The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ***

  They were interrupted by another knock on the door, a letter this time, addressed formally to Captain Edward Carlisle and sealed in wax with an impressive device. Carlisle excused himself and stepped over to the window, leaving the two women deep in conversation. It was from the lieutenant governor, a new man named Francis Fauquier; clearly Dinwiddie had been superseded. They were bidden to dinner the following day, a fashionably late dinner at six o’clock, in the Governor’s Palace. Evidently the lieutenant governor had been informed of the number and quality of Carlisle’s party because the invitation included Mister Enrico Angelini, without mention of his naval rank, but didn’t include the surgeon.

  Barbara stayed an hour, and it was late by the time that Carlisle and Chiara had a moment alone.

  ‘Are all your relatives as unusual as Barbara?’ asked Chiara, after they had discussed the preparations for tomorrow’s dinner party. ‘It’s just that I think you should warn me in future.’

  Carlisle looked at his wife with concern.

  ‘Oh, I thought you were getting along well together. I do apologise if you’ve had an awkward time of it.’

  Chiara laughed at her husband’s concerned expression.

  ‘You mistake me, Edward, I very much like Barbara and it was a pleasure to meet her. I feel we could be good friends. But you must admit that she’s a little … unique, shall we say?’

  Carlisle relaxed when he realised that he hadn’t offended his wife.

  ‘Yes, she was always different. I believe it may be her shape that’s to blame. She suffered a fair amount of ribaldry when she was young and developed an ability to shrug off personal slights and a character that allowed her to march boldly into any social situation. When I was last home, she had no suitors that I was aware of, and I only vaguely remember this Dexter fellow; Cranmer Dexter, I believe, named after an Archbishop of Canterbury. His father owned the printing press and book shop. Perhaps Cranmer does now.’

  ‘An appropriate name for a printer and bookseller,’ commented Chiara. ‘You look surprised,’ she continued, teasing a little. ‘I’ve had little to do on this passage while you were on deck, so I read Foxe’s Martyrs from cover to cover. I’m aware of Cranmer and his Book of Common Prayer.’

  ‘You continually amaze me, my dear,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Did you hear Barbara offer me a confinement haven in her home? She wasted no time in observing my condition. In anyone else I’d have resented her indelicacy, but not Barbara!’

  ‘Did she now? While I was reading the invitation no doubt. Well, that’s mighty generous of her,’ said Carlisle slipping into his native jargon. ‘However, I know you’re determined to follow me to Boston, so I guess she’ll be disappointed.’

  Chiara said nothing, but stared thoughtfully at the darkened window, stroking the slightest of swellings that indicated where their baby was entering its third month of growth.

  ***

  4: The Carlisle Family

  Wednesday, Eighth of March 1758.

  Williamsburg, Virginia.

  The visit to the Carlisle Plantation was a disaster. A deep gloom had settled over the two passengers as the carriage rolled through the five miles of cultivated fields and morasses that lined the neglected road from the present colonial capital to its abandoned predecessor at Jamestown. Chiara had a cat-like sensitivity to her husband’s moods, and she could feel his increasing tension. He’d grown steadily more withdrawn, and for the last mile he’d perched himself stiffly on the edge of his seat, staring right ahead at the small oval window that gave a view of the coachman’s legs. Carlton and Enrico had been given the day to explore Williamsburg, so Edward and Chiara were alone in the carriage.

  The plantation was a depressing place. Over fifty years old and built to the standards of comfort that a previous generation had found acceptable, by 1758 it looked old-fashioned, dark and sinister. There were no formal gardens, but the worked fields lapped right up to the weather-stained brick walls of the house. African slaves were everywhere, and yet there were no white indentured servants in evidence. The slaves were mostly in small and large groups among the growing tobacco while some were moving in a lacklustre way about the long line of huts that were their quarters. It looked like something out of a bygone age and it was hard to see how happiness could exist in such a place, either for the slaves or for their masters.

