Sea Fencibles

Sea Fencibles

By

Peter Argonis

© 2014, 2024

All rights reserved by the author.

2nd Revision, 2024

1. A Rotten Day

2. Skipping a Rank

3. Salcombe

4. Meeting the Maynards

5. Elizabeth

6. A Fruitless Suit

7. Setting up a Household

8. Deception

9. An Eligible Bachelor

10. An About-Face

11. Finding Her Voice

12. Meeting the Conningtons

13. Port Call

14. A Narrow Escape

15. A Tethered Goat

16. Finding Perspective

17. Courtship

18. The Willing Bride

19. Changes

The End

Acknowledgements

Appendices

Appendix 2: Ranks in the Royal Navy

Appendix 3: Structure of the Royal Navy ca. 1800

Appendix 4: Rated and unrated ships and vessels

Appendix 5: Watches and times

Appendix 6: Gun salutes

Appendix 7: Glossary of Nautical Terms

Appendix 8: The Articles of War of 1757

1. A Rotten Day

Lt. Jeremiah Anson took one last look around the dimly lit gun deck. All port side guns had a full crew of eight whilst the starboard side 18-pounders were manned by crews of five, the minimum. Then again, the looming action would be to the port side. He knelt to peer through the nearest gun port and saw the damaged French third-rate trying to make its way to safety. They would have to engage her before she escaped.

His assumption was confirmed when a runner came down from the quarter deck.

"Mr. Anson, Sir! Captain Merle's compliments and will you open fire to port as soon as your guns bear!"

"Very well, Mr. Snell. My compliments to the Captain and I shall open fire in a minute or two."

"Aye-aye, Sir!" the young volunteer shouted and ran back up the companionway.

HMS Odin was part of Lord Nelson's rearguard, a 36-gun frigate with 18-pounders on her gun deck and large bore carronades on her forecastle and quarterdeck. Her class was among the most powerful of the British frigates, but it was still craziness to attack a ship of the line, even if she was a damaged 74-gun Frenchman.

Yet, Captain Merle was ambitious and he had not yet won a knighthood. A successful action against a superior foe might earn him the coveted star and sash of the Order of the Bath.

Again looking through the gun port, Anson could see that the Frenchman was altering course to larboard. Instead of showing its towering stern, the two rows of gun ports came into view. Anson stood up.

"Port side gun captains! Enemy is two cable lengths athwart! Quoins in at Mark 2! Take aim!"

He waited for the gun captains to raise their arms. "On the up-roll! Fire!"

Thirteen 18-pounder guns discharged within a few seconds causing a horrible din in the confined space of the gun deck. Anson had wax in his ears to protect his eardrums, but his ears were still ringing. The roar of the quarter deck and forecastle carronades came only seconds later. The smoke from the guns was wafting across the deck and out to port masking the enemy for almost a minute. By then, the guns were swabbed, reloaded and trained again. The French ship was showing her broadside now with her guns run out. Better not wait!

"Take aim! Stand back! On the up-roll, fire!"

Again, the thirteen guns of the port side battery discharged, overwhelming the men with their thunder and dense smoke. Into that thick smoke crashed a French broadside. Bursting wood, ringing metal, and screaming men formed a cacophony of sounds that shook Anson deeply. He he had to force himself to function in the ensuing chaos.

"Surgeon's mates! Get those wounded below! Gun crews! Swab out and load! Come on you men! Let's show them what gunnery is!"

It was a weak enough effort to cheer the men up, but they responded. The constant gun drills and the iron discipline made them perform their duties in spite of the terror in their hearts. Like a precise machine, the gun crews kept loading and firing whilst the frigate drew closer to the enemy.

The young volunteer must have been tugging at Anson’s sleeve for some time, but he only noticed it now.

"Sir, Sir! Captain Merle's down. He took a wood splinter to the belly, Sir."

"Where's Mr. Croft?" Anson shot back. Croft was the 1st lieutenant.

"He was smashed by a round shot, Sir! Torn to pieces he was, Sir! There's nobody on the quarterdeck save for the Master."

Anson looked about. His second in command on the gun deck, the 3rd lieutenant, Mr. Carlin, was only a boy of eighteen, a recent commission, but he would have to take over.

"Mr. Carlin, take command down here! Mister Pims! Keep up the firing! I’m on the quarterdeck.” Pims was a senior midshipman with the port side battery and more likely to sustain the rapid rate of fire.

He made his way along the gun deck and up the companionway to the quarterdeck. Mr. Tully, the sailing master, was standing beside the wheel. The marines were manning the sides, firing at the French with their muskets, and the gun crews of the quarterdeck carronades were busy loading and firing. Things were not as bad as he had feared.

Tully was doing his duty. The Odin was about to cross the Frenchman's stern, and there was nothing the French captain could do about that. Time to hit them hard!

"Mr. Snell! My compliments to Mr. Carlin, and we're crossing the Frogs' stern at pistol shot range. Will he double-shot the guns and give passing honours!"

"Aye-aye, Sir!" the boy shouted and ran down into the inferno of the gun deck.

The French ship was poorly handled as Anson could see. Not even two thirds of her guns were operated properly, and the sails were not well trimmed. She must have been in action against one of her British counterparts and made her escape badly damaged.

Not for long though. Odin was now crossing her stern at pistol shot distance — 25 yards.

"Back the tops'ls!" Anson roared.

Odin slowed, and starting with the foremost 18-pounder, her main deck guns and her forecastle carronade opened up. Again, smoke was billowing around them, but here on the quarterdeck, it did not block the view altogether. The stern gallery of the enemy took a punishment as every shot found its mark. The three 32-pounder carronades on the quarterdeck bellowed, and the double loads hit the stern at lower deck level, probably wreaking terrible havoc.

Now they were past the Frenchman.

"Ready to go about!" Anson shouted.

Odin had barely enough speed for the rudder to bite, but she wore nicely, and then they prepared to pass the Frenchman a second time, now with their fresh starboard battery. The frigate handled much better and was much faster than the heavily damaged ship of the line, and they were able to deliver another series of crippling blows into their enemy's stern.

Through the dense smoke came the shape of another ship. Anson recognised her as one of their own, HMS Undine, 32. She was coming up to the starboard side of the French ship. Anson saw that she was preparing for boarding. It was indeed time to finish the enemy.

“Port side gun crews! Arm yourself and prepare for boarding!" he ordered almost giddy with excitement. They would board and take a 74-gun ship, and he was in command! Glory and advancement were only a narrow strip of water away. One last time, he checked the priming in his pistols and stuck them back into his belt. Then he unsheathed his sword and dropped the scabbard on the deck.

"Mr. Tully, lay her alongside! Topmen, ready to lock the yards! Grapnels ready!"

The approach seemed to take an eternity, but once they were alongside, things happened at dizzying speed. They bumped against the much higher side of the 74, the grapnels were thrown, and then Odin's crew scrambled like madmen up the Frenchman's side, with Anson in the lead as was proper. They made it to the upper gun deck and turned aft. Only a handful of French sailors blocked their path and were overwhelmed, and then they had taken the quarterdeck.

A quartermaster took the wheel and started to turn the ship into the wind whilst Odin's crew began to sweep the upper gun deck. Here, the French crews were more numerous, but now Undine came alongside and spewed a boarding party onto the Frenchman's deck. In a matter of minutes, the waist was clear of organised resistance, but a pocket of brave French still held the forecastle

They were closing in on them when suddenly a smoke cloud billowed from the forecastle. Anson had received a minor cut on his thigh and was holding it with his left hand when a load of canister from a swivel gun hit him. In horror, he looked down at what had been his left hand and at the now gaping wound in his thigh. It took all his strength to remain on his feet, but he had to keep going. Young Carlin would never get the Odin away, and their hard-won victory would disappear like the smoke of a gun.

"Get those men on the poop!" he croaked, and a bunch of seamen stormed up and dispatched the small crew of the swivel gun. "You there, tie up my arm!"

Suddenly, there was a young French lieutenant in front of Anson whilst a sailor did his best to put a tourniquet on the stump of Anson's arm.

"Je me rends!" the French almost whimpered. His coat was torn and blood soaked from a deep chest wound.

"Will you strike, Sir?" Anson was able to ask.

The young officer nodded. Anson turned to young Mr. Snell. "Get Mr. Carlin! And find me a surgeon's mate!"

The pain was setting in by now where his left hand had been, and his leg wound was bleeding profusely. He would probably die, he realised. He felt lightheaded already and weak. He looked at the French lieutenant and saw the same thoughts in the man's eyes.

