Reefs and Shoals

lateness of the hour would not admit rapid delivery. Allow me to name to you one of my senior Midshipman, Mister Entwhistle. I am come-”

“Welcome to Savannah, Captain Lewrie, Mister Entwhistle,” the Consul said. “God help you,” he added with a sneer. “One supposes that your errand is of an official nature, hmm? If you will follow me to my office, we may discover the nature of your visit. Will you take wine, sir, or might you prefer tea? Tea, it is, then.” He sounded a tad disappointed. “Ulysses, fetch the captain a pot of tea.”

“Yassuh, Massa,” the servant said, scuttling out into the hallway.

“A servant, or a slave, Mister Hereford?” Lewrie asked once he was seated in front of Hereford’s desk with his hat in his lap.

“Bought him,” Hereford answered, “the idle fool. One can’t do a thing in the American South without slaves. Even the poorest Whites, begging in the streets, reject the notion of house service, or body service. Gad, to recall how close I came to a posting at the North! Philadelphia, New York, or Boston, which are at least civilised, and cooler. Yet, here I find myself, croaking like a frog in a Georgia marsh, in a place as dis-agreeable as ‘Sweaty-pore’ in India.

“Now, Captain Lewrie… Sir Alan, one would suppose, hey?… what has brought you to Savannah?” Hereford asked. As Lewrie laid out his mission, where he had been so far, and upon whom he had called, Hereford made the proper “ahems” and “ahas” and “I sees” at the right places, and even dragged out a sheet of paper and a lead pencil with which to make notes. In the middle of all that, the pot of tea arrived, and the servant, “Ulysses”, poured cups for all, and offered cream and sugar. Mr. Hereford reached behind him to a sideboard and book case hutch for a decanter which he waved to them in invitation, filling the office with the tang of rum as he pulled the stopper. He shrugged at Lewrie’s and Entwhistle’s refusal, then openly poured himself a dollop into his tea, and damned what they thought.

Lewrie looked round Mr. Hereford’s inner office. It was bigger than the anteroom, and featured a set of glass- paned double doors leading out to a wide, railed balcony, as if the entire suite had at one time been a spacious bed-chamber, music room, or upper parlour. It was just as dusty, as crammed, and dis-organised as the anteroom office, though, and featured a suspiciously deep settee in one of the dark corners, furthest from the glazed doors. The cushions, and the pillows, still bore the impressions of its owner’s head and body. It appeared that Mr. R. L. E. Hereford, Esq., rarely saw visitors, and took long naps through his idle mornings.

“Privateers, do you say, Sir Alan?” Hereford mused aloud after a sip or two of his tea, leaning far back in his leather-padded chair to rest his cup and saucer on his upper chest. “I can’t say when the last time was that a French or Spanish vessel of any description put into Savannah, or even anchored at the mouth of the river. I arrived at this posting during the Peace of Amiens, and there were some ships from France, Spain, and Holland who came to trade, but… since the renewal of the war, the trade has shrivelled up to nothing, more’s the pity. One cannot imagine how dear a case of good wine, or a simple bottle of champagne, has become! At least our American ‘cousins’ do still trade with the Spanish West Indies, and tobacco is available in quantity. Why, were it not for the rare British ship, it would be impossible to obtain decent clothing or fabrics to entrust to clumsy local tailors, haw!”

Much good that does you! Lewrie sneeringly thought, for “His Excellency” Mr. Hereford’s suitings, expensive as they looked, were ill-fitted, rumpled from his naps, and in need of a good sponging to remove some stains. He wore a snuff-brown coat of broadcloth wool, a pearlescent waist-coat of a light gold colour, and a pair of buff trousers, all worn so long that every joint in his body had creased them into permanent wrinkles. His neck-stock was pale blue, badly, indifferently bound, too. To top it off, Hereford was possessed of one of those clench-jawed and “plummy” Oxonian accents natural to those born to the upper aristocracy, or those who affected it, that had always set Lewrie’s teeth on edge.

I’ll wager he drives Savannahans mad, too, he told himself, and imagined that was the reason the clerk at the chandlery had spoken so derisively of the British Consul. I don’t think I like him very much.