  Joshua Carlisle had met them at the steps of the house. He’d never forgiven his younger son for joining the King’s navy, rather than settling down to his studies at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg and eventually strengthening the Carlisle family’s position in the colony. Charles Carlisle had stood a few paces behind his father, a heavy riding crop in his hand and a scowl on his face. The elder brother suspected the younger of having designs on the plantation when the father should die. It was beyond his imagination that anybody couldn’t wish to inherit a brutal, antediluvian business that sat precariously between the growing sophistication of Virginian society and an ancient slave-owning, agricultural lifestyle.

  There was no female influence at all in the house. Joshua’s wife had died when Edward was young and he’d never re-married. The passage of years had hardened and coarsened him so that although Edward had been partly prepared, it still came as a shock to have such a hostile reception. Father and elder son openly sneered at Edward’s Catholic wife and were barely civil to the youngest Carlisle son.

  They had stayed only an hour and the relief of their parting was shared equally by both parties. Joshua and Charles could withdraw into their cruel and self-consuming industry and feed their paranoia with recollections of how the younger son had grown in stature and consequence. Edward Carlisle and Chiara could breathe the free air that seemed to become sweeter with each mile that passed under the carriage’s wheels.

  ‘Are you quite well, Edward?’ asked Chiara laying her hand on her husband’s knee, ‘you look pale.’

  Carlisle was pale and he could feel his heart racing erratically as he fought to recover from that appalling family meeting.

  ‘I’ll survive, Chiara, but how you’ll ever forgive me for subjecting you to that, I cannot tell.’

  ‘It wasn’t so bad,’ she lied. ‘We weren’t offered physical violence, at least,’ she added, smiling encouragingly.

  ‘No, they stopped short at that. But had I known just how hostile my brother had become I’d have brought Enrico with us. The midshipman who fought the Dutchmen toe-to-toe on the decks of Medina and Torenvalk would have been a useful man to have at our backs.’

  Chiara was pleased at this acknowledgement of her cousin’s value; it was the first time that her husband had praised him in her presence.

  ‘Well, I gather we won’t need to repeat that meeting, and we have a few hours before I’ll have to prepare for the governor’s palace. Shall we have a stroll through the city?’

  Chiara had quickly taken the measure of Williamsburg. The fashions were understated in comparison to Kingston and she’d dressed accordingly, so when the carriage set them down at Shields Tavern, it took only a few minutes to freshen up before she was ready.

  ***

  ‘You’re uneasy, try to look more relaxed,’ said Chiara as they left the tavern and headed west along Duke of Gloucester Street.

  ‘Remember, dear, that I haven’t been to my hometown for six years. The last time I visited I was a mere lieutenant, a man of little consequence. I feel that everyone’s watching me now.’

  ‘Let them, Edward. You’re an important man in this colony, one of the few to be born and bred here and hold a post-captain’s commission. They’re all wondering whether you plan to return and who’s position you’ll put at risk.’

  ‘The only post-captain from Virginia, I believe,’ Carlisle added proudly. ‘There’s no particular bar to anyone from the colonies being posted, but it’s difficult to marshal the right level of influence to make that jump. I’ve been lucky.’

  ‘Nonsense, luck had nothing to do wit
h it. You’re a man of parts, Edward, and now your own people will inevitably regard you in a new light.’

  They walked on past the shops and businesses. It was surprising how many people remembered him because much had changed in the nearly two decades since Edward had first gone to sea. The colony had grown both in size and self-confidence – very much in self-confidence – and the balance of power between Virginian families had shifted with new people coming in from the country to live in the capital. There were familiar faces, acquaintances of his family and men who’d been boys at school with Carlisle, a few of whom remembered his ignominious departure from the grammar school and the less-than-flattering tales of his early years at sea. Nevertheless, he was greeted with the respect that his rank – and the beautiful wife on his arm – demanded.

  They walked as far as the College of William and Mary before turning and walking back on the other side of the road.

  ‘There’s the Governor’s Palace,’ said Carlisle, pointing to the imposing building set back at the end of an avenue three or four hundred yards from the road. ‘We’ll take the carriage this evening; it’s no great distance but perhaps the roads are too dusty to risk your gown by walking.’

