The King's Marauder (23 page)

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?

“All we can do is ask,” Lewrie said, wondering if their bright ideas might come to nothing. “See what he has in mind, get an inkling of what he’s been told by London that he hasn’t seen fit to share with you, so far, Mountjoy.”

“Well, I suppose we should,” Mountjoy grudgingly agreed, much sobered. “Yes, I’ll send a note to Sir Hew requesting a meeting to introduce you, and our plans. Keep your fingers crossed that he doesn’t send you off to Tetuán for fruit and water, instead. You will run my note up to the Convent, Deacon? There’s a good fellow.”

“The Convent?” Lewrie asked.

“It was a convent, once, when the Spanish had the Rock. Quite a good and roomy place for his headquarters,” Mountjoy explained. “I think your best will be in order, Captain Lewrie … Sir Alan, rather. Sash and star, all that? Sir Hew will place great stock in your turnout.”

“Shave and brush my teeth, too, I suppose?” Lewrie complained.

“If you’d be so kind,” Mountjoy said in wry reply.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hah, I wonder why they call him ‘the Dowager’
, Lewrie had to wonder when introduced to Lieutenant-General Sir Hew Dalrymple in his offices the next afternoon. Mountjoy had told him that Sir Hew had been born in 1750, had purchased a commission as a Lieutenant in his teens, at thirteen, and was now only fifty-seven years old, thirteen years Lewrie’s senior. Sir Hew didn’t
look
like an aged dodderer, or sound like an ancient “skull full of gruel”. He seemed quite lucid, in fact.

“Is not your ship a tad too large for the operations that Mister Mountjoy, here, envisions, Sir Alan?” Dalrymple asked.

“I would have preferred a frigate, Sir Hew,” Lewrie told him, “but I was given command of
Sapphire
before Mister Mountjoy’s superiors thought to make use of me.”

“Sir Alan has been involved in several cooperative ventures in aid of Secret Branch since the 1780s, off and on, sir,” Mr. Mountjoy stuck in.

“Spying?” Dalrymple said with a sniff of dis-approval.

“Not directly, sir,” Lewrie had to point out. “Providing naval support and military support in
aid
of overseas … doings.”

“An unsavoury activity, spying,” Sir Hew commented, grimacing. “Knives in the back, all that? Even are the informations discovered by such doings useful. This hint of a French army preparing to conquer Portugal is disturbing, but welcome, for instance, though the means by which it was gained, well. Forewarned is forearmed. In light of this news, hmm … I fear I may not spare a substantial number of troops at this moment, sirs. If France can obtain Spanish permission for their march cross Spain, then they may even goad the Spanish to mount a new assault against my defences.”

“As you may see in my proposal, sir, Captain Lewrie thinks that only two or three companies of light infantry would be required, along with his Marines and armed sailors,” Mountjoy sweetly, and patiently, wheedled. “Perhaps the skirmishers from two or three regiments. If the Spanish and French do assault the Rock, the grenadier companies and the line companies would be more use upon the ramparts, in the forts.”

“What?” Sir Hew quickly objected, not liking that one bit. “You intend to blend companies from three regiments, troops who have never served together before, officers in charge of them who come from three regimental messes, with disparate traditions, who are suddenly supposed to work together? I do not see how that combination could be even the slightest bit successful!

“And, just where in Andalusia do you intend to make your raids, sirs?” Sir Hew continued quibbling. “From Tarifa to Estepona, close to Gibraltar? Cross the bay at Algeciras? If I am in the near future in danger of a siege of Gibraltar, I would much prefer that it comes later rather than sooner, allowing time for re-enforcements to arrive. A sudden rash of pin-pricks against the Spanish in, or near, their
Campo de Gibraltar
might cause the government in Madrid to send fresh armies to General Castaños, with orders to assail us once again.”

Deacon was right, damn him,
Lewrie thought, wishing he could scowl but keeping “bland” on his phyz;
Dalrymple won’t upset the apple-cart, or hurt his good relations with the Dons.

“Had you a fleet, Sir Alan,” Dalrymple said, pleasant now that his “pet” was over, “and I could lure ten thousand men from General Henry Fox on Sicily, I would much prefer having a go at the Spanish enclave at Ceuta, cross the Straits. Blockade the place so that Spanish troops in the great fortress there cannot be ferried over to Castaños, or a French expeditionary fleet could combine with the Spanish, and mount an attack on the South end of the Rock, perhaps down near the Chapel of Europa, or the Tuerto Tower defences.”

Sir Hew rose and uncovered a large map which was marked with pinned-on arrows indicating where he would like to land that theoretical army, and some dots to mark the bounds of a naval blockade.

“The Sultan of Morocco might not care to have another European power supplant the Spanish, but he would most certainly relish Spain being ousted, sirs,” Dalrymple said, almost smacking his lips at the prospect, and gazing almost lovingly at his map. It was a very well-done and handsome map, certainly drawn at some expense. “I have corresponded with the Sultan at Tangier, and have hinted most broadly as to that possibility. His replies are mildly encouraging.”

“Uhm, sir,” Mountjoy said with a squirm of discomfort. “There is a French ambassador at Tangier, and the Sultan’s court is a cesspool of intrigue. Even the broadest hints, as you say, might have already been bandied about and relayed to Paris, and to Madrid to warn them that you envision seizing Ceuta.”

“
French
spies, sir,” Lewrie added, summing the matter up, playing on Sir Hew’s distaste for the trade. “Worst of a filthy lot.”

“Here now!” Mountjoy whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Dalrymple sighed longingly over his map for a bit more, oblivious to their exchange, or Lewrie’s broad grin, then slowly re-covered it and came back to his desk.

“Sadly, London has only given Fox twelve thousand men, and he’s none to spare, even for Gibraltar’s defence,” Sir Hew told them. “If I need more, they must come from England. You say that you are here to lend aid to Mister Mountjoy’s doings, Sir Alan? Does that mean that your ship will spend much time in harbour?”