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An Object of Charity
by Carla Kelly
<A Regency Christmas Present>
Captain Michael Lynch never made a practice of leaning on the
quarterdeck railing of the Admirable, but it hardly seemed to
matter now. The crew— what was left of them—eyed him from a
respectful distance, but he knew with a lift to his trounced-upon
heart, that not one of them would give less than his utmost, even
as he had.
His glance shifted to that spot on the deck that had glared so
brightly only last month with the blood of David Partlow, his first
mate. One of his crew, when not patching oakum here and there
to keep the Admirable afloat, or manning the pumps, had
scrubbed that spot white again until all trace was gone. Still he
stared at the spot, because now it was whiter than the rest of the
deck.
Damn the luck, he thought again. Damn the French who had
sailed to meet the Admirable and other frigates of the blockade
fleet, gun ports open and blazing a challenge rare in them, but
brought about by an unexpected shift in the wind. Most of all,
damn the luck that fired the Celerity, next ship of the line, and
sent her lurching out of control into the Admirable.
And maybe even damn Partlow for rushing to the rail with a
grappling hook just in time for the Celerity's deck carronade,
heated by the flames, to burst all over him. Another Celerity gun
belched fire then, and another, point blank at his own beautiful
Admirable, one ball carrying off his sailing master, and the other
shattering the mainmast at its juncture with the deck. "And they
call that friendly fire," he murmured, leaning on the railing still as
the Admirable inched past able ships in Portsmouth harbor.
There would be an inquiry, a matter of course when one ship had
 
nearly destroyed another. He knew the Lords of the Admiralty
would listen to all the testimony and exonerate him, but this time
there would be no Admirable to return to. It would be in dry dock
for three months at least, and he was sentenced to the shore on
half pay. The lords might offer him another ship, but he didn't
want any ship but the Admirable.
Lynch was mindful of the wind roaring from the north, wavering
a point or two and then settling into a steady blow. He couldn't
fathom three months without the wind in his face, even this raw
December wind.
At some exclamation of dismay from one of the crew, he looked
up to see the dry dock dead ahead. Oh, Lord, he thought, I can't
stand it. He didn't mind the half pay. Even now as he leaned so
melancholy on the rail, his prize money from years and years of
capture and salvage was compounding itself on 'Change. If he
chose, he could retire to a country estate and live in comfort on
the interest alone; his wants were few.
The scow towing his ship backed its sails and slowed as it
approached the dry dock. In another minute a launch nestled
itself alongside. His bosun, arm in a sling but defying anyone but
himself to do this duty, stood ready to pipe him off the
Admirable. His trunk, hat case, and parcel of books were already
being transferred to the launch. The bosun even forgot himself
enough to lower the pipe and suggest that is was "better to leave
now, sor."
"Damn your impertinence, Mays!" he growled in protest. "It's not
really like leaving a grave before the dirt is piled on, now, is it?"
But it was. He could see the sympathy in his bosun's eyes, and all
the understandings they had shared through the years without
actually calling attention to them.
"You'll be back, Captain," the bosun said, as if to nudge him
along. "The Admirable will be as good as new."
 
And maybe it will be a young man's ship then as it once was
mine, he thought, stirring himself from the rail. I have conned the
Admirable for fifteen years, from the India Wars to Boney's
Orders in Council that blockade Europe. I am not above
thirty-six, but I feel sixty, at least, and an infirm sixty at that.
With a nod to his bosun, he allowed himself to be piped over the
side.
Determined not to look back at the wounded Admirable, he
followed his few belongings to Mrs. Brattle's rooming house,
where he always stayed between voyages. He handed a coin to
the one-armed tar who earned his daily mattress and sausages by
trundling goods about town in his rented cart. It was almost
Christmas, so he added another coin, enough to give the man a
day off, but not enough to embarrass him; he knew these old
sailors.
And there was Mrs. Brattle, welcoming him as always. He could
see the sympathy in her eyes—amazing how fast bad news
circulated around Portsmouth. He dared her to say anything, and
to his relief, she did not, beyond the communication that his extra
trunk was stowed in the storeroom and he could have his usual
quarters.
"Do you know how long you will be staying this time, sir?" she
asked, motioning to the 'tween-stairs maid behind them to lay a
fire.
He could have told her three months, until the Admirable was
refitted, but he didn't. "I'm not entirely sure, Mrs. Brattle," he
heard himself saying, for some unaccountable reason.
She stood where she was, watching the maid with a critical but
not unkindly eye. When the girl finished, she nodded her
approval and looked at him. "It'll be stew then, Captain," she said
as she handed him his key.
He didn't want stew; he didn't want anything but to lie down and
 
