Toulon and Chalky were making eager mrrs, slapping their shrimp in play-kill, and leaping in alarm when the shrimp limply thrashed in return. Chalky finally nipped one and ran off a few feet with it, but dropped it when its antennae wriggled.
“Just think of ’em as big cockroaches, lads,” Lewrie told them. “Ye have no trouble with those.”
“One thing in our favour, sir,” Lt. Westcott pointed out, “the land round here is so marshy and flat, and the coastal forests so low, that any ship of decent size, with her masts standing, can be spotted quite easily.”
“Unless they’re of shallow-enough draught to make their way up the maze of rivers, and round a bend or two where the trees are tall enough to hide them,” Lewrie rejoined with a glum look. “Back of the marshes, there’s white oak and live oak forests, an hundred years old or better. Hmpf! Perhaps we ought to come back with barricoes of silver, and buy prime shipbuilding oak from America. We’ve scavenged our own forests, and half of Hamburg’s exports, just t’keep the Navy in good repair … much less keep up with new construction. Come, sir … take a look at this chart of the Georgia coast round Savannah. It gives me a headache.”
It wasn’t that far South of where Reliant lay fetched-to, but it was rather daunting to contemplate how many inlets and sounds, how many rivers feeding into the ocean, into those sounds, lay before them, all of which could harbour enemy ships behind the myriad of fertile barrier islands, the Sea Islands.
Round the mouth of the Savannah River, there was Turtle Island and Jones Island on the North bank, with broad streams leading round and behind them. To the South bank, there was Big Tybee Island nearest the sea, with Cockspur Island and McQueen’s Island between the mainland and Tybee Roads. Further South was Wassaw Sound below Big Tybee Island, with another snake’s nest of tributaries, and the mouth of the Wilmington River which led deep inland. South of Wassaw Island, lay Ossabow Sound, another deep gash, with Racoon Key at its upper reach, fed by the Vernon River, and the Little and the Big Ogeechee Rivers.
“It gets worse,” Lewrie said, running a finger down the chart to St. Catherine’s Sound, Sapelo Sound, Doboy Sound, and Altamaha Sound at the mouth of yet another long, inland river. The charts showed a small port, Brunswick, near Kings Bay and St. Simons Sound, further South of there, then Jekyll Sound, St. Andrews Sound, and Cumberland Sound (past islands of the same names), where the St. Mary’s River fed into Cumberland Sound, and that river was the border between the state of Georgia and Spanish Florida.
“Good Lord, but this could take ’til mid-century, sir,” Lieutenant Westcott commented with his head cocked over in awe.
“Once we’ve recovered all our boats, I wish us to get under way and come to anchor in Tybee Roads, if there’s enough daylight to see what we’re doing when we get there,” Lewrie said, stepping off the short distance with a brass divider, and measuring the span against the mileage legend on the side of the chart. “Come morning, we will signal for a pilot … assumin’ we can get up-river with our depth of keel. That failing, I’ll take one of the barges up-river to confer with our Consul in Savannah. God, another couple of days in flummery!”
“Whilst I and the other officers can look forward to even more fishing and ‘yachting’, sir?” Lt. Westcott said with a snicker.
“Round the mouth of the river, perhaps,” Lewrie said, tossing the brass dividers into the binnacle cabinet. “To probe all of these sounds, you’d need the rest of our wee squadron, and all their boats. We’ve been away too long as it is, and God knows what they’ve gotten into.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott replied. “I shall get way on the ship directly.”
“Lord, lord, a whole bushel o’ shrimps!” Mr. Cooke marvelled once he’d clapped eyes upon them. “Lookee heah, Mistah Yeovill! Dey be enough fo’ de Cap’m’s table and de whole wardroom!”
“They look like bugs!” Midshipman Entwhistle disparaged.
“Dey eat good, sah,” Cooke assured him, “oncet ya boil ’em up an’ peel ’em. Folks up in Charleston ain’t high on ’em, but back on Jamaica, we know how t’do ’em right.”
“Nothing for the cockpit?” Midshipman Grainger asked, sounding plaintive. “Not even a morsel for our mess?”
“Beg pahdon fo’ askin’, Mistah Grainger, sah, but … what’d you bring back?” Cooke asked. The ship’s cook, was a big and burly fellow with a rumbling and loud bass voice, and could seem quite daunting to those who did not know his pleasant nature.
“Well, a drum fish, a sheepshead, and some mullet,” Grainger tallied up.
“Yah messman kin bake ’em for yah,” Cooke told him.
“I bought a decent lot of blue crab at Port Royal,” the Purser piped up. “For a nominal sum, I could provide a few to the cockpit’s mess.”
