Chapter Text
The first day
When he first sees Ross’s ship Enterprise, Henry thinks he must be dreaming. It’s impossibly beautiful, riding at anchor with bleached white sails. Seabirds of some kind whirl and call in the skies overhead.
James would have been able to draw it, to catch the beauty of the scene on a page. But James is currently out of his mind on the opium the surgeon has dosed him with; barely able to lift his own head let alone a pencil.
They are carrying James onto the ship now, taking up the stretcher as if he’s a hundredweight of shot. Be careful, Henry wants to cry out to them. That man is the most precious thing you’ll ever hold. But he bites his tongue.
He has an uneasy feeling that he’s detached from his body, viewing the world from outside himself. He’s had it, off and on, for the last few weeks. Like watching actors in a play on stage. Is this real?
“Is this real?” he says to Edward, who stands beside him likewise staring up at the ship.
Edward slowly turns his face to him. He looks as though he’s scared of what the answer to that might be. He blinks a little, then turns back to look at Enterprise again without saying anything. Henry is not reassured.
There is a great deal of fuss and confusion going on as Ross’s first lieutenant goes about the business of billeting all the new arrivals - almost fifty of them. The lieutenant is a man named Brunton, with a hooked nose and dark hair. He’s remained here in charge of the ship while Ross had taken the search party inland, and so Henry hasn’t met him yet. Detached as he is, some part of Henry nonetheless watches with approval as Brunton issues briskly efficient orders, dividing up the tasks between his midshipmen and petty officers.
A gangling red-headed midshipman materialises and touches his hat to Henry. “If you please, sir, I’m to show you and Doctor Goodsir to your berth,” he says, wide-eyed. Could Henry have conjured up this boy from his imagination? Probably. He’s met dozens of skinny midshipmen like this. Henry points Harry out to him; they troop up the gangplank together.
Henry’s legs feel weak as he follows the lad down onto the half deck, and the feeling of the wooden planks under his boots is strange and hollow. He directs his feet to walk forwards, and move forward he does although he cannot feel the action.
The ship smells as all ships do after some time at sea - unwashed bodies, wet wool, the tar between the deck seams - and oddly enough it is the familiarity of this smell; the similarity to all the other ships Henry has ever been on which jolts him back into his own body.
He lands with a metaphorical thud into heavy legs, and staggers over to place a hand against the wall to steady himself. The wood is varnished smooth, and cool, and he presses both palms against it. His heart bangs against his ribs. They are going home. He can go home.
“Sir?” The midshipman is looking at him, uncertainty written all over his features at this strange display. His hand hovers near Henry’s elbow, deliberating on whether or not to take it.
Henry clears his throat. “Carry on,” he manages to say. Long-and-Red gives him a doubtful look, but leads him to a tiny cabin aft. Harry trails silently behind him like a weary ghost.
The cabin contains two hanging bunks, a washstand, and not much else; probably it would have originally been for two petty officers to share. On each bunk there is a neat little pile: clean shirts, soap, brushes and other toilet articles. Henry is absurdly excited by these; he’s been wearing this same shirt for weeks and is quite literally itching to get out of it.
“There’s tea laid out in the wardroom when you are ready, sirs,” says the midshipman, and then practically flees, leaving the two of them alone.
Henry looks at Harry, thinking they will share a smile in this miraculous moment, but though Harry looks at him a lot less vaguely than Edward did he does not seem to be able to muster any expression of his own. The blankness is off-putting.
“Is this - is this not splendid?” Henry ventures, faltering a little.
Harry sinks down on one of the bunks. “Yes, quite so,” he murmurs, rubbing at his eyes.
Henry shrugs. Harry is worse lately than even James usually is, for having inscrutable moods. The clean shirt is calling him, and he wastes no time in stripping naked, peeling off all his layers and piling them in a heap on the floor so as not to dirty his bed. The soap turns out to be dried out and hard and will not make a lather, but Henry simply applies the bar directly to his wet body and scrubs, and scrubs and scrubs until finally the water he pours into the slop pail is almost black.
“Do you want a turn at the basin?” he asks Harry, who has laid down on his cot facing the wall. Perhaps he means to preserve Henry’s modesty, although that article is long-departed at this point. “I’ve only used half the water.”
“Not now,” comes the muffled reply. “I’m very tired.”
“Suit yourself.” Henry sits on his own bunk and takes up his new shirt. It’s the softest thing he’s felt in months and he presses it against his face, inhaling the sweet freshness of it. There are two pairs of clean, dry socks in his pile too: luxury almost beyond imagining. “Do you want tea?”
“No.”
Henry does not know what he might do to stop Harry’s sulking, and so he doesn’t try. For decency’s sake he must put his own trousers back on, but he forgoes any other of his filthy layers and heads off to the wardroom in just his shirtsleeves.
