"The Rainstorm on the Island...From Lord General Augustus Winthrop"

  

Journal of Lord General Augustus Winthrop
Port Dominion, during the Long Rain

The storm continues without respite. I sit this evening at my desk, a glass of claret at hand, and gaze through the broad-paned window at the sheets of rain that scour the land. The courtyard beyond is drowned in rivulets, and the wind lashes against the shutters with a force that makes the timbers creak as though they might yield. It is a tempest that reminds me of campaigns long past—Spain in autumn, Flanders in spring—where the rain was not merely an inconvenience but a weapon wielded by Providence itself, turning roads to quagmires, wagons to useless burdens, and powder to damp refuse. War is ever at the mercy of weather, and so too, I think, is peace in these colonies.

The town of Port Dominion has been brought to a standstill. Dominion Square lies shuttered; its merchants, so quick to bargain and haggle, have fled to their homes, their wares packed away from the deluge. The streets run with mud, and not a carriage nor cart stirs without peril. The people endure as they must, though I suspect many sit sullenly by their hearths, grumbling at lost profits and wasted time. Such storms test the patience of colonists, and those who have not yet grown accustomed to the harshness of island life reveal their complaints in muttered tones.

My thoughts return often to Fort Hemmerly, whose ramparts I walked but yesterday. The rain will have made the ground sodden, the trenches perilous, and the powder stores at risk if the coverings are not properly secured. I trust Colonel White, my ever-loyal second, to keep matters in order. He is a steady hand, diligent and trustworthy, the very model of an English officer. Major Ebeneezer Hawthorne, though able in command of the ground troops, is another matter. His eye too often wanders from his duties to the charms of the young women about town. I do not think it diminishes his loyalty, but distraction in an officer can be as dangerous as treachery. I shall have to keep him close, and his attention sharper, when more pressing matters of defense arise.

This storm does little good for the men in garrison. They huddle in their quarters, restless and idle, with no exercise save grumbling and no occupation but dicing. Such weather breeds discontent as swiftly as it breeds mildew. I wish for more troops, more supplies, and above all, more trained artillerymen. Two guns without proper men to serve them are but iron ornaments, and I have already written to England pleading for reinforcements. Each storm that pounds this island only sharpens my sense of how precarious our defenses remain.

As for the Governor, I believe him a man of parts, though his reliance on temporary truces with the French, Spanish, and Dutch sits ill with me. These accords, like this storm, may pass quickly and without lasting effect—or they may leave behind rot, weakness, and ill consequence. Whitehall governs as he thinks best, but I do not like our enemies to walk these streets under banners of peace while the Crown’s forces remain so thinly stretched. His wife, Lady Eleanor, is another matter entirely. She exerts an influence upon him, though of what kind I cannot yet fully discern. She is graceful, clever, and more dangerous in her subtleties than many an enemy who wears a sword. Unlike most men, I am not drawn in by her manner—perhaps age, long campaigns, and the wearying presence of true dangers inoculate one against the fancies of feminine intrigue. Yet I observe how others are swayed, and I take her measure with caution.

Of the reverends, Goodall preaches temperance and steadiness, a balm to the souls of the weary, though his quiet nature sometimes lacks the vigor required in these parts. Task, on the other hand, is all fire and thunder, shaking his fists against sin as though he could rattle the very gates of hell by his voice alone. I admire his zeal, though I sometimes think it too easily turned toward shadows and whispers. Yet perhaps both men serve their purpose—one to soothe, the other to stir—and between them, they hold sway over the town’s hearts in fair balance.

As I sip my claret and listen to the rain, I wonder at the island itself. St. Albion is young, rough-hewn, and ill-settled. Each storm batters its buildings, tests its people, and strips away pretense. It is a place that demands strength and order if it is to endure. Tomorrow, the sun will return, the market stalls will open, and the people will pretend as if nothing has passed. Yet I know, as all soldiers know, that every storm leaves its mark. The ground will shift, the walls will weaken, and those who are not resolute will falter. It falls, therefore, to men such as myself to see that neither this garrison, nor this colony, nor its people, ever falter in the Crown’s service.