“For a battle off the Chandeleur Islands, near New Orleans,” Lewrie informed him. “We stopped the French from landing a regiment, and took four warships and a transport. September, two years ago. No one told us the French would sell Louisiana to the United States, a few months later!”
“The news of American purchase was an eight-day wonder to all here, too, Sir Alan,” Cotton told him, with a laugh. “A pity that we could not dine you out with the leading citizens of Charleston, on the strength of that… how your actions guaranteed that Bonaparte abandoned hopes of a French lodgement in New Orleans, and France in charge of the vast territories west of the Mississippi. Everyone is simply thirsting for quick expansion of settlements in such a vast virgin land. But… your ship may only stay in Charleston for three days before you must sail.”
“Hey?” Lewrie asked, confused.
“Well, Sir Alan, with a French vessel in harbour, the formalities must be strictly observed,” Cotton said. “Admiralty Law, and the neutrality of the United States might have allowed you a longer stay, but for her presence,” Cotton explained, jutting his chin seaward at the French schooner. “Just as your arrival will force Captain Mollien to sail. He could have kept his ship here for some time, yet, but for that.”
“She’s a privateer, isn’t she?” Lewrie snapped, his suspicions confirmed, and his eyes going from blue-grey to a colder Arctic colour.
“I strongly suspect she is,” Mr. Cotton agreed, “but… here, now. You will not make any moves against her, will you? Not right here in harbour, mean t’say…?”
Lewrie’s intensity, and those icy grey eyes made Mr. Cotton fear that Lewrie might be rash enough to attack the schooner outright!
“In a neutral harbour?” Lewrie scoffed. “Not likely, no sir.”
Cotton was immediately and visibly relieved.
“Let us go to my offices, Sir Alan, out of the moring sun, so we may discover the reason for your port call,” Mr. Cotton offered.
“Delighted, sir,” Lewrie said, smiling again. “Mister Grainger, return to the ship. I’ll be ashore some time, ’til supper at the…”
“Your pardons, Sir Alan,” Cotton interrupted, “but I do hope you will allow me to offer you the hospitality of my house for the night, and a shore supper. Even at short notice, I could reserve a table at a public dining establishment and invite a few of Charleston’s prominent citizens. Show the flag, all that, 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.