Chapter Text
By eight bells, heâs convinced heâs made the worst mistake in his entire flawed existence. No going back. It would be the utmost cruelty to undo a decision of such magnitude. What if regret comes again? He canât keep piecing Jopsonâs heart back together just to shatter it anew. He shanât be hesitant; faltering; his resolution shall be absolute: thatâs good leadership.
His private existence must be sacrificed. An offering going up in flames. A trifle thing, compared to the suffering of the men who wasted away at Carnivale. In the grand scheme of thingsâ
He canât stop crying.
In the grand scheme of things, what is a torn heart? A heart can be mended. Edward can feel the fabric of it fraying. The flesh pushing through. The bleeding. His own suffering is meaningless compared to Jopsonâs. Jopsonâs isânot meaningless. He cannot say that. But itâs a matter of scale. Two hearts ripped apartâmeasured against a hundred that may stop. Jopson will be among the men saved, as a consequence of Edwardâs decision. And once they make it back to Englandâ
No. He shanât entertain the thought. Itâs not fair. Once back in England, he mayâcatch a glimpse of the East End from his carriage, see the sewage works, the mills, the people sitting on the street. Heâll know that in one of those shabby brown houses, just at the corner, thereâs a little room with a shattered window which Jopson attempted to repair himself. Looking through the spiderglass of damage, he might sight his sweet face.
But he shanât stop the carriage. Shanât get out, take the steps by two; must not be carrying a bouquet and an apology, should not wear his best cape. Under no circumstances should he ever tell Jopson, âIâm just glad that you lived, thatâs all I wanted, to make certain weâd all be safe, for it was my duty,â and if Jopson looked at him in a certain way, he shouldnât grab his hand and clasp it with feeling, then bring it to his lips to say, âIâm so, so sorry.â
His decision is irreversible.
*
Time heals all things.
Itâs been weeks.
Itâs worsening.
*
The hauling will do them good. Thatâs what he tells himself. He also has Irvingâs reassurance, although the details of Edwardâs heartache were not shared. Some genuine physical exercise is all thatâs needed to take oneâs mind off lovesickness.
The first day is hell. The second, third, fourth as well.
A mercy: Jopson is not on Edwardâs sledge party. He couldnât bear to see him.
Itâs hard enough in the camp, where all of them are gathered. Edward is resting by the fire. Jopson looks knackered as he wanders around, aimless, before returning to his tent. If Edward werenât resolute, he would go after him, offer to rub his shoulders, his back, his poor aching feet. Heâd ask him about the progress of the day. How it feels wearing nails on his boots. Picking ice. Pulling weight. Fighting the strain and the temptation to shout bugger all and run off.
Edward would dearly like to run off.
Edward would run as far as his legs could carry him, then collapse with relief. The idea is tempting. But heâs already given up too much to give up the men, too. He owes them all. Heâll haul and haul until his bones break. It feels like theyâre breaking. Heâll help pitch tents. Organise watches. Supervise stocks of tins, fresh water. Discuss the road ahead. Heâs useful. Heâs miserable.
He nearly breaks one evening when Jopson is hanging laundry. It couldnât have been more than a quick rinse to Crozierâs underthings. Edward watches him go to his tiptoes and remembers sheets flapping, and the sails, the open sea. It was a hot day. A good wind. Jopson had rolled up his shirtsleeves. Edward was in love with him already.
He will never stop loving him.
He knows it with a certainty, watching him.
The stronger his love is, the more paramount it is to consider his duty.
Heâs less busy than he was on Terror.
Itâs dangerous.
*
âA song?â Irving asks.
âAny song that helps you focus. One that clears the head.â
Irving considers, then says, shyly, âIâm not much of a singer, unless I had a little drink.â
Edward is desperate. He flips his notebook to the back, to empty sheets of paper; offers his pen. Irving gives him a puzzled look; a worried one; but he takes the pen, and starts sketching the partiture, humming along. Theyâre sitting on snow, backs to a boat. The melted ice is steadily seeping through Edwardâs wool coat.
He lets it.
He stopped shaving. Let his hair grow. The only thing he cares for is his uniform.
Let the man die, shrivel inside the bounds of his command. This is the Lieutenant Little he must be. Flesh and bones to carry the uniform. He does not need to be content. His personal needs donât matter. He has to distract himself from the thing inside him, the thing which is him, with wants and needs and regrets and a headache.
âHere.â Irving hands back the notebook. âItâs my favourite hymn.â
Edward follows the notes. For a moment, he knows peace: he ceases to be, raptured by music.
*
The watch drags on. He keeps his eyes on the dark horizon. If the spirit appears, a snow-white spot in the dull night, it will be all worth it. It will, if he kills it. Could he? Maybe: he has nothing left to lose, or fear. That should give a man courage.
His only wish is this: if the creature overpowers him, let it consume him entirely. He wouldnât want Jopson to see his mauled remains. Heâd much prefer to fade into death. A violent rush, perhaps, but then: nothingness. With his last breath, a worthwhile act. Let the spirit choke on him. Try to swallow his melancholy.
âI heard you collected songs,â Le Vesconte says, breaking the silence stretching between them.
Edward adjusts the rifle on his shoulder. Keeps staring ahead. âYou got one to share?â
âMm. What kind of songs do you like?â
Edward struggles to remember. It used to matter.
âHandel,â he says. âPurcell.â
âAh, you would,â Le Vesconte mutters. Is it an insult? A compliment? Friendly banter? Edward is without a care. Grunts in answer.
âWhen I am laid in earth,â Le Vesconte sings under his breath, so he wonât awake the camp. Thatâs surprisingly considerate, from such a brash man. âWhen I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast. Remember me; remember me...â
Edward follows the melody. âBut forget my fate.â
*
âMy head. Cut it off,â Mr. Morfin begs.
Edward keeps his gun pointed at him. He understands. It all makes sense. He knows exactly what he suffers. He doesnât flinch when Sergeant Tozer pulls the trigger. Looks at the scattered brain matter.
There, he thinks. Captain Crozier said to tamper down all signs of illness before we proceed. This is not what he meant. Yet still.
He watches Morfin until heâs carried away.
Thatâs going to be me.
The prospect doesnât scare him. As long as there are men alive to bury him. As long as they make it. As long as it was worth it.
He considers seeking Dr. Goodsirâs help, but all he has to offer are painkillers.
Edward can live with the pain. Heâd prefer that to a foggy brain. His thoughts are disorderly enough already.
He brushes his teeth and spits up more blood. His gums are dark. Undresses himself to bed. Lies on his back.
It makes sense, he keeps telling himself. Fitzjames had given an order. It wasnât obeyed. The lantern shattered. Now Morfin can rest. So can all of them. Order is restored. Illness is cured by death.
All is well.
*
He couldnât sleep. Hardly a blink. Heâs sitting by his desk, staring blankly in his looking glass. Well. Heâs not going to shave. He shaved yesterday. The length of his hair would concern him, but not here. He looks for other things. Blood in the eyes. Peeling skin. Resurfacing scars. Scowls, then chews at his chapped lips.
Itâs not scurvy.
What could it be?
He catches Jopsonâs reflection. He jumps to his feet so hurriedly he nearly knocks his chair over, and the writing desk trembles. He has to extend his hands to steady them as he watches Jopson enter the tent and remove his cap.
âCaptain Crozier called a meeting, sir,â he says. Heâs looking straight at Edward.
Itâs been a while, since he looked.
His face is haggard, grim. His eyes are cast in shadows so dark they look like bruises. Thereâs a scar on his lips. He hasnât shaved either. The softness is gone from him. Heâs lost weight. Heâs sharp like the stones all around, cold like a diamond.
Itâs the first time theyâve been alone since Edward made his decision, and Jopson is leaving with a bow.
âWait,â Edward calls after him.
Jopson looks at him, but keeps the tentâs flap lifted. Sunlight is pouring in. It becomes him. Heâs so lovely. Edwardâs heart leaps, oblivious to the constraints of service. It pulls him towards Jopson, hauling his body along. A step, then he cannot move.
âYes, sir?â Jopson says at length.
Edward coughs. Blinks. Frets with his hands. âThank you,â he says, âfor letting me know.â
âOf course,â Jopson replies easily. âItâs my duty, sir.â
He slips away.
Edward is left pondering if it was an ordinary remark, or a jab at his ill-received letter.
*
âSomeone on this expedition has earned our trust, respect and confidence,â Crozier says, âin a way that merits absolute a place at this table.â
Fitzjames presents the promotion to Jopson, and Edward canât stop laughing: shocked, delighted. He remembers to hide it too late, when Jopson turns towards him, puzzled. He hangs his head, but his smile cannot be stifled.
Itâs not happiness.
Itâs better.
A joy that is nameless, and which has nothing to do with himself. Itâs all about Jopsonâs merit: the mirth of it, the warm esteem that Edward feels. Trust, respect and confidence: indeed, those are all well deserved. Seeing him thus recognised stirs something inside, stronger than love. His affinity for Jopson is like the appreciation of a warm spring, good wind, a tranquil sea: things to relish, knowing full well he has nothing to do with them; that he is blessed to merely witness.
Their personal history, the recentâunpleasantness of it is momentarily forgotten as he removes his gloves, shakes Jopsonâs hand in congratulation. Itâs only his startled look that reminds him: you hurt him and now you commend him; how must that feel?
âGood luck,â he says shortly, simply. He cannot stop smiling, still, and beams at Crozier.
Thank you, he wants to say. Please continue to care for him well: I couldnât.
*
While organising fresh water parties is a grueling feat, Crozier, Fitzjames and him keep grinning through it. Edward is stealing glances at the captain, reassured that his trust in him has been well-placed. Crozier will always keep Jopson safe, and care for him, besides, as if he were his own son, flesh and blood. Maybe he wouldnât smile at Edward, if he knew what heâd done, but that matters not.
Lieutenant Jopson: it has a pleasant ring to it. There is hope, still.
Crozier and Fitzjames head to the cairn; Edward is left to supervise the camp. He goes around with leisurely steps. The men look vaguely troubled seeing him so at ease, but his smiles are returned. He hums a song he doesnât remember even hearing. It must be pouring from his heart; and itâs a love song; a farewell, but one thatâs joyous.
Maybe he doesnât have to forget Jopson, or lose him entirely. Could there be a chance of friendship? Would Jopson welcome it? Is it selfish to hope for it? He yearns for his company.
Jopson arrives as if he heard the call of his heart, beating like a wardrum. Heâs freshly returned from the hunting party. He walks up to Edward, who welcomes him with a smile. Itâs reassuring, to see Jopson armed. He can take care of himself. Heâs an excellent shot.
âLieutenant Little,â Jopson says, âa word in private?â
Oh: now itâs allowed. Nobody minds as Edward lifts the flap of the command tent, lets Jopson step in. He has a place here. He reaches for his cap.
âLeave it,â Edward says. He leans to the table, arms crossed over his chest, and looks Jopson over. His uniform hasnât changed, but he stands taller. When they return home, Edward might see him with his medals of gold; a dress uniform; epaulettes; theyâll all be earned. Heâll raise his glass to him, and think, proudly, thatâs the man I loved once. Thatâs the one I love.
