Reefs and Shoals

what?”

“In that case, I gladly accept your kind invitation, Mister Cotton,” Lewrie said, thinking that a fresh-water bath would be more than welcome after sponge-bathing aboard ship with a meagre allotment of daily issue. “If it’s possible, there is a Mister Douglas McGilliveray with whom I should very much like to make a re-acquaintance. I met him during the Quasi-War, when our Navy and the United States worked together against the French.”

“A most excellent suggestion, Sir Alan!” Cotton enthused. “He, of one of the oldest families, and of a long- established trading firm to boot! I’ll send him and his wife an invitation, at once.”

“I’ll sleep out of the ship for tonight, Mister Grainger,” Lewrie told the Midshipman. “Return for me tomorrow, by Four Bells of the Forenoon. Warn Yeovill and Pettus.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“Shall we go, then, Sir Alan?” Cotton bade. “It is but a short stroll to my establishment.”

* * *

“You are to fulfill your orders with but one ship, Sir Alan?” Mr. Cotton said, with a shake of his head, after he had read the directives from London that Lewrie had presented to him. “Such a task is quite Herculean.”

“I scraped up three smaller sloops to help,” Lewrie told him, between sips of hot tea. “They’re prowling round Saint Augustine, at present. We’ve made a small beginning, putting a wee scare into Spanish privateers on the coast of Cuba, scouted the Florida Keys, and took on two schooners in Mayami Bay. Burned ’em. Spanish privateers I expect are as thick as fleas on a hound… You haven’t seen any o’ them here at Charleston, have you, Mister Cotton?”

“No Spanish privateers, no, Sir Alan,” Cotton informed him. “A rare Spanish merchantman, now and again, but none have put in in the last few months. American ships, with goods from Spanish colonies, dominate the trade, though there’s little exported to the Dons. The Spanish crown demands a strict mercantilism. It must be imports from Spain, or another of their colonies, carried in Spanish bottoms, or nothing. There is a Spanish Consul here- Don Diego de Belem-twiddling his thumbs and attending parties, poor fellow, with nothing to do for his benighted country. Quite charming, actually.”

“And the French?” Lewrie asked.

“Now and then,” Cotton said with a sly nod. “Captain Mollien has put in several times, ostensibly on trade from the French West Indies isles, though there’s never many goods landed, or cargo taken aboard for export. She’s the Otarie, by the way, Sir Alan.” Seeing Lewrie’s brow go up in question, he added, “It means ‘Sea Lion’.”

“Are you able to determine what he does land, and what he buys in exchange?” Lewrie asked. “Goods looted from prizes? Powder and shot for his guns?”

“Thankfully, since my posting here three years ago, I have been able to cultivate good relations with the trading houses and the ship chandlers of Charleston, Sir Alan, so I am able to be made conversant of any violations of American neutrality. To aid on that head, there is a small United States naval presence in Charleston… one or two gunboats… and a cutter from the Revenue Service, to enforce the Customs House officials. I can assure you that no French vessel that puts into Charleston is able to purchase war-like materiel, or lands suspect goods.”

“Well, good,” Lewrie said, a tad relieved to hear that. That would be one more American port to scratch off his list.

“What happens in Stono Inlet or Edisto, however, is less sure,” Cotton continued. “If an unscrupulous merchant could load up a small coasting vessel and meet a French privateer, well, I have no purview, and few ways of learning of such dealings. Though, as I said, the U.S. Navy and Revenue Service do keep an eye on the possibility, but not a constant watch.”

“And Georgetown?” Lewrie asked, squirming in his chair.

“I look out for our interests in Georgetown, as well, sir,” Cotton told him, “though I do not get up there more than once every two months or so.”

“I thought to look in on our way South from Wilmington, but wasn’t sure if I could get my ship into Winyah Bay,” Lewrie said. “Are there any chandleries there that could handle the needs of privateers?”

