Reefs and Shoals

by Dewey Lambdin

  “The Devil you say, M’sieur!” Mr. Cotton spluttered, irked to the edge of “diplomacy” and beyond. “This is beyond the pale; it is simply not done in such fashion! And, might I remind you, M’sieur Gambon, that a British vessel is free to call at any neutral American port from Maine to—!”

  “Edward! Edward, pray do not distress yourself,” Gambon good-naturedly countered, as if enjoying his little game, “such distress ees bad for your liver. Ze choler … ze bile? You do not introduce me? Ah me, pauvre Gambon. M’sieur Capitaine, allow me to name myself … Albert-Louis Gambon, Hees Majesty, Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte’s Consul een Charleston. My carte de visite!” he said with a bow before reaching into a slit-pocket of his strained waist-coat to draw forth a bit of pasteboard, and snapping it out within Lewrie’s reach with the elegance and panache of a magician producing a coin.

  “An’ oui, Capitaine, mon ami,” Gambon added with a sly grin, “I am zee ‘Frog’ weeth a great deal of gall, hawn hawn!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “M’sieur Gambon, it is I who must protest your insistence upon entering my house in such an inapropriate manner,” Mr. Cotton snapped.

  “Tut tut, Edward, we are simply conducting ze beezeness of diplomacy,” Gambon told him, most cherry-merry. “Weel you name yourself to me, eef Edward ees reluctant to do so, M’sieur Capitaine? An’ ees that your delectable citrus tea, Edward? I do prefer eet best when ze peaches are een season, but … may I ’ave a glass?”

  “I-I must … if only to get rid of you, you boorish pest,” Mr. Cotton sourly gravelled. “M’sieur, I name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet, commanding His Majesty’s Frigate Reliant.”

  For a gotch-gut, and a fellow who sounded so enthusiastic about the levelling glories of France, Gambon performed a very graceful and elegant bow, with one foot extended, en pointe, and one hand swept low across his body, like a life-long aristocrat.

  Lewrie responded with a sketchier bow from the waist, and a nod of his head. “M’sieur Gambon,” he brusquely said.

  “Such suspicion!” Gambon replied, with a little laugh. “Such an aversion to the pleasantries … as eef I am ze Devil, heemself, ha!”

  “No … you just work for him,” Lewrie coolly said.

  “Eet ees as I thought, z’en,” Gambon replied, fazed not a whit, and still the “Merry Andrew”. “Or, as I fear-ed, rather. Ze Capitaine ees implacable een hees hatred for everything French … so much so I fear he weel be unable to restrain heemself from making war upon innocent sailors, right here een Charleston ’arbour.”

  “Your Otarie, d’ye mean, sir?” Lewrie countered. “Your privateer schooner?”

  “Ze ’onest merchant trader from ze French West Indies, who ’as come to trade,” Gambon stated with another smile and a shrug.

  “With such a large crew, and so well-armed, sir?” Lewrie scoffed. “Which island in the French West Indies?”

  “Edward, I am certain you ’ave amis een ze Customs ’Ouse, een ze government, who tell you of Otarie’s registry, an’ ’er manifests,” Gambon breezed off, “wheech isle, I ’ave forgotten, but Edward knows. ’E can tell you, later, oui?’ No tea for me?” he plaintively begged.

  “Not for those who ignore the protocols,” Mr. Cotton told him, “I’d much admire you state your business quickly … excuse though this call was to take Sir Alan’s measure.”

  “Très bien,” Gambon said with a put-upon sigh. “As you expect, Edward, Capitaine Loo—’ow you say eet?—I ’ave already lodged a formal protest weeth the American Navy officer present, weeth ze American government’s senior representative ’ere and weeth ze Mayor an’ ze council de la cité, denouncing ze presence of a British warship ’ere, expressing my fears that something untoward could occur eef eet stays one hour longer. I ’ave also express-ed z’at such presence ees ze insult to American neutrality, to ze United States, ze state of South Carolina, an’ ze cité of Charleston … so much of an insult z’at ze local citoyens may take to ze streets een anger.”

  “Oh, please, Albert,” Mr. Cotton spluttered in exasperation, making Lewrie feel that, in private, the two men got along a lot better than their Publick personae allowed. “And did you also tell them that Reliant is the vanguard of a British invasion? That she’s going to open fire on the city, and land her Marines to rape their mothers?”

  “I take my duty to Hees Majesty ze Emperor mos’ seriously,” Gambon bristled up like a hedgehog in a grand flounce, “an’ I ’ave too much love and respect for ze people of America to see z’em ’arm-ed.”

  “And, how far did you get with that twaddle?” Cotton scoffed.

