Reefs and Shoals

“Damned right, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie told him, letting out a whoosh of air. “We’re temptin’ Fate as it is. Mister Westcott? Fetch to. Hoist the ‘Request Pilot’ signal, and fire off a gun to wake ’em up.”

It took some time before there was a cannon fired in reply, and a small two-masted vessel appeared near the Eastern tip of Oak Island bound out to them.

* * *

“Arnold Dubden, your servant, sir,” the stout older pilot said once he’d gained the decks, doffing a wide- brimmed, nigh-shapeless hat. “You’d not be meaning to enter the river, now, would you?” he asked, looking incredulous.

“As I recall, Mister Dubden, that’d be asking too much,” Lewrie replied, doffing his own cocked hat. “Captain Alan Lewrie, the Reliant frigate, and I am your servant, sir, in need of safe anchorage.”

“That I can manage, Captain Lewrie,” Dubden said with a laugh. “My word, but the biggest ship to even try to enter the river was the old Hector, back before the Revolution, and she was only two hundred thirty tons, and didn’t draw twelve feet.”

“Once anchored, I suppose I can find passage up-river to Wilmington at Brunswick Town?” Lewrie asked.

“Lord, sir… there aren’t four buildings left o’ Brunswick Town, and one o’ them’s the tavern,” Dubden further related in amusement. “Smithville’s the main settlement, now, mostly for the pilots, cross the sound from Oak Island, and there isn’t what you’d call regular ferry service up-river. Catch as catch can, really.”

“Purser’s stores?” Lewrie asked. “Firewood and water?”

“You’ll find some at Smithville, Captain, but the main chandlers are up-river. You could send for some, I suppose,” Dubden told him.

“And the British Consul would also be up-river at Wilmington?” Lewrie pressed.

“’Fraid so, Captain, though he isn’t British,” Dubden related. “It’s a parcel o’ city lawyers who fill those posts. Well, there is a Frenchman who does for their consul duties, but the rest are local.”

“Hmmm… sounds as if I should take one of my barges, then,” Lewrie mused aloud. “Perhaps another for my Purser.”

“No need to do all your carrying yourself, Captain,” Dubden said. “Just send your needs up-river, and there’s lighters aplenty that can fetch your purchases down. I see you fly a broad pendant, Captain… There’s not a squadron offshore, is there? Mean to say… we’re not at war with you British again, are we?”

“Still completely at peace, and in total amity, sir!” Lewrie assured him. “My squadron at present is off Spanish Florida, looking for French and Spanish privateers.”

“Well, then!” Dubden brightened, sounding somewhat relieved by that news. “If you will get your ship under way, there’s deep water and good holding ground about half a mile further on, just off yonder.”

When Reliant was safely anchored fore and aft, all the sails handed and gasketed, Dubden took his leave, announcing his fee for his services. “There’s also one dollar due for the gunpowder, sir.”

“Hey?” Lewrie asked.

“For the gunpowder we used to answer your shot, Captain,” the fellow explained. “State regulations for pilotage.”

“The rate of exchange would be, ah…” the Purser, Mr. Cadbury, reckoned, “about five shillings, sir.”

Five shillings, for about ten pence of powder? Lewrie wondered; These Yankee Doodles are nothing but a pack of skin-flints and “Captain Sharps”! When I get up-river, I’d better go with a satchel, or a keg o’ coin!

After consulting Dubden about the local tides and winds, Lewrie decided to sail up the river early the next morning in one of the thirty foot barges, taking the Purser along to negotiate for the goods that Mr. Cadbury could not purchase from the Smithville traders that afternoon. Mr. Cooke, the ship’s Black cook, was eager for Cadbury to buy Cape Fear Low Country rice, and corn meal, along with as many pecks of berry fruits as possible. Lewrie’s own cook, Yeovill, popped up with a list of his own wants.

“Desmond?” Lewrie called down to the waist. “Come to the quarterdeck, if ye please.”

“Aye, sor?” his Cox’n asked, once there.

“We’ll take one of the barges up-river. Rig the best’un with two lugs’ls and a jib. I’ll want you and Furfy, and only two more of my gig’s crew… men you’re sure won’t take ‘leg-bail’ once we’re at Wilmington,” Lewrie directed. “It’ll be me, the Purser, for passengers.”

“Ye’ll not be wishin’ yer steward t’see to ye, sor?” Desmond asked, thinking it odd to not “show the flag” in proper style due the captain of a British frigate.

“We’ll be among staunch republicans, almost as bad as the sans-culottes French, Desmond,” Lewrie explained with a grin, “and the memories of the Revolution are still sharp. The less pomp and show, the better. Besides, there’s an old friend of mine in Wilmington, one we may find welcoming. If the wind fails us, I’ll take the tiller, and we’ll have four oars t’make steerageway. Best turn-out, mind, and we will shove off round dawn.”

“Aye, sor, the barge’ll be ready,” Desmond assured him, “even do I haveta bribe the Bosun for fresh paint!”

And let’s hope Christopher Cashman’s not turned into an American Jacobin, himself! Lewrie thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was a very pleasant day to be boating, even did it begin at “first sparrow fart” of a mid-April morning. Brown spotted gulls and white-headed gulls swirled round the mast-tops, and the black-headed laughing gulls flirted and mewed in taunting darts near the gunn’ls of the freshly-painted barge. Further off, dark cormorants hovered and gyred before twisting over to make their fish-killing dives, and clutches of pelicans winged along crank-necked further off. Flocks of white egrets and great blue herons could be seen, stalking on long legs on the nearest shoreline. Before the day warmed, the air was fresh and cool, redolent of marshes and fresh water, even as the barge breasted the surge of the making tide, leaving salt water for sweet. The boat heeled only slightly to a steady beam wind, churning a faint foamy-white bow wave and leaving only the faintest disturbance in the brown river in its wake. Looking up-river, or to either hand as it widened, the Cape Bear appeared a dark blue-green, but closer to, it was rich with leaf mould and the colour of aged tobacco leaves. All under the bluest morning sky, the whitest and least-threatening clouds, and the banks of the river lined with pine and oak brilliant with the fresh green leaves of Spring.

They passed a few landmarks that Lewrie remembered, like Orton Pond and the magnificent house at Orton Plantation to larboard, the New Inlet and Federal Point to starboard, the other riverfront manses further up-river whose names he had never learned, or forgotten, and Desmond, Furfy, and the other hands marvelled and jested as they had a snack of fresh-baked and buttered corn dodgers and small beer.

“There’s Wilmington, proper,” Lewrie pointed out at last, “and that’s the Dram Tree, that big cypress on the right bank. Sailors take a toast for a safe arrival, or at the beginning of an outward voyage, for good luck. Let’s steer for the nearest docks, the ones in front of the Livesey, Seabright and Cashman Chandlery, Desmond.”

“Take a dram, did ye say, Cap’m sor?” Patrick Furfy piped up. “An’ an’t it a foine tradition! Might be we…?”

“For our departure, Furfy, sorry,” Lewrie had to tell him. “But, if the chandlery has a keg of ale handy, we’ll take a ‘wet’.”

“Hand the jib, Hartnett. Pat, your and Thomas see to lowerin’ the lugs’ls,” Desmond directed. They were far above the reach of the making tide, in fresh water, which made Wilmington a welcome harbour where saltwater marine growth would die whilst at anchor, but a goodly current was running. Lewrie tapped Mr. Cadbury on the shoulder, and they both fetched a pair of oars from the barge’s sole, ready to be put into the tholes to maintain steerageway while the sailors saw to wrapping the lugs’ls round their gaff booms and lashing the sheets and