Chapter Text
Is this a punishment? To be sent away from Terror? The least of her lieutenants? Has he displeased Crozier so—
John’s vexation must show in his eyes or thereabout because Crozier shakes his head before continuing, “You’ve done nothing wrong. Fitzjames requested, what with the men being sent over to berth and the…relative scarcity of officers on Erebus—”
“But—” John interrupts and immediately regrets it. Why me? He’s desperate to know but dares not ask.
“He requested you specifically.” Crozier looks over John carefully as though he’s also at a loss why Fitzjames, or indeed anyone else, might want John specifically for any purpose. John squirms under his gaze. “We’ll miss you in the evenings here on Terror.”
Shame fills John as he doubts the captain means his words. Forever afraid of giving offense to the capricious Irishman, John rarely contributed on evenings when Crozier was present in the wardroom. Although—John thinks uncharitably—it’s not as if Crozier noticed anything beyond his glass and Jopson’s over-zealous haste to refill it.
“You have the evening to collect your things. Then you’re to go to Erebus and bunk in, I believe, Fairholme’s cabin.”
The mention of the absent lieutenant strikes John like a slap. It had been a slight against all the remaining officers to not be sent to find help, John knows. John ducks his head to the wind and murmurs quietly that he will, of course, comply with the new orders, though there hadn’t been any real question of that. Crozier tips his head to one side and considers John a moment longer before turning to go below once more. At the threshold, he calls over his shoulder: “I should like to see you off, John. Come and find me when you’re quite ready to leave.”
Alone at the gunwale, John glances across the ice in the direction of Erebus. She’s not quite visible in the eerie, perpetual twilight of October in the Arctic, not at the distance between the ships. The wind whistles ominously around him, and John shivers. Why on earth has Fitzjames requested me? He knows George from China, and Ned enjoys listening to his stories almost as much as the man likes telling them!
In fact, John does not think he can have spoken more than five words to the commander of Erebus over the course of their whole journey. He’d never had cause to before now, and men like James Fitzjames—sure, handsome, carefree—have always intimidated John. He cannot match their ease, and unless they happen to possess a saintlike patience to push and prod until they’ve worn down John’s prickly shyness (as George had), any prospect of friendship between them is hopeless.
With nearly an hour left to go on his watch, John paces the deck fretfully and tries to ignore the concerned, pitying glances of the men around him. At length, John reasons, he’s not being called over for friendship. Fitzjames wants him on Erebus to do his job, and as always, John can—must—manage that.
He picked John based on a conviction—an unshakeable conviction—that he would be uniquely well-suited to James’s purposes. James knows George Hodgson well and likes him just fine. When it comes to lively conversation or risky fighting, Hodgson is worth having around. But he is not the right man for this. Edward Little, meanwhile, James had written off as too indispensable to the running of Terror to be a viable candidate. Crozier was far less likely to part with him. On top of which, James finds him obliging but proud or perhaps overconfident. One did not think it upon first glance, and Dundy had laughed when James suggested it to him. And James understood. Just looking at Little and Irving side by side, you'd be forgiven for thinking John the proud and unconquerable one. Little had begun to sag under the weight of responsibility such that lately he seems quite morose, but he carries on gamely enough. James suspects, however, that if the orders came from any other drunkard—any less able seaman by Little’s estimation, one whose judgement was doubted an iota more—the lieutenant would not so willingly bend. No, Little would only put himself out on the account of a man he trusted, and his faith unwavering in Crozier made him a poor choice. For in his devotion, he must necessarily take on some of his master’s scorn for James.
John Irving, by contrast, has a healthy respect for authority and an overlarge sense of modesty—almost tending toward shamefulness. He lacks the confidence Little has to joke and laugh freely at dinners or make requests of his betters, so James is secure in his choice of John. Hodgson and Little are worthy objects, just not for this. John keeps to himself, and this does worry James slightly. If he’s too inhibited or downright hidebound, he’ll make for a poor addition to Erebus, but James is not looking for a wardroom officer, except in name. He’s not even looking for a companion, or else he’d have gone for Hodgson. No what James wants—and is determined to fashion from the lieutenant—is a pet.
James feels he’s earned it. After all this time in the cold and dark. Alone. With Sir John gone, he’d lost the need to be careful, and as the number of men on his ship grew so too did his creeping anxiety. James needs something else to focus his attention: a project. He’d considered a party—a Carnival even—but he’d been disturbed by hateful dreams of disaster. Fire on the ice. Unnatural and deadly. And, of course, he’d been shot down by Crozier when he’d made the suggestion of such an “unnecessary waste of their dwindling supplies”. So, James began planning more modestly.
James is going a bit mad honestly. Waiting for the inevitable: the walk out, Crozier’s journey to sobriety, some sign from God that they were dead and already in hell. Captain in name only—and of a ship so far from the sea it's almost dizzying to consider—but no matter. Crozier has his whiskey (for now) and Neptune, and James would take John Irving, long-legged and pink-cheeked. And this would see him through.
Yes, James thinks hungrily, as he waits for his quarry to arrive. He likes the neat beard, the soft green eyes that dare not hold his gaze, the full lips often wetted by a flitting pink tongue. He likes all of this enough to ignore the evangelical bent of the man. There are always men like that to be found in the navy. At least one on each of Her Majesty’s ships, often more. The Godfearing. Sir John had been one as well, and the trait is infinitely more charming in an inferior than it had been in his commander. It lends John a studious, serious air—offsetting his childish, innocent face. Besides, a natural proclivity toward worshipfulness can only help James’s aim.
James had been surprised to learn John Scottish, but the exoticness adds to his charm as well. And, it explains the insecurity. James knows all too well what it takes to perform the perfect English gentleman when it is not one’s birthright. In his less generous moments, James is proud to know he pulls off the act with more grace than John.
Bridgens raps sharply on the door, interrupting James’s reflections.
“Lieutenant Irving has arrived, sir.”
James smiles. “Excellent.”