"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms..."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Tuesday, April the 10th

This day I must record with care, for it brought about a moment that has left my thoughts restless and stirred in a way I scarce know how to name. 

This day has weighed upon me most curiously, for though I performed only the small and humble duties befitting a clerk so new to his station, yet I feel as though my spirit has been turned upon its head. For today, I first set eyes upon Lady Eleanor Whitehall, and the moment has not left me since.

The morning began without incident. I rose before the sun had fully cleared the palms and rooftops of Port Dominion, washed, and took my breakfast of porridge with stewed apple and a small cup of tea. It was plain fare, yet filling enough to gird me for my labors. I made my way to the Governor’s offices by the square, where Mr. Franklin Benedict, my superior, greeted me with his usual brisk courtesy.

My morning was occupied with the sorting of incoming letters — mercantile petitions for trade licenses, reports from minor officials on crop yields and harbor dues, and a stack of grievances from colonists who write as though His Lordship himself has nothing better to do than soothe their quarrels. Mr. Benjamin showed me the manner in which to arrange each item: what is to be sent upward to his desk, what can be answered in a standard form, and what must be filed for reference. He is not a harsh master, yet his tone carries weight, and I see that he expects no dawdling or slackness in the smallest of tasks.

It was in the afternoon that he entrusted me with carrying a sheaf of ordered documents to the Governor’s aide, Mr. Alastair Greene. This gentleman, it seems, sees himself as gatekeeper to His Lordship’s time and mind, and my role, humble as it is, must first pass through his hands. When I entered the study antechamber, Mr. Greene was standing at the tall window, a glass of wine in his hand though the hour was yet young.

“Ah, the new scribe,” he said with a smile that was at once gracious and cutting. “And so prompt. Let us hope this is a habit and not a novelty.”

I bowed and handed him the folio. He leafed through the pages with languid motions, nodding, then glanced up at me in a way that suggested both approval and dismissal. “Very good,” he said, in tones that made me feel like a child praised for tidying his desk. “Perhaps you may be of some use after all.” His courtesy was touched with condescension, yet I bit my tongue, bowed again, and turned to leave.

And then, it happened.

As I passed back through the corridor, I saw her. Lady Eleanor stood by one of the tall windows, speaking softly to a maid. Her hair, dark as polished ebony, was styled with art but not excess, framing a face both fair and arresting. Her gown was of pale silk, a color that made the richness of her complexion and the depth of her dark eyes all the more striking. She turned slightly, not toward me but toward the maid, yet in that moment the air seemed to thicken, as though her very presence altered the hum of the world around her.

I froze for half a heartbeat, willing myself not to stare. She did not acknowledge me, nor should she, for I am but a lowly clerk hardly worth the glance of a Governor’s lady. And yet — I felt her nearness as if it were a touch. The sound of her voice reached me, low, composed, with a cadence of calm authority. It was music tinged with steel. I bowed as I passed, though my eyes barely dared to meet hers, and went on quickly.

Upon returning to our chamber of work, my hands trembled slightly as I set the ink bottles aright. Mr. Benjamin looked up at me from his desk with his shrewd, owlish eyes. “Well,” he said, with the faintest twitch of annoyance. “Mr. Greene has seen fit to grace you with one of his little performances, no doubt?”

I confessed that he had been both complimentary and cutting. Mr. Benjamin’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Do not let him trouble you. He believes himself the sun about which we all revolve, but I tell you true — without us clerks and scribes, his proud post would founder in a day. He knows it too, though he would never admit as much.”

Then, after a pause, he regarded me with an expression I could not at first decipher. “Tell me, Marlowe… have you yet seen Lady Eleanor?”

My breath caught. I nodded.

“And how,” he asked softly, almost conspiratorially, “did you respond to her?”

His question seemed less idle curiosity and more a subtle weighing of my heart. I answered carefully, saying only that I had glimpsed her in passing, and that her beauty and bearing were such as rumors had not exaggerated. At this, he gave a small smile — not mocking, but knowing — and returned to his papers. Yet I could not shake the sense that he was quietly measuring my loyalty, perhaps even my discretion, in that single exchange.

Now, as I write these lines by candlelight, after a simple supper of stewed fowl, turnips, and a cup of small beer, I cannot rest my mind. I feel a kind of shame in this, for I am but a humble clerk, and she the wife of my master. And yet — I cannot deny the truth of what stirs within me. Her name has been but rumor and tale these past weeks, and already I feel as though some spell has been laid upon me merely by a single glance, a glimpse across a crowded hall. I replay that moment in the corridor again and again — the turn of her dark hair in the sunlight, the glimmer of her gaze not upon me, but near enough to burn into my memory. What spell has she woven, that even without word or glance toward me, I feel myself marked?

I am troubled by my own heart, for it seems to yearn toward danger. I tell myself this is foolishness, that I must attend only to my duty, and that I am a clerk in His Lordship’s service, sworn to duty, to letters and ink and the Crown’s order. And yet, tonight, all I can think of is Lady Eleanor Whitehall — the shadow she casts, and how that shadow has already fallen upon me.

And now, even as my candle sputters and I know I must soon be in bed and asleep to be ready for the oncoming day, I know that in some quiet, unguarded corner of my mind, I fear that Lady Eleanor will haunt me still, whether I wish it or not.

"Margaret Heddlethorpe"...