“Shrimps, and crab!” Cooke barked in glee. “Mistah Yeovill, I do b’lieve we could do up a boil fo’ de cockpit, de wardroom, and de Cap’m.”
“I’ll add mine to that,” Lt. Westcott eagerly offered, waving his sack of shrimp. He tossed it to Cooke, who emptied it into the bushel basket, along with the rest of the shrimp.
“Beg pardon, Mister Westcott, but all our boats are secured,” Bosun Sprague reported, squinting dubiously at the basket’s contents. “People eat those things?” he muttered.
“Very well, Mister Sprague,” Westcott said after looking over to Lewrie. At his nod, he further said, “Pipe ‘Stations’ for getting under way, if you please.”
* * *
Just a bit before a spectacular sundown, HMS Reliant rounded up into wind, took in sail, and dropped her best bower to come to anchor in Tybee Roads. Once the hands of the Afterguard had brailed up the spanker and mizen tops’l and had coiled up and stowed away all of the running rigging lines, Lewrie could take a slow stroll round the quarterdeck and look outward to see what he could see, and to savour the sunset. The heat of the day was going, and the light winds blowing from the Sou’east were pleasantly, almost tropically, warm and comforting. Reliant had not yet lit her taffrail lanthorns, belfry lamp, or deck lanthorns for the night, though the other ships anchored in Tybee Roads already had. He thought of fetching a telescope, but the daylight was fading too quickly for close study. Even without one he could determine that most of the anchored ships were brigs or brigantines, most moored further up the mouth of the river nearer Turtle Island, and the few larger three-masted, full-rigged ships were anchored below Cockspur Island in deeper water. One of them had barge-like hoys and sailing lighters nestled alongside her, as if her master was loath to sail all the way up-river to Savannah’s docks, and was lading or discharging his cargo here; perhaps Savannah’s exports and imports were handled in that way, for ships which couldn’t find enough depth?
As light as the sundown wind was, it was sufficient to stream Reliant’s large Union flag to advert her nationality to one and all. All the other anchored ships, both big and small, displayed the blue-and-starry canton, and the red and white horizontal stripes, of America.
Lewrie heaved a small, wary snort. He had used the ruse of flying a false flag in the past to stride up within pistol-shot of an enemy ship, before whipping it down and hoisting true colours at the last instant. What he, or any other nation, could do, anyone else could do, be they a merchantman or a privateer. Might one of the brigs or brigantines be a Frenchman in disguise, this very moment?
Two Bells were struck on the ship’s bell; it was half past six, and one half-hour into the short Second Dog Watch. Marine Lieutenant Simcock was mustering and inspecting his sentries in the waist before posting them at the forecastle, on the gangways, and the taffrails to guard against hostile raiders or deserters willing to try a long swim to freedom.
Time for a drink, Lewrie told himself; for it’s been a long and depressin’ day.
“I will be aft and below,” Lewrie told the Midshipman of the harbour watch, Mr. Warburton. On his way to the starboard ladderway, he stepped on something both squishy and crunchy. He picked it up; it was one of the shrimp that
his cats had slapped about, then abandoned un-eaten. Toulon’s, most-like, Lewrie thought as he heaved it over the side; I’m sure Chalky managed his.
He looked round for the pestiferous ship’s dog, but there was no sign of it. Bisquit was likely below on the mess deck or in the Mid’s cockpit, begging affection … or in the warm galley with Mr. Cooke, awaiting his evening tucker. It was safe for Lewrie to open the door to his cabins!
“Evening, sir,” Pettus greeted him, looking up from the dining table where he was laying a place for one. “Care for a glass of something before supper, sir?”
“A nice, cool white wine, Pettus, thankee,” Lewrie said, going to the starboard-side settee to fling himself down on it and prop his booted legs atop the round brass Hindoo tray table. “It’s seafood, tonight, so a white’ll do main-well. Here, lads! Here, cats!”
“Right away, sir,” Pettus replied, going to the wine-cabinet to rummage round ’til he found the right bottle. “Yeovill said he was preparing something new for your sweets, sir … a pie that he and Mister Cooke discovered at Charleston. Sold on the streets by Black ladies, he said, and it took quite a lot to worm the receipt from them on how to prepare it, he said. What Yeovill called pecan pie, sir.”
“Oh, I had a slice o’ that when I dined ashore, aye!” Lewrie enthused. “Sinful-good, it was, and so sweet and gooey, it could make your teeth hurt. I’m lookin’ forward t’that.”