âI was surprised,â Jopson says, adjusting the gunâs holster. Edwardâs gaze is drawn to it.
âDid you catch anything?â
Jopson tilts his head, as if the question is odd, or at least unexpected, then says in a rush, âNo sign of caribou, sir.â
âEdward,â Edward offers warmly.
Jopson tugs at the holster again. Itâs too loose. It keeps slipping off his shoulder. Edward reaches out to help adjust it. Jopson draws back. âIâm afraid I canât call you that,â he says.
Edward drops his hand.
Jopson doesnât look at him. Addresses his boots as he says again, âI was surprised to see you so happy for me this morning. I thoughtâI thought all your sympathies lost.â
Edward scowls. âWhy?â
Jopsonâs gaze flickers up. âI wager you could think of something that mightâve given me that impression.â
âBut it is not so.â Edward pushes himself away from the table. Steps up to Jopson, who steps back, gaze lowered again. âYou have my admiration,â he says, earnest, though his tone is hushed. âLove is not the extent of all that could exist between us. Donât you think we could be friends?â
âNo,â Jopson says, stern. The answer is not the one Edward expected; he tilts up Jopsonâs chin with a finger, makes him meet his gaze. For the first time in a long while, he feels part of the living.
âWhy?â he pleads.
Jopsonâs gaze flicks to his lips, then back up to his eyes. Edward notices he has backed him into a corner.
âIâm in love with you,â Jopson says, plain and frank. âI cannot pretend that my sentiment is anything different. When you smile at me, I want all your smiles, for the rest of my life. When you shake my hand, I want your hands all over myself. When you offer your friendship, I just want your love back.â He presses his forehead to his, as close as the cap would let him. Their noses are nearly brushing. âWant me,â he whispers, âor I beg of you, please be unkind, so I can forget.â
Edward takes a breath in; a breath stolen from Jopsonâs lips. How warm it is; how he misses the taste of him, and how cruel it seems, to deny the comfort of a kiss from him. Could he be cruel? Never; Jopson deserves more, deserves better. Deserves honesty, yes; but is it not his special day? Should he not be allowed an exception? Edward mustnât reverse his decision to do this: lean in for a kiss. He presses their lips together.
Before Jopson could open his mouth for him, somebody yells. âMurder! Murder!â
They break apart once again.
*
âI have no doubt in my mind,â Hodgson says, âwho was responsible for this brutish ambush, and itâs the men I shot.â
Edward listens patiently. The sunshine is blinding. It pulses in his skull. Jopsonâs kiss still tingles on his lips. That is by far the most distracting part.
The tents surround Hodgson and him. These are no shelters. Edward understands the marinesâ anxiety to reinforce the camp. Prepare. Crozier doesnât see it like that.
âThe captain is a thorough man,â Edward says.
âWe have no time for an investigation to confirm the events,â Hodgson whispers urgently. âWe already know what happened. Oh, you shouldâve seen poor John; youâd know.â
âIâm far less concerned with what happened than what may come next,â Edward confesses. Leans against a barrel of fresh water. Should that barrel be looted; should they be attacked; a tent set on fire; one more men dead, or merely injured: at this point, the simplest loss could put the entire expedition in danger. They canât risk a single thing.
Heâs not the one giving orders, however.
He must put his confidence in Crozier. Heâs proven himself to be frustratingly capable countless times over. Heâs fearless, and that worries Edward. In the face of his calm logic, he feels like a feverish boy complaining to his father about nightmares, fancied dreads. But sometimes, children are right. Sometimes, there are monsters.
*
âKeep the men ready in case Mr. Hickey is telling the truth; but calm, in case he is not,â Fitzjames advises. Edward acknowledges him with a glance, but doesnât find it in him to answer. Not after Crozier just threatened to flog him for insubordinance. Heâs trying his utmost, isnât he?
Has he started behaving irrationally?
Are people noticing?
His judgement should be solid. The only way to earn Crozierâs respect is through reason. Can he trust himself with that? The fog descends. It obscures his thoughts. There are shadows moving through the thick mist. Friend or foe? What could they be?
Where is Jopson?
He followed the captain. Edward needs to follow orders.
He just has to follow the orders and what his instincts and training tell him, and no one will be harmed.
*
The scissorsâ blades cut open Irvingâs stomach. Edward compels himself to watch while Jopson stands guard and Hodgson lingers, prepared for judgement. Knife-cuts zigzag over Irvingâs chest. A horrifying pattern. Parts of him were removed. His brain is exposed, like Private Heatherâs was. His eyes are open. The little wood cross is tight around his neck. His God failed to protect him.
Thereâs some calculated brutality to his fate. Edward cannot imagine anybody, English or Inuit, who would do something like this. The stab wounds are the least disturbing. Thereâs an insanity to them. Anger. The rest, however. That was meant to be discovered. Read like a warning. Feared.
Edward wants to think that Irvingâs murderer didnât know him. That matters more than the killerâs nationality. If they never saw Irving smiling. Didnât know of his brilliance. His kindness to animals. His amiable self-importance. That his favourite song was Amazing Grace. Edward has it scribbled in his notebook. It burns his pocket. He watches the guts revealed and hears how sweet the sound...I once was lost, but now am found...'twas grace that brought us safe thus far, and grace will lead us home.
âThatâs seal meat, sir. Barely digested. They fed him,â Goodsir says.
Whatever faith Edward ever had, it shatters.
*
The armory is open. Edward has given the orders. The enemy carries guns. Friends were shot down.
Heâs responsible.
He carries the weight of his ill judgement as he arrests Sergeant Tozer. Seeks out the carpenters. Has the gallows made. Almost says, make it three.
They came too close to a mutiny.
Innocents were slain.
Blood is easy to wash off oneâs hands. It washes away in tears of regret. Mistakes like this, however: they stain like ink. How can he scrub his soul clean?
He knows already.
Heâs made the decision once. Step up. Give yourself over to command. All else is trivial.
His love life has a headcount.
Heâs the one to announce Mr. Hickey and Sergeant Tozerâs crimes. Heâs a representative of discipline and order. Itâs only through Crozierâs mercy he stands there. He feels Jopsonâs eyes on himself. Jopson mans the rope. He knew of the mutiny before Edward did. He captured Mr. Hickey.
Donât you think we could be friends?
No. Iâm in love with you.
That, they canât afford, can they? Edward is still searching for an excuse, the coward he is. He made one too many mistakes to-day: the open armory, his parted lips, the kiss. Still, he wishes to discuss it all with Jopson. Confess his shortcomings. Have his insight. His support. Pity. All he wants is get back to that tent, once justice is served, and be purged. Curl up in Jopsonâs lap, let him stroke his hair and beg, help me. Right my instincts. When I listen to my heart, it leads me astray. Itâs poisoned by worse than lead: fear rusts it. My head is heavy. I cannot think. Be my better half again. I havenât been myself since I sent you away; but wasnât it a necessary sacrifice to make?
Noises emerge from the fog.
Laughter.
A roar.
*
Heâs hiding behind a tent.
No.
Heâs taking cover.
He needs to catch his breath before pursuing Tozer any further.
He has problems breathing.
It started when he saw the spirit.
When he really saw it.
It has a shape.
Itâs not like a bear.
It has human features.
Something is wrong with the way it moves. Like the spirit is still learning how to carry this conjured body. The weight of it. How to be contained by flesh.
Edward looked into its eyes and learnt three things about Tuunbaq: itâs immense; itâs ancient; itâs like the land.
The ground under his feet shakes with the spiritâs anger. He cannot breathe: heâs not allowed this air. Heâs gasping as his lungs keep collapsing. As the dark creeps in. Heâs sick with nerves again. Helpless. Useless.
Jopson is out there, in the fog, with the spirit.
His muscles strain to run after him.
He has an order to capture Tozer.
He must see to that.
Tozer is the real danger.
The Tuunbaq is an avalanche. A blizzard. A whirl. They wonât defeat it. They just have to survive it until it passes.
The dead litter the earth.
He has no control over whoâs next.
This is a test of the choice he made.
No.
This is proof that he has no choice.
*
âNo one can see you now,â Tozer says. âYouâre invisible. Theyâll think you died and you were carried off.â
Edward gestures with his rifle. âGet on the ground,â he says. He sounds weak. Winded.
He wouldnât obey himself.
âHickey didnât get to say half of what he wanted to say, Edward. Thatâs your name, isnât it? Edward?â
Edward gestures again. What is left, if orders are not followed? He wonât shoot Tozer. Wonât kill a man. Not one of their own. Tozer knows. Thatâs why he doesnât obey. There are too many dead already. Heâs safe as the world around him shatters.
The Arctic will kill them. Itâs not about accidents or exposure to cruel weather. Itâs slaughter.
All they have left are instincts and training.
Tozer should share them.
His gut should say the same thing as Edwardâs. We must live. This is the way to it: obey.
His training should make him afraid. Have him raise his hands. Get on the ground. Comply with his arrest.
Heâs a dead man.
Heâs been marked.
Heâs to be executed.
But Edward doesnât have the authority to enforce that order.
âCrozier was going to lead that sledge party himself and leave. Quit the Navy. Quit all of us. You didnât know that, did you? He was gonna leave you a big, losing hand, Edward.â Tozer smiles. Thereâs pity in it. You were always already doomed. âWatch out.â
Pain flares at the back of his head.
Then he sees the dark again.
Itâs everywhere.
*
He lies on the ground like the dead. He knows heâs alive, because heâs in pain. His head feels like thereâs a knife in it. His joints ache. He fell, didnât he? Heâs been hit.
Something warm touches his face. Jopson. Jopson is here.
âLook at me,â he says very clearly. âCan you hear me?â
Edward nods, which is a mistake. He winces. Jopson touches the back of his head. Pulls his hand back. His fingers are red. His eyes fill with dread.
âFind the others,â Edward says, getting up to his elbows. âWhere are theââ
âCareful. Thatâs a nasty wound there. What happened?â Jopson starts unbuttoning his own coat. Edward must be hallucinating.
âWas hit in the head. They got away, tell Captain Crozier they escapedâwhat are you doing?â
Jopson undoes his waistcoat, gets his shirt off. Thereâs a bruise on his chest, from hauling, perhaps. He glances at Edward as he bundles the shirt up, then presses it to the back of his aching head. âThere. Itâs the cleanest thing I have.â
âTom,â Edward says, wretched.
âCotton soaks up blood well.âÂ
Edward puts his hand over Jopsonâs. Their gazes lock. Jopson looks away, pulls back, dresses.
He understands.
âThank you,â Edward says.
âDonât mention it.â
Jopson leaves as the fog flares up. A bit of hope illuminates him, the comet-bright shine of rockets. The spirit growls, and then thereâs silence.
*
They burn the dead. Theyâd be impossible to bury. Thereâs over thirty. They go up in smoke. The smell of Carnivale follows as the survivors haul.
âHowâs the head?â Le Vesconte asks at their temporary camp. Edward wears his cap over clean bandages. He still has Jopsonâs shirt, which he should return. Heâs just holding onto it a little longer.
He regards Le Vesconte. He looks tired. One day, and fatigue is already setting back in. Edward, too, feels it.
âIâm fine, thank you,â he says.
