Chapter Text
Nevertheless man being in honour abideth not: he is like the beasts that perish.
Psalm 49:12
I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.
Ecclesiastes 3:18
Chapter 1: In Which a Dog is Not Led Away into a Cruel Fate
Irving
Lat. 69° 37' 42'' N., Long. 98° 41' W.
23 April, 1848
Lieutenant John Irving is not a man who is very fond of changes.
That is not to say that he is set upon having a boring life: he is quite proud of his career in the Discovery Service, which has included much discomfort and many challenges, even before he set out for the Arctic Circle.
So he stomachs the unexpected well enough.
He ignores the unexplained with practiced stubbornness.
He is disturbed only by that which is incomprehensible to his heightened sensibilities.
Sadly, this expedition has become a nightmarish combination of all of the aforementioned inconveniences.
Irving's complete faith in the divine forces beyond human reckoning does not allow him to often use words like 'despair' or 'hopelessness', even if the men around him have lately been dropping dead on a daily basis.
Besides, as he fervently hopes, the miserable life at Terror Camp will soon be a thing of the past.
As he returns from Captain Crozier's final briefing before tomorrow's departure, Irving passes by the pale, shivering men on tonight's watch. They merely nod in his direction, too tired to speak.
Irving would not normally tolerate this level of carelessness without a verbal reprimand, but many things have changed in the past weeks. Even Captain Crozier is not being afforded the proper respect and support that a leader of his rank might usually have. The captain has grown gaunt and harrowed, though he is fairly successful in hiding any discomfort.
Irving's own belly is so empty tonight that it is sticking right against his spine. He has kept a biscuit from lunch carefully wrapped away in one of his handkerchiefs, but pecking away at dry bread does not seem to be tricking his stomach into feeling any more fed.
Worse still, Irving knows that the search for wild game will only exhaust him further, the long walk opening up raw blisters and dark bruises. His weakened body seems to be accumulating more of those with every passing day, but they do not worry him as much as the two of his teeth which are becoming slightly loose.
Terror Camp is such an apt name for our current home, Irving thinks dolefully.
The terror of the scurvy eating away at them. The terror of the poisons they are ingesting with each opened Goldner can. The terror from the ice that has not been seen for some time, yet may perhaps still be lurking out of sight to devour hapless sailors.
Irving stops and suddenly shudders.
There is something wrong, he realises.
Wisps of fog are floating lazily among the tents, as if considering who of the sleepers will be infected next: with consumption or a bout of painful coughs or a horrid cold that never really fades away.
Yet the low mist is not what has caught his attention. Somewhere between the flapping of tent coverings in the wind and the low groans from the sick bay, there is an eerie silence. A lack of some background noise which he has grown used to in this sad place.
In any other myriad series of circumstances, Irving would have shaken away the odd feeling and gone off to huddle in his sleeping bag. In any other universe of could-be futures, he would have immediately fallen asleep and woken up feeling ready for a day of exploration.
In this particular fragment of time, Third Lieutenant John Irving slowly blinks.
He sighs.
With a resigned grumble, he forces himself to go check up on the dog.
The possible future shifts and shivers, like a narrow lead breaking through ice.
***
In the corner of the camp where the Newfoundlander is being kept, there should be familiar sounds: low woofs, or the shuffle of paws across cold shale and pebbles. Irving approaches closer, fully expecting the dog come to snuffle at him in hopeful curiosity.
(Poor Neptune isn’t being fed very well of late, either.)
Yet there is nothing inside the hastily erected enclosure, only the lonely whistle of wind. It has been warmer in recent days, but the nights are still dreadfully cold. He doubts that even a dog could be sleeping comfortably in such a wind.
Irving hurries forward and soon sees that the gate has been left unlocked.
'Oh no', he mumbles, quickly moving his lantern down towards the ground. There are faint traces of disturbed stones, as if of light footsteps passing by, yet no deep marks mar the ground.
Irving huffs a small breath of relief. For a split moment, he feared that the animal had been snatched away by something terrible.
Still, the problem remains. It is very important that the mischievous dog be found. He is their only guard whose nose can detect approaching intruders and whose sharp ears are free from the muffling effect of Welsh wigs and woolly scarves.
Irving squints towards the darkness and follows the trail, only a little way into the nearby stony hills. The lights of the camp are still quite close, so the dull fears that have become Irving's constant companions do not turn into sharp dread – yet.
Bits of rock shift beneath him as he climbs. Shadows play ominously against the fog and the frail light of his lamp. He decides that he will call over the guards and order them to look for Neptune in the morning, if he himself should not spot the dratted creature soon. A dog, no matter how useful a creation of God, is not worth risking his own life over.
'Neptune!' He calls out, as cheerily as his dry throat allows. 'Hullo! Are you there?’
There is no sight of the dog, but he does hear something very close to him, as if trying its best not to be heard. His heart skips a beat.
It is not the monster, Irving calms himself: I doubt it would wait so long to attack.
