Chapter 7: Settling down

Anson decided to forego his planned visit to Maynard. There had been no need anyway, other than his hope to see Elizabeth whilst there. That was quite out of the question now. Instead, Anson sat in the common room and had Libby Mason bring him a meal. The mutton stew was good enough after a week at sea in a schooner, and Anson resolved to enjoy it rather than fretting over the Maynards.

The meal and the subsequent stroll along the quay settled him down enough to regain his balance. He also noticed that he tended to be out of breath from the short, quick walk. His uniform coats had become tight as well from the good food and the lack of proper exercise. That was something he needed to fix. His leg held up well enough now to physical exertion, and he had even begun with sword practice during the week in the Lady Jane. That was important, for if he ever achieved a seagoing command again, he might find himself in a fight against boarders. This all the more as the chances for engagements were higher in the smaller ships he could hope to command early in his captaincy.

That evening whilst playing three rubbers of Whist with his usual group, he addressed Lt. Greves, Maynard's aide-de-camp, whether there was a chance for a more purposeful sword practice. Greves nodded to that pointing out that Mr. Clarence Butterworth who lived two miles to the north in a small estate was an avid practitioner of that martial art and always eager to find new partners. Butterworth had been a captain in a lowly foot regiment (Greves had forgotten which), but he refused to serve in the militia under Maynard.

Thus, on the next morning, Anson set out on his borrowed horse to visit the captain. The small house could hardly be called a manor house, but it seemed in good upkeep. The dependent tenants' farms – there were three of them – were close by. Anson dismounted carefully and tied his mount to a tree limb. When he approached the front door, an elderly man opened who was wearing a curious mixture of military trousers and boots, and a knit sweater made from blue wool.

"'Morning, Captain," the man spoke eyeing Anson's appearance.

"Good morning. Have I the honour of speaking to Captain Butterworth?"

"What honour there is in it, you have it," the man replied with a grin.

"I am Captain Jeremiah Anson of the Sea Fencibles."

"Aah, can't say that I haven't heard of you, Captain. Welcome to my humble little home. Would you care for some refreshment? I have no spirits around, nor wines or ales. It'll have to be tea or coffee."

"A coffee would be quite welcome, Captain."

"A coffee it is then. Do come inside, Captain, while I'll have that lazy rascal Grummon grind the beans for you. Grummon!"

A man wearing a similar attire appeared, thumping the floorboards with his wooden peg leg.

"Grummon, this is Captain Anson. Get us two cups of coffee."

"Aye, sir. Anything else?"

Butterworth looked at Anson who politely declined, whereupon the mysterious Grummon disappeared without a further word.

"Used to be a damn good sergeant, Grummon. Lost his leg when those Whitehall nincompoops made us land in the Bretagne in '98. Bloody Royalists promised to join us in force, but they never showed. Grummon caught a musket ball in his knee when the Frogs chased us back to the beach. We had trouble getting back into the boats, but those sailors didn't leave one of us behind even when the Frogs brought up field pieces."

Anson was aware of several such landings, more designed to worry the French than to create real bridgeheads. In each of them, some poor soldiers lost their life or limbs, seemingly for naught.

"A pity that," Anson answered politely.

Butterworth nodded with a grunt. "I hear that you lost your hand at Trafalgar?"

Anson nodded again. "A swivel gun. Almost ruined my leg, too."

"At least you have something to show for it," Butterworth said matter-of-factly, holding up his left hand which missed two fingers. "I was crippled in a skirmish that didn't even make it into the newspapers! Bloody nincompoops!"

"I am quite undecided whether I should count myself lucky or unlucky," Anson replied politely and with a shrug. "Lt. Greves told me yesterday that you are an avid swordsman?"

A gleam showed in Butterworth's eyes. "Some would say that I am, but then again what do these clod-hoppers know? I used to be the fencing master in my regiment, but I was not the best swordsman. That was our commander, Col. Bryce. A fine gentleman, ever polite, and brave beyond imagination. We lost him on that blasted beach. But why are you asking, Captain?"

Anson sighed. "I need to exercise my sword skills. They were never much to brag about, but now with this dummy hand I feel awkward."

