauraki Chronicle, Thames nd
132. Wellington Independent, 15.7.1862; Southern Cross, 30.6.1862, 8.7.1862; AP Gazette, XII, No 8, p 40; Isdale (ed), Hauraki Chronicle ; Nolan, Trails of the Coromandel, p 49; W T Parham, Von Tempsky — Adventurer, London 1969, p 100
133. Southern Cross, 14.2.1862; Votes & Proceedings, AP, Sess XIV, estimates for 1862, pp 172-4, and Select Committee, App A, No 11; Journals, AP, Sess XXVI, A-9, p 14
134. Sinclair, Origins, pp 248, 255-7; Watson, ‘lmpact’; Hanham, ‘Auckland’, pp 17-20, 75, 86, 101
135. Naughton’s report, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL; estimates for 1863, Journals, AP, Sess XV; Journals, AP, Sess XIX, App B, No 7; Supt of Works to Col Sec, 5.4.1850, and ends, IA 1, 50/525; Southern Cross, 19.3.1863, 20.3.1863; Main Scrapbook, obituary of William Smith, Auckland Institute & Museum
136. Southern Cross, 3.7.1863; Ward, ‘Law-enforcement’, pp 139-40; Sinclair, Origins, pp 250, 258-9, 267f; John Featon, The Waikato War, 1863-4, Auckland 1879, pp 12-13; P J Gibbons, Astride the River: A History of Hamilton, Hamilton 1977, pp 29-30
137. Southern Cross, 31.7.1863, 1.8.1863; Featon, Waikato War, pp 12-18; Stone, Makers of Fortune, p8; estimates, APC Papers, Sess XV, APL
138. Southern Cross, 28.7.1863; Southland News, 5.8.1863; Featon, Waikato War, p 17; info from E Scannell
1095
References to Chapter X
139. Parham, Von Tempsky, pp 102-8, 117-18; Wily, South Auckland, pp 121, 177, 189
140. Marlborough Press, 18.4.1863; Wily, South Auckland, p 168; Featon, Waikato War, p 14; ‘Terms on which the Colonial Defence Force...has been raised’, Grey Collection, GNZ MSS 193, APL; return of Auckland CDF, Le 1/1865/110
141. Gibbons, Hamilton, p 30; HC M Norris, Armed Settlers: The Story of the Founding of Hamilton, New Zealand, 1864-1874, Hamilton 1956, 1963 ed, pp 16-19, 36
142. Featon, Waikato War, p 97; Wily, South Auckland, pp 201-2; R Maclvor, ‘The New Zealand Army: Notes’, typescript nd, Historical Publications Branch
143. Southern Cross, 1.9.1864; NZ Herald, 28.5.1870; Votes & Proceedings, AP, Sess XIV, App A, No 11, p 30
144. Southern Cross, 20.3.1863, 2.6.1863, 1.9.1864; Journals, AP, Sess XVII, 10.11.1864, p99; Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL; NZ Herald, 28.10.1946; The N.Z. Yachtsman, 12.6.1915, p 135
145. Southern Cross, 2.10.1863, 14.10.1863, 15.10.1863, 21.12.1863; Journals, AP, Sess XVI, 1.10.1863, p 12, 14,10.1863, p 34
146. Southern Cross, 21.12.1863, 5.1.1864
147. Ibid, 5.1.1864, 6.1.1864, 13.1.1864; Stone, Makers of Fortune, p 8; Nolan, Trails of the Coromandel, p 49; Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL; Appropriation Act 1864, Ordinances, AP, Sess XVI, No 11; Journals, AP, Sess XVI, pp 85-6
148. Southern Cross, 9.1.1864, 12.1.1864, 13,1.1864; Journals, AP, Sess XVI, 12.1.1864, pp 85-6, 27.1.1864, p 128
149. Southern Cross, 22.2.1864, 23.4.1864, 29.4.1864; Abstracts of revenue and expenditure, APC Papers, Sess XVII, APL; Journals, AP, Sess XIX, B-7; Guy H Scholefield, Newspapers in New Zealand, Wellington 1958, ppBo-l
150. Southern Cross, 26.4.1864; Alexander, Bush Fighting, pp 228-31; Holt, Strangest War, pp 210-11, 217; Journals, AP, Sess XIX, B-7
151. Journals, AP, Sess XVII, 27.10.1864, p 54, Sess XIX, B-7; Southern Cross, 5.1.1864, 22.2.1864, 5.5.1864, 10.6.1864, 28.7.1864, 25,8.1864; New Zealander, 7.7.1864
152. Southern Cross, 4.8.1864
153. Ibid, 25.8.1864, 1.9.1864; Nelson Examiner, 1.9.1864; Hanham, ‘Auckland’, p 10; Petition No 55, and Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
154. Wily, South Auckland, p 226; Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
155. Norris, Armed Settlers, pp 16-19, 36; Gibbons, Hamilton,
729
References to Chapter X
pp 29-30, 39-42; Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL; Auckland Star, 17.6,1924
156. Stone, Makers of Fortune, p 10; Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
157. Distribution at 19.10.1864, end with Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
158. Southern Cross, 1.9.1864; estimates for 1865, end with Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
159. Southern Cross, 5.11.1864, 12.11.1864, 15.11.1864; NZ Herald, 28.5.1870; Journals, AP, Sess XVII, 10.11.1864, p99
160. Fox to Supt, 3.11.1864, & Supt to Col Sec, 14.12.1864, & Clark to Supt, 24.1.1865, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
161. Gibbons, Hamilton, pp 34-42, 51; Hanham, ‘Auckland’, p2; Hawke’s Bay Herald, 9.5.1865
162. Norris, Armed Settlers, pp 77, 167; Gibbons, Hamilton, pp 39-42, 51; Auckland Star, 17.6.1924
163. Southern Cross, 17.11.1864, 25.11.1864, 6.12.1864; Nelson Examiner, 6.12.1864
164. New Zealander, 4.2.1865, 10.2.1865, 15.2.1865, 20.2.1865, 22.2.1865, 2.3.1865, 17.3.1865, 29.3.1865; Journals, AP, Sess XVII, 19.10.1864, p 36, 21.10.1864, p 45
165. New Zealander, 23.2.1865, 1.3.1865, 2.3.1865, 11.3.1865, 23.3.1865, 1.4.1865; Hanham, ‘Auckland’, p 89; Journals, AP, Sess XVIII, 9.3.1865, p 104, 31.3.1865, p 162, Sess XIX, A-26
166. New Zealander, 2.3.1865, 4.3.1865, 11.3.1865; Nelson Examiner, 14.3.1865; Journals, AP, Sess XVIII, 3.3.1865, p 85, 7.3.1865, p 89, 10.3.1865, p 104, B-l; Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
167. NZ Herald, 26.2.1866; AP Gazette, X, No 12, p 83, XV, No 10, p 83; Journals, AP, Sess XVIII, B-l, Sess XIX, A-14, A-26 and B-7
168. New Zealander, 8.4.1865, 10.4.1865, 12.4.1865, 22.4.1865, 26.4.1865, 9.5.1865; estimates for 1865, end with Naughton to Supt, 19.10.1864, APC Papers, Sess XVIII, APL
169. NZ Herald, 1.9.1868; Nelson Examiner, 18.11.1865; New Zealander, 9.10.1865; Journals, AP, Sess XIX, A-26 and B-7
170. NZ Herald, 1.2.1866, 26.2.1866, 27.2.1866, 28.2.1866
171. Parham, Von Tempsky, p 180; NZ Herald, 28.2.1866
172. Journals, AP, Sess XIX, 10.3.1866, p 87; NZ Herald, 1.2.1866, 2.2.1866, 9.3.1866, 12.3.1866
173. NZ Herald, 15.2.1866, 1.3.1866, 15.10.1866, 17.10.1866; AP Gazette, XV, No 8, p 70, XVI, No 27, p 217, XVII, Nos 7, 13, 48 & 49, pp 69, 143, 430 & 451; Journals, AP, Sess XVIII, 31.1.1865, p 23, 10.2.1865, p 48
174. Ward, Show , pp 140-5
175. Southland Times, 13.4.1866; Rolleston to Civil Commissioner,
730
References to Chapter X
Auckland, 30.12.1865, pp 496-7, MA 4/60; info from A Matheson & S Mead; J 22/3
176. Rolleston to Civil Commissioners, Mangonui and Kaipara, 8.12.1865, to Civil Commissioner, Auckland, 30.12,1865, pp 466-8, 496-7, and circulars Nos 659, 660, 691, 727 & 866, pp 326ff, MA 4/60
177. NZ Herald, 12.3.1866, 19.3.1866, 7.4.1866; New Zealander, 2.9.1865, 28.11.1865
178. NZ Herald, 20.6.1866, 17.10.1866, 30.11.1866; APC Papers, Sess XXIV, APL
179. NZ Herald, 9.5.1866, 30.11.1866
180. Parham, Von Tempsky, p 93; Journals, AP Sess XX, 29.11.1866, p xv, and 30.11.1866, p4O; APC Papers, Sess XXIV, APL; NZ Herald, 3.12.1866, 18.1.1867
181. Police committee proceedings, APC Papers, Sess XX, APL; Journals, AP, Sess XX, 29.11.1866, p xv, and 30.11.1866, p 40
182. NZ Herald, 24.12.1866, 18.1.1867, 17.6.1867, 26.6.1867; Stone, Makers of Fortune, p 10
183. NZ Herald, 17.6.1867, 25.6.1867, 26.6.1867; Parham, Von Tempsky, p 89
184. Hawke’s Bay Herald, 12.1.1867; NZ Herald, 17.6.1867, 11.12.1867, 16.12.1867; Mainwaring to Col Sec, 23.11.1866, Sess XX, Symonds to Supt, 7.2.1867, Sess XXII, APC Papers, APL
185. Beale, Seventy Years, pp 57, 60; Kelly, Thames, pp 7-8; John Grainger, The Amazing Thames, Wellington 1951, pp 1417
186. Grainger, Thames, p 17; Kelly, Thames, p 10; Theophilus Cooper, A Digger’s Diary at the Thames, 1867, HL, Dunedin 1978, p 7; A Isdale, ‘Thames Court House’, 1980, and ‘Thames, 1867, Reports and Correspondence; James Mackay Reports to Provincial Superintendent, Auckland’, nd, typescripts provided by author
187. NZ Herald, 5.9.1867, 19,11.1867, 11.1.1868; Isdale, ‘Court House’; Cooper, Digger’s Diary, pp 10, 17, 21-2; Kelly, Thames, p 10
188. NZ Herald, 5.9.1867, 19.11.1867; Parham, Von Tempsky. pp 186-7; Kelly, Thames, pp 10-11
189. NZ Herald, 12.11.1867, 10.12.1867, 11.12.1867, 13.12.1867, 14.12.1867, 10.1.1868, 14.1.1868, 16.1.1868; APC Papers, Sess XXII, incl Williamson to Col Sec, 3.12.1867, APL; Journals, AP, Sess XXII, 15.1.1868, p 27
1098
Index
This index records specific, and to a degree exemplary, references and needs to be used in conjunction with the table of contents. Bold print illuminates personal names; those of Maoris are entered under each component initial letter, cross referenced to the substantive appellation for page references.
‘p’ after a page number indicates the appearance of the subject in more than one paragraph thereon.
T after a page number is used for continued appearance(s) on the following page, ‘ff ’ for more than one page, ‘et seq ’ for the remaining pages of the section involved; ‘passim’ indicates periodic appearances throughout. Place names are often interchangeable, as indicated comprehensively: all alternatives should be consulted.
A
Aborigines, Australian: 29, 124, 125, 130, 152, 236, 239, 245, 334
‘Acceptance’ of policing; see ‘Legitimation’ Accommodation: 128, 131, 132, 141, 156, 163, 166, 253, 262, 275, 297, 329, 331. 342p, 373, 390ff, 409, 420, 441, 476, 484, 488, 489, 494, 538, 546, 548, 564, 566, 578. 579p, 58lp, 590, 600, 602, 606, 610, 623, 636, 640 641f, 659, 660, 662, 668, 671, 672, 675, 676, 677, 692p, 695, 697, 701, 705, 708, 712, 723, 746p, 749, 790, 792, 798, 834, 902, 913, 917, 920, 935 Active: 36, 38, 41
Adams, Montague: 753, 754, 755, 756p 758, 759, 767p, 768, 769p
Adams, W: 751 Addison’s Flat/The Skibbereen/Waite’s Pakihi, S-W Nelson: 746, 771 Additional British Resident: 68ff, 184; see also ‘McDonnell, Thomas, Snr’ Adelaide, South Australia: 625, 639, 702
Adlum, John: 404p
Admiralty: 49. 53, 58, 253
African : 153
Aglionby, Wellington region: 309
Ahaura, S-W Nelson: 735, 736, 746 Ahuahu, Taranaki: 851, 872
Ahuriri area. Hawke’s Bay: 290, 405, 436 440, 441, 442, 445, 803, 821, 829
Ahuru, Kereti Te: 863
Aihipene Kaihau: see Kaihau'
Akaroa, Canterbury: 54f, 89, 142 et seq, 150ff, 156. 157, 158, 177, 189p, 195, 196, 202 et seq, 217f, 222, 223p, 230, 265f, 298, 310, 313ff, 336, 339p, 341, 344, 346 347, 348, 349f, 393, 404, 405. 408f, 438, 439. 471, 473, 481, 484p, 486, 487, 490,
PW
633, 634, 635, 636, 637, 642, 647p, 648, 651, 652, 663, 666; Anglo-French interface: 143 et seq, 156, 202ff, 206f, 223, 230, 336; Head of Harbour, 484
Akitio, Wairarapa: 786
Alarums and Excursions’ Onld-insnirpd- 4RQ SRR *wii»
Gold-inspired; 489, 508ff, 538, 539, 541p, 547, 562 et seq, 579, 584, 589p, 592f, 617f, 623, 624f, 654, 658, 660, 661, 669, 670, 681, 694f, 696p, 698, 699, 706, 720, 721, 725, 740, 757f, 900, 935
Interracial: 34, 52, 53, 54p, 56, 65, 67, 69, 73, 74, 77. 91, 129, 135f, 137f, 152ff, 165, 168ff, 176, 184ff, 188, 199, 200, 203, 208, 209f, 213, 214f, 219, 222, 223 224f, 225ff, 242, 243f, 260, 264, 266f’ 278f, 302f, 306, 349, 367, 362, 364, 370, 371p, 372, 426f, 442, 443, 444p, 453f 457, 462, 467, 522p, 523, 524, 532, 648, 691, 721, 725, 772, 782, 784, 786, 787 788, 789, 793p, 794f, 851, 854, 856,894, 895, 896, 897, 903, 904f
Albany, Western Australia: 236
Albion: 757
Alcohol, drunkenness: 17, 19, 21, 33 41 42, 49, 51, 52p, 53, 63, 69ff, 73, 76, 85, 86, 107, 122, 132, 144, 147, 151, 152 154, 155, 156p, 160, 174p, 175, 188, 192, 205, 206, 265, 268, 269, 272, 273, 279 284, 288, 289, 292, 295, 298, 301, 312’ 313p, 314, 315, 316, 319, 325, 329, 333’ 347, 348, 352f, 360ff, 365, 369, 376, 379p, 385, 392, 393, 394p, 400p, 408, 422, 425 428, 440, 442, 443, 448, 461p, 462, 461, 472, 476, 480, 484p, 489, 496p, 498, 499 500, 502, 504, 506, 507, 509, 610, 512’ 616, 517, 518, 526, 531, 537, 544, 64e! 558, 666, 571, 573, 677p, 643, 645, 651! 658, 661, 670, 682, 691, 716, 721, 72?’
1099
Index
Alcohol, drunkenness —continued 745p, 747, 754, 765, 790, 797, 812, 814, 820, 829, 857, 868, 871, 875, 919, 928. 930, 935; see also ‘Slygrog’, ‘Licences’
Alexander: 32
Alexandra/The Junction, Otago: 582, 609 Alexandra/Pirongia, S Auckland region: 908, 916 AlfrpH Iho flroot- A
Alfred the Great: 4
Alligator. 66 et seq, 77, 86,
Allowances Goldfields, hardship: 559, 567, 578,-584 607f, 663, 664, 671, 749
Living expenses: 123, 125, 132, 181, 239, 242, 287, 339, 489, 494, 528, 543, 544, 635, 641, 663, 678, 695, 768, 855, 869, 878, 906
Special duty: 640, 697, 876
Travel: 183, 351, 476, 485, 494, 495, 528, 543, 611, 641, 823
See also ‘Compensation’, ‘Rewards’ ‘Uniform’
Alps: see ‘Southern Alps’
America/Americans/USA: 29, 31, 80, 82t, 87, 97, 117, 204, 348, 386, 593, 738
Amuri, Nelson Province: 505, 636, 720, 730
Anaru Tuokairangi: see ‘Tuokairangi’
Anatoki, Nelson region: 512
Anderson, C: 890
Andersons Bay, Dunedin: 624 A n/l vnnTO 'I ’. k1 (
Andrews, T: 514 Anglo-Maori Wars: see ‘Wars’
Annexation: see ‘Constitutional evolution’ Aorere, Nelson region: 508p, 510p, 513p, 515, 538, 539, 656, 719, 721, 723
Aotea, S Auckland region: 837
Aotearoa/New Zealand: 29 et passim
Appeals, complaints: 406, 531, 576, 61 ‘ A ;„. t I j; ; 1.0 nr\ 1 ,r, ,
Appointment and dismissal: 8, 99, 110, 135, 138, 140, 174, 196, 264, 268, 272, 282, 297, 308, 313, 322, 327, 343, 357, 388, 396, 404, 405p, 413, 440, 443, 451. 486, 516, 529, 599, 600, 612, 633, 646, 760, 766, 770, 780, 781, 822, 854
Ara, Heremaia Te: 827
Arahura, Westland: 662, 676
Arama Karaka; see ‘Karaka’
rtrama rvaraaa: see ivaraKa Arapata Hauturu: see Hauturu'
Arawa: see ‘Tribes’
Ariki/senior chief: 30 et passim
Aripata, Tipene Hori: 835, 838
Armagh St, Christchurch: 642 Armon i AnotoyMiloriT nrAiQ/>t is ri ■ 7Q
Armed Constabulary, projected: 793, 895, 919, 928
Armed Constabulary, NZ: 452, 897, 920 938p, 939, 940p, 942
Armed Police Force (APF) 1846-1853: 178, 198, 238 et seq, 241, 248 et seq, 253ff, 267ff, 274f, 294, 310, 315, 321f, 327, 331f, 334, 393, 397, 430; civil variations, see ‘Akaroa’, ‘Nelson’; see also ‘New Munster’, ‘New Ulster’, ‘Provincial Police’ per province
Auckland: 178, 249 et seq, 259ff, 268 et seq, 275 et seq, 280, 284 et seq, 293 294f. 373 et seq, 379, 383, 384f, 388p’ 389, 390f, 398, 405, 430, 490; see also ‘Northland’ below
Canterbury: 31 If, 314f, 316 et seq, 320 323, 330ff, 384, 385f, 389, 390, 401. 402, 403, 404p, 405, 469p
Nelson: 264, 290, 297, 302, 303ff, 310 315, 316, 318, 324f, 330, 382, 503
New Plymouth: 245 et seq, 252, 259, 261 270, 271, 273, 275, 278 et seq, 286, 289’ 290ff, 294f, 303, 305, 372f, 375, 378 381 ff, 389p, 390, 394, 400, 401. 40s! 449
Northland; 263, 264, 280f, 286f, 28S 383f, 393, 395, 398f, 400, 402
Otago; 298 et seq , 302, 303, 308, 309, 312f, 313, 315, 317, 320, 325ff, 384. 394, 396, 491, 494
Waikanae: 244, 266, 267, 297, 299, 302, 303, 305, 307, 308, 309, 317, 322ff u; OAI n/Nl r./>o nnne nr.nr „„„
Wanganui: 201, 262, 263, 266f, 269f, 303 305f, 309, 312, 315, 320, 321, 322ff 333, 382f, 391f, 402
Wellington: 241 et seq, 252, 256, 257, 259, 264. 266, 268f, 288, 296f, 302, 303, 305, 307, 308, 309, 311, 315, 320, 321f, 33Iff, 376, 378, 384, 386f, 390, 392, 393, 400, 403, 404f, 406; see also ‘Hawke’s Bay’; and Waikanae. Wanganui above
See also: Provincial APFs per province Armed policing/enforcement: 63, 84. 85, 91. 124f, 130, 141. 168, 170f, 175, 185, 186, 201, 227, 228, 236, 240f, 273, 346 p. 372, 373, 443, 445f, 454f, 458. 469, 539, 561, 572, 587, 591, 623, 649, 666, 757, 826, 885, 941; see also ‘Armed Police Force’, ‘New South Wales Mounted Police’, ‘Armed Constabulary’
Armed robbery: 65. 78, 265, 563, 565, 570, 606, 669, 735; see also Burgess’
Armitage, James: 831, 833p, 834, 835, 836, 837p, 838, 839
Arms proclamation, 1858: 463f, 465 Arms, weapons
Police: 18, 63, 110, 120, 124f, 126, 141, 149f, 161, 168, 170f, 250, 269, 272, 304. 331, 337, 345, 346f, 371, 372, 375,377, 378, 386, 389f, 424, 427, 445, 447, 481. 487, 493, 502p, 538, 544, 546, 553 p. 554, 562, 566, 585, 588, 603, 637, 641. 650, 656, 669, 678, 684, 737, 742, 746. 751, 754, 758, 761, 780, 906, 917
Other; 41, 42. 44. 45, 53p, 65. 75, 86 167, 171p, 175, 222, 224, 228, 229, 230 240. 267, 279, 288, 371, 386. 399, 421 434, 444, 446, 454, 455, 463, 523p, 545 570, 585, 587, 618p, 649, 652, 747p 757, 806, 905p
Arnold River, Westland/S-W Nelson: 669, 677, 679, 732
1100
Index
Aromarere Te Puna, Te: see Puna'
Arowhenua, Canterbury: 471, 484, 648, 651 Arrow, The, Otago: 585, 586, 590, 591, 592, 596p, 597p, 604, 605, 701, 702
Arrowtown/Fox’s, Otago: 585, 586, 589, 591, 593, 596, 598, 604 A Kiiv'p Pftcc C antn.Ki , ,/Wao ♦ Innrl' C
Arthur’s Pass. Canterbury/Westland: 665, 666
Arthurs Point. Otago: 592, 707
Ashburton. Canterbury: 683
Asher, Samuel; 134
nsuci, oamufi. 104 Assaults: 21, 38. 132, 140, 141, 182, 204, 278f, 314, 347, 360, 363, 385, 386, 487, 501, 506, 603, 613, 629, 644f. 668, 699, 700, 725, 735, 737, 750, 764, 773, 776, 779, 782, 783. 790, 792, 819, 867 Assessors/' Maori maeistrates’/Kaiwha-
Assessors/ Maori magistrates /Kaiwhakawa: 258, 267. 268, 270, 292, 393, 423ff, 427, 449, 451, 452, 462, 463, 465, 520, 648, 721, 784p, 785, 795, 80Iff, 803p, 804, 805, 806, 808ff, 814, 815, 816f, 818p, 819p, 820, 821 et seq, 828ff, 833p, 835p, 838 p. 839. 841, 852, 855p, 861p, 928
Atchison, Frederick: 448, 534, 772ff, 781. 785, 786, 789, 790f, 792, 794, 797. 798p, 799, 800
Athenaeum, Wellington: 434
Atiawa: see ‘Tribes’
Atkinson, David: 440, 781, 782p, 783p
Atkinson, William: 324, 50S
Atkyns, Thomas Ringrose: 249, 252, 253, 257, 260p, 261, 263. 268, 269, 272p, 275. 276ff, 282, 283, 284p, 285. 286, 287. 373, 374p, 378, 388p, 389p, 398, 415, 430, 904
Attorneys-General: 78, 178, 215, 322, 388, 523, 776p, 777, 849
Auckland Policing, pre-provincial period: 128, 147, 149, 158, 177,178f, 187ff, 195, 205, 249 et seq, 259ff, 272ff, 286 et seq, 294, 295. 337, 338, 340f, 343, 344, 347. 350, 351, 353. 361, 363. 372, 373ff, 383ff, 388. 390, 398, 403, 405; see also ‘New Ulster’
Province/government: 294, 405, 414 et seq, 426 et seq, 449,522, 524, 563, 802, 859, 861, 892, 893. 897 et seq, 91 Ip, 915. 919, 935, 938p; Superintendency 294. 361, 414, 419, 422, 428, 861, 903. 925, 931, 932. 934
Provincial police: 294, 295f, 414ff, 426 et seq, 523f, 897 et passim ; Rural Police Bill 921
Region; 147f, 177, 217, 255, 286f, 289. 293, 422, 861, 901. 908, 934; see also ‘Bay of Plenty’, ‘Coromandel’, ‘Northland’. ‘Waikato’
Urban: 147f, 149, 161, 177ff, 187ff, 216, 217. 225, 228p, 229, 249ff, 259ff, 287. 288ff. 292, 336. 339. 360, 372. 393, 415, 416. 427, 429, 430, 435f, 443, 457, 460. 461, 479, 523, 742f. 780, 784, 804, 811,
813, 832, 845, 847, 848p, 849, 855, 861, 897, 900, 903, 904f, 907, 909ff, 920, 927, 935; see also ‘Capitals’
Aukati/cutoff lines, boundaries: 836, 842, 844, 848, 852, 859, 865p, 876, 877, 904, 908, 920p, 928, 938; see also ‘Borders’, ‘lndigenous responses’, ‘King Movement’
Aukomiro, Patihana; 824
Aura, Terehi Te: 826
Australia: 21. 29f, 42. 43, 49. 100, 130, 208, 238p, 258, 265, 314, 347, 351, 380, 519, 550, 562ff, 567, 569, 579, 593f, 625f, 648, 740, 741, 748, 892, 924; and gold 293, 402, 403, 404, 428, 476, 489, 508, 511, 513, 537, 541, 547, 548p, 559, 565, 578, 584, 588, 589, 624, 644, 649, 699, 702, 709, 726, 729, 755, 902; et passim ; see also: ‘Aborigines’, ‘Criminal justice process’, ‘Evolution of policing’, individual colonies.