"Bugger!" he said with a forced smile.

"Merde!" the young lieutenant agreed solemnly.

A British captain made his way aft then.

"I am Captain Thorn, HMS Undine. I believe it best if I took … good God, Lieutenant! That's a grievous wound! Please, I beg you, find a surgeon before you bleed to death!"

With a seasoned captain taking over, Anson could surrender to the dizziness that encroached on him. He found a surgeon's mate at his arm who led him across the deck and to the bulwark. Two ratings helped him down to Odin’s quarterdeck.

“Mr. Samuels is already waiting, Sir, Mr. Anson," the surgeon’s mate spoke soothingly. "Better not let him wait too long."

———

The agonies of the following hour would remain burnt into his mind for the rest of his life. Mr. Samuels, the ship's surgeon, was no butcher at all. He was a wise and knowledgeable man. Working in the dim light of three oil lamps hanging from the deck beams above, he amputated the remnants of Anson’s left hand right at the wrist before he carefully patched the torn flesh of the left thigh. The bone had been scratched but not broken, but the lacerations were substantial. Samuels did his very best, but he was dubious as to whether Anson would ever have much use of his left leg again.

Meanwhile, driven by the untiring Vice Admiral Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, who had taken the command after Nelson’s death, the British officers and crews slaved to bring the battle-torn ships through a storm, and afterwards to patch them up for the return to England.

Acting Captain Jeremiah Anson was barely conscious during those days. The surgery had left him weak and exhausted, and he drifted in and out of a feverish sleep for almost a week.

Captain Thorn had sent his second lieutenant, a Mr. Onedin, over to lead young Mr. Carlin, who was overwhelmed with the responsibility for the ship. With the help of the sailing master and the surviving master's mates, they were able to bring both Odin and their prize La Gallante through the storm. Odin had not suffered too much in the battle, but her prize had the pumps going almost constantly. The French prisoners worked themselves raw to keep the ship afloat for the victors.

Captain Merle had died under the surgeon's knife even before Anson had reached the quarterdeck to take command, and Lt. Croft had been killed in the first broadside. The arrangement left Anson still in command since Mr. Onedin was junior to him. Therefore, in his few lucid moments, Anson dictated a report to the late Captain Merle's secretary. His signature was little more that a feeble scribble, but still the report went to the admiral over his name. He made certain to give praise to Mr. Tully and Mister Pims, and even to Lt. Carlin, for doing his best. Still, he, Jeremiah Anson, had commanded a frigate through what was already called the Battle of Trafalgar! He was part of that annihilating victory, and the thought invigorated him a little.

Anson was awake when Odin dropped anchor, and he heard the cheers from the shore and the sound of the church bells as Portsmouth welcomed the victorious sailors.

By the time they arrived at Portsmouth, Mr. Samuels was positive that Anson would survive. No signs of the gangrene had shown, and the surgeon was quite proud of his work. For three more weeks, Anson lay recuperating in the Odin's after cabin, until a day shortly before Christmas, when a freshly minted captain came aboard with orders to assume command.

He brought with him orders instructing Lt. Jeremiah Anson, in acting command of His Majesty's frigate Odin, to appear at the Admiralty in Whitehall as soon as his health permitted the travel. Lt. Anson was assured that, having commanded HMS Odin through most of the battle, he would be awarded a captain's share of the prize monies due. He was also assured of a speedy advancement to commander's rank, like many other 1st lieutenants of the victorious fleet.

For the next four weeks, Anson was kept in a semi-private room in the infirmary on shore. His stump was healing nicely enough, but his thigh wound kept him from moving around. He was not a patient man in those days. He was desperate that his career was all but ended. He had lost his left hand, and nobody knew whether he would ever be able to walk again with his ruined left leg. Who would give him a command? They would give him commander's rank, but then beach him for life. The command of a hulk was the best he could expect.

Even the soothing thought of the promised promotion to commander was all but taken away from him when young Jonathan Carlin visited him at the infirmary sporting a single epaulette on his left shoulder. They had promoted Carlin to commander! The eighteen year-old would forever be Anson's superior! Anson believed that he hid his jealousy well, but in the following night he lay awake and for the first time, he contemplated ending his ruined life.

Fortunately, the next morning brought an unexpected visitor. The man was in his mid-fifties, tall and energetic, and with a commanding presence. Anson knew him as Sir Robert Connington, and he was the squire for whom Anson's father had been caretaker. Anson's father had died in an accident when young Jeremiah had been fifteen years old, and he had been twelve when his mother succumbed to a wasting illness. Sir Robert had taken charge of the orphan boy and he had seen to it that he was accepted into HMS Gorgo, 32, as midshipman. Over the years to follow, Anson had written letters at every year's end to report about his progress in the service, but also to thank for the annual allowance of £120 that supplemented what pay he received. Sir Robert claimed that the money was owed to Anson's father, and the young midshipman and later lieutenant did not look to closely into the gift horse's mouth. Now Sir Robert was standing at the door to Anson's room looking the young man over with eyes that showed pride and sorrow at the same time.

"Good morning, Sir Robert," Anson greeted his visitor, acutely aware that the £120 might be all that would stand between a half-pay lieutenant and starvation.

"Good morning to you, young Mr. Anson," Sir Robert replied. "I read the reports, of course, and let me tell you at once that the entire county is proud of you!"

Anson swallowed but forced himself to answer politely. "That is far too kind, Sir Robert."

"Poppycock! You showed your mettle for all to see! Even at the Admiralty… Well, first things first. I came to rescue you from this horrible place. I have my coach waiting outside where we've slung a hammock for you to rest comfortably. Our good Doctor Waingrove accompanies me, and he will tend to your care on the way home."

"Home?" Anson asked incredulously.

"Of course! You'll spend a few weeks out at Fernwick Hall until you're well enough to report to the Admiralty. We'll have to fit you with… Damn, it! You'll need a stuffed glove to cover your stump, and a well made crutch, too. I'll see to that, and then we'll move you to London."

"I… I don't know what to say, Sir Robert," Anson protested.

"Then keep a still tongue, young man! Your father served me well for nigh on twenty years, and I don't have a son of my own. You're my successor in the Navy, and blast those fools at Whitehall if they try to cheat you out of your rewards!"

Connington had served under Admiral Rodney. He had not won much distinction in the Navy, and the title he held was an inherited baronetsy, but he represented one of the Berkshire boroughs in Parliament.

"I shall be grateful for your support, Sir Robert," was all Anson could answer.

———

Anson had dreaded the ride in a coach, but lying in a swaying hammock, he was sufficiently insulated from the movements of the coach to make the journey tolerable. Doctor Waingrove was an elderly, fussy man, but he was thorough enough. The ride took two days, mostly because Sir Robert insisted on frequent rest stops, during which food was served from a huge picnic basket. Sir Robert was rather partial to Madeira wines, as was the good Doctor, and they both insisted that Anson partook of the offerings. He became tired enough to sleep through most of the journey.

They arrived at Fernwick Hall, Connington’s estate, in the late afternoon of the second day, after spending a night in a roadside inn. Anson looked at the grey stone buildings of the manor house with mixed feelings. It had been eleven years since he had been sent away from here to join the Navy but before that, he had been at home at the place. His family had lived in a cottage only two hundred yards down the chestnut alley from Fernwick Hall, and in the waning light of the winter afternoon he could see the low building. A new caretaker was living there now Anson knew. He would be a guest in the manor house instead, in an altogether different world.

Two footmen helped Anson to an upstairs bedroom where Doctor Waingrove changed the wound dressings. Once that was done, the servants put him to bed. A soft, horse hair filled mattress provided him with a rare comfort, and within minutes he fell into an exhausted sleep.

When Anson awoke, the winter sun was lighting up the bedroom and a maidservant was waiting with breakfast. The doctor visited some time after breakfast and afterwards, two manservants proceeded to give Anson a much-needed sponge bath after lifting him up from the bed and onto a wooden chair standing in a bath tub. His hair, matted and tangled after weeks of being bedridden, was washed and cut before another servant removed the four-week growth of beard. Shaved, groomed, and dressed in a fresh shirt and a heavy dressing gown, he attended dinner with Sir Robert and his family.

Lady Connington was no beauty and probably had never been considered one. Anson had seen her a few times after his father's death, and he found that she was ageing well, looking better with maturity than as a young woman. She'd had only one child, a daughter, and thus her figure was still trim and she looked healthy and energetic.

