“But perhaps it is not the French privateers who would stand to lose the most, sir,” Bury sagely pointed out. “To men like Chaptal, what matters most is operational secrecy, and a way to dispose of his prisoners and prizes quickly, and remain on his ‘hunting grounds’ without a long and risky voyage to do so, or putting them all aboard a neutral ship for a cartel to land them in a neutral port or return them to a British port.”
“And, thumb his nose at us,” Lewrie sourly added.
“That, too, sir, but… who runs the greatest risk of having his activities in support of a belligerent exposed?” Bury asked. “Who is more liable to be ruined and imprisoned?”
“Whichever bloody American is running this arrangement for ’em?” Lewrie realised.
“And, sir… if the American behind it wishes even more profit from it, why waste funds on marching the prisoners all the way to the Spanish authorities?” Bury continued. “It costs to build holding pens for prisoners, to feed them, and guard them. Captain Chaptal and the other privateer captains might not know the fate of their captives once landed, and might not much care. Despite our long-held distrust and loathing for the French, for the most part they fight a gentlemanly war, whereas an unscrupulous American man of business… might not. ”
Someone not a soldier, or Sea Officer, Lewrie thought, sneering; just a bloody “tradesman”, with his soul bound in double-entry account books! No, no one could be that cold-blooded!
“Marching ’em to the Dons’d be a cost of doin’ business,” Lewrie said with a grimace. “Once at Saint Augustine, they’re no longer his concern, either, and he’d let them feed and guard ’em.”
“If he could run the risk of exposure, sir,” Bury said.
Bury had risen at the dismissal of the two captured sailors and still had his beer mug in hand. He looked down and seemed surprised to see it. He took a sip and set it down on the brass tray-table and exchanged it for the captured stack of Captain Chaptal’s books, sorting through them to find a journal.
“Despite the haste required to look through Chaptal’s accounts, sir, I noted that he was meticulous about listing his prisoners, by name and numbers, and how many were turned over,” Bury said, flipping through the pages. “He was also most secretive, referring to where he landed them as either ‘Loire’ or ‘Saone’, instead of the Saint John’s or the Saint Mary’s Rivers, with no way to know which is the correct river, or rendezvous. He noted how ‘ mon vieux ’ met him with proceeds from previous sales…”
Bury fumbled to pick up a second ledger, eager to impart what he had learned.
“Sit, Bury, so you don’t spill ’em,” Lewrie kindly offered as he sat himself back down on the settee.
“Thank you, sir,” Bury replied, his attention rivetted on finding the right references. “Ah. ‘ Mon vieux ’ is his code for the man behind it all on the American side, and the firm in question he calls just ’ la compagnie’! But here, sir…!” Bury excitedly said, picking up that second book and flipping through it, “are his meticulously-kept accounts for the owners and investors in his ship, to prove how successful he’s been, and how much he’s earned them, less demurrage in Prize-Court harbours, in Proctors’ fees, less operating costs and repairs, and those are not in a personal code.”
“So, you think you have an idea of who’s guilty, Bury?” Lewrie asked, sitting up straighter and scooting to the edge of the settee.
“I do, sir,” Bury said with a sly smile. “All his payments are to one firm, the Tybee Roads Trading Company, of Savannah. I also… here,” Bury went on, laying aside the accounts ledger and picking up a thicker book, nigh the size of a thick dictionary. But when Bury opened the cover, it was revealed to be a box. “To prove to his investors and owners that each purchase and outlay was legitimate, Captain Chaptal kept signed receipts. While some are signed by various factotums of the Tybee Roads Trading Company, a great many, as well as receipts from Prize Courts at Havana, Fort-de-France and Basse-Terre, are signed by a Mister Edward Treadwell, who styles himself as President of the firm. This Treadwell and his firm appear to make over ten percent of each prize, plus Chaptal’s ship’s needs. There are stacks and stacks of them, seemingly filed in this box in neat, chronological order. Though…”
“We know the firm, we know the company, and we know the bastard behind it!” Lewrie crowed in glee. “Do we take these books to the authorities in Savannah, they’ll hang him!”