“I see that there’s only the one wee port South of here, the town of Brunswick, before the border with Spanish Florida, sir,” Lewrie posed. “Do you happen to get down that way very often?”

“Brunswick?” Hereford scoffed, pouring himself another dottle of rum into his tea. “A sleepy little place, a bare cut above a hamlet. Is there any trade conducted there, it is of little import, and strictly a local affair, conducted by vessels little larger than fishing smacks, mostly to serve the Sea Island plantations. Would that His Majesty’s Government see their way to providing me a decent subsidy, I would establish myself on Tybee Island for a summer residence.

“The planters, do you see, Sir Alan,” Hereford imparted with a smile, “the immensely wealthy ones, and many with the pretensions, maintain inland plantations, and summer plantations on the Sea Islands, which are so much healthier. Can they not get away from their active lands, they will at least send their women and children to Saint Simons, Jekyll, and Cumberland Islands to survive the heat and the humidity, if not the sicknesses, of the mainland. If a plantation out there will not do, they will at least have summer houses and truck gardens.”

“So, you don’t get down to Brunswick often, sir?” Lewrie asked once more, striving to not sound impatient with the fellow.

“Hardly ever a reason to do so, Sir Alan,” Hereford idly waved off, and took a deep sip of his “tea” with a welcome sigh.

“Might it be possible, then, Mister Hereford,” Lewrie went on, shifting in his chair, “for foreign vessels to put in there for a day or two… put into Wassaw or Ossabow Sounds, or one of the sounds below Brunswick, to take on firewood and water, and perhaps meet with a local chandler or trader, and re-victual without your knowledge, or the knowledge of American authorities?”

Hereford seemed stumped by the question, laying his head over to one side to ponder his answer for a long moment. “I would imagine that anything is possible, Sir Alan… though hardly plausible, d’ye see. Just how, for instance, could a foreign trader-most likely a smuggler wishing to avoid American import duties than a privateer-inform a nefarious trader from Savannah of his date of arrival, or which sound or inlet he will use for that particular cargo? On the other hand, how might the aforesaid nefarious trader communicate his wishes to the smuggler, what?

“In any case, such smuggling… if such is being conducted… would be of more concern to the United States Revenue Service than to Great Britain,” Mr. Hereford jovially dismissed. “We of the Consular branch do not interfere with the sovereign rights of our host nations. Neither do we presume to enmesh ourselves in the manner in which host nations enforce their customs fees or their laws, except when those laws, fees, and regulations involve British ships calling at American seaports. Anything else beyond that limited brief is ultra vires… a legal term for ‘actions beyond one’s legal authority or power’.”

Hereford gave them a little concluding smile and simper, then took another sip of his rum-laced tea, as if it was all settled.

“So, you would only look into rumours of smuggling, or supplying privateers, if they involved British merchantmen, or privateers, sir?” Lewrie summed up, feeling a very strong urge to leap across the desk and seize the arrogant fool’s neck and squeeze… hard!

“Well…” Hereford flummoxed, taken aback by the question. “If evidence-evidence, mind, not mere rumours-was brought to my attention that Crown subjects were engaged in smuggling, I would give the American authorities, both local and Federal, my most strenuous support. But such activities are most implausible, I assure you, Sir Alan. Upon what enemy trade might British privateers prey, sir, hey? There may be some crumbs to be gleaned in the West Indies, and in European waters, but not this side of the Atlantic, heh heh. Our merchant vessels calling at Savannah come from the West Indies in convoy, where your own Navy bonds them, and their cargoes are mostly salt, molasses, rum, dye wood, and tobacco, perhaps the most valuable commodity being refined sugar… as well you might know, had you ever served in the West Indies yourself, Sir Alan,” Hereford simpered again, condescendingly. Lewrie put a brow up and a scowl on at that remark, but that didn’t signify to Mr. Hereford; he would make his little jabs for the idle fun of them.

“Last Spring, I was part of an escorting squadron to a ‘sugar trade’, Mister Hereford,” Lewrie replied. “We lost three ships when level with Georgia and South Carolina, to French privateers who took us from the landward side, and hared off with their prizes to the West and Sou’west. That makes me think that they based themselves somewhere along the American coast, or had arrangements with Americans to sell off their stolen cargoes and