Australian Magistrate, The: 145 ‘Authority’ and the Maori: 11, 18, 22, 32ff, 123, 126, 127, 132, 135, 152ff, 165ff, 171ff, 175ff, 184ff, 189f, 191p, 212ff, 233f, 237ff, 243ff, 278ff, 285f, 295f, 302ff, 321, 333ff, 357f, 364ff, 370ff, 382f, 423f, 454, 460, 463, 520, 522, 523 524, 525, 531, 784, 786, 793, 795, 802ff, 806 et seq, 813, 814, 820f, 83Iff, 844, 847, 849f, 851 et seq, 856 et seq, 885, 889, 891, 895, 896. 900; and land 136, 162, 175, 198, 212, 213f, 218f, 220f, 222, 223, 224, 226, 241, 245f, 290ff, 422, 460, 464, 465, 466p, 839, 844, 856f, 858, 868, 883; see also ‘Britain and NZ’ Avon, Christchurch: 485
Avon, unristcnurch: 480 Awatere. Marlborough: 505p, 506, 507
Awhitu, Auckland region: 425
B
Bailey. J L: 724 Bailiffs: 263, 350, 362, 381, 480, 499, 674, 775
Baillie, Alan: 936
Baillie, William Douglas Hall: 753p, 761 p. 762, 763p, 764, 765, 766, 767
Baker. Richard; 137, 138. 139, 140, 141p, 150, 332p, 333, 371, 387, 393, 400, 404p, 406, 432p, 433
Baker, Thomas: 666, 705, 713
Baker, William: 822p, 823p, 824
Balclutha/Molyneux Township. Otago: 616
oaiciuina/moiyneux i ownsnip, uiago: bib Baldwin, William; 568
Ballarat, Victoria: 550, 551, 552, 585 Banks: 547, 548, 565, 596, 598, 606, 612, 627, 660p, 662. 669, 673, 679, 713, 733, 738. 740, 756 D 1.. D ; I i in.. i ir,
Banks Peninsula, Canterbury: 142p, 143, 150, 153, 203, 204, 206, 265, 298, 313, 477, 484. 486. 490. 647, 648
Barker, Collet: 56f
Barr, John: 300
1101
Index
Barracks; 149. 235, 243, 244, 247, 251. 253, 262, 270, 275, 290, 295, 297, 322, 329f, 331, 388, 390f, 392p, 415, 420, 427, 430, 431. 482, 487. 489, 571, 589, 602, 606, 640. 642, 692p, 698, 707, 790, 842, 843, 844, 889
Barretts Hotel. Wellington: 345
Barry, Richard: 262. 299, 308, 330
Barry, William: 34£
Barsham, Albert G: 654
Barstow, R C: 817
Bartley, William: 422
Barton, John; 724
Bates, Henry: 784
Bathgate, Alexander: 610
Bathurst, Earl: 48
Bathurst, New South Wales; 127
Battle, James: 739ff
Baxter, James: 624
Bay of Islands. Northland: 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36p, 37p, 38p. 39p, 41, 42, 43. 44. 49, sOp, slp. 53p, 54. 62p, 63p, 65, 66p. 69p, 73. 76. 77. 79. 82. 83. 85 et seq, 89. 90, 91. 121, 123, 126, 127p, 130, 132p, 134, 135, 139, 141, 142 p. 143, 147, 148p, 156, 158, 180p, 181, 183, 185. 188, 190p, 203, 214. 215, 226, 227p, 229, 260, 261, 263p, 280p, 281p, 336, 339, 341p, 346, 349, 351, 361, 383, 384, 398f, 415, 418, 419f, 422, 428, 802, 809, 817, 819, 820, 821, 827, 830, 861; see also, inter alia, ‘Kororareka’
Bay of Plenty, S Auckland region: 802, 821, 824, 825, 846, 852, 854, 855, 861p, 919, 928, 929, 939
Bayly, Benjamin; 583, 585, 586, 588, 589, 591, 593, 594, 599, 601 p. 605, 608, 612. 613, 614, 617
Bealey, Samuel: 652p, 661 Bealey, Canterbury: 666p, 686 Beat patrolling: see ‘Surveillance patrol’ Beattie, George: 662, 663 Beaver, The/Blenheim, Marlborough: 504, 505p, 506, 507, 751
Beckham, Thomas: 134f, 146, 148p, 149p, 158p, 178, 179, 180 et seq, 184, 185p, 186p, 187p, 188p, 189, 195, 214f. 216p, 226, 227f. 231, 252, 260f, 263, 272, 276f, 278, 280, 281, 282ff, 285 p. 286, 287p, 288, 289p, 290p, 293p, 294, 320, 346, 347, 349, 370, 373, 375, 385, 386, 388, 391, 405, 4141 T. 419, 420, 494, 524. 903, 908
Bee: 61
Beechworth, Victoria: 640 r» iL. d. cnci con
Beetham, R: 598, 630
Belgium: 367
Bell Block. Taranaki: 456, 463, 866
Bell Blockhouse, Taranaki: 467
Bench of Magistrates: see ‘Magistrates
Bendigo. Victoria: 709
Benjamin, Constable: 333, 383
Bentham, Jeremy/Benthamism: lOlp. 102p, 103p, 105, 106, 107f, 109, 115, 119p, 359, 380, 447
Berard, A: 204p, 206f, 223, 230, 265 Bergin, Patrick: 757, 763p Berrey, Percival: 188, 189p, 284, 285 Best, A D W: 139. 140, 150, 154, 155. 158. 193, 357
Bevin, John; 567, 605
Bickle, William: 647
Biddle, Henry: 84
Bigge, J T: 45 et seq, 49, 50, 118, 119, 124
Bill of Rights 1688: 8f
Billing, Edward; 464
Bird, Albert P: 695. 697
Bird, George: 936
Birmingham, England: 116
Bittner, Egon; 1
Black Death:
Black tracker’ role: 245, 250, 256, 268, 274
Blackett, John: 733p, 734p
Blackstones/Hills Creek, Otago: 610
Blaketown/Greymouth, Westland: 656, 732
Blatch, Thomas: 555
Blenheim/The Beaver, Marlborough: 504, 751p, 752ff, 759, 764. 765. 767, 768, 769
Blind River. Marlborough: 505
‘Blue Cap Gang’: 265
‘Blue Jackets’: see ‘Armed Police Force
Blue Mountains. Otago: 69f
Blue Spur, Westland: 676
Blueskin, Otago: 582
Bluff/Campbelltown, Southland: 493, 496p, 497, 697
‘Bobbies’: 110, 113, 346, 535, 610 Bolton: 138
Bolton, England: 116
Bolton, Thomas: 393
‘Bombastes Furioso’: 461
Bomforth, H: 171
Bonar, J A: 692 Borders/boundaries
Auckland/Hawke’s Bay 880, 892; Auckland/Waikato 899, 904; see also ‘King Country’ below
Canterbury/Marlborough 505, 752; Canterbury/Otago 501, 537, 618, 635. 652, 671; East Canterbury/Nelson 635, 720; West Canterbury/Nelson 655, 668, 669, 677, 679, 732, 733. 734; West Canterbury goldfields districts 662
King Country. Kingite, ‘rebel’ 832, 837, 839, 842, 848, 864, 865, 907, 908; see also ‘Aukati’
Nelson/Marlborough 727 Otago/Southland 580, 583, 585, 617, 695. 696. 699p, 700, 701p, 702, 703, 706, 716 \\! aI t i n rvf nn / 1-4 o 1,(1/ n ' i- R o \ - fIQK*
Wellington/Hawke’s Bay 896 Wellington/Taranaki 784, 793 New Munster/New Ulster 275, 297 NSW re NZ 30. 32p. 37. 47. 88p
Borlase, Charles: 772, 798
Borton, Emily: 327
Boulcott’s Farm. Wellington region: 199, 243, 262
735
Index
Boulder Bank. Marlborough: 504 r» i__ o:_ u;„i J- k'Ta ca a i
Bourke, Sir Richard; 57p, 60. 61, 62, 63. 64. 66. 68. 70, 71p, 74, 75, 76. 77p. 79, 119p d c* . t — j — no Qtr. o a o n
Bow Street, London: 93, 94. 95p, 96, 97, 98p. 99. 103, 104, 107p, 116, 118, 123, 355, 358, 359, 379, 380
Bowen, Charles Christopher: 470ff, 476f, 482, 483, 489, 683
Bowtell. J; 260
Bowteii, d: Zbu Boyd: 33f, 36
Boyd, John: 462
Boyes, John; 514, 516f, 722, 732p
uu;cs, uuuu. un. uiui, i A.A., Boyes, Thomas: 517, 732
Bracken, Hugh: 555, 560, 566, 570f, 582p, 584, 585, 586, 587, 682
Bradshaw, J; 629f, 631
Braggins, Thomas: 534, 789
Branigan, St John: 541, 542, 546, 547, 549, 553p, 554 et seq, 562 et seq, 568 et seq. 583 et seq. 594, 596p, 598 et seq, 602 et seq, 607 et seq, 615 et seq, 623p, 625 et seq, 628 et seq, 641p, 645, 646, 654, 694, 695, 699, 702, 705, 738, 757, 768, 769, 780, 787, 899, 940 Eclat: 566, 578, 594, 595, 598, 613, 615, 620,622,626,628,637f, 640p, 645,874, 888
Personal relationships: 555, 560, 570, 577f, 581, 593, 596, 598, 599ff, 603f, 608, 61 Ip. 613ff, 615, 617, 703, 705, 757
Propaganda exercises: 563, 564, 579p, 584, 589, 592f, 593, 617, 623, 624, 625, 637, 664, 680
Bridge, Cyprian: 190, 263f, 281
Brighton, S-W Nelson: 745, 746, 747p, 750 Brilliant: 177f Brind, William: 54
Brisbane, Sir Thomas: 44, 47, 50, 124 Britain and NZ
Constitutional/legal: 29. 30, 32p, 34f, 35 et seq, 48, 50, 55ff, 58 et seq, 68 et seq, 78ff, 81 et seq, 83 et seq. 88 et seq. 128f, 136 et seq, 212, 217, 232. 258f. 274, 293, 296, 801; 1852 Constitution Act 293, 470; see also ‘Colonial Office’ Coercive/military power: 43, 47ff, 53, 54, 57. 58p, 59. 60. 61, 64. 66ff, 72, 75, 81. 82. 83. 90. 9lf. 129, 212, 257, 845. 853,
904; see also ‘Troops: Imperial' Britannia/Petone, Wellington: 141 British Kaffraria: 908
British Resident/Residency: 53, 54, 56ff, 75ff, 80ff, 83. 84. 85. 90. 716; see also Additional British Resident’, Busby’, McDonnell, Thomas, Snr’
Britomart, HMS: 142, 143p, 145, 150
lliTlO. 11L, 1 HO, Broad, Charles; 750
Broad, Lowther: 630
Broham, Thomas: 650, 656p, 657ff, 660p, 661 p. 662p, 663p, 664p, 665. 666, 667, 668. 669. 673, 674p, 675, 676 p. 677 p. 678 p. 679ff, 690p, 692. 734. 736
Brothers, Johnson; 367 Rrnwn. C. Hunter: 828. 829. 855
Brown, (J Hunter: 828, 820. 800
Brown, Charles (Superintendent): 448, 449p, 452, 453, 456, 457, 459p, 460p.461, 462, 849, 865, 875
Brown, Charles (‘Black Charlie’): 260, 379, 381p, 421 D AA.x A I n MM AAi aO A
Brown, James: 630
Brown, Richard: 278f H A U7 *ll 1 A • A 1 Q
Brown, William: 419, 422
Browne, C T: 678
Browne, Thomas Gore as Governor: 424, 427, 446, 522, 541, 776p i :_i aoa *** ACr. a an
and racial interface: 424, 444, 465, 467, 520, 522, 523p, 524, 806, 807f, Slip, 812, 816, 898
Bruce Bay. Westland: 673p, 674, 676, 737, 746
Brutton, William: 548
Bryars, Joseph; 227
Buckley, Alfred; 647, 654, 689
Buffalo, HMS; 75
Bullen, Robert: 582, 618
Buller, James: 799
Buller, Walter Lawry: 783p, 796, 799
830p, 853p
Buller River/region, S-W Nelson: 655, 658, 659, 679, 720, 725p, 726p, 727p, 728p, 731, 732, 733, 735, 738, 744 p. 746, 747. 771
Bunbury, Thomas; 129, 130p, 159, 225, 357, 365, 366, 716
Bureaucracy, policing and: 157f, 338, 339, 340, 350, 399, 827, 941
Burgess, Richard; 570, 618, 669, 678, 679, 680, 682, 687, 737ff, 744, 749 Burgess-Kelly Gang; 624, 679p, 680, 687, 737 et seq, 768; see also ‘Maungatapu’
Burns, Joseph: 216
Burton, George; 867
Bury, Maxwell; 724f
Busby, James: 59 et seq, 62 et seq, 68ff, 74 et seq, 77ff, 80f, 83, 84. 85. 86, 87p, 91, 126, 190
Bushrangers, highwaymen: 124, 125, 489, 563f, 596, 606. 618. 637, 667. 669, 678, 738, 747; see also ‘Burgess'
Butler, John Gare: 42, 43ff, 49. 50, 138. 139
Butler, Samuel; 479, 483
Byrn, Henry: 446. 532f, 785
Byrne, Daniel; 674, 676
c
Caledonian. The. S-W Nelson; 747 Califomia/Californians: 508, 537, 544, 580 755
Callan, Mathew: 764
Calliope . HMS: 199, 262
Cambridge, England: 176, 317, 470, 661, 813
736
Index
Cambridge, S Auckland region: 908, 916
Cameron, Angus: 326
Cameron, Sir Duncan: 523, 524, 793,
848, 869, 870, 877, 889
Cameron, Peter; 314, 320, 405
Camp, The/Charleston, S-W Nelson: 745
Camp, The/Queenstown, Otago: 586p
Campbell, Duncan; 700
Campbell, J C: 863 Campbell, J H; 829
Campbell, John Logan: 422
Campbell, Neil: 529p, 530
Campbelltown/Bluff, Southland: 496, 498,
499p, 500p, 501p, 694, 697, 700, 706, 711 713, 716p
Canada: 120, 942
Canoe Creek, S-W Nelson: 746 Canterbury
Province/government: 392, 409, 470ff, 477, 480ff, 633 et seq, 640, 688. 720, 855; Superintendency 470, 482, 652; and gold 634, 655, 656, 657, 659, 660, 661 p. 662, 663, 664, 665f, 667p, 674; and Victorianisation 638, 650, 654,
736; and Shearman 640f, 650, 652, 654, 656, 657, 659, 664, 665, 667, 671f, 674, 675, 677, 682, 685 et seq, 690, 691; Civil Service (Hamilton) Commission 683ff, 691
Provincial police: 468 et seq, 563, 618, 633 et seq, 640 et seq, 649 et seq, 655
et seq, 671 et seq, 683 et seq, 771; proposed South Island Force 638; Police Ordinance 1858 487, 651, 672
Region/settlement, policing: 19, 223, 311, 312, 313, 314f, 316 et seq, 320p, 384, 385f, 389, 390, 392, 401, 403, 404p, 421, 468ff, 471, 481, 484, 490, 536, 648, 671, 855; see also ‘West Coast: West Canterbury’
Canterbury Association: 313, 316p, 317p, 318p, 319p, 330ff, 404, 470, 642
Canvastown, Marlborough: 738, 739, 755, 756, 758, 76 Ip, 764
Cape Colony, South Africa: 57, 60, 239 554, 813f
Cape Egmont, Taranaki: 66
Capitalism: 7 et passim; see also ‘lndustrial Revolution’
Capitals of the colony:
Auckland: 128, 134, 146p, 147p, 148, 149, 158, 177, 179, 180, 181, 183, 214, 339, 341, 360, 427, 430, 522, 523, 790, 847, 907
Russell/Okiato: 128, 134, 146, 149, 178, 179, 180, 368
Wellington: 417, 448, 629, 790, 855, 922
Captives/kidnapping: 33, 51, 54f, 61f, 66f 75, 153, 865f, 893, 911, 922; war pris
oners 18. 244, 795, 860, 893, 912, 920, 928
Cardrona. Otago: 590, 609
Cargill, William: 299, 492, 495, 499, 501
Carleton, Hugh: 926
Caroline Riots: 107
Carr, John A: 669, 678, 679f, 741p
, UUo-, vri<J, UISI, /‘lip Carson, I: 929
Carter, Charles R: 434ff
Carter, J C L: 529, 530p, 884
Carter, Thomas; 754p, 755, 757, 758, 761
Carterton, Wairarapa; 437p, 785
Cash, Martin: 489, 490
Cashel Street, Christchurch: 490
Cassells, John: 630, 631p Cnl D 1f - ! . —T
Castle Point, Wairarapa; 787, 796, 797
‘Catskins’: 130, 133, 141; see also NSW
Mounted Police
Caversham, Dunedin: 561, 619
Cawte, John: 264, 305, 324f, 382, 753 Central Government: see ‘General Government’
Centralisation and devolution; 4ff, 25, 96, 97, 104, 105, 108f, 23Iff, 248, 254, 259, 263ff, 278p, 310p, 315ff, 340, 350, 356f, 408; and provincial governments 414, 417, 428, 429, 430, 439, 486, 530, 576,
631f, 638, 687, 688, 718, 720, 722, 748
767, 769, 790, 854, 921, 937, 939, 940, 941
Ceylon: 43, 239
‘Chain of command’: 263 et passim ; see also ‘Hierarchism’
Chalky Inlet, Fiordland: 50
Chalmers, Nathaniel: 696
Chancery Street, Auckland: 253, 373
Chapman, H S: 619, 717
Chapman, Israel: 380f
Chapman, John William: 555, 556, 559, 700, 708, 711, 715 Chflrlp«str»n/r!nnQtflnt Rnv S-W Molcnn-
Charleston/Constant Bay, S-W Nelson: 745p, 746, 747, 749, 750
‘Charlies’: 8
Charnock, George: 879
Chartism/Chartists: 85, 116,120, 135,172, 208ff, 343, 346, 357, 362, 367, 369, 372, 437, 480, 507
Chatham Islands: 361, 369, 464, 855, 861, 893
Chelydra: 134
Chetwode, P: 82
Chief Constable, office of: 6, 122f, 131, 141p, 148, 158p, 161, 163, 166, 170, 171, 174, 176, 178, 181, 182p, 187, 188p, 190, 194, 210, 224, 242, 260, 261, 262, 264, 265p, 305, 313p, 316, 330, 336, 340, 341p, 348. 349, 350p, 357, 362. 393, 398, 408f, 484, 493, 494, 512, 513, 542, 633, 635, 700, 753, 801
Chief Police Magistrates/Magistracies: 119, 121p, 122, 128, 133, 142p, 150, 151, 167, 173p, 176, 177, 179p, 187, 189, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195p, 197p, 198, 203, 213p, 221, 295, 338, 339, 340, 345, 347, 348, 350, 361, 399
China/Chinese: 547, 553, 617, 624p, 691 Chow, Ho: see Ho Chow’
737
Index
Christchurch, Canterbury: 19, 314, 318, 319, 469, 470, 471p, 472p, 474p, 476ff, 48Iff, 633, 635, 638, 639, 640p, 642, 643p, 645. 651, 653, 656, 659, 661, 662p, 664. 665. 666p, 667p, 668, 669, 670, 671, 681, 689. 690, 691, 692p, 720, 752, 763, 770; Police District 477, 478, 485; City Council Ordinance 651; see also ‘Port Victoria’
Church Missionary Society: 42, 49, 54, 80, 843
Chute, Trevor; 794, 796, 860, 874, 877
Civil libertarianism: 96f, 98, 104, 108, 109, 239. 312, 458, 649, 681, 709, 749, 921, 926
Civil Secretary: 327
Civil Service Commission: 862
‘Civilising mission’/'civilisation’: 36, 43, 53, 66, 67, 76, 81, 83, 90. 212, 217, 222, 225 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, 241p, 243, 245, 248, 249p, 264, 267, 268, 270, 274, 287f, 295, 296, 306p, 334p, 365, 374, 377, 417 424, 426, 435, 801, 806, 842, 854, 857, 859, 900; see also ‘Grey’, ‘Missions’ r’ln r-Lro Clorsfcta- IQK IOQ 01(1 non floor
Clarke, George: 186, 198, 219, 220, 228f 816, 817p, 819p, 820p, 825, 861
Clarke, H T: 802, 825, 852, 854, 861
llarke’s, Otago: 605
Class: 9, 11, 14, 17, 94p, 96f, 111, 116, 133, 166, 184, 199p, 207, 231, 241, 242, 246 291, 300, 307f, 325, 369p, 370, 432, 468, 470, 475, 477, 480, 483, 574, 596, 597, 638, 724, 735, 941; see also, inter alia, ‘Dangerous classes’, ‘Elites’, ‘lndustrial Revolution’, ‘Lumpenproletariat’, ‘Working class’
Clendon, James Reddy: 74, 82f, 128 189, 190p, 228f, 262, 364, 365, 418, 419 422, 802, 803, 817p dftvlrn C 1 U1 C fT 1 1 ,e A , Ar. . Art
Clerks, Chief Clerks: 156, 163, 166, 357 447, 540, 599f, 646, 690, 710
““ •, tfjltl, D4D, DUO, /1U Clifford, Charles: 762
Clive, Hawke’s Bay: 443, 444, 527, 530. 846 884, 887, 895, 896
Cloudy Bay, Marlborough: 79, 133, 150, 151, 158, 169p, 170p, 224, 343, 357, 363
Clutha/Tokomairiro, Otago: 500
Clutha/Molyneux River, Otago: 580, 581 583, 584, 588; see also ‘Dunstan’
Otago: 582, 627, 630
Coal/Massacre/Golden Bay, Nelson region; 168
Cobb & Co: 590, 605
Cobbett, William: 20
Cobden, S-W Nelson: 679, 733, 735. 736 737, 746, 748p
‘Coercive’/’condign’ power; Iff, Ilf, 14, ]g 25, 36. 37, 39, 43, 44, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58 59, 60, 62, 64, 67, 71, 72, 75, 79, 82, 84’ 85, 88, 90, 91. 97. 113, 118, 123. 124, 128* 132, 133, 135, 137, 140, 144, 153, 162 172, 182, 185, 186, 191p, 197, 198, 200 201, 203, 204, 206, 207, 210, 211, 214,
215, 217, 218, 221, 223, 226, 230, 233p, 234, 235, 237p, 240, 243, 246, 251, 254, 260, 261, 273, 274, 280, 288, 292, 314, 315, 321, 333, 340, 346, 359, 372, 378p, 382, 385, 387, 407, 423, 425, 429, 431, 439, 441, 442, 446, 452, 462, 464, 500. 518, 524, 525, 527, 531, 538, 539, 549, 558p, 562, 564, 570p, 571p, 574, 575, 603, 618, 644, 645. 651p, 688, 693, 729, 753, 759, 798, 856, 858, 880, 888, 890, 892, 897, 929, 937; see also ‘Control/coercive continuum’
Coldbath Fields, London: 356, 380 r< T. l on 1 a , _ , nn
Cole, G J: 137, 14 Ip, 151, 178
Colenso, William; 443, 528p
Collingwood, Nelson region: 489, 510, Slip, 512ff, 516, 517, 538p, 658, 720, 721p, 722, 723, 725, 731, 733, 734
140, 140, 10 1, too, /|54 Collins, James; 534f
Colne, England: 116
Colonial Defence, Department of: 891
Colonial Defence Act: 885, 890, 891, 906;
Colonial Defence Force (CDF): 786f, 800, 885f, 889, 890, 896, 901; Auckland Division 906ff, 916, 926, 928; Hawke’s Bay Division 886 et seq, 889f, 891p, 892f, 895f, 906; Wellington Division 786, 787ff 793, 794, 796, 797, 800, 854, 892. 906; and land grants 907
Colonial Office: 47, 56, 59, 71, 73, 75, 76, 79, 80, 81, 84, 88, 89p, 119, 130, 136! 157, 172, 178f, 196, 202, 216, 217, 226 226, 233, 236p, 237p, 238 p. 239, 251, 2S4p, 257, 258p, 269, 267, 296p, 414, 523 801, 811, 812
Colonial Secretaries, NZ: 131, 145 164 226, 232, 265, 276, 277, 302, 303, 310’ 327, 398, 776
Colquhoun, Dr Patrick/Colquhounism: 15, 21p, IOOf, 102, 103, 104, 105, 107p 109p, 111, 120p, 366, 369, 380p
Combination laws: 108
Commission of the Peace: 8 et passim; see ‘Magistrates’
Commissioners/Commissionerships Civil: 814, 815, Bl6f, 818, 822, 823p, 824 827,828, 829p, 831, 838,842,850, 864f 855, 858, 859, 861, 886, 890, 893, 929, 935; see also ‘Runanga, official/legai system’
Crown Lands; see ‘Land’
of Goldfields: 293, 544, 546,563, 568 577 580, 582, 661, 675, 699, 734, 748, 936
Land Purchase: see 'Land: Purchases’
rurcnases Police: 13, 14, 98, 99, 106, 109, 110, 119 267, 277p, 280 et seq, 320, 330f, 383’ 386, 396, 419, 470, 477, 479, 480p 482’ 485, 486, 487, 488, 489, 524, 541,’ 551’ 562, 553,554, 568p, 636f, 637, 639, 640’ 706, 717, 732, 742, 758, 760, 762, 766n’ 768, 844, 899, 932, 934
-vu, UTI, WJ, J7 OC, VOt Commissions/Committees of Enquiry: see ‘Enquiries’
1105
Index
Committees of Public Safety/Protection: 171. 210, 221, 222, 229
Common law; 1, 110, 255, 372, 569
Commons, House of; 8, 15, 67, 356
Communications: 145, 157, 167, 196, 213, 224, 231f, 248, 256, 266, 268, 276, 278, 281. 285, 294, 357, 377, 393, 417, 419, 495, 501, 506, 563, 584, 592, 679, 717, 720, 781, 789, 831, 918; see also ‘lsolation’, ‘Terrain’
Compensation/reimbursement; 187, 333, 342, 343, 349, 397, 399, 402p, 450, 471, 481, 488, 490, 611, 627, 766, 791; for sickness 354, 401p, 533, 708
Comte de Paris: 143
‘Condign’ power: see ‘Coercive/condign power’
Conditions of work: see ‘Hours/conditions of work’
Confederation of Chiefs: 79, 81
Conservators of the Peace: 6p, 7, 364
vunocivawis ui me X catc. up, /, oat Constable, office of; 1, 6p, 7p, 14ff, 22ff, 111, 112, 113, 255, 372, 569, 766, 776; et
passim Constables, elective: 822
Constables, ‘local’: see ‘APF: Nelson’
Constables, part-time: see ‘District constables’
Constables, shipboard: 166, 316, 368, 791
Constables, special: see ‘Special constables’
Constabulary, constabularisation: 57, 93, 99, 105, 116, 235, 248, 252p, 371, 407, 500, 509, 535, 540, 569, 574, 651, 711, 718, 735, 765, 787, 853, 854, 855, 859, 870, 881, 885p, 886p, 887p, 891, 897, 907, 928, 938, 941; see also ‘Armed Constabulary’. ‘Armed Police Force’, ‘lrish Constabulary’
Constabulary Force Ordinance: 254ff, 275, 277, 278, 310, 312, 322, 331, 376, 377f, 396, 397p, 398, 399, 406, 451, 473, 481, 487, 494, 502, 530, 613, 622p, 633, 657, 672, 801
Constant Bay/Charleston, S-W Nelson 744, 745p
Constitutional Association/Party: 332, 431, 436, 446; see also ‘Featherston’ Constitutional pvolntion of NZ
Constitutional evolution of NZ Crown Colony period: 128f, 158, 195, 274f, 293, 329, 335, 470; see also ‘New Munster’, ‘New Ulster’
New South Wales period: 10, 29f, 32f, 37, 40, 42, 43p, 46f, 57, 78 et seq, 81p, 83p, 86, 88 et seq, 120, 121, 128f, 142, 158; see also ‘Additional British Resident’. ‘British Resident’ Prr>\Mr<rM£>l crrwornmpnt npnnrl' 9Q.3 39Q
Provincial government period: 293, 329, 335, 414, 808, 938; see ‘Provincial government’; ‘General/central Government’; ‘Self-reliant policy’
Constitutional Reform Party: 798 n. — „.,l„ M 7, CQ 'TQ IQ QO QQn QQ QQ
Consuls in NZ: 68, 73, 79. 82, 83p, 88. 89
Contracts of service: 155, 157, 242, 275, 311, 337, 388, 394, 404, 405, 435, 443,
471. 473, 477, 478, 490, 531, 543, 54' 583, 606, 611, 633f, 703, 736, 913 (Vintml /morciuo mntini nim • 1 cnr, 11
Control/coercive continuum: 1 et seq, 11. 12, 14. 17p, 25, 92, 118, 191, 237, 407. 468, 497, 532, 535, 553, 558p, 607, 626 723, 800, 889, 899, 940, 941
Control of the policing function: 2 et seq, 12ff, 17, 25p, 93ff, 103. 112f, 124, 254f, 256f, 258, 259, 260f, 262ff, 280. 289, 293f. 303f, 308, 310, 313, 317, 320ff, 355, 396, 413p, 415, 438, 439f, 451, 466, 486, 515f, 529, 531, 577f, 599f, 612, 646, 656f, 672 et seq, 685ff, 713, 715, 722, 734, 748, 753. 754, 759f, 765, 766ff, 770, 772 et seq, 781. 789, 790, 798ff, 819, 821, 865, 884, 894, 899, 902, 933, 941; see also ‘Hierarchism’, ‘Home Secretary’, ‘Judiciary’, ‘Law, The’
Convicts/convictism/‘runaways’: 21, 29, 30, 32, 33, 38, 41, 44, 47, 50. 51, 52, 53, 57, 61. 62p, 63. 68. 75, 76. 83, 86p, 93, 99. 118, 119, 124, 128, 130p, 132, 161, 162, 165, 169, 181p, 182, 265, 312, 314, 346, 354p, 356, 360, 361p, 363, 381, 383, 440, 548, 550, 564, 593p, 625
Conway, HMS: 75
Cook, James: 29, 31, 139
Cook, Richard: 169p, 171
Cook Strait area: 82, 144, 150, 161, 169p 170, 173, 197, 224, 468
Cooper, George, constable: 656p, 657, 658
Cooper, George, official: 291
Cooper, George Sisson: 291p, 294, 295, 441, 443, 448, 449, 450p, 451p, 452ff, 457, 458, 460, 463, 525, 829, 897
Coppinger, William: 699, 700
Coromandel, Auckland region: 147, 283f, 293, 900, 90If, 910, 916, 935; see also ‘Thames’
Coster, John; 171
Cost of living: 145, 156f, 204, 311, 329, 332, 337, 338p, 392, 394, 403 p. 404p, 409, 416, 421, 428, 458, 478, 481, 496, 510, 538, 543, 576, 583, 610, 654, 678, 737. 873, 911, 914, 934
Costs of policing; see ‘Expenditure
Court appearances, verdicts: 154, 169, 210, 212, 222, 225, 260, 265, 279, 361, 376f, 475f, 515, 595, 678, 680, 700, 705, 707, 724, 730, 741f. 759, 763f, 773, 795, 848
Courthouses: 131, 154, 161, 213, 225, 316, 342, 376, 484. 506p, 507, 512, 525, 529, 630, 775, 842, 904, 914 Courts Leet: 5, 6, 7 Momctoriol- QQ 1 fi3 IRft ISQ 9fil 97fi
Magisterial: 99. 163, 168, 189, 261, 276 382, 436, 459, 595, 602, 630, 871
Martial: 244, 266, 928
‘Popular’/informal: 50, 73. 84, 569
Runanga/Assessor: 815, 820, 842 mo- 13* lfi3 91* 300 39* 39Q
Supreme: 43, 135,163, 215, 300, 325, 329, 361, 381, 384, 531, 595, 629, 700, 720. 724, 737, 741
1106
Index
Courts —continued
Wardens, Goldfields: 513, 733
See also ‘Native Land Court’
Craigieburn, Canterbury: 666
Crawford, James and Thomas: 872
Creed, Constable: 865; see also ‘Karira’
Crick, William: 936
Crime, theories of; 18 et seq, 100, 106,108, 468. 930
Crimea: 605, 653, 769, 866, 889
‘Criminal Class’/'Underworld’: 95, 381, 469p, 489, 562, 623, 625, 664, 678, 682, 684, 741; see also ‘Lumpenproletariat’
riminal justice process: 34f, 35 et seq, 55f, 57, 58ff, 74, 78p, 88, 90, 126, 135, 140f, 195, 204, 205, 215, 460, 564, 669, 678, 680, 725, 740 et seq, 774 et seq
Croker, Edward: 568
Cromwell, Oliver: 8
’romwell. Otago: 630
Cropper, E: 171
Crow, W: 74f
■ rown Range, Otago: 588
Cruickshank, George: 757, 761, 764
Cumberland : 39 Pnrlinff .Inkn' A A AA d HOC KOI
Curling, John: 443p, 445, 526, 527 Purfic Ociirolil' IAQ
Curtis, Oswald: 748
Customs, revenue: 56, 158, 163, 207, 228, 281, 291, 299, 313, 314, 323, 329, 341, 373, 398f, 442, 462, 496, 510, 522, 557. 559, 636. 647, 662, 671, 687
Cutfield, George: 462, 466
VUlllvlU, OvUrgc. *tDO Cutten, William: 541, 542
D
Dacre, Southland: 71J
Daldy, William; 910
Dalgleish, Samuel Mead: 601, 608, 617 ‘Dangerous’/'troublesome’ classes/characters: 1. 17, 24, 94, 97, 100, lOlf, 106, 108f, 111, 114, 133. 379, 625, 843, 921; see also ‘Lumpenproletariat’, ‘Working class’
Daniell, E: 309
Darby, John: 659
Darling, Sir Ralph: 47, 49, 51, 52, 53, 54p, 55p, 56p, 57p, 69
Darwin, Charles; 69, 226
Davern, John; 881p, 883
Davis, Richard; 61
Dawson, Gilbert Francis: 149, 160 et seq, 178, 180, 193p, 195, 199. 213, 219, 337f, 360, 365
De Pontius, James: 738, 739
4 uuuuo, values, i 00, / 017 De Thierry, Baron Charles: 47, 70, 73, 183p, 226
De Thierry, Charles: 183 r\ n t
De Veil, Sir Thomas; 93, 94
Deadman’s Creek, S-W Nelson: 749
Lypauillall fl vICCR, O* Vr INCISOn. / Deane, James; 611
Deans, John: 223
Deans, William: 223, 318
‘Declaration of Independence’: 71p, 76, 79p
Deep Creek/The Forks, Marlborough; 738p, 739, 740, 741, 744, 755, 762, 764p, 767, 768
Deighton, Frederick M: 439, 445
Deighton, Joseph: 484, 641
Deighton, Samuel: 788
‘Demilitarisation’ of police: 285, 303, 310, 323, 325, 331, 406, 536, 684, 687, 691, 771, 940
Denahan, Charles: 78
Denning, Lord; 112
UUIU. 11 Deserters/absconders: 62, 69, 72, 83, 86, 87, 154, 165, 281, 292, 324, 347, 351, 361, 364, 373, 398p, 405, 474, 484, 501, 507, 534, 543, 559, 560, 586, 642, 647, 649, 697, 751, 776, 923
Despard, Henry: 189, 252
Detection/deterrence: 19, 22, 24f, 95f, 97p, 116, 181, 358p, 359, 360, 379 et seq, 422, 432, 447, 515, 535, 556, 557, 558, 561, 566, 574, 640, 670, 709p, 847, 933
Detectives: 24, 181, 379ff, 422, 499, 539, 541, 557p, 558, 562, 564, 582, 584, 589, 593, 595, 602, 603, 608, 610, 616, 618, 619p, 623, 637, 638, 640, 665, 670p, 671, 678, 680, 684, 687, 695p, 709, 710, 711, 712, 714, 730, 734, 749, 758, 764, 872, 914, 917, 918p, 922, 924p, 933p, 936
Dick, Thomas: 628
Dictionary of Canterbury Biographies; 489
Dieffenbach, Ernst; 177
Discipline: 107, 110,113, 125, 149, 242, 257. 273, 275, 302, 303, 327, 333, 348, 357, 359f, 375. 388p, 390, 394, 395, 396p, 402f, 406f, 419, 420, 421, 430, 448, 488, 529, 530, 533, 543, 556, 567, 572f, 575f, 599, 600, 601, 613p, 620, 621p, 636, 640, 643, 646, 653, 654, 657p, 674, 677, 678, 685, 700, 760, 766, 772p, 790, 792, 823. 843, 881, 884, 891, 894, 914, 917, 942
Disciplinary actions: 156, 158, 181, 182. 201. 202, 261, 272, 276, 282f, 287, 313, 316, 323p, 326, 330p, 337, 347, 348, 357, 374f. 393, 400, 404, 405. 409, 439, 448, 476, 477, 478, 480p, 489. 497, 531, 534, 555, 559, 589, 598p, 599, 600, 601, 602, 603, 612, 614p, 634p, 664. 667, 670, 674, 677, 678, 707p, 708, 736, 766, 781, 854, 861, 912, 913, 924
Discretion: 8, 22f, 25, 114, 122, 133, 163 217, 220, 227, 241, 255, 261, 262, 297, 327, 357, 388, 397, 407, 473, 550, 559 580, 606, 620, 651, 657, 759, 768, 778, 780, 867, 92 Ip
I OU, OO I, Dismissals: see ‘Appointment and dismissal’
Distilleries, Inspector of: 558
District, part-time, constables: xvii, 12 161, 201, 232, 290, 330, 324, 343, 344, 430, 438, 439, 440, 445, 446, 457 472’ 486, 492, 493, 495, 500, 503, 504, 505p’, 506, 607,508, 510, 612p, 514p, 615, 51611 528, 529, 530, 532, 533, 636, 720p, 721’ 722, 728, 730, 731, 761, 752, 753, 764,
1107
Index.
District, part-time, constables- coni'd 758, 764, 765, 785, 789, 796, 797, 799, 806, 808, 810, 861, 877, 882, 894, 895 896, 905, 914f, 915, 919, 921, 923, 929, 930, 934, 935; pay 343, 492, 500, 503, 504, 505, 517, 877, 915, 935
Districts of Runanga: 814, 815, 817p, 818 et seq, 828ff, 837p, 839, 847, 849, 863, 854, 855
Dobson, George: 679f, 738, 740 Dog control: 272, 276, 326p, 386, 398, 432, 482, 516, 517, 882 TA oo t ♦ AI „ .1. oc c oAn non no ,
Domett, Alfred: 255, 302p, 303p, 304, 307, 310, 321, 322p, 323, 327, 330, 331, 332, 333, 334, 396, 398, 399, 400, 441, 442p, 443, 516, 719, 810, 839, 885. 886, 890, 903
Donald, William: 485, 651 nnnmtllii D. QO^
Donnelly, R: 924
Dorset, William; 266
Dow, Andrew: 703
Dow, Peter: 540, 559
Doyle, Edward: 78p, 86
Dromedary, HMS: 43, 44, 45, 46
Drury, Auckland region: 832, 845, 899, 900 904p, 906, 910
Du Fresne, Marion: 30f, 33
Dublin, Ireland: 99
Dudley, James: 738
Duncan, John: 664
Dunedin, Otago: 298, 299p, 300, 307, 308, 310, 325f, 327, 328, 384, 396, 471, 493, 494. 495, 496, 497, 498, 501, 502, chapter VII passim, 699, 700, 701, 704p, 706, 742f, 750, 763, 910, 940 Policing: 299, 302, 312f, 317, 320, 328, 329p, 330, 394, 492 p. 495, 497, 498, 499, 501p, 502, 503, 562, 568, 573, 600, 601, 602, 607, 608, 61 If, 613, 616, 643p
Dunleavy, James: 44
Dunleavy, John; 402, 439
Dunn, John: 458p, 45*9, 461p, 462p, 463, 464f, 468, 519p, 520, 521, 865p, 867, 869, 870. 871, 872, 873, 874p, 875, 877, 878, 879p, 880
Dunstan/Clyde, Otago: 582, 588, 594, 604, 612, 613 Dunstan Mountains/area. Otaeo: 537.
