The shambles of his house of office, made entirely from the timbers of an old Spanish treasure galleon, loomed hideously behind him, with frames and beams lashed rather than nailed into place. There was a certain ghoulish majesty about it, and in case of a Spanish attack, he did have a double hull between his bayside dwelling and enemy intentions. All of the numerous, poorly maintained and unmanned canon faced seaward.

The landward walls were made of masts with crows nests for towers, which had been salvaged from the sunken treasure fleet, with the slight hulls of the smaller tenders used for the landward side and the bulk of the great gallons heaped as seawalls.

He spied two men on the gate towers in the tanned hide clothing of the savage races, each manning a swivel gun, which he thought was genius. He was taking the census, which had commenced immediately, as every soul except for the two sentries in their crow’s nests had gathered out of curiosity. He decided, as a practical matter, to conduct the census at once, as the snow fell. He stood on a balcony on the deck before his cabin, which was the once brightly-painted railing of the Spanish galleon that had been used to construct the governor’s cabin over 20 years ago, after Don Enrique had scuttled his fleet in this harbor rather than fall prey to the pursuing Dutch squadron.

His poop deck cabin may have been grand in its weird way, but once within the gates—to trail and dock—both opening on the central plaza, the scene was dominated be the center of community life, the gallows, where currently, a long ago condemned thief still swung, his hands hanging from his shoelaces. Below the gallows, a stage of death, with headman’s block, questioner’s bench and neck hooks, were the stocks, where three youths—still but boys—languished, the left ear having been cut from each and the R of the runaway branded into their cheek.

Something echoed deep in the shrinking skink of his soul, but he could not determine its precise substance.

As one looked left, there was the privy bench, where various people presently sat over the stinking holes of the crapping board and relieved themselves while gazing ox-eyed at him, on his relatively gaudy stage. Opposite the privy bench, and a hundred yards down the one short, single street, towered the only real civilized building in the place, the Church, currently occupied by the Dominican friar, his pet Indian and the widow of the Anglican rector, who all three stood before the door of their shared place with a straw-headed Irish boy on a leash restlessly keeping their company.

A large number of large dogs lazed about, kept by the six men who were what remained of the former governor’s staff and who made their living by fishing, crabbing and oyster-trawling in the bay. His cabin was to the left of the Dockside Gate. To the right of the Trace Gate, across the dueling square from him, stood a sturdy, log cabin, caulked and hung with pelts of various animals, where the hunters gathered about the bear-like form of Rawlings, a big, bearded man in animal skins. In the extreme northeast corner, between the dockside gate and the privy, was the brewery and distillery of Rush, a paunchy, bald fellow who seemed calculating and intelligent, despite his small eyes and heavy jowls. Rush’s men, dressed in a tawdry mockery of civil fashion, compared to the linen paupery of the plantation fishermen and the hairy-hided barbarity of the hunters.

To the left of the Trace Gate was the brothel, where a half-dozen soiled wenches and three large bully boys attended a tall, gaunt woman with white-streaked hair of red. This would be Bawd Jamison lot; she was the famed Irish hussy, having worked her way out of servitude on her back and come to own servant girls of her own.

Loitering between the gate and gallows, trying to stay upwind from the privy, were nine red-skinned savages, with heads shaven or plucked to form a scalp lock and dressed in brightly beaded and vividly painted animal skins of fine manufacture. These were armed, as were the hunters and the rum runners. Various trophies and fetishes adorned them and their barbaric weapons. These were the Susquehanna.

As far as way from the Susquehanna as possible stood, three warriors or the same type, though less barbaric and of an altogether unthreatening demeanor, along with a small mob of women, children and elderly—a dying people by their look.

The census of Port Drake, for Sunday, December 20, 1654 stood at:

[The second number in Lord Shaw’s Ledger indicated the number of able-bodied men that could be levied from each group in case of war.]

15/15 hunters

10/10 rum runners

10/3 brothel occupants

21/3 Nanticoke Indians

6/6 fishermen

10/10 marines

4/1 rectory

9/? Susquehanna Indians

5/0 Duty boys [three in the stocks]

4/2 Governor’s office

The population of the Protectorate Plantation of Port Drake stood at a sorry 85 with half of that number being able-bodied men. Unsettlingly, the most able-bodied men were the Susquehanna Indians, who were large, scared, exceedingly active in body and haughty. He immediately made it his business to parlay openly with these fellows before all, and then retire to consult with Hempstead, Paul and the ensign of marines, who possessed such a bland name that recalling it was quite beyond his powers, under the effects as he was of his medicinal draught of morning rum, which Hempstead always made certain he downed in quick quantity each morning, and this morning was no exception to his health regimen.

Standing as tall as he might and crossing his left hand behind his jacket tail, Pendleton motioned with clean-gloved hand for the chief of the Susquehanna Indians to step out in the plaza and address the governor on his tawdry balustrade. With that the three largest and most ornately decorated fellows, apparently brothers by their close face type, stepped forward, their war clubs cradled in their left arms, their ceremonial smoking pipes in their left hand.

The eldest if the three, seemingly forty, with a scar over his left eye, cradled his pipe also, extended the open hand of the parlay, and introduced himself in English, “Moon Dog, of The Wolf Clan—my two brothers, our men, all Wolf Clan. Our people killed by the Longhouse Men of the north and the Demon Dogs of the west. Our women are across the river with the boys. We want guns to fight the Demon Dogs, who are now as few as the Wolf Clan. For this we will trade skins, fight your enemies, and bring a wife, two wife, to you, Chief Shaw.”

Pendleton shook himself from his musings, knowing that the important aspect of this negotiation was to make a military alliance with these savages. It was well known in English and French North America that the plantation authorities must make arrangements with the most warlike tribes, and these fellows were cruel savages through and through. As he began to make a counter offer, forming it must slowly in his mind, Moon Dog stepped over to one of the three duty boys in the stocks and slapped his face, declaring, “For guns, we will return these, no reward—just friendship.”

Hempstead whispered in his rumbling way, “Grieg’s says such is a fair bargain, Lord Shaw.”

At that a cry went up from the guards on the mastheads above, “Bloody Heathen’s Guvner! Rigged for war, the woods must be teeming with them. A Devil Dog chief wants to parlay.”

Excited to Heaven’s halls to be pitched headlong into such an adventure, Pendleton’s voice cracked as he commanded, “Let him enter, but fire on any savage that pokes his head out of the forest!”

Unbidden hunters were scrambling up the other masts with their muskets and sailors grabbed boat hooks and scaled the walls to the narrow catwalk to look out over the open, snowy acreage between wall and forest. The Susquehanna were prowling like great cats, bunching their backs together, Moon Dog glaring at Pendleton harshly, to which he replied imperiously, “Neither you or he or any of your men shall be seized. This is a parlay. We shall discuss your proposal once this matter has been concluded.”

The heavy gate was being unbarred by five men and he felt the Lord Protector’s last words upon his commission, ring in his ears anew, “Bring the heathen to Christ, the English to heel and the Irish to his filthy knee.”

When the great gate creaked Pendleton Shaw, finally felt like a Lord Shaw should feel, like man with a rightful place among men.