 

Margaret Heddlethorpe and the Loyalty of a Broom.

Margaret Heddlethorpe worked her broom across the entryway foyer of Lord Mitchell’s manor with a vigor that bespoke both pride and gratitude. She was not a woman of fine station, nor was she of refined learning, but she held firm to the belief that diligence in work was its own kind of nobility. And in Lord Mitchell’s house—where order, precision, and obedience were prized above all—her labor was both valued and rewarded.

It was said in the servants’ quarters that Margaret had a peculiar advantage: she shared many of Lord Mitchell’s dislikes. She, too, scowled at small, noisy children; she despised cats and their slinking ways; and she muttered darkly about yapping dogs. As for the French, Spaniards, and the Irish—well, her opinions needed no encouragement. Thus, when Lord Mitchell cursed such things, Margaret’s head bobbed vigorously in agreement, her broom striking the floor like a drumbeat of shared scorn.

One evening, after Lord Mitchell had taken perhaps more brandy than was prudent, Margaret overheard him growling his usual venom about “the worthless Irish.” She paused only a moment before braving what few servants ever dared: speaking plainly to his face.

“Your lordship,” she declared, broom in hand, “you are absolutely right about the Irish, and you should not mince words! A worthless lot they are. My daughter Susanna ran away with an Irishman to the colonies. Do you know what I did? I disowned her, I did! No right English girl would demean herself in that way!”

Imagine Margaret’s astonishment when Lord Mitchell fixed her with his heavy gaze, grunted in satisfaction, and—without a word—poured her a small measure of his brandy. He pressed the glass into her hand, and at week’s end, six extra shillings lay neatly tucked into her pay.

From that day onward, Margaret’s loyalty was sealed. She swept with renewed devotion, polished until her fingers ached, and watched with hawk’s eyes over the comings and goings in the manor. She was, in her way, as much a guard of Lord Mitchell’s house as any soldier. And he, in his way, had bought not just her service, but her soul’s allegiance, all with a dram of brandy and the price of a few shillings.  

So she swept these whispers into tidy piles and presented them, piece by piece, to Lord Mitchell. He listened with narrowed eyes, grunted in satisfaction, and rewarded her with silver shillings. She had become his broom in truth—not just sweeping dirt from the floors, but clearing obstacles from his path, keeping his world neat, ordered, and profitable.

Margaret Heddlethorpe was no fool. She knew she was but a servant. Yet in her small way, she shaped the fortunes of great men, and in the flick of her broom and the whisper of her tongue, she secured her place in Lord Mitchell’s regard.

"The First Day..."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Monday, April the 10th
This day marks my first in the service of His Lordship, the Governor. I rose early, for I confess my nerves had stirred me long before dawn’s light crept through my window. At breakfast I partook of a modest meal: a bowl of warm porridge sweetened with a little honey, a small crust of bread with butter, and a cup of strong tea, which seemed most necessary to calm my mind and steady my body for what lay ahead.

Upon presenting myself at the Governor’s offices, I was placed under the direct guidance of Mr. Franklin Benedict, whose manner I would describe as firm yet not unkind. He bears the air of one who has long shouldered the responsibilities of order and precision, and who understands that the smallest misplacement of paper or letter may ripple outward into confusion or worse. Though he is not harsh, there is steel in his words when he reminds one of the gravity of their duties — that all is done not merely for His Lordship, but for the good governance of the Crown itself.

(Mr. Franklin Benjamin, Manager Secretary of Clerks and Scribes)

My first tasks were simple, though to my mind they seemed grave: sorting correspondence according to importance, marking those that must be placed immediately before the Governor’s eye, and setting aside others for later consideration. There were inventories of supplies, reports from the garrison, petitions from local merchants, and a rather heated complaint about tariffs from one of the Dutch traders in port. In truth, much of my work today was spent learning the system by which all these documents flow through the channels of authority — how each letter is marked, distributed, and recorded, so that no matter or grievance is lost amidst the tide of ink and parchment. I was also introduced to the other clerks and scribes within the office; 

Mr. Thomas Hargood, whom is the senior clerk amongst us and seems somewhat weary of younger assistants. 

William Pratchett, who is the middle clerk and while capable in his own right, seems to enjoy gossip and small talk. 

Edwin Clarke, a quiet, methodical fellow like myself in many ways, he keeps his head down and seemingly not prone to gossip.

Mr. Benjamin corrected me gently once or twice when I stumbled in the ordering, as a babe would when learning to take their first steps, but I could see in his eyes that he measures a man not by his errors, but by the swiftness and humility with which he learns from them. By midday, when I took my meal of cold chicken, bread, and a small mug of ale in the clerk’s hall, I already felt more confident in my station. There I overheard two of the junior clerks speaking in hushed tones of the rumored arrival of the HMS Elysium. They say she brings not only provisions, but fresh troops for the garrison — a relief, no doubt, to Lord Whitehall, for even I, in my brief time here, have discerned a tension in the air of Port Dominion, as though the very walls of Fort Hemmerly are too thin against threats both near and distant.

