Narrative: "The Fort Hemmerly Alarm and Another Unexpected "Guest"..."

The time: Late Afternoon, Wednesday, April 19th...

The location: Fort Hemmerly, Port Dominion, on the island of St. Albion.

The place: Fort Hemmerly. 

The persons: Captain Phillip Morris, Lieutenant Hamilton Jackson, Sergeant-Major Benjamin Sherborne, Corporal Sean "Seamus" O'Tully. 

(As witnessed and later recorded in the journals of Port Dominion)

The late afternoon sun bled gold upon the walls of Fort Hemmerly, its warmth doing little to ease the strain in the air. The soldiers of Her Majesty’s garrison stood along the battlements, muskets in hand and eyes fixed to the horizon. The steady roll of the Caribbean surf below carried a strange rhythm that day—broken only by the rising murmur of voices and the sudden bark of command.

“Ship sighted to the east!” came the shout from the watchtower. The call was taken up along the wall, echoing through the stone corridors and down into the parade ground.

Captain Phillip Morris emerged from his quarters at once, coat hastily buttoned and face drawn tight.  "Where?" He barked out to the sentry.

“Two points off the headland, sir!” came the reply. “She’s bearing in steady — windward tack!”

Lieutenant Hamilton Jackson was already on the parapet, spyglass trained to sea. “She bears French colors, sir,” Jackson said gravely, his voice tight. “White and gold — Bourbon France.”

Morris came up beside him on the parapet and raised his glass. The horizon swam in the heat-haze — then, slowly, the outline of the ship came into focus: a broad hull, high stern, the glimmer of gilding along her rails. Then, there it was — unmistakable — the white flag, marked with the arms of the House of Bourbon, fluttering bold and defiant in the dying light.

A murmur rolled through the men like the hush before a storm.

“French,” someone breathed. “God help us, she’s French.”

Morris’s jaw clenched. “Damn their audacity." He thought of the Spanish vessel just three days earlier. "After the last one? Are they to make this a habit?”

The drums began to sound — the slow, deliberate tattoo that called every man to readiness and the fort stirred like a struck hive.  Across the fort’s walls, officers barked orders; match cords were lit, powder horns uncapped. The heavy guns were manned and run out, iron scraping against stone, the smell of oil and saltpeter rising like incense to war.   

Sergeant Major Benjamin Sherborne was shouting orders below, his voice cutting through the confusion. “Man the guns! Powder and shot ready! Keep your eyes sharp, lads, but hold your fire till the word is given!” The iron clatter of musket barrels and ramrods filled the air.

Up on the wall, the soldiers watched in grim silence as the French ship—sleek and pale under full sail—drifted steadily toward the harbor, its flag snapping defiantly in the humid wind. The gold fleur-de-lis glimmered against the white field, brilliant and insolent beneath the Caribbean sun.

“Steady,” murmured Morris, though his own pulse hammered in his throat. Every eye followed the ship as it approached the narrow mouth of the bay. A single wrong signal, a spark, a nervous finger on a trigger—and the whole island might be set aflame.  

Yet the French ship did not turn.

She did not run her colors down, nor alter her course.

Instead, she came on — calm, almost regal — her sails pale against the dusk, her timbers groaning faintly with the weight of the wind.

Morris looked over at Jackson, and noticed that his young brow was slick with sweat. “She’s no merchantman Lieutenant.” he muttered. “See her lines? That’s a frigate, or close to it.”

 Jackson's jaw tightened. “Aye. But she’s flying peace colors.”

Morris shot him a look. “So did the Belle Marquise before she ran her guns out and fired on Kingston’s battery, sir. Colors mean little when it comes to the French.”

Below them, the fort’s courtyard buzzed with activity — lines of redcoats forming, powder barrels hauled from the storehouse, the sharp ring of a sergeant’s voice cutting through the humid air. Yet for all the motion, no one fired, no cannon spoke.

