“I saw that in Wilmington,” Lewrie agreed as a large pitcher of the cool tea was brought out on a coin-silver tray, and two tall glasses were poured for them.
“Especially so here in the Low Country,” Cotton went on after a pleasing sip. “Many of the settlers hereabouts were of French Protestant emigre stock, whose memories of being massacred by Catholic kings and cardinals dimmed considerably. France is elegance, style, and the epitome of gracious living to them, as it is with everyone in America who aspires to grandeur… and believe me, Sir Alan, no one aspires grander than South Carolinians. Now, when the Peace of Amiens was in force, Charleston was flooded with luxury French goods not seen since the first war with Republican France in 1793. The wines, the brandies, and exotic spirits you mentioned, as well as lace, satins, silks, furniture, chinawares, and womens’ fashions from hats to slippers, came in regularly, and were snapped up practically the instant they were landed on the piers, the shopkeepers bedamned. Yet now, that trade is almost completely gone, again, the last two years entire. You mentioned smugglers?” Cotton coyly hinted.
“Meaning…” Lewrie slowly said, puzzling it out, “if there was a way to bring luxury goods in, people might turn a blind eye to the trade… and what’s allowed in exchange, too? I gather that you suspect that this Captain Mollien is bringing in goods he doesn’t declare to the Customs House… no,” Lewrie said, dropping that thought as implausible. “His schooner’s too small for a second, secret cargo, and if French luxuries are un- available t’honest traders, then where’s he gettin’ ’em? It don’t make sense.”
“It is only a suspicion, so far, Sir Alan,” Mr. Cotton mused. “Perhaps from the cargoes of British ships he’s taken, who knows?”
“Not from homeward-bound West Indies trades,” Lewrie objected. “That’s all rum, molasses, sugar, and dye wood. Trades headed to the West Indies don’t feature French goods, either. Where is he…?”
“Mistah Cotton, sah,” the house servant said, returning to the side garden, “dey’s a gennulmun come t’call on ya, sah. He says he has ta speak with ya.”
“Tell the fellow I am busy, Amos,” Cotton gruffly said. “Who is it, by the way?”
“It be Mistah Gambon, sah, the French Consul.”
“Gambon? Damn!” Mr. Cotton testily snapped. “Of all the gall!”
“One thing the Frogs have in plenty, Mister Cotton, is gaul,” Lewrie japed, “G-A-U-L, hey?” It didn’t go down anywhere near how he wished it, though, for Mr. Cotton was too upset.
“Amos, tell M’sieur Gambon that I cannot receive him now, but if he wishes to-” Cotton began to say.
“ Bon matin, Edward, good morning to you!” came a cheery, heavily accented voice from within the house as the fellow in question barged right out through the double doors to the side garden. “An’ what a fine morning eet ees, n’est-ce pas? Oh my, oui! Such clear sky-es, such a cool breeze! ’Allo to all!”
Cotton and Lewrie shot to their feet, Mr. Cotton diplomatically struggling to hide his glower, and Lewrie with one brow up in wonder. He beheld a dapper, balding toad of a man not over five feet five in height, “gotch-gutted” and rotund with good living, and dressed in the latest fashion. M’sieur Gambon’s shirt collar stood up in points to his double chins and splayed out as if to support his head which was as round as a melon, and his full-moon face. Gambon’s sideburns were brushed forward, and what little hair remaining on his pate was slicked forward in a pomaded fringe. His fashionably snug trousers were strapped under elegant light shoes, yet they, and his short double-breasted waist-coat, bulged at the waist like a pregnant woman.
“You eentroduce me to your guest, Edward?” M. Gambon requested with a wide smile on his face as he handed his hat, gloves, and walking stick to the servant. “He, and hees terrifying warship are ze reason I ’ave come to call upon you, een such haste, after all, dear Edward. Een ze name of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte and glorious France, I come to lodge ze strongest formal protest against the frigate’s presence.”
“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!”
“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.”
“ Tres 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’