“Though, sir, there may be a second unidentified man,” Bury said, frowning in puzzlement. “For the most part of Chaptal’s journal he refers to ‘ mon vieux ’ as his principal dealer, but in the last two references to prizes brought in, he mentions someone he calls ‘ coton ’, so there may be another company, and without corroborating account books, I cannot-” Bury was cut off by Lewrie’s peel of laughter, by his rocking back onto the settee’s back and slapping his knee.
“‘My old’, and ‘Cotton’, and Treadwell, are one and the same, Bury!” Lewrie hooted, loud enough to make his cats start. “Chaptal calls him ‘ mon vieux ’ not in the ‘old friend’ sense, but because this Treadwell looks old, no matter he’s no older than me. He calls him coton because he has a very full and curly head of white hair, as white as carded and washed cotton! My Purser, Mister Cadbury, met him at Savannah, and remarked on his appearance. Now!”
Lewrie sprang from the settee and went a bit forward to the starboard-side chart space, fetching a book off the fiddled shelf to bring back into better light. He sat down and opened it, running a finger down the tightly spaced entries, squinting over the wee type.
Damme, do I need spectacles? Lewrie thought, vexed; I ain’t that old, surely!
“According to the ephemeris, Lieutenant Bury, the next dark of the moon is in eleven days,” Lewrie said, looking up from the book at last. “Eleven days from now, once Thorn rejoins us, I intend that the squadron be off the Cumberland Sound and up the Saint Mary’s River t’see what we can catch. Pen ’em in and row up to destroy ’em, or catch ’em as they try to run. Either way, we put paid to this fiendish business!”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“We will not get far up the Saint Mary’s, I fear to say, sir,” Mr. Caldwell, the Sailing Master, cautioned as he, Lewrie, and Lieutenant Westcott huddled over the dining table two days later, where one of the purchased American-made charts was spread out.
“Not with Reliant, no,” Lewrie said, lifting Chalky off to set him back on the deck, “and not with a cat in the way. At the best, we might ascend the river as far as the narrows ’twixt Cumberland Island and Amelia Island, then come to anchor athwart the channel with springs on the cables to block any escape with our guns. If these soundings are right, there seems to be about thirty to fourty feet of depth for her. From there, it’ll be up to the sloops and gunboats.”
Actually, the American-drawn chart, told them little. The river entrance was called the Saint Mary’s, the bay to seaward was named the Cumberland Sound, but once in the entrance, the river itself was named Cumberland Sound, no matter its narrowness.
There was sufficient depth in the entrance narrows between Cumberland Island and Amelia Island on the South bank, with a width of half a mile. Once past the narrows, the Cumberland widened to about two-thirds of a mile and swung Nor’west to make a fairly large bay before trending more Northerly and narrowing once more to less than a half mile. If one followed the main course of the Cumberland Sound far enough, the chart finally referred to it as the Cumberland River, and fed into the much larger St. Andrew Sound below Jekyll Island.
Spooked privateers, pirates, or smugglers could flee up that way and make the sea, or scuttle up one of the minor rivers or creeks and run for miles before they turned narrow and too shallow.
Making pursuit worse, barely half a mile past the entrance to the Cumberland, the Amelia River fed in from the South behind the island of the same name, and snaked round before being joined by the Bells River and Lanceford Creek.
And just where the Cumberland veered Nor
th lay yet another of those joinings; the real St. Mary’s came in from the West, but not an hundred yards off the river’s mouth there was the Jolly River, which ox-bowed through swamps and marshes from the Sou’west!
“There’s more waterways than a dog has fleas, it appears, sir,” Lt. Westcott glumly said. “The privateers could flee up any one of them as soon as they spot us. We will have to block this Amelia River as soon as we enter… unless that’s where they’re anchored. Then we’ll have to be quick about it to reach this second fork, where the Jolly River and the Saint Mary’s enter. We might need double the number of boats.” Westcott was impatient, bored, and he would pick nits.
“I see no notes indicating the rate of the currents,” Lewrie complained, scanning the margins of the chart, “nor are there any tide measurements. I wonder if our privateers and smugglers lay out only one anchor, or two, depending on how strong the currents are, or if the tide flow is stronger. Depending on how high up past the entrance they moor, of course. If by one, they might be stern-on to us, and slowed by the currents when they try to cut and run.”