Uunstan Mountams/area, Utago: 537, 580p, 581 ff, 585p, 586, 587p, 588p, 590, 591, 593, 594, 596, 599, 60Ip, 602, 605, 608, 610, 612, 614, 617, 624, 630, 699
Durie, David Stark; 221, 242p, 244p, 245p, 247, 266, 267, 272, 273, 277, 297p, 299, 302, 303, 304p, 305, 306p, 307, 308, 309, 310p, 311, 314, 317, 320, 321p, 322p, 323p, 324, 325, 333, 334, 371, 376, 382f, 388p, 389, 390, 391, 394p, 395p, 399p, 400, 402, 406, 439
Dusky Sound, Fiordland: 30
Dutch East India Company: 29
Duties, police, various: 19, 243, 272, 278, 281, 289, 297, 311, 313, 318, 321, 333, 343, 350, 364 et seq, 363 et seq, 372 et seq, 379 et seq, 381 et seq, 406, 417, 418,
419, 420, 428f, 434, 442, 445, 447, 459f 460. 461, 462, 464. 476, 482p, 485p, 486’ 488, 489, 490f, 494, 495, 497, 498f, 51 If’ 514, 516p, 517f, 519, 528p, 539f, 548, 558,’ 559, 562. 569, 572f, 574. 580. 581f, 602 604, 605, 606, 623, 636, 640, 642, 647 656, 662f, 665, 669, 674, 675. 684, 685’ 686, 687, 708p, 720, 722, 730. 734, 735, 737. 749, 751, 754, 759, 765. 775 p. 782 796. 798, 799, 810, 815, 844, 850. 865 p. 869, 872, 875, 882, 901, 909, 917, 926, 933, 936p, 941p; as ‘servants’ 323, 327, 328. 338, 395p, 396, 458, 497, 620, 754, 786; see also, inter alia, ‘Dogs’, ‘Fires’. ‘Gold: Escorts’, ‘Postal duties’
Dutton, J: 732
Dyer, Richard: 678
Dyke, G: 929
E
E
Earll, W B: 507, 751 Earthquakes: 433, 50£
East Cape/East Coast/Poverty Bay: 41, 44. 425f, 446, 524, 806, 821, 822, 823, 824, 892p, 893, 939
oao, pop East India Company: 36
East India Squadron, Royal Navy: 49
Economy, fluctuations in: 2, 21, 97, 106. 108, 109, 179, 180, 183, 185, 214, 278, 330, 338, 344, 354, 360, 361, 382, 394, 405, 423, 426, 428, 434, 446 p. 447, 459, 462. 482, 490, 493, 501, 537, 541, 542, 543, 610, 616, 618, 627, 671, 687, 689, 691, 695, 707, 708, 709, 711, 716, 718, 728, 730, 750, 768, 771, 792p, 796, 873, 895, 896, 898, 900, 910, 914, 916, 922, 924, 925f, 933, 935, 937, 941, 942
Edinburgh, Scotland: 14'
Edward I: 6
Edward III: 7
Edwards, Edwin: 719, 723, 729, 737, 740, 744
Edwards, J T: 787, 830, 854p
‘Efficiency Ordinance’: 312, 386, 406, 486 494, 495, 511 PI rv i e'nn
El Dorado accommodation house: 606
Elbow. The, Southland: 708
Elder, Thomas: 729
Eldridge, Thomas: 490, 634
UIUI luge, X UUIIICU9. TJU, uut Elections, election campaigns: 436f, 511, 533, 753p, 765, 772
Elites: 40. 84. 86p. 104, 137. 145, 154, 163, 164, 167, 168p, 172, 173, 183, 192, 199, 201, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 224, 241. 243, 255, 319, 326, 328, 345, 360, 370, 371, 431, 432, 446, 484, 485. 529p, 531, 557, 597, 649, 671, 685. 691, 710, 718. 720, 721, 723, 752, 765, 772, 859, 890. 892; ‘squattocracy’ 431, 437, 441, 506, 526, 828, 882, see also ‘Pastoralism’ r/; aa an eo cn oon
Elizabeth : 54. 55p, 57, 58. 67, 23(
Elies, A J: 496 /-'i i c i rw, Ki 1
Elliott, Charles; 510p, 511
1108
Index
Elliott, Robert: 490
Emerson, John; 759, 765, 767, 768, 769p, 770p
Endeavour, HMS: 29
Enquiries, official: 23, 67, 96, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 113, 120, 183, 194, 223, 225, 356, 380, 436, 448, 450, 459, 488, 512, 527, 551, 595, 598p, 599, 612, 621f, 628, 636, 683ff. 691, 763, 781, 809, 811, 832, 862, 881, 903, 909, 912, 931, 933
Entrapment: 554, 558p, 759, 847
Epa: 299
Epiha: 306
Cipiuu, ouo Epsom, Auckland; 363, 906
Epuni: 137, 230, 244
Erimana Otakorau: see Otakorau’
Eru Oho; see ‘Oho’
Erueti Te Whiti: see ‘Te Whiti’
Erueti Turangapito; see Turangapito’
Escapes, escapees: 38, 47, 52, 57, 64, 75, 76. 83. 86. 156, 158, 169. 181, 182, 300, 342, 346, 354, 357, 360, 363, 368, 403, 405, 440, 447, 469, 475, 476, 477, 479, 481, 486, 496, 497, 498, 502, 511, 548, 560, 570, 623, 669, 795, 865, 867, 871. 875, 883, 912, 920; see also ‘Convicts’, ‘Deserters’
Esk, HMS; 913
Ethnocentrism: 31, 53, 63, 65. 66, 91, 152, 153, 168, 218, 220p, 222, 224p, 269, 274, 279, 303, 334f, 417, 433, 449, 454, 458, 525, 624, 726, 754, 802, 807, 814, 832, 833, 837, 846, 857, 858ff, 878, 898, 901, 928, 936; see also 'Racial attitudes’
Eureka Stockade. Victoria: 537, 545, 552, 553, 557, 597, 601
Evacuation, evacuees: 187, 228, 229, 515, 520f, 892
Evans, G S: 345
Evans, J; 883
Evers, William; 430. 898, 904, 913, 925 Evidence: 169, 475, 570, 669, 726, 739. 74 Ip, 749, 871
Evolution of policing
Australian: 10, 93, 99f, 111, 118ff, 124f, 133, 236f, 239, 309, 322, 352, 356, 360, 380f, 478,545, 549ff, 553; see also ‘New South Wales’, ‘Victoria’
British: 3 et seq, 12 et seq, 22 et seq, 84f. 93 et seq, 106 et seq, 114 et seq, 120, 123f, 231, 235, 248, 351f, 354ff, 358ff. 366ff, 372, 379f, 549, 685, 814, 941; see also ‘lrish Constabulary’, ‘London Metropolitan Police’, ‘New Police’. ‘Control of the policing function’
New Zealand: 101T, 18, 22, 25p, 93, 120, 254ff, 275, 293f, 296, 331. 344, 814f, 938, 940ff; and see, inter alia, ‘Armed Police Force’, ‘Control of the policing function’, ‘District constables’, ‘New South Wales’. ‘New South Wales Mounted Police’, ‘Police Magistracy’. ‘Provincial Policing’, ‘Runanga. official/legal system’, ‘Victorianisation’
Ewahu; 222, 371
Ewart, John: 752 FirinO .Inh n•
Ewing, John; 624
Examiner, see ‘Nelson Examiner’
Executions: see ‘Hangings’
Executive Councils/Councillors: in Crown
Colony period 174, 215f, 282, 323, 325. 395, 399, 400, 401, 404; in Provincial Period 423, 457, 467p
Expenditure/costs of policing: 51, 60p, 64, 109, 117, 121, 129p, 155, 211, 233, 250f, 252, 256, 257, 265, 271, 284, 285f, 300, 317, 318f, 328, 333, 340ff, 349f, 351, 364, 368, 377, 389, 413, 415, 416, 422, 428, 430. 431, 438, 450p, 453, 455, 459, 471, 472, 475, 477, 482, 483, 485, 488, 490, 491p, 493, 498, 499, 502, 503, 510, 516p, 517, 526, 530, 540, 554, 556, 562, 564, 577, 584, 585, 587, 590, 610f, 612, 613, 615, 616f, 627, 635, 636, 640, 641, 642, 650, 654, 655, 659p, 662p, 666p, 672, 675, 682p, 683, 685, 686, 691, 693, 695, 697, 71 Op, 711, 713, 717, 720, 728, 729, 730, 731p, 737, 752, 758, 764, 766, 770, 814, 823 , 827, 849, 860, 869, 873, 875, 877, 878, 879, 881, 885, 888, 893, 894, 895, 899, 900, 91Op, 911, 915, 916, 918, 922p, 923p, 925, 932, 937, 939; see also ‘Pay’. ‘Rewards’, ‘Salaries’
Experiment: 35
Eyes, William Henry; 753, 759f, 765ff ‘Eyes and ears of the state’: 7, 22, 81, 93, 99, 119, 133, 135, 147, 162, 166, 177, 180, 184, 215, 247, 259, 262, 414, 425, 442, 862; see also ‘High policemen’, ‘lntelligence gathering’
Eyre, Edward: 237, 239. 296ff, 302ff, 313ff. 316, 319, 320, 321f, 323, 331, 395, 399f, 405
Eyre, R: 743
F
Fagan, Thomas; 324p, 325, 503ff, 510, 514p, 515p, 719
Fairburn, W: 51
Fairdown, S-W Nelson: 749 •C’-l > Ml I * i: • .
‘False’, illegal arrest/imprisonment: 62, 78, 139f, 204, 205, 362. 376, 462, 595f, 597, 615, 620, 625, 644, 648, 667, 691, 729, 763. 778
Far North, the: see, inter alia, ‘Bay of Islands’, ‘Hokianga’, ‘Kororareka’, ‘Northland’
Farrar, Catherine: 714
Farrell, James; 604
Fatalities and injuries: 29. 31, 33f, 38, 39, 40, 4lf, 44p, 46. 50, 51, 52p, 55, 65, 67f, 76, 77. 78, 84. 129, 150, 167, 171p, 178, 187. 213, 216, 227, 266. 278f, 288. 292, 308, 316, 319, 324, 343, 348, 356. 371, 376, 401, 409. 436, 442, 453, 463, 469 477. 481, 487. 490. 506, 515, 521, 525, 534 p. 547, 552, 589. 603, 604, 605, 612,
1109
Index
Fatalities and injuries—continued 613. 619, 624p, 644, 652, 664. 670, 682, 692. 698, 700, 708. 731, 761, 764, 782. 792, 795, 839, 863, 872, 875, 880, 897, 907, 930; See also ‘Assaults’, ‘Murders’
Favorite, HMS: 21{
Featherston, Isaac E: 332, 431, 433p, 434, 435. 436, 437ff, 442, 445, 446p, 447, 448. 532ff, 772 et seq, 781, 782, 784 et seq, 790, 793, 795, 798f, 850
Featherston, Wairarapa; 437, 788. 794, 796
Fencibles, Royal NZ: 273f, 276, 280, 288. 289. 291, 293, 294, 383, 391, 415; see also ‘Military pensioners’
Fenians: 771
Fenton, Francis Dart: 423, 424p, 425 p. 427, 460. 806p, 807, 808p, 809, 810p, 811, 813, 814, 816, 818, 831, 833p, 834, 836, 856
Fenwick, William: 539, 541
Ferard, A B: 773 et seq
Ferrymead, Canterbury: 686
Fielding, Henry: 94p, 95, 96. 97p, 100. 102, 107, 111, 358f, 379f
Fielding, John: 94p, 95p, 96p, 97p, 98, 100, 102, 104, 107, 358f, 379f
Fiji: 614
Financial constraints, considerations: 21, 39. 44. 45. 49, 60. 61p, 62. 64, 68, 72, 77. 82, 83. 89. 90. 121, 129, 151, 155, 157, 158, 159, 167, 189, 200p, 203, 205, 207, 212, 237, 238, 271, 272, 278, 285, 286, 287, 293, 302p, 308p, 309, 317, 322, 324, 328, 331, 336, 338, 340, 341, 342, 343, 344, 345, 349p, 370f, 382, 384. 389, 391 p. 393, 397, 398, 402, 408, 413, 415, 428p 429, 431, 437f, 445, 446p, 449, 455, 458, 459, 460, 482, 494, 507, 508, 509, 514. 516, 517, 523, 526, 529, 532, 533p, 576, 583, 584, 587, 589, 590, 592, 607, 608ff. 611, 615, 623, 626f, 635, 659, 663, 666, 667, 669, 671, 672, 674, 675, 677, 679, 682, 683, 685, 686, 697, 700f, 703p, 704, 707, 708, 710, 713ff, 720, 721, 727, 736, 751, 752, 760, 762, 766, 768, 770, 792, 796, 798, 809, 823, 825, 826, 831, 857, 860, 861, 870, 877, 878, 881, 882, 896p, 898, 900, 903, 914, 918, 920, 922, 925, 926, 928, 929, 935, 937, 938, 942
Findlater, Alexander; 330
Finn, Patrick: 129
Finucane, M: 448, 534
Firearms: see ‘Arms’
Fires, fire control: 342, 348, 434, 490, 519, 573, 616, 651, 731, 774. 932
Firth of Thames, Auckland region: 919
Fisher, Francis; 178, 205 u i c j i.
FitzGerald, James Edward; 317p, 318 p. 320, 323, 330, 331, 385, 386, 390, 403, 405, 469ff, 476, 477, 479, 817, 839, 856p, 858, 859
Fitzgerald, Robert Appleyard: 180p, 181
Fitzgerald, T H; 527, 528p, 529p, 530
FitzGerald, Thomas: 401
Fitzßoy, Robert: 164, 165, 173p, 175 180, 184, 185p, 186. 187. 188 p. 196, 198’ 199 p. 200. 204, 21 Ip, 216, 222, 225, 226p 227p, 228, 229, 230 p. 233p, 237p, 238 241, 245, 291, 340, 344, 357, 362, 364 466
Five Mile, Westland; 676
Flags: 63, 64. 67p, 71, 83. 140, 142, 143p 203p, 206f, 349
Flagstaff incidents: see ‘Kororareka’
Flight, Josiah: 449. 456, 459, 461, 465 Foley. J; 922
Forest Rangers: 906, 907. 908, 926
Foreign Enlistment Act: 55
Forks, The/Deep Creek, Marlborough: 761, 762p, 764. 765
Forkstown/Goldsborough, Westland; 662
‘Fortrose Liar’: see Perkins'
Forty/Seventy Mile Bush, Hawke’s Bay/ Wairarapa: 895
Foster, James: 430, 898, 904, 912
Foucault, Michel: 103
Fouche, Joseph: 104
‘Four Johns’: 494
Foveaux Strait: 498, 716f
i wvcauA oman. **3o, / Fox, C J; 98
Fox, E B: 679f
Fox, James Graham; 608
Fox, Jared; 551
Fox, William (politician): 211, 224, 776, 778f, 810, 814p, 818, 819, 828, 832, 839, 842, 849, 900
Fox, William (prospector): 585p, 586
* wa, '' inimii yjii lui /. i/OO Fox’s/Arrowtown, Otago: 585f, 701
A O/ m lUW w 11, V_/ UlgU. JOOI . (Ul Fox’s River/Brighton, S-W Nelson: 745
France, Anatole; 13
France. Henry: 330. 492
r ranee, Henry: jau, 4ya France/French: 8, 31, 58, 80, 97p, 98, 102,
104, 142 el seq, 177, 202ff, 206f, 230
265p, 316, 349, 363, 408, 507, 636; see
also ‘Akaroa’
Frnnoois. J- 3115
Francis, J: 316
Franklyn, William Norris; 744, 746, 748
Frankton/Kawarau Falls. Otago: 590 p. 602p, 604, 707
Fraser, James: 896
Fraser, William Junor; 499, 500, 501p, 693f, 695, 697, 698, 699, 700, 703, 705
Frasertown/Te Kapu, Hawke’s Bay region: 892
Freeman, Samuel: 551, 554, 573
Freeman’s Bay. Auckland: 910
‘Friendly’/‘loyalist’ Maoris: 32f, 36, 37ff, 59f, 67, 75. 150, 185, 186, 189f, 201, 216. 218, 225, 227, 228, 229, 230, 240, 243f, 266f, 273, 280, 281, 288, 331. 364p, 365. 366, 370, 393, 402, 417, 420, 425, 443. 444. 451, 454, 460, 463. 782, 785, 787. 788, 795, 801, 803, 808, 809p, 811, 817. 820, 822, 827p, 832, 835, 839, 846. 847, 850, 851, 853, 857, 858, 862, 863, 866.
1110
Index
‘Friendly’/'loyalist’ Maoris —continued 880, 884, 901, 914, 919, 920; see also ‘Kupapa’, ‘Runanga, official/legal system’, ‘Maori police’ Fullartons, Otago: 603
G
Gabriels Gully, Otago: 542, 560, 568, 720
Galbraith, J K; 1
‘Galway Boys’: 591, 592
Gamble, Richard: 933
Gaolers/warders: 151, 178, 188, 261, 308, 313, 328p, 330, 357, 429, 483, 490, 499. 502, 503, 560, 623, 638, 644, 703, 705, 736. 743, 875, 881, 911, 914
Gaols, gaoling: 38, 51, 144, 158, 165, 300, 313, 323. 324, 329, 330, 342, 343, 346, 363, 365, 368, 383, 447, 456, 469, 476p, 478, 487, 496, 501, 515, 528, 560, 564, 569, 570, 571, 587, 624, 642. 661, 667, 669. 681, 687, 693, 717, 722, 737, 740, 741, 742p, 743, 752, 814, 867, 875, 883, 910, 924, 931
Capper, Bernard; 343p, 344, 350
Gardiner, Frank; 593, 648, 738
Gardiner Gang; 592
Gardiner, Jane: 342
Gardiner, William; 171
Garner, John; 161, 163, 165, 262, 349, 350
Garrett, Henry Beresford: 563, 564, 609, 698
Garrett Gang: 564
Garrisons: 264, 266, 430, 444, 456, 457, 459. 519, 525, 526, 527, 532, 782, 794, 857, 874, 877, 878, 880, 886, 888, 893, 895, 908, 919; and associated disorder 154f, 266, 372, 428, 444, 456, 518, 523, 526, 531, 565, 790, 867, 894, 898, 914, 919, 925, 932
Garvey, Edward: 579, 586, 605, 612
Gascoigne/Gascoyne, Frederick: 890 892
Gate Pa, Bay of Plenty: 851, 913
Gazettes, government: 145, 260
Gazettes, police: 97, 380, 496, 562, 563, 609, 709, 925
General Assembly: 293, 424, 427, 513, 628, 692, 709, 804, 808, 849
General/central Government
Delegation and centralisation: 293, 413, 414, 439, 494, 510, 513, 576, 628, 631, 638, 687, 718, 790, 921, 927, 938, 939
and Goldfields: 509, 512, 513, 538, 541, 544, 568, 628ff, 674, 735
and Justice system: 418, 419, 438. 440, 449. 451. 459, 472, 483. 489, 505, 507, 513, 535, 565, 628, 713, 741, 742, 774 775p, 776ff, 808
and Policing: 25, 294, 416, 417p, 443, 446, 452p, 455p, 457, 462, 488, 533, 565, 623, 629, 631f, 634, 686, 770, 790,
870, 873, 875, 877, 883, 885, 886, 915, 916, 918, 934, 938, 940; see also ‘Colonial Defence Force’
and Racial interface: 422, 423, 424, 426, 427, 440, 444, 445, 449, 451. 454p, 457, 464p, 465f, 525, 526, 789, 811, 820f, 827, 900, 903, 915, 916, 918, 919; CDF 786, 885 et seq, 916,926; see also, inter alia. ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
See also ‘Provincial: General Government interface’
General Gates: 44
General Wellesley: 33
George, John C: 889, 890
George, Private: 417, 898
German Hill, Otago: 610
Germans; 143, 144, 343, 739
Gibbs’ Town/Collingwood, Nelson region: 508, 510
Gibson, John: 315, 324
Gilbert, Charlie: 593
Gilfillan, J: 266p
Gipps, Sir George: 88, 90p, 91, 93, 121, 122, 123, 126, 127, 129, 132, 133p, 134, 140, 145, 148, 149, 152, 166, 209 ‘Girls’ War’: 53f
Glasgow, Scotland; 330, 601
Gledhill, U F: 522, 872
Glenelg, Lord: 71f, 76. 80, 83
Goderich, Lord: 58, 59, 61, 62
Godley, Charlotte: 320, 325, 329
Godley, John Robert: 316, 317, 318, 319p, 320p, 325, 330, 401, 470, 642
Godley family; 331 (see Corrigenda)
Gold, Charles E: 467, 468, 519p, 520p, 521
Gold
Discoveries: 293, 497, 508, 512, 537,540, 580, 585f, 602, 623, 655, 668, 676, 693, 725, 728, 732, 754; types of gold 580, 899, 902, 935f
Escorts: Canterbury 662f, 665 et seq, 671, 673, 675, 682, 736; Marlborough 755f, 757, 759, 761, 762, 764; Nelson 678. 726, 728, 736, 746; Otago 538, 541, 546f, 554, 555p, 556, 560f. 564, 567, 569, 578, 579, 580, 583, 587ff, 590, 591p, 598, 600, 601, 603p, 605, 608, 610, 617, 627, 700 et seq; Southland 700 et seq, 708, 715
Impact of; 293. 402, 403. 404, 497, 503, 508, 514, 518, 536, 537, 540, 618, 728, 755 et seq, 770, 935ff; see also ‘Alarums and Excursions’
Receiving Offices/Officers; 547, 629, 665, 703, 713, 756
Rushes: 293, 497, 503, 508, 518, 536, 539, 540, 541, 543, 547, 561, 565, 573, 580, 581, 583, 584, 585, 597, 599, 603p, 604 606. 607, 619, 655, 658, 660. 661, 665 668, 671, 673, 676, 694, 695, 699 p. 701 708, 712, 111, 720, 725, 730, 731. 735 746, 747p, 749, 751, 755, 902, 936
mi
Index
Golden/Massacre/Coal Bay, Nelson region--168, 510
Golden Fleece Hotel, Christchurch: 481 Goldfields
Act: 513, 541, 544, 674
Administration: Sllff, 668, 577, 580, 581 582, 583, 586, 590, 591, 602, 628ff, 652, 655, 657f, 660, 661, 664f, 673f, 692, 703, 713, 714, 720, 725, 726, 731, 733f, 744, 746p, 748, 759, 761, 936; see also ‘Commissioners’, ‘Wardens, goldfields’
Disorder on: 509, 510, 511, 516, 538, 539, 545, 559, 563, 566, 570, 571, 579p, 582p, 585, 586, 591f, 595, 596f, 603p, 606p, 609, 612, 624, 658, 660, 661p, 665, 668f, 673f, 676f, 678, 680, 691, 713p, 719, 721, 725, 726p, 728f, 733f, 735, 737, 744 et seq, 755, 756f, 757, 758, 761, 762, 764, 771, 901, 902, 936f; related 514, 518, 539, 559, 561, 565, 581, 617, 634, 637, 640, 666, 670, 689, 694, 696, 698, 699, 721, 728, 730, 737, 760, 900; see also ‘Alarums and Excursions’
Ebb and flow: 293, 511, 514, 517, 518, 539, 540, 561, 568, 579p, 580, 582, 585, 607, 609p, 610, 615, 616p, 622, 655, 658, 659, 665, 668, 673, 674, 676, 691, 694, 699, 701, 712, 714, 720p, 725, 728, 731, 735, 738, 745p, 746p, 760, 762, 764, 768, 769, 771, 900, 901, 935
Policing: 293, 381, 508 et seq; see also ‘Gold: Escorts’, ‘Victorian Police Force’, ‘Provincial Police’ per province CAQ Cl *7 C,4 O CAI COO COO
Populations: 508, 517, 542, 547, 568, 569, 571, 579 p. 580, 582, 586 p. 592, 594, 602, 603, 608p, 610, 615, 616, 658, 660p, 664, 665, 673p, 674p, 676, 701, 712, 714, 720, 725, 726, 728, 731, 732, 733, 735, 736, 745p, 746, 747, 750, 755, 757, 762, 764, 901, 936
Proclamation of: 579, 580, 581, 586, 594, 658, 661p, 666, 715, 733, 755, 758, 901, 936
Regional: Auckland see ‘Thames/ Coromandel’ below; Canterbury Province see ‘West Coast’ below; Marlborough 609, 610, 655, 727, 728, 730, 754 see also ‘Wakamarina’; Nelson Province 503, 508ff, 537p, 655, 720, 721, 728, 729, 733 see also ‘West Coast’ below, and ‘Aorere’; Otago 497, 537ff. 540ff, 559, 560, 568, 571, 578p, 579 p. 580p, 585, 586, 591, 592, 594, 603p, 609. 610, 612, 614, 615, 616p, 617, 618, 623, 699, 701; Southland 694, 708, 712, 714; Thames/Coromandel 292, 691, 900, 90If, 934; West Coast 610, 615, 616, 618, 623, 634, 650, 655ff, 661, 662, 664, 669, 676p, 677, 683, 688, 689. 690. 691, 719, 720, 725, 726, 727, Y2B, 730, 732, 733p, 735p, 737, 744. 745, 746, 747, 750, 764; see also individual provinces and sites
Goldsborough/Forkstown, Westland: 662
Good Conduct Funds/GCFs: 397, 398ff 534. 912, 923, 925, 932
Goodall, Joseph; 765, 769
Goodall, Samuel: 739, 761, 762p, 764 765, 768, 769
Gordon Riots: 96p, 97, 106
Gore, Southland: 711
Gorst, John: 424. 427, 806, 812, 813, 818 831. 832f, 835f, 838. 84Iff, 848 p. 849p' 850, 857, 858, 904
Gorton, Edward: 787
Gouland, Henry: 314p, 316, 488, 504p, 505, 506p, 51 Of, 512, 513, 514, 753
‘Goulandia’, Marlborough: 506
uwuianuid , jviarujorougn: ouo Graham, Robert: 903, 909, 918, 921
Grant, J G S: 613p
Gravesend, England: 136, 138
Great King Street, Dunedin: 564, 573
Great South Road, Canterbury: 484
Great South Road, S Auckland region: 843
Greenstone/Hohonu Creek, Westland: 655 657. 658p, 660, 728
Greenwood brothers: 223, 265
Grennan, James: 612
Gresson, Henry: 512, 514 firau Fqi-I- Or:Q OAi
Grey, Earl: 258, 801
Grey, Lady: 291 n c?:_ r>
Grey, Sir George
Background: 233f, 235fF, 238f, 296, 378 813f, 908
Governorship 1845-53: as Governor 179, 190, 197, 201. 230, 237, 238, 274, 289. 296. 303, 317, 320, 327, 328, 365, 366, 372. 396f, 401. 403f. 406p, 414, 417, 440. 448, 450, 504. 776, 777; and policing 190, 201, 230. 234, 235, 237, 238 et seq, 241 et seq, 248 et seq, 253 et seq, 268, 271 et seq, 274 et seq, 278, 280f, 282 et seq, 293, 294, 297, 302, 304, 305p, 307, 308, 312, 317p, 318p, 319, 320, 321, 323, 327p, 328, 331, 332, 366, 373p, 375p, 376ff, 388f. 391, 395ff. 398, 400, 403 p. 404, 413, 417, 439, 450, 451, 452, 454. 455. 469. 471, 529. 891; and Resident Magistracy 190, 201, 258f, 267, 323, 328, 812; and racial interface 230, 233f, 235ff, 241, 243, 245, 246, 249, 254, 256, 258, 259, 267ff. 274. 285, 286, 287, 289. 290, 291, 296, 315, 334, 365f, 366, 373, 374p, 376,377, 378. 417, 423, 424, 435. 452, 801. 802 p. 804 p. 807, 808, 812, 891; and wars 190f. 237, 242, 243f. 266f, 299, 334, 373, 454
Governorship 1861-67: as Governor 523, 524 , 760, 782, 811, 812, 813, 829, 845. 863, 868, 899, 901, 903, 938; and policing/racial interface 524, 760, 782, 784, 786. 809, 81 Iff, 813 et seq, 825, 826, 827, 831, 832, 842p, 844, 845 p. 847, 848 p. 852, 862, 867, 868p, 869. 899 p. 900p, 902, 903. 904. 928; and wars 524, 794, 816, 832, 845p, 848. 849.
1112
Index
Grey, Sir George— continued
Governorship 1861-67 —continued 868, 876, 888, 889, 890, 899, 903, 904, 905; see also ‘lndirect control’, ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
Personality and methods: 190, 197, 239 et seq, 250ff, 253, 254 et seq, 274 et seq, 282ff, 286, 291, 294, 296f, 307,317, 318p, 319f, 323, 330, 332, 375, 376, 377f, 388, 396, 404, 524, 802, 812, 815, 832, 845. 847, 867, 868p, 899
Grey River/Valley, Westland/S-W Nelson: 652, 655, 657, 658, 660, 662, 668, 669. 676, 677, 679, 691, 732, 733p, 735, 736, 737, 764
Grey River Argus: 737
Greymouth/Blaketown, Westland: 656, 660, 666, 668p, 669, 675, 678, 679p, 683, 691, 733p, 738; Police District 668 aoc aon aac 'laz.
Greytown, Wairarapa; 436, 437, 446, 785 787, 789, 792
Grog selling: see ‘Alcohol’
Grono, John: 50 AAA AAO AA‘
Groom, Henry: 441, 442, 443, 445, 526p, 527p, 528, 530, 531, 532, 881
Guard. John: 49, 66f, 169
Guard family: 66f
Guinness, Francis; 639, 640p, 644, 64"i 652p, 653, 659
H
Haast, Julius von: 634
Haast, Westland: 676, 683
Haeatarangi, Rio: 826
Hahaioa/sergeant: 852
Haho, Kewene Te: 837
Hakaraia Korako; see ‘Korako'
Hakopa Rangitikara: see ‘Rangitikara' Hall. John; 480, 481, 482, 483p, 485, 486. 487, 488p, 635, 661
Hall, William: 36, 41
Halse, Henry: 246, 247f, 271, 278, 290, 291p, 294, 381, 383, 401, 432, 448, 450, 451 p. 452p, 454, 456p, 457, 460p, 461, 466, 802, 810, 819, 820
Halse, William; 224, 248, 448f
Hamilton, William John Warburton: 321, 323, 382, 391p, 392, 479, 485, 488 p. 489p, 493, 633p, 634p, 635p,636p,637p. 638, 639p, 640p, 647p, 683 et seq, 691 Hamilton/Kirikiriroa, S Auckland region: 908, 915, 916, 920, 934
Hamiitons, Otago: 608, 623, 624
Hamiora Tangiawa: see ‘Tangiawa’
Hamiora Te Rewhare; see ‘Rewhare'
Hammonds Woolshed, Wellington W Coast: 788
Hampden, Otago: 609
Hampden/Tikokino, Hawke’s Bay: 895
Hancock, Robert: 126
nancocK, nooeri; i/o Hangatahua/Stony River, Taranaki: 876
Hangatiki, S Auckland region: 832,840,844
Hangings/executions: 18, 51, 74, 78, 84, 96, 169, 214, 215, 216, 244. 266, 296, 376, 534f, 619p, 739, 741. 742, 749, 860, 928
Hannah, James: 400
Hanson, R D: 169, 221
Hape, Kemara le: 8/4
Hapu/sub-tnbe: 30 et passim; see also ‘Tribes’
Hapuku, Te: see ‘Te Hapuku'
Haourona: 522. 811. 866. 8670
Harapipi, S Auckland region: 908
Hardcastle, Edward; 599, 600
Harding, William: 872
Hare Tetoroa: see ‘Tetoroa'
Harington, P: 908
Harper, William: 515, 719
Harper Pass, Canterbury: 659, 662, 665
Harriet: 51, 66
Harrington, George: 444
namuu, ejuiiu. iuo
Harris, John Hyde: 600f, 604, 612, 757
Harsant, William: 804, 806, 900
Hartley, Horatio; 580p
Hartnell, Michael: 252, 373
Hartnett, Michael: 708
Hastie. George; 902
Hastie, John; 485
Haughton, Charles: 620
Hauhauism/pai manre: 784, 793, 794, 795p, 796, 851ff, 856ff, 863, 869, 872, 892, 893, 895, 896, 916, 919, 928
Haukaretu, Wellington W Coast: 830
Haultain, T M; 908
Haumene, Te Ua: see ‘Te Ua’
Hauraki, Auckland region: 147, 854, 861
Hauturu, Arapata: 830
Havelock, Hawke’s Bay: 528, 895
Havelock, Marlborough: 739, 754, 755p, 758p, 761p, 762, 764p, 768. 769
Hawke’s Bay
Province/provincial government: 445p, 524 et seq, 880 et seq, 888 et seq; Superintendency 527, 529, 884, 887; provincial policing 445, 524 et seq, 880 et seq, 888 et seq-, and CDF 885f, 888, qqq aamr
Region: 292,314,332, 431,436, 440f. 442, 443ff, 463, 527. 802. 828. 846. 889. 899
Hawke's Bay Herald : 443
Hay, Douglas: 14
Hayes, W C; 156
Hayes, W H (‘Bully’): 593. 666
Hazard, HMS: 186, 200
Heads of police. effective’/'working’: xviii. 122, 126, 134, 178, 182. 247, 263. 271, 291. 294. 297, 305, 307, 320, 330p, 341, 417. 439. 440, 445. 448, 458, 461 p. 470, 474, 483, 485. 490, 526, 527, 528, 529 533, 534, 553. 583, 633, 635, 691, 748, 765, 767p, 769, 881, 904; see also, inter alia, ‘Chief Constables’
Heaphy, Charles: 141. 146. 217, 293 Heathcote, Christchurch: 485. 654
1113
Index
Heke, Hone: 184, 186 p. 189p, 200, 203, 227, 228, 229, 233, 238, 253, 349p, 362. 370, 430
Hemara: 810
Hemi Whakatari: see ‘Whakatari’
Hemoata, Rairi; 826
Hempleman, George; 143
Henui, New Plymouth: 880
Hepata Turingenge: see ‘Turingenge’
Herald, HMS: 122, 126p, 134
Herds Point/Rawene. Northland: 182
Hereford Street, Christchurch: 642
Heremaia Te Ara: see Ara’
Heu Heu, Te: see ‘Te Heu Heu’
Hierarchism: 103, 107, 109, 195, 248, 253, 282, 304, 308, 318, 358, 400f, 406, 419, 483. 486, 556, 568, 612, 779, 941
High’ and ‘low’ policemen: 6f, 9, 25, 44, 50. 60. 62. 63. 64. 72, 73, 80f, 82, 93. 123, 151, 165, 177, 180p, 185, 228, 242, 248, 263, 282, 283, 371, 438, 471, 482. 486, 657, 803, 867, 878, 881, 931
Highlay, The/Mount. Otago: 579f. 582 u:i 11 til * it* i *
Hika, Hongi: see Hongi Hika’
Hikairo, Wi: 838
Hill, Richard: 570
Hills Creek/Blackstones. Otago: 610
Himiona Te Wehi: see ‘Wehi’
Hindon, Otago: 603, 608
Hira, Kingi Hori: 819
Hirihia; 259
Ho Ho, Westland: 676
Ho Chow: 624
Hoani Matenga Paruhi: see ‘Paruhi’
Hoani Parana: see Parana’
Hobart/Hobart Town, Van Diemen’s Land: 31. 61, 74, 265
Hobbs, John; 803
Hobson, William: 77, 79p, 80, 81, 82, 83f, 88 et seq, 93. 102, 12Iff, 125, 126f, 128ff, 131, 133, 134, 135. 137, 139f, 142, 145, 147f, 153, 154, 155, 158p, 161, 164, 166, 203. 206, 213p, 215p, 216p, 219, 220, 237, 340, 352, 357, 369, 639
and Policing: 79. 93. 121 ff. 126f, 128ff, 131 et seq, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148f, 151, 152, 153, 157p, 158, 161p, 166, 167, 169, 174, 175, 177, 178, 181, 202, 207, 213p, 215p, 219, 220, 226, 237, 336, 339, 340, 347. 363
Hochstetter, Ferdinand; 5T
Hoera, Te: 288
Hogburn, The. Otago: 602p
Hohonu/Greenstone Creek, Westland; 655
Hoia, Tamihana Te: 830
Hokianga, Northland: 44, 48, 49, 50p, 62. 65. 68 et seq, 74f, 77. 79. 84. 127, 133, 135, 148p, 158, 182p, 183p, 184, 185p, 186, 189p, 199, 200, 226, 228p, 249, 253, 339, 341, 346, 350, 363, 364p, 365, 370, 422, 802, 817p, 819; Liquor Law: 69 et seq,
Hokitika, Westland: 619, 655, 660, 661p, 662, 663p, 664, 665p, 668p, 669, 673, 676,
679, 680, 682, 691, 692 p. 730, 731. 737 742
Policing: 661. 662p, 665. 666p, 668, 669 677, 678. 679, 680, 683, 692, 733. 734 738
Hokonui, Southland: 696, 698, 699, 706 712
Holborn, London: 112
Home, Sir Everard: 209, 211, 357 Hnmp Offirp /Qo/rofanr IB QC Q7 (
Home Office/Secretary: 18, 85, 96, 97, 98, 99p, 101, 103, 105, 106. 107p, 108, 109, 112, 114, 116, 355, 356
Homicide: see ‘Murder’
Hone; 260
Hone Heke; see ‘Heke'
Hone Piripi: see ‘Piripi’
Hone Te Kotuku: see ‘Kotuku’
Hone Timango; see ‘Timango’
Hone Tuhawaiki: see Tuhawaiki'
Hone Turongo; see Turongo'
Hongi Hika; 36, 37, 39, 41. 43, 44, 45, 50, 76, 184
Hopwood, John; 361
Hore, Bartholomew: 158, 178, 349
Hore, Kereopa Te: 825, 854
Horea/Te Ahau, S Auckland region: 836
Horeke, Northland: 68, 74, 75, 182, 184
Hori Aripata, Tipene: see ‘Aripata’
Hori Hira, Kingi; see Hira’
Horneman, Frederick: 731
Horneman, S E: 683
Horokiri Valley, Wellington W Coast: 244
Horomona Toremi: see ‘Toremi’
Horse Patrol. London: 104, 105, 107, 110, 116, 123, 355
Hospital and Charitable Aid Institutions Act: 941
Hotham, Sir Charles: 552
Hours/conditions of work: 247, 329, 354, 381 ff, 386f, 388 et seq. 401f, 408. 420. 421, 429, 446, 472, 489, 493, 499, 516f, 524, 533f, 548p, 567, 573, 574ff, 583f. 589p, 606, 620, 633, 643, 663ff, 668, 673, 677, 692, 708, 713, 715, 730, 737. 748. 749, 766. 791 p. 792, 796, 872, 873f. 875. 879, 883. 898, 901. 903, 904, 908ff. 915. 917, 921, 932, 939, 941; see also, inter alia, ‘Accommodation’, ‘Duties’, ‘Pay’, ‘Rules’, ‘Strengths’
House of Representatives: 632, 692, 906
Howard, John; 102
Howick, Viscount: 59f, 62
Howick, Auckland: 273, 284, 286, 289,383, 420, 917
Hoyt and Chaplin Company: 627
Hua block. Taranaki: 453
Hua hapu: see ‘Tribes’
Hudson, Charles: 890 Hnffhoc .Inkn- fiHfl
Hughes, John: 630 r r,. —„ *d; i.
