Hopefully, they’d report back aboard on time, the most of them, suffer their thick, woozy heads after drinking themselves silly, and not cause so much of a riot ashore that he would have to hold an all-day Captain’s Mast, or “let the cat out of the bag” on too many men. Sailors, soldiers, and Provost police were an explosive mixture. He almost felt the need to keep the fingers of his right hand crossed all day, or knock wood on every passing push-cart, but … he had to see Secret Branch’s man, Thomas Mountjoy.

*   *   *

That worthy had told him most casually the day before that he kept the semblance of an office where he pretended to engage in trade, but there were dozens of those, and Lewrie had not thought to enquire just where it was, so he set off in search of it, walking South along the quays into the commercial district of high-piled rented offices, warehouses, and large shops, into a teeming throng of carts and goods waggons, sweating stevedores, wares hawkers, and wheelbarrow men, all working in some urgency. The shouts and deal-making in English were rare standouts in the loud jibber-jabber of foreign tongues. The odours of fresh-sawn lumber and sawdust, kegged beers and wines, exotic oils, fruits and vegetables—both fresh and rotten—stood out among the dusty dry smells wafting from the many storehouses full of various grains, and massive piles of ground-flour sacks inside them.

“Ah, Captain Lewrie, sir,” said a voice quite near his elbow, which almost made Lewrie jump. “Deacon, sir,” Mountjoy’s bodyguard said. “You’re looking for our offices, I expect?”

“I am, aye,” Lewrie replied, “and good morning to you, Mister Deacon.”

“You walked right past it,” Deacon said, jerking his head to indicate the general direction. “Mister Mountjoy is expecting you. If you’ll follow me, sir?”

Deacon led him back North about fifty yards to an ancient pile of a quayside house of three storeys, now converted to offices. They went up to the second level, and into a rather small two-room suite overlooking the harbour. A crowded billboard by the entry, and one on the door to the suite, announced the presence of THE FALMOUTH IMPORT & EXPORT COMPANY.

“Aha! Found him, did you, Deacon?” Mountjoy said with glee. “Take a pew, Captain Lewrie. A glass of cool tea? Took a page from your book, d’ye see, especially in these climes.”

The offices were cramped and stuffy, and smelled ancient. The floorboards creaked, as did his chair when Lewrie sat himself down. Both large windows were open, and the shutters swung open to relieve that stuffiness, letting in an early-morning breeze off the bay. Mr. Mountjoy was most casual, minus coat, waist-coat, and neck-stock, with his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows.

“Lemon slices there, from Tetuán in Morocco,” Mountjoy pointed out as he poured a tall glass of cool tea. “All manner of fresh fruit comes from there, and live bullocks, goats, and sheep. Being a Muslim country, don’t expect to get any pork, though. And, count yourself lucky if you don’t get ordered to sail there and fetch back water and cattle. Gibraltar’s always short of water, and every good rain hereabouts is counted a miraculous blessing. West Indies sugar there, in the blue and white bowl. I have to keep a lid on. The bloody ants and roaches are everywhere.”

“Not to mention rats and mice from the warehouses alongside of us, sir,” Deacon said, “though they only prowl the offices after we lock up for the night.” He went to one of the windows to lean with his arms crossed and peer out.

“Now, Captain Lewrie!” Mountjoy said, after Lewrie had gotten his tea stirred up the way he liked it, and had had a first sip. “I am mystified by your cryptic note. ‘Possible solution, Rock Soup’. What the Devil is ‘Rock Soup’?”

“I dined ashore last night with Captain Ralph Knolles, from the Comus frigate,” Lewrie began to explain, “formerly my First…”

“Knolles, yes!” Mountjoy exclaimed. “Haven’t seen him in ages, not since Jester paid off, and we all went our separate ways.”

“Must be goin’ soft in the head,” Lewrie said, all but slapping his forehead. “Of course, we were all in her, together.”

“Solid fellow, just capital sort of man,” Mountjoy praised.

“Anyway, we got to talking about how to put together a raiding force … left your part out of it … and how seemingly impossible it seems to be,” Lewrie began again. “Gettin’ a transport, gettin’ the troops, the extra boats, the extra sailors, and he said ‘Rock Soup’, smilin’ fit to bust. I was mystified at first, too, but … it’s an old tale he heard as a child, how two mercenary soldiers in the Hundred Years War, or the Thirty Years War, he forgot which, were trampin’ round Europe, so hungry their stomachs thought their throats’d been cut, not ha’pence between ’em, and came upon a village where the folk swore that even if they had money, there was nothing for them to buy, since so many armed bands and armies had already been there.

“Well, the two soldiers knew the villagers were lying, and had some food well-hidden, so they asked for a cauldron and firewood, and got some rocks from a creek and started boilin’ ’em up, rubbin’ their hands over how good the rocks’d taste,” Lewrie went on. “The village folk’d never heard the like and gathered round to see what they were doing. After a bit, one soldier says that the rocks’d taste better with an onion or two, and one of the farmers ran off and brought ’em onions. Then it was carrots, then potatoes, then some salt, then a few marrow bones, then a chicken, then some rabbits, then pepper and herbs, and, after an hour or so, they’d tricked the village into making a feast. Out came the villagers’ bowls, bread, cheese, and wine, and they all dug in and ate themselves gluttonous.

“In the morning, the village saw the soldiers off with bread, cheese, and full skins of wine, so they could tramp on to the next village and perform the trick all over again. See? Rock Soup!”

“We take it one item at a time,” Mountjoy exclaimed, looking as if he’d clap his hands in glee. “First off … hmm.”

“Two, maybe three companies of infantry,” Lewrie suggested. “I prefer light infantry, light companies used to skirmishing. I s’pose we’d have to go hat-in-hand to Sir Hew Dalrymple for those.”

“Then, when you have the troops committed, it’s only natural that the next request would be to Captain Middleton, for the yards to build the boats,” Mountjoy slyly added.

“And, once the boats are begun, I go prowl about to capture a decent-sized Spanish merchantman to be our transport,” Lewrie said, “or we convince Sir Hew to commandeer one from the next troop convoy.”

“And, if we have the troops, the boats, and the transport, we need extra sailors to man the boats that will carry the troops ashore and back, and supplement the transport’s crew.”

“We get the transport, we get the scrambling nets, then the extra sailors,” Lewrie gleefully schemed on. “It’s good odds that the naval hospital will have men healed up from their sicknesses or their wounds, with no chance to rejoin their original ships, just idling with nothing to do! Lastly, we stock the transport with all manner of rations for all, and we’re off!”

“Huzzah!” Mountjoy cried. “Rock Soup, by God! Huzzah!”

“But only, sir,” Deacon finally contributed, most laconically, “if Sir Hew is of a mind to bother the Spanish.”

“Hey? What’s that, Deacon?” Mountjoy scoffed. “Whyever not?”

“The gentleman may imagine that if Spain will allow a French army march across their country to invade Portugal, then they might go so far as to allow the French to march down here and try to take Gibraltar, with Spanish armies collaborating. He may imagine that it may be better to keep all his five thousand troops here, and send for re-enforcements, instead, sir.”

Damned sharp for a former Sergeant from the ranks, Lewrie told himself; Where do Twigg and Peel find ’em?