From the journal of Lord General Augustus Winthrop, Commanding General of Port Dominion and St. Albion, in service to Her Royal Highness Queen Anne.
Port Dominion, Tuesday Evening
The days here bring as many questions as they do answers, and my patience wears thin at the lack of clarity from London. Rumors persist that reinforcements are soon to sail, yet I have received no official word — only whispers passed by merchants who claim to have spoken with captains of supply ships bound from Portsmouth. I pray the whispers carry truth, for without fresh men, powder, and stores, this garrison is stretched near to its limit.
Governor Whitehall has secured a tenuous arrangement with the French, Spanish, and Dutch communities upon the island. He calls it a truce, though I call it a fragile pause in hostilities. I cannot bring myself to trust it, for all three nations are our adversaries in Europe, and their presence here reeks of treachery biding its time. A single spark — an insult, a drunken quarrel, a privateer ship flying the wrong colors — and the peace may crumble in an instant. If that day comes, Fort Hemmerly and the meager companies under my command will be hard pressed to hold ground.
I have written more than once of our need for powder and shot. The magazines are not empty, yet they are far from sufficient for a sustained defense. I have even considered petitioning the Governor to divert skilled men to the construction of a powder mill upon the island itself, though the risk of fire and accident would be great. Still, better to suffer the hazard of accident than the certainty of defeat for want of powder.
Pirates too remain a concern, for they prowl these waters like wolves about a fold. Some are little more than brigands who prey upon merchant sloops, yet others bear greater strength, enough to menace the very trade routes we depend upon. I am told a notorious French corsair has been sighted near Hispaniola, and though that may be rumor, I would be a fool to disregard it.
As for the people of Port Dominion, they are a mixed company indeed. Some are stout Englishmen loyal to the Crown, steady and industrious. Others — freedmen, indentured servants, and settlers of less certain background — eye authority with suspicion, as though the garrison were here to suppress them rather than protect them. Then there are the local French, Spanish, and Dutch, tolerated under this so-called truce, but to my mind they are little better than potential spies waiting for the tide of fortune to turn.
Among my officers, I remain grateful for Colonel Cornelius White. He is steady, reliable, and loyal, the sort of second-in-command every general requires. I trust him to see to the daily operations with a clear head, leaving me freer to focus upon the broader matters of strategy. In truth, were it not for his presence, the strain of this undermanned garrison would be twice as heavy upon my shoulders.
Major Ebeneezer Hawthorne, who commands the ground troops, is a capable man, brave and intelligent, with a keen understanding of terrain and movement. Yet I fear his attentions are too often distracted by the young women of the town. It is no great vice to admire beauty, but when one’s eyes wander too freely, it can cloud judgment. Thus far it has not hindered his duty, but I shall keep watch. Discipline is a commander’s strongest weapon, and distraction its sworn enemy.
And now, after being in deep thought upon my officers, I now turn those same thoughts to others that I work with to keep order within and upon this island for this evening finds me once again at my desk, a small glass of port at hand, my candle burning low, and my thoughts restless with the many concerns of this colony.
I must confess that my friendship with Lord Governor Whitehall has been of steady advantage to my post. He is a man of civility and calculation, and though politics ever cloud his days, he is not so vain as to dismiss the counsel of those who serve the Crown in arms. Our conversations are cordial, our understandings mutual. He knows well enough that I carry the weight of this island’s security on my shoulders, and I know in turn that his seat of governance rests on the thin threads of diplomacy and local compliance. I value his openness and his trust, for it is a rare quality in men of his station.
Lady Eleanor, his wife, is another matter. Polished, comely, and possessed of all the charms of her sex, she weaves about her a circle of whispers that cannot be ignored. I am, by temperament and age, not easily drawn into such wiles, and yet I see plainly how others are. She is admired, feared, and perhaps envied. I bear her no ill will, but I watch with a soldier’s eye the effect she exerts upon those who ought to remain steadied in duty.
Lucy, the Governor’s daughter by his first wife, is of a brighter and more innocent mold, and I find her a delight in company, calling me her “kindly uncle.” Such affections warm me and remind me of my own children far across the seas.
Among the Governor’s staff, there is Franklin Benjamin, his chief clerk. Here is a man of precision and diligence, with a mind well ordered for the keeping of papers and the sorting of affairs. I find him capable and exacting, not unlike a junior officer who has learned the worth of thoroughness. Were more men in Port Dominion like him, the place might run smoother.
Of far different character is Mr. Alastair Greene, the Governor’s aide. I confess that his manner vexes me. He is too smooth by half, condescending in word though ever with a veil of civility. I find little substance in him, but much vanity. He takes too much pleasure in his station and not enough in honest work. Were he a soldier under my command, I would have long ago sent him back to England with words of caution on his record.
Then there is Lord Mitchell. His rumblings—political, social, and personal—spread like thunderclouds across Port Dominion. He is ever prying, ever voicing discontents, ever suspicious of one hand or another guiding affairs against his interests. I have dined with him, listened to his complaints, and endured his barbs. I keep him at a courteous arm’s length, though his knowledge of trade and the town’s murmurings prove occasionally useful and his knowledge of business matters is above anyone else's here.
As for the reverends—Goodall and Task—they are men as different as the sun and the storm. Reverend Goodall is a man of calm measure, his sermons steady, sensible, and filled with a kind of wisdom that nourishes rather than inflames. I find him most suitable for the colony, for he preaches with a tone that soothes and unites. Reverend Task, on the other hand, thunders from the pulpit with fire in his eyes. Though he has tempered himself somewhat of late, still the force of his words shakes the rafters. I have no doubt he awakens the consciences of many, though I sometimes wonder if he drives them too hard, leaving them more fearful than faithful.
These are the personages with whom I must daily reckon in Port Dominion. Each plays their role, some with grace, others with self-interest. For myself, I remain steadfast in my duty: to guard this place, to keep watch over its harbor, its fort, and its people. The guns of Fort Hemmerly may be few, our powder low, and our men but a fraction of what we require—but until relief comes, I will stand resolute.
And thus tonight I sit with a glass of port, listening to the sea wind through the shutters, and I cannot help but think on how precarious our situation remains. If the reinforcements come, we may yet hold this island with pride and honor. If they do not, we shall have no choice but to make do with what we have, and trust that the fort’s guns — and the resolve of the men under my command — will be enough to keep the Crown’s banner aloft over Port Dominion.
So ends my reflection this night. May the Crown see fit to strengthen our garrison, and may Providence grant me patience in the company of those whose tongues wag as freely as their hands idle.
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