From the private journal of Lord General Augustus Winthrop, Commanding General of Port Dominion and St. Albion, in service to Her Royal Highness Queen Anne.
Port Dominion, Saturday Evening, April the 15th.
This morning began in that curious state of deceptive calm that so often precedes mischief. The air still hung thick with the mugginess left by the storm two days past — the sort of oppressive heat that dulls the mind and sours the temper. I had taken myself to the Lord Governor’s residence for our regular council with Colonel White and Major Hawthorne, to review the condition of the garrison and discuss the most pressing concerns facing St. Albion. We were making modest progress, though our talk was mostly of shortages — powder, shot, soldiers, provisions, medicines, and coin, all equally scarce — when the day took its unexpected turn.
It was while the Lord Governor, Whitehall, was lamenting the state of Her Majesty’s treasury and how Parliament’s attentions are fixed firmly on Europe, that the door burst open without so much as a knock. In strode that irrepressible Irishman, Corporal Sean "Seamus" O’Tully — the same rascal whom Sergeant-Major Sherborne employs for every errand that strays beyond the letter of Queen’s Regulations. A good man in a scrap, and one who can accomplish what others cannot, though I sometimes wonder if his conscience is half as flexible as his tongue.
The corporal was panting, his hat clutched in his rough hands, his red coat darkened with sweat. “Beggin’ yer pardon, me lord, yer honor, sirs — but Fort Hemmerly’s sounded the alarm! There’s a Spanish ship in the bay, and she’s sailin’ under full colors, brazen as the Queen’s own parade!”
The room froze for a heartbeat. Colonel White swore softly beneath his breath, while the Lord Governor went pale as parchment. For myself, I felt that familiar tightening in the gut that every soldier knows when peace begins to tremble on the edge of breaking.
We gathered ourselves quickly — I dismissed O’Tully with orders to relay word to the fort that no fire was to be opened unless ordered by me, or one of the more competent officers, or unless fired upon first — and within the quarter-hour we were mounted and making for the harbor. The streets of Port Dominion were alive with rumor; townsfolk stood in doorways or clustered in the square, pointing toward the sea. From the ramparts of Hemmerly we could already see her — the Spanish vessel, large and stately, the late sun gleaming on her wet hull. Her guns were run in, her decks quiet, her sails trimmed neatly as though on a merchant’s errand rather than a man-of-war’s. Still, to see the red-and-gold banner of Castile fluttering in our harbor — it stirred the blood unpleasantly.
At the fort and at the wharf, the soldiers watched and waited for orders - any orders the officers keeping a wary eye on the foreign vessel. When the Spaniards lowered a boat and rowed toward us, the entire quay seemed to hold its breath.
At the prow stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fine navy-blue coat heavy with gold braid. His tricorn was swept with white feathers, and his bearing spoke of confidence, if not outright bravado. When he disembarked, he removed his hat with a flourish and bowed low before us.
“Buenos días, señores,” he said in a rich, rolling accent that carried even over the noise of the harbor. “I am Capitán Ricardo Antonio Caballero, of His Most Catholic Majesty’s ship Santa Magdalena. You will forgive, I hope, my intrusion into your peaceful port.”
Lord Governor Whitehall stepped forward with a stiff bow of his own, though I could tell from the tightness of his jaw that his patience was strained to breaking. “Captain Caballero, you have caused quite the commotion. This island is the sovereign possession of Her Britannic Majesty, and although we do have a truce with Spain and France, here in this region, Spanish ships are not known to anchor here without warrant or purpose.”
The Spaniard smiled with that infuriating mixture of politeness and mockery that men of his breed seem to perfect from birth. “Ah, sí, my lord governor — and yet, purpose I have, and warrant enough, I assure you. I come not as an enemy of England, but as a servant to a lady of Spain.”
At that, he gestured toward the ship where preparations were clearly being made for unloading. “My vessel bears the household, the servants, and the possessions of the noble Contessa María Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma — a lady of grace, wealth, and some notoriety, I am told, who comes to reside here upon your fair island.”
The words struck us all dumb for a moment. Colonel White’s mouth opened slightly, as though he doubted his own ears. Major Hawthorne frowned as if the mere thought pained him. The Lord Governor’s brows twitched violently, and I confess I myself was momentarily at a loss.
A Spanish noblewoman — here? On an English colony? And in these uncertain times, when our uneasy truce with Spain trembles upon the edge of renewed war? It seemed madness.
Caballero, with an amused gleam in his eyes, and clearly savoring our collective astonishment, allowed himself a small chuckle. “Normally, if this were the continent, my English señores,” he said, tapping his chest lightly, “I would say to you, ‘You deserve it all.’” His grin broadened as his dark eyes glimmered with mischief. “But in this case, my friends, I shall instead say — ‘Good luck with this one.’”
With that cryptic benediction, he bowed again, replaced his hat, and strode back to his longboat, leaving us staring after him like men who have suddenly found a wolf politely entering the sheepfold.
We remained on the quay long after he returned to his ship, watching as the Spaniards began unloading vast trunks, ornate chests, and even what looked like carved furniture of mahogany and gilt. A dozen servants — Spanish all — filed ashore, each moving with the careful precision of those who know they serve a mistress both powerful and exacting.
As for my thoughts — I find myself deeply unsettled. There is no precedent for such a thing. A Spanish Contessa taking residence in an English colonial port is not merely unusual; it is provocative. Spain’s ambassador in London has made no mention of this, at least to my knowledge. Is she here under some clandestine arrangement? Or is she, perhaps, an agent of her crown sent under guise of gentility to pry into our affairs?
The Lord Governor muttered darkly that she may be a widow seeking refuge or an eccentric noble with more money than sense. Yet I could not shake the feeling that this is but the first move in a game whose board we have yet to see. He then shook his head slightly before addressing all of us, "I have more important work to do than to stand here gawking at a woman from Spain. See to it that this is handled gentlemen!" And with that, he turned and left us to ourselves and our thoughts, as he mounted his horse and retreated back down the road to his residence, where he would soon be immersed in items of great importance that requires ink, his signature, and mounds of documents upon which he can focus us, while leaving us to decide this matter.
Whatever she is, she has already stirred every corner of Port Dominion to talk — and that, in itself, can be dangerous enough. A colony this small cannot keep its secrets for long, and gossip travels faster than musket-fire.
I will have Colonel White prepare a full report to London. For my part, I intend to meet this Contessa myself once she is settled, to learn her purpose in my own way. I have found that conversation over a shared bottle can reveal more than any dispatch or inquiry.
Still… as the sun sank behind the horizon this evening and I sit here in my study with a glass of claret, and the idea of a Spanish ship laying at anchor like a dark specter in our harbor, I could not help but think of Captain Caballero’s parting words.
“Good luck with this one,” indeed.
He knows something. I would wager my commission on it.
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