His muscles are tight as ropes. Fraying at the edges. They pull at him with every step. So now heâs sitting.
Le Vesconte makes a sympathetic sound. Takes a place beside him. Sits there comfortably, smiling.
âAre you,â Edward says. Licks his lips. Tries again, looking ahead at the camp. âAre you trying to be companionable?â
Le Vesconte scoffs. âThank you for noticing my meager attempts.â He bumps into Edwardâs shoulder. It smarts. This is why he canât decide.
âWhy?â he asks. His throat is dry. Heâs perched all the time.
âVery well.â Vesconte, too, stares ahead. Dusk settles on them like ashes. âYou see, Iâm the only lieutenant left in Erebusâs ranks,â he says. âI wish to discuss my thoughts with like-minded people. We just had a mutiny. Us officers must rely on each other. Be of the same position. Itâs pivotal that we understand one another well. I think I have the wardroom figured out. Not you; and I need to: youâre the third in command.â
Edward chuckles. Thereâs no joy in it, but Le Vesconte smiles at him affably. âIf you ever figure me out,â Edward says, âdo kindly share the results.â
âIâm not dying here,â Le Vesconte says with a fervour that embarrasses Edward. âIâm not.â
âWeâre heading home.â Edward points east. âBest we can do. Soldier on.â
*
The march is agony. His body is no longer complying. He can walk, still, which is a blessing, but his joints ache with it. His stomach is in knots the entire day. He cannot eat. Heâs lost appetite while his fellow men starve. He forces the tins down his throat. He knows itâs poison. He knows itâs what makes him sick.
Lead poisoning.
If Goodsir were here, he would ask him for more details. Bridgens could only cite the headache. The feeble moods. He made a note on memory loss. Thatâs what concerns Edward the most.
He can push through the pains of the body. Itâs been asked of him before. Nerves affect him. Heâs beginning to see that. But what unkind disease it is, that rids its victims not just of health, character and good spirits, but their very past?
He struggles to recall the first time he laid eyes on Jopson. It mustâve been at Greenhithe. Three years since. Earlier, maybe. There mustâve been some social function or another. Surely, he would remember.
Their first kiss, he can picture vividly. The quality of light; the swirl of dust; the shadow Jopsonâs eyelashes cast. Thatâs a problem. He was snowblind at the time. This means that his brain is conjuring imagery. Creates visions out of nothing. Will there be a time when he wonât be able to tell what was and wasnât?
Thereâs a day where he becomes convinced that theyâre looking for thaws. That theyâll go back to Terror and report.
He gets confused too often.
He sees Jopson swipe his forehead with a handkerchief he knows to be his, but cannot recall how it came to be Jopsonâs possession.
Once heâs in Jopsonâs tent. Jopson is not there, and he knows not what he came to discuss. He spots a familiar envelope among Jopsonâs neatly stacked personals. He knows what the letter says. He doesnât remember delivering it.
Itâs all becoming rather worrying.
*
Fitzjames stumbles and falls. Blood seeps through his shirt, his slops. Heâs put on a boat with a man whose name doesnât come to Edwardâs lips; who hasnât moved in a while; hasnât even blinked.
Edward heads out with the sweep party. He sings under his breath to keep up his spirits. I can no longer stay, our ship sails are hoisted and I must away. Jopson taught him this song. He remembers that. It was Jopson.
What fun theyâll all have, back in England. Edward can just picture it. A dinner at the Admiralty. Fitzjames with his curled hair, well-fed, tanned. âLike the shot that killed Lord Nelson. Well, it couldnât kill me. Its reappearance troubled us shortly, but thenââ
What happened? He imagines it still in Fitzjamesâ voice, âWe walked home.â
In his imagination, he looks at Jopson. Heâs in uniform. Sitting by the table beside him. Heâs drinking rose lemonade, and heâs smiling. His breath fogs the glass. âWhat a miracle it is,â he murmurs, âto have survived; youâd never know from his recounting!â
Fitzjames tells it in his usual style: a dismissive boast, an epic tale concealed as a dinner story he could tell any day. This is the life he lives: a life of adventure, and the expedition for the North-West passage is just a chapter. Edward follows the motion of his white-gloved hands, laughs and claps. Meets Jopsonâs eyes again. Observes the glint in them; how the candlelightâs glow make them a greenish hue. God, heâs beautiful. If they werenât in publicâ
âSir!â
âEdward would kiss him. Itâd be welcome, and safe. Nothing would depend on it.
âLieutenant Little, sir! Itâs the creature!â
He turns in his seat. Hartnell is in rags. Heâs standing in the Admiralty's dining hall breathless, like he had to run miles to find Edward here. He left the door open. There are ragged rocks behind it, and miles of ice. Something stirs within the immobile landscape. Creeps.
*
âWeâre too slow,â Le Vesconte tells him. Edward shakes his head. Theyâre back at the camp. âYouâve spotted the creature,â Le Vesconte insists. âItâs tracking us still.â
âItâs injured.â
âWe have the mutineers to fear as well. Weâre being pursued, and weâre incapable of running. Weâre barely a quarter of the way in. At this pace, December will find us frozen and helpless in King Williamâs Land!â
âYou must raise that concern with the captain,â Edward says.
âYou must support me on it,â Le Vesconte insists. Edward shakes his head. Heâs not arguing. Heâs just incapable of handling this. Heâs pacing the camp. It has shrunk. Three boats. A sledge. A couple of tents. Men in dwindling numbers. âWe shall leave the sick to rest.â
Edward gives him a glare. Le Vesconte struggles to keep up with him. He used to be a good walker. Heâs exhausted.
âThatâs what we would do,â Le Vesconte says, âback home. Allow them to stay in bed.â
âTheyâd have doctors,â Edward says. âNurses. Family members.â
âWe need doctors to move on. If weâre to ever find game, help and rescueââ
âI know.â
âThen I beseech you, say something.â Le Vesconte grabs his arm. Edward halts. Heâs swaying on his feet. Heâll collapse on Le Vesconte. Canât they have this conversation in a dream?
âCaptain Crozier will never agree to it.â
âYou can convince him.â
âHardly.â Edward bites his lips. Considers the disadvantages of honesty. Then thinks, to hell with it. âCaptain Fitzjames is dying,â he says.
They both refuse to glance at his tent. They search each otherâs expressions instead.
âHe is,â Le Vesconte admits. His face is a mask. His eyes betray all. The depth of his grief, an abyss. It pulls Edward in. âIâll bury my friend, then we will march on. We will walk and walk and we wonât stop until we have shelter and food and lemon fucking juice. On my honour Iâll lead the rescue party for our sick myself. We can send them meat, as soon as we find any. But we have to go on or else all perish.â
*
Relaying the plan to Crozier doesnât go well.
Edward lingers by the campfire, warming his hands. The nights are still cold. Heâs keeping his eyes on Jopson, whoâs smoking on the sledge, sitting on it like a rider. He catches Edwardâs glance.
âAre you still upset with me?â Edward asks.
âTrying to be.â
âShould I leave you to it?â
âCome here.â Jopson pats the sledge. Edward pulls away from the fire, wraps the coat tighter around himself. The camp is nearly empty. Everybody is trying to sleep. Nobody manages.
Captain Fitzjames is dying.
Lamps burn in the tents. They all keep vigil.
Edward sits facing Jopson, knees brushing together. âIn my defence,â he says, âwhen Lieutenant Le Vesconte convinced me of this plan, it sounded much less heartless.â
The ember of his cigarette reflects in Jopsonâs eyes. It flashes as he smiles. âI bet.â
He keeps his hair much longer. It frames his face most fetchingly. With a good wash and some rosemary, itâd become him even in London. The full beard, also. Jopson regards him too. Bafflingly, he touches his nose.
âYou have freckles again,â he says. His voice is tender. Edward doesnât deserve such gentleness, but on a night like this, he needs it. He canât forget Fitzjames crying out in pain. Not long ago, the halest in their party. An expert of overland expedition. Crozierâs second. A man of noted endurance, strength and vigour. Edward tries not to think of it, but he strains his ears for a last cry of pain.
âItâs summer,â he says haltingly. âItâs the sun. They come out.â
He hears in Fitzjamesâ voice, you shouldâve seen us: we all looked frightfully unkempt. Lieutenant Littleâs hair nearly reached his shoulders. Not many men can keep up that appearance, let me tell you that. Fitzjames would then toss his hair. Thereâd be laughter.
âYou had freckles when we first met,â Jopson says.
Edward blinks, avoids his gaze. âAt Greenhithe?â
âMm. I thought you were cute. And I liked how you looked in uniform. Broad-chested. Sturdy.â He touches his buttons next. Presses his fingers to one until the Royal Navyâs sigil is imprinted on his fingertip. âI donât think you noticed me.â
Thereâs a beat.
âDo you ever regret coming here?â Edward asks softly.
Jopson considers this. Smoke curls from his lips. âI canât even begin to think what state I would be in, waiting for Captain Crozierâs return in vain. Iâm glad Iâm here to aid him. I wouldnât trust anyone else with it. Not himself, surely.â He glances at Fitzjamesâ tent. âHe wonât sleep to-night,â he says, flat. âI wish he could, really. Find some relief.â
âI donât think any of us will sleep.â
âIâm glad I met you,â Jopson goes on. He takes the cigarette from between his lips. Puts it out efficiently.
âIf the circumstances were different,â Edward begins. Reconsiders. âWe shouldâve met under luckier stars,â he says. The comment is bland, non-committal. Jopson looks at him sharply.
âLuck has nothing to do with it. I think youâre punishing yourself. You shouldnât; especially not through me.â
Edward nods, although he doesnât agree. âI have a lot to atone for,â he says.
âSuch as?â
âGood people have died.â
âAnd youâre personally responsible?â
Edward looks at Fitzjamesâ tent again. The lights are out. Crozier is still within. Bridgens had left a while ago; he was in tears.
âGood people have died,â Edward says, âand I still live.â
Jopsonâs face softens. His compassion shames Edward. His kindness, clemency: all evidence Edward doesnât even deserve to sit with him.
âI wish you shared the weight of your guilt, when I could still have helped you carry itâ Jopson says, then adds, âCould I have?â
âWhat?â
âHelped you.â
Edward strokes his knees, gently. âNo.â His thumb ghosts over the old injury. Jopson flinches. Clasps his wrists.
âWhat if I forgave you?â
âDo you?â
âHavenât yet made up my mind. I could be bribed.â
Edward reaches to cup his face. Jopson still clings to him. He kisses his forehead. Leaves.
*
Captain Fitzjames is dead. Long live Commander Little.
Fitzjames doesnât look like heâs only sleeping. He looks like a man tortured by nightmares.
Crozier looks worse.
âHe didnât suffer much,â Jopson says, standing above the grave. âIt was fast.â
âAye,â Edward murmurs. Much too fast, he thinks. Scurvy isnât swift. It doesnât go in for the kill. It eats at you. Rots you. Plays.Â
Would he be able to do what Crozier likely did? Assist? He doesnât suppose he would be.
They hide Fitzjames in the landscape, in case the spirit comes scavenging. In case a worse monster returns.