“Wood, water, and perhaps some salt meats,” Cotton said with a cock of his head, as if picturing the port and its waterfront in his mind, building by building. He then shook his head in the negative. “There is the rice trade, which draws middling-sized ships in the coasting business, river trade up the Waccamaw, Black River, the Pee Dee as far up as Buck’s Port, and commercial fishing sufficient to the local market. Some coastal ships serve the slave trade… clothing, food, and such for the rice plantations, as well as slaves themselves, but most of that comes from Charleston, if it is not grown locally. At Buck’s Port, there is a decent shipyard… boatyard, really… and there is some construction and repair at Georgetown itself, up the Sampit River. Is a vessel in need of cordage, sails, repair work, or powder and shot, they’d most-like call in Charleston… but, as I’ve said, a close watch is kept by the U.S. and South Carolina governments.”

“Perhaps Savannah, Georgia, then,” Lewrie said with a sigh as he finished his cup of tea, and wishing he could doff his coat and waist-coat and loosen his neck-stock. Though it was only ten of the morning, the Spring day was getting warm, and Mr. Cotton’s offices were stifling.

“More tea, Sir Alan?” Cotton asked, inclining his head to summon a Black servant in a dark suit. “Perhaps in the side garden.”

Mr. Cotton’s establishment was a modest version of the grand mansions of Charleston, of only two storeys, not three or four, with his private study, library, dining room, and parlour, as well as his consular offices, on the first floor. The house was walled off from East Bay Street and Queen Street with brick walls topped with ornamental iron fences. Lewrie had noticed a small balcony above facing East Bay Street and the Cooper River, and the wharves, and a larger balcony projecting from the left of the house.

“Perhaps we could substitute a cooler beverage than tea, Sir Alan,” Cotton further tempted. He rose from his chair and followed the Black house servant to a set of glazed double doors that led out to a side garden. Two or three steps down from the house and Lewrie found himself on a brick patio beneath that projecting balcony where there was a small, round table and four chairs, a pair of wood-slat benches, and several large terra-cotta planters awash in azaleas and roses; there were other flowering bushes and flower beds, though Lewrie could only be sure of the roses and the azaleas. There was a large patch of lawn before one got to the rear of the property where the kitchens were, to separate its heat from the house. Lewrie was amazed to feel a rush of coolness, even a mild, restoring breeze!

“We will have the citrus tea, Amos,” Cotton ordered from his manservant.

“Yassuh.”

“Lemons and limes, wild oranges in season,” Cotton explained, “with an admixture of cool tea. The physicians all say that drinking too much citrus juice in warm climates can ruin your health, but I’ve done it for years, here, and have yet to suffer.”

“Long ago, I found that a pot of tea that had gone cold aboard ship was refreshing,” Lewrie heartily agreed. “It was drink it, or throw it out, and, with some lemon juice and sugar…! Except in very cold weather, I have a large pot brewed each day. Ashore, I allow myself a whole gallon!”

“Until the stored winter ice runs out, I prefer it with a sliver or two,” Mr. Cotton continued. “Though, by high summer, ice is hard to come by in Charleston… anywhere in the Low Country. Sometimes I add a bit of sweet Rhenish wine… though that is also hard to come by… the war, do you see.”

“Were you back in England, though, Mister Cotton, there’d be all the Rhenish ye’d wish,” Lewrie said, sprawling at ease with his booted legs extended. “Our illustrious smugglers could even fetch you Arctic ice in August! French wines, brandies, Dutch gin? Napoleon Bonaparte can claim he’s shut Europe off from Great Britain, but nobody told the smugglers!”

Mr. Cotton smiled and nodded in agreement, then turned soberer, looking off into the middle distance for a long moment before speaking again. “You know, of course, Sir Alan, that it took some time after the American Revolution before British goods were acceptable again in the United States. I doubt Charleston has seen a British warship in port since their Constitution was ratified. No… French goods were preferred, and still are, do you see.”