Pettus brought him a glass of Rhenish, though it was hard to take a sip once he got it, for Toulon and Chalky had swarmed his lap, stomach, and chest, purring and shoving their heads under his hands for long-delayed affection.
A hellish task I’ve been set, t’peek into all these damned inlets and sounds, Lewrie told himself; but, at the end of the day, at last, there’s pleasant rewards.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lewrie had heard of the beauty and elegance of Savannah, but at first impression, the moment that his barge ghosted up to the teeming commercial docks, it looked as dowdy as any seaport. And, so many miles inland from Tybee Roads and the reach of a fresh sea-wind, the place had a reek about it. Add to that the fact that it was by then late May and the climate was warm, humid, and almost steamy, and Captain Alan Lewrie would have gladly avoided the place, if he could.
He had brought along the Ship’s Purser, Mr. Cadbury, of course, to purchase fresh victuals, though there was little the ship needed at present, after their previous stops, and in the course of that, to spy out the commercial trade to see if any war matériel might be stocked for sale to privateers … on the sly, if Cadbury could manage it.
He had also brought along Mr. Midshipman, the Honourable Albert Entwhistle, who was by then a seasoned, and most presentable, twenty-year-old. His barge was manned by his Cox’n, Liam Desmond, with stroke oar Patrick Furfy, and the same hands who’d accompanied him up the Cape Fear River to Wilmington. Lewrie, Cadbury, and Entwhistle could possibly be lodged with their consul’s residence, and the hands in his coach house; if not, Lewrie had come prepared with a full coin purse for food and lodging.
Their consul, though …
There had been no time to send an introductory letter up-river after anchoring the evening before, so Lewrie and his party arrived as a surprise. Once the boat was secured at a riverfront chandlery, he and his men set out to find the consul’s residence, or his offices. A clerk at the chandlery assured them where Mr. Hereford could be found, in an office behind the sprawling docks and warehouses, not two blocks off … though the clerk did not sound all that respectful.
Lewrie discovered the reason for that dis-respect when he got to the given address, and found that Mr. Hereford kept a small office in a brick building full of lawyers, a pre-Revolution mansion that had seen better days, and had been sub-divided into a nasty warren of tiny suites. An upper-storey door to one suite bore a painted wood plaque announcing “Mr. R. L. E. Hereford, Esq., H.M. Consul”, and Lewrie rapped on it several times, with no response. He tried the door knob and it opened easily, so he swung the door fully open and stepped in.
“Excuse me. Anyone in?” he called out as he entered a small anteroom filled with bookcases, a desk, chair, and a sitting area off to one side. There was a settee there, and from it sprang a liveried Black servant, his white periwig askew, and his eyes as wide as saucers. He emitted an “Eep!”, gulped twice, and looked as if he would run, given the chance.
“Captain Alan Lewrie,” he told that quaking worthy. “I’m come to speak with the British Consul. Is he in?”
“Eep!” the servant reiterated, twitching his clothing back to good order, and fussing with his wig. “Mistah … Mistah Hereford, he’s in, sah … Cap’m sah … but…!”
“Announce me if you will, there’s a good fellow,” Lewrie said.
“Yassuh, yassuh, right away,” the servant said, going to the other door at the back of the anteroom and slipping inside, closing it behind him.
“Damn’ odd way to maintain offices, sir,” Midshipman Warburton said in a sidelong mutter. “Must not do much business here.”
Lewrie thought much the same, for the book cases were crammed with piles of loose correspondence angled any-old-how, legal books in piles on the floor, on the small outer-office desk, and all filmed with a noticeable coating of dust, as if nothing of import had taken place in a month of Sundays. From behind that second door, Lewrie could hear water being splashed, some impatient mutters, and then the sound of gargling and spitting. The door was opened again, and the liveried Black servant stepped through to the anteroom, shutting it at once, softly. “His Excellency, Mistuh Hereford, will be with ya sho’tly, Cap’m.” He then stood by the doorway, waiting, eyes half-shut.
His “Excellency”, mine arse. Lewrie scoffed to himself.
After a long wait, the door to the inner office opened, and a gentleman stepped through it. Mr. Hereford’s reaction to the sight of a Royal Navy officer was most unlike his servant’s; the fellow scowled and squinted as if Lewrie’s presence was a bother.
“Richard Hereford, your servant, sir,” the fellow announced as he performed a slight bow from the waist. “My man said you are Captain … uhm?” he prompted, with a brow up and hand waved in the air.
“Alan Lewrie, captain of the Reliant frigate, Mister Hereford,” Lewrie told him, performing a deeper bow. “My pardons for not sending word of my arrival in Tybee Roads last evening, sir, but the 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!”
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