The afternoon passed in further work of sorting, transcribing, and setting to rights the volumes of correspondence, and though the tasks were plain, I found in them a curious satisfaction. To see order wrested from chaos, to know that one’s hand has played even a small part in smoothing the paths of governance, is to feel one is no longer a stranger here, but slowly becoming part of the great machine that keeps the colony alive. For some, the task of such as I have may be seen as dreadfully boring, and perhaps even maddening, however for me in this time in my life, I find it not only quietly fulfilling, but of the sort that I now understand with more clarity what happens to make life here in Port Dominion able to continue without everything crashing down around us. With the amount of documents, papers, charters, letters, and such that we work with here on this island, it befuddles my mind to think of how much more there must be in London to keep Her Majesty's Empire proceeding.

As I left the Governor’s offices at dusk, I allowed myself the idle fancy that, perhaps in time, I might even cross paths with Lady Eleanor herself. I do not know whether to dread or long for such an encounter. Her name is whispered everywhere, and her charms spoken of with both awe and warning. A part of me, I admit, is intrigued — though another part trembles at the thought, for I am but a humble clerk, and she is the Governor’s wife. Best, perhaps, not to dwell on such matters.

For supper, I enjoyed a dish of stewed beef with onions, boiled carrots, and a crust of bread, washed down with a cup of watered wine. A simple but hearty meal, which I ate with gratitude before retiring here to my chamber.

Now, as I sit by candlelight and put down these words, I feel a calm satisfaction. The work is not without weight, yet it suits me. Perhaps I may yet find in this place a purpose, and perhaps — though I scarce dare write it — a future.

 

"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms..."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Sunday, April the 9th

 It is late now, and the candle sputters beside me, but I feel compelled to set down some thoughts of these last days, lest they slip away unrecorded and my mind, left to its own wandering, turn too restive in the night.

The past few days in Port Dominion have been curiously quiet for me, though I gather not so for the town at large.  Life here has settled into a curious rhythm, quiet for me in outward appearance, though one senses the colony stirs restlessly beneath the surface. I have kept to modest walks, a visit to the harbor most afternoons, and meals taken with an air of solitary observance, watching and listening, for one learns much when one holds his tongue.

This morning marked my second Sunday service since arriving. I must say, I have grown attentive to the contrast between the two reverends. Reverend Task, though still intense in his delivery, was more measured this week. Gone were the rolling thunders of wrath that shook the rafters on my first Sunday; instead, he spoke in a lower register, but no less severe, his words sharp as a blade pressed close. The weight of his conviction carried its own kind of thunder, quieter yet heavy. Reverend Goodall, by comparison, remains gentler, though I sense firmness beneath his civility. His sermon was measured, reasoned, and carried a sense of consolation where Task’s carried warning. I find myself wondering how long such balance between them can endure, for they seem to represent two poles of faith—fire and balm.

  

(The Reverends and The Church....)

My meals these last days have been plain but sufficient. Yesterday at midday I ate slices of roasted fowl with mustard, brown bread still warm, and a wedge of cheese. Supper was a stew of fish, laced with an unexpected spice—cloves, perhaps—and washed down with ale that was hearty if somewhat flat. This morning, before the bells called us to worship, I took porridge sweetened with honey and a small cup of tea, weak but enough to clear the mind. Tonight’s supper was mutton with boiled carrots, the meat tender, the vegetables far too soft, a failing I am beginning to accept as common here. Still, the table is a blessing after the weary sea.

Tomorrow, my employment begins in earnest, and I confess a measure of nervous anticipation. The work itself I know, but the men, the manners, and the expectations of this island are still unfamiliar. Lord Whitehall and his circle will prize discretion as much as diligence, and I must guard against misstep. My pen may be steady, but my tongue must remain steadier still.

And yet, amidst these mundane concerns, my thoughts stray continually—troublingly—to Lady Eleanor Whitehall. I have yet to meet her, yet her name alone seems to cast a spell upon me. The townsfolk speak of her in admiration tinged with unease, fascination laced with gossip. It unsettles me that I, who know her not, should already feel her presence as if it presses at the edges of my mind. What will I find when at last I stand in her company? I half dread the moment, and half long for it, as if it were some appointed turning in my path that cannot be avoided.

There is talk also of the sea—whispers that the HMS Elysium will soon anchor in our bay, bringing fresh troops for the garrison. Many here seem relieved, for they believe it will mean greater security against pirates and foreign threats. The governor himself is said to welcome the reinforcement warmly. Yet I wonder if with the soldiers will come not only safety, but new burdens—more mouths to feed, stricter order imposed, and perhaps sharper divisions among the people. Still, the sight of the King’s ensign snapping in the wind above a man-of-war would surely settle many an anxious spirit.

And so, as I close this entry, I ready myself for the days ahead. Honest labor awaits, and with it, the stern eyes of reverends, the murmurs of taverns, the distant thunder of the sea, and perhaps, soon, an introduction to the lady whose shadow already haunts my thoughts. May Providence grant me strength and a steadier heart than I possess this night—and the wisdom to remain master of myself

"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms..."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Thursday, April the 6th.

This morning, I awoke again in the chamber of the King’s Arms Inn, the shutters partly ajar, letting in the warm light of an already stirring Port Dominion. The noise of the street below,  merchants calling, carts rattling, and seamen laughing coarsely as they strode towards the harbor, roused me fully, coaxing me from sleep. The noise of Dominion Square below was already in full force: wheels upon the cobbles, hawkers shouting their wares, and the distant toll of a ship’s bell down at the harbor.