Huiria Te Ripeka: see Ripeka’
Hulme, W: 189
Hundreds. Britain: 4ff; see ‘Evolution of policing'
Hundreds. Runanga: 814ff, 817, 818. 819,
1114
Index
Hundreds. Runanga— continued
820, 821, 822, 825, 826, 829, 835p, 836p, 837, 838p, 840, 861
Hunia Teiki: see ‘Teiki’ cnor
Hunt. Albert: 673f
Hunter, George: 437, 446
Hunua Forest, Auckland region: 832, 848, 905, 906
Hurai/Jews: see ‘Ngakahi’
Hurse, James; 640, 644p, 645, 646
Hursthouse, Charles: 427, 435
Hurunui River/Saddle/Pass, Canterbury: 319, 485, 505, 662, 663, 665, 686
Hutt Valley, Wellington region: 137, 141, 193, 197, 199, 220, 222, 221, 229, 240, 241, 242, 243f, 247, 309f, 315, 321, 383, 386, 409, 436. 441, 447, 472, 532, 534, 787, 788, 789, 795, 797, 802
I
Iberian Peninsula: 31f
Ihaia Te Kirikumara: 463f, 812
Ihaka Te Tihi: see ‘Tihi’
Ihakara Kahuao: see ‘Kahuao’
Ihutu, Maaka Te: 824
Immigration/immigrants: 135 et seq, 143, 165f, 174, 177f, 192, 194, 298, 316p, 318, 343, 374, 381. 423, 428, 429, 434, 447, 477 p. 480, 481, 482p, 483, 485, 489, 490f, 493, 496, 498, 500, 501, 540, 559, 592, 595, 697, 699, 708, 719, 791, 898; see also ‘Settlements, planned’
Inangahua, S-W Nelson: 735, 744
Independent: 436, 44'
India: 79p, 236, 314, 379, 504, 537, 567, 719, 761, 866
Indigenous responses to the pakeha: 29 et seq, 31 et seq, 36 et seq, 52f, 65ff, 84, 132, 159. 169ff, 212ff, 224f, 291f. 422, 423p, 431, 453, 772, 783, 797, 801 et passim ‘No-go’ areas: 783, 796, 828, 852, 857 858, 874, 877, 878
Regional: North Island: Auckland 287, 288, 376, 827, 892f, 897 et passim; Bay of Plenty 824ff; East Cape/Coast 821, 822, 824. 892; Hawke’s Bay 444f, 524, 531, 829p, 880 et seq, 888 et seq; Manawatu 244f, 299, 306f; Northland 30f. 33f, 36, 38, 41, 43, 44, 48, 50, 53, 65ff, 69f. 75ff, 86p, 154, 184 et seq, 189f 225, 227ff, 280, 292, 420. 422, 816 et seq, 824, 827; Taranaki 66f, 175, 219 245, 270, 278f, 291. 373, 449 et seq, 457 et seq, 462 et seq, 783. 804, 864 et seq; Taupo 807, 896; Waikato 278, 376f, 422 et seq, 804 et seq, 840 et seq;
• , '-'v. « c u-rv Cl act/, Wairarapa 532, 785. 787f, 794f; Wanganui 160. 162, 244, 266f, 532, 781 ff, 793f, 826; Wellington 136, 137, 140, 146, 199, 213p, 216, 222p, 241, 243f, 431, 531, 788, 792
South Island; Akaroa 153, 177, 203, 218, 223, 468; Nelson/Marlborough 167 et seq, 171, 177, 224, 304, 754; Otago 31, 52f, 205, 216, 218
See also: ‘Friendly/loyalist Maori’
‘Hauhauism’, King Movement’, ‘Kupapa’, ‘Maori: Tribal interaction: pantribalism’, ‘Ngakahi’, ‘Racial attitudes’, ‘Runanga/councils’, ‘Wars’
luuca , iiuiiatiga/ luuiilup , tt atn Indirect control/rule: sf, 8, 36f, 71flf, 76, 78ff, 425, 426, 427, 451, 460, 524, 782, 801 et passim; see also ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
Industrial protest/action, non-police: 104, 108, 109, 287, 314, 368, 446, 561, 615, 670, 713, 760, 799, 910
Industrial Revolution: 9f, 17, 18, 20, 94, 100, 133
Industry: 74, 163
Influx of Criminals Prevention Act, Victoria: 593, 743
Informal policing/policemen: 49ff, 52, 53, 70. 73, 74p, 82f, 84, 85 et seq, 136ff, 151, 165, 169, 213, 215, 224, 265, 270p, 292. 298. 300p, 316, 363, 420, 425, 43 Ip, 441, 442, 474, 485, 492, 505, 506p, 526p, 561, 652, 694, 712, 720, 752, 770, 785, 786, 790, 793, 797, 895, 900, 914, 920; on goldfields 508f, 511, 537, 538, 544, 546, 580, 585, 587, 595, 658, 726, 744, 755, 757, 863, 900, 921; see also ‘Kororareka Association’, ‘Maori police: Informal’, ‘Maori: Societal control’, ‘NZ Company’
iviawti. outictai t-umiui , Informers: 353, 558, 709, 74Iff
Injuries: see ‘Fatalities and injuries’
Inner Temple, London: 166, 469
Inquests; 213, 216, 348, 785; see also ‘Juries: coroners'
Inspectorate: 242, 246, 257, 272, 286, 291p, 307, 308, 317, 320, 325, 328, 330f, 372, 388, 394, 396p, 397, 419p, 421, 422, 428, 432p, 450p, 451, 457, 460, 466, 470, 474, 477, 482, 483, 485, 486, 490, 529, 530, 541, 554, 555p, 560, 593, 594, 600, 601 612, 614, 638p, 639, 640, 652p, 653, 654, 661, 665, 666, 667, 684, 689p, 691, 703 705, 744, 748, 761, 775, 874, 875, 881 888, 890, 891, 892, 894, 907
Insurrection Act: 105
Integrity. 139, 141
Intelligence gathering: 7, 44, 70, 80, 83, 99 101, 103, 124, 177, 180, 182, 186, 194 236, 243, 256, 270, 291, 344, 355, 358’ 376, 380, 384, 406, 445, 524, 553, 557, 569, 670, 574, 611, 646, 647, 657, 658 781, 789, 803, 817, 823p, 831, 847, 909, 917; see also, inter alia, ‘Eyes and ears’, ‘Proactive policing’, ‘Surveillance patrol’
International law: 29, 43, 59, 72, 83 90n 142
Invercargill, Southland: 496,497, 498, 499p, 500, 501p, 588, 591, 693. 694p, 696, 698ff' 70811, 714, 7161, 763
Investigations, official: see ‘Enquiries’
1115
Index
lonian Islands: 80
Ireland/Irish: 10, 22, 84, 99, 105p, 106, 107, 110, 111, 117, 119, 122, 124p, 132, 188, 205, 235p, 238, 247, 248, 249, 274, 287, 289, 305, 309, 311, 317p, 347, 387, 406 407, 458, 491, 549, 554, 555, 567, 569p, 570, 572, 597, 639p, 640, 649, 653, 676, 727, 759, 771, 786, 851, 868, 881; see also ‘Tipperary’
Irish Constabulary: 105p, 106, 110, 114, 124, 130, 132, 182, 225, 235p, 236p, 237, 239, 248, 251, 254, 255, 261, 289, 309, 317, 322, 346, 378, 383f, 388, 389, 406f, 478, 539, 549, 550p, 551, 562, 558, 562, 575, 646, 653, 684p, 685, 737, 759, 763, 786, 941; ex-members of 123, 134, 263, 480, 653, 654, 689, 759, 769, 877, 920 Irnneirid Cornual' 1C 1 ICQ*. OOC
Ironside, Samuel: 151, 169p, 221
Irvine, John; 749, 750 Irwin. John- SRI
Irwin, John: 581
Isabella: 66
Isolation: 145, 175, 180, 202, 204, 205, 215, 224, 246, 265, 321, 322, 370, 394, 395, 399, 420, 425f, 442, 448, 496, 510, 516, 532, 592, 647, 664, 786, 822, 884; see also ‘Communications’, ‘Terrain’
Iwitahi, Kereti: 826
J
Jackson, Edward: 703p, 704p, 705, 706 707, 710
Jackson, Thomas: 375 William- Qftfi
Jackson, William: 906
Jacob’s River/Riverton, Southland: 497, 499p Jamaica: 296
James, William H: 647, 667p, 668p, 675, 679, 689 d, 738
b/y, b»yp. ii ia Jarvey, William and family: 619p
oarvey, rvuiium ana lamuy: oiyp Jeffreys, John: 764
uuuu. i o l * Jervis, George: 739
Jervis, John: 923
Jewess: 212
Johnson, F: 571 I „ 1 Cf
Johnson, Job: 595f •Inhncnn .loVin iC' Irin i q I Qnrnonn\-
Johnson, John (Colonial Surgeon): 262
Johnson, John (corporal): 271, 278, 290, 382 Johnston, Alexander; 19, 531, 730, 741,
778, 779, 780, 883
Jones, John: 52, 55, 78, 89, 207 .Innpc I .flfif-n- 4D
Jones, Lasco: 40
Judges: 19. 168, 248, 381, 476, 512, 531, 578, 596, 619p, 717, 730, 741, 744, 778, 861, 883, 927, 930; Chief Justices 169. 803, 809, 922p
Judiciary/judicial authority: 14f, 55, 64, 112, 119, 122, 133f, 168, 172, 254f, 258, 281p, 303ff. 321f, 325ff, 345, 355, 398, 451, 515, 559, 629, 630, 649, 677, 684. 688, 694, 713, 732, 743, 753, 759, 765,
769, 773 et seq, 781f, 799p, 899; see alsc ‘Control of the policing function’. ‘Magistrates’
magisiidica Junction, The/Alexandra, Otago: 582 Junction, The/Lawrence, Otago: 568 Junor, William James Balfour 546 547, 555p
Juries/jurors: 108, 169, 384, 420, 424, 619p, 741; coroners 348, 356, 409, 526, 595Grand 332, 512, 514, 578, 585, 729, 922; Informal 50, 73, 84 Justices of the Peace (JPs): 7 et passim; see also ‘Magistrates’
K
‘Kaffir Wars’: 554, 889
Kahitaiki, Te Pirihi: 826
Kahuao, Ihakara: 828
Kahumatuku, S Auckland region: 838, 840 Kaiapoi, Canterbury: 472, 473p, 474. 477, 478. 482p, 484. 487, 635p, 636, 642, 648, 649, 651, 654, 664, 666, 752
043, DJI, DO**, DO**, ODD, 1 04 Kaihau, Aihipene: 425, 810, 821, 835 844, 906
Kaihiki, Northland: 76
Kaikoura, Marlborough: 752, 754, 758, 764 765, 769
Kain, Isaac: 330
Kaipara, Northland: 363, 378, 855, 861. 915, 916, 918
Kaiwhakawa/assessors: 803 et passim; see
Assessors/Maori magistrates’
naocaauia/ i«aui i iiiagiSLi tucs Kaiwhike, Wellington W Coast: 78c
Kakanui Range, Otago: 605
Kakenga. S Auckland region: 834
Kaniere, Westland: 662, 665, 666, 676, 677, 683
Kapiti, Wellington W Coast: 54, 138, 151. 170, 194 211, 213
Karaitiana Te Kirou: see ‘Kirou’
Karaitiana Takamoana: 846, 884, 887
naiauiaua i ußttinuuua. cno, OOH, Karaka, Arama: 820
Karaka Stream, Coromandel region: 935
Karaka pa, Taranaki: 464
Karena: 39c
Karere/'native constable’: 817 et passim ,
see ‘Runanga. official/legal system Karere Maori: 838
Karira/Creed: 461, 865, 866, 871, 880p
Wellinirfniv 944 4fl. c
Karori, Wellington; 244, 405 Katatore, Waitere: 453, 454, 455. 456 462f, 812
Kati: 84p, 169
Katikara pa, Taranaki: 869, 890 if „ »: qoi
Katipa, Maihi; 821
Kawakawa, Northland: 64, 154, 227
Kawanatanga/governorship: 91
Kawarau F'nllc/Fmnlrfnn Ofotrrv fiOfl
Kawarau Falls/Frankton, Otago: 590 Kawarau River. Otago: 580, 588, 605
Kawau Island, Auckland region; 373, 912, 920
1116
Index
Kawhia. S Auckland region; 44. 838p, 841
Kawiti: 186p, 190, 200, 227 p. 230
Keddell, Jackson; 555f, 560, 565, 569, 580, 58If, 585, 594, 601
Kelly, James; 34, 52
Kelly, Ned: 553
Keiiy, ooo Kelly, Thomas; 570, 618, 678, 687, 737ff, 744, 749; see also ‘Burgess'
Kemara Te Hape; see ‘Hape’
ucuiaia i c oci Kemp, Charles: 375 17 n 000 OQO
Kemp, Constable: 333, 383
Kempthorne, John: 738
Kendall, Thomas: 36ff, 4lf. 43. 44f. 449f, 70. 76, 364
Kennedy, John: 754
Kenny, William: 289p, 391
Kent, Thomas: 34f
Kerarape, Rawiri: 82?
Kerei, Mangonui; 819
Kereopa Te Hore: see ‘Here’
Kereti Iwitahi: see Twitahi'
Kereti Te Ahuru; see ‘Ahuru’
Kerikeri, Northland: 4?
Kewene Te Haho; see 'Haho'
Kewetone, Reupeua: 830
Kihikihi, S Auckland region: 841, 908, 916 .1. ■a! M.i T.inliiK nnA n U..'
Kihirinu Tuahu: see Tuahu’
Kilgour, David; 501, 502p, 555
King, Henry: 174 et seq, 219p, 224, 247, 248, 261, 270p, 271, 278, 279, 290, 291, 370, 375, 382
King, John (constable): 924
King, John (missionary): 41
King, Philip: 30. 32p, 33, 42
King, Samuel Popham: 165, 199ff, 220, 262, 263, 267, 350
King, W C: 521
King Country, S Auckland region: 856, 857, 869, 866, 876, 908, 920; see also ‘Aukati’
000, \J\J\J, UI U, %7\JO, J6V, otc UtOU AUhdll King Movement/Kingism: 335, 423 et seq, 439, 443, 444, 446, 463, 467, 520, 522f, 524, 723, 783, 784p, 785, 786, 787, 788, 789, 793p, 794, 795p, 796, 803, 804, 806, 807p, 809, 81Of, 812,813 p. 816, 822,824. 827, 828, 830, 831 et seq, 840ff, 846, 847, 85If, 856, 864, 866, 872, 877, 884, 888ff, 895p, 897, 899, 900p, 901, 902, 904, 912, 915, 916, 920, 935, 940; and land 807, 811, 828, 831, 832, 841, 901; policing control 425, 810p, 812, 831, 840, 841,842, 897, 900, 920
OU I , J7W, Kingi Hori Hira: see ‘Hira’
Kingi, Mete: see ‘Mete Kingi’
Kingi, Parenga: 865
Kingi, Wiremu: 244, 453, 456, 463f, 466p, 467p, 520, 522, 812, 845, 869 mrr'o /OiiOAn’? A C 7 1 Q I Q
King’s/Queen’s Peace: 4, 5, 7, 8, 18
Kingston/Lake End/St John’s, Otago Province: 588, 610, 704, 706 Kinsella, Patrick: 757, 761p, 762
rvmseim, i iuncK. 101, /Dip, /DZ Kiri, Poia Te: 825 /u„ o i _
Kirikiriroa/Hamilton, S Auckland region: 908
Kirikumara, Ihaia Te: see Thaia’
rvil iivuiiitti a, iimia » i Kiriwi, Reihana: 827
CVIX 1W I, Iktlllallu. Ub * Kirkland, Wilson; 132
Kirkwood, David: 931, 933
IYIJR WUUU, ua* 111. JOi, ouu Kirou, Karaitiana Te: 830
Knobby Range, Otago: 587
Knut, King: 5 „ I <M»lr
Kohere, Mokena: see ‘Mokena’
Kohimarama, Auckland: 523p Koi Koi; 419
koi koi; 4iy Komene Piharau: see ‘Piharau’ i /nnmm iff QO- ot rt/lQVim
Komiti/committee: 805 et passim
rkomiu/comraiuce. ouo ei pussun Komuhumuhu, Bay of Plenty region: 825
Kooti, Rikirangi Te; see Te Kooti’
Koputanake. Coromandel region: 282
i\uyuMiiiaivc, vuiuuianuEi icg Korako, Hakaraia: 803
Korokoro: 36, 37. 39. 41. 43 /Pnccall MnrthlflnH 1 fil
Kororareka/Russell, Northland: 50, 51. 53p, 66, 69. 77, 83. 84. 85p, 86. 87. 102, 126p, 128, 130, 131p, 132, 135,144, 148f, 154, 156p, 157, 158p, 161, 178, 180p, 181, 182p, 184, 185, 186p, 187, 188, 189, 190, 214, 215, 247, 349, 370, 418, 819p Association: 86 et seq, 91, 126, 132, 135, 154, 184, 215
Attacks on: 186p, 215; flagstaff incidents 185, 186p, 226, 228, 233; ‘sacking’ of 186f, 189, 191, 198, 200, 228, 229, 349, 351, 362, 364, 371
£.£.73, OW, 001, 004, 004, Oil Union Benefit Society: 85ff
Kotahitanga: see ‘King Movement’
Kotuku, Hone Te: 833, 838, 839
Koutu, Northland: 74
Kowai, Canterbury: 484, 666
nunai, vaiaciuui v. lot, uuu Kuhukuhu, Te Rewiti Paui: 834
nuuuftuuu, ic ncwiu raui. oo 4 * Kuika, Rangihaua; 169, 171
Kukupa, Tirarau: 820
ivuKupa, iirarau: »zu Kukutai, Waata; see ‘Waata'
Kumutoto, Wellington: 151, 242, 297, 390, 392
Kupapa/pakeha-allied Maori soldiers: 189, 201, 228, 244, 267, 370, 794, 796, 850, 874, 891, 893, 896; see also ‘Friendly/ loyalist Maoris’
loyalist Maoris Kuri, Taringa: 220
Kynnersley, Thomas Alfred Sneyd; 734 et seq, 744 et seq, 762, 764, 765, 766
L
Lachlan, NSW: 593
Lady Nugent: 324
Lake District. Otago: 585, 586p, 587, 588, 590, 591, 592, 595, 609; see also ‘Wakatipu’
Lake End/St John’s/Kingston, Otago Pro-
vince; 588, 701 f Lambert, George: 67p
Lambert, Robert: 558, 749 T amVimn l?lnt C i r 7
Lambing Flat, NSW; 547
Lambton Harbour, Port Nicholson: 136, 137, 140
1117
Index
Lambton Quay, Wellington: 773, 790
Lancaster, England; 116
Land
Acquisitiveness: 89, 136, 140, 146, 162, 164, 167, 170, 191, 193, 212, 213, 214, 218, 219, 220, 224, 228, 231, 245, 292, 371, 417, 422, 423, 426, 429, 434, 438, 449, 454, 460, 462f, 464f, 466, 519, 522, 523, 525, 526, 785, 802, 804, 808, 816, 829, 844, 845, 849, 859, 860, 863, 882 p. 898, 899, 900, 910, 937
Alienation/purchase/lease: 47, 70, 76, 89, 91, 136, 140, 146, 147, 162, 170, 175p, 177, 184, 198. 203, 212, 213, 219f, 220, 222, 223, 225, 226, 245, 246, 247, 255, 267, 270, 274, 290, 291p, 292, 307, 417, 423, 427, 438, 439, 440, 449, 450, 452, 453p, 461, 462f, 465, 466f, 467. 493, 504, 523, 525, 716, 754, 807, 808, 822, 849, 850, 856, 857p, 858, 863, 869, 882p, 891, 901, 914, 927, 936, 937, 938: purchase officers 290, 291 p. 424, 450, 454, 460, 463, 466, 850; speculators 76, 89, 126, 161, 169, 753, 776, 839. 849, 856, 891, 903, 904
Confiscation/expropriation/disputes: 136, 140, 160, 162, 164, 168, 170, 177, 213, 220p, 224, 241, 455, 797, 804, 832, 839, 844, 845. 848, 849, 85Ip, 856f, 858p, 859, 863, 867, 868f, 869, 871,877, 915, 916, 940; Claims Commissioners 162, 164, 170, 175, 184, 224
Crown/government: 166, 273, 287, 423, 441, 579, 703, 716, 856, 891; Commissioners 287, 441, 492f, 714
the Maori and: 31, 53, 70, 76, 77, 78, 82, 90. 91, 136, 160, 162, 167f, 170, 175, 177, 192, 203, 213, 220, 223, 224, 225, 241, 246, 255, 267, 270, 291f, 292, 349, 422, 424, 427, 438, 443, 444, 449, 451, 453, 456, 462f, 466, 488, 522p, 525,820, 828, 829, 832, 845, 851, 856p, 857, 858, 868f, 882, 883, 891, 892, 901, 927, 935, 936; see also ‘King Movement’
Surveys/titles; 89, 162, 165, 170, 213, 219, 224, 230, 342, 453, 467p, 832 See also: ‘Authority and the Maori’, ‘Native Land Court’, ‘Native Lands Act’, ‘Native Land Purchase Department’, ‘Native Territorial Rights Act’, inter alia
Landsdowne, Marlborough: 505
LaSerre, Charles William: 530p, 531 p. 88If, 888, 889p, 890p, 893
L’Aube: 142, 143, 144, 157, 215, 336 Lavaud, Charles: 142 et seq, 156, 20c 206
Law, George: 827 ‘Law, The’: 12ff, 22f, 112f, 115, 355f, 777, 778, 799
Law. the Maori and: 32, 35, 38, 39, 47, 50. 55, 56, 70, 71. 138, 152p, 154, 169p, 171. 214, 215, 216p, 217p, 223, 225p, 226 p. 227p, 238, 244p, 254, 258p, 259, 260, 261,
267p, 268, 269, 270, 358, 363, 376, 420 424, 426p, 427, 465, 468, 512, 516, 523 525, 531. 648, 783p, 785, 795, 803f, 806 807. 811, 820. 821, 846, 849, 865, 866p 882, 884, 887, 896, 897, 899, 901 927 928
Lawrence/The Junction, Otago: 568, 615 624, 629
Laye, J H: 201, 262, 263, 266f
Le Rhin : 223
Lear, Robert: 537
Leary, E: 260
Legion of Honour: 605, 612
Legislative Council/Councillors: 189, 233 253, 254, 255ff, 286, 287, 308, 312, 344’ 349, 376, 377, 396, 443, 479, 776
Legitimation/'acceptance’ of police: 11 et seq, 19, 102f, 110 et seq, H4ff, 132f, 182, 355, 380, 499, 549, 552, 558, 561. 565, 571, 574f, 607, 644, 650, 651, 682, 872; see also ‘Rowan/Mayne strategy’ T
Leithfield, Canterbury: 656
Lennox, James; 749
Lepper, Maxwell: 87$
Levels, The, Canterbury: 471, 475, 481
Levy, Philip: 679, 738ff, 744, 768
Lewis, Corporal: 126
Libraries, police: 587, 626, 654f, 69$
Licence:
Liquor: 156, 276, 362p, 484, 485. 496, 542, 642, 709, 722, 723, 829
Mining: 512, 514, 545, 557, 571, 586. 661, 673, 735; and the Victorian police 545. 551, 552
Light Brigade, Charge of: 605
Lindis, Otago: 537ff, 543, 544, 548, 58C I mimr l coo * Ali'r.Knl’
Liquor: see ‘Alcohc
‘Little Enemy’: 301, 326
Little Grey/Mawheraiti, S-W Nelson: 735, 737, 744, 746
Lloyd, Thomas: 851, 872
Lockups/securement: 38, 61, 138, 139, 141, 144, 154, 157, 165, 275, 276, 342. 343. 345, 348, 368, 373, 376, 385, 387, 390, 392, 420, 433. 441. 442. 469. 474, 500. 503, 506, 507p, 517, 548, 559, 573, 589. 590, 596, 602p, 603, 669, 726, 745, 746, 773, 790, 792, 846, 855, 884, 887, 903, 920, 935
London, England; 8, 9, 17, 55, 93. 94p. 95p, 96p. 97. 99p, 103, 104, 107p, 109. 111, 113, 115, 116, 118 p. 119p, 120, 123, 133, 208, 225, 319, 325, 358, 367p, 372, 388. 427, 469. 479, 551, 575, 643, 743p, 845
London Metropolitan Police Force/The Met’: 13, 14, 21p, 24. 110 et seq, 114, 115, 116p, 118, 119, 120, 132, 248, 251. 261. 274, 287. 309, 311, 315, 337, 342. 346, 347, 352p, 354, 355p, 359p, 367, 379, 380, 387, 389. 406, 407. 477. 478, 479. 480. 539. 549, 551, 562, 569. 573, 574. 610, 677; ex-members of 120, 132, 477. 479f, 481. 656, 685
Longwood Range. Southland: 714
1118
Index
Lord, Simeon: 34, 36, 38
ord Worsley. 865
Louis XIV;'B. 97
Louis the Frenchman’: 671
‘Low’ police: see ‘High and low policemen’ Southland: 711
Lowther, Southland: 711 Lumpenproletariat/marginalised layers:
16f.51.94, 102, 108p, 110, 111, 118,133, 155, 156, 159, 360, 379, 394, 408, 484. 561 T n ( Vin r \lartin'
Luther, Martin: 376 Lyell, S-W Nelson: 726f
Lynch, John: 596p, 597p, 598p I W P* CIMW
Lyon, W C: 908 Lyttelton Times: 317, 645, 649
Lyttelton/Port Victoria, Canterbury: 314p, 316p, 318, 319, 323, 331, 469ff, 474ff, 490f, 514, 564, 633, 635, 636, 638, 640, 644p, 649, 659, 670
Policing in: 314p, 316p, 318p, 319, 320, 385, 386, 392, 401, 403, 405, 469 et seq, 638, 639, 641, 644ff, 650, 651, 666, 684 Lyttelton Harbour/Port Cooper 223, 313, 314
M
Maaka Te Ihutu: see ‘lhutu’
Mabille, Theophilus: 739
Macadam, John; 619p
Macandrew, James: 501, 502, 537, 628p, 629, 631p
McArtney, Joseph; 507, 508, 751, 752p, 753, 754
Macaulay, Thomas Babington: 16, 626
McCrae, A: 45p
Macdonald, Nicholas: 763p Vf .1 I 1. nn. > I I 'I 1 l« n m n ¥__ _ . C
McDonnell, Thomas, Jnr: 874, 877
McDonnell, Thomas, Snr; 68 et seq, 74f, 148, 184, 185, 225, 253, 281; see also ‘Additional British Resident’ McDonogh, Arthur Edward: 148f, 157,
icL/unugu, rtnuur r,u»aru: 1401, io/, 167, 172p, 182f, 187, 194p, 195. 196, 197p, 198p, 203. 22 Ip, 222, 229, 241, 272, 307f, 309p, 310, 311, 321, 322. 323f. 325, 331, 332p, 333p, 337, 339p, 341, 344f, 357, 365, 368, 371, 386, 387. 396, 402, 403
McEnnes, James; 661
McGauran, Thomas: 429
McGovern, Francis: 920, 934
McGreevy, H: 846
McGregor, J: 171
McGregor, R H; 831
Mclntosh, J: 391
Mackay. James: 721p, 731, 754, 852. 854, 855. 861, 929, 935, 936p, 937p, 938 Markov .Tnh n • Mfl
Mackay, John: 548
McKay, R: 693
McKenzie, James: 506
Mackenzie, James: 475fF, 671
Mackenzie Country, Canterbury: 671p M»ir:llnn U- OCQ on A
McKillop, H; 269, 274
McLean, Donald
and Policing: 246 et seq, 249, 255, 261, 269, 270, 271p, 273, 278, 279f, 283. 285p, 286, 287, 290p, 29 Ip, 292, 294f, 305, 322, 372f, 375, 381, 389. 395, 407. 450, 451, 460, 885, 886, 887p, 896
and Racial interface: 246p, 247, 248, 261, 270, 278tf, 290p, 291p, 307, 424, 427, 440, 441, 444, 450, 451, 454f, 460f, 466p, 467, 522p, 523, 807, 808, 809, 853f. 884, 885, 886f, 889, 893f, 895f
McLean, Robert: 537, 538
McLeod, James: 385
MacMahon, Charles: 552, 553
MacNamara, John: 385
Macquarie, Lachlan; 34, 35p, 36f, 40f, 42, 43. 44. 46. 99. 118
McTavish, P: 596p, 598p Vlnnmnn I'l n. I ■ Trt* QO^
Maemae, Timoti Te: 824
Magistrates (JPs)/magisterial-associated policing: 7 et seq, 12, 14, 22, 32. 34ff, 49f, 57, 61, 64, 79, 93ff, 98ff, 105ff, 109, 112, 119, 122, 124, 130 et seq, 138, 140, 141, 142ff, 146ff, chapter 111 passim, 255, 259, 261, 265, 272, 286, 289, 298, 301, 309f, 314f, 316 et seq, 321f, 323, 324, 325ff, 336 et seq, 345 et seq, 351 et seq, 354 et seq, 363 et seq, 424, 429, 430, 438 et seq, 446, 449, 451, 472, 473, 484p, 485, 486, 487, 494, 496, 500, 504p, 505f, 509, 515f, 527, 528, 529, 530, 532p, 534, 536, 558, 563, 566, 568, 577f, 579, 597, 598. 600, 614, 621p, 630. 637. 644, 652, 653, 671, 673, 680, 684, 685, 687, 700. 712, 721, 722, 726, 732, 751, 754, 759. 765, 766, 767, 769, 773 et seq, 781, 782, 784, 797. 833, 846, 871, 877, 884, 886, 888, 905, 914, 915, 916, 917, 918, 921, 929, 930; et passim, see also ‘Assessors’, ‘Police Magistracy’, ‘Resident Magistracy’, ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
Mahia. Hawke’s Bay: 440
Mahurangi, Northland: 827, 916
Mahuri, Te Warena: 830
Maihi Katipa; see ‘Katipa'
Mainwaring, R C: 852, 935
Mair, Gilbert: 53
Mair, W G: 852
Maitai River, Nelson: 723
Maitland, F W: 8, 99, 113
Maka Te Ngorengore; see Ngorengore’
Makarini Te Uhiniko, Te: see Uhiniko'
umiuivu Maketu; 129, 135, 169, 214ff
Maketu, Bay of Plenty: 826, 853, 929
Maling, Mary; 343
Mating, Thomas A: 170, 171
Mallard, F: 612
Mamaku, Te: see ‘Te Mamaku
Manawapou. Taranaki; 453, 793, 877
Manawatu. Wellington W Cnnct- 9dAf oc.