  “Ze matter ees being looked eento mos’ closely by ze officials to whom I spoke,” Gambon assured them.

  “Which is to say, they didn’t even give you the time of day,” Mr. Cotton said with a wry chuckle. “Is that all, M’sieur Gambon?”

  “Eet ees not, M’sieur Cotton,” Gambon replied, still on a formal “high horse” and in gravity. “I ask of ze distinguish-ed Capitaine, what was the time z’at your frigate came to anchor, M’sieur?”

  “It’s pronounced Loo-ree, accent on the first syllable, M’sieur,” Lewrie told him in equal gravity, secretly amused by the posturing wee toad-man, and his few streaks of pomaded hair. “We came to wind, and let go the bower at Three Bells of the Forenoon.”

  Gambon twitched his mouth, as if Lewrie was speaking Hindoo.

  “That is to say, half-past nine this morning,” Lewrie went on, grinning a bit.

  “Z’en, I ’ardly ’ave to remind you, Capitaine Loo-ree, z’at ze Admiralty Law recognis-ed by all civilised nations require you to sail from Charleston before half pas’ nine of ze morning, three days hence,” Gambon slyly said. “Further, Capitaine, eet ees not permitted z’at you be allowed to return to Charleston … or any ozzer port een ze state of South Carolina weethout a reasonable time at sea … beyond ze limit of three miles so you do not violate American neutrality by remaining een coastal waters; n’est-ce pas?”

  “Of a certainty, sir,” Lewrie replied, beginning to get a sinking feeling in his innards that he was about to be “had”.

  “Een point of fact, Capitaine … an’ Edward may bear me out on z’is,” Gambon happily went on, “since ze United States ees by z’eir Constitution a Federalist république, not a confederation of sovereign and separate states weeth z’eir own maritime laws, it would be a gross violation of American sovereignty, and neutrality, eef you sail-ed into any ozzer American port until a reasonable time ’as pass-ed. I made z’is point weeth ze American government representative, and ze senior officer of ze American Navy. While ’e ’as but two small gunboats, an’ cannot be expected to enforce hees nation’s laws against such a powerful frigate, eet would be mos’ regrettable should ’e fin’ you loath to depart on time, or, ’ow you say?… break you passage … at Beaufort or Port Royal, perhaps even at Savannah, or Wilmington, oui?”

  God rot the little shit! Lewrie silently fumed; He’s got me by the ‘nut-megs’! Just look at him enjoyin’ this!

  “I also mus’ point out to your excellent Capitaine, Edward,” Gambon continued, turning to Mr. Cotton, and almost purring in triumph, “z’at by Admiralty Law, to avoid ze effusion of blood, and ze introduction of la guerre mos’ horrible in neutral waters, Capitaine Mollien of Otarie … an ’onest an’ ’umble merchantman of ze mos’ peaceful an’ innocent intent … mus’ be given ze grace period of at least twelve ’ours between ze time ’e sails, an’ ze time z’at Capitaine Loo-ree ees allow-ed to sail … hawn hawn. But of course,” Gambon added, turning to Lewrie with the hugest “shit-eating” grin on his phyz, “so esteem-ed an officer een ze Royal Navy ’ardly ’as to be reminded of ze laws of nations, non?”

  “Ehm, well, of course not, M’sieur Gambon,” Cotton said with a scowl, and a darting glance at Lewrie, as if to wonder if he had known that beforehand.

  Should’ve read up on ’em, first, Lewrie told himself, steaming.

  “En fin, Edward, I pr
esent you weeth copies of my protests to ze authorities,” Gambon said. “I take my leave, an’ fin’ my own way out, my duty to ze Emperor complete. Au revoir, M’sieur Cotton, mon vieux! Au revoir, Capitaine Loo-ree. I weesh you a bon voyage … but not too soon, hawn hawn?”

  Gambon gave them both a sketchier bow from the waist and a dip of his head before turning to re-enter the house to gather up his hat, gloves, and walking stick.

  “Hmpf!” Lewrie snorted, once he was sure that Gambon was out of earshot. “What an insufferable little … toad!”

  “Insufferable at times, yes,” Mr. Cotton agreed after wheezing out a deep sigh of relief from between puffed lips. “When not on official business, though, he can be quite witty and amusing. Plays a fine game of chess, and dances extremely well. The ladies of Charleston adore him, and invite him to many of their balls and cotillions.”

  “And Napoleon Bonaparte is kind to dogs and children!” Lewrie scoffed. “What was that nonsense about stayin’ in port twelve hours after that Frog schooner sails?”

