Chapter Text
As John made his way towards the captain’s cabin, he narrowly dodged a crate that swung a little too close to his head as it was lowered down the ladder. They were a week out from setting sail, and the ship was an ant’s hill of activity. What should have been a relatively quiet corner of the ship was anything but; people were going in and out with boxes of what were no doubt the captain’s belongings and scientific instruments. John had been overseeing a similar stream of people unloading crates at the docks all morning.
“John,” said Captain Crozier when he arrived. “Enter.”
“The latest shipment of provisions is well on its way to being stored in the hold, sir. They should be ready for our journey before day’s end.”
Crozier nodded. “Good.” He frowned at the logbook spread across the table in front of him. “But that’s not why I called you here. I need you to take care of this provisions issue.”
John stared at him, wondering if he had missed some vital aspect of his orders: all he had done for days was oversee the provisions. “Sir?”
Crozier sat back and sighed. He rubbed what were clearly aching temples. “I forgot you were—it’s the tins. I need you to go into London.”
“Were they delayed again?”
“No, no, they arrived, safe and sound.” Crozier grimaced. “But they’re turning up spoiled. We’ve inspected a few crates, and it’s not an isolated case. While George and Edward try to determine the extent of the damage, I need you to convince them to send us replacements.”
John blanched. “The...Admiralty, sir?”
A dark chuckle. “Believe me, I wish it was as simple as going to the Admiralty. I’ve tried.” He sighed. “Or rather, Fitzjames has. A Herculean task, I take it. It’s the blasted contract they signed with the canning company. They won’t renegotiate the terms, so you’ll need to convince them they aren’t upholding their end of the bargain.” He added in a mutter, “And a bargain it certainly was, if these books are to be believed.”
“I’ll go at once.” John hesitated. “Shall I oversee the removal of the crates of tins we’ve already loaded before I do, sir?”
Crozier looked up at him. “Oh, is that what you’ve been—George!”
Jopson appeared at the door to the captain’s berth like a shadow. “I’ll summon Lieutenant Hodgson,” he murmured to the captain, then disappeared.
The captain nodded after him, then jerked his head towards the window. John’s gaze followed the motion to the crate of Goldner’s tins, several of which had been opened. “I’ve found the boiled carrot to be particularly pungent,” Crozier said dryly. “That’s your proof. Tell them we’ve ten more like this, and likely more before the day is done. I want the whole lot replaced; I’m not taking chances.” Crozier’s gaze sharpened. “Ah, George, there you are.”
George entered with an easy smile for John and a curious look for his captain. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“John’s going into London for us. Tell him the latest, would you?”
“Right away, sir.”
“Oh, and John,” Crozier said as the pair of them turned to go. “Bring one of the men with you.”
John paused. He couldn’t imagine it took more than one person to carry this particular message. “A man, sir?”
Crozier looked up from his logbook. “To carry the tins, of course.”
“I don’t think you should take one of our best, if you take my meaning,” George said quietly to John as the two of them threaded their way through the ship. “Any man can carry a crate across London, but not every fellow can carry fifty crates a day down three decks.”
“Is it really across London?” John asked, moving out of the way of someone carrying large amounts of wood—the carpenter, no doubt.
“Across the river, at least. Factory’s who knows where; office is near Whitechapel, I think.”
“Who do you recommend, then?”
Several men passed them carrying bags of pemmican. “I don’t know if I would recommend any fellow for it. But if you don’t mind...there is one man who’s been underfoot. Lack of experience, I think,” he hurried to add. “Those of us who’ve been at sea since our boyhood forget how new it all is.”
“Who is he?” John asked, interested despite himself. He and Malcolm had always looked up to their seniors on the Belvidera, and he’d long imagined himself mentoring new sailors in the way of life at sea. It hadn’t come to pass so far, but perhaps this was his opportunity.
“The caulker’s mate—a Mister Hickey.”
As Hickey hauled another crate into his arms, he was having second thoughts about his grand plan of making a new life at sea.
The plan had materialised out of necessity: he’d had reason to leave London, and fast. It had been pure chance that he’d overheard a young man speaking loudly in a pub about his imminent departure to arctic waters and, more importantly, the Sandwich Islands out the other side. To find such an easy way out when he’d needed it most had been almost too good to be true.
It was his own fault, he supposed, that he’d assumed the day you reported to the ship was the same day you set sail. It was one of the reasons he’d followed the man out of the pub at once and induced him to join him for a walk along Regent’s Canal. And yet here Hickey was, weeks later, and they hadn’t moved an inch from the London docks.
“Mr. Hickey,” came a sharp and familiar voice. Hickey allowed himself a private grimace before he plastered a smile on his face and turned away from a nearby stack of empty crates, which he had been pretending to examine so he’d have an excuse to rest.
“Lieutenant Irving,” he said, pouring as much delighted surprise into the words as he could muster. “What brings you below decks, sir?”
