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, Wednesday Evening, April the 19th.
This afternoon found me once more within the Governor’s great house—its broad verandas and louvered shutters straining to keep at bay the heavy air and heat that forever cling to this island like a fever. The Governor, Colonel White, Major Hawthorne, and I had gathered in the study to resume our discourse upon the state of affairs—trade, militia readiness, and, as ever, the curious presence of the Spanish Contessa whose arrival has already stirred more whispers than a full-blown scandal in London.
The conversation had turned to the Contessa’s influence—White, ever the soldier, suspects her of espionage, while Hawthorne, whose temper is slower to light, maintains that she may be but a wealthy exile playing at diplomacy. The Governor himself, for his part, counseled caution, his powdered wig gleaming faintly beneath the lamplight as he dabbed at his brow and murmured something about “political sensitivities.”
We had reached no consensus when, quite without ceremony, there came a hurried knock and the door burst open to admit Corporal O’Tully—hat clutched in his hands, red coat unbuttoned at the throat, and his face a picture of agitation. The man was near breathless, and for a moment all he could manage was, “Another ship, sir—another ship’s come into the harbor!”
The Governor frowned. “Another Spanish vessel?”
“No, sir,” O’Tully stammered in his thick Irish brogue. “Not Spanish this time… French, sir. Flyin’ the white and gold flag o’ Bourbon France!”
A silence fell upon the room like a dropped curtain. France. The very word was enough to set the air taut.
At once the alarm bell began to toll from the fort. I rose, drawing my coat about me. White’s expression darkened, and the Governor muttered an oath not fit for polite company. Within minutes we were outside, the late afternoon sun flaring upon the sea like molten brass, the air thick with the scent of salt and smoke from the fort’s signal guns.
When we reached the harbor, the sight was as strange as it was unsettling. Out upon the water, moving with an air of practiced leisure, was a French brig-of-war—her sails trimmed neat, her hull black and gleaming like lacquer, the white and gold ensign of the Bourbons snapping proud in the Caribbean wind.
Upon the wharf, the garrison stood uneasy, muskets in hand, while townsfolk gathered at a cautious distance. Colonel White barked orders to the soldiers manning the wall batteries to hold their fire, but once again I could see the ever competent Captain Morris and Lieutenant Hamilton has seen that the situation and preparation for a volley was wall in hand and ready to command. Turning my gaze towards the ship, I could see the French crew lining the rails, their blue coats crisp and their faces composed.
When the ship came to berth, a figure descended the gangplank—Captain Jacques Le Escargot, as he introduced himself with a bow so theatrical that it seemed he practiced before a mirror. He was a broad man, ruddy of cheek and smelling faintly of salt and brandy, with a grin that bespoke either insolence or relief—or both.
“Messieurs,” he said in English thickened by his accent, “I bring to you a most important passenger from Paris itself. From His Majesty’s own court, no less!”
How odd that when he said this, a round of laughter erupted from the crew of the ship, as if we had suddenly found ourselves the unknowing and unwitting subjects of some great and unknown French joke being played upon us. After a brief moment, the captain raised his hand in silent command and the laughter died away.
At this, he stepped aside, and from the gangway emerged a sight so absurd that even the Governor, for once, was struck speechless.
The passenger—Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant—descended like a peacock alighting among pigeons. His suit was of the brightest yellow silk, trimmed in pink along the seams, and beneath it an almost turquoise blue waistcoat shimmered like the sea. Lace spilled in reckless abundance from his cuffs and throat, and upon his head sat a yellow tricorn adorned with white feathers that bobbed with every affected tilt of his chin. He held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose and regarded the assembled English with an expression that managed to combine disdain, exhaustion, and superiority in equal measure.
"Well pock me for a tavern wench..." I heard one of the soldiers mutter as he stared at this French peacock standing on our wharf. I glanced over and Sergeant Major Sherborne, seeing my expression, quickly turned his head and gave the soldier the look which silently told him to "Shut his gob."
The fancy, French peacock spoke before any of us could gather our wits.
“Ah, so… this is Port Dominion, yes? How… quaint. I should have worn simpler shoes.”
The Governor blinked, perhaps unsure if insult had just been given. White’s mouth twitched visibly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Hawthorne, ever the diplomat, murmured something about the weather.
LeCroissant gave a theatrical sigh and waved his scented kerchief toward Captain Le Escargot. “You may go, mon capitaine. Your ship smells of tar and sweat and sailors. I am quite done with it.”
The Captain, to his credit, bowed once more—but I heard him mutter under his breath as he turned away: “Bonne chance, messieurs… et bon débarras.”
Good luck—and good riddance.
As the French ship crewmen worked to loose its moorings and prepared to sail away, I could not help but think the man spoke for all of France.
Now, as I pen these lines by lamplight, I find myself plagued by the uneasy thought that our small island—once merely a forgotten British outpost—is becoming the stage for something larger and far more dangerous.
First the Spanish Contessa, with her veiled glances and whispered secrets.
And now this fancy fop of a Frenchman, come from Paris under some pretext we are not yet privy to.
It cannot be coincidence.
No—something is stirring beneath the surface of all this civility, and I fear before long we shall find ourselves caught in its undertow.
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