manawatu, Wellington W Coast: 244f. 266 306f, 438. 793. 797, 821, 830, 854, 895 ’ Manchester, England: 99, 106. 116, 367
1119
Index
Manchester Street, Christchurch: 489
Mangakahia, Northland; 820
Mangatawhiri River, S Auckland region: 810, 832, 845, 848, 904, 905, 906, 908
ulu , , (j-i'J, o*lo, U\JH, UUO, i7UD, WO Mangawhero. Wellington retrion: 830
mangawnero. Wellington region: 830 Mangere, Auckland region: 240, 273, 425, 804, 808, 915, 916
Mangonui Kerei: see ‘Kerei’
Mangonui/Mongonui, Northland: 280p, 281. 286. 287, 289, 383, 384, 393, 395, 400, 415, 418, 419, 420, 428, 802, 809, 817, 819, 821, 827, 831, 855, 858f, 860. 861, 916
Mangungu, Northland: 69
Mania, K: 216
Mania, Te: 225, 226
Maniapoto, Rewi: see ‘Rewi’
Mann, Thomas; 480
Manners Street, Wellington: 387
maiuicid OUCCL, *T CiiillgUJll, OO / Mantell, Walter: 493, 827, 850, 853, 854, 855, 864
Manuals, police: see ‘Rules’
ivicuiuaid, puiiuc. dec XvUicS Manuherikia River, Otago: 580, 582
Manuka, Te Teira: see ‘Teira’ Manukau Harbour/area, Auckland: 1!
liaiuuui/mca, rtUURUUIU. li 134, 177, 835, 897, 915
Manukau prison hulk: 795
Manukorihi: see ‘Tribes’
Maori: Police/policing: APF period: 216, 238f, 241p, 242f, 245, 248. 249f, 252, 254p, 255f, 257, 259f, 264, 268ff, 272p, 274, 279f, 287f, 290, 291f, 295f, 299, 303, 304, 305f, 307, 308p, 309, 315, 321p, 323, 324, 333f, 366, 373f, 375, 376, 377, 383, 389, 390p, 391, 392, 393, 398, 400f, 402, 403, 417, 433, 448, 451, 453, 801p, 802
‘Dependency of NZ’: 37ff, 45, 50, 364
Informal: 50, 51, 53, 60p, 64, 74, 76, 78, 251, 265, 266f, 270, 273, 363f, 370, 402, 420, 423, 477, 548, 801, 803, 863
Kingite, rebel: 425, 81Of, 840f, 852
Native Police Forces: mooted 239f, 802, 826f, 857; Opunake 452; Taranaki Native Police 452 et seq, 458, 459, 460f, 462, 466f, 520, 521, 522, 865. 866. 867, 871, 877, 879, 880
Police Magistracy period: 190, 364f
Provincial period: 295f, 417, 419, 421, 422, 427, 433ff, 448f, 452, 477, 524, 532, 634, 649, 721, 764, 791, 801, 802, 803, 808, 809f, 811, 851, 852, 858f, 861, 864, 886, 891, 896, 898f; see also ‘Runanga, official/legal system’ for Native Department ‘indirect rule’ policing.
mienl, muiiu/i iuic ‘Te Wherowhero’ for his Fencible-
associated unit
Maori: Societal/chiefly control: 30, 31, 53f, 65, 86, 212, 213, 217, 233, 265, 270, 364, 415, 422f, 424f, 426p, 524f, 80If. 804ff. 813, 817, 823f, 840, 856, 857p, 887, 928; see also ‘Runanga/councils’
Maori: Tribal interaction: 3lp, 33, 34, 38, 41, 44, 45p, 48, 50p, 53ff, 56, 58p, 61 65, 68, 72, 76, 77, 78, 82, 154, 175. 214p 215, 217, 230. 270, 278, 281 p. 288, 291f, 377, 420, 422, 443, 444, 445, 453ff, 45?’ 458, 463, 525, 817p, 818, 820, 823, 826’ 831, 833, 836, 837, 839, 840, 844, 867, 891; pantribalism/intertribalism 71f 335, 422f, 426, 804, 805p, 807, 810, 818, 834, 842; see also ‘Hauhauism’, ‘King
Movement’, ‘United Tribes’ Mann Pmnl Ofo crs\- Ct(\C
Maori Point, Otago: 592p, 606, 608 Marine/Thames River Police: 103
Marino Taukapa: see ‘Taukapa’ Marlborough
imilAMUUgll Province/govemment: 508, 609, 720, 727, 728, 751 et seq, 761, 768; capital and constitutional controversies 752ff, 759, 765; and gold 610, 654, 728, 730, 754ff; Superintendency 751, 753p, 754, 761, 762, 765
Provincial police: 508, 613, 739, 751. 753f, 755 et seq, 767 et seq, 850; Police
Regulation Ordinance and Amend ment 760, 766 Rorricn- 1 1 7QB-
Region: 51, 151, 738; see also ‘Goldfields Regional’
Maroro: 216
Marsden, Samuel: 34p, 35p, 36p, 37p, 38, 39. 40, 41, 42, 43. 44p, 48. 49, 50, 53p, 54p, 56p, 67, 77
Marsh, Ngaio: 483
Marshall, Frederick: 189
Marshall, W B: 68
Martial law: 190, 201, 228, 241, 243, 244, 263, 266f, 464, 467 p. 865, 868, 928
Martin, Dr S: 91. 196, 225, 233
1,101 1,111 , 1,1 • Jl, IJU, LOO Martin, William, constable: 405
Martin, William. Chief Justice: 169, 803, 809
Massacre/Coal/Golden Bay. Nelson region 168, 170, 508, 509, 510
Masterton, Wairarapa: 436, 533, 795, 797
wjii, auaiajja. tou Maitai River, Nelson: 723
Mataitawa, Taranaki: 872, 878
Matalrana NJr»rtVils>r>r4-
Matakana. Northland: 364 Matakitaki. S-W Nelson: 727
Matarikoriko Blockhouse, Taranaki: 866
Matata/Te Awa-o-te-Atua, Bay of Plenty: 825
Mataura, Southland: 585, 694, 696, 713
Mataura River/border area, Otago/Southland: 497, 588, 617, 696, 699p, 702, 710, 716 Matene Te Whiwhi: see ‘Te Whiwhi’
Mathew, Felton: 134, 179p, 180, 187,198, 217, 225, 231, 249, 268, 269, 270, 295. 301, 338, 341, 344, 347f, 361, 363, 369. 390
Mathieu, Felix: 738. 739, 740
Matiaha, Utiku Te: 830
Matiu: 820
1120
Index
Matutaera, Wellington W Coast: 783p, 784, 830
Mauku, Auckland region: 904, 905f
825
Maungatapu, Bay of Plenty: 825
Maungatapu, Nelson/Marlborough
Murders: 624, 679, 681p, 737 et seq, 744, 74ft 7RO 7fift
748, 750, 768 Track: 679, 730, 738p, 739, 743. 768 A* KCO KCi
Maungatua, Otago: 563, 564p, 565p, 566
Mawhera pa: 652 KXnf.iUnanit, /T itf 1a Caa,' Di.IAA C WI \IaI
Mawheraiti/Little Grey River. S-W Nelson: 735, 737
May, Joseph: 906
Mayne, Edward; 419
Mayne, Richard: 13, 110, 356, 677; see
also ‘Rowan/Mayne strategy’
Mechanics Bay, Auckland: 369
Mechanics Institute. Auckland; 252
Mee, Alexander: 548p
Meeanee, Hawke’s Bay: 896
Meiha/majors: 852
Melbourne, Victoria: 125, 381, 496, 539, 541, 544, 550, 551, 552, 554p, 555, 556, 558, 559, 560, 567, 571, 573, 575, 585, 594, 636, 637, 643, 871, 872
0»4, 000, Do 1 , 040, o/x, o/z Menzies. JAR: 694, 695, 696, 698, 700, 701, 703, 711, 713
Menzies Town. Southland: 713
Mercury- 35
Meredith, William N: 912, 924 a* . / r r„ o * ui i
Meremere/Te Kohekohe, S Auckland region: 833
‘Met, The’: see ‘London Metropolitan Police’
Mete Kingi; 803
Metropolitan Police: see ‘London Metropolitan Police’
puuuui ruuce Mettray Penitentiary, France: 102
Meurant, Edward: 252f, 259, 270, 276, 277
Mickle, David: 855
Middlesex, England: 93, 95, 137; Justices Act 98
Middleton. England: 116
Military pensioners: see ‘Fencibles’; settlements 260, 284f, 286, 289, 295. 383, 384, 415, 427, 431; see also ‘Howick’, ‘Onehunga’. ‘Otahuhu’, ‘Panmure’
Military posts, precincts: 105, 230, 243, 244. 262. 468, 518, 520, 524, 534, 789, 793, 794, 843. 845, 863, 866p, 868, 869, 870. 872, 876, 877, 878, 892, 895, 899, 906, 915
Military Settlers/settlements: 430, 797, 848, 851, 868. 870, 871, 872p, 874, 875, 876p, 877f, 892. 893, 895, 896, 907f, 914, 915. 916, 918, 919, 920, 926, 928, 934, 935, 938; see also ‘Waikato Militia’
Military-associated policing/order: 3, 10, 11. 44. 48. 49. 53. 54p, 56. 57. 61. 66ff, 75p, 77. 82. 9lf. 96. 99, 106p, 108. 153f, 159,189, 190,215, 228ff, 244 p. 262ff, 288.
357f, 366, 367, 376, 418. 430. 443, 455f, 459, 462, 464f. 467f, 518f, 526, 565, 790, 797, 844, 864 et seq, 871f, 875, 877, 892, 893, 904p, 919, 928, 932; see also ‘Military pensioners’, ‘Military Settlers’
Military/regimental police: 444, 458, 459, 465, 518, 519, 520, 790. 797, 865, 870, 872, 875, 876, 893, 905, 914 aj;i;*;„. co ui ac qi qq 140 iftft iqr
Militia: 63. 84. 86. 91. 93. 140, 188, 198, 199, 229p, 237f, 240, 241, 242p, 243f, 247. 252p, 272, 303, 372p, 373, 454. 456, 457, 464p, 467f, 519, 521, 527, 546, 763, 787, 794, 797, 852, 892, 896, 904, 905, 907, 920; see also ‘Military Settlers’, ‘Waikato Militia’
Millbank Penitentiary, London: 106
Miller, Walter: 595
Miller’s Flat, Otago: 595
Millward, Charles: 773, 774, 775, 780
Milton/Tokomairiro, Otago: 556
Missions/missionaries: 51, 52, 59, 62, 63, 69, 72f, 74f, 190, 334; and racial interface/policing 32 et seq, 35ff, 50ff, 61, 63, 64. 67, 73. 80, 83, 84. 88, 90. 115, 127, 128, 151. 154, 162p, 247, 369, 384, 443, 527f, 799, 810, 816, 818, 892
Mitchell, William: 551 Moa Creek. Otaeo Province: 583
Moa Lreek, Utago rrovince: 583 Moananui, Tareha Te: see ‘Te Moananui’
Moaunui, S Auckland region: 841
Mobility: 3. 123f, 127, 129p, 236, 238, 248, 251, 256, 286, 303, 309, 310, 315, 321, 436, 447, 452, 456, 531, 579, 700, 711, 735, 737. 888, 897, 940; see also ‘Transfer system’
Moeraki, Otago: 205, 216, 500
Moetara: 70, 75
Mohaka. Hawke’s Bay: 528, 530, 829, 882, 884, 895
Mohara, Wirihana; see ‘Wirihana’
Mohi Wharepoto: see ‘Wharepoto’
Mokau, Taranaki/S Auckland: 224, 841 Mnkpnn Knh*>r#»- R99f
Mokena Kohere; 822f
Mokihinui River, S-W Nelson: 747
Mokomoko. Wiremu: 830
moKomoKo, wiremu: ooU Moller, Henry: 739
Molloy, Patrick: 925p
Molyneux Township/Balclutha, Otago: 616
Molyneux/Clutha River: 588
Mongonui/Mangonui. Northland: 280
Monson. Henry: 328ff, 502, 560
Moonlight’s Gully, S-W Nelson: 733
Moore, Dennis: 440
Moore, John: 126
Moore, Sir John; 112
Moore, Samuel: 757, 758
Moore, William; 55
Moorhouse, William Sefton: 482p, 487 638p, 639, 690. 691p
Morale: 121f. 125, 261, 328ff, 332, 420, 428, 446. 448, 472, 481. 490, 534, 548, 576,
1121
Index
Moral e—continued 584, 606p, 607, 611, 614, 697, 710, 711, 713, 714, 723, 731, 780, 791p, 822, 823, 873, 874, 878, 879, 882, 883, 884, 902, 903, 917, 921, 930. 932, 934, 939; et
passim
Morenga, Te: 44
Morony, T: 703
Morton, Edward: 586, 696, 698, 701 702f, 705, 706, 715p, 716, 717p Mnrtnn William Mivnn- ccn coo
Morton, William Nixon: 556p, 569, 582, 588, 595, 598, 600, 601p, 608p, 611, 613f, 617, 629, 729, 750, 757, 758p, 759, 760p, 761p, 766p, 769, 771
Mossman, John; 475, 476
Motuarohia Island, Northland: 214
Motueka, Nelson region: 167, 324, 343, 508, 514, 516f, 721, 722, 731f
Motuhoa, Bay of Plenty: 82£
Motupipi, Nelson region: 168p
Moule, W: 908
Mount Benger, Otago: 594, 595
Mount Burster, Otago: 605
Mount Cook, Wellington: 387
Mount Eden Gaol, Auckland; 742, 743p, 911, 924, 931
Mount Egmont, Taranaki: 876
Mount Ida/Vincent/Naseby, Otago: 602f, 605, 606, 608, 617, 623
Mounted police/policing: 95, 123ff, 232, 236, 249, 250, 264, 266, 285f, 308f, 383, 415, 429, 443, 460, 528, 530, 538, 540, 541, 556, 560, 563, 564, 567, 575, 579, 581, 582, 585, 586, 589, 602p, 608. 609p, 618, 637, 642, 652, 661, 662, 671, 681, 694, 695p, 702, 705, 707, 708, 747p, 748, 757, 758, 886, 887, 888, 889, 906f, 909, 916; see also ‘Horse Patrol’, ‘NSW Mounted Police’
iviuuiilcu route Moutere, Nelson region: 516
Moutoa, Wellington W Coast: 851
Muller, Stephen Lunn; 507, 508, 751, 753
Municipalism and policing: 116, 2311T, 340, 368, 812, 879, 934
Municipal offences/nuisances legislation: 428, 456, 519, 594, 651, 672, 682, 698, 874, 900, 927; see also ‘Efficiency Ordinance’
wrumance Murders/homicides: 18, 39, 42, 44, 46, c 2, 55, 74, 77, 78, 84, 129, 154, 169p, 171, 205, 213, 214f, 216p, 220, 266p, 270, 331, 360f, 371, 379, 380, 454, 463, 570, 593, 595, 599, 619, 624, 670, 679p, 713, 714, 722, 725, 737ff, 749, 750, 754, 812, 933
Murihiku: 493; see also ‘Southland’
Murphy, Michael: 134p, 142p, 143, 145f, 148, 149, 150, 151p, 154, 156, 160, 161, 165, 169, 172, 180, 191 et seq, 195, 196, 197, 202, 213p, 217, 220f, 232, 339, 340. 342, 345f, 348, 363, 365, 371
Murray, F G: 459, 464, 467p
Murray, John: 442
Murray River, South Australia: 237, 296 Muru/retributive plundering: 270 et passir Musgraves/Roxburgh, Otago: 583
N
Nagle, John; 604
Nanto-Bordelaise Company: 144, 177, 203 316
Napier, Hawke’s Bay: 441p, 442, 444p, 445 525, 528p, 529, 530, 531, 821, 880, 881 883, 884, 887, 888, 890, 893p, 894p, 895 896p
Napoleon Bonaparte: 104
Napoleonic Wars: 42, 106
Narehana Te Whare: see ‘Whare'
Naseby/Vincent/Mt Ida, Otago: 623, 624
Nash, John; 726, 744
Nathan, Henry: 16
Native Affairs Minister: 427, 465, 827, 853, 856, 860p, 862
Native Circuit Courts Act: 427, 808, 821 ‘Native constables’: see ‘Maori: Police’ ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
Native Department/Secretary: 383, 420, 423, 424f, 460, 538, 649, 721, 754, 782, 802, 808, 809, 819, 823, 828, 850, 855, 860, 86If, 863, 864, 896, 897, 929p, 930, 934
Native Districts, mooted: 258, 801
Native Districts Regulation Act: 427, 808, 814, 815, 817, 819, 821
Native Exemption Ordinance: 226, 229, 241, 258, 364
Native Force Ordinance: 240
Native Land Court: 248, 786, 856, 861, 873, 927, 928
Native Land Purchase Department: 291, 808, 856
Native Lands Act: 856, 858, 891
Native Police Forces: see ‘Maori: Police
Native Provinces Bill: 858
Native Territorial Rights Act: 427, 466
Naughton, James; 419p, 420p, 421p, 422p, 428p, 429, 430p, 523, 524p, 897ff. 902, 903, 909, 910f, 913, 915, 916p, 917f. 919, 922p, 923, 924p, 926, 927, 928, 931 p. 932p, 933, 934p, 937, 938, 939
NCOs/Non-commissioned officers; 24, 105, 110, 122f, 126, 132, 166, 247, 262, 263. 268, 287, 294, 331, 332, 354, 390, 400, 407, 421, 428, 430, 432, 440, 448, 459. 472, 482, 486, 490, 501p, 502, 515, 526, 530, 557, 569, 573, 575, 600, 601p, 653, 664, 690, 718p, 737, 748, 760, 763, 767, 768, 798, 894, 903, 924
Negus, William: 933
Nelson. John; 663f
Nelson
Policing, pre-provincial: 165 et seq, 171 et seq, 208 et seq, 264f, 290, 297, 302ff, 312, 315, 318, 324f. 330, 338, 339, 341. 342, 343f. 349, 369f, 382, 384, 492
1122
Index
Nelson — continued
Province/government: 485, 503 et seq. 635, 655, 680, 719 et seq: and gold 508 et seq. 655, 662, 719, 727f, 728, 732ff. 738, 747, 755, 771; Superintendency 507, 509, 731, 748 d_„,. a oq cno cn„ sin
Provincial policing: 439, 503 et seq, 510, 514 et seq. 636, 679f, 687, 719f, 722ff, 728, 729 et seq, 131. 739ff, 743, 744: Goldfields 443, 503, 508 et seq, 668, 669, 677, 679, 720, 723, 725 et seq, 129, 731, 732 et seq, 744 et seq, 756, 771
Region/urban: 165 et seq, 171 et seq. 195, 197, 208 et seq, 223, 228, 229, 302ff, 324f, 338, 342, 357, 362, 369, 371. 432, 474, 504, 506, 508, 510, 512, 514, 515, 518, 521, 655, 658, 660, 662, 679p, 719 et seq, 728, 729ff, 738ff, 754. 155, 768
See also: ‘West Coast: South-West Nelson’
Nelson Examiner. 509, 510, 511, 512, 513, 514, 516, 719, 721, 122, 729, 758 Nene, Tamati Waka: see ‘Waka Nene‘
Nera, Wiremu; 836, 837, 843, 846
therlands: 367
‘New Edinburgh’/Otago: 203
New Munster. Province of: 195, 255, 275, 277, 278, 285, 286, 290, 293, 294, 296, 297, 300, 302p, 305, 306p, 307p, 308, 309 310, 311.312. 317, 321, 322p, 323p, 325ff, 384, 386, 389, 390, 392p, 394, 395, 399, 400, 401, 404. 405, 409, 431, 504 ‘Efficiency Ordinance’: 312, 386, 406, 486, 494, 495, 511
Police: 211, 285f, 293, 297, 302ff, 308, 309, 312, 317, 322p, 323, 331, 387, 400. 401, 402, 404, 405. 414, 431; see also ‘Canterbury’, ‘Nelson’, ‘Otago’, ‘Wellington’, and ‘Armed Police Force: Canterbury, Nelson, Otago, Waikanae, Wanganui. Wellington’
New Plymouth/Taranaki
olicing, pre-provincial: see Armed Police Force: New Plymouth’, ‘Police Magistracy Forces: New Plymouth’
Province: see ‘Taranaki Province’
Region: see ‘Taranaki’ I Tiiknn- A x t - .. IAI
Urban: 174 et seq, 195, 213, 220, 224, 278. 286, 291, 338, 341, 343, 370, 372f, 375, 378, 38Iff, 401, 449, 454, 456p, 457p, 458, 462, 463. 467f. 518ff, 520. 784, 794, 796, 851, 860, 864, 865f. 867, 870ff, 879f, 881, 890, 903 New Plymouth Company: 174, 462
‘New police’: 13 et seq. 21, 22f, 24, 25, 96, 103, 106, 109 et seq, 114 et seq, 119, 155, 231, 310, 346. 352, 353, 367, 372. 379, 387, 389, 394, 447, 873 m Mnnt Cunt U I') H O AFT 11 n ,An
in New South Wales: 93, 95, 118, 122, 381, 387
in NZ: 25, 93, 95. 156, 179, 181f, 311, 358, 379, 389, 407, 575, 576, 651 New Provinces Act: 445, 527, 694
New South Wales: 10. 30. 32p. 33. 34. 35. 36. 39. 45 ff. 56ff, 64, 66. 68p, 70ff, 74, 78ff, 83. 84. 86. 88p, 89, 90, 91. 93, 118 et seq, 127, 128, 129, 132 et seq, 138,155, 158, 181. 208, 231, 244. 309, 312, 322, 334, 336, 345, 349, 352, 353, 354, 356p, 360, 362, 368, 547p, 550, 553, 562, 565, 583, 589, 593, 738; see also ‘Constitutional evolution’, ‘Criminal justice process’
New South Wales Mounted Police: 91, 124 et seq, 128 et seq, 130ff, 139, 141f, 143, 150, 152, 155f, 192, 236, 237, 238, 247, 285, 309, 346p, 347
New Ulster, Province of: 195, 197, 242, 275p, 278, 280, 281, 282, 283, 285, 286 289 p. 290, 291, 293p, 294p, 296, 306, 307, 322, 383, 384, 389. 391, 392, 401, 405, 414, 425, 431, 440, 450
Police: 274ff, 280f, 293, 294f, 301, 405, 414, 417, 430, 448; see also ‘Auckland' & ‘Taranaki’ policing, and ‘Armed Police Force: Auckland, New Plymouth. Northland’
New Zealand Association: 80, 83, 88, 91
New Zealand Company
the First: 47f, 49, 58. 80 the Second: 88, 102, 133, 135ff, 160ff, 174ff. 196, 197f, 199 p. 202, 216, 224, 231p, 242, 273, 316, 370, 371, 408, 438
and Settlements: Nelson 165 et seq, 171 et seq, 194, 208 et seq, 223f, 369f; New Plymouth 174 et seq, 193, 219f, 245, 378; Otago: 197f; Wanganui: 151, 160 et seq, 193, 199ff, 213f; Wellington/ Port Nicholson 133, 135 et seq, 145f, 150, 171, 174, 178, 191 et seq, 213f. 220ff, 243, 342, 378
and the State: 135 et seq, 145f, 160 et seq, 167, 168, 172 et seq, 183. 191 et seq, 197f, 209 et seq, 213f, 220ff, 231f. 237, 243, 298, 301, 340, 345, 370, 378
and Vendettas/pressures: 145f, 150. 162, 163ff, 167f, 174, 191. 193f. 196p, 198p, 208, 214, 223f, 345f
New Zealand Herald-. 934p
New Zealand War Medal: 401
New Zealand Police Force (1886): Ilf, 18, 331 KR3 cun (U1
331, 563, 940, 941 New Zealand Settlements Act: 858
New Zealand Wars: see ‘Wars, 1840s’, ‘Wars, 1860s’
New Zealander. 374, 913
Newland, John; 174
Newman, George: 375
Newry. James; 773f, 776p, 779, 781
Newton. Auckland: 910, 916
Newton/Picton/Waitohi, Marlborough; 507, 752
Ngahuru, Te: 453
Ngairo; 785, 787f, 795, 796
Ngaitahu: see ‘Tribes’
Ngakahi movement: 65, 76f, 86. 280
1123
Index
Ngapuhi: see ‘Tribes’
Ngarara/reptilian devil: 880
Ngarauru: see ‘Tribes’
Ngaruawahia. S Auckland region: 425, 785, 810, 811, 832, 837, 839, 840, 844, 848, 915, 920
Ngaruroro, Hawke’s Bay: 829, 830, 861
Ngatara, Witanihaua; 826
Ngatata, Wi Tako: see ‘Wi Tako’
Ngati Manu, Ngatiawa, Ngatihaua, Ngatihikairo, Ngati Kahu, Ngatikahungunu, Ngatimahana, Ngatimahuta, Ngatimaniapoto, Ngatimaru, Ngatinaho, Ngatipaoa, Ngatiporou, Ngatiranhoto, Ngatiruanui, Ngatiruirangi, Ngatitahinga, Ngatiteata, Ngati-te-Pahe, Ngatiteweti, Ngatitipa, Ngatitoa, Ngatiwhatua, Ngatiwhauroa: see ‘Tribes’
Ngatuere: 795 Vtfnpon Vf alra Tf
Ngorengore, Maka Te: 304
Nicolls, E: 47, 48 cimrA.llnnnA. Q OC 0(1 1 f\n 1 .
Night surveillance: 8. 96, 99, 107, 144, 156, 186, 222, 332. 369, 371, 373, 376, 383, 420, 432, 458, 460, 461, 464, 497, 498 p. 499, 502, 514, 539, 573, 575, 586, 590, 633, 643, 694, 698 p. 714, 730. 872, 875. 879, 905, 910, 917, 932
Nimon, James: 564, 567
Ninia pa, Taranaki: 454, 456
Nixon, Marmaduke G: 906f
‘Nixon’s Horse’: 907
‘No-go’ areas: see ‘lndigenous responses’ No Town. S-W Nelson: 669, 733p, 734, 131 736, 746
Noa Te Tawhara: see ‘Tawhara’
Noake, Maillard; 854, 892
Nokomai, Otago Province: 580, 582, 583, 585, 588, 609, 618, 699p, 700f, 704, 706, 710
Nokore, Puteruka Te: 838
Non-commissioned officers: see ‘NCOs’
Nopera Fanakareao: 82, 90, 281, 292 Norfolk Island: 30, 32, 51, 57, 181, 361
Normanby, Lord: 88. 91p
North Cape: 38
North Island; 53, 135, 139, 145, 150, 151, 165, 171, 177, 195, 237, 242, 248, 286, 290, 302, 404p, 423, 431, 439, 440, 465. 468p, 472, 512, 518, 524, 532, 535, 584. 632, 648, 719, 727, 754, 772, 783. 800, 804, 818, 821, 823, 825, 827, 828, 844, 853, 855, 857, 866, 872, 883, 885, 886, 888. 889, 897, 907, 940
North Shore, Auckland: 216, 379
North Star, HMS; 209, 2lip, 351
Northern, W: 171
Northland/N Auckland/Far North/Northern District: chap I passim, 125ff, 130 et seq, 148f, 158, 177ff, 198, 199f, 214f, 226ff, 250, 252, 280, 281, 292, 415, 419. 422. 449, 809. 816, 828, 831; see also, inter alia, ‘Kororareka’
Nugent, C L: 456
‘Nuisances’ legislation: see ‘Municipal offences’
Nunn, James W; 125p, 121
o
Oahau, Canterbury: 204
Oakes, Henry: 70, 74
Oakura, Taranaki: 877, 878
Oamaru, Otago: 500, 501, 502, 537, 538p, 539, 540, 544, 547. 548p, 618, 648
Observations on the Office of Constable: 112
‘Occupation’ policing: see ‘Pacification
O’Connell, Sir Maurice; 129p
O’Donnell, Charles: 660p, 668
Offending, incidence of: 19, 20, 21, 94, 97, 103, 104, 106, 108, 109, 117, 144, 150 167, 179, 191, 262, 281. 282, 325. 329. 360. 361, 363, 381, 382p, 386, 456, 459. 492, 498, 503, 514, 536, 548, 576, 592. 606. 608, 632, 637, 681, 682, 689, 709. 722, 730, 735, 871, 873, 908, 911, 917. 918, 922p, 923. 924, 925, 930, 931, 933
'"U, Ji-n, JA.U, JOV, 301. Ogilvy, W: 443, 445
Ohaeawai pa, Northland: 190
O’Halloran, T S: 236p, 237, 239
Ohariu, Wellington region: 24c
Ohinemuri, Bay of Plenty region: 937
Oho, Eru: 828
Okains Bay, Canterbury: 484, 670 Okarito, Westland: 673, 676, 678, 683, 74( Okataina, Bay of Plenty region; 825p O’Keeffe, M: 714
okiato/(01d) Russell, Northland: 83, 128, 180, 190
IOU, 17J Okutuku Block, Wellington W Coast: 797 ‘Old’ police: 10, 14, 104, 108, 112, 389, 650, 873
Omarunui, Hawke’s Bay: 896
Omata, Taranaki: 286, 290, 451, 456, 519, 866, 868; Blockhouse 468
Omeo: 640
Onehunga, Auckland: 260, 273, 286, 281 288, 289, 383, 391, 415, 420, 430, 472 904, 910, 917, 918, 930, 931, 933 InmAa> QOl
O’Neill, James: 931 r\ » XT—: 11 i„i Ann ,
O’Neill, John: 477, 478, 479, 480
Onuku, Canterbury: 143 Opawa River. Marlborough: 505 Opotiki, Bay of Plenty: 856, 859, 927 Opoueta, Bay of Plenty: 825 Opunake, Taranaki: 452, 876 Opunake Native Police Force: 452 Orakau, S Auckland region: 848, 851, 856 872, 906, 915
Orakei. Auckland: 259, 27(
Orangi-tuapeka pa. Taranaki: 61
Ordinances: 195, 205, 226, 232, 240, 241. 254ff, 255, 258ff, 211, 286, 297,310,312 p. 364, 376tf, 398p, 406, 419, 486. 487. 494. 495, 501, 511. 519. 530, 560, 565f, 594. 599. 600, 612, 621p, 622, 628. 642. 651.