  “Stuff and nonsense, indeed,” Cotton said with a snort, sitting down to his tea once more. “My understanding of neutrality laws, as the Americans enforce them, allows you to sail the same time as he does … just so long as you do not engage him inside the Three Mile Limit. In international waters, you may do as you please.

  “Though … it might not put our country in a good light, if you did,” Mr. Cotton cautioned a second later. “Do, please sit, Sir Alan. Are you able to bring Mollien to action, it might be best did it happen fifteen or twenty miles offshore … out of sight, so that the patriotic citizens of Charleston have no reason to sour relations between our country and theirs, which are tetchy enough, as it is.”

  “And, when did that bastard come to anchor, sir?” Lewrie asked, beginning to suspect a very bad scenario, a pit-fall which he hadn’t seen coming.

  “About two days ago,” Mr. Cotton told him, between sips of tea from his glass. “Strictly speaking, he must depart by tomorrow, but that hinges upon Captain Mollien’s ship being deemed a National Ship of the French Navy, or a privateer, a naval auxiliary. If no one will declare the schooner a man o’ war, a merchantman may stay as long as he likes.”

  “I’ll have t’sail, while he can sit at anchor and wave his bare arse at me?” Lewrie gawped. “I could lurk five or six miles offshore and catch him when he comes out.”

  “Ehm … that might put a strain on things, Sir Alan,” Cotton warned, slowly shaking his head in the negative.

  He can stay a week or two longer, and I’d have t’stay, Lewrie angrily thought; and there goes lookin’ into Savannah, or re-joining the squadron off Saint Augustine!

  Lewrie sat, though nowhere near at ease, and took a sip or two of the cool tea. He screwed up his face in thought, realising that he was caught in a cleft stick. The only thing to do was to have a wee laugh.

  “Sir Alan?” Mr. Cotton enquired, surprised by Lewrie’s humour.

  “I might as well have t’wait twelve hours, Mister Cotton,” Lewrie told him, still with a sour grin on his face. “Were I Mollien, I’d wait ’til within an hour or so of the peak of high tide, and set sail for the Main Ship Channel, timing it so that I’m crossing the Charleston Bar at slack-water of that high tide. Imagine this, sir: As soon as I see him making up to a single bow anchor, I send ashore for a pilot. Reliant draws almost eighteen feet, whilst he draws much less, perhaps only twelve. Now, how quickly do ye think the French-lovin’ local pilots’ guild’d answer my request? At least one hour or maybe two hours later?”

  “You would be forced to wait for the next day’s high tide. I see,” Mr. Cotton said with a grimace of sad understanding.

  “He’ll take this trick,” Lewrie gloomed. “But, if he wants to keep his crew happy, he’ll have to take prizes t’keep them in food and rum, and put money in their pockets. Privateers are like whalers: They sign on for a share, a ‘lay’, of the profits of a cruise. If he wants prizes from our big ‘sugar trades’, he’ll have t’stay somewhere close to the Florida Straits, and the straits between the Bahamas and Spanish Florida. My contacts in Wilmington told me there’s no privateers working out of North Carolina.”

  That Moore and Cashman know of, at any rate! Lewrie cautioned himself, with an urge to cross the fingers of one hand as he said it.

  “They’re mostly schooners or two-masted sloops, in the main,” Lewrie continued, his head cocked over in thought. “They can’t remain at sea much more than two months before they run short of everything, and, once our convoys come level with Charleston, they’re catching a wind that’ll carry them Nor’east, further out in the open sea, well to windward of Cape Hatteras, and harder to find, or chase after. This Mollien is most-like working out of Spanish Florida, or Cuba, where he can find shelter and sustenance with his allies, the Dons. Where he can sell his prizes in the open, ’stead of sneakin’ ’em into an American port t’sell ’em on the sly.”

  “Why yes, Sir Alan!” Mr. Cotton energetically agreed. “Think of this aspect. Do enemy privateers’ work from American ports, or inlets where unscrupulous traders sell them supplies and purchase their prizes, Mollien and his compatriots would be at the mercy of those traders … and the much-inflated prices they would charge, and the criminally low sums they’d pay to buy captured ships and their cargoes!”

  “It’d take a fair parcel of money to cobble up false papers for a prize, aye,” Lewrie said with a genuine laugh. “Perhaps the value of the cargoes, and the later sale of the ships somewhere else would pay for that, but the risk of atracting attention with the Customs or Revenue Services, well! Too much risk to engage upon?”

  Then this whole jaunt down the American coast is a goose-chase, Lewrie thought; dreamt up by pen-pushers at Admiralty, who’ve read too many bloody novels!

