Day by day, time passed, the piles of salt bags grew higher and higher, and the evening story sessions after dinner lasted longer and longer. Edward Carter's Guanzhong dialect also became more and more fluent.

General of the Left Martial Guard, Henry Brooks, had been grinning from ear to ear these past few days, his owl-like laughter echoing above the camp. Especially after sending off Richard Harrison, who had come to suppress the young Prince of Changle, he laughed even more heartily. Five hundred jin of salt in exchange for fifty fine Western horses from Richard Harrison—what a deal! Especially snatching food from a pixiu's mouth, that's rare, truly rare.

Old Brooks patted his big belly in satisfaction. These past three months, poor old Old Brooks had been gnawing on vinegar-soaked cloth every day, to the point where his teeth were going numb. Just thinking about it, a sour stench seemed to rise from his stomach. It wasn't that he lacked salt to eat, but if the whole army was chewing on vinegar cloth, could he alone eat salt? What would happen to morale then?

His own boy had good luck—picked up a fourteen-year-old kid and got the big job done. No background, the master who taught him skills had died, just this one lone seedling left. Good, once the imperial edict arrived from the capital, this kid's official position would be settled, tying him to Old Brooks's chariot. His own son was a sharp one; if someone could catch his eye, he couldn't be too bad. Someone who could hand over a priceless secret recipe without a second thought—how bad could his character be? For a soldier he'd only known for less than a day, he dared to risk his head—if the boy didn't quickly bring him into the Left Martial Guard, then Old Brooks's head must have been kicked by a donkey.

But the boy had it tough—helped out once and got a beating for it. Whatever, after the two spend more time together, this won't happen again. The kid was full of strange things, and nothing he brought out was ordinary. His background probably wasn't simple either. Most boys his age would be lucky to stand firm in front of the army, let alone argue their case. Hmm, once the boy gathered a hundred thousand jin of salt, he had to call him over for a look. Old Brooks couldn't stand those bookish types who only knew Confucian sayings; someone like this, who could read and also solve big problems, was a real treasure.

Samuel Wright—no, now called James Thompson—was just this kind of talented man, full of cunning and skilled at everything. Years of brotherhood had shown his abilities early on, so the kid his son picked up couldn't be simple either. Tie him down first as a seventh-rank army secretary, and after meeting him, as long as he had real skills, wasn't the Left Martial Guard big enough for him to make a splash?

Charles Brooks delivered salt to the camp every ten days, ten thousand jin each time. This was already the sixth trip; four more and he'd finish the task his father assigned. Just thinking about how the court only allowed a hundred thousand jin to be collected, and the saltworks had to be handed over to the local authorities by the end of July, made his heart ache. As soon as he entered the command tent, he saw his father sitting alone behind the desk, fingers tapping loudly on the table. Not knowing what he was thinking, he quickly cupped his hands and saluted: "Captain Charles Brooks reporting to the commander. This period's ten thousand jin of salt has been delivered in full. I am preparing to return to the saltworks. Does the commander have any instructions?"

In the army, there were no father-son or family ties, only the general and the captain.

Old Brooks looked up at his son, feeling something was off. Hmm? The usually greasy and messy son was now clean and tidy, his features more pleasant than usual, and no lice crawling out of his hair. He radiated energy from the inside out. Truly his own blood, full of spirit.

Charles Brooks saw his father staring at him in silence, so he quickly took out an oiled paper packet from his chest and stepped forward to hand it to his father.

Henry Brooks opened the packet in confusion, only to find a large pancake inside, baked to a golden crisp. It gave off a strong aroma of wheat. Old Brooks felt a wave of comfort in his heart—his son knew to show filial piety now. He picked up the pancake and took a big bite. The taste was excellent—crisp and fragrant, different from the usual pancakes.

Seeing his father eating, Charles Brooks poured a cup of tea and respectfully offered it to Old Brooks. After Old Brooks finished the pancake and took a couple of sips of tea, he finally spoke: "Father, how's the pancake?"

Old Brooks replied casually, "Not bad. The cooks in the camp should be fed to the dogs. Was this pancake made by Little Eddie? Not to criticize you, but instead of spending time making food, you'd be better off collecting a few more jin of salt. The deadline set by the court is almost here. For every jin less we collect, the Left Martial Guard loses out. What's the point of these fancy tricks? I'm your father—do you really need to pay tribute to me?"

Charles Brooks hurried to explain, "Father, this is a special military ration made by The Carter Brothers. When our army is on the march and in a hurry, there's no time to eat, so we gnaw on a couple of bites of pancake. But these pancakes are cold and hard, and many soldiers get bloated and suffer stomachaches after eating them, weakening our forces before the battle even starts—not wise at all. So The Carter Brothers specially made this kind of pancake. When in a rush, eat a couple of bites and drink some water, and it fills you up. It's the best military ration. What's more, this kind of pancake can last a whole month in July without spoiling."

"What? A month without spoiling? Really?"

"It's true. I tested it myself—kept in a cloth bag for a month without going bad, and no strange smell either."

"Did Little Eddie offer this method to the court? Did he ask for anything in return?"

"Father, The Carter Brothers is my brother. He only made this pancake after I mentioned your stomach problems. He also said: 'Other than being good at fighting, everyone in the camp is a fool. They know there's a problem with the rations but never think to fix it—serves them right to suffer for so long.'"

Henry Brooks said nothing, lowering his head in thought. After a moment, he made a decision: "Pass on my order—summon Edward Carter to the camp to see me at once."

Section Ten: Running into a Brick Wall