1124
Index
Ordinances — continued 657, 672, 682, 698, 699, 715, 760, 766, 801, 874. 875, 879, 893, 927
Orepuki, Southland: 714, 715
Ormond, J D: 44 If. 885, 887, 888, 892 r\ o a i.i l : qo n
Oruanui, S Auckland region: 827
Oscar. 547
Otago
Association; 298, 299 Policing, APF: 242, 298 et seq, 302, 303, 307, 308, 312f, 315,317, 325ff, 396, 434 n ; / OK <1 C AQ 1 4QI
Province/government: 25. 416, 481, 491 et seq, 499, 536 et seq, 693, 855, 888, 894; and Branigan 554, 565, 576ff, 587, 589, 590, 594, 599f, 6121T, 615f, 620ff, 631; and gold 537ff, 545f, 584, 590, 607, 617, 755, 901, 940; Superintendency 492. 501, 537, 600, 628p
Provincial police: 416, 491 et seq, 536 et seq, 693p, 700. 769, 917; Goldfields 538, 540f, 543 et seq, 555p, 557, 560f, 562f, 566, 568ff, 578 et seq, 607 et seq. 747, 748, 937; Ordinances 560, 565, 566; proposed South Island force 638; see also ‘Southland Provincial Police’
Region: 31, 34, 52f, 66, 89. 144, 198p, 203, 205, 216, 242, 265p, 313, 384, 402, 486, 493, 494, 502, 518, 537 et seq, 623, 625, 725. 741. 755, 871, 900, 902
Settlers’ Association: 328p, 491f
Otago Daily Times: 558, 561, 578, 592, 595p
Otago Witness: 381
Pahi, Te: see ‘Te Pahi’
Pahia, Southland: 714
Pai marire movement: 784, 793, 866, 872, 874, 892, 893, 895f, 916, 919; see also ‘Hauhauism’
Paihia, Northland: 50p, 128p
Paine, Tom: 172
Pakete, Tini: 834
Pakihi/infertile bogland, S-W Nelson: 735, 744, 745, 746p, 747p
Palmer, Edwin: 52, 55, 78
Palmerston, Otago: 588
Panakareao, Nopera; see ‘Nopera’ Paneta, Wiremu: 461
Panmure, Auckland: 273, 286, 287, 391, 91'
Panopticism/inspectionism: 101 ff, 359, 557, 574; Panopticon, or The Inspection House 101; see also ‘Bentham’
Paora, Rawiri: 880
Paora Rerepu: see ‘Rerepu’ Ponra TapourKota' coo ' T'u raU’hptp
Paora Tarawhete: see ‘Tarawhete’
Papahurihia: 65, 77, 280, 817
Papakura, Auckland: 910, 917, 919
Papawai pa, Wairarapa: 78' Dn HnßMnn A> QO C
Paramena: 826 PQromilitaricm/militflricutinTV A 1 A R4
Otahuhu, Auckland: 273, 287,289, 420.83 898, 907, 910, 917, 933
Otaki,’ Wellington W Coast: 213, 244f. 265 266, 267, 335, 793, 803, 809, 830p, 84'
Otakorau, Erimana: 824 Otawhao, S Auckland region: 832, 841, 843, 844
Otira, Westland: 666, 686
Otuihu, Northland: 63p, 189
Outlying Districts Police Act: 856, 857, 858, 928
Outram, John: 501, 538, 545, 560
Overend, John: 754p, 759, 766
Oxford, Canterbury: 484, 683, 687
P
Pa Whakairo, Hawke’s Bay: 889 Pa/village(s), fortification(s): 34, 37, 39, 55, 63, 67. 69. 151, 152, 171, 189, 190, 213, 222, 224, 225, 227, 230, 242, 244p, 266, 307. 321, 357, 363, 381. 454. 455, 464. 467p, 477. 520, 521p, 525, 648, 652, 755, 783, 787. 795, 825, 847, 869, 888
Pacification/occupation policing: 99. 105, 111, 150, 238. 241. 242, 243, 244. 248, 250p, 285, 286, 288, 376, 384, 468, 786, 793f, 803. 816, 851f, 856ff, 873, 876, 886, 906, 914, 915p, 918, 919, 927, 940
Paramilitarism/militarisation: 4. 14, 84, 105, 109, 110, 113, 120, 123, 124, 179, 235, 242, 255, 257, 260p, 265, 266, 273, 275, 282, 285, 304, 308, 310, 315, 317, 321, 324, 331, 355, 359, 367, 373, 376, 384, 389, 395, 397, 402f, 419, 430, 436, 437, 439, 452, 454, 485, 497, 501, 503, 514, 515, 528, 529 et seq, 531, 539, 546, 547, 571p, 572, 574, 575. 600, 613, 614, 629, 646, 651, 657, 683, 685, 695, 712, 722, 749. 750, 755, 758, 759, 765, 767, 770, 771, 774, 781, 799, 842, 854, 875, 881, 887, 89If, 894, 906, 920, 931, 937p; see also ‘Armed Constabulary’, ‘Colonial Defence Force’
Parana, Hoani: 324
Parata, Wiremu: 856
Pardons/amnesties/mitigation: 479, 534, 740ff, 776. 937
Paremata; 224
Paremata, Wellington W Coast: 243, 244
Parenga Kingi: see ‘Kingi’
Pareora. Canterbury: 484
Parewanui, Wellington W Coast: 830
Parihaka, Taranaki: 940
Paris, France: 142, 207
‘Parkhurst Boys’: 361
Parnell, Auckland: 416, 905, 910, 916
Paroa, Northland: 31
Parramatta, NSW: 134, 194
Parramatta: 33
Parris, Robert Reid: 457, 463, 466f, 521, 859, 860, 861, 865, 929
Paruhi, Hoani Matenga: 82f
Paschen, Otto: 567
‘Passports’: 62, 468, 853
Pastoralism/runholding: 223, 290, 292, 318f, 431, 433f, 436, 438, 440ff, 445p, 462,
1125
Index
Pastoralism/runholding— continued 470. 471, 474, 485. 493, 497, 504. 505p, 506, 526, 527, 531, 533, 538, 539, 579, 693, 720, 752 et seq, 762. 765f, 770, 772p, 786, 793, 798, 884, 886. 895; see also ‘Elites’, ‘Squatters’
Patea, Taranaki: 383, 784
Patea River: 266, 275, 291
Patience, James: 190f, 262. 263, 281
Patihana Aukomiro: see ‘Aukomiro’
Patrols/patrolling: see ‘Surveillance patrol’
Patterson, John and William: 347
Patuone: 260
Pauatahanui, Wellington W Coast: 244, 247, 307, 788
Pay/wages
Accessibility: 157, 167, 182f. 332, 336, 339p, 344, 365, 402p, 438, 496, 531, 533, 634, 693, 753, 823
Comparability; 122, 145, 151, 157, 311, 329, 331, 336f, 338p, 343f, 389, 393, 394, 396, 402, 403 p. 404, 405, 421, 428, 434, 435, 461, 471, 473, 527f, 533, 538, 543, 548, 559, 584, 608, 634, 639, 654, 664, 665, 671, 677, 685, 691, 711, 715, 723, 736, 737, 751, 787, 791, 881, 903, 910, 914, 917, 922p, 924, 925
Extra-official incomes: 278, 338, 382
Figures: 46. 132, 155, 157, 166, 188, 200, 239, 250, 262, 265, 286, 334, 336, 337ff. 343, 344, 350, 365, 393, 403, 404, 416, 417. 421, 428, 429, 435, 438, 450, 451 p. 458, 461, 465, 471, 472, 473p, 478, 485, 495p, 498, 500, 501,503, 504, 510, 514, 527, 528, 533, 544, 548, 559, 567, 584, 608, 616, 634, 635, 639, 641, 654, 663, 664, 671, 678. 695, 707, 711, 715, 723, 736, 737, 748, 749, 751, 752, 758, 765, 787, 791, 792, 796, 814, 825, 843, 869. 882, 896, 903, 906. 907, 910, 911, 917, 918, 922p, 929, 932, 933
Rates, unspecified: 95, 114, 115, 121, 122, 145, 151, 155, 157, 159, 167, 181, 278, 295, 296, 311, 316, 329, 331, 336ff, 344, 350, 359, 365, 394, 395, 404p, 416, 421, 428, 430, 433, 437, 450, 453, 460, 461, 471, 476, 478. 481, 495, 502, 528, 538, 543, 544p, 558, 559, 567, 576. 583, 607, 608, 610, 611, 616, 623, 633, 641, 654p, 655, 659, 664, 665, 672, 675, 677p, 682, 684, 685, 689, 697, 707, 710, 715, 718, 723, 734, 736, 737, 770, 791p, 792, 798, 844, 850, 86If, 873, 883,907,910.911. 913, 914, 917f, 921f, 924ff, 931, 932, 934, 939, 942
See also: ‘Salaries’
Peace Preservation Act/Police: 105, 119, 124, 131, 235
Pearce, William: 651
Pearson, John: 139f, 14Ip
Pearson, Walter: 697, 698
Peel, Sir Robert; 85. 104, 105, 106, 107ff, 113, 114, 116, 119, 122, 124, 317, 352, 353, 355, 367
‘Peelers’: 105, 107, 235, 535
Pehimana; 782
Peina, Rangihurahia: 856
Peina, Te: 826
Pekama Te Whata; see Whata'
Pelorus, Marlborough: 324, 506, 754p P/l Incim I-IMC. OO
Pelorus, HMS: 82
Pender, Peter; 640, 646, 647, 649, 653f 656, 666, 670p, 689ff
Penetana: 865
Penney. Edward: 284
Pensioner settlements: see ‘Military pensioners’
Pensions/insurance: 125, 354, 437, 533, 639
Pentonville Penitentiary. London: 102
Pentridge Stockade, Victoria: 743
Peraki, Canterbury: 143 Par/tir Oi I- CAI CA A
Percy, Gilbert: 601, 604, 608, 630f
Peria, S Auckland region; 843
Perjury: 515, 545, 677, 678, 680
Perkins, Sam: 569
Petane, Hawke’s Bay: 896
Peterloo: 106, 109, 367
Petone, Wellington region: 137, 138, 141, 151, 350, 364
Petre/Wanganui, Wellington W Coast: 160
Phillip, Arthur; 29f
Philp, Richard: 836f, 861
Phoenix: 39
Pickwick: 357
Picton/Waitohi/Newton, Marlborough: 507, 738, 751, 752, 753 p. 754, 755, 756f. 758, 759, 761 fT, 768ff; see also ‘Marlborough Province: capital’
Pigeon Bay, Canterbury; 223
Piharau, Komene; 830
Pilliet, Walter H: 762p, 769
Pioneer Volunteer Corps: 252
Pipiriki, W’ellington W Coast: 382
Pipitea, Wellington: 140, 222, 232, 357
Piracy/pirates: 33, 47, 51, 74, 131, 361, 593, 716
Pirata Taukawe: see ‘Taukawe
Pirihi Kahitaiki, Te: see ‘Kahitaiki’
Pirihi Taiki: see ‘Taiki’
Pirihimanatanga/policing: 425 et passim
Piripi, Hone: 836, 846
Pirongia/Alexandra, S Auckland region: 908
Pitt, G D (Lieutenant-Colonel): 908
Pitt, G Dean (Lieutenant-Governor): 275, 289
Pitt, William: 97, 104
Poaha: 402
roana. Poia Te Kiri; see ‘Kiri’
Polack, Samuel; 86p
Police districts, provincial: Auckland 415, 419; Canterbury 474, 477, 485, 486. 647. 651, 656, 661f. 668, 689, 693, 736; Marlborough 761p, 767; Otago 561, 568, 573, 600, 602, 605; Southland 707
Police Gazettes: see ‘ Gazettes . police’
Police General Fund: see ‘Good Conduct
Funds’; see also 'Rewards’
1126
Index
Police Magistracy Forces, districts; 98. 103, 116, 119f, 121f. 142, 155 et seq, 195, 256, 257, 337, 338, 397, 495; Akaroa 142ff, 152f, 156f, 189, 202 et seq, 265, 339, 350; Auckland 146 et seq. 111 et seq, 187ff, 260, 262, 338, 347, 350f, 361, 362; Nelson 165 et seq, 171 et seq, 264, 343f, 357; New Plymouth 174 et seq, 245, 259, 261, 270; in Northland 130 et seq, 146, 148f, 154ff, 179 et seq, 184 et seq, 190, 199f, 26Iff, 28If. 337. 361f. 363, 365;
Wanganui 160 et seq, 189, 199ff, 200f, 263, 350, 363; Wellington 139ff, 145f, 150f. 191 et seq, 194ff, 213, 241, 242, 259, 301, 340p, 345f, 350, 357, 362, 365
Ordinance: 195, 205
System: 99. 118 et seq, 128, 133ff, 149. ' 153. 158f, 235, 240, 251, 254, 258p, 341, 347, 356f, 358, 359
Police offences legislation: 312, 386. 486 487, 511, 746, 894, 900; see also ‘Munici pal offences’, ‘Efficiency Ordinance’
Police personnel
Backgrounds/quality: 114, 115, 122p, 131.155p, 156,158f, 242, 271, 296, 302, 304, 311, 315, 344, 345, 351, 362, 394, 395p, 405, 408f, 421, 432, 446, 458, 476. 479, 493, 501, 548p, 566, 570, 572, 618, 634, 641, 644f, 653, 656, 664, 678, 707, 709, 719, 727, 734p, 736, 759, 822, 881, 913,917; military experience 105,121, 127, 137, 147, 170, 173, 174, 184, 199, 235, 243, 252, 271, 293, 315, 351, 419, 421. 440. 442, 446, 480, 506, 530, 532, 540, 554, 555, 567, 570, 605, 639, 653, 705, 121, 734. 761, 769. 782, 881, 904. 920, 940; Moral exemplars 114ff, 158, 179, 390, 575f; see also ‘Recruitment’
Behaviour/methods: 156, 181, 182, 192, 268, 212, 295, 301, 312, 329p, 330, 345, 348, 352f. 362, 375, 376, 379, 385, 394, 405, 418, 433, 435p, 499. 513, 515, 558, 566, 569, 570, 571. 574, 595ff, 599, 603, 606. 612, 644f, 648, 650, 653, 663, 674, 677, 678, 698, 699, 700, 709, 714, 722f, 724, 726, 730, 737, 745p, 749. 750, 759, 761, 763f. 765, 773 et seq, 789, 837, 867, 887, 893f, 933; see also ‘Disciplinary actions’
nary auiuns Female: 584, 602, 654, 692, 706, 710 O ■ _ J e. 1 IKQf IC7 071
Service, duration of: 155p, 158f, 167, 271, 304, 311, 336ff, 351, 354, 404f, 435, 437, 471, 490p, 555, 567f, 584, 600,606, 913, 917, 922
See also: inter alia, ‘Duties’, ‘Pay’
Pollen, Daniel: 419, 936p
Pomare: 63. 69, 77. 154, 189, 363
romare. 00, ou, i /, lot, ioj, Pontius, James de: 738, 739
roniius, oames ue. io o, ioi 7 Popay, William; 116, 356, 380
repay, william, uo, ojd, Popotunoa. Otago: 694
Population distribution, figures:
175, 183, 202, 205, 217, 218, 224, 226, 240, 265, 280, 282, 286, 287, 312, 341, 457, 461, 465, 468, 472, 532, 648, 721, 754, 837, 841
Pakeha: 49. 51. 76, 85, 89, 138, 143, 144, 147, 148, 149, 150, 158, 174, 181. 182, 183, 185, 201, 202, 205, 218, 226, 228, 232, 240, 248, 265, 280, 281, 286, 300, 302p, 318, 341p, 344, 384, 447, 465, 467, 468, 472, 481, 483, 495, 496, 498, 499, 500, 505, 515, 518, 524, 526, 536, 542p, 559, 561, 582, 590, 682, 693, 694, 696, 701, 708, 715p, 728, 747, 751, 752, 754, 760, 785, 796, 898, 901, 905, 908, 916, 919, 923; see also ‘Settlement’
Porangahau, Hawke’s Bay: 527, 530, 885 Porirua, Wellington W Coast: 151, 192, 213, 216. 220, 240, 243. 244, 272, 303, 309, 315, 383, 788, 795, 796, 830, 854
Poroutawhao, Wellington W Coast: 244, 245, 266, 307, 830
Port Chalmers, Otago: 299, 312, 313, 328, 329, 396, 492, 495, 496, 497, 498, 499, 501, 502p, 540. 548, 555, 559, 560, 561, 572f
Port Cooper/Lyttelton Harbour, Canterbury: 313
UUJJ. UIU Port Hills, Canterbury: 314, 470, 481, 633, 684
Port Levy. Canterbury: 223, 648
Port Nicholson/Wellington settlement: 102, 133, 135 et seq . 142p, 145f, 150p, 160, 191. 195. 201, 231, 243. 346, 377, 408; extralegal policing regime, 136 et seq
Port Phillip. NSW: 121, 181
Port Victoria/Lyttelton/Canterbury settlement: 314ff, 468, 485, 504
uliii, ■ vJO, TOO, Port Waikato. S Auckland region: 9lf
Port William. Stewart Island: 716
Post offices: 342, 373, 647
Postal duties: 176, 179, 183, 185, 266, 278, 281, 306, 307, 314, 323. 324, 333, 344, 383, 384, 402, 419, 431, 436, 445, 462, 471, 484, 507, 647, 697, 734, 782, 796, 831, 841
Potatau I; 425, 466, 804, 810, 840; see als ‘Te Wherowhero'
nueruwuciu Potatau II (Tawhiao): 523, 840
Pouaka: 828
Poutahi: 333, 383
Poutoko, Taranaki: 868, 869
Poverty Bay. East Coast: 425, 426, 530, 892p, 934 Powellr Edmund: 428 Pmnorc nfnnlW 1R 93 104 110 11* 11R
Powers of police: 18. 23, 104, 110, 115, 116, 120, 122, 312, 376, 407. 459, 487, 494, 564, 566, 649. 681, 698, 715, 723, 726, 776f, 921p, 926, 930
Poynter, John: 515
Pratt, Sir Thomas: 520, 521p, 522, 523 Preservation Inlet, Fiordland: 52, 78 r» l. r' A. can cc i cco cnn one
Preshaw, G O; 659, 661, 663, 670, 676, 681, 728
Maori: 34p, 53. 138, 144, 148, 150, 153,
Press: 649, 686
1127
Index
Pretty Womans/Stafford Town, Westland: 676
Preventive Policing: see ‘Proactive’, ‘New police’
Price, John: 480, 652
Price, Matthew: 673f
Princes Street, Dunedin: 616
Proactive/preventive policing: 95, 97, 100 etseq, 108f, 144, 358, 359p, 379, 380, 447 452, 472, 479, 535, 556, 557, 569, 574, 645, 670, 680, 681, 684, 688, 793, 923; see also ‘Surveillance patrol’, ‘Detection’
‘Professionalisalion’: 95ff, 103, 107, 109 122, 418, 437, 502p, 528, 542, 636, 650f 654, 683, 695p, 698, 729, 842, 917, 925
Promotion: 114, 125, 245, 248, 268, 271 291, 334, 407, 430, 432, 450f, 458, 470, 478, 480, 483, 501, 508, 524, 529, 538, 541, 548, 557, 567p, 570, 571, 601p 639, 641, 647, 653, 654, 656, 661, 663, 664, 666f, 669, 672, 678, 682, 689p, 690, 698, 706, 726, 736, 744, 751, 761, 762 767, 775, 780, 854, 924f
Proof, onus of: 125, 476, 560
Property: 4. 9, 11, 19, 20, 21, 31, 50, 53, 56, 58, 70, 75, 77, 79, 80, 85, 86, 87, 94, 99, 101, 104, 109, 110, 111, 114, 115, 117 119, 140, 141, 154, 168, 176, 177, 190, 201, 210, 212, 214, 231p, 232, 239, 240 241, 252, 354, 355, 358, 360, 364, 383, 414, 432, 435, 437, 441, 446, 498, 506, 509, 514p, 541, 545, 557, 562, 566, 570, 577, 581p, 582f, 587p, 616, 653, 686, 715, 729, 744, 762, 813, 841, 852, 879, 910, 919, 920, 923, 925, 932
Prostitution/brothels: 51, 63, 295, 362, 379, 489, 514, 566, 603, 653, 714
Protectorate/Protectors of Aborigines: 163, 176, 177, 185, 198, 219p, 220, 224, 227, 228, 241, 246, 373
Provincial government period/system: 293, 329, 335, 409, 414, 417, 448, 470, 628, 631p, 702, 753, 802, 804, 938, 939; abolition of provinces 517, 631, 632, 879, 939
Vi tliuuo «_/ X I , Ucl X , UUX, o / U, JOZj Breakaway provinces: 443, 445, 507f, 524, 637, 687, 693, 715, 720, 751
General Government interface: 454, 459f, 463. 465p, 504. 507, 51 Iff, 516, 526, 533, 565, 623, 628 et seq, 638, 713, 770, 774ff, 790. 802, 861, 873, 885ff, 915, 918, 920f, 938
Policing: 293ff, 329, 405, 406, 408, 413 et seq. 628 et seq; inter-provincialism 638, 729, 733, 734, 752, 755, 758
See also: individual provinces
Pu, Winiata Nga: 838
Puakawa: 168
Public attitudes to
Constitutional/judicial events; 630, 740 et seq, 780
Gold: 541, 542, 583, 631, 701f, 706, 757 Wars/troops: 228, 233, 444, 464, 458, 463p, 465, 467, 519 et seq. 525f, 532,
534, 804, 839, 846, 849, 852, 867 862 864, 867, 891, 895, 900, 903
See also'. Alarums and Excursions’ ‘Ethnocentrism’, 'Racial attitudes’
r, l , ' oaciai attitudes Public House Ordinance, Canterbury: 641
_ _ vaiutiuuij. OHZ Public opinions, pressure, on policing: 20 21. 22, 24f, 62, 64, 80, 98, 104, 105, 107 110, 117, 121, 128, 130, 134, 141, 150f, 155, 156p, 163, 164, 167, 181 187 192, 193f, 200, 202p, 213, 219, 239, 24s’ 249, 250 et seq, 255ff, 260, 264p, 26e’ 268ff, 271, 274, 284, 285, 286p, 289, 299’ 301, 312, 324, 328, 329, 332, 334 342’ 345p, 348, 352f, 373p, 374, 375, 376, 37?’ 380, 381, 385p, 395, 418, 426, 431, 432,’ 433 et seq. 444, 447, 458f, 462, 465 472 487, 492, 494, 499, 500, 503, 506p, 509, 510, 512p, 513, 514, 515, 520p, 533, 540, 542p, 546f, 548, 553, 658f, 562! 563, 566p, 571, 673, 574, 578, 583, 589, 593, 594ff, 600, 604, 605, 606, 612f, 614, 615, 619 et seq, 624, 626, 631f, 643, 644ff 649f, 661, 663, 665, 667, 669, 677, 680f! 686, 691, 694, 695, 696, 698, 699, 704f 709, 714, 720, 721ff, 730, 737p, 740, 743f’ 745p, 748, 757ff, 763f, 765, 780, 784 791 797, 799, 846, 869, 870p, 872, 873, 874’ 879, 881, 888, 893, 895, 896, 900f, 902’ 908ff, 914f, 918, 92111, 930, 931; see also ‘Legitimation’
Puhi, Te: see ‘Te Puhi’
Puhipi: 281
Pukearuhe/White Cliffs, Taranaki: 876
Pukekohatu, George: 764. 8f
Puketakauere. Taranaki; 520p
Puketapu: see ‘Tribes’
Puketona, Northland: 65, 128
Puketotara, Wellington W Coast: 830
Pukorokoro, S Auckland region: 919
Puna, Te Aromarere Te: 830
Pungapunga, S Auckland region: 833, 834f
Punishment as deterrence: 30. lOOff. 107f 358, 359, 447, 534, 684
Puniu River, S Auckland region: 908
Purau, Canterbury: 26,
Puteruka Te Nokore: see ‘Nokore’
Putiki, Wellington W Coast: 160, 162, 266p, 267
Pye, Charles: 907
Fyke, Vincent: 580. 583, 586, 604, 703
Q
Queen Charlotte Sound. Marlborough: 151
Queen Street, Auckland: 353
Queenism: see ‘Friendly/loyalist Maoris’
Queen’s Redoubt, S Auckland region: 845. 899, 919
Queensland. Australia: 691
Queenstown/The Camp. Otago: 586ff. 595, 602, 627, 630f, 701ff. 706f, 710
Quinlan, George: 171
1128
Index
Quirk, Patrick: 872 Quirk, Thomas; 585, 699f
R
Race relations, police and: 76, 137, 152p, 212ff, 227f, 234, 246, 249, 283, 365, 373, 376, 439, 444. 449, 45Iff, 454, 457, 511. 517, 624, 648, 782, 794, 859, 880f, 883, 884ff, 891, 898, 900f, 903, 936ff; see also ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
Racial attitudes/behaviour: 30, 3lp, 32 et seq, 35 et seq, 48, 52 et seq, 62 et seq, 69. 84. 129, 137f, 140, 143, 150, 151, 152f, 167ff, 171, 185, 190, 191, 205, 21 If, 212 et seq, 216 et seq, 218 et seq, 222 et seq, 225 et seq, 228ff, 240, 246, 250, 252, 259, 260, 268, 269p, 270, 274, 278ff, 287, 291, 295, 334, 335, 365, 371, 373f, 375, 376, 422, 426, 427, 429, 433ff, 439, 449, 451, 454, 458, 512, 522, 524, 525, 532, 617, 624p, 648, 691, 725, 727, 754, 782ff, 803f, 806, 812, 824, 828, 829, 841, 846, 849, 858ff, 864, 866f, 870, 877, 880, 882, 886, 896f. 897, 898, 901, 902, 904, 920, 936p, 937; see also ‘Alarums and Excursions’, ‘Ethnocentrism’ Rudiral Rpfnrm Part.v Wpllimrlnn Prnv-
Radical Reform Party, Wellington Province: 434, 436f, 446, 772
Raglan, Lord: 653
Raglan, S Auckland region: 836, 837p, 838, 846, 861, 900, 914, 929
Railways: 447, 633, 654, 684, 686, 71 Ip, 713, 716
Rairi Hemoata: see ‘Hemoata’
Rakaia. Canterbury: 484, 485
Rakiura/Stewart Island: 205
Rangaanu, Waka: 827
Rangatira : 644
Rangatira/chief(s): 30 et passim
Rangatiratanga/chieftaincy: 805
Rangi, Te: 259
Rangiaowhia, S Auckland region: 810, 841. 907
Rangihaeata, Te: see Te Rangihaeata’
Rangihaua Kuika; see 'Kuika'
Rangihoua/Te Puna, Northland: 36, 38, 39
Rangihurahia, Peina: see Peina'
Rangikahu, S Auckland region: 836
Rangiora, Canterbury: 634, 642, 651, 654
Rangiora, Witana: see Witana’
Rangiriri, S Auckland region: 804, 806, 848, 869, 912
Rangiriri, Westland: 666, 683
Rangitaiki, Bay of Plenty: 82f
Rangitikara, Hakopa: 826
Rangitikei, Wellington W Coast: 213, 266, 290, 307, 332, 382, 438p, 439f, 440, 442, 445. 446, 532, 782, 785, 788p, 796p, 797, 830p
Rank, terminology of: xviii, 120, 122, 131, 132. 157. 166. 247, 264, 305, 494, 502,
503, 514, 557p, 569, 570, 641. 693, 718, 854, 891, 907
Rarawa: see ‘Tribes’
Rations: see ‘Allowances’
Rattlesnake, HMS: 77, 78p, 121
Rau, Takerei Te; 808
Rauparaha, Tamihana Te: 265, 803, 830
Rauparaha, Te: see ‘Te Rauparaha’
Raupo/bulrush: 170 et passim
Rawene/Herds Point, Northland: 182
Rawiri Kerarape: see ‘Kerarape’
Rawiri Paora: see ‘Paora’
Rawiri Taukawe: see ‘Taukawe’
Rawiri Waiaua: 270, 279, 292, 453, 454, 455, 463
Reactive policing: 95, 102, 358, 413, 430, 452, 645, 878, 886, 938; see also ‘Reserve capacity’
Read, Gabriel; 540
Recruitment, replacement, NZ: 12 Ip, 122p, 123, 125, 130, 132p, 141, 156, 166, 242, 246, 249, 278, 293, 295, 312, 329, 330, 371, 393ff, 403. 404, 405, 416, 417, 419, 421, 433, 434, 435, 441, 443, 471, 476, 477f, 481, 528, 543, 545, 546, 547, 571, 607, 618, 633, 634, 639, 640, 641, 654, 655, 661, 662, 664, 665. 667, 669, 677, 680, 693, 695, 696, 733, 734, 735, 736, 791, 792, 798, 843, 844, 861p, 872, 883, 886, 888, 889, 894, 904, 906, 910, 911, 913, 940 RoH .larlr’c S-W Nelenrv 7SS
Red Jack s, S-W Nelson: 733 Rees, William: 586p, 587, 590, 702, 702
Regiments, individual imperial: 44. 57, 125, 127, 134, 139, 147, 154, 173, 179, 252, 440, 456, 458, 459, 534, 554, 565, 604, 727, 790, 867, 871, 881, 893 D >D..I ’
Regulations: see ‘Rules’
Reihana: 810, 841
Reihana Kiriwi: see ‘Kiriwi’
Reilly, Christopher: 580
Reilly, Joseph: 419
Reimbursement: see ‘Compensation’
Remuera, Auckland: 270
Rerepu, Paora; 887
Reserve capacity: 3, 107, 129p, 243, 249, 259, 273, 289, 302, 303, 309, 324, 331, 358, 382, 416, 429, 430, 431. 432, 436, 473, 497, 498, 512, 531, 534, 572, 672, 708, 711, 722, 736, 770, 781, 790, 881, 882, 883, 897, 898, 899, 908, 919, 926, 937, 938. 939, 941
Residency concept: see ‘British Resident’
Resident Magistracy/Magistrates; 174, 190, 201p, 205, 236, 237,258ff, 267f, 270,276f, 278, 280, 281, 282, 283. 284p, 285, 289, 290, 296, 298, 301, 303, 304, 305, 306, 308,313, 314p, 315f, 317, 319,320, 321p, 322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 333, 402, 415, 416, 418p, 419, 422, 423f, 425f, 427, 429, 441, 442, 443, 444p, 445, 446, 449, 451, 452, 454, 456, 459, 461. 465, 470, 472, 478, 479, 480. 481, 482, 484,
1129
Index
Resident Magistracy/Magistrates— conf 'd 485. 486, 488p, 489. 494. 496. 497, 504, 505, 506, 507p, 508p, 510, 515f, 520, 525, 526, 529, 531. 532p, 533, 538, 614, 633, 635. 636, 644, 647, 648, 651, 652. 694 p. 700, 721p, 723, 731, 740, 751, 753, 767. 769, 773ff, 785. 788f, 794f, 796. 799, 801p, 802p, 803p, 804, 805, 806p, 807, 808 p. 809p, 811, 812, 822, 865, 900, 903, 906, 915, 918, 928, 935; see also ‘Assessors’ and Goldfields: 509, 510, 511, 512, 513, 514. 515f, 538p, 578, 595ff, 602, 609. 629f. 658. 661, 668, 720f, 723, 734, 749. 750, 937
Legislation: 258, 259, 260, 862
and Official runanga system: 782, 783p, 784. 813, 814, 816, 817p, 818, 819, 820, 821, 822. 824f, 826, 827p, 828. 829, 830p, 83Ip. 833, 837 p. 842. 850, 852, 853. 854p, 855f, 857, 861p, 862 p. 863 p. 893, 897, 914, 929
‘Resident Magistrate’, Maori: 801
‘Resident Magistrate in the Bay of Islands’ 37, 38, 41. 43, 44. 45
Resources, coercive/police: 1. 11, 13, 20, 39, 41, 44, 46p, 60, 61, 68. 87. 91. 121. 123, 150. 159, 197, 205, 206. 208, 217, 230, 248, 265, 286, 291. 292, 300, 333. 361. 363, 382, 387, 420, 429, 432, 436. 442, 444, 445, 446, 448, 472p, 482. 484. 485, 493, 499, 503, 507, 514, 526, 548, 584, 585. 591, 593, 600, 601, 602, 623. 641, 651, 654. 665, 676, 678, 683, 684. 715, 725, 728, 730, 731, 733, 745, 750. 758, 780, 842, 879, 918, 930, 934, 937
Retention of personnel: 155, 156, 157, 167, 339, 478, 483, 544, 548. 634. 654. 664, 665, 668, 672, 675, 688, 748, 917, 922, 932f
Reti: 65, 66p
Retireti (Retreat) Tapsell; see Tapsell’
Reupeua Kewetone: see Kewetone’
Revell, William Horton: 473, 474p, 478, 482, 483, 485, 636, 637, 638. 648, 652, 653, 655, 656, 657f, 660p, 661p, 668 Revell Street. Hokitika: 661, 669, 677, 680 Revenue constables: 557
Rewa; 214p
Rewards: 95. 132, 181, 351 et seq. 359. 362, 363p, 364, 397 et seq, 545, 571, 620, 641, 740, 863. 909, 922, 932; see also ‘Good Conduct Funds’
Rewhare, Hamiora Te: 825
Rewi Maniapoto; 840, 844, 848
Rewiti Paui Kuhukuhu, Te: see Kuhukuhu’
Rhodes, Constable: 750
Rhodes brothers. Robert and George: 471, 475
Rhodes, George: 203; see also Rhodes brothers’
Rhodes, Robert: 32
Rhodes, William Barnard: 89
Riccarton, Canterbury: 318, 469
Richard I: 6
Richardson, John Larkins Cheese: 537, 539, 540, 541p, 543, 544p, 546, 549, 554, 555, 557, 561, 562, 564, 565p, 566 568, 576, 577f, 579, 584, 585, 593, 599f. 601. 612, 628. 695
Richmond, Christopher William: 427 465p, 467, 596, 610, 807, 875
Richmond, Henry; 875p
Richmond, J C: 467p, 857p, 862, 875
Richmond, Mathew; 173p, 195, 196p 197, 198. 199 p. 200. 209, 210, 211, 221’ 222, 226, 227, 229, 230. 240 p. 257, 296. 297p, 303f, 305, 308, 315, 325, 342, 344 348. 349, 350, 357, 362, 371. 399, 504. 505, 515
Richmond, Nelson region: 212, 514
Richmond Camp/Barracks/Depot. Me! bourne: 551, 594, 638
Riggs, Abimelech; 44
Rikirangi, Te Kooti; see ‘Te Kooti’
Rimutaka Range, Wellington region: 437, 532
Rio Haeatarangi; see 'Haeatarangi'
Riots/rioting: 10. 86. 94, 96. 100. 106. 107, 108 p. 109, 113, 207, 296, 328, 358, 367 p. 378, 380, 481. 565, 572 p. 597. 630, 644. 661. 664, 673, 674, 676p, 682, 691, 737. 746, 761, 790; Riot Act 94
Ripeka, Huiria Te: 826