The daughter, Vanessa, was younger than Anson by two or three years. She was married to Mr. Colin Emerson, the second son of a Jamaican sugar baron and a Member of Parliament for one of the rotten boroughs owned by his father. As a member of the sugar faction in Parliament, he wielded considerable influence. They had two children, and as far as Anson could see, were quite happily married.

It slowly entered Anson's mind that the Christmas Holidays were only days away. Church holidays did not matter much on board a Navy ship, and the aftermath of the battle had efficiently blotted out any thoughts of Christmas from Anson's mind. The Emersons were visiting for the holidays, and Anson understood that they usually resided in London.

After dinner, the servants moved Anson to Sir Robert's study where Port wine and cigars were offered, whilst the ladies relocated to a tea room. For the first time of many, Anson relayed his view of Trafalgar in a social context. He was suitably flustered when Sir Robert and Mr. Emerson toasted him repeatedly and praised his conduct.

"Once you are recovered enough, we shall have to have a few of the neighbours over. They're quite anxious to meet you," Connington stated. "But that will have to wait until after the interview at the Admiralty, eh?"

He winked at his son-in-law who smiled at Anson benevolently.

"Leonard Polwheal-Adams is the man you must interview, my dear Anson. You will find him quite receptive to your aspirations.”

2. Skipping a Rank

Lieutenant Jeremiah Anson was sitting in an anteroom at the Admiralty in Whitehall, waiting for his interview with Mr. Polwheal-Adams, an assistant Secretary to their Lordships. Thirteen other officers were in the room exceeding the number of chairs by far. This necessitated taking turns standing, but since Anson could only walk and stand with the help of a crutch, his fellow officers let him have a chair to himself.

This was Anson's third day in this room, and his stoicism was tried severely. Every evening, he returned to the Emerson's Knightsbridge house where he enjoyed their hospitality. Colin Emerson was a likeable chap, Anson found, with a sympathy for the Royal Navy due to the fact that he had been destined for a Navy career and had even served as a midshipman in his youth. Then his older brother had died, leaving Colin Emerson to represent the Jamaican faction in Parliament. Vanessa Emerson was more reserved, maintaing the distance he well remembered from their younger years, but she was caring and helpful nonetheless. The stays at Fernwick Hall and in London had boosted Anson's self-esteem by spades, for he was treated with distinct respect. Maybe, just maybe, he would be able to lead a dignified life even as a cripple.

Once again, a young officer left the office beyond the anteroom, a look of disappointment evident on his features.

"No luck, eh?" one of the other subalterns asked with sympathy.

The man shook his head. "Too many promotions due to Trafalgar," he explained with a reproachful look at Anson.

Before the questioning could continue, a one-legged Royal Marines corporal showed.

"Lt. Anson, Sir!"

Anson scrambled to stand up with haste. He checked the seat of his cravat and his cuffs. Next he fitted his stump into the crutch under his left armpit before he limped after the one-legged man into the office. There he stood before an elderly, harried-looking man.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Anson!" the man offered. "Please, be seated, and my apologies for letting you wait for so long. As I'll admit freely, this was mostly due to our difficulties in finding an adequate command for you."

"Yes, Sir." Anson said feeling morose again. He was a cripple and seen as such.

"You are aware that your senior lieutenant, Mr. Carlin, was made commander?"

"Yes, Sir," Anson replied swallowing heavily.

"Odin's case is a bit unusual inasmuch as you replaced your captain and commanded your ship through the decisive parts of the battle. Lt. Carlin's promotion is therefore to be seen as a compliment for your conduct." He made a face as if he'd bitten into a lemon. "That, and his uncle's influence at court. It remained for us to find a command for you that will justify a posting. That was difficult seeing how many officers were promoted after Trafalgar. They all need commands. You see?"

"I see, Sir," Anson replied automatically whilst his mind grappled with the outrageous idea that he was to be made post-captain, skipping the rank of commander entirely.

Polwheal-Adams took off his pince-nez and peered at Anson.

"We finally found a solution for the dilemma this morning when an opening presented itself. Have you heard of the Sea Fencibles, Mr. Anson?"

Anson had a mixed feeling. The Sea Fencibles had been established to ward off enemy landings along the coast. It was usually considered a posting for invalided officers or for men too old for seagoing service. Yet, he would be posted in the London Gazette and be employed. More importantly, his seniority would start immediately. He was young enough to reach flag rank once started on the captains' list. There were worse fates for crippled officers.

"There is an opening for a captain at Salcombe, on the Devon coast. Three batteries, two hoys, and a schooner. Four lieutenants, and over a hundred crew. If you agree, you can be posted in the next Gazette."

Anson was pondering the offer, and Mr. Polwheal-Adams offered a friendly smile.

"Once you are fully recovered, you will of course be considered for sea-going commands. It is the wish of His Lordship however, to reward and promote our heroes whilst the feelings of gratitude in parliament are still fresh. Given your impediment which I do hope is only temporary, a land based posting is the best we can offer."

"I have no idea what those postings pay, Sir," Anson heard himself ask.

“£1.7s.6p8 a day," Polwheal-Adams replied. "You can also claim any contraband recovered or salvaged shipping."

Anson expected a sizeable sum of money from his share of the Trafalgar prize monies. He reckoned that £1.7s per day would be ample for living in a remote area such as Devon. He could also expect to continue drawing the £120 annuity from Sir Robert.

"For how long must I expect such a posting to last, Sir?"

"A year, perhaps two, three on the outside. With two years seniority you should then qualify for a 12-pounder frigate, always given a sufficient recovery of your leg."

Clearly, Polwheal-Adams wanted him to accept that posting, and clearly it was the best he could expect.

"There are no other openings, Sir?"

"Not within the next six months at the least, " the secretary sighed. "All those new promotions after Trafalgar, you see?"

Anson could see. He made up his mind and nodded.

"Then I accept, Sir."

"Splendid, Captain! I shall have your orders sent to Mr. Emerson's house. His Lordship is in presence for the signature, and you should have them inside this week. We expect you to take command by the first of April. That should give you some more time for recovery, but also to bring order to your affairs. Your posting in the Gazette will be next week. I wish you good luck in your new command, Captain!"

———

Once again, Anson was at Fernwick Hall as a guest of Sir Robert. He had made the journey sitting in the coach, and he could now walk short distances assisted by his new crutch. He was also wearing his new uniform, sporting a single epaulette on his right shoulder as outward sign of his lofty rank as a captain in the Royal Navy. If he lived long enough, he would inevitably advance to flag rank, even if this was in a distant future.

For now, he had to descend the stairs to meet the guests as they were arriving. Sir Robert was giving a soiree in Anson's honour, and it was time for him to show. Sir Robert was waiting at the entrance and he greeted Anson with a smile. This was a riddle to Anson who could not fathom the obvious pride and affection the squire was showing.

"There you are! That epaulet looks good on you. The glove fits?"

"Very well, thank you, Sir Robert," Anson answered a little self-conscious. He was wearing a glove made of the finest deer leather over his stump. It was stuffed and stiffened with copper strips allowing Anson to bend the "fingers" any way he liked. After some practice, he could already hold a glass in his fake hand. Yet, it felt awkward, too.

"You'll get used to it in no time! Ah! Here comes my old friend, Mr. Charles!"

For the next hour, Anson greeted the guests as they arrived. Most of them were of the local gentry, and many a young or not-so-young woman gave the hero of the evening an inviting smile. It was a strange concept for Anson to have become an eligible bachelor. Everybody knew that he had a decent amount of prize money coming. As a captain, he was also in a secure position, and then there was the patronage from Sir Robert.

Anson tried to be on his best behaviour, as best as he knew at least. It seemed that the mentioning of his next posting quelled the female attention considerably. The Devon coast was not a tempting location for young women who had grown up in the vicinity of London.

Later that evening, after the guests had left, Anson sat in the study with his host, both of them sipping a rare French brandy. Once Lady Connington had bade them good-night, Sir Robert leant back in his upholstered chair.

"You are doubtlessly asking yourself what the reasons are for my interest in your well being?"

"I admit to being grateful albeit curious, Sir Robert," Anson answered. He was relaxed enough from the fine brandy to speak openly.

"I mentioned once that your father did me a great favour?"

"Yes, indeed."

"What I am telling you now must stay between us. Can I count on your discretion?"

"Of course, Sir Robert!" Anson replied.

"Well, then. The great favour your father did for me was to marry your mother and to raise you as his son."

It was a good thing that Anson held the brandy glass with his fake hand, for his real hand would have dropped the glass in shock. Sir Robert nodded sadly.