Having determined that I must secure a proper footing before beginning my service under Mr. Franklin Benjamin, I resolved upon two things today: first, to set my lodging upon a more permanent basis, and second, to furnish myself with those necessaries of attire and person without which a gentleman clerk cannot hope to be taken seriously.

After dressing, I descended to the common room, where Mrs. Dunstable greeted me with a kindly word and a smile before setting before me a breakfast of brown bread, a wedge of cheese, and a slice of cold ham, with a cup of weak ale to wash it down. She bustled about the room, ever watchful of her boarders, while Master Dunstable remained behind his counter, quietly tallying his accounts.

After I had eaten, I took up my business with Master Dunstable, asking if my present chamber might be rented on a longer term, by the month. He scratched his beard and considered, saying that whilst his inn did not always cater to long-term boarders, he found my manners agreeable and my payment in good order, and therefore he would accept me as a monthly lodger. I assented readily, glad to have the matter settled. The price agreed upon was 25 shillings the month, inclusive of meals in the common room, though should I desire extra comforts (such as fish newly brought from the harbor or wine finer than the house red), these would be at additional cost. I judged it fair, and am relieved to have now the stability of a roof and table.

With that settled, I ventured into Dominion Square and thence into the lanes branching therefrom. The shops were busy with the hum of trade. I purchased a pair of serviceable linen shirts from a tailor’s stall, the cloth light but strong, and he assured me it was better suited to the climate than the heavier garments from England. From a haberdasher I obtained a new cravat and stockings, and at a chandler’s I acquired soap, combs, and shaving necessities which included a fresh razor. At each place, the shopkeepers greeted me with polite reserve, yet their eyes weighed me as though measuring the purse at my belt. I could not help but notice how their eyes strayed towards my purse more than my face. Such is trade, I suppose.

The square itself is a theater of daily life. I saw a planter’s wife bargaining for spices, a sailor clattering past with a basket of salt fish, children darting between stalls as though they owned the place, and merchants loudly praising the superiority of their wares. Each man and woman seemed wrapped in their own business, yet all together contributed to the great hum of the colony’s heart. I could not but marvel that in such a place, profit and gossip are traded with equal vigor.

By the time I returned to the King’s Arms in time for my mid-day meal, my purse was lighter, but my spirits somewhat lifted, for the business of settling oneself in a new land is no small burden, and I now feel better prepared for my duties to commence. Yet I confess, such errands, however mundane, gave me cause to reflect upon the ceaseless activity of Port Dominion. It is a place where all is movement—coin, cargo, rumor, and ambition. Even in the simple purchase of a bar of soap, one senses the pulse of commerce and the unspoken schemes that bind this colony to its future.

For my mid-day meal, I returned to the inn, where Mrs. Dunstable provided a dish of stewed mutton with carrots and turnips, accompanied by a hunk of coarse bread. At table, two merchants discoursed upon the latest arrival of ships from England, bemoaning the delay of certain goods, while another fellow hinted that a cargo of rum from the islands had been quietly diverted to another port for private gain. I listened politely, though said little, and wondered at the undercurrent of schemes that seem ever-present in this colony.

In the evening, I took supper in the same common room. This time a salted fish pie was served, with beans and a mug of cider. The talk among those gathered was varied—some about trade, some about politics, and some little better than tavern gossip. I overheard two men at the far end muttering about the sermons past, one claiming that Reverend Task’s fervor might be a danger if left unchecked, while another whispered that Reverend Goodall’s gentleness was too soft for a place such as this. Mrs. Dunstable herself, when pressed by a guest, remarked only that she thought the one too stern and the other too kind, and that perhaps the town would fare best if they might trade a little of each other’s temper.

Master Dunstable joined us for a time, leaning upon the back of a chair and listening with half an ear, though his thoughts were plainly on his accounts. Yet when I asked after lodging houses in the town, he said mine was the better choice, for boarding houses oft pressed too many into too small a space, and their tables were not near so generous as his wife’s. I am glad of his words, and of my agreement with him earlier this day.

Now, returned to my chamber, I set all down by candlelight. My purse is lighter, my person better supplied, and my lodging secure. Tomorrow, I think, I shall walk abroad, perhaps towards Red Row, where they say the less reputable sort ply their trades, or even, if I can muster the nerve, towards The Hollow, of which much is whispered, and little said outright. It may be folly, yet I feel the tug of curiosity, and if I am to live here, ought I not acquaint myself with all corners of this colony, fair and foul alike?

At the same time, I must admit, such walks would serve to clear my head of thoughts best left unpursued: the words of the Reverends, which still echo in my ears, and—worse—the fanciful, dangerous notion of Lady Eleanor Whitehall casting her eye upon me. Were she to favor me, what could come of it but ruin? And yet… the mind betrays the heart in its fancies.

I find myself longing, too, for a place of ease—some spot in Port Dominion where I might relax, free from care, and perhaps in time find companions to call friends. For though I am content in my solitude now, man was not made to live without society. Perhaps, once my work is begun, I shall stumble upon such comforts.

But tonight, my candle burns low, and the day’s errands have left me weary. With a mind full of both practical cares and unquiet thoughts, I set down my quill and prepare to sleep.

"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms..."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

This evening I sit in my chamber at the King’s Arms, the candle stub sputtering low in its pewter stick, and I find my mind still restless from the day’s many impressions. When I returned from the Mansion and the Square, the inn was already beginning to stir with its evening custom.