Riverton/Jacob’s River. Southland: 500 501, 502, 693f, 700, 706, 708 p. 710, 712 714f. 763
Riwaka. Nelson region: 720, 722, 732
Roads/routes: 6. 96. 104, 123, 127f. 238. 245. 248. 256. 264. 266. 269, 273. 278, 285, 287, 288, 307, 308, 334, 358. 381, 383p, 384, 401. 402, 405. 419. 432. 437, 445, 455, 471. 472, 481, 486. 497, 506. 507, 517, 518, 524, 537, 546. 548, 556. 560. 561, 563. 565. 581p, 582 p. 583. 587ff. 605, 606, 636, 643. 656. 661. 663. 665. 667. 669. 679. 683. 691. 694. 699 p. 701. 702, 722, 746, 748, 752, 756. 788, 793. 832, 837. 842. 843. 845. 868, 884, 899. 900, 902
Roberton, Elizabeth; 214
Roberts, John M: 906
‘Robin Redbreasts’: 104
Robinson, Charles Barrington; 134p, 142p, 143 et seq, 148, 150, 152, 153, 156. 177, 189. 195. 196. 202 et seq. 217f. 222f. 230, 313, 316, 336, 339 p. 344. 346. 347, 348. 350, 361
Robinson, J: 324
Robinson, John Perry; 507. 509, 511. 512, 725. 726, 728. 730, 731
Rock and Pillar Range, Otago: 591
Rogan, John; 855
Rolleston. William; 652, 659. 661. 663 863
Romene: 826
1130
Index
Ronage, Alfred; 470, 481
Rongo, Te: see ‘Te Rongo'
Ropati Tira: see ‘Tira’
Roscoe, Johnnie; 677
Ross. Daniel: 496 D J. ££ O
Ross. Westland: 662, 666. 668, 671, 673, 676, 683
Rossi, Francis N; 118p, 119
Rotoiti, Bay of Plenty region; 825p
Rotorua. Bay of Plenty region: 825p, 826
Rowan, Charles: 13, 110, 111, 356; set
also ‘Rowan/Mayne strategy’
Rowan/Mayne strategy: 13ff, 11 Iff, 122. 131, 132, 352, 355p, 480, 549, 552, 553. 571. 574, 613
Rowley, James; 603
Roxburgh, Otago; 583
Royal Bengal Artillery: 537
Royal Navy: 49, 121, 134, 184
Ruapekapeka, Northland: 190, 191, 230
Ruapuke Island, Foveaux Strait: 205
Ruataniwha, Hawke’s Bay: 880, 895
Ruatara; 36p, 37, 39
Ruka Taurua: see ‘Taurua’
Rules and regulations for police
APF period; 242, 275, 305, 310, 322, 327. 331. 387, 388f, 392, 395, 406ff, 435. 494, 514, 530. 572, 620ff, 695, 698, 779, 781, 782; see also ‘Constabulary Force Ordinance’
Beyond NZ: 11 If, 552f, 572, 600, 611, 613, 646
Provincial period; 435, 494, 501, 508f, 514. 569. 572, 577, 600, 612, 613, 618, < 620 et seq. 643, 646, 653f, 657, 672, k 684, 687, 695, 698, 712, 760, 779, 781, < 782, 838, 875p, 937 <
Runanga/councils, non-official: 423 et seq, S 524f, 782f, 804, 805f. 810f, 815, 818f, 823f, 827, 828f, 831, 840f, 852, 857f, 885, « 887, 893, 928; see also ‘Maori: Societal/ J chiefly control’
Runanga, official/legal system: 524, 649, S 782ff. 785. 793, 794 795, 796, 797, 800, « 808f. 811, 812f, 813 et seq. 818 et seq. 828 et seq, 841 et seq, 847ff, 852 et seq . S 856, 857, 858 et seq, 867, 881, 882f, 884. S 887, 893, 894, 897, 899, 900, 914, 920f. 928, 929f, 934; Fenton’s scheme 423f, S 806ff, 809; see also ‘Assessors’, ‘Hundreds’, ‘lndirect control/rule’, ‘Resident Magistracy’
Rural’ policing: 119, 120, 217, 229, 238, 247, 248, 251, 258, 259, 264p, 267, 270, 271. 278, 285, 286. 290, 291, 292. 295. 306p, 308, 309, 311, 324, 325, 331, 343f, 363p, 364, 368, 369, 378. 381, 383, 384, 406, 429f, 436, 437p, 438ff, 445f, 456 p. 462, 465, 472f, 474f, 481. 484ff, 495. 496, 498, 500, 501, 503, 504ff, 514, 515ff, 523, 525, 527, 528f, 536, 540, 556, 561, 569p, 617f. 641, 642. 643, 655, 694ff, 706. 708, 71 Off, 720ff, 770, 782, 796ff, 864, 870f,
871 et seq, 882. 883, 888p, 895p, 896, 900, 904, 905, 909, 912, 914f, 915, 916, 918p, 919f, 921, 927 et seq . 931f, 934 et seq; Rural Police Act, Auckland Province 930; see also ‘District constables’, ‘Goldfields: Policing’, ‘Magistrates’, ‘Runanga, official/legal system’
Russell, A H: 829p, 846, 860, 861, 862, 882, 884, 890, 929
Russell, Henry R: 527, 529,530, 883, 884, 895
Russell, J: 293
Russell, Lord John: 85, 116, 120, 125, 166, 231
Russell, Thomas: 839, 890f, 905
Russell/Kororareka. Northland: 184, 186. 187p, 188, 189, 190, 215, 226, 228, 262, 264. 281, 286, 287, 288. 289, 349, 357, 365, 402, 419, 428, 817, 916
Russell/(Oid) Russel'l/Okiato, Northland: 128, 134, 139, 140, 146, 148, 149, 152, 155, 156, 158, 178, 179, 180, 181, 183, 190, 195, 215, 337, 362, 368
Rustling/stock stealing: 475, 649, 877
Rutherford, George: 720, 730
Rutherglen, Westland: 683
Rutland Stockade, Wanganui: 534
Rutledge, William; 478
Ryan, Thomas Jervois; 579, 580p, 581, 582, 588, 589, 590, 591, 598, 601p, 602f, 604p, 605, 667. 670p, 671p, 707
s
Saddle Hill, Otago: 591
Sadleir, John; 552
uauicii , 'JUIIII. OOC St Aubyn, Robert John: 184p, 185 p. 199, 226f, 228f, 249, 253, 370
St George’s Redoubt, Taranaki: 868, 869
St Hill, Henry: 199, 201, 241, 243, 313, 321, 332, 350, 351, 363, 408, 437, 809
St James’ Palace. London: 246
St John’s/Lake End/Kingston, Otago Province: 588, 589p, 605
St Hilda, S-W Nelson: 745
St Peter’s Fields, Manchester: 106; see also ‘Peterloo’
Salaries: 60. 72, 82. 95, 98, 119, 121, 123 133, 134, 172, 173, 179, 180, 184. 185. 188, 189, 196. 199, 201, 202. 203. 204, 208. 242, 270, 282, 294. 307, 313, 314, 334, 339, 350p, 415, 416, 418, 420, 421 422. 424p, 427. 428p, 430. 432, 433, 450p, 451f. 458, 465, 472, 474, 475, 478, 483, 484. 485. 486, 489, 492, 494, 495p, 498 500, 501, 503. 516, 528, 530, 533, 541, 544. 546, 554, 555. 593, 600, 602, 610, 615, 616, 635, 639, 640, 652, 654, 683 691, 693, 705, 710, 711p, 717, 720, 723 744. 748, 758. 764, 766, 770, 791, 809, 811, 814, 819, 820, 822p, 823, 825, 826, 827. 829. 833, 836, 849, 854. 855p, 861
1131
Index
Salaries— continued 867. 869, 873. 877, 878. 881p, 902, 910 911, 922p, 934; see also ‘Pay/wages’
Sale, George Samuel: 661. 662p, 664, 665. 673p, 674, 675p, 676, 677, 692
Salisbury Street, Christchurch: 489
Saltwater Creek, Canterbury: 484
San Francisco, USA: 743
Sandhurst, Victoria: 553
Satellite towns. Auckland region: see ‘Howick’, ‘Onehunga’, ‘Otahuhu’, ‘Panmure’; see also ‘Military pensioners’
Saturday Review: 613
Saunders, Alfred: 166, 731, 732. 734, 742p, 743. 747
Saunders, Francis: 264, 354
Savage, William: 877
Saxton, Charles; 740
Saxtons, Otago: 603
Sayer, Richard Burgess; 242, 348, 350, 362, 386
‘Scares’: see ‘Alarums and Excursions’
Scarman, Lord: 23
‘Schools, Industrial’: 628, 843ff
Schultz, Robert: 378
Scotland Yard: 116, 119, 378. 380, 479 C /Cnnti'i 4 0 no lA n oao n, on r
Scotland/Scots: 48. 98, 197, 203, 218, 298, 475p, 477, 491. 492, 493, 601; Free Church of Scotland 298, 300, 328
Scott, John; 430, 898, 912, 925
Scott, Tom: 307, 439
Scott’s Ferry, Wellington W Coast: 439
Scully, Thomas: 881, 882, 883f, 888p, 893, 894p, 895, 896
Seager, Edward William: 392, 403, 469f, 472, 473, 475f, 477p, 478, 479, 480f. 483ff, 490f. 633p, 634, 638, 639, 644, 648
Seager, Esther; 490
Sealers/sealing: 30, 34p, 44, 48, 50
Secretary of State for the Colonies: 37, 48, 55. 58. 75, 80. 88, 89, 91. 125, 179, 195, 231, 258, 448, 813, 904
Select committees: see ‘Enquiries’
‘Self-reliant’ policy: 853, 895f, 896, 919, 920, 921, 922
Selwyn, George: 809
Selwyn, Private: 323, 334
Sentry Hill redoubt, Taranaki: 872p
Settlement, evolution of: 12, 30, 49, 51, 52, 53, 68. 76, 77. 79. 80. 89. 90. 93. 126, 127, 133, 145, 147p, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153, 160, 161p, 162, 165p, 167, 170, 189, 190p, 200, 202, 205, 207, 217, 218p, 237, 244, 248, 256, 258p, 266, 273, 278, 280, 286, 292, 293, 294, 297, 298 et seq, 302, 313, 316p, 318, 332, 338, 341p, 350p, 363, 365, 369, 382, 414, 415, 420, 422, 425, 426, 428, 429, 431, 432, 436f, 440, 445, 456, 468, 470, 471, 472, 477, 480, 481p, 482, 485, 487. 492, 493, 494, 496, 498p, 499p, 500, 501, 504f, 522, 526, 527, 528p, 532, 536, 537, 602, 645, 648, 655, 671. 689, 693, 717, 730, 750, 752f, 754, 767,
783, 786. 793, 796, 811, 821, 828, 855. 856. 859, 862, 866, 871, 872. 876, 877p 878. 895, 898, 902. 906, 907f, 908. 910,’ 915, 926, 942; see also ‘Population’
Settlements, planned: 47p, 70, 73, 89. 133 134, 142, 147, 177, 183, 197, 203, 20?' 298, 311, 313, 316, 468, 492, 638; see also, inter alia, ‘Canterbury’, ‘France/ French’, ‘Military pensioners’, ‘NZ
Company’, ‘Otago’, Wakefield'
Seventy/Forty Mile Bush. Hawke’s Bay/ W'airarapa: 895
Sewell, Henry: 202, 334, 404. 508, 776 777p, 779, 780
Seymour, A P: 762f, 765
Shallcrass, Robert: 515, 719, 720, 721p 722, 723p, 724f, 726, 728, 729, 730 p. 731 733, 737, 739, 740, 742, 744, 748. 750. 756p, 768
Shaw, Isaac; 181f, 215, 265, 313, 354, 379
Shearman, Robert Clarke: 638f, 640 et seq, 649 et seq, 655 et seq, 670f, 672 et seq, 676, 677p, 678p, 680ff, 683 et seq, 689 et seq, 738, 874
Sheed, J: 316
Sheehan, David: 926, 931
Sheffield. England: 138
Shelburne, Lord: 96, 97, 98, 101
Shepherd, John: 330, 493 et seq, 497 et seq, 536, 537, 539p, 540p, 541. 542p, 543f. 546, 547f, 555, 557, 573, 693ff
Sheridan, Peter: 555
Sheriffs: sp. 7,173, 188, 199, 323, 368,418, 470, 489, 635, 713, 720, 724p
Shipwrecks: 33, 64, 66. 191, 212, 364, 660, 662, 712, 716, 865
Shortland, Edward: 176, 177, 189, 216 223
Shortland, Willoughby; 121p, 122, 126, 130f, 133, 134, 139f, 141p, 142, 145, 146, 148, 150, 152, 154, 155, 164, 168, 172p, 173,176, 177, 180p, 183, 193f, 195p, 196. 199, 202, 203, 206f, 209, 216, 217, 219, 221, 223, 237, 342, 346p, 357
Shortiand, Coromandel region: 936, 937
Shotover River/area. Otago: 586p, 590. 591, 592p, 597, 599, 600, 604p, 608, 623, 701
Sidebottom, John; 475p, 476
Sidmouth, Lord; 106, 107
Signal Hill. Kororareka; 185, 233
Simeon, Charles: 319, 320, 330f, 332,335, 386, 402, 469, 470p, 471, 472, 474, 477f
Simpson, Alexander: 537, 538, 539, 547, 548
Sinclair, Andrew; 277, 283
Sinclair, Donald: 173f, 223f. 229, 264, 344
Sincock, Thomas H: 584f, 593. 594, 599. 600, 601, 603. 605, 608 p. 620
Sisters: 51
Six Mile/Waimea, Westland: 660
Skibbereen. The/Addison's Flat/Waite’s
Pakihi, S-W Nelson: 746
1132
Index
Skinner, J: 606
Skinner, R; 44, 45
Skippers/Skippers Gully, Otago: 586, 592, 608
Slvgrog/slygrogging: 147,175,281,292,353, 362p, 379, 462, 499, 503, 505, 506, 545f, 557, 558p, 709, 717p, 727, 759, 871
Smale, David George: 421
Small farm and business interests: 436, 437p, 438, 445, 485, 507, 765, 793, 798, 903
Smart, Henry Dalton; 127p, 128, 129p, 130, 131, 134, 139, 140, 152, 155, 179, 238, 285
Smith, A H W 284
Smith, Charles W: 134
Smith, I; 171
Smith, James: 137, 141p, 178, 188, 261, 276p, 373
Smith, Joseph (‘Yorky’): 595p
Smith, Samuel: 469f, 481
Smith] T H: 824, 825p, 826, 852, 854
Smith, William; 391, 430p, 898, 904p, 912
oiuitu, ii iiiiain. tMi, wvp, uju, jvnp, n la. Smuggling: 163, 205, 206, 399, 484, 559, 702, 716, 717, 909
Snow, Robert and family; 216, 270, 379
Snowy Mountain, Otago: 605
Sophia: 34, 52
South Africa: 554
South Australia: 236p, 237, 239, 250, 296 625, 639, 702, 812p c —n aqc coc ca u coni
South Canterbury: 481, 485, 636,648, 689f South Island: 49, 52. 53, 89. 139, 142, 144, 165, 176f, 195, 198, 202, 205, 218, 223, 230, 265, 297, 303p, 311, 312, 315, 330, 331, 364. 369, 468, 488, 493, 518, 535, 632, 638, 648, 655, 679, 715, 718, 719, 721, 725, 752, 757, 771f, 780, 798, 800, 802, 845, 855, 856, 938, 939
South-West Nelson; see ‘West Coast’
Southern Alps, South Island: 655, 656, 659, 662, 663, 665, 668, 670, 671p, 672, 675, 678, 681, 683p, 686, 689, 693
Southern Cross: 385, 901, 913, 914, 918
Southern Division: 196f, 199, 226, 296,303, 304, 350, 505, 719
Southland
Province/government: 537, 693 et seq, 763, 855; and Otago gold 583, 588, 591, 605, 695, 696, 699p, 700ff, 710, 715, 728, 855; Superintendency 694, 711; and Weldon 703. 705, 715
Provincial police: 563, 586, 594, 617, 623, 667, 693 et seq\ gold oriented activities 695, 699, 700, 701f, 703ff, 706, 708, 710, 713, 714, 715, 716f; retrenchment of 71 Off, 713, 715p, 717
Region: 144, 493, 580, 583
Southland Times: 718
Sovereignty issues: 43, 59p, 60, 63, 64, 67, 7Op, 72, 79. 83. 88. 89p, 90p, 91. 137, 139, 140, 142p, 143, 189, 206, 523, 794, 804, 807, 811, 837
Spain, William; 162, 164, 170, 175, 372, 466
Special and temporary constables: 8, 152, 165, 168, 170, 171p, 175p, 177, 186p, 188, 201, 209, 210, 212, 213, 221p, 224, 227, 228, 229, 232, 233, 265, 300, 303, 314 p. 316, 333, 340, 344, 351, 365, 366ff, 444, 456, 458, 462, 474, 475, 481, 484, 493, 495, 497, 498, 504, 506, 509, 510, 532, 533, 540, 545p, 587, 629, 630, 637, 638, 642, 644, 671, 674, 730, 740, 751, 754, 764, 786, 797, 871, 878, 886, 893, 902, 905f, 910, 916, 937; and pay 210, 316, 367p, 368p, 370. 372, 444, 482, 509, 510, 545, 630, 638, 730, 797, 878, 893, 905, 916, 937
Speedy, J: 821, 906
Spencer, Herbert; 3, 4, 397
Spit, The, Napier: 894
Spring Creek, Marlborough: 504, 505, 506
Spring Grove, Nelson region; 212
Squaretown, S-W Nelson: 735
Squatters/squatting: 162, 223p, 440, 441, 474, 476, 504, 693, 829, 831, 882; see also ‘Pastoralism’
Stafford, Edward W: 505; first ministry 465, 466, 509, 513, 776, 807, 811; second ministry 628ff, 860, 929
luiilisu; UiUll, UUU, Stafford Town/Pretty Womans, Westland; 676, 683
Standing armies: 9, 105, 786f, 938, 940
Standish, Frederick Charles: 541, 546, 549, 552, 553, 554, 556p, 562, 594, 613, 638, 639, 647, 656, 695 Qtonloir ifhlonH' 71 71fi
Stanley, Southland: 713, 716
Stanton. W: 324, 514
Stations, police, distribution of: 141, 143, 147, 151. 158, 165, 169, 182, 185, 188, 243, 244, 248, 266, 267, 278, 287, 289, 295, 299, 302, 307, 309, 310, 313, 316, 321, 328, 329, 331, 34 Ip. 342, 350, 390ff, 420p, 422, 429, 430, 432, 456, 472, 473, 476. 484, 485, 486p, 496, 499p, 500, 501p, 502, 506p, 507, 528, 529, 530, 545, 548, 559, 561, 562, 568f, 575, 579. 581, 582p, 585, 588, 590, 592, 601 f. 606, 610, 615, 617, 618, 633, 640, 642, 643, 648, 654, 655, 664, 665p, 666p, 668, 673, 674, 676p, 683, 685, 686, 688p, 692, 699, 702. 703, 706p, 707, 708, 710, 711, 712, 715, 716f, 723, 728, 733, 735, 746, 753, 762, 792, 797, 895, 914, 916, 923; see also
‘Strengths’
Statutes:
Australia: 119, 120, 125, 593
England: 6, 7. 42. 43, 46. 55. 84. 94. 98p, 103, 105, 109, 115, 116p, 119, 120, 254, 293, 366f1f, 628, 851
NZ: 427, 445, 466, 513, 527, 541, 544, 628, 674, 692, 694, 808, 851, 856f, 858, 862, 885, 891, 927, 928, 930, 941
Stephen, Sir James; 19, 88
oicjnicu, on uaincß. u, oo Stewart Island/Rakiura: 205, 712, 716f
1133
Index
Stewart, John: 54ff
Stewart, R O: 852
Stokes, Augustus; 60"/
Stokes, E: 171
Stony/Hangatahua River, Taranaki: 876
Strange, Robert: 513f, 720f. 723
Stratford, H: 630
Strengths/stationing
in Australia: 120, 124, 125
in London: 96, 98, 99, 103, 104, 107. 109. 115, 360
in NZ: New South Wales Mounted
Police 123, 126f, 129, 139 Police Magistracy forces: 141, 143f, 148, 150, 151p, 158, 161, 166, 172, 176, 183, 188, 201, 203p, 207, 209. 210, 212, 221. 222, 223, 224, 226, 228p, 240, 260p, 336, 340f, 342, 343, 344, 349f. 351, 363, 365, 368
Armed Police Forces: 242, 243, 244p, 245, 246, 249, 257, 260, 261. 262, 263, 264, 266, 268. 271p, 280p, 281. 285 et seq, 290. 293, 295p, 297, 298, 299p, 302p, 303, 304p, 305, 306, 308, 309, 313p, 314, 315, 318, 319, 324p, 328, 330, 331, 332, 333p, 373, 382, 383f, 386, 387, 394p; Akaroa civil force 265, 316
Provincial forces: Auckland 414, 415, 416. 418, 419, 420p, 421p, 427, 428p, 429, 430, 523, 897, 898, 899, 903, 909ff, 92Iff, 929, 931, 932, 933, 934, 935, 936f, 939; Canterbury 469, 47Iff, 476, 477p, 478, 479, 480, 482, 484, 485, 486, 490. 633f, 637, 638, 640, 641, 642p, 646, 647, 654p, 656, 659, 660, 661 f. 664, 665ff, 668, 669, 671, 675, 682, 683ff, 688f, 692, 735; Hawke’s Bay 526ff, 882, 883, 894p, 895, 896; Marlborough 751, 752, 754, 756f, 758, 762, 764, 765, 766. 768, 769, 770; Nelson 503, 507, 510, 512, 514p, 518, 720p, 721, 723, 728. 730, 731, 732 et seq, 744, 745f. 747, 748, 751; Otago 492p, 493ff, 496. 498ff, 500ff, 537, 538ff, 544p, 546, 548, 555, 556, 559, 560, 564, 571, 573, 576, 580, 581, 582, 585, 586, 587, 591f, 601p, 602, 606 p. 608p, 616p, 617f, 623p, 627;
Southland 693. 694ff, 698, 699, 701, 702f, 706f, 708, 709, 710ff, 713, 715p, 716, 718; Taranaki 448, 450, 459f, 461, 864, 869, 871, 874, 876f, 878ff; Wellington 427, 431f, 433, 435, 436, 437, 442, 443, 444p, 445, 446, 532p, 533, 781, 785, 789, 794, 795, 796, 797 Official Runanga police: 817, 818, 819, 820, 821, 822, 823, 824, 825p, 826 p. 827, 829, 830p, 833, 835, 836p, 837. 838, 855, 86Ip
Strikes by police employees: 155, 332, 333, 337, 403; see also ‘Unionisation of police'
Strode, Alfred Rowland Chetham: 242, 244. 298, 299, 300f, 306, 307. 308. 312,
317, 325ff, 381, 394, 395, 396, 491f, 494p, 495, 499, 538p, 539, 544. 545, 546, 547 555, 563, 568
Sturt, Charles: 57 cia ■
Sturt, Evelyn: 550, 551p G f vrl/.r. Gnh*■ ■ a I C,_ £T ... .1
Styles, Samuel Stafford: 309, 310, 321 332, 333. 383, 402, 403. 432f. 435. 436 437, 442, 446 et seq, 533, 534, 772p, 776 780, 781
Sugden, W; 381
Sugrue, Thomas: 647
Sullivan, Joseph: 678ff, 738 et seq, 750; see also Burgess'
‘Sullivan gang’: 570, 571
Sullivan’s Creek, S-W Nelson: 733
Sumner, Canterbury: 469, 472, 481, 648
Sunnyside Asylum, Christchurch: 483
Superintendent of the Southern Division: 196f; see also ‘Richmond, Mathew'
Superintendents of police: 93, 118, 121 184, 196. 199, 425, 550, 758, 810 Snnnroocinn nf RuKollinn OKI
Suppression of Rebellion Act: 851
Surveillance: 6 et passim; see also ‘Eyes and ears’
Surveillance patrol: 11, 18, 22, 23, 25, 93, 94p, 95ff, 101 etseq, 107p, 108, 111, 113. 117, 118, 119f, 121, 123f, 126, 127, 128. 130, 133, 144. 149, 150. 156, 158, 162, 181, 182, 188, 190, 192, 206. 235, 238, 240, 243, 244, 247, 251. 252, 254, 256, 260, 262, 264, 266, 267, 274, 277, 278, 280, 289. 308, 309, 311, 317, 318. 333, 346. 351, 358, 359, 373, 378p, 381, 382, 384, 386, 387p, 398, 406, 420, 432p, 439, 446. 447, 458, 459, 480, 495, 497. 498, 518, 533, 540, 551, 553, 556, 569 p. 573 p. 574f, 582, 590, 594. 642p, 644, 654. 665 p. 676, 678, 684, 688, 694, 698. 780, 798, 872, 875. 898, 899
Sutton, James; 611. 614
Swainson, William (Attorney-General): 215, 398
Swainson, William (JP): 220, 309
Sweeney, John: 349
‘Swing’ disturbances: 370
Switzers/Waikaia, Otago Province: 618, 706, 708, 713, 716
Sydney, NSW: 32. 33p, 34p, 35. 36p, 38p, 39p, 45, 48. 49, 53, 54. 55p. 56, 57. 60. 63. 64. 66, 77. 78p, 84. 87. 89. 91. 95. 99. 100, 111, 118p, 119, 120, 12Ip, 122, 127. 128 p. 132p, 133, 145, 146, 155. 179, 182. 195, 275, 336f. 346, 349, 352, 356. 360. 368, 372, 380, 387, 389, 469, 475. 564. 609, 678, 691, 763; Police Act 119p
Symonds, John Jermyn: 187. 188, 197p, 198, 200, 229, 298, 918
Symonds, Sir William: 134
Symonds, William Cornwallis: 134p, 135, 146 et seq . 161, 177f. 187. 195, 349. 365
Syms, Henry: 419, 422, 430. 898
1134
Index
T
Taati Te Waru: see ‘Waru’
Tahana Tauhanake: 784, 830
Tahiti: 38, 59. 70
Tahua, Tipene Te; 821
Tahupotiki, Toma: 826
Taiaroa: 218
Taieri districts, Otago: 502, 563, 591, 602, 603, 606
Taieri Village, Otago: 500
Taiki, Pirihi: 828
Tainui: see ‘Tribes’
Taita, Wellington region: 244, 307 Takaka. Nelson region: 512p, 514p, 516 720, 723
Takaka Hill, Nelson region: 508, 722
Takamoana, Karaitiana: see ‘Karaitiana
Takerei Te Rau: see Rau’
Tako Ngatata, Wi: see Wi Tako’
Tamaiharanui: 54, 55
Tamaki, Auckland: 372
Tamati Tiraurau: see ‘Tiraurau’
Tamati Waka Nene: see ‘Waka Nene'
Tamati Wiremu: see ‘Wiremu’
Tamihana Te Hoia; see Hoia’
Tamihana Te Rauparaha: see Rauparaha’
Tamihana, Wiremu: 425, 521, 523, 805, 811, 831. 840, 843, 845. 848, 897
Tancred, Henry John; 4781T Tangiawa, Hamiora; 825
Taonui: 281, 364
Tapahora, Bay of Plenty region: 825p
T apsell, Retireti (Retreat): 826,853,929 Tapu: 30. 213, 227, 256, 377
Taramakau River/area, Westland: 655. 658. 660. 662, 666, 692, 736
Taranaki: see ‘Tribes’
Taranaki/New Plymouth
Native Police: 452f, 455, 456, 458, 459, 460f, 462, 466, 467, 865, 866. 871, 875, 877, 879f
Province/govemment: 248, 294, 414. 448 et seq, 864 et seq; and racial interface/wars 449, 452, 453ff, 518 et seq. 781, 784, 793, 804, 849, 851, 859, 861. 870, 877; Superintendency 449, 462, 875, 887
Provincial police: 294p, 448 et seq, 456 et seq, 463, 464f, 467, 518 et seq. 784, 864ff, 869 et seq, 872 et seq; and wars 467, 518ff
Region; 66. 67, 174, 224, 245, 248, 278, 289, 290, 294, 322, 372f, 381, 383, 449. 456, 461, 464ff. 515, 604, 725, 797, 802, 828, 836, 845, 847, 85Ip. 864 et seq. 877. 904, 905, 907
See also: ‘New Plymouth’
Taranaki Military Settlers; see ‘Military Settlers’
Taranaki pa, Wellington: 151
Taratoa: 259
Tarawera, Bay of Plenty region: 825p, 826
Tarawhete, Paora: 835
Tareha Te Moananui; see ‘Te Moananui’
Taringa Kuri: see ‘Kuri’
Tarlton, William: 696
Tasman, Abel: 30
Tasman Sea: 337, 352, 356, 360, 389, 489, 539, 545, 548, 554, 562, 563
Tasmania/Van Diemen’s Land; 47, 469, 489, 562, 593p, 594, 619, 625, 639, 647, 698, 699, 709
Tataraimaka, Taranaki: 456, 519, 522, 784, 845, 876, 890
Taua/war party: 45 et passim
Tauhanake, Tahana; see ‘Tahana'
Taukapa, Marino: 826
Taukawe, Pirata: 834
Taukawe, Rawiri: 825
Taupari, S Auckland region: 818, 832, 833, 834 p. 835, 837
Taupiri, S Auckland region: 845 c a ,oon ann qo»
Taupo, S Auckland region: 200, 807, 821, 827, 852. 896
Tauranga, Bay of Plenty: 176, 217, 378, 824ff, 851, 853, 855, 861, 908, 916, 919, 927, 929
Taurua, Ruka: 818
Tawaewae: 825
Tawhara, Noa Te: 835
Tawhiao (Potatau II): 523, 713, 840
Taylor, George: 512, 514, 517
Taylor] John: 711, 712, 715
Taylor, Richard: 334
Te Ahau/Horea, S Auckland region: 836
Te Ahuru, Kereti: see ‘Ahuru’
Te Ara, Heremaia; see Ara’
Te Arei pa. Taranaki: 521f
Te Aro. Wellington: 140, 333,387, 435, 773, 791, 798, 799
Te Aura, Terehi: see ‘Aura’
Te Aute, Hawke’s Bay: 527
Te Awa-o-te-Atua/Matata, Bay of Plenty: 825, 826
Te Awaiti, Marlborough: 52, 66, 82
Te Awamutu, S Auckland region: 843p, 844, 845, 849, 908
Te Haho, Kewene: see ‘Haho’
Te Hape, Kemara: .see ‘Hape’
Te Hapuku: 443, 444, 803, 882
Te Heu Heu: 807
Te Hoera: see ‘Hoera’
Te Hoia, Tamihana: see ‘Hoia’
Te Hokioi : 844
Te More, Kereopa; see ‘Hore’
Te la, S Auckland region: 524, 844, 845, 847, 899
Te Ihutu, Maaka: see Thutu'
Te Kapu/Frasertown, Hawke’s Bay region: 892
1135
Index
Te Kiri, Poia: see ‘Kiri’
Te Kirikumara, Ihaia: see ‘lhaia'
Te Kirou, Karaitiana: see ‘Kirou’
Te Kohekohe/Meremere, S Auckland region: 833, 834, 835p, 837, 838, 842 p. 843p, 904
Te Kohia pa, Taranaki: 467, 519, 520
Te Kooti Rikirangi: 893
Te Kotuku, Hone: see 'Kotuku'
Te Maemae, Timoti: see ‘Maemae’ 'l' ik U 1 f. Ir na. m m 'I ’ a 1T L 1 1_ . . I
Te Makarini Te Uhiniko: see ‘Uhiniko’
Te Mamaku: 262, 267
Te Mania: see 'Mania'
Te Matiaha, Utiku: see ‘Matiaha’
Te Moananui, Tareha: 443p, 444, 896
Te Morenga: see Morenga’
Te Morere. Taranaki: 872
Te Namu, Taranaki: 66, 67, 865
Te Ngae, Bay of Plenty region: 825, 854
Te Ngahuru: see ‘Ngahuru’
Te Ngorengore, Maka; see ‘Ngorengore’
Te Nokore, Puteruka: see ‘Nokore’
Te Pahi; 32, 33. 34. 35, 36, 38. 39
Te Peina: see ‘Peina'
Te Pirihi Kahitaiki: see Kahitaiki’
Te Puhi: 33f, 38, 48
Te Puna, Te Aromarere; see ‘Puna’
Te Puna/Rangihoua, Northland: 34p, 35, 36
Te Ranga, Bay of Plenty: 851
Te Rangi: see ‘Rangi’
Te Rangihaeata: 170, 171p, 192, 194, 196, 213, 220, 221, 222, 229, 243. 244, 245, 264, 266, 299, 306, 307, 377, 433
Te Rau, Takerei: see Rau'
Te Rauparaha; 54. 169, 170p, 171, 194, 196, 210, 221, 222, 230, 244, 265, 269, 376, 803
Te Rauparaha, Tamihana; see Rau-
paraha, Tamihana Te’
Te Reu Reu, Wellington W Coast: 796
Te Rewhare, Hamiora: see Rewhare’
Te Rewiti Paui Kuhukuhu; see ‘Kuhukuhu
Te Ripeka, Huiria: see ‘Ripeka'
Te Rongo: 171p
Te Tahua, Tipene: see ‘Tahua’
Te Tawhara, Noa; see ‘Tawhara’
Te Teira, Manuka: see ‘Teira’
Te Tihi, Ihaka: see Tihi’
Te Ua Haumene; 784, 794, 866, 869
Te Uhiniko, Te Makarini; see ‘Uhiniko’
Te Wahapu. Northland: 53, 190, 262
Te Wairoa, Bay of Plenty region: 825
Te Warena, Mahuri: see ‘Warena’
Te Waru, Taati: see ‘Waru’
Te Wehi, Himiona: see ‘Wehi’
Te Whare, Narehana: see ‘Whare’
Te Whata, Pekama: see Whata’
Te Wheoro, Wiremu: 833, 834f, 837, 842p, 844
Te Wherowhero, Potatau (Potatau I) 240. 252, 273, 288, 383. 425, 466. 804, 808; see also ‘Potatau I’
Tfe Whiti, Erueti: 866
1 M UIU, lil UCU. OUU Te Whiwhi, Matene: 830
Te Wirihana Tikapu: see ‘Tikapu’
Teiki, Hunia; 830
Teira, Manuka Te: 466f
Telegraphic communications: 447, 640, 671, 679
Temperance: 69p, 70 et seq, 86
Temuka, Canterbury: 648
Tenure of employment: 125, 340f, 349p, 479. 481, 548, 555, 714, 934. 939
Teranga: 391
Terehi Te Aura: see ‘Aura’
Terra nullius: 29, 43 Terrace. The, Wellington: 435
Terrain, physical conditions: 127, 160, 177, 238, 240, 244, 278, 298, 314, 316, 318, 319, 333, 469, 474, 487, 496, 504, 506, 528, 537, 546, 575, 580, 583, 585, 586, 587ff, 590, 591, 604, 605, 642, 652, 655, 658, 659, 662p, 663, 666. 668, 671 p. 698. 701. 704, 716f, 726, 736, 754, 756. 786. 796, 822, 823, 832, 856, 877, 893, 900; see also ‘Communications’, ‘lsolation’, ‘Roads’
Tetoroa, Hare: 827f
Teviot, Otago: 612
Thames River Police: 103
Thames-Coromandel area: 38, 41, 48, 75, 147, 218, 282, 821, 927, 935ff; see also ‘Coromandel’
Thatcher, Charles R: 542, 637, 644. 704f. 714, 727, 755
Thief ‘catchers’/'takers’: 97
Thomas, Godfrey: 277
Thomas, Joseph: 313