Butterworth nodded. "I know what you mean. My balance was off for some time after I lost my fingers. I don't give fencing lessons, Captain. I practice with likeminded gentlemen. Now, we usually run a little wager to make things more interesting. Sixpence for each hit on the vest."

Anson understood. Butterworth needed money, but he would not accept payments for lessons. His income would come from the wagers – a gentlemanly source of income.

"A little side wager seems perfectly acceptable," he therefore answered.

Grumman came with the coffee and gave his captain a grin.

"Found another goose to pluck, Cap'n?"

"Shut your trap, Grummon. Why I keep you is beyond me. Set up the stable if you want to do something worthwhile."

Anson sipped of the coffee, and it was really good. "This is excellent. Young Miss Mason at the Mermaid makes a good coffee, but this is better."

"Grummon has a good hand for roasting the beans, worthless as he can be. Once you have finished we can try our hand at the practice swords, just so I can get a feel for your style."

After Anson had finished, they walked across the driveway and into a disused stable where wooden boards ran all along the room. Grummon was waiting for them with two padded vests and even leather masks. The practice swords were well balanced pieces, albeit blunted all along their length.

"Afraid I can't let you use your fancy blade, Captain. It's one of those 50 guineas affairs, isn't it?"

Anson nodded while taking off his sword belt and his coat. "I never used it so far."

"They're not bad at all once you get rid of the fancy gold inlays. Let us get started, shall we?"

They faced off. Anson found out quickly that his footwork was rubbish – a small wonder given his leg injury. That was to be expected. He also found out that the rest of his fencing was equally inadequate. In as many minutes, Butterworth was 5s ahead hitting Anson's vest at will. After that, Butterworth slowed just a little giving Anson a few chances to place hits himself, but in the end, the tally stood at 7s6p. They agreed to end it then, and Butterworth decried Anson's sword skills all through the improvised meal of toasted bread and tea that he offered his guest.

"My good Captain, how did you ever survive a boarding fight?" he asked curiously.

Anson shrugged. "Things are different then. You have a deck slippery with blood and gore, and no room at all for lunging and parrying. You engage an enemy only for him to be skewered by a boarding pike coming from nowhere. I suppose that I was lucky."

Butterworth grinned. "Luck beats skill most of the time. You really need practice though, if only to gain back confidence."

Anson agreed to that, and he made an appointment for another practice round two days hence.

After returning to the Mermaid, Anson used washcloth and soap to clean off the sweat before he sat down for his lunch meal. He enjoyed his stay at the Mermaid with the meals prepared by Libby Mason. Nevertheless, he began to feel limited by the single room accommodation. He needed living quarters that fit his status if he ever wanted to be accepted by Maynard. With the full proceeds from his estate now available to him – a little over £800 per year – he could easily afford a house, either rented or as property.

Therefore, after finishing his meal, he set out to find another of his Whist partners, Mr. Hapling, the mayor. Hapling received him immediately ushering him into his study and offering a brandy that tasted decidedly French to Anson.

"My dear Captain, what can I do for you?"

Anson gave the mayor a smile. "I was thinking of moving out from my temporary lodgings at the Mermaid, either to acquire a suitable property or to rent one. Preferably the latter, since I cannot predict the length of my appointment. I was wondering whether you might know of any opportunities?"

Hapling nodded with understanding. "I quite understand, Captain. The Mermaid is a decent inn, no doubt about that, and Miss Libby is quite the cook, but for a gentleman of your standing the accommodation must be unsatisfactory in the long run."

"Quite so," Anson agreed.

"I might just know of an opportunity for you. The Jarvis house is situated quite nicely halfway between harbour and King's Street. Mr. Jarvis was a confirmed bachelor who liked to entertain his friends. To use it for a family would require quite extensive rebuilding, and it has been on the market for fifteen months already, ever since Mr. Jarvis's passing. The current owner, Mr. Joyce, has no interest in it, him owning a larger house in King's Street proper."

"Have you information on the asking price?" Anson returned after brief deliberation.

"He was asking for £1,100, but he may have lowered the price. Frankly, I would not buy it for that."

Anson nodded. "Perhaps he would be interested in leasing it?"

Hapling shrugged. "It would be better for him than having it sit empty. You'd have to ask him. Haven't you met him?"