*
His good mood ebbs away further as he finds his way to the wardroom and is met by Edward and George, who are clearly mid-argument. The table is laid with tea and the sideboard with plates of biscuit, a pale young man Henry doesn’t know standing off to one side. His hands are behind his back, eyes fixedly on the deck beams above.
“For god’s sake-” Edward is gesticulating harshly towards the table. He stops and looks at Henry as he stands awkwardly in the doorway.
“Sorry - am I interrupting?” Henry asks, feeling embarrassed.
George rises and pushes past Henry without looking at him. Bewildered, Henry watches him clap his hand over his mouth as he retreats into one of the cabins.
Edward slumps back in his seat. “Sorry, Henry; of course not,” he says. “Tell me you’ll have something to eat?”
“I’m not dead yet,” Henry jokes feebly, and Edward raises a smile with half his mouth. Henry sits at the table, and the young man steps forward with a carefully measured-out plate of biscuit for him. “Thank you, Mr-?”
“Lester, sir. Assistant Surgeon.” Of course they are still being supervised by the medicos, although the surgeon who’d accompanied them back here is busy with Blanky, who’s taken a decided turn for the worse the last day or so. They are none of them allowed as much food in one go as they’d serve themselves, having been deprived for so long. To compensate though, there are two extra meals a day for them: equal proportions of stodgy biscuit and acidic citrus.
“Where’s Doctor Goodsir?” asks Edward as Henry applies himself to his biscuits.
“Just in our cabin. Said he’s tired.” Henry takes a sip of the tea which Lester has poured for him; it tastes strongly of lemon. “Oh, that’s good,” he adds gratefully; he’s never been over-fond of lemon before but he drinks it down now like nectar.
Edward sighs. “We could all say we’re tired.”
“Say it then, if you like,” says Henry. Edward looks down, shaking his head slightly. He looks distant again. Henry wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him. He grasps a handful of his sleeve instead - Edward has also acquired a new shirt, soft under his fingertips. “Edward. We’re all alright. We’re going home!”
“Until we see England again, I shan’t take it for granted,” says Edward gloomily. Henry feels a headache coming on.
A heavy step in the passage outside, and Crozier appears. Henry and Edward both make as if to rise - the ingrained action which they’d left off on the shale comes as naturally as breathing aboard ship. Crozier waves this off. “At ease,” he grunts.
He drops down into George’s vacated seat. Lester glides over with a plate for him. “Where’s Hodgson? Goodsir?” Crozier demands.
Henry and Edward look at each other. “Resting,” Edward replies after a beat.
“Hm.” Crozier looks displeased at this - but then he is so often displeased that this means very little. “See to it that Lieutenant Hodgson and Doctor Goodsir have some lemon to drink this afternoon,” he orders Lester. They haven’t been introduced, but Crozier obviously feels himself a captain here on Ross’s ship as easily as he had on his own.
“Aye, sir,” says Lester, and melts away to attend to it. Crozier watches him go, then sets about his ration.
“Are all our men aboard, sir?” asks Edward, running his thumbs up and down the teacup he cradles in both hands.
Crozier nods, swallows. “Everyone except Mr Blanky. Danvers wants to operate now, on solid ground.”
Poor sod. Blanky’s stump is turning gangrenous, and the doctor is predicting it will carry him off sooner rather than later if it is allowed to spread. Henry’s toes had hurt badly enough after he’d parted ways with them; he can’t imagine what losing the whole leg must be like.
“There are medicines on board, of course?” Henry asks. “Sedatives, and for the pain?”
Crozier takes several swallows of his tea. “Aye.” He looks just as miserable as Edward does, and George, and Harry. Henry feels a ball of frustration lodge in his throat; he cannot understand this cloud that they are all labouring under now of all times. Their biggest difficulties are past now!
“And Captain Ross - does he plan to depart once the procedure is done?” Edward says, leaning forward.
“Yes, as soon as the wind’s fair. Needs to back a couple of points, I should think,” says Crozier.
Henry feels keenly at this moment that Crozier and Edward are not really his friends. George he might count as a chum, perhaps - George is everyone’s friend. He wishes James were here.
“Will you excuse me,” he says, rising and touching his forehead to Crozier.
*
He tries to visit the sickbay first, but his way is barred by one of Danvers’ mates.
“Sorry, sir,” says this boy, plump and freckled and placing only the slightest of stress on the word ‘sir’. “Doctor Danvers has said the patients are to be left alone to rest for the rest of today.”
Henry feels a prickle of disappointment, although he’s come more in hope than in expectation of being allowed in. “Very well. Is everyone alright? Captain Fitzjames?”
“Yes, sir. All resting.”