  Chiara gave her husband a sideways glance. Was he jesting? Had he seriously considered walking? Walking to dinner at the governor’s palace, of all places? Even if it were next door to the tavern, she’d have insisted on the carriage. Chiara had a much more heightened perception of the dignity of their social rank.

  ‘There’s a respectable coffee house opposite the tavern. After we’ve seen the capital, we can take some refreshment,’ he continued, oblivious to his wife’s amused consternation.

  They didn’t get as far as the coffee shop. Carlisle was just about to point out the printer’s workshop and bookstore that Cranmer Dexter – he now knew – had inherited from his father, when a small, round figure bounded out of the door. Making a ball of his hastily removed leather apron, he threw it behind him and danced – that seemed the best description of his energetic gait – towards Carlisle and Chiara. Carlisle had just enough wit to recognise Barbara’s husband before the compact bundle of energy was upon them.

  ‘Captain Carlisle, you remember me, I hope? Cranmer Dexter, we used to be acquainted when we were much younger.’

  The small man looked up at Carlisle much as a faithful hound would look at his master, hoping for recognition.

  ‘Indeed, I do, Mister Dexter, and we had the honour of meeting your wife last night. I confess that I had no idea that you had married my cousin; my belated congratulations.’

  The two men shook hands and looked each other up and down. It was difficult to imagine a starker contrast. Carlisle was tall and slim, and dressed in his best uniform frock coat, while Dexter stood a good six inches shorter and at least the same wider and was in rolled-up shirtsleeves, clearly having just left the printing press. There were smudges of ink on his fingertips and his quick, nervous gestures had transferred a fair amount of it to his forehead and chin.

  ‘Can I tempt you inside for a moment? Barbara saw you walking this way and sent me out to hold you, if possible, while she washes her hands. She helps at the press, you know.’

  Carlisle opened his mouth to decline the invitation when a gentle pressure on his arm from Chiara made him pause. He interpreted the gesture correctly; his wife thought it impolite to refuse.

  ‘With pleasure, sir,’ he replied. ‘We were only taking the air with no particular destination in mind,’ he lied glibly.

  Cranmer Dexter’s appearance suggested a chaotic character. Both Carlisle and Chiara were prepared for the worst when they were ushered into the workshop and store that was the entrance to his home.

  What a surprise! The sparkling-clean windows let in the afternoon light, illuminating the broad polished wood countertops on their right-hand side. Behind, the cases of books that were his stock-in-trade were neatly displayed, and on the counters were wooden trays holding the broadsheets that came from the press. The presses – there were two of them – were on the left, and they were illuminated by the side windows that caught the afternoon sun as well as the store-front south-facing bow windows. It was a model of an orderly workshop with shelves for bottles of ink and reams of paper waiting to be printed. A young man, an apprentice perhaps, grinned at them as he leaned all his body weight into the handles of the press, releasing them with a flourish so that they sprang upwards when the page was finished. It was a quite delightful room, smelling of printing ink, solvent and book-binder’s leather.

  ‘Here’s Barbara,’ said Dexter quite unnecessarily as his wife appeared through a door at the back of the room which evidently led to the family’s living areas. ‘My wife has the extraordinary skill of working the press without transferring any ink to her person; none whatsoever! As you can see, I’ve never learned that art,’ he said looking at his hands, apparently oblivious to the war-paint on his face.

  If the working area was clean and tidy, the living quarters were spotless and squared away to an extent that would gladden the heart of any first lieutenant of a King’s ship. Evidently, the Dexter business was flourishing because the furniture, the silverware and the furnishings were of the very best.

  ‘Would you prefer chocolate or coffee? Or perhaps tea is more to your taste,’ asked Barbara as the maid waited for instructions. ‘I recommend the chocolate if you haven’t had it in the true Virginia style, Chiara.’

  ‘Certainly, chocolate if you please, Barbara. And for you, Edward?’

  ‘I haven’t had real chocolate for six years,’ he replied. ‘That would be perfect.’