Edward cannot get rid of the impression that Fitzjames is still there, much amused by the proceedings of his own funeral. He expects Fitzjamesâ boots to twitch, to hear a snicker from the rock pile, surprise. Itâs a shock that heâd be still in denial, after the abundance of death heâs faced. That heâd still cling to a childish notion like resurrection or salvation and suppose that Fitzjames is up in the clouds, looking down.
He links his hands in prayer. Cannot say the words.
âHe didnât...â he tells Jopson, but cannot go on. Not with all the others around.
He didnât believe in God.
What kind of sermon happened in that tent?
The wind carries a foreign noise. Itâs Crozierâs laughter.
*
âWe shouldâve shot your bird,â he says.
âCanât shoot a seagull,â Jopson replies. âBad luck.â
âFoodâs food. Besides, what could be worse luck than this?â
Jopson mulls this over. They were sent out after camping. A hunting party. No longer hunted. Mr. Blanky is to bait the spirit. Edward has lost all sense of optimism, but he supposes Mr. Blanky might just yet succeed.
âOne caribou,â he says. âThatâs not too much to ask for, is it? With our current numbers, itâd keep our belly filled for days. A week.â
Jopson hums, distracted. Heâs still grieving Captain Fitzjames. Mr. Peglar. Mr. Blanky. Not all of them are dead. Soon, they all will be. Picky eater, death is. It takes them one by one. Itâs uncharastically ravenous to-day. The table is laid.
Edward stops to get his telescope. Survey the horizon. The sun is coming down. They had to try for a hunt, still. See if thereâs anything living here. Anything that moves and breathes.
Jopson gasps, and bends forward. Heâs grasping his knee. Edward drops the telescope, runs to him.
âHey, hey, heyâare you all right, are youââ
Blood spreads from Jopsonâs knee and blossoms.
âIâd like to sit down,â he says, hoarse. He falls back to the rocks, right where he was standing. Heâs so pale heâs washed grey, blending in with their surroundings. The dull dusk. The landscape. Heâs fading away. Edward cannot bear it.
âWhat ails you?â he asks. He dreads the answer. âRest a while,â he hastens to add. âWe shall just rest a little. Long day, was it not? Hauling and hauling, but there must be water ahead, there must beâthings that liveâhere, here.â
Jopson is swaying in his seat. Edward sheds his coat for him, spreads it out on the ground. It will hardly dull the rocksâ edge, but this is the best comfort he can provide right now. âRest,â he begs.
âI will be quite restored in a moment,â Jopson says. âShanât keep you up, go see if thereâs anyââ
âIâll stay.â
ââmeat.â
âI shall stay,â Edward says, more stern. Heâs scared. Jopson looks like heâs barely there. He splays out on Edwardâs coat, boneless. Removes his woolen wig. His dark hair spills out like ink. It makes his pale eyes stand out. They search the sky, the clouds.
âDonât shoot the bird, please,â he says softly. âPromise.â
Edward takes his place next to him, lying down carefully. âYou asked if we could all see it.â
Jopson clicks his tongue, closes his eyes. Now Edward is terrified. He canât let him sleep. Death is hungry to-day.
âYou askedââ
âHmm.â
âDo you hallucinate often?â
Jopson pulls a face, considering it. âThese days, yes.â
âYou never said.â
âYou never inquired.â
Edward rolls to his side to look at Jopson proper. He should take better care of him. Even if his care shanât, cannot be exclusive. Jopson peers up at him, one eye open. His face is scarred. His lips are chapped. Did he look like this yesterday? Bruised and death-pale? Would Edward have noticed? Heâs been looking right through him, even when he faced him.
âIt used to frighten me,â Jopson says. âNot knowing what was real; but the fancies disperse like mirages. You just have to wait them out.â
âAre you waiting now?â
Jopson hums. His hands rest over his stomach: he moves them up to his chest, crosses them over. Like the dead. âI hope I will go in a dream,â he says.
âStop it. Iâm really here. So are you. Weâre hunting for caribou.â
âMuch use I am to you,â Jopson says. âMy bones feel like theyâre broken. Every single one of them. The tiniest bones I never knew existed.â
Edward inches closer. âRest, then.â
âI will walk in a minute,â Jopson promises. âI hauled all day, I can do it. Itâs only that blasted knee. I think the wound is reopening.â
Edward waits a moment. A singular moment; just enough time to face the truth, or carry on a liar. He drags his gaze down. Jopsonâs trousers stick to his right knee. Edward sits. Keeps looking. Removes his neckerchief.
âStay still,â he says. Bends forward to tie it over Jopsonâs knee; but what would that achieve? The blood will dry, and mould the trousers to the wound. The neckerchief is silk; it can be washed quickly, changed; it should be lying over Jopsonâs bare skin.
Edward reaches for the buttons of Jopsonâs trousers, unfastens the braces. The gesture is practiced. He feels like he should ask, but itâs not a breach of intimacy. Itâs a necessity. His fingers tremble still. His selfish cock fills as Jopsonâs stomach is revealed. He has no underthings on. Edward arranges his shirt for him to cover his dignity. The shirt, too, is bloody. His heart skips until he realises itâs old blood. His own.
âThis,â Jopson comments, âdefinitely feels like a daydream.â
âI need to dress your injury,â Edward tells him and tugs at his trousers. Jopson hisses sharply. Edward mustnât jostle him. Panic rises in his throat. He doesnât know how to treat the sick. He has no idea. There were always women to do it, nurses and maids, and then doctors and surgeons when he started his service. He lacks training. He can only mimic what heâs seen. âAre you,â he asks, then licks his lips. âAre you in pain?â
Jopson scoffs, amused. âConstantly,â he says.
Edward tugs at his trousers again. Manages to reveal the wound and bare skin. Not the milky expanse of it he remembers, with the soft hairs. Itâs blue and black and rotten.
Edward stares.
He needs to alert Mr. Bridgens.
Mr. Bridgens probably knows.
Thereâs nothing Mr. Bridgens can do.
Edward covers the nastiest part with his palm. âDoes it smart?â he asks.
âThey donât hurt,â Jopson says. âItâs just the wound.â
Edward pulls his hand back. It sticks with fluids he cannot even name. He winds the neckerchief around the wound, blindly.
Scurvyâs slow, he reminds himself. Tom may have weeks left, even months.
The walk takes longer.
He mustnât calculate the numbers.
He climbs over him on his hands and knees, as if he could shield him with his body. As if it wasnât late. It canât be too late.
Jopson smiles at him. âWhatâs the matter?â he says.
I didnât know, Edward wants to say. Never knew you were so poorly.
But of course he did.
He just refused to acknowledge it in any way.
He looked him in the eyes and told him, some of us will die, surely.
He surges to kiss him. Changes his mind at the last minute: he wants Jopson to remember their kisses soft and sweet. He presses his lips to his face instead, then his ear. Laps at it. Just how Jopson likes. Pleasures it with his tongue. Sucks, nibbles, bites, breathing slowly so he wonât start sobbing. Jopson moans underneath him, at first gently, like he used to, back on Terror.
Thereâs no one around for a mile or so.
Jopson moans again, loud, as Edward swirls his tongue deeper inside.
âWhatââ Jopson gasps. He grabs Edwardâs shoulders, and he stills, expecting to be pushed away.
Jopson pulls him down to kiss his neck. Edward shudders. Encouraged, Jopson nips at his Adamâs apple.
The first sin.
Edward wants to fuck him.
He knows itâs impossible. Itâd hurt both of them. He doesnât want that. He wants what they used to do in his cabin. Leisurely sex. The exquisite pleasure of time shared, heat, laughter and closeness, paced out between breaths.
He wants something better.
Wants the future.
Both of them recovered. In their little house by the sea. England. The mainland. The rescue camp. Anywhere. Take Jopson. Take him back. Welcome him in his company again. He canât.
Jopsonâs teeth graze over his neck. The pleasure of it is sharp, thrilling. What a wicked irony, that his body still knows bliss. Heâs been convinced itâs forgotten it completely. Heâs been having problems with it.
Jopson cups his prick. Fondles it.
Something forsaken awakens within.
A will to live.
Jopson strokes him expertly, his hot breath caressing Edwardâs neck. He struggles to stay on his hands and knees, when heâs so pulled to Jopson. When he wants to envelop him. Hide him inside himself. Would he be safer there?
He wants Jopson like heâs never wanted anyone, anything. Heâs wild with it. Thatâs why heâs given him up. Because Jopson was the only thing he ever wanted. The only worthy sacrifice. A perfect lamb.
Edward lowers himself down to his elbows, sneaks a hand between their bodies, pressed closely together. Gropes Jopsonâs cock. Itâs soft.
âIâm afraid it no longer functions,â Jopson says.
âGive it time,â Edward insists, touching it exactly how Jopson prefers, the rough pulls, his strong hand.
âI havenât had an erection in some months.â
Edward stops. âAh,â he says.
All right.
Heâs quite forgotten.
Theyâre both dead.
As good as dead.
âLet me touch you nevertheless,â Jopson whispers. âI miss you, Ned. May I call you Ned? Are you there?â
âIâm here,â Edward says, choked. Jopson strokes his cock. The gentleness of it is agony. It must pain Jopsonâs hands to touch him. He said his very bones were hurting.
Edward hides his face in the crook of Jopsonâs neck. He wants to breathe in his scent. His sense of smell is lost for good. He wishes he felt Jopsonâs warmth. His skin is cold.
âI love you,â Edward says. âNever stopped. Iâm sorry.â
Wherever Jopson touches him, it feels like that part of his body is healed.
âAre you really here?â
If he closed his eyes, he could pretend this moment was long ago. Back on Terror. So he keeps his eyes open. Stares into the dark. He runs his fingers through Jopsonâs hair, pulls him closer. Arches into his palm.
âIâm here, love.â
âStay, then; only stay.â
Jopson strokes him firmly and Edward spills. Thereâs no relief to it. Some droplets, nothing more. Edward sits back on his heels, tucks himself away. Should he be ashamed?
It felt holy.
Hollow, yes, and unsatisfactory, but holy.
He dresses Jopson again. Hides the wounds. He offers his hand to help him sit up. Jopson interlaces their fingers. Squeezes. Heâs too weak to sit. Sways forward, his head resting over Edwardâs chest. He must hear how his heart hammers. Edward tries to look calm. He has to.
âCome on,â he says, warm. âItâs getting dark. Weâll miss our caribou.â
âIâm terribly sorry,â Jopson says. âI was mistaken; I donât think I can stand, after all.â
Edward trembles. âI know youâre tired.â
âNo, itâs not that.â
âRest a little more. I might sing you a song, huh? I have quite the collection.â
Jopson laughs, charmed but sad. He pulls back, looks at Edward. His eyes are gentle. Colourless. âIâm dying,â he says. âPlease tell me you know that.â
âYou just need time to recover.â
âI wonât be here much longer.â
âYouâre not going anywhere.â Edward stands up. Pulls him into his arms. Hauls him up. Jopson clings on as Edward carries him back to Terror camp.
*
Edward is pacing in front of Jopsonâs tent. Crozier is in there. Bridgens has disappeared. Peglar is dead.
Whoever comes after us will follow a path of bones, he thinks. Read our history from our teeth.