"Yes, it was a rotten thing of me to seduce your mother, even when she was promised to poor Anson. My only excuse, if it may be called thusly, is the breathtaking beauty of which your dear mother was possessed. I was certainly blinded by it. Yet, I was already promised to my future wife, and when your mother showed the signs, I saw only one solution. I deeded Mr. Anson the Aylesford Lodge estate in return for marrying your mother and raising you. In that latter aspect he far exceeded my hopes, for he raised you to be the man you are now, a man far better than my example would led you to become."

"So, I am your… bastard?" Anson heard himself ask.

"I prefer natural son, but yes," Connington answered with a sigh. "My poor wife mustn't know, or it would break her heart. Else I would have spoken up long ago. It is high time though, for I must hand over your father's estate to you."

Anson looked his question, still quite unable to think and talk coherently.

"Aylesford Lodge is the property I deeded to your father. It came with twelve hundred acres, and it is your birthright. Mr. Ogglethorpe, your father's successor, has taken care of the property along with my own lands, and from the proceeds I paid your annuity. The rest was used for improvements and enlargements, and for the upkeep of Aylesford Lodge. You will be happy to note that there are fifteen hundred acres of tillable land now, and the small manor house should be ready for your use whenever you'll have the need for it."

“This … this comes quite as a surprise, Sir Robert," Anson replied haltingly.

"I can only imagine," Sir Robert nodded. "I hope that one day you will be able to forgive me. I also hope that you will never forget the fine man who raised you, and the fine woman who gave birth to you. You may believe me or not, but I miss both of them most dearly."

Anson took a large sip of the brandy. It burnt his throat like fire, but he needed it. He had been a captain for just two weeks, and now he was a landed gentleman too. It was as if fate was trying to atone for crippling him.

"Sir Robert," he tried after clearing his throat, "this news will take time to digest. Will you excuse me so I can be alone in my room and ponder my new situation?"

"Of course, my dear young man! I dropped quite a load onto you. Just know that I cannot acknowledge you openly, but that I shall look after you to the best of my abilities."

Anson nodded to that. The future which had looked so dim a few weeks ago now held a solid promise. Awkwardly he rose from the chair and clamped the crutch under his arm.

"Good night, Sir Robert!" he offered.

"Good night, son!" Sir Robert whispered back.

———

With some difficulty, Captain Jeremiah Anson walked the short gangplank from the deck of the post packet onto the quay. Plymouth Harbour filled his vision, his sense of smell, his ears. He had taken a regular packet to travel from Dover to Plymouth where he was to report to his superior, Rear Admiral Alexander Chalke. He turned back to see his servant make his way across, loaded down with Anson's dunnage. One of the ship's boys followed with yet another load of his possessions. Presently, a porter with a wheelbarrow approached them.

"Be of service, Gov'nor?" the man asked and Anson nodded.

"Stevens, put my dunnage on that man's cart." He turned to the porter. "Show us to the Golden Lion, my man!"

"Aye-aye, Sir, Cap'n, Sir!" the man replied eagerly. An officer lodging at the Golden Lion had to be well off.

Indeed, the Golden Lion was a respectable place. Anson entered the common room in his slow limp, and he was received by the landlord.

"Good afternoon, Sir! Can I be of service?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Landlord. I wish for a room, perhaps for three or four nights."

"Certainly, Sir! Would you prefer a ground-floor room?" the landlord asked sensibly.

"That would be preferable, indeed," Anson replied with relief. Stairs were not his strong suit yet.

"Very well, Sir. I shall see to your chests. Is this your servant, Sir?"

"Yes. This is Stevens. Kindly find him proper lodging too."

"I shall see to it, Sir. Will you be eating here?"

"That depends, Mr. Landlord. I am here to report to Admiral Chalke. Is he in residence here?"

"Indeed, Sir! He sups at the big table over there most every night."

"Then mark me for supper, too," Anson said with relief. The less he had to walk, the better it was.

———

Rear-admiral Alexander Chalke was one of the yellow admirals — admiral without the distiction of flag — and not destined for sea-going commands. Anson knew that as a captain he had sailed a 74-gun ship, the Glory, onto a rock near Quessant. That would have been an easy thing to do in foul weather or at night, but it happened on a sunny summer day whilst Chalke was taking an afternoon nap and his watch officer was busy buggering the wardroom steward. Glory made it back to Torquay with all the pumps going, but a court martial was held. Chalke received a severe reprimand effectively beaching him for life, and his lieutenant was entirely cashiered, evading the firing squad by a hair's breadth.

It was amusing to be told that Admiral Chalke would receive him after his nap, but there was nobody to share the humour of the situation. Anson made himself comfortable in the common room reading a newspaper and enjoying an expertly prepared coffee.

Chalke made his appearance in the common room an hour later with a secretary in tow. He looked upon Anson with a sour expression on his face, noting the dummy hand and the cautious way in which Anson moved his left leg.

"Afternoon, Anson," he rasped at length. "How'd'ye like your command?"

"It's the best I can expect, Sir," Anson replied neutrally. "Better than half-pay I should say."

"I suppose so. I, on the other hand, have to defend the Devon coast relying on invalided officers and smuggling rascals," came the sour reply.

Anson was tempted to advise his superior not to lose any sleep over it, but he controlled himself.

"My leg has been improving in spades, Sir. I should be fit for seagoing duty within a half-year."

"Humph! That's not for you to decide, Captain! Your papers, if you please!"

"Aye-aye, Sir," Anson answered philosophically and handed over the envelope with his orders.

Chalke took his time to read through the fifteen pages. In the end, the admiral nodded grudgingly.

"At least take your duties seriously. I cannot impress on you enough the importance of our service. Once those autumn gales commence and the Channel Fleet must seek shelter at Torquay Roads, the French may slip out from Brest at the first veering of the wind. Impress on your officers the urgency to maintain utmost vigilance on such days!"

"Of course, Sir," Anson replied. "Will there be any exercises held?"

"As you will find out, I send messages through the Semaphor system on a daily basis. Any delays will meet with my disapproval. Keep the lookouts awake, and exercise your gun crews. Other than that, visit Plymouth every three months to give me your reports. Anything else is sent through the Semaphor."

The Semaphors were signalling masts on top of the defence towers. Short messages could be relayed along the cost at incomparable speed, and according to Sir Robert, this was the most important benefit of the Sea Fencibles system.

3. Salcombe

With some difficulty, Captain Jeremiah Anson walked the short gangplank from the deck of the post packet onto the quay. Plymouth Harbour filled his vision, his sense of smell, his ears. He had taken a regular packet to travel from Dover to Plymouth where he was to report to his superior, Rear Admiral Alexander Chalke. He turned back to see his servant make his way across, loaded down with Anson's dunnage. One of the ship's boys followed with yet another load of Anson's possessions. Presently, a porter with a wheelbarrow approached them.

"Be of service, Gov'nor?" the man asked and Anson nodded.

"Stevens, put my dunnage on that man's cart." He turned to the porter. "Show us to the Golden Lion, my man!"

"Aye-aye, sir, Cap'n, sir!" the man replied eagerly. An officer lodging at the Golden Lion had to be well off.

Indeed, the Golden Lion was a respectable place. Anson entered the common room in his slow limp, and he was received by the landlord.

"Good afternoon, sir! Can I be of service?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Landlord. I wish for a room, perhaps for three or four nights."

"Certainly, sir! Would you prefer a ground-floor room?" the landlord asked, sensibly.

"That would be preferable, indeed," Anson replied with relief. Stairs were not his strong suit yet.

"Very well, sir. I shall see to your chests. Is this your servant, sir?"

"Yes. This is Stevens. Kindly find him proper lodging too."

"I shall see to it, sir. Will you be eating here?"

"That depends, Mr. Landlord. I am here to report to Admiral Chalke. Is he in residence here?"

"Indeed, sir! He sups at the big table over there most every night."

"Then mark me for supper, too," Anson said with relief. The less he had to walk, the better it was.

———

Rear Admiral Alexander Chalke was one of the “yellow admirals” not destined for sea-going commands, having been promoted Rear Admiral “without distinction of squadron”, instead of entering flag rank as a rear admiral of the Blue. Anson knew that as a captain he had sailed a 74-gun ship, the Glory, onto a rock near Quessant. That would have been an easy thing to do in foul weather or at night, but it happened on a sunny summer day whilst Chalke was taking an afternoon nap and his watch officer was busy buggering the wardroom steward. Glory made it back to Torquay with all the pumps going, but a court martial was held. Chalke received a severe reprimand effectively beaching him for life, and his lieutenant was entirely cashiered, evading the firing squad by a hair's breadth.