For my supper, the landlord served a portion of stewed salt beef with onions, alongside a dish of plantains fried crisp, and a small tart of mango and spice that proved surprisingly agreeable. A jug of ale was brought as well, though I allowed myself but one cup, lest my head grow heavy before my quill could finish this account.

The common room was lively, for it seems that no matter the hardships or uncertainties of this colony, its folk find occasion to speak, jest, and sometimes quarrel over their cups. At one table, two merchants debated whether the Governor’s decision to permit the Spaniards and French their places of worship would weaken the Protestant cause, or else ensure peace and trade. At another, a group of sailors loudly disputed whose vessel had made the faster passage from Bristol, their laughter punctuated with oaths and boasts.

Most notable, however, were the conversations that circled yet again around yesterday’s sermons. The innkeeper’s wife, a brisk woman with a ready tongue, observed that Reverend Goodall has “a kindly air, but perhaps too much grandfather in him and not enough wrath.” She hinted that many of the town’s respectable ladies find comfort in his gentler manner. Her husband, pouring ale for a pair of middling tradesmen, muttered that Reverend Task’s eyes “burn like coals too hot for the hearth,” and that one day his zeal may light fires in Port Dominion none will wish to see. Several heads nodded grimly at this.

From another corner I overheard gossip concerning Lady Whitehall herself—that she was seen walking in the garden of the Mansion with a smile too bright for a Sabbath morn, and that some gentlemen pay her glances which Lord Whitehall pretends not to notice. Such talk is whispered low, but whispered often.

I resolved that tomorrow I must set myself in order—new clothes to replace the wear of travel, fresh linen, stockings, and the several toiletry items which a man of letters must maintain if he is to hold himself respectable in the Governor’s employ. I shall also speak with the landlord regarding my lodging. If he will not agree to let the chamber by the month, then I must seek a rooming house more permanent. Yet I suspect the steady custom of a clerk in service to the Governor’s staff will suit his purse well enough.

As for my new employment, the weight of it presses upon me, though I confess there is pride in being entrusted with the quill and ledger under Mr. Benjamin’s direction. Still, I cannot help but wonder at the Governor himself, whom I have yet to see with my own eyes. And again—though I chastise myself for the indulgence—my thoughts stray to Lady Eleanor, of whom all whisper. What manner of woman is she truly? Coquette, libertine, or merely victim of slanderous tongues? Should she turn her gaze upon me, I scarce know how I might respond. A shiver of fancy runs through me at the thought of her charms, though I quickly dismiss it as folly.

The voices of the Reverends linger too. Goodall, the steady hand and careful guide. Task, the thunderer, whose fiery tones left women pale and uneasy, and men nodding grimly as though to approve his harsh judgments. Could it be, as he proclaims, that witches and sorcerers truly walk these streets? Or will his zeal mistake blushes and whispers for Satan’s work? The question troubles me more than I care to admit.

Thus my mind is a whirl—of sermons, of faces, of duties yet to begin, and of temptations both imagined and real. I set down my quill, and with a last draught of the candle’s light, I blow it out. May sleep grant me the peace that the day has not.

"Employment and Observations...."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

This morning I rose from my chamber at the King’s Arms Inn, where the light of the early sun filtered faintly through the small-paned window, warming the rough boards of the floor. After a brief washing, I descended to the common room, where I partook of a modest breakfast—bread yet warm from the hearth, a slice of salted pork, and a cup of coffee dark and bitter, though well enough to stir a man to wakefulness.

After taking my breakfast,  I made my way along the cobbled thoroughfare towards the Governor’s Mansion, where my new employ shall be. The air was already warm with the rising sun, and the harbor beyond Dominion Square shimmered with a faint haze. Though the town is still young, its streets already hum with ambition, for all manner of merchants, sailors, and common folk may be seen going about their business.

Approaching the Mansion, I was at once struck by the sight of its stately façade—whitewashed walls, tall shuttered windows, and a broad stair of stone leading up to the entrance. Standing guard at the great double doors were two soldiers of the garrison, muskets shouldered and scarlet coats shining in the morning light. I later came to learn that these men are Privates Laurel and Hardy, specially charged with the task of guarding His Lordship’s residence against all manner of intruders, and though their countenances were solemn, I perceived in their eyes the discipline of men who understood the weight of their station. Their presence alone impressed upon me that this was no ordinary threshold I was about to cross.

(Guards at the door to the Lord Governor's residence.)

Upon giving my name and purpose, I was received courteously and directed inside, where a liveried servant led me down a paneled corridor to a side office upon the first floor. The air within bore a mingling of beeswax and ink, the scent of a place much frequented by both servants and clerks. On the wall of the passage I observed a newly arrived portrait, most carefully hung, of Her Royal Highness, Queen Anne, robed in majesty, her gaze fixed with that mixture of severity and grace that monarchs alone seem to possess. It was a reminder that even in this far colony, the eyes of England herself were not absent.

The servant conducted me into a chamber that served as the office of Mr. Franklin Benjamin, my superior in all matters of record and finance. The room was stoutly appointed, though not ostentatious—oak shelves lined with ledgers, bundles of parchment tied with cord, and a great desk laid out with papers in orderly confusion. A small decanter and glass upon the table betrayed his morning habit of brandy, though it lent him no disrepute, for his manner was steady and his mind keen. Indeed, he greeted me with a measured civility, offering words both firm and encouraging. He wasted little time in laying out the nature of my duties: the careful copying of accounts, the transcribing of correspondence, and the maintaining of records vital to the Crown, the Governor, and the colony itself.