He feels like heâs forgetting something.
Three steps forward, three steps back. His rifle holsted over his shoulder.
Heâs definitely forgetting something.
Iâm expected to tea at my parents, he realises. Iâm late.
Butâno, itâs not that. His parents know he went to sea. Still: he sees them by the table with all his siblings, Papa checking his fobwatch. Heâs upstairs, looking through the barrister. Heâs nine years old. No. Heâs twenty-nine. His sister Jane smacks his shoulder.
âRace you to the table.â
âNo,â Edward says, but Jane is already running. So he runs after her, exhausted by her antics but charmed, too. He follows her to the same stairs they used to thunder down as children. Jane will cheat by sliding down the railingâthere she goes. She turns to Edward with a grin. Edward realises he doesnât remember the face of his own twin. Not really. Not the fine details.
Who will bring our bones back to our family? Who will own our teeth?
Oh.
Heâs forgetting to hope.
He should be convinced that theyâll survive and reunite with loved ones.
(Peglar is dead and Bridgens is gone.)
Crozierâs voice drones on. Heâs talking about a cow.
Edward should go in. He hasnât set foot inside since he laid Jopson down, tucked him in, even through Jopson was sweating and complaining of the heat. He went to fetch Crozier. Crozier would know what to do, he reasoned. Jopson was calling after him, but he ignored it. Jopson would have no use of him. Heâs not trained. He cannot give him what he needs. Meat. He remembers Le Vesconte saying something aboutâ
âbring them meat, when we find any; now we must go on or else all of us will perishâ
Edward keeps pacing.
Heâs not leaving.
They all need meat but they canât leave to get it.
Maybe if Blanky succeedsâGod bless Blankyâit will be safe to send out more hunting parties, cover a larger distance, maybe even advance days ahead while the sick rest, and there should be someone with themâ
Crozier exits the tent. His eyes shine wetly in the dusk.
It is dusk.
Edward hasnât noticed.
âHe wishes to see you,â Crozier says, hoarse. Edward looks at the tent. He canât, he canât.
âIs he,â Edward asks, then stops himself. âHow is he?â
âNot delirious yet. Heâs quite himself.â
Edward blinks, rapidly. Crozier looks too exhausted to even stand, yet he stays, waiting.
âWhat should one do, if the...delusion...sets in?â
âLet him dream.â Crozier pats him on the shoulder. Edward blinks again. Looks at the dark lurking in the tent.
Enters.
Heâs prepared.
He has something to give.
No cure. No hope. No food. No cheer.
His company.
Jopson is asleep.
*
He tries again the next morning. His courage has faded. He removes his hat. As he was standing by somebodyâs deathbed.
Jopson just needs rest.
Heâs with his back to Edward. Curled up. At the start of their affair, he used to sleep on his stomach. Now he sleeps as if Edward was in bed with him. He sleeps like that, still.
Edward considers leaving.
Then he considers the right thing.
He should sit. However: where? At the edge of Jopsonâs bed? The stool? He looks around, helpless. Becomes aware that they are not alone in the tent.
The other cot is occupied. Just a vague bundle of somebody shivering. Who is it? He mustâve got sick during the evening. Edward thinks he heard somebody crying. He couldnât sleep.
âI donât want to go,â Jopson says. It startles Edward. He turns to Jopson, whoâs looking at him over his shoulder. His right eye is bloody.
âCaptain Crozier will take care of you,â Edward says. âI believe he has some...expertise. He can help you with whatever you need. He truly appreciates all you have done. Are doing. Presently. For him.â
Heâs fiddling with his cap. He should stop. He remembers Jopsonâs putting it on. How they laughed.
âWhat are you going to do?â Jopson asks.
Edward still hasnât decided where he should sit.
âI,â he says, and gestures around. âI shall check on the freshwater supplies.â
âWhat are you going to do when I die?â Jopson clarifies.
It chills Edward. He takes a step back. âYou mustnât think of that,â he says. âThose are such unpleasant thoughts to have.â
Jopson reaches for him. Edward gives a quick glance to the pile of cloth on the other cot. Would he mind? he thinks. Cannot risk it. Smiles at Jopson, apologetic.
âI donât want to leave you alone,â Jopson says. He drops his hand, rolls to his back. It pains him, but he still does it, just so he can look at Edward.
(The bleeding eye. He must be going blind.)
âI see that youâre rather scared,â Jopson says. âI know you needed me to be well. You wanted to save as many men as you possibly could; I think you always assumedââ
âStop,â Edward interrupts. âIf youâre saying good-bye, I beg of you, stop now.â
Jopson sits up with what could be his last strength. His long hair sticks to his death-pale face. âI donât want to leave you alone in the dark,â he says with laboured breath, âbecause I donât know what the dark will do to you.â
Edwardâs back hits the tentâs opening. The light is pouring in. Jopson sits in the dark, his pale eyes following him.
âI need to fetch the Captain presently,â Edward says.
Then he starts running.
*
âYouâre certain of this?â
âI saw it, sir. Through the glass. Itâs there.â
âHow wide you would guess it to be?â Edward asks urgently, trying to rein in his hope.
âWide enough for our boats,â Golding says. âYes, sir.â
A smile breaks free of the constraints of worry. âWeeks. This could save us weeks of travel.â
He quickly gathers his equipment and rushes to find men for the scout party. He canât stop smiling. It feels like a dream, one of those dreams Jopson is having and he, too, shares. Solid visions that melt.
The pain in his hand is a reassurance. Itâs too sharp to be imagined. He doesnât remember hurting his fingers, but the bandage is fresh. Yesterday night he was very upset. Besides himself. Maybe he slammed his fist to his desk. Heâs prone to do that, when anger flares.
He can now forget about anger and despair.
Thereâs a strait. Golding has seen it.
He hurries past Jopsonâs tent. Considers peeking in, share the news in a triumphant yell; but he shall make haste. They must scout the strait right away and plan. Itâs a fair distance, but he can carry Jopson there on his back. He will secure him in a boat, and sit by his side the entire time. He will row him to safety. The strait must have fish. Heâll catch them. On the Vindictive, he had a lieutenant swear fish roe was a tonic for scurvy. He didnât take him seriously. Now heâs willing to try anything.
As the scout party sets out with Crozier he thinks of Jopson gently rocking in a boat. He can see his face clear as day. Heâll look so tranquil. The air will invigorate him. Edward will help him drink. Heâll wash him. He doesnât know how to properly clean wounds, but he could wash his hair. Jopson will cherish that. Heâs proud of his hair. Theyâll get it cut together, at Fort Resolution, before they rejoin civilisation. Edward will shave him, if Jopson will be too weak to do it; but scurvy is fast in recoveryâit can be turned around in a dayâmaybe Edward will shave him anyway, just for the excuse to touch his skin. To serve him. To say Iâm sorry without language.
The ice looks endless. Unbroken. Edward strains his eyes to spot the strait. He waits for Crozier to call out, there. Heâd never forget such a moment. Heâd remember it forever.
Golding hurries past him.
Mason and Des Voeux are on the ridge. Their weapons are drawn.
Golding runs up to them.
Edward points his rifle, calls out for Crozier. His mind stays on the strait. The calm water, blue and green. Jopsonâs eyes in a certain light. Jopson, when he laughs. He hasnât heard him laugh in a while. If he told him about the strait, he wouldâve laughed. He shouldâve stopped by his tent. Thereâs a strait, weâre saved. He should have told him while it was true. While there was hope.
Mason startles and pulls the trigger. Shoots down Hartnell.
Edward flinches, glances at him, panicked.
Keeps his aim.
Heâs ready to kill.
His vision is blurring.
Heâs going to shoot every last one of them. Even Hodgson, who lingers like a confused ghost.
Heâs going toâ
âYou did well. You did so well, son.â
âwatch their skulls explode. The violence of it will bring no thrill. His heart is cold; itâs frozen solid; it cannot beat. He feels it in his chest, heavy, stiff. His nerves are jittery, his gaze skips between Hartnell, Crozier, the rest. His heart remains motionless.
All his hopes are wasted.
Heâs carried them this far, carried them in his chest. Took such good care of them. It was pointless.
âGun down, Edward.â
He canât make his body submit to his will. He wants to kill Golding most of all. He needs to. Theyâre going to take away Crozier. They shanât. He must stop that.
Crozier steps in front of his pointed rifle. Makes him lower it, gentle, gentle.
There will be no bloodshed, no revenge.
âCome back for Hartnellâs body. Bury him. Then keep moving South, as planned.â
Des Voeux gets Edwardâs gun from Crozierâs hand. Gives it to Golding.
âYou are to lead the men forward, Edward,â Crozier says, every word carefully pronounced. He grabs his shoulder. Shakes him. He must feel him trembling. âYou and the others will live,â he says.
They wonât. Not without Crozier. Jopson needs him the most. All of them do. His expertise. His leadership. The clemency of his judgement. His forbearance and his cunning.
Crozier squints, grips his shoulder a bit more tightly.
âI understand the order, sir.â
âLet me hear it.â
âWe will live.â
*
He passes Jopsonâs tent again. He takes a moment to stop this time. Listens. He can hear him breathing, if he concentrates. His lungs must ache from the awful coughs and wheezing.
There are so many things to see to. They canât act now: the night will approach fast. They might be expected. Edward is devising a plan as he stands, his bandaged hand trembling over the tentâs flaps.
He cannot enter. Not with news like this.
Jopson is better off not knowing.
He can sleep, thinking Crozier safe. He will wonder why he neglected to visit. Heâs expecting him. Edward will let Crozier recount his reasons. Heâll bring him back to Jopson. If thereâs a doctor with them, heâll bring him too. If they had better luck finding food, Edward will take it to Jopson. Feed him and tell how it all went.
We stormed their camp with twenty strong men; they were outgunned, outnumbered, so I cannot say it was a heroic attempt. Captain Crozier was retrieved unharmed; he excused some mutineersâyes, I believe he showed mercyâbut as for Mr. Hickey, he could no longer run from justice. A funeral was allotted for him, but I donât think many prayers were said. This is our way, Tom. He told us so. I know his mind, and he knows mine. Heâs waiting for us.
His inner voice resembles the cadence of Fitzjamesâ. He needs to look over his shoulder to see if heâs there, his presence is so strongly felt. An urgent energy tugging at him.
save him save him save yourself
He steps away from the tent. By to-morrow, he will have devised a strategy thoroughly. He will plan it out so well it will be infallible. For now, he must organise a burial.
*
âWe prefer the captain's orders, sir.â
âTo hell with the captain's orders,â he says. They only have the words. They donât have the meaning. They did not feel the weight of Crozierâs hands, didnât see the glint of his glare. They donât know his soul the way Edward does; the way Jopson could testify what matters most to their captain. âWe have a camp of nearly thirty men here. Weâve got nine so ill they cannot walk, with no surgeon to tend them. Weâve but two able-bodied lieutenants for the lot of us. None of us speaks the Netsilik tongue. None have been in the polar regions before. To restore our best chance of survival, we must restore our captain. Surely, that is plain.â
Jopson wetted the compress and arranged his pillow for him. Jopson took care of him, when he was ill. âI can hardly say I speak Netsilik,â he said. âI merely picked up a few expressions from Captain Crozier. I suppose we should learn how to say open water and help.â
Edward wonders if he had the opportunity to master those expressions.