  The maid bustled away into the kitchen, taking a swipe at an imaginary speck of dust as she left the room.

  ‘Welcome to our home, Edward and Chiara,’ said Barbara. ‘I hope you’ll consider this an open invitation while you’re in Williamsburg.’

  The drinks came, two steaming cups, each with a stick of solid brown chocolate slowly melting into the boiling water. The four of them sipped it in companionable silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Would you like a tour of the house?’ asked Barbara. ‘You may find it somewhat different to Sardinia, England or even Jamaica.’

  ‘Yes, if you please,’ said Chiara, clearly delighted at the prospect, ‘although I can hardly compare it to England, as I spent only a few days there on my way to Antigua.’

  ‘You have a fine establishment here,’ said Carlisle after the ladies had left the room.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dexter. ‘It’s been a struggle as my old father – you remember him – left it in rather a sad state. I really have Barbara to thank for our success. In only four years she’s transformed the business and our home.’

  ‘Is this the only printing business in Williamsburg?’ asked Carlisle. He dimly remembered that there had been two or three when he was last at home.

  ‘Yes, it is now. I bought out Harris a year ago, and I use his premises for the book printing and binding.’

  ***

  The sun had left the avenue and the trees cast long shadows as Carlisle and Chiara set out for the Governor’s Palace. Their coachman at least understood the gravity of the situation. He’d never been on such an exalted mission, but he’d spoken to some who had. In consequence, the carriage from Hampton sparkled as it had never done before, drawing an admiring crowd as it waited outside the tavern.

  Enrico had dressed in the uniform of an ensign in the Sardinian cavalry, a gorgeous outfit of yellows and reds that made the humble blue-and-gold of Carlisle’s suit look dull and ordinary. Carlisle was not at all sure that it was appropriate and was on the verge of ordering the young man to change into his midshipman’s uniform, but luckily, he caught the look of family pride in his wife’s eyes and wisely held his peace. Enrico held the door for his cousin and then took a seat beside the coachman. With a snap of his whip, the horses moved off at a steady walking pace, followed by a horde of children, too excited for any sense of decorum.

  The dinner was
a lively affair, served in the modern style with a variety of dishes following each other in an almost endless procession. The well-to-do of Williamsburg were delighted to meet their very own post-captain – many of them had known Carlisle as a child – and they were even more delighted to meet his beautiful and exotic wife, a Lady no less! Neither Carlisle nor Chiara thought it right to point out that her title was only by courtesy, and that it would never be inherited.

  Carlisle spoke to a good many people and began to realise at least part of the reason for his brother’s mistrust. There was a general assumption that Carlisle would return to Williamsburg when the war was over, that he’d be in contention for his father’s estate and that he’d be a man to be reckoned with in the colony. Only a day ago, Carlisle would have openly declared his determination to settle elsewhere, probably in England. This reminder of the advantages of Williamsburg, where he was someone, a potentially important person, had given him pause for thought. Perhaps settling in Williamsburg wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Chiara, as far as Carlisle could tell, was enjoying the city. He could see her now, in animated conversation with a group of well-dressed ladies sat on a group of chaise longues and chairs, beneath the portraits of King George and Queen Caroline.

  Yes, there was a lot to be said for settling in Virginia, if he could only make a few thousand more in prize money.

  ***

  At first, Carlisle watched his wife with one eye as he spoke to the lieutenant governor and the lawmakers of the colony. Not unnaturally, they were more concerned with the war in America than the wider war in Europe and beyond. They had contributed men for the campaigns in the Ohio Valley and for the push up towards Lake Ontario, and they had an important stake in the outcome. Nevertheless, they all knew that the key to supremacy on the continent was Quebec. If that city fell to the British forces, the French would be unable to maintain themselves on the continent, and it would only be a matter of time before the English-speaking people reigned supreme. The fate of Louisbourg was of the first importance to them. It was an intensely interesting conversation to Carlisle and gradually, as he saw that all was well with Chiara, he turned his whole attention to his fellows.