All drugged out of their minds like James, no doubt. At least the voyage will go quicker for them.
Thus rebuffed, Henry finds his way down to the orlop, where their men who are well enough to be left to their own devices have been stowed. Thirty five of them, in addition to Ross’s crew - it will be a tight squeeze, but nothing these men haven’t lived through before.
Here at last Henry encounters a little good cheer. Des Voeux and a few others are sprawled out around a spirit lantern with their rations of grog and biscuit, laughing and bantering with each other as if they’re in the village pub. This makes sense to Henry, much more so than the chill of the wardroom, and he sinks down into the circle with the men.
“Have you everything you need?” he asks them. “All fed and watered - or lemoned, as I suppose it must be.”
They assure him they have, and Henry relaxes into their company for a few minutes. The air down here is sour with the close press of unwashed bodies; it ought to be repulsive but Henry finds himself glad to be amongst the warmth of it. He could quite happily while away the whole afternoon here, but not everyone is carousing round the lamp so at length Henry heaves himself up on creaking knees to go and see to the others.
He helps Tom Hartnell sling a hammock - Hartnell’s hands are shaking so much that he is struggling by himself. “Try to sleep now, if you feel like it,” he tells him.
Hartnell looks worried. “I shouldn’t like to miss the dinner hour, sir,” he says, eyes downcast.
“The dinner hour will be accompanied by so much sound and fury, with that bunch of reprobates,” says Henry, inclining his head to indicate De Voeux and his group, “there’s no way you’ll sleep through it even if you wanted to.”
Hartnell nods, solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
“Good man,” says Henry, and leaves him to it.
Georgie and David are sitting by themselves, looking a little like lost lambs. Henry comes upon them from behind and claps a hand on a shoulder each. “Don’t fret, lads, for we’ll be home before you know it!” They smile - perhaps a little tremulously, but Henry appreciates the effort they’re making.
Over in a corner, Mr Honey talks to him of his family in England: a wife and their four children, all grown now. He asks Henry, tentatively, if there is any lady waiting for him.
Henry thinks of Henrietta. Waiting, aye, she’d said she would wait - but they’d made no promises to each other, no formal commitment. “I don’t know,” he admits to Honey. He doesn’t know if he wants Henrietta to have been waiting all this time. Best not to think on it at all, really. Honey gives him a knowing look which Henry decides he doesn’t care for. He moves along to see how the remaining marines are getting along.
*
Dinner that evening is a dreary affair. Henry and the other officers take it in the wardroom with those of Ross’s crew who are at leisure to do so, although Ross himself is not present.
Harry is likewise nowhere to be seen, although George has reappeared, looking pale and miserable. Henry watches him pick at his dinner - he stands out, as Henry and the rest of his colleagues have got into the dreadful habit of wolfing down their food over the last few weeks. Henry suddenly realises he’s almost finished his plate, but the Enterprise officers aren’t yet a third of the way through their own meals. He catches Edward’s eye and sees him share this realisation; Edward sets down his knife and fork on the side of his plate to take a sip of tea instead, a guilty look on his face like a schoolboy.
Henry makes himself pause before scooping up his next bite of peas - these having been resurrected from dried, rather than canned, he is very thankful to see. “Is it toothache with you, George?” he asks sympathetically.
George looks up with a start from where he is cutting his salt beef into minuscule pieces. “Toothache?”
Henry smiles encouragingly at him. “You aren’t making much progress, there.”
George looks even more miserable at this, although Henry cannot think why. “Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks, Dundy.”
Crozier shoots Henry a dirty look, for reasons best known to himself. It’s awkward; Henry lapses into silence. The officers of the home team give no assistance as the meal goes on; they must necessarily be deferential to Crozier and so make only polite remarks to him. Crozier could easily warm up the atmosphere by engaging with them if he chose. But he is utterly unhelpful: taciturn and monosyllabic. No doubt missing his spirit ration, Henry thinks derisively.
“We saw an eagle from the deck this morning,” Brunton attempts, manfully. He speaks with an Irish accent similar to Crozier’s, but his voice is deeper and has a harsher aspect to it; less sing-song. “Perhaps it was an omen of your coming. A good omen, of course.”
Henry isn’t much interested in birds, but he seizes upon the lifeline. “An eagle, how I should have liked to have seen him!” He thinks he may have said that a little too loudly. “I’ve not seen anything larger than a tern for years,” he continues, with a self-effacing smile. “And not even those since last summer.”
A peculiar silence follows this statement. Brunton’s gaze slides away; Henry is a little offended. Ross’s purser, a small, neat man named Bailey, clears his throat. “When I was a boy,” he says, “we’d see puffins in the autumn months. Such funny little fellows, they are.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a puffin.” This from Ross’s third lieutenant. What was his name? Stephenson? Richardson? Something like that.