By fortune of my education and diligence, I have been taken into his service as clerk, a position both respectable and profitable. My salary is to be forty pounds per annum, which renders to me a weekly income of fifteen shillings and four pence—a sum upon which a man may live handsomely, if he is not too prodigal. To ease the establishment of my affairs in Port Dominion, I have been granted an advance stipend of five pounds, that I might secure my board at the inn, purchase clothing of proper cut, and provide for such other necessities as may arise.

Mr. Benjamin made it clear that I am to have all arrangements in readiness, for I am to commence my labors the following Monday. In truth, I regard the matter with both eagerness and a degree of anxiety; for though the wage is generous and the prospect promising, yet I cannot but feel the weight of responsibility, and the strangeness of this colony, with all its intrigues and bustle, fills my mind with cautious reflection. There is much here that is unsettled, and though my hand shall be employed in the Governor’s records and accounts, my eye and ear shall take in no small portion of the character of this place.

(Mr. Franklin Benjamin)

As I sat listening, a disquiet made itself known in my breast, for I could not forget where I was: the residence of His Lordship the Governor himself, and, too, of his Lady, Mistress Eleanor Whitehall. Of them I have heard much—he, of a commanding and shrewd presence; she, of beauty and charm, yet not without whispers of more libertine inclinations. Though I have not yet set eyes upon either, my imagination was not idle. A strange thought intruded upon me unbidden: What if Lady Eleanor were to show an interest in myself? How should I respond to such charms, and what peril might there lie in them?

I swiftly checked the fancy, for such musings could only lead to folly. Yet it is a curious thing, how rumor, once heard, sets itself in the mind like a seed, and no amount of stern reason can wholly dislodge it. I shall endeavor, therefore, to apply myself with diligence to the work at hand, and to tread carefully in this place where power, intrigue, and whispers alike find ready soil.

When my business with Mr. Benjamin was concluded, and I had taken leave with the promise of reporting in earnest the following Monday, I stepped once more into the brightness of the day. The air seemed lighter upon leaving the Mansion, as though its lofty walls had pressed down upon me with the full weight of authority. Privates Laurel and Hardy stood sentinel still at the entrance, their muskets glinting in the morning sun, watchful of every passerby.

Crossing back into Dominion Square, I found it transformed from the solemn hush of the Sabbath into a bustle most alive. The shops had flung wide their shutters; apprentices hurried with baskets, and hawkers called out their wares of bread, fish, and fruit. The fountain at the center—its maiden’s stone pitcher ever pouring forth—sparkled in the early light, while women with their water-jugs gossiped freely at its base. Carts rattled over the cobbles, laden with goods, and children, released from yesterday’s Sabbath restraint, scampered freely about.

(Walking through a busy Dominion Square...)

Even amid such activity, much of the chatter turned still upon the sermons of the day past. I heard one merchant tell another that Reverend Goodall’s words bore the measured gravity of an old shepherd tending his flock, while another insisted that Reverend Task’s voice carried the true thunder of the Almighty. Yet a matron nearby clutched her shawl tighter and muttered that such thunder would soon strike at innocent hearts, if every woman’s blush or tremor of the hand were taken for a sign of witchcraft. One tradesman laughed loudly, saying Task would have the whole town stoned for witches before the month was out, but his companion hushed him, glancing warily toward the Mansion, as though careless words might carry.

I marked, too, how those of the middling sort nodded grimly when Task’s zeal was praised, while some of the women looked away, uneasy, as though the echo of his words lingered still too close to their conscience. Goodall’s name, by contrast, brought softer tones—respectful, though not without a hint of doubt that he was too gentle to hold all sinners to account.

As I walked amidst the noise and movement of Dominion Square, I could not help but feel a curious unease, that in this colony both rumor and truth, piety and desire, are ever intertwined. And perhaps it was the warmth of the sun, or some stray whim, but I found my thoughts wandering—what if Lady Eleanor Whitehall herself, of whom so many whisper in secret, were to cast her gaze upon me? What if her rumored coquettish charms should turn in my direction, and she should favor me with a smile or invitation more personal than polite? How then would I respond? Would I withstand such temptations, or falter as so many men are said to have done before?

With these idle thoughts stirring unwisely in my mind, I made my way back toward the King’s Arms Inn, where I shall prepare myself for the days ahead, and for the duties which my new employment demands. Yet still, the mingled voices of Port Dominion ring in my ears—the calls of merchants, the gossip of women, and above all, the echo of two preachers, each in his way determined to save or condemn the souls of this place.

"Mr. Franklin Benjamin, and The Lord Governor's Guards..."

Mr. Franklin Benjamin 

Mr. Franklin Benjamin is one of The Lord Governor's bureaucrat's in office, tasked with the never-ending job of records, paper, mail, letters, deeds, and all things involving paper, ink, reports, signatures, and wax seals. All documents to be signed by the Lord Governor goes through him for review first, and to make sure that all necessary items are included, and that he is well versed with what each document contains before the Lord Governor puts quill and ink to the papers. 