turn his face to the wall. He hadn't cried since India, so it didn't
enter his mind, but he was amazed at his own discomposure.
"Fine, Mrs. Brattle," he told her. He supposed he would have to
eat so she would not fret.
He knew the rooms well, the sitting room large enough for sofa,
chairs, and table, the walls decorated here and there with
improving samplers done by Mrs. Brattle's dutiful daughters, all
of them now long-married. His eyes always went first to the
popular "England expects every man to do his duty," that since
Trafalgar had sprouted on more walls than he cared to think
about. I have done my duty, he told himself.
He stared a long while at the stew, delivered steaming hot an
hour later and accompanied by brown bread and tea sugared the
way he liked it. Through the years and various changes in his
rank, he had thought of seeking more exalted lodgings, but the
fact was, he did not take much notice of his surroundings on land.
Nor did he wish to abandon a place where the landlady knew
how he liked his tea.
Even to placate Mrs. Brattle, he could not eat that evening. He
was prepared for a fight when she returned for his tray, but he
must have looked forbidding enough, or tired enough, so that she
made no more comment than that she hoped he would sleep
better than he ate. Personally, he did not hold out much
confidence for her wish; he never slept well.
The level of his exhaustion must have been higher than he
thought, because he slept finally as the day came. He had a vague
recollection of Mrs. Brattle in his room, and then silence. He
woke at noon with a fuzzy brain. Breakfast, and then a rambling
walk in a direction that did not include the dry dock, cleared his
head. He had the city to himself, possibly because Portsmouth
did not lend itself much to touring visitors, but more likely
because it was raining. He didn't care; it suited his mood.
 
When he came back to his lodgings, he felt better, and in a frame
of mind to apologize to Mrs. Brattle for his mopes. He looked in
the public sitting room and decided the matter would keep. She
appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation with a boy and
girl who looked even more travel weary than he had yesterday.
He thought they must be Scots. The girl—no, a second look
suggested a young woman somewhere in her twenties rather than
a girl—wore a plaid muffler draped around her head and neck
over her traveling cloak. He listened to the soft murmur of her
voice with its lilt and burr, not because he was prone to
eavesdropping, but because he like the cadence of Scottish
conversation, and its inevitable reminder of his first mate.
As he watched, the boy moved closer to the woman, and she
grasped his shoulder in a protective gesture. The boy's arm went
around her waist and she held it there with her other hand. The
intimacy of the gesture rendered him oddly uncomfortable, as
though he intruded. This is silly, he scolded himself; I am in a
public parlor in a lodging house.
Never mind, he thought, and went upstairs. He added coal to the
fire, and put on his slippers, prepared for a late afternoon of
reading the Navy Chronicle and dozing. Some of his fellow
officers were getting up a whist table at the Spithead, and he
would join them there after dinner.
He had read through the promotions list and started on the
treatise debating the merits of the newest canister casing when
Mrs. Brattle knocked on his door. She had a way of knocking and
clearing her throat at the same time that made her entrances
obvious. "Come, Mrs. Brattle," he said, laying aside the
Chronicle which was, he confessed, starting to bore him.
When she opened the door, he could see others behind her, but
she closed the door upon them and hurried to his chair. "Sir, it is
the saddest thing," she began, her voice low with emotion. "The
 

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