She was close now — her sails luffing, her flag snapping like a challenge. From the ramparts, men could make out the figures on her quarterdeck: officers in powdered wigs and blue coats trimmed with gold, their white gloves resting casually upon the rails. One of them lifted a glass toward the fort, as though studying an old friend.

Sherborne kept a hard gaze on the French ship and spat. “Bold bastards.”

The silence was suffocating. Even the gulls seemed to have fled the moment.

Finally, Captain Morris turned sharply. “Corporal O’Tully!”

From the lower rampart came the familiar blur of motion—Corporal Sean ‘Seamus’ O’Tully, hat in hand and face already slick with sweat. “Aye, sir!”

“Run to the Governor’s mansion—again! Tell Lord Governor Winthrop that another ship - A French ship’s come to our shores, flying the Bourbon flag this time. Move!”

“Aye, sir!” O’Tully’s brogue carried behind him as he dashed down the stairway, boots slapping against the worn stone. Within moments, the heavy gates of the fort clanged shut behind him as he vanished down the dusty road toward Port Dominion proper.

Back on the wall, the officers watched the ship drift ever closer. The silence between them was sharp as drawn steel. Jackson lowered the spyglass slowly. “They’re making for the wharf, Captain. Intentional, by the look of it.”

Morris spat. “Arrogant bastards.”

When the ship finally eased alongside the wharf, her sails loosed and her anchor dropped with a splash, the men on the walls stood frozen, their fingers white around musket stocks.
A figure appeared at the rail—broad-shouldered, in a fine blue coat trimmed in gold. He lifted his hat in a sweeping bow towards the men on the fortress wall. “Capitaine Jacques Le Escargot,” Jackson muttered under his breath, remembering the name from intelligence reports.  Morris found himself silently impressed at his second in commands memory. The young lieutenant paid close heed to every intelligence report and document that came into the fort. "It's a good skill he has to be so diligent in reading these and remembering them." Morris thought to himself. "It'll serve him well one day...if we survive this one."

Through the glass, Morris could see the captain smiling, calling something in French toward the dockhands and the British soldiers below. The words carried indistinctly on the wind, but the tone was unmistakably jovial—and mocking. 

Morris looked down to see that the Sergeant-Major had taken a detachment of troops out to the wharf, just like he did three days prior to the visiting Spanish ship that had unloaded the Contessa onto their island.

Movement caught his eye and once again he saw the Lord Governor, General Winthrop along with Colonel White, and Major Hawthorne, as well as the harbormaster, and a some other petty officials, and civilians who thought more of themselves than they should, crowding up to the wharf. It was almost an entire repetitive occurrence of the last foreign vessel.

The gangplank slammed down onto the wharf, and all was silent for but a moment.
And from her deck, a single figure emerged — tall, striking, his coat an opulent deep blue trimmed in gold. His powdered wig gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight, his white gloves immaculate.  And then, with almost theatrical flourish, the Frenchman shouted down to them as he strode down the gangplank and onto the wharf.

He descended the gangway with a flourish that could have graced the court of Versailles itself.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” he began, his accent rich and rolling, bowing with theatrical precision, “permittez-moi… I am Captain Jacques Le Escargot, commander of La Vérité du Roi — vessel of His Most Christian Majesty, Louis the Fourteenth, Our Sun King! King of France, by the Grace of God.”

General Winthrop’s mustache twitched. “Captain Escargot,” he said evenly, “this port is under British command. I trust you’ve come under the terms of the truce signed in Jamaica?”

“Mais oui, monsieur le général!” Le Escargot replied with a delighted grin, his hand resting dramatically upon his heart. “Peace — how do you say — is the very soul of civilized men. We come bearing no powder nor threat. Only words, and perhaps… a little gossip, non?”

There was a ripple of unease behind Winthrop. Lord Whitehall stepped forward, his voice calm but edged. “Then your business, Captain?”

