“And shore liberty for you, so you can drown your sorrows,” Lewrie reminded him. “After that, Sapphire is charged to remain here at Gibraltar, now and again, but we will not spend much time in port. We’ve all Hell t’raise along the Spanish coasts. Can’t tell ye much beyond that, but…” Lewrie said with a cryptic smile. “Once again, my apologies that you didn’t get t’keep her. And for getting your hopes up. I truly am.”
“Ehm … thank you, sir,” Harcourt said, doffing his hat in salute.
Lewrie turned away and entered his great-cabins to mull over his predicament for an hour or so before it would be time to change into his best-dress shoregoing uniform, replete with that damned sash and star. His knighthood and his baronetcy, he strongly and cynically suspected, had not come for his part in the minor action off the Chandeleur Islands and the coast of what was then Spanish Louisiana, nor had he been honoured for accumulated victories; for whatever reason the French had tried to murder him, and had slain his wife. He’d been in the papers, HM Government had determined to go back to war against France, and had needed to rouse the public’s angry support for it.
Even so, Captain Ralph Knolles was not to know that, and he was in all respects a decent fellow, a patriot, and the sort who would expect Lewrie to wear those things proudly.
“Cool tea, if ye would, Pettus,” Lewrie bade as he stripped off his coat and hung it on the back of his desk chair in the day-cabin.
“Coming right up, sir,” Pettus vowed. “Ehm … when I go back ashore to collect your laundry tomorrow, sir … might I take Jessop along with me?”
The young cabin-servant froze, pretending to continue blacking and buffing Lewrie’s best pair of boots, as if shore liberty would be no concern of his, but his ears were perked, no error.
“Hmm … better with you t’shepherd him than tailing along with a pack o’ swaggerin’ sailors,” Lewrie decided. “Aye, Pettus. Take him along, so you can keep him out of trouble.”
“I don’t never get into trouble, sir,” Jessop protested, going for “meek and angelic”.
“And Pettus’ll make sure ye don’t,” Lewrie told him.
“Aye, sir,” Jessop responded, sounding a bit glum to be in need of a chaperone.
Good God, has he grown old enough t’want t’caterwaul and play a buck-of-the-first-head? Lewrie wondered; By God, I think he has! It’ll be drink, whores, and a tattoo, next!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Once atop the quays, Lewrie took a long moment to look back at his ship, and felt satisfaction. Dockyard barges and hoys swarmed her sides, delivering firewood for the galley and fresh water to top off her tanks. Powder, roundshot, and cartridge bag cloth was going aboard to replace all that Sapphire had shot off in live gunnery practice and their brief action with the French corvettes. Kegs of salt-meats and other foodstuffs were being hauled up the loading skids, or hoisted up with the use of the main course yard.
HMS Sapphire’s own boats were busy, too, ferrying supplies for the officers’ wardroom, and goods for the Purser’s needs, and items ordered, or hoped for, by the Bosun, the Ship’s Carpenter, the Surgeon, the Cooper, Mr. Scaife, and the Armourer, Mr. Turley.
A full day spent on lading and replenishing, and on the morning of the next day, the Larboard Watch, half the ship’s crew, would be allowed ashore from the start of the Forenoon at 8 A.M. ’til the end of the Second Dog at 8 P.M.; the day after, the Starboard Watch would go ashore to drink and rut, dance, holler, stagger and sing, even pick fights with hands off other ships in harbour.
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.