Whether he did or not: Jopsonâs been to Antarctica as Crozierâs right hand. Heâs the most useful person on this expedition. Heâs also too ill to even crawl to a sledge. Edward had glanced into the sicktent before coming here. Jopson lay shivering, even though itâs a warm day. Without Crozier, they might all perish; Jopson, certainly; heâll be the first casualty.
âWe prefer the order, sir.â
âWell, I'm giving a different order.â
âThere's been a vote, Edward.â
*
Strange winds are blowing. Just a day prior, he would have sworn he could smell fresh water on them. Now all he smells is death. The sledges are packed, the boats loaded, the tins distributed.
Heâs facing Jopsonâs tent.
Heâs been denying himself entrance.
He isnât worthy to go in there. Every time he attempted since his last visit, he found himself lacking. Unable to give the care Jopson needed, or even a comforting report. The time is now. The time is now, when all he has are words that are too terrible to utter. Heâs ready to speak them.
Therein lies the problem.
A small path of light leads to Jopsonâs cot. He could follow it. Kneel by the side of his erstwhile love, stroke his hair. Whisper what needs to be said. Crozierâs been kidnapped. We are leaving Terror camp. We will be back.
Except he wouldnât go anywhere after.
If he sets foot in there, he wonât be leaving. He wonât go to aid Crozier: heâd be slaughtered on his own, and no other volunteer was found. He wouldnât go with Le Vesconte either. He would stay in that tent, breaking every vow, every order he ever had: no use to anyone but himself, and a small comfort to Jopson, who would resent him for failing the captain, failing the crew.
The wind is blowing.
The party is ready to leave.
âCommander Little,â Le Vesconte calls.
He hasnât earned that title. But the men need a commander.
âA moment,â he says in a whisper. He doesnât want to wake Jopson. His dream looks restless. A stubborn lock of hair has fallen to his face. Edward yearns to brush it back, before he leaves. No one could fault him for it.
He tears away his gaze. Turns his back, and marches away.
*Â
He hauls the entire day.
That way, he doesnât think about the tins.
The tins are sealed tightly.
One needs an axe or a knife to open them.
Jopson is too weak to stand.
*
With every step taken, his decision becomes irreversible. Walking is, therefore, a relief. It shows him clearly which way heâs heading. Lying still: thatâs when responsibility catches up with him, and he cannot bear it.
Heâs been taught, trained to maintain his position. Heâs made a decision. If he chose wrong, he shall bear the consequences.
Except itâs not his life on the line.
He should go back.
Now.
It would achieve nothing.
Mutiny after mutiny.
But how can he live, when Jopson is dying?
Heâs not just ill.
He is dying.
*
He didnât camp near the others. The evenings are cold, but heâs fine by himself. Except heâs not alone. Jopson is there. His hair is smooth, jet-black. His face cleanly shaven. Heâs in his nightshirt, and nothing else.
âCome to bed, Ned.â
Itâs a waking dream. Edward goes anyway. He doesnât slip under the duvet: he lifts it, surveys Jopson fondly. His bare thighs that used to hold him so tightly. The wound above his knee, healed.
âWhat is it?â
âYouâre so clean,â Edward tells him. âIâm filthy.â
âI donât mind. I love a man haggard.â
âYouâre pure,â Edward goes on. Licks his chapped lips. Jopson traces the movement: his eyes are hooded. He strokes himself. Edward kneels on the berth and cups his face. He can feel how warm it is. He kisses Jopsonâs rosy cheeks. âYouâre beautiful, but youâre not my Tom. Youâre here. My Tom is vanishing.â
*
âWe should stay here a few days,â Le Vesconte proposes.
Edward nods slowly. His head is swimming. He stopped eating. He cannot stomach anything.
âI will lead the party,â he says.
âWe must reconsider that plan.â
âNo,â Edward says. âThat was the agreement. As soon as we make a camp overland, we send a party back to our sick. Put them on sledges and deliver them here safely. Feed them and wash them and then proceed.â
âWhat would you feed them?â
âThe tins.â
âThey have enough tins.â
âItâs time we provide them with fresh supplies. Let me go back and see to it.â
Le Vesconte tilts his head. Edward resents that gesture.
âThey have more to eat than we do,â Le Vesconte says.
âNonsense.â
âMeat.â
Edward stares. âFlesh?â
 Le Vesconte is silent.
âYou cannot possibly be suggesting flesh.â Edward stands, quite ready to leave the tent.
âListen,â Le Vesconte says. Grabs his hand. Mustâve aimed for the cuff of his coat, and missed. Heâs holding onto his wrist. Edwardâs pulse is jumping. âI donât know what villain you take me to be; what I have done to make you resent me so much. Know this: I donât delight in suggesting something soââ
âVile,â Edward interrupts.
ââbut I shall implore you to be practical. If you consider the matter from the point of survival, you must admit that theyâre aptly supplied, and we are not. I said we would turn back if we found game. We didnât find any.â
Edward yanks his hand back and cradles it, as if itâs been burned. Le Vesconte pulls up his knees to his chest. Hugs them. He looks ahead. The whites of his eyes are visible.
âI donât resent you,â Edward says. âI resent what you made me do.â
âYou werenât forced.â Le Vesconte adjusts his hair. The gesture is familiar. It sickens Edward.
What have I done?
âI was meaning to ask,â Le Vesconte says. âWere you and Lieutenant Jopson intimately acquainted?â
Edward turns his back to him, sharply. How dare he. How very dare he?
âOh,â Le Vesconte says. âWell, I always had an inkling. I think I understand you better, heh?â
âYou donât,â Edward says.
He leaves the tent.
*
He wants a cigarette.
*
He takes a brisk walk to think.
*
The walk is only for thinking.
*
The problem is the following: heâd made a decision months ago, when he was in comparatively sound mind, just after Carnivale. That decision was to reject his personal needs, leave Jopson and devote all his attention and servitude to the crew.
That decision was one decision amongst many he couldâve taken.
There are several versions to these events.
In one of them, he goes South. Carries on with his strategy until he sees it fulfilled. Cross King Williamâs Land, get to Backâs Fish River, cross the mainland, get to Fort Resolution, get back to England.
In another, he dies trying to see this plan through.
What heâs currently doing is this: heâs walking.
Heâs thinking.
His hands are in his pockets. They are empty. Heâs not carrying anything. He has no plan.
Heâs not heading East.
*
The sun is up and he keeps on walking.
*
The sun is burning.
*
He needs water. He needs to eat. He should sleep.
*
Heâs walking.
*
He spots the tents. Thereâs a figure crawling over the rocks. Itâs Jopson. Edward runs towards him. Jopson is not moving.
*
Edward carries Jopson back to his cot. Fluffs up his pillow, and lays him down. Heâs soiled himself: Edward changes his underwear. Wipes him clean everywhere. Tucks him in.
Sits back on his heels, and thinks.
Jopson hasnât moved, but heâs breathing.
Heâs catatonic.
Edward leaves the tent quite calmly. Comes back with a waterskin. Notes the other man in Jopsonâs tent. Heâs dead. Edward covers him up with a blanket. He will bury him later.
He knows what heâs doing.
He brings the waterskin to Jopsonâs lips. Pours it in. The water flows down his neck, his chin. Jopson is not drinking.
âCome now, love,â Edward whispers. His voice is ragged. He tries again.
*
Fifth attempt.
*
It helps if he keeps Jopsonâs mouth open, and massages his throat. Jopson makes a sound.
âThatâs it,â Edward says, and starts crying.
*
He sits by the end of Jopsonâs bed. His fobwatch is in his hand. He makes Jopson drink every two hours. Maybe it should be more frequent, or less.
The other cot is empty now.
He does not remember the burial, but thereâs dirt under his cracked nails.
His fobwatch ticks.
Itâs late.
It no longer shows London time, or any time that makes sense.
Jopson will need to be fed.
*
Heâs lying in the dead manâs bed, but heâs not sleeping. Jopson has finally succumbed to it.
Edward lets him dream.
*
âCaptain,â Jopson says.
Edward blinks himself awake. Jopson is looking at him. Heâs not curled up. His muscles are rigid.
âMr. Hickey took him,â Edward says. âBefore we left. Heâd never have let us abandon you.â
âDid youâŚ?â
âI went with the crew, yes.â
Jopson has more questions, but no strength to utter them.
âI will try to feed you to-day,â Edward says.
*
He fails.
*
He cleans up Jopsonâs spit and sick, then sits on his bed to think. Caresses his hair absentmindedly.
âI could throttle you,â Jopson says, with what must be considerable attempt.
âThatâs only fair. I left you for dead.â
âLeave me. Get the captain.â
âI would need a gun.â
âTake mine.â
âWe took yours. When we went.â
Jopson scoffs. Rolls to his side, so his back is to Edward.
âShall I leave you alone?â
âWhat? Again?â
Thereâs nothing Edward can say to that.
*
The watch ticks.
*
âDo try to keep it down, please.â
âPray donât waste it on me. Eat.â
Edward knocks the silver spoon to the tin. Thinks.
âYou told me,â he says, âthat certain penguins digest the food they then feed to their young.â
Jopson is glaring.
âIâm merely considering our options,â Edward says, defensive.
Jopson grins.
Edward starts crying.
*
âHere.â
âWhat is it?â
âJust drink.â He presses the cup to Jopsonâs mouth. The blood paints his lips red. Edward caresses his throat. Jopson notices the bandage over his wrist. Stares at him. Keeps drinking.
*
âI think the captain lives,â Jopson says. Edward canât see him. The sun has set.
âCertainly.â
âHe may have escaped. He could be back any moment.â
âAre you waiting for him?â
âIndeed.â
Edward nods. He understands. âYou must be ready for him,â he says. âDrink some more, and I will comb your hair. Would you like that?â
*
Edward attempts the tins again the next day.
âDonât cheat,â Jopson chides him. âOne bite for you, one bite for me.â His voice is still gravelly, but thereâs a gentleness to it.
âIâm afraid we donât have much.â
âWe have enough. Open up.â
*
He washes Jopsonâs feet in a tin bowl. Jopson can barely sit up. Heâs bent forward, breathing audibly.
Edward massages the soap between each blackened toe. Keeps his touch light, like the caress of sunshine. Washes the wounds on his legs, tends to his knee, still injured. The scar will never close up again.
âThat letter youâd written,â Jopson says. Edwardâs hands still as heâs rewrapping the bandage. âItâs in my personals; could you kindly get it for me?â
Edward stands. Water and blood drip from his hands. He wipes them on his uniform, looks through Jopsonâs possessions. A comb, a razor, a looking glass, a handkerchief embroidered E. L. The ivory envelope. The red seal broken.
Edward presents it, head hanging in shame. Jopson doesnât reach for it.
âWould you please tear it up?â he asks.
*
Jopson is lying in Edwardâs arms. His back is pressed to his chest. Edwardâs hand rests on his belly, where his touch is not hurting.
âWhen was your first kiss?â Jopson asks him.