Le Escargot smiled broadly, teeth glinting. “Ah! I am so pleased you ask, milord. You see, we have aboard a… how shall I put it… very distinguished passenger.”

He turned with a sweep of his arm toward the gangway. “One whose journey began in Paris itself!”

The laughter that followed from his crew was unsettling, echoing across the still water.
Morris’s lips tightened. “Hold your positions,” he ordered quietly. “Not a man fires unless I say so.”

A murmur went through the gathered crowd.

Upon the parapet of the fort, Morris could hear the exchange and suddenly felt as if his stomach had decided to roll over. He swallowed hard to keep what was left of his midday meal from lurching up and forth from his mouth.

And then — like the final act of some decadent play — a figure appeared at the top of the gangway, framed by the lanterns and the darkening sky.

He stood utterly still for a moment, allowing all eyes to fall upon him — a vision of absurd elegance.

"I present to you..." Captain Escargot said with all the reserved theatrical elegance he could conjure up at the moment, "Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant!"

He descended the gangplank with the exaggerated poise of a man stepping onto a stage. His suit was a blinding canary yellow, the fabric shimmering faintly with each movement. A turquoise waistcoat peeked beneath his embroidered coat, trimmed in pink, lace spilling from his cuffs in absurd profusion. A tricorn hat, bright as butter and rimmed with feathery white plumes, sat jauntily upon his head.

And the scent — a heavy wave of rose and jasmine perfume — swept before him, so strong it made the nearest dockhands blink and cough.

In one delicate hand, he held a silk handkerchief — which he pressed lightly to his nose as his eyes fluttered disdainfully over the assembled Englishmen.

“Mon Dieu,” he muttered in horror, “ze humidity… It is like… bathing in soup, n’est-ce pas?”

Winthrop’s face hardened. The Governor’s, however, remained politely composed — though his fingers twitched slightly at his side.

LeCroissant reached the wharf, making a show of brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “I must say,” he continued, his tone lilting and theatrical, “I did not expect such… quaint accommodations. Where, pray tell, is ze… refined society of zis colony? Or have ze English misplaced it, as zey do most things?”

Le Escargot’s smile flickered — part amusement, part exasperation. “Monsieur LeCroissant,” he said with a stiff bow, “is of the most delicate and… exquisite persuasion, milord. He comes under orders from Paris, on… how you say… diplomatic observation.”

“Observation?” General Winthrop repeated, his tone flat.

“Mais oui!” LeCroissant interjected, lifting his chin, eyes glinting with mischief. “To observe ze English manner of governance — and perhaps,” he paused delicately, “to offer a few… improvements. I am, how you say, a connoisseur of refinement.”

The gathered English officers exchanged looks — some struggling to mask amusement, others disbelief.

Lord Whitehall inclined his head slightly. “Then allow me to welcome you to Port Dominion, Monsieur LeCroissant,” he said evenly. “May your… observations prove enlightening.”

LeCroissant’s smile widened, thin and catlike. “Oh, milord,” he purred, “I have no doubt zey will.”

The French flag rippled gently above the harbor, its lilies glowing pale in the dark.
And though the guns of Fort Hemmerly remained silent, every man along the wharf felt the weight of what had just arrived — not merely a ship under truce, nor a foppish envoy in yellow satin…

As the sun dipped lower and the light turned copper over the ramparts, the mood atop Fort Hemmerly was one of dread and disbelief.

“First the Contessa,” Morris said, half to himself, “and now this foppish peacock. God help us all.”

The French flag fluttered in the harbor breeze like a warning—and the men of Fort Hemmerly watched, waiting, as the island of St. Albion once again held its breath.

…but a spark — perfumed, powdered, and smiling — that could, in time, set the entire island aflame.

From below, the French captain doffed his hat once more and muttered, almost too softly to hear towards the English officials, “Bonne chance… et bon débarras.” Good luck—and good riddance.