The time: Late morning.
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, Dr. Erasmus Arnold, Corporal Sean "Seamus" O'Tully.
The late morning sun blazed upon the bastions of Fort Hemmerly, turning the sea beyond Port Dominion into a sheet of molten brass. Heat shimmered on the ramparts where red-coated sentries stood in uneasy silence. A gull’s cry cut through the still air — the only sound until the lookout atop the western tower shouted, “Sail ho! Off the headland — bearing Spanish colors!”
Within moments, the tranquil hum of the garrison transformed into a taut chorus of alarm. The drums sounded, and men ran to their posts; muskets were shouldered, and cannon crews assembled. The metallic clatter of ramrods echoed off the stone walls as Lieutenant Hamilton Jackson squinted through his spyglass toward the approaching vessel. His throat went dry.
The ship glided closer — a tall, graceful vessel under the banner of Castile and León. Her sails were half-furled, her guns ports sealed, but her very presence beneath that flag sent a tremor through every man upon the wall. Spanish, here — in English waters. So close it felt that the salt spray from her prow seemed to mingle with the sweat beading on the soldiers’ brows.
“Steady, lads,” barked Captain Phillip Morris as he ascended the stairs and onto the parapet to stand beside Lt. Hamilton, his second in command. His voice low but firm. “No one fires unless ordered. Let them make the first blunder. Remember. The Lord Governor has a truce with the Spanish and the French in these waters, so we don't spend all of our time killing each other, or being killed. So hold your fire..." he paused, "But if she makes one wrong move, blow her to pieces."
He looked over at Hamilton, who nodded grimly, and then towards his men manning the cannons on the wall, who solemnly nodded in agreement.
From the fort, the redcoats watched as the Spanish ship eased into the harbor. The town below, still littered with debris from the recent storm, fell silent. Fishermen froze at the wharf, their hands gripping ropes mid-motion. Even the children who played among the puddles stopped to stare. Seeing a Spanish ship was a first time experience for many of them.
A longboat dropped from the ship’s side. Oars dipped in unison, carrying a handful of figures toward the dock — officers, judging by their bearing. Their uniforms, bright with gold braid and crimson sashes, gleamed in the lowering light.
“God’s mercy,” muttered one gunner, “what in blazes are they doing here?”
“Perhaps,” said another, “they’ve come under flag of truce. Or to spy our defenses.”
“Either way,” Morris replied, lowering his glass, “we’ll treat them as both.” He turned to look down into the yard. "Sergeant Major! Form a detachment to give a welcome to our "guests". He said the word with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice before continuing. "And send a runner to the Lord Governors mansion, where the General, Colonel, and Major are. They need to be informed of what's happening."
Sergeant Major Sherborne nodded. "Corporal O'Tully, get moving and let the Governor and Officers know we've got papists on the docks." He stopped for a moment looking at the corporal. "Sorry Seamus. I keep forgetting you Irish and your Catholicism ways. But best ye keep it to yourself. Now off with ye!"
The Corporal nodded and ran towards the gate and down the road towards the governors mansion
Upon the parapet the regimental surgeon, Dr. Erasmus Arnold appeared, inquiring to the fuss. Morris gave him a quick rundown and noticed him nod slightly but keeping grace under pressure.
On the wharf, the Spanish officers disembarked with deliberate grace — no rush, no panic. One raised his hand, palm outward, in a gesture of peace. The harbor master, his face pale beneath his tricorn, stepped forward to meet them. Neither side spoke loudly enough to be heard from the fort, but the tension that rippled through the air was palpable — like the static before lightning strikes. Within mere moments a small group of soldiers led by the Sergeant Major appeared near the wharf. Morris looked down at the Sergeant Major and met his eyes. A slight nod followed letting Morris know that he was ready.
"Take over up here Lt. Jackson, and remember my orders." Morris said as he turned to exit the parapet and moved quickly across the yard, through the gate and onto the nearby wharf-side of Port Dominion to greet the unexpected guests.
The gun crews of the fort watched and waited for any signal or command to open fire - a single broadside could sink the Spanish ship where she stood, yet one rash act might plunge the whole island, and the entire region into chaos.
The Spanish flag stirred lazily in the sea breeze as if it had no concern whatsoever of the English soldiers and their cannons aimed at it.
In the shadowed embrasures of Fort Hemmerly, the soldiers’ fingers rested on their musket stocks — tense, motionless, waiting. Sweat trickled down temples, and breaths came slow, measured. The only movement was the sea, swelling gently against the stone foundations of the fort, as if mocking the men who dared not move.
One wrong signal, one spark — and the Caribbean would burn again.
But for now, the guns stayed silent, and the fort held its breath.
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