It was amusing to be told that Admiral Clarke would receive him after his nap, but there was nobody to share the humour of the situation. Anson made himself comfortable in the common room reading a newspaper and enjoying an expertly prepared coffee.

Chalke made his appearance in the common room an hour later with a secretary in tow. He looked upon Anson with a sour expression on his face, noting the dummy hand and the cautious way in which Anson moved his left leg.

"Afternoon, Anson," he rasped at length. "How'd'ye like your command?"

"It's the best I can expect, sir," Anson replied neutrally. "Better than half-pay I should say."

"I suppose so. I, on the other hand, have to defend the Devon coast relying on invalided officers and smuggling rascals," came the sour reply.

Anson was tempted to advise his superior not to lose any sleep over it, but he controlled himself.

"My leg has been improving in spades, sir. I should be fit for any type of command within a half-year."

"Humph! That's not for you to decide, Captain! Your papers, if you please!"

"Aye-aye, sir," Anson answered philosophically, and handed over the envelope with his orders.

Chalke took his time to read through the fifteen pages. In the end, the admiral nodded grudgingly.

"At least, take your duties seriously, Captain! I cannot impress on you enough the importance of our service. Once those autumn gales commence and the Channel Fleet must seek shelter at Torquay Roads, the French may slip out from Brest at the first veering of the wind. Impress on your officers the urgency to maintain utmost vigilance on such days!"

"Of course, sir," Anson replied. "Will there be any exercises held?"

"As you will find out, I send messages through the semaphore system on a daily basis. Any delays will meet with my disapproval. Keep the lookouts awake, and exercise your gun crews. Other than that, visit Plymouth every three months to give me your reports. Anything else is sent through the semaphore."

The semaphores were signalling masts placed at regular intervals along the coast. Short messages could be relayed at incomparable speed.

———

Captain Jeremiah Anson studied the coastline through his brass telescope. He was standing on the deck of a gunboat that belonged to his little squadron of auxiliary vessels. Leaning against the mizzen mast, he was able to stand without the crutch. The elderly lieutenant in command was on deck too, giving a running commentary of the sights.

"That's Lannacombe Bay, sir. Small beach, but the smugglers don't like it none, sir. The militia commander, Colonel Maynard, has his men out looking for them. No smuggling on this coast."

Anson nodded. He would have to meet that man. They sailed close-hauled against the north-westerly wind and made little headway. It took them another hour to reach the Kingsbridge Estuary.

"Over there, over the port bow, that's the new battery on the headland, sir," the masters mate called his attention. "Four 24-pounders. Mighty big guns, sir."

The latter information was not new to Anson. Given the solid base, the commanding position on the headland, and the modern design of the guns, Anson fancied that the battery could command the entire estuary. On the eastern and south-eastern coasts of England the government had built so-called Martello Towers to protect the coasts against invasion attempts, but here in the West, coastal defences were spottier. Anson had to oversee another battery at Rame Head, at the mouth of the River Tamar, and Dartmouth Castle. Keeping an eye on them would keep him busy.

Over Anson's musings, the gunboat had crossed the estuary, and the master's mate prepared to tack. Through his glass, Anson examined the coastline. It was all rocky which would be advantageous for defenders. The sandy beaches only started past the river mouth and in easy firing range of the battery.

He could now see the small town of Salcombe ahead, and the crew of the gunboat prepared for anchoring.

Looking about, Anson suddenly realised that he would be stuck here until relieved of his command. This was far away from London and the admiralty, and he would have no opportunity to look for new commands. Yet, he would be an important man in such a small town, equal in rank to the militia commander. Plus, he would not have to meet able-bodied fellow captains on a daily basis and hear of their commands and exploits.

Anson estimated the little town to have between 600 and 800 souls. He could make out a few fishing boats and small schooners. At least one slipway could be seen with a half-finished schooner. This was not a bustling harbour but a sleepy coastal town. Of course, he could count on half the fishing boats being engaged in smuggling. Then again, his was a Navy command, not one in customs, and most of his volunteers would also be engaged in smuggling. Polwheal-Adams had talked about catching contraband, but that was nonsense. Not when his crews were made up of the kin of the smugglers.

Now the anchor was dropped and the vessel swung into the tide. Here on the Devon coast, the tides were not as extreme as in other places closer to the Strait, but he would still have to count them in. He cast a closer look at the town.

"Not a bad place, Salcombe is, sir," the master's mate said at his side. "Captain Masters liked it fine here."

"He did, didn't he?", Anson asked. "Why'd he be relieved?"

"Was a bit unpopular with the townsfolk, sir. Making accusations 'bout smuggling and such, but never we could prove a thing."

Anson nodded. He'd have to tread lightly here. He had best get in contact with the local gentry to see from where the wind was blowing.

The jolly boat of the gunboat brought him to the beach. He asked the cox'n and two men to help Stevens carry his dunnage to the first inn that came into sight. The Mermaid Inn did not look too bad he decided directing the men to follow him.

The common room was largely empty except for two relatively well dressed men who sat at a table talking in low voices. They looked up at the crippled navy captain and one of them hollered towards the back of the room.

"Ahoy, the kitchen! There's a Navy gentleman out here!"

A rather pretty youngish woman wearing a clean apron appeared from the rear of the common room.

"What's your pleasure, Cap'n?" she asked expectantly.

"I am newly arrived in Salcombe," Anson explained. "Mr. Hawking recommended your house, and I would ask if you have a room to rent. Not upstairs, preferably."

"You're the new captain of them Sea Fencibles then?" the woman asked giving him a look of sympathy and admiration.

"Indeed, I am. With whom do I have the pleasure?"

"Libby Mason, Cap'n. My father owns the Mermaid, and me'n my sister look after the kitchen and guest rooms. Cap'n Master's old room is still free. It's 5s a day for room and board, breakfast and supper. Ale's is extra by the pint, and so's candles or tallow lights as you might use."

"Do you serve coffee for breakfast?" he queried, being quite enamoured with the stimulating beverage.

"We've no real coffee beans, Cap'n. Too fancy. We've sailor's coffee."

That would be roasted breadcrumbs, crushed and extracted with hot water, a poor surrogate for real coffee and without its stimulating effect.

"I brought coffee beans for my use."

"We can roast them and grind them," Libby nodded. "I'll take care of it."

"Show me the room then, by all means."

The room was not bad at all he decided. It was to the back of the inn facing the kitchen garden. The bed seemed well made and sturdy, and there was a stuffed pillow and two wool blankets. The desk at the single window was ancient but solid, and a comfortable looking chair with armrests stood in front of it. There were pegs on the wall for his coats, and a wash stand with a large water jar and wash basin. It would do.

"It'll do. Here's two guineas up front. Will you tell me when they're spent?"

Libby Mason smiled in response and nodded. He handed her two pound notes and a half-sovereign.

"Smoke the blankets and the other bedding, will you?"

"We've no lice and bugs in here!" came the indignant response. "The bedding was cleaned right after the captain moved out, and nobody's been using it since."

"All right, Libby, then please see to it that it stays that way. The half-sovereign is for your troubles with coffee and such."

"I'll look after you just fine, Cap'n," Libby smiled again.

"I may be out some nights, to perform my duties."

"Cap'n Masters was out a lot too. Always trying to catch the fishermen bringing in more'n fish."

Anson grinned. "You'll see a little more of me then. I've no intention to make honest fishermen's lives miserable."

She snorted. "You'll be hard pressed to find any honest fishermen here."

She seemed to be sharp enough to Anson, and so he asked her more.

"You know the town well, don't you? Who are the most important men around here?"

"Well, there's Colonel Maynard. He owns most of the tillable lands this side of the river and he's also the justice of the peace. Then there's the mayor, Mr. Hapling. He has his shipyard just upstream from the landing. Doctor Holbrook and the vicar, Mr. Thomson, make up the rest. I s'pose you'll be the fifth."

"Who's commanding the militia?"

"Colonel Maynard," Libby answered with a smirk. "There's also Lieutenant Greves, who runs things for the colonel."

"What do you know about the colonel?"

Libby smirked. "He lives at Morton Hall with his daughter. His tenants swear by him, say he's honest with them. I've not had much dealings with him, but he's a good justice too. Has no favourites, if you know what I mean, and is content with what he owns."

"That sounds admirable."

"He's also after smugglers like Satan after a soul. People say smugglers killed his wife back in India. He never married again after that. His poor daughter was but a wee girl when it happened. They say she hid when the smuggler rushed the house, and from her hiding she had to watch them kill her mother. That and what they did to the poor woman before. She's been mute ever since, the poor lass. Not a word ever comes over her lips. She just sits and reads and writes in her diary. That's what the servants say when they have a drink in town. Poor lass!"

