Chapter 3

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 while 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.