"Fort Hemmerly and The Governor's Mansion...First Thoughts..."

 

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

This morning I awoke within the comfort of my chamber at the inn, having enjoyed at last a night’s full rest upon a proper bed, the sheets clean, the mattress soft, and the air not the briny damp of the sea but of land and stone. Rising, I made myself ready and descended in good haste to the common room, where I broke my fast upon bread yet warm from the oven, a dish of salted fish, and a mug of small ale to steady me.

Refreshed, I went forth into the brightness of the early hour, and so set my stride across Dominion Square, which was already alive with the stirrings of commerce. The sun, newly risen above the masts and sails in the harbor, cast long shadows across the cobbles, while merchants called to one another as they raised their shutters and arranged their wares for the day’s trade.

As I walked amongst the bustle of Dominion Square this morn, the air filled with the cries of merchants and the clatter of carts upon the cobbles, I took note not only of the goods displayed but of the words spoken in haste or in whispers. For a town speaks as much through its gossip as through its trade.

At one stall, where oranges and lemons lay piled in baskets, I heard a woman murmur to her neighbor, “Aye, the Lady smiles too brightly, too often. Mark me, her lord may hold the keys of office, but it is she that unlocks other chambers.” The neighbor, glancing about nervously, hushed her, though not before giving a sly chuckle.
Near a wine-seller’s booth, a pair of sailors—fresh ashore by the cut of their gait—spoke lowly to one another. “The Governor’ll turn a blind eye, if a purse be fat enough,” said one, biting into a piece of bread. “Else how d’ye think certain cargoes find their way through the quay?” The other nodded, adding, “Aye, yet keep that tongue bridled, lest ye find yerself at the fort with irons on.”

Later, upon returning to the inn for a draught of ale against the heat, I found the innkeeper’s wife bustling about the common room, her arms full of linens. She lowered her voice as she passed near me, saying, “Mind yourself, sir. The Mansion on the hill shines bright, but not all its light is pure. There’s as much to be lost as to be gained if a man gets himself noticed.” The innkeeper himself, a stout fellow with a red face, laughed as he wiped his hands upon his apron and added: “Aye, and if His Lordship’s cannons don’t keep ye straight, then his Lady’s eyes might lead ye astray, eh?” At which his wife shot him a sharp look, and he muttered something further under his breath I could not catch.

Thus, without seeking, I gathered fragments of tale and rumor, enough to paint for me a picture both fair and troubling. For all that Port Dominion is bright with trade and profit, yet every smiling face hides a question, and every whisper hints at schemes. And I perceive that even here in this open square, with soldiers near and the fort above, there is danger—subtle, soft-footed danger—if a man heeds not his steps.

The square lies as a hub, and from it the streets and lanes run outward to all quarters of the town. If one enters Dominion Square from the harborside and then turns to the right, the cobbled street comes quickly to a T-shaped crossing. From thence, a turn to the right and a brief walk upwards upon slightly higher ground doth lead one to the stout gates of Fort Hemmerly, whose cannon mouths, grim and silent in the morning light, look ever out to sea.

Yet if at that same intersection one were instead to turn left, the way runs straight upon a fine and fully-cobbled road, the only such in all Port Dominion, and it doth lead directly to the gates of the Governor’s Mansion and Residence. This estate, encompassed by walls and kept with soldiery, is the dwelling of His Lordship Governor Henry Archibald Whitehall and of his household. The very sight of it proclaims both authority and station, for here is set the visible seat of power upon this isle of St. Albion.”

The Governor’s Mansion, I must say, is a most impressive sight to behold, though built less for grandeur than for the purpose of command. Its walls are newly plastered white, the gates of heavy wrought iron, and within I glimpsed the tops of palms swaying in the morning air and a tiled roof gleaming red beneath the sun. Soldiers stand before the gates, their muskets shining, their coats red though already fading with the salt and heat of this clime. They hold themselves stiff as if on parade, yet their eyes do not miss a single passerby. It is said that none may enter save those who are summoned, or those whose business is of weighty matter.

As for Fort Hemmerly, though I did not walk thither this morning, its presence can be felt throughout the square, looming upon the higher ground like some watchful sentinel. Its cannon, turned outward, are not idle ornaments, but a reminder that this town, fair though it appears, is built upon sands ever-shifting, and subject to the envy of rival crowns and the predations of rovers of the sea. The men stationed there are both guard and warning, and the fort’s shadow keeps the town in measure of order.

Of the people who pass beneath the gaze of these walls and gates, I observed much. Some doff their hats as they draw near, as though in reverence to the Crown and its authority made manifest. Others, especially those of humbler rank, lower their eyes and scurry by as if fearing that the very muskets might be turned upon them should they linger. Yet there are a few, bold in their walk, who glance with measuring eyes, as if pondering what schemes or influence might be had by gaining the Governor’s ear, or by trading coin in less open ways.

It is plain to me that Dominion Square, bright and bustling though it is, lies ever beneath the double gaze of Fort Hemmerly’s cannon and the Governor’s Mansion windows. And in that gaze lies both protection and peril. One might prosper here by obedience, or falter swiftly if one be thought troublesome. For my part, I must tread with caution, and keep my tongue bridled and my wits about me, for already I perceive that beneath the show of order and civility, there are undercurrents that would draw a man down if he be careless.”

The Mansion itself may proclaim strength and authority, yet it is not stone and mortar that stir men’s tongues, but those who dwell within. The name of Lord Governor Henry Archibald Whitehall is spoken often in this place, sometimes with respect, sometimes with caution, and sometimes with a peculiar smile that tells more than words alone. He is held by many to be a firm governor, diligent in keeping the trade flowing and the harbor safe, yet I have heard more than once in my brief hours ashore that his appetites are not solely for governance. Some hint at purses of coin discreetly passed from hand to hand, or of ventures of doubtful legality. Others, lowering their voices, whisper of his weakness for the charms of certain maids and women, be they of station or of no consequence at all. Such talk is given guardedly, for too loose a tongue may end in irons.

His Lady, Eleanor Whitehall, is a different subject of discourse, yet equally lively. A woman not yet thirty years of age, she is praised for her beauty and her gracious manner, yet never without the shadow of a raised brow or a knowing smirk. The gossips say her eye wanders where it should not, and that her smiles fall too easily upon gentlemen other than her husband. Whether these are but the idle inventions of envious tongues, or whether truth lies therein, I cannot yet judge. But the constancy of the reports persuades me there must be some ember of truth, however fanned by exaggeration.

As for Lucy, the Governor’s daughter by his first wife (God rest her soul), she is yet but a maid of tender years, and all remark upon her lively spirit and curious mind. Some say she is too forward in her questions, others that she is quick to temper; yet all agree she is intelligent and keen-eyed. Her relationship with Lady Eleanor is spoken of in varying terms: some declare it cordial, others less so, though none can speak with certainty. I have seen no more of her than her shadow at a window, yet I am curious, for in such a household of power and whispers, what young mind would not be shaped—either sharpened or broken—by the intrigues swirling about?

It seems to me that the Mansion upon the hill is not merely a seat of rule, but a stage upon which many dramas are acted: ambition, temptation, jealousy, lust, and the endless pursuit of advantage. And though Dominion Square beneath appears bright and bustling, I cannot help but think that much of the true life of Port Dominion is directed by what transpires behind those walls. I must take care, for in such a place, even a scribe may be drawn into plots greater than himself.”