Anson nodded. So the Colonel had been in India, probably with John Company, and got his wife killed by native smugglers. It would be better to tread lightly around the man as far as smuggling went. Personally, Anson could not care less if a fisherman swapped a few cases of brandy against West Indian sugar somewhere in mid-Channel. On the contrary, he would have to enlist those smugglers to gather intelligence from their Breton counterparts. Plus, he was not averse to sipping French brandy himself.

"Thank you for the help," he smiled at Libby. "I reckon I'll be well cared for here."

He spent the rest of the day limping about the little town to get familiar with the streets and alleys before he returned to the Mermaid for supper. Whilst he was sitting in the common room waiting for the food, a Navy lieutenant entered and looked around. Anson was easily identified by his uniform coat with the single epaulette on his right shoulder, and the lieutenant stepped closer.

"Captain Anson, sir?"

"Indeed. You must be Lieutenant Witmarsh."

"Indeed, sir. Welcome to Salcombe. I only heard about your arrival an hour ago."

And you clearly cleaned up your uniform and shoes before coming Anson thought.

Aloud he said, "It is good to meet you, Lieutenant. Have a seat, why don't you? Mr. Landlord, two more ales!"

Hesitantly, Lt. Witmarsh sat down on the edge of a chair. He had to be over forty, and he, too, walked with a decided limp. The ale arrived, and Anson ordered another supper for his guest against the man's protestations.

"Where do I read myself in?" he asked the man.

"Reading in" meant to read out the letter of appointment from the Admiralty, a formality without which no captain could properly take command.

"Captain Masters did it on the deck of the Lady Jane schooner, sir." Witmarsh answered.

"She's under your command, right?"

"Yes, sir. She's Salcombe built, four six-pounders, and a crew of thirty."

"I'll be happy to read myself in on her deck," Anson stated. "Then I'll have to visit that battery on the headland. You know it?"

Glumly, Witmarsh nodded. "I was the first officer to command it until the Lady Jane was commissioned. I pulled seniority then, and Mr. Black had to take over the battery."

Mr. Black was another lieutenant under Anson's command, another veteran invalided out from sea duty.

"Tell me about the placements, Mr. Witmarsh!"

"Well, sir, it's crescent shaped. There are four 24-pounder guns and a furnace to heat the shot. The guns ranged over two miles at high elevation when we test-fired them."

"Impressive. Is the tower provisioned properly, and do we have spare ammunition for target practice?"

"We're allotted six rounds per gun and year for practice, sir. We have provisions for a month, and a water cistern that refills from rain water."

"A right little fortress then," Anson commented. "Can I reach it by foot?"

"You had better take a jolly boat to South Sands first, sir. It's another hour on foot after that, or more."

"That sounds like a sensible suggestion. I may have need for my own gig and a cox'n to get about."

Witmarsh nodded to that. "Captain Masters had a crew of five, sir. They're now serving with my crew, but I'll send them ashore again. There's also an 18-footer jolly boat for your use, sir. You'll have the men by tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mr. Witmarsh. I shall be quite busy in the next days to pay my respects to the important men around here, but sometime next week I should like for my officers and senior warrant officers to join me for dinner."

"That's awfully kind of you, sir. I'll pass the word."

"I really need to get to know the men under my command, Mr. Witmarsh. Ah! Here comes the supper. If it tastes as good as it smells, I shall live well in this town."

"Beats salt pork, sir," Witmarsh smiled.

Over the supper, a very tasty mutton stew, Witmarsh filled in his captain on various other details of his command. The elderly lieutenant had been with the Sea Fencibles since their founding, and he was a wealth of information. At one point, Anson used a lull in the flow of information for a question.

"If you do not mind my asking, Mr. Witmarsh, why have you not tried for a posting closer to a major port?"

Witmarsh smirked before he answered. "I like to see my wife and my children most evenings, sir."

"Oh, that explains it. You are from the region?"

"Born and raised here, sir. My father is a fisherman with his own boat, and my older brother sails with him. I am rooted here."

"That is good to know, Mr. Witmarsh. Small wonder you are so knowledgeable about this coast."

"And you, sir, if I may ask?"

"I'm the first sea-faring man in my family. My father was the caretaker for an estate in Berkshire. When he died, the squire saw to it that I joined the Navy. He used to serve in the Navy, too. That may explain why he had me join. That, or he was afraid I might get too close to his daughter."

Witmarsh grinned at that. "You had better be careful around Colonel Maynard then, sir. He's very protective of poor Miss Elizabeth, and rightly so. Not a man in the county good enough for her, even though she's a mute and going on twenty-four."

"I hear she's an only child, and being a mute should not deter suitors overly much. There are worse things in a woman than keeping her mouth shut, eh?"

Witmarsh showed — what? — displeasure?

"She's a fine young lady, Miss Elizabeth. Just very shy, sir. Small wonder after what she had to endure. She hardly ever leaves Morton Hall, but they say she's reading books and playing the fortepiano with great skill."

Anson realised his gaffe and tried to make good for it.

"That sounds just like an accomplished young lady. I hope to meet her in the future. Now, about the Colonel. I hear he's quite the bane of the smugglers?"

Witmarsh's smirk was very pronounced. "He has the militia out at least twice a month to canvass the beaches, and he swears like a mule driver when they return without catching any smugglers or contraband. You see, sir, most of the militia men have kinfolk involved with the trade, if they're not part of it themselves."

Anson nodded. "I keep thinking that rather than trying to catch them we should make use of them to gather news from the other side of the Channel. I reckon they meet with Breton fishermen in mid-Channel to exchange wares. There should be talk between them."

Witmarsh nodded cautiously. "That's not how Captain Masters saw things, sir."

"And is he still in command, Mr. Witmarsh?"

The elderly lieutenant grinned. "No, sir."

"My point exactly, Mr. Witmarsh."

4. Meeting the Maynards

Early in the next morning, a stocky sailor entered the common room where Anson broke his fast and rubbed his knuckles against his temples in salute.

"Able seaman Horner, sir. Mr. Witmarsh sent me with a boat crew."

Anson appraised the man. He was a hand over five feet in height, but made up for that by being almost as wide. Not much of that girth was fat. In Anson's estimate that man would have made for a champion weight lifter at county fairs.

"Splendid, Horner. I am not quite finished yet. Why don't you go to the kitchen and see if Libby has a bite to eat for you?"

"Thank you, sir. I'll do just that."

When Libby came to his table he told her to put the food for Horner on his own tab. She smiled.

"You don't know how much that man can eat, Cap'n!"

There was some pride in her voice, and Anson suspected that the stocky coxswain was not a stranger to the Mermaid.

Anson finished the meal and enjoyed the last sips of his coffee.

"Pass the word for my cox’n!" he told Stevens.

Horner appeared only seconds later and guided his captain to the landing site. The jolly boat was painted white and was in good repair as far as Anson could see, and the four men crew seemed cheerful enough. He told Horner to put him upriver as close to Morton Hall as possible and sat down with some difficulty whilst the bowman shoved off.

It was a half hour boat ride upriver. Morton Hall was located not far from the bank, a well maintained manor house surrounded by a small park that reached down to the water. There was even a decent stone landing, and Anson could reach the shore without drenching his shoes.

He gave orders for the crew to wait by the boat and limped up the gravel path towards the manor house. It was difficult because his crutch sank into the gravel with each step.

He was slightly worried about his outer appearance. The prize money had not yet been paid out, and his funds had not allowed for overly fancy clothes. He was wearing his Nº2 uniform coat. The epaulet on his shoulder was gilt, not bullion, and the facings were modest too. His shoe buckles were shiny, but made of pinchbeck, and his stockings were fine cotton, not silk. He could not afford solid gold adornments on his everyday uniforms. If the colonel took exception to that, then so be it.

There was a bell rope on the right side of the main entrance, and Anson pulled once. The soft sound of a small brass bell could be heard, but it took a minute before anybody showed. The door was opened by an old butler who took in Anson's uniform and appearance.

"Captain Jeremiah Anson, Royal Navy," he introduced himself. "If possible, I would ask for a few minutes of Colonel Maynard's time."

"Very well, sir! May I ask you to wait in the Colonel's study?"

"Thank you."

And so, Anson waited for what had to be fifteen minutes before a man in his fifties entered the study wearing a house coat over formal breeches. Those stockings were silk, and the shoe buckles looked like solid gold. Maynard was a wealthy man.