He had made some effort to keep his distance from Irving since their first meeting, though with little success: it seemed the third lieutenant was often left to oversee the men while the other lieutenants dealt with more important matters. Irving clearly remembered Hickey’s confusion about the location of the orlop, and he brought up his obvious inexperience from time to time. This habit hadn’t endeared him to Hickey. The less everyone remembered he’d never been on board a ship before, the better.
At the moment, however, Irving seemed distracted. His pale eyes flicked only briefly to Hickey’s face before he glanced at the nearby ladder. “Are you busy?”
Hickey knew a trap when he heard one. “Not so busy I can’t spare a minute for you, sir. Do you have need of something, lieutenant?”
“It’ll be more than a minute.” Irving critically eyed a trio of men carrying sacks of flour nearby. “Mr. Thompson. Would you please take over Mr. Hickey’s duties and make sure this goes where it needs to go?”
“Happily, sir,” said Thompson. With only a small effort, he swung his bag of flour on top of Hickey’s crate and hefted both into his broad arms.
This, at least, was an area where the Navy had lived up to expectations. It was warm, coming and going from above to below deck, and Thompson was down to his shirtsleeves. Hickey watched with no small amount of appreciation as Thompson’s arms stretched and flexed the fabric. Reluctantly, Hickey dragged his eyes away—in time to note that Irving’s gaze, too, lingered on Thompson’s retreating back.
Hickey allowed himself a small, private smile. Perhaps some of the things he’s heard about why a man might join the Navy were true after all.
But then Irving’s pale eyes were back on Hickey’s face. “With any luck this will take a few hours at most. Get anything you might need and meet me on deck. We’ve been given a task by the captain.”
“Things I might need, sir?” Hickey asked, his brow furrowing.
“Spending money, things of that nature. We might have the chance to go through a market on our way back to the ship.” Hickey’s pulse sped up uncomfortably; this sounded like a trip off into London. Irving frowned at the ladder, his thoughts already elsewhere. “But don’t be long. We should depart as soon as we’re able; I don’t know how long this will take.”
Then he left, the tail of his greatcoat swinging behind him—leaving Hickey to contemplate all the reasons why he had hoped to never set foot in London again.
“Do you need help?” John asked doubtfully.
They had barely left the ship, and Hickey was already lagging behind. As John watched him struggle with the crate of tins, any worry he’d had for the man was increasingly overcome by irritation. He was doubtful that the man was going to make it off the docks with his burden, let alone halfway across London. Not only was he walking slowly, but he’d insisted on wearing his Navy-issue cap over his Welsh wig—a combination that looked ridiculous on land. There was a slight chill in the air, yes, but the sun had mostly burnt off that morning’s fog. The banks of the Thames in April were hardly arctic environs.
“Not at all sir,” Hickey said with a cheerful, if strained, smile. He hefted the crate higher in his arms. “Never been better.”
John frowned, but he turned on his heel and continued down the docks—though he adjusted his speed to better accommodate Hickey. He had expected to walk to Goldner’s headquarters, even looked forward to the chance to stretch his legs. At this rate, they’d need to find a coach if they hoped to get there and back before nightfall.
“If I might say so, sir,” said Hickey. John reluctantly slowed and turned towards the man to show he was listening. “I am impressed with how well you remember our names. Us among the crew, I mean.” He paused to heft the crate higher in his arms, and John suppressed a sigh when Hickey seemed to take John’s attention as permission to stop walking altogether. “I’m still learning my fellows’ names and faces myself, and I labour beside them day in and day out.”
“It is one of my duties as an officer,” John said crisply. Then he remembered he had taken it upon himself to be a role model to this man. Relenting slightly, he added, “You’d do just as well if you were in my position, Mr. Hickey. It only takes some practice.”
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. If you don’t mind me saying so, sir.” Thankfully, Hickey resumed walking. He caught up to John so they were shoulder to shoulder. “It must be an uncommon man who can keep track of several dozen of us and his own duties besides. I’m sure others feel the same as me.”
John blinked. This sounded rather like a compliment. He had never thought of himself in that way. Even being a lieutenant had lost its glow. He had only done as many others had: after sufficient effort and time in the service, and leaning on his father for recommendations, he had been promoted. He had always felt himself deficient, both as a Navy man and in his other qualities, and his ill-advised time in Australia had only reinforced that belief. The less said about his interlude from the service, the better.
“I don’t think it’s as uncommon as all that.”
“You’re modest, sir.”
“Honest, not modest.”
They were nearly off the docks now, and John quickened his pace. He had just caught sight of a likely coach when Hickey quickly added, “Is the lieutenant exam very hard?”
John relaxed: so this was why Hickey was so insistent with this line of questioning. “Have you turned your sights in that direction?” he asked kindly, slowing his pace and letting the coach pass by. Another would come soon enough if they kept walking, he was sure. “I would be happy to provide you with some guidance if you should desire it; but I must warn you that you’ll need several more years of service under your belt before you’ll qualify. The best you can do now is devote yourself entirely to your duties. A rating of Very Good at the end of our voyage wouldn’t do you wrong.”
“Oh,” said Hickey, sounding a little put-out. He hefted the crate higher in his arms. “I’m sorry to ask it, sir—but how much farther do we have to go?”