A long time widower, with a fondness for good horses, fresh fruit and sugar cakes, and strolls along the beach in his spare time, Franklin starts his day with a small glass of brandy to fortify himself, and runs his office and workers with a steady hand. He is gentle but firm, knowing that a hard demanding taskmaster gets little done and destroys the opinions of him by those in his employment. He allows enough leeway to give a comfortable air to the workplace, but also keeps them reminded of the seriousness of the matters in the office and of the need to be complete, thorough, and professional at all times. 

Backstory: 

"Franklin Benjamin looked over the latest dispatches and reports that had been brought to him by courier aboard the HMS Winthrop. True, the news was over a month old, and things may have possibly changed since then, but it was still news.

"Hmmm..." He said to himself. "We are to receive a section of artillery and crew to help support our infantry in defense of the town and the island. This is a good thing. The governor should be pleased with this." He looked through the other papers, and made mental notes to himself about their contents before taking them to the Lord Governor.

"Perhaps this evening, I can discuss some financial matters with some of my associates over a nice glass of claret." He said to himself and smiled, already imaging some of the coins jingling in his purse."

Privates Laurel and Hardy, (The Lord Governors Day Guards at Residence)

Privates Laurel and Hardy have been specially designated and deemed for the post of Daytime Guards for The Lord Governor's Residence. 

By Day they can be found standing their posts, one of them on each side of the front entry door to prevent and dissuade any unwelcome guests or intruders upon the establishment.

If needed they may also come to assist in ensuring that someone being removed from the interior is done so in a quick, and if need be, forceful manner; at the point of a bayonet if necessary.

"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms...."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Sunday, the Lord’s Day

This Lord’s Day now draws to its quiet end, and I, having returned from my supper, sit once more at my desk in the King’s Inn, the candle guttering low beside me. It is meet to set down what this first Sabbath in Port Dominion hath shown me, for I deem much may be gleaned of a people from the manner in which they gather for worship.

The morning, as I set down before, began with a modest breakfast: a slice of fried salt pork, coarse bread, and stewed plantain, with a cup of small beer. Thus fortified, I made my way along Middling Way to the small Protestant church — plain, weathered, yet not without dignity, and this day filled to its measure.

(St. Dominion Protestant Church)

The congregation was of all sorts: merchants in fine coats, their wives stiff in stays and silks; middling folk in their plain garments; sailors smelling of tar and salt; a number of Negro servants and Irish laborers, who, though admitted, sat apart from the gentry. I noted, too, a few figures of the better sort — clerks and overseers — who came with an air of respectability, nodding gravely to one another as they entered.

This was my first sight of both the preachers of this colony. Reverend Goodall, the elder, spake first. His discourse upon the Wages of Sin was grave yet measured, his voice steady, his eye kindly though stern. I saw many nod with comfort, as if accustomed to his manner and pleased to hear again the familiar thou shalt nots that bind society together. He struck me as a man who would rather guide than chastise, and though I marked in him a certain severity, it was tempered by the air of long habit and experience.

Reverend Task, however, presented a different spectacle altogether. Younger by a score of years, with a face set as flint, he mounted the pulpit with fire in his eye and voice. He railed upon the snares of Satan, and with especial fervor upon witches — declaring that the very soil of St. Albion may harbor the Devil’s handmaids, who bring ruin upon the unwary with spells and carnal deceits. His words fell like thunder, and though the air was close with heat, many shivered beneath their coats.

 

(Reverend Zachariah Goodall)

(Reverend Solomon Task)

I marked the congregation keenly. The merchants and gentry nodded grimly, some with the look of men who enjoy seeing the lash laid upon others while themselves remain unwhipped. A few even smiled, though such smiles were cold things, as though they relished the thought of rooting out sinners in their neighbors’ houses rather than in their own. Among the middling sort, there was more unease: wives who cast down their eyes, maidens who fidgeted in their seats, and men who shifted uncomfortably, perhaps fearing their own households might be brought under such suspicion. The Irish laborers sat stone-faced, while the Negroes looked more wearied than troubled, doubtless accustomed to the harsh judgment of their betters.

Most telling was the look in certain women’s eyes. A handful listened wide-eyed, clasping hands to their bosoms as though in holy terror; yet more than a few wore a different air — unease, even indignation, as though they felt the Reverend’s words fell upon them more heavily than upon their brothers and fathers. I confess, I too wondered whether Task’s zeal may in time make witches of those who are but innocent, if they but raise his suspicion by look or circumstance. Yet who can say? The world is full of strange deceits, and who is to declare there be none such creatures here?

When the sermon ended, the people spilled into the bright sunlight, gathering in knots to whisper their judgments. I lingered long enough to catch a few. One merchant muttered to another that “Goodall would soothe men to sleep whilst Task would set them afire,” and his companion replied, “Aye, but it may be fire we need in such a wicked place.” A matron, clutching her shawl, said to her neighbor, “That Task stares too hard at the young girls when he speaks of witches — I mislike it.” The neighbor only shushed her. I saw, too, a clerk whisper that the Governor himself would not long stomach such outbursts, and that Goodall, wise as he is, must rein his fellow in. Thus the gossip of the Sabbath spilled as freely as on any market day, though couched in lowered tones.