"Good morning, Captain. Captain Anson, I presume?"

"Indeed, sir. I am the new commanding officer of the Sea Fencibles in Salcombe."

"Such was the information I received ahead of your arrival, Captain. So nice of you to pay a visit so soon! Of course, I am hoping for a good cooperation."

"I hope that I am not inconveniencing you with my visit?"

"Not at all, my dear Captain! After all, my offices make it imperative for me to work in close consultation with the Royal Navy. Yours is a recent appointment?"

"I was posted in the Sea Fencibles for lack of other openings," Anson answered lightly.

"And of course you took the posting rather than wasting months of seniority. I quite understand. It is not a sinecure either, let me tell you! The lawless practices of the local fishermen require constant vigilance on our parts. But let us find a better place for our discussion. May I offer you refreshments?"

"A cup of tea or coffee is always welcome."

"Splendid! Have you broken your fast already?"

"I did, sir. I am lodging in the Mermaid Inn, and Libby Mason is an excellent cook."

"So I hear. Let me lead the way!"

Anson followed his host along a hallway and towards a well-lit garden salon. Anson could hear music playing, and he already expected the next meeting. What he had not foreseen was Elizabeth Maynard.

She was sitting at a white fortepiano playing with closed eyes and a blissful smile on her lips. She looked like a muse of the mythology wearing a flowing sand-coloured dress with red trimmings. Her hair, a cascade of dark brown tresses, flowed over her back and almost down to the stool on which she sat. Hearing their steps on the polished hardwood floor, she opened her eyes and turned her face.

The image of Elizabeth Maynard at her fortepiano, her face turned sideways and a surprised look on it, would be firmly committed to Jeremiah Anson's memory. She looked lovely! She had greenish eyes and full bee-stung lips. Her nose was small and turning up a little, and her neck was slender and graceful.

"Elizabeth, my dear, please meet the new commanding officer of the Sea Fencibles, Captain Jeremiah Anson. Captain Anson, my daughter Elizabeth."

"I am enchanted, Miss Elizabeth," Anson said formally and rather truthfully.

She rose and curtseyed. She nodded in response and blushed.

"Please excuse my daughter. As the gossip mill doubtlessly informed you, she cannot speak."

The young woman blushed even more and bit her full lips.

"Her beautiful play on the fortepiano more than made good for that," Anson answered bowing to the Colonel's daughter.

"Then, perhaps, you would not mind listening to her for a few more moments until she finishes the piece?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Colonel!" Anson answered with honest conviction.

"Elizabeth, my dear, pray continue your piece!" his host spoke to his daughter who sat down again and resumed her play.

From where he sat, Anson could see her profile. Her eyes were open now, concentrating on the notes, and he thought that he could detect a blush on her features. It took perhaps five minutes for her to finish, and both gentlemen gave a polite applause at the end. Miss Elizabeth curtseyed whilst remaining seated, adding uncommon grace to the talents Anson kept chalking up in her favour.

"Thank you, my dear!" the Colonel exclaimed. "Will you join us for a tea?"

After a brief hesitation, Miss Elizabeth nodded.

"Splendid!" the Colonel smiled, lifting a little brass bell and ringing it. A servant appeared briefly after. "Tea for three, Pinings!"

"Very well, sir!" the servant replied and withdrew hurriedly.

"I trust you will enjoy my very own Assam mix, Captain. We have become quite enamoured with it."

Anson thought it best to smile and nod.

"I looked up the name Anson in my genealogy reference, but I could not find any entries?"

"My father was the caretaker for Sir Robert Connington's estates in Berkshire."

"I see. Yet you decided for a Navy career?"

"Indeed. After my parents' death, Sir Robert decided for me to join the Navy."

"Quite so, quite so. For a young man without proper interest at court or in parliament that appears to be a sensible choice. I fear that the practice of the purchase of commissions turns many a gifted young man away from the army. You seem to be quite young too to be posted as a captain already."

"I had the honour of serving under Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. My captain was mortally wounded, and I had to assume command. We boarded and took a French ship of the line."

"And quite a hero you are, Captain! How delightful! I fear that the good Captain Masters was not the right man for this task. Not enough initiative I fear. Those smugglers were left alone almost as if the Navy had no presence here."

"Isn't there a customs cutter patrolling this coast?" Anson' asked easily.

The Colonel shrugged. "Customs! They're only interested in filling their pockets from the sale of contraband. Arresting the culprits will only diminish their future takings, so they let them escape whenever justifiable."

"I see," Anson said cautiously. "I saw a few schooners in the harbour. What do they carry for cargo?"

"They used to bring in fruits from the Peninsula, but that trade dried up with Boney's continental embargo. Now they have to sail all the way to the Portuguese islands for cargo, and those Salcombe schooners are not built for long journeys. Of course, I am not blind and unsympathetic. I know that the war has disrupted their connections, but this is no reason to conspire and trade with the enemy!"

"As you know, Colonel, my primary task is the defence of this coast. In this context…"

The tea arrived, and for a few minutes, the conversation ceased whilst everybody prepared their tea to their liking. Then they sipped appreciatively for a few minutes before the Colonel leaned back.

"Pray continue, Captain!"

"As I said, I must see my priorities in the preparations against landing attempts."

"Certainly, and in my capacity as commander of the local militia I shall endeavour to render any assistance."

"Thank you, Colonel. I was thinking that perhaps, after catching a smuggler or two, we might set them free under the condition that they collect intelligence from their French counterparts whilst at the same time disseminating false intelligence about our forces here."

"Interesting idea, dear Captain! You mean to say that you wish to tolerate the lesser crime of smuggling and trading with the enemy in return for fresh intelligence?"

"That would be the idea, always assuming that you, in your capacity as the justice of the peace and magistrate, can find such schemes tolerable."

"I need to ponder this. Of course, the defence of the realm takes precedence over almost anything else. I shall give you my mind in a few days if that is acceptable."

"Of course, Colonel. I need to acquaint myself with my command first. Tomorrow, I plan to inspect the battery on the headland."

"A fine example that. I witnessed the test firing of the big guns last summer. Most impressive!"

"I have yet to see it. There are two more of course, the one at Rame Head and of course Dartmouth Castle. I imagine I shall be quite busy."

"No doubt, Captain. You'll need a horse to get around."

Anson's face showed his doubt. "I cannot be much of a horseman presently," he temporised.

"But we cannot have you walk those sheep paths! I'll have my stable master find a nice, gentle mare for you. "My horses need more exercise anyway, and it will help you perform your duties."

"You are far too kind, Colonel," Anson protested unconvincingly.

"Say nothing, Captain! Even though the worst danger is averted thanks to Lord Nelson's heroic sacrifice, there is no end to Boney's cunning. Those guns may just be what stands between the Frogs and our homes and families."

"I certainly appreciate your support, Colonel," Anson answered nicely.

"It is settled then. I'll let my stable master know that you can require the mare at any time."

Anson nodded his thanks but then became aware that they had completely forgotten Elizabeth Maynard. He turned to her.

"Please forgive us for talking about what must be dull issues for you!"

She gave him a little smirk and shook her head letting her tresses dance in the most fetching way.

"There is no end to what my daughter finds interesting, my dear Captain," Maynard said with a smirk of his own. "One tends to forget that she is there but she marks each and every word she hears and commits it to her diary later. I sometimes ask her to find out what I said to a tenant a fortnight ago, and she can always show me the passage."

"You must have an amazing memory then, Miss Elizabeth," Anson stated with a degree of admiration in his voice.

She smiled in response and his heart skipped a beat or two. He could only hope that his host did not notice his reaction.

"My daughter is a most accomplished young lady, I assure you. Were it not for her little impediment," here, Miss Elizabeth flinched slightly, "why, she'd have had her pick of suitors."

That seemed a tad insensitive even to Anson, and he shot a sympathetic look at the young woman who had deflated noticeably. He remembered his own stupid remark from the evening before and blushed a little.

"Have you ever thought of using a wax tablet, Miss Elizabeth? My grandfather, may he rest in peace, suffered a stroke that impaired his speaking to the point that not even my father could understand his slurred words. He used a small wax tablet to scribble down what he wanted to convey. When the tablet was filled, it was planed with a warm iron and ready for renewed service."

Miss Elizabeth forgot her embarrassment and stared at Anson with an open mouth severely flustering him once again. The colonel was also impressed with the idea.

"Where did your father get the idea?"

"In fact, I did," Anson admitted. "I attended Sir Roger Fenton's Latin School in Abington, and the Reverend McCluskey told us that the Romans used such implements for taking notes. A slate might also work, but a stylus makes finer letters than a piece of chalk."