“But we would be slowed at the same rate in our pursuit, sir,” the sailing Master just had to point out.
“Our best bet is to catch them sleeping,” Lt. Westcott suggested, “before they realise we’re among them. We will be under sail, or under sweeps and oars, and we could catch them before they wake, cut their cables, and hoist sail.”
“Or man their guns,” Lewrie added.
“And manning their guns at the same time, aye sir,” Westcott agreed. “Just where, though…” He trailed off, making a humming noise through his nose and drumming the point of his pencil on the chart. “How high up must we go before we meet up with them, that is the question. How far would they go to feel safe from prying eyes?”
This lower-most part of the Georgia coast was much like the marshes to either side of the Savannah River; it was as flat as the top of a dining table, and most of the shoreline maritime forests were wind-gnarled and did not grow very high, though they were dense, a mix of hardwoods and slender pines. Perhaps a mile or so inland along one of the minor rivers or creeks, in still-water sloughs behind the Sea Islands, there might be cypresses and live oaks which would screen the top-masts of ships from observation from the sea, but… where?
“Recall what those two sailors told us,” Lewrie called to mind. “They boasted that if caught by an American Revenue cutter, they’d hug the South bank of the Saint Mary’s and be in Spanish territory. And, if someone like us came along, they’d row over to the North bank and be ‘safe as babbies in their mither’s arms?’” he said with a chuckle as he mimicked an Irish lilt. “The entrance to the Cumberland Sound, and the wide part of the river to the mouth of the Saint Mary’s, is divided down the middle ’twixt Spain and the United States, as is the Saint Mary’s itself. They get behind Cumberland Island and they’re out of sight from seaward. They get into the mouth of the Saint Mary’s, and go up about half a mile, and they would be all but invisible. There,” he said tapping a finger on the chart, “or here, a bit up the Amelia River, are the likeliest places, I should think.”
Mr. Caldwell pulled a brass divider from his pocket, laid its spread points along the half-mile scale on the chart and stepped off the distance from the entrance narrows to the mouth of the St. Mary’s River proper, then grunted. “We shall either come upon them almost at once in the Amelia River, or have to go about two miles further on to the mouth of the Saint Mary’s, and perhaps another half mile up-river. You will wish to strike just at dawn, I would assume, sir?”
“At murky, sleepy pre-dawn, if we can pull that off, depending on the river current and the tide,” Lewrie eagerly told him. “Are your books sufficient, Mister Caldwell, or should we gut a few chickens to read the auguries?”
Caldwell raised a brow and harumphed, in good humour over his captain’s jape. He turned to his tide table book. “That may be asking a lot, sir. Eight or nine days from now? Hmm.”
While Caldwell hummed, hawed, and pondered, Chalky hopped back atop the table and sprawled on his back, belly exposed and his forepaws waving for attention. Westcott reached out to teasingly touch him on the back legs and belly, making Chalky squirm, writhe, and lash his tail madly, trying to seize the finger for a nip and gnaw.
“Too quick for you today, hey?” Westcott gloated. “Ow!”
“Twine or a length of wool’s safer,” Lewrie cautioned too late.
“Ahem,” Caldwell announced at last, clearing his throat in preface of his “ruling” on the matter. “This part of the American coast had never been adequately surveyed, sir, and any estimates of local tides are mathematical extrapolations from better-surveyed ports up the coast, such as Savannah or Port Royal. Loose ‘lick and a promise’ extrapolations, mind. It would appear that the most desirable high tides occur two or three hours after midnight, and the rise might be between three and a half to five feet. This chart describes only the sketchiest attempts at measuring it. The low tides occur mid-morning.”
“Damn,” Lewrie groused.
“The ebb below mean low-tide depths marked on the chart, though, are reckoned to be only three-quarters to one and a half feet,” the Sailing Master went on with a happy uplift of one corner of his mouth. “Given the indicated depths in the entrance channel where you wish to anchor our ship, sir, which range from thirty-three feet to fourty or more, Reliant should be quite safe, even at the greatest variation of a new moon low tide. Of course, such does not signify for the rest of the squadron, which only draw ten to twelve feet. Barring the presence of unforseen silt and sediment shoals, even Thorn will swim most ably into the Cumberland, and up the tributaries… the Saint Mary’s most especially.”