“I hope you have the pleasure one day,” Bailey is saying. “They walk along the ground with their catch of fish all neatly lined up in their beaks. They make their nests in burrows underground, you know, quite fascinating.”
“Where was it you grew up?” Henry asks him.
“The north east,” replies Bailey. “It was near Lindesfarne that the puffins would come to nest every year.”
“Our ice master is a Whitby man,” Edward offers.
“Indeed?” Bailey says politely. “I look forward to making his acquaintance.”
If he doesn’t die first, Henry thinks. This time it is not just Edward who shares his thoughts, but the whole table, by the looks on their faces. Henry takes a long draught of his tea so that he cannot be expected to say anything. He wishes they were having wine instead.
*
Eventually, the inexplicably tense dinner comes to an end and Henry is free to seek the refuge of his own cabin. He finds a lamp burning, a tray containing biscuits balancing on his own cot, and Harry fast asleep.
“Harry.” Henry stoops to shake his shoulder a little. “Harry!”
“Mm?” Harry squints up at him.
“You need something to eat,” Henry tells him. “Sit up, there’s biscuits here.”
Harry rolls over to face away from him. “I’m not hungry. You can have them, if you want.”
Henry takes Harry’s blanket in both hands and tugs it smartly; it comes away from the cot.
“Dundy!” Outraged, Harry sits up and tries to grab it back. But Henry is quicker, snatching it out of his reach.
“Have your goddamn biscuits,” he says, “and you can have it back.”
“You son of a bitch,” snaps Harry - the strongest thing Henry has ever heard him say.
“Come on,” he says, grinning. “You made James eat, didn’t you? When he needed it?”
All at once, all the fight goes out of Harry. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It was poison,” he mutters.
Henry feels a pang of guilt now, for having unblanketed him. To cover it, he makes a joke. “Better that than starving to death,” he says jovially, but realises he’s missed the mark as Harry flinches. He tries again. “James will be fine. We all will be fine,” he says, trying to sound comforting.
“Have you seen him today?” Harry asks.
Henry shakes his head. “They wouldn’t let me. But they said he’s alright.”
“S’good.”
Contrite, Henry passes Harry both the plate and his blanket, and Harry wraps the blanket around his shoulders. Henry glares at him until he picks up one of the biscuits.
“The purser was telling us all about puffins at supper,” Henry says. “You’d like him, I think. Man after your own heart.”
Harry crunches his biscuit slowly, methodically. “Quite,” is all he says to that.
Henry strips down to his shirt again while Harry eats. Now that he’s left the room and come back, he’s conscious of the smell of their dirty clothes, and Harry himself, who obviously hasn’t washed yet.
He won’t ask Harry to sort himself out now; that seems like a request for tomorrow. He’s borne worse than the odour of another man’s stale sweat over the last few months, after all.
Once the lamp is extinguished, Harry falls back to sleep quickly. Henry is less successful in this endeavour. It’s strange, after all this time, to lie abed on a ship and feel it rocking gently at anchor. To not hear the creak of ice pushing at her seams.
He’s bone-weary, and now that he thinks of it he feels achy in his shoulders and hips and knees. The headache that he’s been ignoring all day makes itself felt in his temples as well, and he turns over restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position.
The ship’s bell sounds: six bells in the first watch. Murmuring from the cabin next door: George and Edward. He can’t make out any words.
George and Edward and John, it should have been, had always been. Don’t think about that.
The native people had fed John, Harry had said, before he’d died. At least he’d not died hungry. He might have been happy, even, to think he’d found friends.
What had Hickey done with the parts of John they’d not found? Christ, don’t think about that.
Seven bells. Henry leans over in the darkness and gropes about until he finds Harry’s unused washcloth; drops it in the jug of clean water and wrings it out. He puts it over his eyes. The cold feels nice.
What would Henrietta be doing now? Has she forgotten all about him? Is she lying in bed with her husband, their babe at her breast?
Or has she waited for him? James said, weeks ago, that he thought they’d have been declared dead by now. But clearly not everyone believed that, for otherwise why had Ross come?
Some of their number, of course, are indeed dead. They’ll have to tell Sir John’s wife. Jim Fairholme’s wife. Graham’s mother. Poor James will have to do it - he’ll be recovered enough, by the time they get home.
Eight bells. Henry listens to the sound of the watch changing: boots tramping past, men murmuring, a petty officer chivvying idlers along. Ten minutes later all is quiet, the watch below obviously having gone to their hammocks.
Into the renewed stillness of the night comes the sound of someone sobbing. Henry’s head is pounding. He groans, throws the damp cloth to the floor, and buries his face in his pillow.