"Would you like to try it out, my dear?" Maynard addressed his daughter who nodded excitedly. "Perhaps, Captain Anson can tell us more about this. I could use it too instead of paper and quills."

"I shall find the ingredients in town and prepare a tablet or two. There must be bee keepers or chandlers in town? A smith?"

"I have a bee keeper on my lands. I'll request a pound of wax from him. There are two smiths in town, mostly making the iron for the ship building."

"I shall make a sample at the earliest possibility, Miss Elizabeth."

If he needed motivation, her answering smile would have been more than enough.

———

True to his word, Colonel Maynard gave orders to have a horse ready for Anson at his own stable in the town. Apparently, the squire kept horses in Salcombe for his use, and the stable master picked a gentle and sturdy mare for Anson. His first visit had to be with the boot maker, Anson decided. To ride with white breeches and stockings was out of the question, and thus he postponed his first ride.

Instead, he had himself rowed downriver to a point where he could reach the path that led to the headland. It was early morning when they set out, and almost noon when he arrived at the battery. A sentry seemed to be awake because Anson was challenged.

Horner, who accompanied Anson, hailed back, "Salcombe!"

Apparently, this was how Captain Masters had himself announced because a small sally port was opened for Anson.

Lt. Black proved to be a man of thirty or so years with a peg left leg. He saluted stiffly.

"Lieutenant Peter Black, sir!"

"All hands on deck, if you please, Mr. Black!" Anson ordered.

The crew — 24 ratings and a midshipman — assembled on the "gun deck", and here Anson stepped on a shot garland waiting for the crew to form file.

"Orders given to me, Jeremiah Anson, Esq., Captain, Royal Navy:

"Sir, you are hereby requested and required to assume command of the Sea Fencibles district at Salcombe.

"You officers and men, there may come a day when the Channel Fleet meets with bad luck and the Frogs will come sailing up the Kingsbridge Estuary. If that ever should happen, they will find us ready to repel them and sink them with these fine guns. They will find the men behind those guns too brave for them to conquer. We'll send them home with a bloody nose and with their masts shot away!"

The twenty-five men made a modest effort at giving a cheer, and that was it.

"Mr. Black, kindly show me the workings of this battery," Anson said then, and for the next hour, Black did just that. The crowning moment of the impromptu inspection was a gun drill. The 24-pounders looked much smaller up here and under the open sky than down on the lower gun deck of a 74. Yet, they were still three ton behemoths that could hurl over twenty pounds of red-hot iron over two miles of water. A small furnace was there for heating the round shot to red-hot. Such shot, when striking the dried-out timbers of a man-of-war, could easily set them on fire and wreak catastrophic destruction.

Anson found that the men worked with precision and following strict procedures. He realised that the handling of red-hot shot was a dangerous and complicated art, for at no time must powder and hot shot be on the deck at the same time. Apparently, Mr. Black and his men had sufficient practice, and the drill went flawlessly.

The last point was the signal mast, or semaphore. The signal masts were forming an uninterrupted chain that could pass on messages along the coast in less than an hour. There were four signal mates in the crew under a midshipman who were responsible for receiving, sending, or mostly just relaying the messages. At night, fireworks and torches were used as Anson was informed. He suspected that the semaphore was in fact the most useful feature of the battery for it gave the port admirals along the coast the means to communicate and coordinate naval operations.

It was late afternoon before a rather tired Captain Anson returned to the Mermaid, limping badly and grimacing with pain. Libby Mason greeted him with a friendly smile offering him a hot bath in the tub that stood in the laundry room.

"Thank you, Libby," Anson smiled gratefully. "Did somebody deliver wax for me?"

Grinning, Libby produced a lump wrapped in a cloth and two gouged-out wooden slates. Using a big iron ladle and the kitchen fire, Anson melted a few ounces of wax and poured the molten wax into the slates. In no time at all he had his first wax tablets. He showed Libby its use by scribbling a few words into the wax using a carpenter's nail.

"That's right neat, Cap'n. Almost like a slate, right?"

"Yes, but less dusty, with finer writing, and no screeching," he smiled.

"What do you need it for?" Libby asked unconcerned with propriety.

"To help Miss Maynard tell people what she wants and thinks," he explained.

"Oooh! That's a good way for her seeing how she reads and writes all the time anyway. She'll be right grateful, Cap'n."

He grinned. "And that, my dear Libby, is the purpose!"

5. Elizabeth

Over the next two weeks, Anson inspected his district. He requisitioned the Lady Jane schooner for travelling, but still, there was a lot of walking to do for him. He rested as much as possible between inspections, but it seemed as if he needed less time to recuperate with every shore visit.

Dartmouth Castle was quite impressive. A battery had been added to the medieval core boasting five huge 42-pounder guns and truly commanding the river estuary. The officer in command, Lt. Mackeray, was energetic and able, and Anson had the best impression.

The Rame Head battery was another matter. Lt. Everson, the commanding officer, could not be found when Lady Jane anchored in the river mouth and Anson went ashore. He had not left any instructions where to find him, and the battery was under the supervision of a fat young midshipman who was woefully incompetent if eager. Anson left a message for Everson demanding a written explanation for his absence.

Anson also inspected a few smaller posts on horseback. The volunteers were to be assembled for exercises once a week, and Anson reorganised those exercises in a way that allowed him to supervise them as often as possible. He reasoned that a poor performance in the Sea Fencibles would forever bar him from seagoing commands, and he made it clear to his subalterns that no dereliction of duty would be tolerated.

The mare on which he made his inspections was named Maggie and proved to be a most gentle creature with a soft gait. Anson mostly walked her, since a trot or canter were beyond his abilities for the time being. Yet, on the back of the dapple grey mare he was able to get around, and he began to enjoy those outings. For a man who for most of the previous years had been confined to the decks of a frigate, the vast expanse of land was a delightful change.

With a little guilty conscience, he began to ride out even when he had no particular purpose. Those were short rides for an hour or less, but with each day he gained confidence. The exercise more than anything made him regain strength in his badly mangled leg, and soon he was able to limp short distances without the help of his crutch.

He also gained some use of his stump. With proper bending of the copper strips inside the glove he could soon support his brass telescope with the dummy left hand whilst holding the eyepiece with his right.

The progress made him less self-conscious around the townspeople. Being used to the closeness of a wardroom, he spent most evenings in the common room of the inn, mostly sitting with the shipwrights and ship owners. He gained knowledge both in the ship building crafts but also in the trades, whilst in turn impressing his counterparts with his insights in navigation and ship handling.

When his leg got better, he would also frequent other inns and taverns, much to Libby's displeasure, but there he would meet the rest of Salcombe's leading citizens. The local physician, Dr. Holbrook, was a man of over sixty years; yet he made his calls on horseback for at least five miles around. He inspected the leg wound and the stump and declared them to have healed properly. He was full of curiosity about the life on board His Majesty's ships and confessed that it had always been his dream to sail aboard one of them.

Colonel Maynard's aide-de-camp, Lt. Greves, was also one of the regulars in the inns. He was a florid-faced, well-fed chap who found his appointment with the militia quite a boon compared with regular army service. He was, nevertheless, a sharp fellow, Anson found, and a superb Whist player. He had to be, for Colonel Maynard was an avid player who invited the other noted enthusiasts of the town to his house for a once-weekly evening at cards.

When it became known that Anson was a serious player as well, he and his three main partners, namely Dr. Holbrook, Lt. Greves, and Mr. Hapling, the mayor, began to meet once a week in the Mermaid. The venue was of course less splendid than the card room at Morton Hall, but there was ale on tap and two pretty publican's daughters to serve it, which facts weighed heavily with the gentlemen.

Within the course of two months, Captain Jeremiah Anson was very much accepted in Salcombe. The only exception was Colonel Maynard. Anson never received an answer to his question whether it would be permitted to coerce smugglers into spying against the French, and he never received a note of thanks for the two wax tablets he had sent for Miss Maynard's use. Not from the Colonel at least.

On a Sunday after church service which he felt compelled to attend, when he was leaving the church, he suddenly felt a soft hand on his left arm. He flinched a little, for the stump was still a little tender, and he turned to look into the chagrined face of Elizabeth Maynard.

Nothing could have quenched his pain faster! He bowed to her to hide his fluster and when he looked up she held up a small wax tablet in a silver frame. On it, he read, 'Thank you for this wonderful idea!'.

That was a preview of Sea Fencibles. To read the rest purchase the book.

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