“Very well, then!” Lewrie declared, rubbing his hands together in relief. “There’s where Reliant will come to anchor nine days from now,” he said, using a pencil to make an X on the chart just outside the entrance channel, “say, around midnight, giving us bags of time to man the gunboats and the smaller boats, sort them out into order, and… Get out of the way, Chalky!”
“With less chance that any watchers posted near the channel might see us,” Westcott agreed, “or warn them before we’re on our way to their lair… whichever river it will be.”
“The Saint Mary’s,” Lewrie assured him. “It’s the likeliest.”
Settled upon that destination, Lewrie leaned down to peer at the chart more closely, tracing the course of the St. Mary’s West to the first bend which sharply turned South, about two miles along, and ran South for another mile before yet another ox-bow that led to the Nor’west. There was a good, deep channel all the way, deep enough for any of their ships if they kept to the Spanish side ’til they reached the Southern bend. There was a patch that showed only thirteen feet, before hitting a deep pool at the ox-bow bend with nigh-fourty feet of water on the American side, then averaged twenty to twenty-four feet on the Spanish side of the river to the next bend. The chart did not cover enough territory; it was more concerned with the immediately accessible waters near the sea.
Far as I know, the bloody river snakes its way to the Gulf of Mexico! Lewrie thought; Surely, we won’t have t’chase ’em that far! If it is navigable that far, shouldn’t there be a town of some kind up there, far inland, where they can dash ashore and get lost in the population? Damn, and double-damn!
“Well, thank you, Mister Caldwell, you are most re-assuring,” Lewrie said, returning to the here-and-now. “Thankee, indeed.”
“My pleasure, sir, and my duty,” Caldwell preened, bowing his head. “If I may be excused now, sir, I told the youngest Mids that I would test them on their knowledge of the principal stars.”
“Of course, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie gladly told him.
Just so long as ye don’t think t’test me ! Lewrie thought; What got lashed into me, I’ve mostly forgotten!
Lewrie rolled up the chart to stow it away, spilling Chalky onto his feet most-nettled that “play” was over. Toulon had
finally gotten from the deck to a chair seat, thence atop the table, and sat on his haunches, looking about to see what fun he might have missed. He and Chalky got sufficient “wubbies” to mollify them.
“Care for some fresh air on deck, Mister Westcott?” Lewrie invited. “It’s hot and stuffy in here.”
“Delighted, sir,” Westcott agreed.
* * *
They spent some time strolling the quarterdeck to savour the wind and the clear sunshine. Far to the Sou’west the isle of Bimini was just above the horizon, a wee speck set in the heaving and short-chopped seas near the Northwest Providence Channel. They paced side-by-side for several minutes without speaking, ’til Lt. Westcott spoke up.
“Have you given any thought to the allocation of the gunboats, sir?” Westcott asked in a low voice, “And which of us will stay with the ship?”
“I’m torn between whether the armed ships’ boats will lead, or whether the gunboats should,” Lewrie mused. “It could turn out to be a cutting-out, if all goes accordingly, and we might let some of the sloops’ crew manage that, with some of our Marines parcelled out with them. With the gunboats very close astern, with our hands and more Marines in them. Perhaps all at once, ships’ boats and gunboats working in concert.”
“Hmm… depending on whether we achieve complete surprise or not, sir,” Westcott seemed to agree. “Though, once we anchor, there is the very real possibility that it will take longer than planned to get everyone ready to go. It always does, sir, or seems to.”
“Aye,” Lewrie said. “There’s many a slip ’twixt the crouch and the leap.”
“Our cutters and barges, sir,” Westcott went on, “that’s four. Two boats of decent size each from the other ships, that makes a total of ten.”
“Lovett’s Firefly has no Lieutenant, and only one Midshipman,” Lewrie pointed out. “Perhaps only eight boats, divided into two divisions, or flotillas, or what-you-call-’ems. It’d be best did Lovett keep his small crew together. That will require an aggressive officer to command one division, on the water and closer to the action.”
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