âMm. At fourteen.â
âBoy or girl?â
âBoy. I always knew. You?â
âSeventeen; but I knew too.â
âI never learnt much of your romantic history.â
âI used to be popular on ships. Now look at me.â
Edward frowns. Gets up to his forearms to have a proper appraisal. Jopson flashes a sad smile at him. His teeth are yellow and black, but itâs his charming smile nevertheless.
âYouâre handsome as ever,â Edward says.
âDonât flatter. I must look a nightmare; I smell.â
Beneath the rot, Jopson's scent is the same. Warm, comforting.
âIf it didn't hurt you,â Edward says, âI would prove the extent of my ardour.â
Jopson scrunches up his nose. A rare expression of delighted shock.
âEdward!â he scoffs.
Edward bites his lips to hide his grin. ââTis true. I would.â
âThatâs perverse,â Jopson says, smiling back with an impish glint in his eyes. âMy, what a wanton man. Utterly insatiable."
Edward nuzzles his nape. Kisses it.
âIf I had my health,â Jopson goes on, âthis is where I would straddle your hips.â
âI know,â Edward murmurs against his skin. âThatâs why Iâm saying it.â
Jopson laughs, giddy. Edward strokes his stomach, then slides his hand down, cups his cock. Thereâs nothing to it. The gesture is fond, protective.
âWill you try to sleep a while?â he whispers.
âOnly if you keep holding me.â
âI'm not letting go.â
âMuch obliged.â
*
Jopson doesnât get better. There was a part of Edward that still believed he would. Heâs wasting away, too. His mind is terribly clear, but his head still aches, and his sore limbs started tingling.
They donât have much time left.
Hours.
Always this hour, and the next.
Surviving them together.
*
Jopson sits in his lap on the ground, the tentâs flaps open. He asked to watch the sunrise. The mornings are getting colder. If nothing else, winter will be their murderer.
They ran out of tins. Edward reopened his wrist. Heâs light-headed and weak. Jopson is feverish. His muscles are rigid. Heâs started breathing oddly, but heâs still breathing. Edward is caressing his back to ease the pain of his dry wheezes.
âThis must be the end,â Jopson says, voice ragged. âIâm seeing the captain. Heâs coming towards us. Heâs pulling a sledge. The Lady Silence is with him. Should I wave? My hand is so heavy. He isnât here.â
âI can see him too,â Edward says calmly. âHeâs much changed. Can you see his beard? It suits him rather well.â
âOh,â Jopson sighs. Wiggles in his lap. Edward pulls him closer, holds him faster. Jopsonâs body is tight like an overwrought rope. About to snap. Just hold on a moment more. âI donât think we ever shared a dream before.â
âIs he missing a hand?â
âI would prefer if he wasnât injured. Could you please imagine him hale, Ned?â
Edward tries, as instructed. The vision of Crozier is as headstrong as his inspiration: he doesnât change. He has a strange expression on his face. Grief. Relief. He hesitates before entering the tent.
Edward looks at him with mild curiosity. Keeps caressing Jopsonâs back.
âI was hoping we would meet again,â Crozier says. His breath forms white puffs in the air. âHow I hoped.â
He kneels. Jopson reaches for him, tentative. Heâs expecting him to disperse.
Crozier envelops the both of them in an embrace.
It has warmth.
It has weight.
It is real.
Edward opens his mouth. Closes it. Words are not exchanged. They are insufficient. Jopson clings to the captain, but keeps close to Edward, safe in his lap. Safe, now.
âIâm sorry, sir,â Edward manages to say. Crozier claps his back, awkward but companionable. Is this how it always felt? Edward remembers these clumsy pats of encouragement, from the journeyâs end. Heâs forgotten so much, but he remembers them. They mattered. They felt undeserved. He arches into it, now.
âWhere are the others?â
âThey went South.â Edward swallows. His throat feels raw. It aches with tears swallowed. âThere was a vote.â
Crozier doesnât press it. Caresses Jopsonâs hair. âCan you walk?â he asks, gentle.
âNo, sir.â
âWe could carry you to the sledge, haul you along.â
Jopson shakes his head. âI have nowhere left to go, sir,â he says.Â
*
Crozier stays with them. Just until the sun rises again. He promised to find the others. He sits with them, and tales of their adventures are shared. Edward doesnât contribute much to the conversation. Heâs still holding Jopson. Jopson is too faint to keep himself upright. The breathing gets worse, until he canât speak. Edward glances at Crozier. Heâs in tears. He reaches out to adjust Jopsonâs errant strand of hair. Jopson tries to smile, but it twists into a painful grimace.
âIn our little house by the sea,â Edward tells him, âwe will have Captain Crozier come for tea. Right now, right hereâŚâ He cups Jopsonâs paling cheek. Jopson kisses his palm, then hides his face in it, so it covers his mouth and his nose entirely. Squeezes his eyes shut, and waits.
Edward presses down.
Crozier helps grasping Jopsonâs neck.
Thereâs a whimper, and movement, then Jopsonâs face finally relaxes. Edward pulls his hand back. Jopson is smiling.
*
âLet me help bury the body.â
âPlease donât take him away, sir.â
If Crozier is startled by the request, he doesnât betray it. Edward is holding Jopson tightly.
âYou should set out, sir,â he says. âBefore the dark catches up with you. The others must be close.â
He cannot read Crozierâs expression. âAre you sure?â
âI think they must be close.â
âAre you sure you wonât come along?â
Edward blinks. Why would he?Â
âI would rather stay, sir,â he says.
âI shall leave you something to eat, and fresh water.â
âI wonât be needing that, thank you.â He repeats, âThank you.â
That was all he had left to say. He hopes Crozier understands the extent of it.
Crozier pats his shoulder again. Edward bites a grin back.
*
Edward watches the Northern lights dance. He shanât sleep. This is a wake. They say a dead manâs soul stays until the morning. Thomas is still with him.
He lets his mind drift. Ebb away.
Itâs fruitless to cling to sanity.
It serves nobody.
The dark is within.
He sinks into it.
His head drops, and then, the memory of a sharp pinch. His governess used to poke him or tweak his ear to keep him awake during dinners that took an eternity. He would sit up straight, put on a serious face.
His watch ticks.
The longcase clock in his memory echoes it.
âPay attention,â the governess hisses.
The pendulum swings.
He sees his mother sitting by the parlourâs vast window. Sheâs working on a doily. The pin ruptures the cotton. Her face is calm. She keeps stabbing at it. Her face shows nothing.
Papaâs ship is much delayed.
Heâs been missing for another year.
His mother bites the thread.
Edward glimpses the dock next. A seagull on the pier is peck, peck, pecking the pillar. His father squats down. His hand is on his shoulder.
âThatâs my ship,â he says, pointing ahead.
âWill it be my ship, when Iâm older?â
âOh, you will serve on a different ship, darling.â
Donegal. Britannia. Vindictive. Terror.
He remembers them all.
You had freckles when we first met. I donât think you noticed me.
Crozier was standing by the wheel, appraising the ship. He had his steward with him. Jopson was holding his folded coat. It was warm out, and his cheeks were flushed.
Pinch, pinch, pinch. He mustnât sleep. He must remember this.
Edward looked him over. Stewards were supposed to be invisible. He had no reason to look. He just wanted to. Easy on the eyes, he thought. A vague impression, not pursued.
Jopson caught his gaze.
His eyes were striking.
Now heâs closed them forever.
Edward caresses Jopsonâs face. Notices heâs smearing blood on it. Just a streak. Touches his own beard. When did his watch chain get there? He pulls on it, hisses.
Thatâs right.
He had to keep awake, hadnât he.
The watch is ticking.
It will go on once his heart has stopped.
He looks up at the pale winter sky. The sun is out now. He stands, gathering Jopson in his arms.
âLetâs put you to rest,â he says.
He wonât make him a bed of stones. Heâs not giving him over to rot. He makes the cot like Jopson would, and lays him down. Takes his place next to him. Pulls him into his lap, like they used to lay. Never until morning.
He presses a kiss to his nape, then gets up to his elbows to look through his possessions. He finds the razor easy enough. Caresses the letters carved into the bone handle. T.J.
He lies back down, and opens his wrists.
Pulls Jopson into a last embrace.
They will be found like this. Two skeletons, nestled close.
He said he wouldnât let go.
*
âLieutenant Little!â a voice calls. He bolts up, fumbles to salute.
Thatâs Fitzjamesâ voice. Heâs standing in the entrance, arms folded.
âChop-chop,â he says with a grin. âCome along.â
Edward glances at Jopson. He mustnât. He wonât.
âOi!â Fitzjames says as Edward nestles back. âUnbelievable,â he mutters. âThe blatant disrespect; you die and they forget everything you ever accomplished!â
Heâs in his shirtsleeves. His face is pale, windchafed, hair unruly. Heâs barefoot.
âLieutenant Jopson,â he calls. âIf you would.â
Edward curls closer to Jopson. Captain Fitzjames canât make him leave. He died here. This is where he shall remain.
Jopson peers into the tent. His hair is long, his beard unkempt. âPlease do hurry up, Ned,â he says. âYou are needed.â
Edward is undecided. He doesnât like leaving his body behind. It doesnât feel right. He should stay in this tent a little longer. Haunt it proper.
âPlease,â Jopson says. Offers his hand.
Edward reaches for it. Heâs standing in front of Jopson without moving. Heâs touching him. Itâs like twirling a candleâs smoke around his fingers. A memory of heat.
âThere you are,â Fitzjames says. The tentâs flaps blow open. Itâs still day, but the world is darker than it should be. Drained of colour, the shapes vague.
The invisible world, he remembers.
Jopson and him step into it together, fingers intertwined.
Companions wait for them. The men who died at Carnivale. Edward beams in recognition.
He glows.
A twin flame burns within the dead.
âYou went back for them, sir,â he says, turning to glance at Fitzjames. He nods; his head is crowned with a golden halo.
âI tried to find everyone.â
Edward looks around, and spots the shine of the Hartnell brothers, Lieutenant Irving, Mr. Hornby, Billy Orren, David Young, even Sir John himself.
âAh, Edward,â he says. Heâs in dress uniform, complete with white gloves. âYou lookâŚâ He clears his throat, looks away from Edwardâs face. âYou look well,â he finishes.
âIâm sorry to rush you so,â Fitzjames says, âbut we must locate the rest of the crew. You are our best chance to find them, if your memory serves.â
âYessir,â Edward says. âI remember them, and where they went.â What a joy, to state that.
âI suggested we find the mutineersâ camp first,â Jopson interjects. âWe suspect Dr. Goodsir might be kept there.â
âHow long have you beenââ Edward asks.
Realises that time no longer matters.
*
They roam through the land. Nobody floats, so Edward doesnât attempt it himself. Itâs a comfort, to walk. To hold onto Jopson. To have a mission. Heâs aware that theyâre dragging their remembered reality to a no-manâs land, the in-between. But how could he leaveâhow shall he take that next, most frightening stepâwhen his assignment is not finished?
Jopson is with him. Heâs free of pain. Heâs finally free. His head is clear. The rest of eternity can wait.
Irving walks up to him. He notes that Edward is holding Jopsonâs hand, but makes no comment. âI was meaning to ask,â he says, âif you remember my death.â
There are seven wounds on his chest. Less than Edward recalls; much less.