Thomas, W E: 855
Thomas and Henry. 560
Thompson, Andrew: 567, 598f, 605, 615
Thompson, E P: 9
Thompson, Henry Augustus: 166 et seq, 172p, 201, 205, 208, 220, 231, 338, 341. 342, 357
Thompson, John; 495
Thoms, Joseph: 82
Thomson, E Deas: 122
Thomson, John Bell: 623, 709, 711, 712. 714
Thorndon, Wellington: 137, 141, 297, 333, 342, 387, 392, 435, 791
Tibbitts, Charles: 698 Tikkilfc .IAmAC I CQfl
Tibbitts, James: 698
Tikapu, Te Wirihana; 838
Tihi, Ihaka Te: 835
Tikokino/Hampden, Hawke’s Bay: 895
Timango, Hone: 826
i imaiigu, nunc, uiu Timaru, Canterbury: 481, 485f. 487, 488. 490. 633. 634. 635, 636. 642, 643. 648. 651p, 652. 664. 666. 667. 671, 683, 688. 689 p. 690, 747
Timoti Te Maemae: see Maemae'
1136
Index
Tini Pakete: .see Pakete'
Tipene Hori Aripata; see ‘Aripata’
Tipene Te Tahua: see ‘Tahua'
Tipperary. Ireland/‘Tips’: 591, 644, 645p, 676
Tira, Ropati: 835
Tirarau Kukupa: see Kukupa'
Tiraurau, Tamati: 463
Titokowaru: 797
Titore: 69. 76. 77
Tohunga/expert (especially religious): 30 et passim
Toi-toi/toe-toe/sedge grass: 342 et passim
Tokomairiro area, Otago: 498, 500, 502, 540, 569, 602
Tokomairiro/Milton, Otago: 556, 561, 579, 588p, 591, 598
Tokomaru, East Coast: 821, 822, 823
Toma Tahupotiki: see ‘Tahupotiki'
Tomlinson, Joshua: 533
Tone, Wolfe: 851
Topham, James: 326p, 330p
Tophouse, Nelson/Marlborough: 506
Topi: 847
Toremi, Horomona: 830
Tory. 88, 136, 139
Tory Channel, Marlborough: 52
Totara, Westland: 660, 671
Townsend, Charles: 652
Trade/industry/commerce: 29 et seq, 34p, 36p, 40, 43. 45p, 47 et seq, 51 et seq, 57p, 58. 60. 62. 65. 68. 69, 72f, 74f, 76. 77, 78, 79. 80. 86f, 160, 169, 292, 425, 428, 445, 463, 864, 914; see also ‘Sealers’, ‘Whalers’
Trafalgar Hotel. Nelson: 740
Training, drilling: 23, 124, 152, 247, 249p, 252, 269, 272, 273, 278, 372, 373p, 375, 381, 407, 419, 486, 494, 555, 566, 572, 607, 634, 646. 659, 666, 692, 769, 842
Tranquillization’: see ‘Pacification’
Transfer system: 124, 235, 268, 271, 284f, 288, 295, 303, 304, 305p, 309p, 310, 311, 313, 32 Ip. 329, 333, 392f, 402, 528, 529, 543, 620, 700, 749, 767, 93 Ip; see also ‘Mobility’
Transportation from NZ: 155, 176, 21( 222, 244, 265, 368
Travers, William: 686f, 688, 718, 770
Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis 102, 103
Trespass, stock: 152, 226, 227, 353, 382p, 387, 398, 426, 451, 525, 542, 562, 814, 815, 821, 828, 829, 835, 879, 884
Trials: 55. 78p, 87. 169, 204, 230, 361, 475f, 515, 618f, 740f; informal 73, 75, 84p
Triangles, The, S-W Nelson: 728
Tribes, sub-tribes/hapu. and tribal confederations: Arawa 862; Atiawa 175p, 222, 244, 272, 453, 457, 463. 467, 520; Hua 270, 453; Manukorihi 463; Ngaitahu 54, 218, 223; Ngapuhi 33, 36, 41. 44, 53. 185, 214, 809, 816, 819, 862, 920; Ngarauru 863; Ngatiawa 825, 928; Nga-
tihaua 811, 837; Ngatihikairo 838; Ngatikahu 834; Ngatikahungunu 443, 445, 846, 882, 889, 892, 896; Ngatimahana 836; Ngatimahuta 834; Ngatimaniapoto 520, 521, 810, 832, 833, 840, 856, 897; Ngati Manu 76; Ngatimaru 935, 936; Ngatinaho 833, 834p, 835; Ngatipaoa 288f; Ngatiporou 44, 53, 822, 863; Ngatiranhoto 828; Ngatiruanui 449, 453, 454, 462, 467, 519p, 522p, 534, 869; Ngatiruirangi 828; Ngatitahinga 836; Ngatiteata 835, 906; Ngati-te-Pahe 828; Ngatiteweti 837; Ngatitipa 833, 834p, 835p, 837; Ngatitoa 44. 54. 169p, 170, 172, 343; Ngatiwhatua 225, 358; Ngatiwhauroa 833, 838; Puketapu 261, 270, 278f, 453, 456, 462. 463; Rarawa 281.809, 827; Tainui 836; Taranaki 467, 519, 522, 869; Waikato 45. 175, 247, 248, 278,370, 424, 457, 521, 522, 804, 806, 807, 832, 835, 841, 845, 847, 848, 906; see also
‘Maori: Tribal interaction’
Trimble, Joseph: 570, 571, 581, 749
Trollope, Anthony: 16
Troops, use/deployment
Colonial; 190, 238, 240, 243, 267, 373, 467, 468, 521, 530, 531, 787, 794, 797, 853, 858, 864, 871, 874, 889f, 892, 893p, 895, 905, 906, 907, 908, 918, 938; Maori 239f, 250, 454, 864; see also ‘Armed Constabulary’, ‘Colonial Defence Force’, ‘Fencibles’, ‘Kupapa’, ‘Military Settlers’, ‘Military-asso-ciated policing’, ‘Militia’, ‘Volunteer units’
Imperial: 43. 45. 47f, 54, 58. 66f, 77, 79, 91p, 92, 123, 129p, 130, 131, 135, 139, 140, 142, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154p, 158, 162, 167, 173, 179, 185, 186p, 188, 189, 190, 191, 193, 194, 200, 201p, 209, 211p, 212, 215p, 217, 221f, 225, 228 p. 229p, 230p, 237, 238, 239, 240, 243f, 251, 253, 262p, 266p, 267, 286, 289, 291, 303, 315, 351, 357p, 364, 370, 373, 398, 418, 422, 430p, 443, 444p, 445, 453f, 455f, 458, 459, 460, 462, 464, 466, 467f, 509, 519 et seq, 523p, 525p, 526, 531, 532, 534, 565, 582, 584, 586, 604, 697, 712, 784, 786, 787f, 788, 790, 793f, 795, 796, 800, 816, 831, 832, 843, 845, 847f, 851p, 853, 860, 864 et seq, 871, 873, 874, 875, 876f, 880p, 892, 895p, 896, 897, 900, 904, 905p, 908, 918, 919, 928, 932, 938; see also ‘Military-asso-ciated policing’, ‘Regiments’
Tuahu, Kihirinu; 825, 826
Tuakau, S Auckland region: 278, 838
Tuamarina, Marlborough: 170, 504
Tuapeka, Otago: 540 et seq, 555p, 557, 560f, 564, 568, 569, 573, 579, 580, 581, 582, 583, 587, 588, 591, 594, 595p, 598, 600, 602, 605, 606, 614, 624p, 629, 694, 699, 725, 769; see also ‘Gabriels Gully’, ‘Lawrence’, ‘Waitahuna’, ‘Weatherstons’
1137
Index
Tuckett, Frederick; 197, 208, 211
Tuckwell, Joseph: 558, 599, 606, 701
Tuhawaiki, Hone: 205, 218
Tuite, Pierce Pierre; 182, 183p, 184, 341
Tuokairangi, Anaru: 830
Turakina, Wellington W Coast: 532, 782, 783, 796, 797, 799, 830p
Turanga region, East Coast: 805f, 822, 824
Turanganui/Turanga/Gisborne, East Coast: 893
Turangapito, Erueti: 826
Turingenge, Hepata; 837
Turkey: 653
Turner, Benjamin: 86
Turnover of personnel: 145, 156, 167, 336 394, 400, 437, 533, 567, 602, 606, 607 608, 611, 654, 664, 677, 685, 822, 903 924
Turongo, Hone; 856
Turton, H H: 802, 818
Tuturau, Otago Province: 497 Twelve Mile Landing, S-W Nelson: 669, 733p, 734. 735, 736, 737 p. 744, 746, 799
Tylee, Charles A: 438f, 440, 445
Tyrrell, T: 171
u
Ua, Haumene Te: see Te Ua’
Uhiniko, Te Makarini Te: 825
Uniform/dress: 17, 38, 104, 105, 107, 110, 119f, 123, 125, 126, 137, 237, 243, 260, 275, 325. 329, 331, 337, 389p, 403, 421p, 424, 447, 459, 487. 493, 500, 501, 502, 515, 543. 546p, 547. 554, 558, 576, 596, 610, 636, 641, 643, 650, 651, 667, 684, 695, 698, 702, 719, 729, 731, 754, 756, 759, 760. 791, 810, 817, 819, 822, 825, 829, 835, 838, 840. 842, 854, 881, 909, 910, 913p, 923
Costs/purchase of: 157, 331, 337, 374, 375. 389, 403, 404, 421, 461, 490. 528, 533, 543, 611, 641, 689, 698, 731, 760, 766, 791, 810, 814, 819, 825, 913, 917
Union Benefit Society. Kororareka: 85f, 87
‘Unionisation’ of police: 155, 332, 374, 375, 402, 403p, 404f, 421, 458, 471. 473, 489f, 527f, 533f, 543f, 576, 611, 614, 633f, 664. 698, 772. 792, 882, 883f, 911, 940; see also ‘Strikes’
United States of America: see ‘America’
United Tribes of NZ: 70ff, 75, 76. 77. 78, 79p, 137
Upoko/Warden: 835; see ‘Wardens of Runanga’
Upper Hutt, Wellington region: 243, 437
Urban policing orientations: 6, 7, 21, 92, 93. 95, 116, 121, 133, 235. 247. 248, 251, 256, 260. 261, 262, 264p, 272, 278 p. 282, 289, 302p, 309 et seq, 344, 358ff, 363, 372. 378, 384p, 385, 387, 406, 407, 415, 416, 418, 429. 431f. 436. 445. 447, 456f, 473, 492, 494. 495, 519. 523, 526. 572,
616, 627, 642, 708, 710, 712, 723, 754, 781, 790, 796f, 864, 870, 872, 875. 894f, 898, 902, 916, 931
Urbanisation of population; 6, 9, 94, 108, 358, 363, 366, 431, 457, 486, 642, 745, 747. 901
Rural/urban polarities: 433ff, 888, 89£ 912, 921, 935
Suburban pressures: 415, 416, 561, 575, 645, 731, 879, 905, 910, 912, 916, 923
Urewera area, S Auckland region: 828, 941
Utiku Te Matiaha; see ‘Matiaha'
Utilitarianism: see Bentham'
Utu/retaliatory compensation: 31 et passim
V
Vagrancy legislation: 94. 122, 566, 681, 682, 921, 926f
Valle, Philip: 209, 210
Valpy, W H: 327
Van Diemen’s Land/Tasmania: 34, 47, 49, 60. 74, 155, 181, 211, 368
Venus-. 33, 53
Verdicts: see ‘Court appearances’
Vickerman. Francis: 505
Victoria : 170, 205
Victoria, colony of; 503, 539, 541, 546, 547, 550ff. 554, 555, 556, 564, 567. 569. 579, 580, 593p, 597, 619, 638, 678, 695, 704, 872, 901; goldfields of 293, 496. 542, 544. 545, 547, 550ff. 582, 585, 597, 656, 696. 872; see also ‘Eureka’. ‘Melbourne’, ‘Victorian Police Force’
Victoria, Queen: 4. 82, 455
Victoria Gully, Otago Province: 583
Victoria/Waitangi, Northland; 190
Victorian Police Force: 478, 503, 539, 542, 543, 545, 546, 549 et seq . 554, 562, 567, 568. 570, 574. 584, 585. 599. 611. 618. 639p, 678, 737, 760. 762; ex-members of 478. 546. 554ff, 560. 564. 567p, 568, 570, 579. 584f, 587. 593. 594, 601. 605, 611. 623. 637. 638, 639 p. 640 p. 644. 646, 647 p. 649. 650, 653, 654 p. 656. 659. 667. 689. 695, 700, 703, 704, 705, 709. 759, 769
Victorianisation: 539. 542. 545f. 548. 554 et seq , 563, 564, 577f, 578. 593. 596f, 599. 600. 602. 613. 620. 637f. 641. 643, 645. 647. 649f. 652. 654, 656. 665, 672. 674. 678, 683, 684, 685, 688, 689, 691, 693. 696ff. 700, 703, 706 p. 709f. 712. 732. 736p, 751. 757. 759f. 763, 765, 766, 767ff. 770f. 798. 874. 888. 901
‘Vigilance’, ‘lynch law’: 88. 136. 191, 200. 211. 213p, 214. 371, 372, 509. 532. 548. 592 . 609 . 681. 713. 730. 740, 742 . 869. 885, 905; see also informal policing’.
‘Kororareka Association’. ‘Volunteer units’
Vincent/Naseby/Mt Ida. Otago; 605, 608. 623
Vogel, Julius: 24f, 613, 625
1138
Index
Volkner, Carl: 856, 928
Volunteer units: 135, 153, 173, 196, 209, 211, 221f, 224, 228, 229. 240. 242, 243, 252, 272. 303, 307, 370. 373. 456, 521, 527, 581, 639. 643. 644, 739, 741, 788, 794, 797, 892, 896, 905; payment of 153, 211, 240. 370
Von Tempsky, Gustavus: 902, 906, 937p
w
Waata Kukutai: 818, 833, 834f, 836p, 842
Waerenga-a-hika, East Coast: 892
Wages: see ‘Pay’
Waiapu, East Coast: 821, 822, 854, 858, 859, 863
Waiaua, Rawiri; see ‘Rawiri’
Waiheke Island, Auckland; 293
Waihola, Otago: 502, 548
Waihou/Thames Runanga District, Coromandel: 821
Waikaia/Switzers, Otago Province: 618, 706
Waikanae, Wellington W Coast: 151, 244p, 266, 267, 297, 299, 302, 303, 305, 306, 307, 309, 310, 317, 322, 323f, 383, 788, 830, 854, 856
Waikato: 45. 65. 76p, 77
Waikato: see ‘Tribes’
Waikato Militia: 907, 908, 920; see also ‘Military Settlers', ‘Militia’
Waikato River/region; 218, 273, 376, 422ff, 444, 520, 522p, 523, 524p, 723,725, 784 p. 785, 786, 788 792, 794, 802, 804, 806 et seq, 816, 818, 821, 828, 831 et seq. 840ff, 847ff, 868, 869, 870, 885, 886, 889p, 892, 894, 897ff, 900, 902, 903, 904 et seq, 909, 910, 915, 916p, 918, 919, 935, 939
Waikawau, S Auckland region; 836 Waikouaiti, Otago; 52, 89, 207, 500, 501, 502, 540p, 569, 581, 582, 587, 588, 602p, 609, 618
Waima, Northland: 185
Waimakariri River/area, Canterbury: 484, 637
Waimangaroa, S-W Nelson: 726
Waimate, Canterbury: 643, 671
Waimate, Northland: 39, 127, 128, 185, 189, 190, 817, 819, 820, 831, 855
Waimate, Taranaki; 67
Waimea, Nelson region: 324, 343, 518
Waimea East. Nelson region: 208
Waimea South, Nelson region: 514
Waimea West, Nelson region: 514
Waimea/Six Mile, Westland: 660p, 662, 663f, 666, 668p, 673, 674, 676, 683, 747
Waingongoro River, Taranaki: 877
Waiotahi Block, Coromandel area: 937
Waipa River/area. S Auckland region: 376, 424, 806, 810, 837, 839, 841, 851, 916, 919
Waipawa, Hawke’s Bay: 529, 530, 531, 884, 896
Waipori, Otago: 568, 571. 579, 606
Waipukurau town/area, Hawke’s Bay: 290, 525, 527, 528, 529, 530, 531, 829. 861, 880, 884, 895, 897
Wairarapa, Wellington region: 332, 363, 436p, 437p, 438, 440, 445, 446, 532f, 534, 785 et seq, 793, 794f, 796, 797, 802, 830, 895
Wairau affray: 170f, 172p, 173, 183, 194, 195, 202, 208, 209, 211, 217, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224p, 225, 230, 231, 237, 290, 302, 338, 341, 343, 371, 433. 504
Wairau River/region, Marlborough: 150, 170, 191, 324, 504 et seq, 508, 510p, 515, 636, 751, 752
UOU, I Ui. Waireka, Taranaki: 467, 519p, 520
Wairoa area, Hawke’s Bay region: 828, 829, 855, 880, 892, 893, 895, 896p
Wairoa/Waverley, Wellington W Coast: 797
Waitahuna, Otago: 542, 555, 564, 565, 568, 578
Waitaki/Waitangi River, Canterbury/ Otago: 319, 481, 501, 619, 652
Waitangi. ‘Treaty’ of: 89 et seq, 126, 131, 132, 139, 147, 169, 212 225
Waitangi/Victoria, Northland: 65, 76, 80, 89, 190
Waitangi/Waitaki, Canterbury/Otago: 481, 671
Waitara, Taranaki: 175, 456, 464, 466f, 519, 520, 521p, 522, 785, 811, 812. 832, 845, 866, 868f, 876, 878
Waite, Reuben: 656, 732
Waite’s Pakihi/The Skibbereen/Addison’s Flat. S-W Nelson: 746 u u / i oo
Waitemata Harbour/area, Auckland: 133, 134, 147, 158, 177; see also ‘Manukau’
Waitere Katatore: see ‘Katatore
Waitohi Gorge, Canterbury; 659
Waitohi/Newton/Picton, Marlborough: 507p, 752
Waiuku, S Auckland region: 810, 821, 835, 904, 905, 906p
Waka. Wi; 795, 796
Waka Nene, Tamati: 189, 190, 228f, 229, 288, 364, 365, 803
Waka Rangaanu; see 'Rangaanu'
Wakamarina River/area, Marlborough; 655, 658, 679, 727, 728p, 729, 730, 731, 733, 734, 736, 738f, 754 el seq . 761f, 764p, 765, 768, 851
Wakatipu, Lake/region, Otago: 560, 585ff, 595, 598, 60Ip, 602, 605, 607p, 608, 609, 630p, 631, 70Ip. 702p, 704p, 707p, 769
Wakatu Hotel, Nelson: 764. 768
Wakefield, Arthur: 165, 167f, 170, 171. 208
Wakefield, Daniel: 322
Wakefield, Edward Gibbon/Wakefieldism: 80. 134, 138, 165, 207, 298, 300, 311, 318. 320, 326, 470
Wakefield, Edward Jerningham: 138, 139, 146, 150, 160, 162, 163, 175, 176, 225, 325ff, 338, 434, 437
1139
Index
Wakefield, William: 86. 137, 138, 140p, 142, 162. 165. 175, 191, 193, 198, 211, 242
Wakefield Club, Wellington: 191, 193
Walker, G: 514
Walker, George: 496. 497, 501p, 502
Walker, Theodore; 35
Wallace, James; 596
Wallace, John: 936. 937
Walmsley, Dugdale; 660f, 663, 669, 734
Walsh, Constantine: 673
Walsh, Henry; 640, 646p, 690p
Walsh, Thomas: 500, 501 ff
Wanaka, Lake, Otago: 537
Wanganui, Wellington W Coast
Region/River: 151, 154, 160, 161f, 189, 199f, 200f, 219, 243, 244, 246p, 262, 263, 264, 266f, 290, 306, 320, 321 p. 333p, 341, 349, 350p, 357, 402, 438, 439, 440, 442, 464, 532, 781ff, 793f, 797, 802, 803, 826, 842, 847, 851, 853, 854, 856
Town: 160 et seq, 189. 199, 200f, 202, 203, 213p, 244, 245p, 262f, 266f. 268, 269, 278, 305, 306, 307, 312, 315, 320, 321 p. 322, 323f, 333p, 338, 339, 344, 363p, 365, 382p, 391 p. 401, 431f. 436, 439, 440, 441, 442, 462, 489, 532, 534p, 781 f, 785, 788, 793, 794, 796, 797, 799, 850p, 851, 853, 860, 863, 877, 878
Wangapeka, Nelson region: 720
Wapping, London: 103
Ward, C Dudley: 794f
Ward, Crosbie: 828f, 882 ii 7 i o i o^-
Ward. Sergeant: 126p
Wardell, Herbert Samuel: 426, 446, 532f, 785p, 787. 788, 789p, 794f, 802, 806, 822, 830
Wardens, Fenton’s scheme: 423, 424
Wardens, goldfields: 513, 592, 598, 609, 629, 630, 658, 661p, 668, 673, 674p, 717, 731, 733p, 734, 736, 748, 759, 762p, 764. 766, 936
Wardens of Runanga/Chief Karere/Chiefs of Runanga Police: 814, 815, 816, 817, 818, 819, 820, 821, 822, 823, 824, 825p, 826p, 827f, 829, 830p, 834, 835, 836p, 837p, 838p, 847, 854, 855f, 863
Warea, Taranaki: 876
Warena, Mahuri Te: see ‘Mahuri’
Warrants: 62, 78, 139, 144, 192, 204, 227, 255, 560, 630, 649, 679, 726, 763, 764, 774, 785
Warre, H J: 865p, 866, 867p, 868p, 869, 870p, 876p, 878
Warren, George; 496, 497
Wars
Interracial: see ‘Wars, 1840s’, ‘Wars, 1860s’
IOOUS Tribal: see ‘Maori; Tribal interaction’ World War I: 941, 942
Wars. 1840s: 228ff, 233p, 271, 376, 401 ‘in the North’/‘Heke’s War’: 11, 185 et
seq, 189, 190f, 203, 226 et seq, 228 et seq, 230, 233, 237, 238. 253, 280, 349, 364, 370, 371f, 430, 804
in the ‘Southern Settlements’: 11, 199, 201. 230, 237, 240, 241, 242, 243 et seq, 245. 262, 266. 267, 272, 299, 307, 376, 532, 804
Wars, 1860s/‘Anglo-Maori Wars’, campaigns: first Taranaki 467f, 518 et seq 523, 532. 535, 648, 780, 785, 81 If. 813, 832, 840, 846, 864, 882, 897; second Taranaki 784, 785, 792, 845, 847, 848, 849, 867, 868f, 890; Waikato/Bay of Plenty 430, 524, 581, 784, 785, 786, 788, 792, 794, 812, 816, 839, 840, 847ff. 851, 852, 868, 869, 872, 885, 886, 889p, 892, 894. 895, 899, 902, 903, 904 et seq, 908, 909. 910, 912, 913, 914, 915; hauhau 793f, 796, 85If. 853p, 858, 859, 860, 872, 874, 877, 892f. 896; final phases 797, 864, 940, 941 \I7 'I ' n nil 'I I Al Oil
Waru, Taati Te: 841
Water/boat policing: 103, 116, 132, 149, 151p, 155, 158, 167, 169, 183, 186, 203, 226, 299, 336, 340, 341 p. 342, 344, 350, 365, 386, 447, 455, 486, 490, 559f, 562. 564, 572, 577, 602, 608. 612, 644, 684, 716, 717, 909, 912, 913, 915f, 917, 923
Waterford, Ireland: 639 U/n tl,m O r ~7
Watkin, James; 207
Watson, George: 204
Watson, John; 188, 189, 204, 265p, 305, 313p, 314, 315, 316, 317, 409p, 471, 484, 486, 647, 652f
Watson, M: 506
Watt, Isaac Newton: 459, 461f
Watts, Charles F: 324, 505
Waverley/Wairoa, Wellington W Coast: 797
Weale, Francis: 610
Weapons: see ‘Arms’
Weatherstons, Otago: 542, 560, 566, 568, 570
Wehi, Himiona Te: 304
Welch, Saunders: 111, 112
Weld, Frederick: 793. 794, 853, 854p, 857, 858, 859p, 862, 919, 921, 928
Weld Town, Westland: 674
Weldon, Thomas King: 568f, 594, 599, 667, 703p, 705 et seq, 708 et seq, 714ff, 732, 738, 763p
Weller Brothers: 52
Weller, J B: 52f
Wellington
Province/government: 333p, 387, 406, 414, 431 et seq, 438 et seq. 445 et seq. 524, 532 et seq, 771 et seq, 782 et seq, 790 et seq, 827, 830, 850, 875; Superintendency 431, 772; see also ‘Featherston’, ‘Pastoralism’
Provincial police: 295, 333, 387, 406, 427, 431 et seq, 438, 439. 440, 441f. 445, 446ff, 532 et seq. 771 et seq, 78Iff, 789ff, 795ff, 854
1140
Index
Wellington— continued
Region/area: 140, IftOf, 154, 155, 160 et seq, 191 et seq, 195 et seq, 199 et seq, 229, 230, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244p, 252, 256p, 257, 264, 266p, 296, 305 et seq, 320ff, 331 et seq, 340, 345, 363, 365, 376, 384, 401, 402, 404, 434, 436ff, 532ff, 781 et seq, 792ff, 809p, 853f; see also ‘New Munster’, and component regions
Urban: 135 et seq, 145f, 147, 150 et seq, 155, 158, 160ff, 167,171, 172, 173, 174, 191 et seq, 195 et seq, 199p, 201, 229, 23Iff, 240. 241, 242, 244p, 247, 249, 252, 259, 264, 266, 278, 289, 295, 296, 297, 299, 302p, 303, 305 et seq. 313, 314, 315, 317, 319, 320, 321, 322, 325, 329, 33Iff, 337, 339, 340p, 341p, 342ff, 345p, 346, 348, 349, 350, 353, 360, 362, 363, 368, 369, 370, 377, 378, 381, 383, 384p, 386p, 387p,390,392,393, 400p, 402p, 403, 404, 405, 408f, 421, 431ff, 441, 443, 445p, 446ff, 464, 479, 511, 629, 634, 649, 741, 742, 773ff, 781, 788, 790ff. 798, 940; municipal government 172, 23Iff, 340
West Coast Runanga District: 830, 847 See also ‘Armed Police Force: Wellington’; ‘Police Magistracy Forces: Wellington’; ‘Port Nicholson’
Wellington: 51
Wellington, Duke of: 109, 113
Wentworth, Charles; 55 WonlirnrUi H* Arnu* lift
Wentworth, D’Arcy: 118
Weraroa Redoubt. Wellington W Coast: 863
Wessex, England: 4
West Canterbury Goldfields Police: 655 et seq. 668ff, 673ff. 675ff, 679f, 683f, 691f, 734, 735f, 736; and ‘Burgess-Kelly gang’ 678ff, 687, 738f, 748; control controversy 656, 657, 661f, 664, 672ff, 692 West Coast, South Island
West Canterbury/Westland goldfields: 610, 615, 616, 618, 623, 652, 655p, 656 et seq, 668 et seq, 671, 672, 673 et seq, 675 et seq, 683f, 686, 687, 688, 690, 69Iff, 71 If. 714, 728, 730, 731, 732, 733p, 734p, 736f, 738, 740p, 741p, 742, 748, 762, 764; destination of gold 662, 667f, 730; separatism 687f, 692. 736
South-West Nelson goldfields: 668, 669p, 677f, 679p, 720, 725 et seq, 728, 732 et seq, 738, 744 et seq, 762; see also ‘Buller’, ‘Nelson’
Western Australia: 236, 625
Westland, County of: 688, 692
Westminster, London: 93, 94
Westminster. 127, 130, 131, 179
Westport. S-W Nelson: 725, 726, 727, 728, 744, 745, 746, 747, 748p, 749, 750
Whaingaroa, S Auckland region: 806, 836p, 837, 838, 846
Whakairo, Hawke’s Bay: see ‘Pa Whakairo
Whakapo: 376f
Whakapuaka, Nelson region: 212, 224, 514
Whakatane, Bay of Plenty: 825, 826
Whakatari, Hemi: 836
Whakatu, Hawke’s Bay: 443
Whalers/whaling: 30, 31, 32, 33, 34p, 38, 39. 40. 41, 46p, 47. 48, 49. 51p, 52p, 53. 54. 66. 67, 72. 79, 80, 82p, 83, 85. 86. 89. 133,143, 144, 150f, 152p, 154, 161p, 169, 178, 197, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 214, 223p, 224, 265, 280p, 292, 336, 343. 360, 364, 369, 440, 496, 500, 647
Whanganui/Wanganui River: 160
Whangarei, Northland: 820, 916
Whangaroa, Northland: 33, 48, 420
Whare: 331 et passim
Whare, Narehana Te: 830
Wharepouri: 213
Wharepoto, Mohi: 824
Whata, Pekama Te: 824
Whataroa, S Auckland region: 81(
Whatawhata, S Auckland region: 93£
Wheoro, Wiremu Te: see ‘Te Wheoro'
Wherowhero, Potatau Te: see ‘Te
Wheowhero’. ‘Potatau I’
Whish, Richard: 476, 477
Whitaker, Frederick: 523, 776p, 778, 779, 839, 849, 925, 932
White, George; 171ff, 194, 209f, 211, 223, 343p, 344, 357, 369f
White, John; 782. 784, 826, 850p, 852ff, 864
White. T A: 854
White! William: 72f, 74f
White, William Bertram: 247, 269, 272f, 280f, 282, 286, 289, 292, 307, 373, 379, 383, 395, 400p, 415, 416, 418, 419f, 802, 809, 817, 819, 827, 855, 858, 861
White Cliffs/Pukearuhe, Taranaki: 876
Whiteley, J: 805, 806
Whiti, Erueti Te: see ‘Te Whiti’
Whitmore, George Stoddart: 829, 889ff, 892p, 896
Whiwhi, Matene Te: see ‘Te Whiwhi’
Wi Hikairo; see ‘Hikairo’
Wi Take Ngatata: 222, 245, 297, 390,393, 785, 788, 793
Wi Waka: see ‘Waka’
Wicksteed, John T: 175p, 219
Will o' the Wisp ; 386
William the Conqueror: 5
Williams, E M: 817
Williams, H: 477
Williams, Henry; 50p, 51, 54, 63, 64, 65, 87, 128, 215, 227, 253, 817
Williams, Thomas: see ‘Wiremu,
Tamati'
Williams, W and J: 786
Williams, William: 50. 822. 892
Williamson, John: 428, 429, 524, 903, 931, 934, 938, 939
Willis Street, Wellington: 387
1141
Index
Wilson, H C: 119f, 121f
Wilson, James, Councillor: 696p, 702
» vuum.iuui. DL7op, njz Wilson, James; 740 Wll I .
Wilson, Robert: 749
Wilson, Z: 612, 614
Winchester, Statute of: 6. 7
Winiata Nga Pu: see Pu’
Winton, Southland: 711, 712
Wiremu Kingi: see Kingi’
■ ucc itiugl Wiremu Mokomoko: see ‘Mokomoko’
IUUNOIIIUM) Wiremu Nera: see ‘Nera’
Wiremu Paneta: see ‘Paneta'
Wiremu Parata: see ‘Parata'
Wiremu, Tamati/Williams, Thomas: 451
Wiremu Tamihana; see ‘Tamihana’
Wiremu Te Wheoro: see Te Wheoro’
Wirihana: 836
Wirihana Mohara: 783f
Wirihana Tikapu, Te: see Tikapu’
Witana Rangiora: 278, 279f
Witanihaua Ngatara: see ‘Ngatara’ W 1 l -
Women in policing: see ‘Police personnel: Female’
Wood, J Nugent: 595ff, 705
Woods, Benjamin: 122, 127, 131, 132p, 134, 148f, 158p, 178,179, 180p, 189, 190f, 227, 260, 262, 263p, 273, 281, 289, 351 365, 383, 398, 399
000, 000, ovo, ow Woods, William (‘Paddy’): 204, 205, 206
Woollcombe, Belfield: 481, 486! 636, 648
" m iiit iti. TOI, ‘ioD, Duo, D4t ‘Woolshed, The’, Otago: 579
• . uuimicu, 1 lie , WUctgl Woon, R: 803
Working class/proletariat: 9, 15, 16p, 17, 106, 108. 109, no. nip, 114,133,152, 155, 156, 192, 199, 200, 208 et seq, 312, 314p, 345. 354, 355, 362, 370, 374, 377,
378, 379, 385, 394p, 407. 408, 432, 458, 482, 539, 562, 574, 576, 647, 798; see also
‘Dangerous/troublesome classes’
Workloads: see ‘Hours/conditions’ WnrU Wow I. * \X7 >
World War I: see ‘Wars’
Worthington, Charles: 568, 583, 586
Wragg, D: 514
Wright, Edward: 323
Wright, John: 77, 78
Wright, S: 98
Wynen, James: 169, 504, 505
Wynn, R: 922
Wynyard, Robert: 289p, 293, 294, 414ff 417, 418, 419, 421, 440, 453, 455, 456
Y
Yeomanry Cavalry: 659
Yorkshire, England: 236
z
Zillwood, Joseph: 313p, 316, 393, 408f
CORRIGENDA, VOL I PART I
Running heads, pages 331, 333, 335, should read 'The Armed Police Forces 1846-53'. Page xvii, 13th line from top: ‘policy’ should read ‘police’.
Page 331, 7th line from end; ‘Canterbury’ should read ‘Godleys’.
V. R. WARD, GOVERNMENT PRINTER. WELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND-1986
I4OB3F—B6PTK
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Bibliographic details
APA: Hill, Richard S. (1986). Policing the colonial frontier : the theory and practice of coercive social and racial control in New Zealand, 1767-1867 v.1 Pt 2. Historical Publications Branch, Dept. of Internal Affairs ; Govt. Printer.
Chicago: Hill, Richard S. Policing the colonial frontier : the theory and practice of coercive social and racial control in New Zealand, 1767-1867 v.1 Pt 2. Wellington, N.Z.: Historical Publications Branch, Dept. of Internal Affairs ; Govt. Printer, 1986.
MLA: Hill, Richard S. Policing the colonial frontier : the theory and practice of coercive social and racial control in New Zealand, 1767-1867 v.1 Pt 2. Historical Publications Branch, Dept. of Internal Affairs ; Govt. Printer, 1986.
Word Count
319,072
Policing the colonial frontier : the theory and practice of coercive social and racial control in New Zealand, 1767-1867 v.1 Pt 2 Hill, Richard S., Historical Publications Branch, Dept. of Internal Affairs ; Govt. Printer, Wellington, N.Z., 1986
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