  “Where would a criminal trader get the captains and crews for the captured ships would be my question,” Mr. Cotton said, topping up their glasses without summoning his Black house servant. “That’s too many people in on the secret, and someone’s sure to blab. Now, they could claim that they had sailed down to Havana with money and extra crew so they could pick up condemned vessels and bring them back to America to register them, along with Cuban export goods, which, in the main, are the same export goods one might find in the holds of a captured British ship—sugar, molasses, rum, and tobacco—but too many of such purchases would surely draw suspicions of the authorities. Register them in Savannah or Charleston, say, then hire on yet another captain and crew to sail them north to the Chesapeake, to Philadelphia, New York, or Boston? I hardly think so! It must all unravel, sooner or later,” Mr. Cotton declared, quite sure of his logic.

  “Hmm … in the cold light of day, it does seem rather implausible, doesn’t it?” Lewrie admitted. “Perhaps the most risk that some criminal chandlers might run would be to supply privateers in one of the inlets you mentioned … in the dark of night and far out of sight of officials … to extend their time at sea without a long, unprofitabled voyage back to Cuba or Spanish Florida to re-victual.”

  “That would be much more feasible, Sir Alan,” Cotton agreed.

  “Hmpf!” Lewrie said, slouching in his chair, at more ease than a minute before. “I s’pose I still must peek into Savannah. Unless that twaddle about breaking my passage really is a violation of American neutrality.”

  “I think that would only apply were you being pursued by the enemy, in strength, and meant to avoid combat, Sir Alan,” Mr. Cotton told him, then laughed out loud, “and I very much doubt that such an intrepid officer as yourself would ever do so, ha ha! It would be an act more suitable to an enemy warship trying to avoid the inevitable, yet unwilling to intern herself. In that case, the warship in question would be ordered out to sea within seventy-two hours or surrender herself to the care of the neutral country. You have orders to speak with the Consul in Savannah, Mister Hereford? Good. Go do so, and Gambon’s screechy objections bedamned.”

  “Excellent,” Lewrie said with a
sigh of relief.

  Mr. Cotton pulled a pocket watch from his waist-coat and opened the lid. “It is nigh Noon, Sir Alan,” he announced, “and I must own to a peckish feeling. Might you wish to dine on the town, or will you trust that I have a very talented cook, who by this hour is usually ready to serve a toothsome dinner?”

  “I would be grateful for more of your kind hospitality, Mister Cotton, and dining in would suit, admirably,” Lewrie replied.

  “Good, good! Another thing I must own to is a most lazy habit, Sir Alan … happily, one that is as prevalent in South Carolina’s Low Country as it is in Spanish colonies,” Cotton freely confessed. “I speak of siesta—the afternoon nap. Barring official duties, or a caller as upsetting as M’sieur Gambon, I usually put my head down for an hour or two after dinner. Later in the summer in Charleston, the afternoon nap is a necessity, ’til late afternoon, and its coolness. You are welcome to a spare bed-chamber, one which, like my own, faces the prevailing breeze.”

  “I’ll take you up on that, too, Mister Cotton, most gladly,” Lewrie assured him, “and perhaps … a cool shore bath before supper.”

  “It shall be done, sir!”

  Damn whether that Frog sails, Lewrie thought; I’ll have enough fresh water for a proper scrub-down, for a rare once!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  By half past six that evening, Lewrie was much refreshed by a good nap in a sinfully soft bed, sprawled nude atop the coverlet and cooled by a gentle breeze. He was also much cleaner, after a brass tub full of cool water had been provided in the wash-house behind the house, with enough soap for a thorough scrubbing, behind his ears and between his toes. He’d sudsed his hair and used two whole buckets of water with which to rinse, too. He had shaved himself quite closely, but had submitted to the house servant’s, Amos’s, ministrations when it came to dressing in his best shore-going uniform that had been sponged and brushed free of cat-fur, completely so for a rare once, too. With his neck-stock tied just so, the sprig of hair at the nape of his neck bound with black ribbon, his gold-tasseled Hessian boots newly blacked and buffed, his sash and star over his chest, and his “hundred-guinea” dress sword on his hip, he could take time to stare at himself in the tall cheval mirror and deem himself one Hell of a natty fellow, and a man possessed of an athletic stature and slimness, despite being fourty-two years of age. He still had a full head of mid-brown hair, turned lighter by the sun below the brim of his cocked hat (thankfully closer to dark blond without a hint of grey!) that still showed no sign of receding. His face was bronzed by constant exposure, but it was not yet lined … though he thought that the “raccoon eye” look of squint lines at each outer corner of his eyes, normal flesh colour against the ruddiness, did look a bit comical.