âYou see,â Irving goes on, âI have the feeling certain details are being withheld from me, and youâve always been candid.â
âNot always,â Edward admits, then adds, âAre you certain you want to know?â
Irving looks ahead to Dr. Stanley, who walks in flames.
âNo,â he says, sobering. âPerhaps I donât.â
The march continues.
âHas anybody seen Francis?â Sir John says. âIâve got something to tell him.âÂ
âWeâre looking for Dr. Goodsir,â James reminds him patiently; offers an arm for support. Sir John leans on him, as if he could still tire.
âAh, right, yes,â he says. âWhereâs he got to? I, ah. Well, I wasnât going to mention, but I think some of us should see a surgeon.â
*
They make it to the camp, but cannot find the doctor anywhere.
âMaybe he passed away,â Bridgens opines.
âI do believe he did,â Fitzjames says slowly. Theyâre all looking at Goodsirâs earthly remains.
âOnly consider, sir,â Bridgens goes on, âthat perhaps if oneâs death is not shocking or violentââ
âNot violent, uh-huh.â
ââor if heâs ready to leaveâthen maybe he passes away.â
They keep staring.
Where? Edward wonders. He can feel the call of something. Itâs not Heaven, nor Hell. Beyond the invisible world, thereâs another.
*
âWe must find the creature,â Jopson says. âWe couldnât restore the souls it devoured. When we went to find the bodies, they were empty.â
Edward swings their joined hands. âAre you ready to face the spirit?â he asks gently. âYouâd see it for what it is. You would see through the form it chose to take.â
Jopson frowns, seeks his embrace. Edward halts to hold him tightly. The light they emit merges into a single glow when theyâre so close. âI remember when I first saw it,â Jopson says. âClimbing up the stern. I wasnât frightened. It was like when high waves wash over the ship. My helplessness was terrible, not it.â
Edward hums, mulling it over. He leans his head on Jopsonâs shoulder, who caresses his hair. Their light grows warmer. Like the afterglow they used to share.
The world around them, the world thatâs left is dull and grey. Edward spots Fitzjamesâ dim flame, who walks far ahead, nimble like a cat, and halts every now and then.
âWhat is he doing?â Edward asks.
âI think heâs tracing the captainâs steps. He says he can feel his presence everywhere.â
*
âSo this is where the beast was felled?â Sir John says. âServes him well; it caused us much grief, that bear.â
âThis is where heâchanged,â Fitzjames corrects.
The Tuunbaq is the tarnished sky above. The icy cliffs are its teeth. The souls it spewed out are dazed and lost. Not Mr. Blanky, of course.
âFinally,â he says from his place on the ground. âI need your help lads, these wretched things barely remember who they were.â
âMr. Collins,â Billy Orren calls. âHenry, Henry, itâs me.âÂ
Mr. Collins stirs. Heâs sitting like the rest, motionless, but he raises his head. Listens.
âHenry,â Orren says. âHenry Foster Collins.â
They go around, giving the souls their names back. Edward stops by Goldingâs ghost. Looks at him. Heâs sitting with his head pressed to his knees, arms folded over his nape, donât hurt me. Heâs scrawny, pale. Just a rabbity kid.
âRobert Golding,â he says. âRobert.â
He wakes up George Hodgson, Solomon Tozer and Thomas Armitage.
Heâs not even going to approach Mr. Hickey.
âCornelius,â Fitzjames calls to him.
Mr. Hickey cannot hear him. Heâs turning around, looking over his shoulder. He looks right through the ghost crew, scanning the horizon for some unknown threat.
âThat name is not his,â Gibson says.
âHow should we address him?â
âHe never told me.â
Mr. Hickeyâs alert gaze jumps around and doesnât see anything.
*
âYou were right to leave,â Le Vesconte tells Edward in his weather beaten tent. Heâs surrounded by bones, but he still starved to death.
âI could have been you,â Edward says. âI nearly was.â
âI wanted to save as many as I could. Our numbers kept shrinking. I died last. There was no justice in that.â
âDundy,â Fitzjames calls from outside. âCease your moaning and come help us, please.â
Le Vesconte perks up: he sheds his body and stands. Fitzjames passes through the canvas of the collapsed tent, a playful smile on his lips. Le Vesconte clings to him.
âHave you seen Francis?â Fitzjames asks as he rubs his back.
âYou just missed him,â Le Vesconte says. âHe was here: I drew my last breath in his presence.â
âDundy,â Fitzjames says with sympathy. âIâm afraid youâve been dead for a while.â
âHave I?â Le Vesconte pats himself down, touches ribs. Edward politely looks away. âHow embarrassing.â
âYour face kept its youthful complexion,â Fitzjames narrates. Le Vesconteâs frozen cheeks pinken promptly until he almost looks healthy. âYou handsome devil,â Fitzjames says, and ruffles up his hair. âCome along now, let us leave this gruesome place.â
âWe almost made it,â Le Vesconte complains as Fitzjames leads him away. âWe were close. I told him."
*
They search for the captain high and low. Heâs nowhere to be found. Edward feels no urgency. They will recover him, eventually.
Thereâs a blizzard one day. The snow is a stark white against the dull blur of the world. He cannot sense temperatures: Jopson and him nestle in the storm as if they were sitting amidst a flurry of feathers. The shipboys are attempting to make a snowman nearby, but no-one has figured out yet how to interact with reality: the snow falls through their grasping hands. The rest of the crew wanders, chats. Edward is reminded of the first year frozen in time. The games on the ice. Jopson slipping into his cabin. The rum they shared, the laughter, the heat.
Jopson is sprawled over his lap like a lazy cat, and Edward is stroking his hair. They could never have done this so openly, when they lived. Heâs stripping away protocol. Certain rules. Not all of them. Not yet.
âI wish I died better dressed,â Jopson says. âNow Iâm stuck donning nightclothes and underwear forever. I donât want to sound thankless, but itâs rather unfair.â
âYou could have my coat,â Edward offers.
âI doubt I can. Itâs made of memories: I never wore it.â
âItâs also made of dreams: I want you to have it.âÂ
He imagines Jopson, to the best of his abilities, in navy wool, with gold buttons. A frivolous gift, after everything Jopson had given him: but he wishes it to be real, with all his heart, with all his love.
Jopson laughs; stands up, and twirls around. The coat swirls, and Edward claps, excited. Heâs in his jacket; the gold chains remain, his beard, his long hair, for none of those matter.
âNow Iâm truly a lieutenant,â Jopson says. The sleeves of the coat are too long: it covers half of his hands as he reaches to adjusts the collar.
âWell deserved,â Edward says. Jopson gleams at him: his glow shines bright like the long-forgotten sun. He reaches for Edward, and he takes his hands, lets him pull him to his feet and join his dance. They spin around in the air, and the crew cheers for them.
âMusic!â Irving calls. âOh, if we only had some music!â
âWe have our lungs,â Morfin counters. He starts a song the likes of which Edward has never heard: itâs not an earthly harmony. The spirits rise with it, pivot, twirl. Thereâs never been a jollier danse macabre; itâs their second carnivale, and nobody dies. Jopson is in his arms.
They dance with the snowflakes, and dance until spring. The midnight sun is shining when they dance through a barren field. Thatâs where they meet Lady Silence. Sheâs not pleased to see them. She has a blanket wrapped over her furs, and her hair is let down. Sheâs squinting at them, clearly exhausted.
Something is different about her face, but Edward cannot say what it is.
âYouâre very loud,â she says. âYouâre the loudest people Iâve ever met.â
She doesnât speak in English; her lips donât move as she speaks; but they hear and understand her perfectly.
âWe did not expect to be overheard,â Fitzjames says, bowing to her in apology.
She looks through their ranks, one hundred and twenty men, and mutters, âThis has been going on for long enough. You will have to be exorcised.â
âMaâam,â Fitzjames floats closer, âwe were just leaving.â
âHow will you leave?â Lady Silence gestures East. âYou may cross the strait, but you cannot cross the ocean. Itâs sacred; itâs saltwater.â
âFrancis will know where to go.â
Lady Silence looks doubtful.
âHeâs one of our best navigators,â Sir John chimes in.
She makes a dismissive gesture. âFind him, then; do what you will; but I have put up with you long enoughâIâm a shaman in my own rightâI will absolve the land of your presence, if you continue to loiter.â
âThereâs no need for such language,â Sir John scoffs, arms folded. âWe are visitors: weâre just passing through.â
âYou were never invited.â
Edward averts his eyes; realises, too late, that he owes it to her to meet her gaze. He looks at her, looks proper, and recognises what changed: the lines around her eyes, her mouth. She aged.
*
Itâs a calm summer day when they find the captain.
âHeâs calling to me,â Fitzjames says. âOh, heâs far away; but Iâm the best walker in the service.â He smiles to himself and leads the trek. Miles and miles ahead, through an unforgiving terrain. Edward doesnât mind the distance, basking in Jopsonâs presence.
They reach a village. There are tents the likes of which Edward has never seen, and snow houses he heard described. One of them, more tattered than the rest, glows with a golden light that penetrates the ice.
Fitzjames passes through the wall, and Jopson follows, with Edward and Blanky in tow. Francis is curled up on a bed of furs, shivering. His hair is silver, and thereâs silver in his beard. The lines around his eyes are deeper. His wrinkles have set, like a map. Heâs sixty-five, perhaps. Still a strong man. Heâd have years to live, back in England.
âA common cold,â he tells Fitzjames. âI cannot bear it; the irony, that it would murder me.â
âYou fought it valiantly,â Fitzjames says. Caresses his face, his lips.
âThe healers didnât know what to do,â Crozier says. Thatâs when Edward realises heâs not speaking in English. âNever seen a man succumb to it like this.â
âYou may rest now.â
âRest? Like hell; Thomas, give me your hand. Jopson, my spear. Brief me on the way, Edward, we have men to save yet.â
âTheyâre waiting for you, sir,â Edward says. His last report to be given.
Crozier climbs out of the igloo, and gasps to see all gathered.
âWell, I never!â he says. âYou will frighten the children.â He looks around with such warmth in his eyes it could melt the ice. James pulls close to him. Heâs floating.
âWhere to, dear?â
âAway, I should think. We overstayed.â He looks up at the night sky. A scattering of stars. The arch of the Northern lights. âThere,â he says. âThat bridge shall take us over the ocean.â
âAre you certain, sir?â Jopson asks.
âThis is still the Discovery Service: we shall see it for ourselves.â He clasps Fitzjamesâ hand, and they lift up, weightless, stepping into the air, as if climbing an invisible stairwell.
Edward tugs at Jopsonâs sleeve. âShall we?â he asks softly. Jopson is looking up: the lights dance on his face, in his eyes.
âItâs a bridge,â he says.
âDo you suppose,â Sir John says, trotting towards the centre, âthat we may see the North-West Passage from up there?â
âIâll show you, sir,â Blanky grunts, takes his arm. Glances at Edward and Jopson. âAfter you.â
Jopson peers at Edward; thereâs something sly in his gaze. âCarry me?â
âOf course, Tom. You earned it.â
Edward kneels, and Tom comes into his arms, laughing. Â