Returning to the King’s Inn, I found dinner laid: boiled fish with a sauce of limes, rice, and a dish of peas, with weak rum to wash it down. It sufficed well enough. The afternoon passed quietly, the town subdued as befitteth the Sabbath. Dominion Square, so full of life upon other days, lay still but for the splash of the fountain, where the bronze maiden glimmers green in the sunlight, and the soft chatter of children playing about her basin. Shops barred, stalls empty, carts stilled — it seemed a different town altogether, touched for a brief span by a solemn hush.

At supper, I had roasted fowl with yams and bread, served in the inn’s common room. A stew was offered, but I had no stomach for it. The room was fuller than I had yet seen: a table of sailors dice-playing softly in the corner; two merchants talking in low tones of prices and ships expected; a soldier from Fort Hemmerly nursing ale; and the innkeeper himself wiping down the tables with his wife. Both passed by my seat, and she, with a knowing look, said, “So, sir, you’ve heard our preachers. Goodall is the steady hand, and Task the scourge. Best pray the one tempers the other, else it’ll not go well for the town.” The innkeeper only grunted and added, “Aye, Task’ll have us all witches ere long, if he keeps on.”

(Evening suppertime thoughts...)

I smiled politely, though I kept my thoughts within. For my part, I cannot yet decide if Task’s fervor be the fire of heaven or the madness of zeal. Goodall I judge to be a man of sense, keen enough to know the dangers of stirring too many hornets. Whether he can bridle his companion, time will tell.

And so I end this entry, my door fastened, the candle burning low. This first Sabbath in Port Dominion hath revealed more of its spirit than any day of commerce could: a people striving toward godliness, yet divided in their hearts; preachers who pull in contrary directions; whispers of sin, suspicion, and danger beneath a cloak of piety. I pray I may keep my wits and soul safe amidst it all.

"Reverend Zachariah Goodall"

 Reverend Zachariah Goodall

Reverend Zachariah Goodall, now entering his early sixtieth year, is the senior Protestant divine of Port Dominion, having stood in the pulpit since the colony’s earliest days under the English flag. He has long preached to the faithful on the evils of sin and the wages of iniquity, his sermons filled with solemn thou-shalt-nots and stern reminders of the torments awaiting the unrepentant in the flames of perdition. Yet unlike his newly arrived colleague, the fiery Reverend Solomon Task of Massachusetts, Goodall delivers his warnings with a tempered steadiness rather than unbridled fury. He has grown seasoned in the ways of this island, and has learned that moderation—and a touch of diplomacy—often carries as much weight as thunderous zeal.

It is the excessive zeal of Task that troubles him most. The younger man is consumed by his suspicion of witches and devils at every turn, seeing Port Dominion as a den of sorcery and abomination. Goodall himself, though not dismissive of such dangers, has in truth never once laid eyes upon any true act of witchcraft in all his years here. He suspects there may be a handful—whether among the enslaved Africans, the wandering Irish, or even some idle and wanton women—who have trafficked in darker arts, yet he finds it unwise to cry witch where no fire burns. In this matter, he believes fervor must be tempered, else it risks breeding fear, disorder, and worse—the disfavor of the Lord Governor.

For Goodall has cultivated a careful balance: to thunder against sin with enough force to remind both rich and poor of their mortality and their souls, while keeping a wary eye on the politics of the town and the sensibilities of the upper class. He has made it his business to work upon the social graces of those in high position—courtiers, merchants, and most of all the Governor himself and his family. To the common eye, he is a shepherd guiding his flock toward righteousness, yet behind the pulpit he is also a tactician, ensuring that neither word nor sermon stirs discord where the Governor demands peace.

Of late, he has heard whispers—rumors of Lady Eleanor Whitehall’s coquettish and libertine ways, tales passed slyly among servants and repeated with knowing smiles in the marketplace. Goodall receives such reports with grave reserve, neither repeating them nor openly acknowledging them, yet he notes them carefully. In his estimation, such indulgence among the elite, though cloaked in silks and fans, differs little from the sins of sailors down on Red Row. But here lies his subtle craft: where Task would thunder accusation, Goodall provides the balm. He knows that sin weighs heavy on conscience, and he knows also that a steady stream of silver coins into the church’s donation box soothes many a troubled soul.

Thus he delivers his sermons with pointed generalities, reminding his congregation—be they merchants with their ledgers, officers in scarlet coats, or fine ladies glittering with jewels—that indulgence comes at a price. Yet he leaves them with a way to buy peace, not by absolution as the Catholics do with their papist rituals, but by offerings to the work of God in Port Dominion. A good word here, a solemn blessing there, and a reminder that generosity may cover a multitude of sins, keeps the coffers filled and the church’s position secure.

Still, Reverend Goodall is not free from his own prejudices. He mistrusts the Catholic French and Spaniards tolerated by the Governor’s lenience, disdains the Dutch for their mercenary ways, watches the enslaved Africans with suspicion of heathen rites, regards the Indians as heathens half-tamed, and keeps a particular contempt for the Irish, whose very presence he finds distasteful. Such views he tempers publicly, for the sake of peace, but privately they feed his sense of vigilance.

And so he stands, a man of the pulpit and of politics alike—between the worldly lenience of the Governor and the wild zealotry of Reverend Task. To his mind, his calling is not only to save souls, but to maintain order, protect the church, and ensure that Port Dominion remains under the steadying hand of Protestant decency. Another Sunday of fire, brimstone, and a firm shake of the donation plate, he reckons, shall serve the purpose well.