'Do you want food, Neptune?’ Irving ventures. ‘A nice meal for a very good boy? Here, I might have something on me that I was saving up for later…'
Irving opens up a pocket and shifts through it clumsily, until he triumphantly exposes a bit of crumbling biscuit to the night air.
‘It’s a special treat, see? All for you! Come here, boy!’
A brief struggle erupts from the darkness and something leaps to his side.
Irving is nearly knocked over by Neptune, the canine so delighted at the prospect of a snack that he has bodily dragged his handler into plain sight.
Holding the dog’s neck scruff is the thin hand of Cornelius Hickey, who looks as unpleasantly surprised to be spotted by Irving as Irving is of seeing him sneaking about in the dark. Something is glinting in the man’s free hand, but it is quickly shoved into his long coat - almost quickly enough for Irving not to notice what it is.
A knife?
Irving unwittingly takes several steps back, blinking rapidly. He wants to demand answers, but it suddenly strikes him that it is perfectly normal for a crew member to be carrying around a weapon in these hostile surroundings.
Embarrassed at his jittery response, Irving pretends to be adjusting the lamp’s intensity.
'What on earth are you doing at this hour, Mr Hickey?' He mutters in annoyance.
Why is it always the same men who are a source of trouble?
There is a briefest of silences, broken by the moist sounds of Neptune happily wolfing down the surprise gift of biscuit.
'Taking the dog out for a walk', the caulker's mate replies evenly, licking his dry lips. His hand reluctantly leaves the animal’s neck.
'Out here? In the night?'
Neptune waddles around them in a circle, whining for more biscuits.
'Oh yes. You see, I went out to take a shi-… to relieve myself, if you'll pardon me saying, Lieutenant. I was heading right back to my tent, right back to it, when I noticed our poor Neptune looking all alone in his cage. Thought he might like a bit of freedom.'
'That is very kind of you, Mr Hickey', Irving grumbles in faint disbelief, ignoring the man’s crassness. He was never aware of Hickey liking the ship’s dog all that much.
‘It just ain't right’, Hickey shrugs modestly, ‘Keeping a big dog cooped up like that with no exercise.'
'You are aware that we are leaving tomorrow?' Irving asks, without any trace of irony.
Many of the men have been showing signs of deteriorating reasoning capabilities and impaired memory. It is just another element of their exhaustion and worsened physical conditions.
‘Of course, sir. The hunting party.’ Hickey smiles broadly. ‘Honoured to be part of it, sir.’
'Exactly’, the lieutenant nods. ‘So there will be others left to, to, to go play with the dog.’
Irving always feels strangely flushed and self-aware around the caulker’s mate - and hates himself for it. There is no reason to allow the man’s behaviour to get under his skin. Hickey is after all only a petty officer (and an unsuccessful agitator to boot).
Irving pets Neptune’s head distractedly.
Hickey continues to smile distractingly.
'Well, I want you looking alert and lively tomorrow morning,’ Irving says finally. ‘Not falling asleep on your legs. Go get some rest.'
'Don't you worry yourself over me, Lieutenant. I don't seem to need much sleep.'
I’ll bet you do not, Irving thinks. Too busy instigating trouble for the rest of us, I’ll warrant.
'You should tell that to Dr Goodsir', Irving says aloud. ‘He might be able to help.’
‘Oh, why bother the good doctor? He has his hands full enough as it is, with worse cases than mine.’
‘That is true enough’, Irving sighs. He tries to think of some other advice he might impart.
Irving feels that every man serving in the Queen’s Navy is owed the wisdom of his superior officer in times of hardship: even lowly sorts of men, like Hickey, who seem tragically disinclined to work towards their own betterment.
‘Sheep’, he suggests helpfully.
He is rewarded with a confused and slightly alarmed look. Perhaps Hickey now thinks it is Irving who is losing his mind to scurvy.
‘You may try to imagine some dull pastoral activity, such as a flock of sheep leaping over a fence one by one. It should lull you to sleep’, Irving explains patiently.
He adds (hopefully, but without any real expectations): ‘I also find that repeating a favourite prayer helps to greatly calm my thoughts.’
‘I’ll be sure to try that, sir’, Hickey coughs, almost as if suppressing a laugh.
Irving feels his ears growing hot. Sometimes he thinks that none of the men appreciate the discreet work he tries to do for the benefit of their souls.
‘Will you be heading along back to camp now, sir?’ The smaller man asks as he approaches closer to Irving and scratches a little too roughly at Neptune’s back.
‘I should think so!’
‘Good. I can find my own way back. The fresh air seems to be agreeing with me.’
‘I don’t think it can compare to the agreeable warmth of a tent, Mr Hickey. It’s cold enough outside to freeze canned soup.’
Hickey shakes his head.
‘Those tents are all wet and nasty. The whole camp smells sick. I’ll sleep more nicely after a little walk with the dog. I promise to put Neptune back into his pen afterwards and all. Agreed?’
Irving does not agree. He hardly wants Hickey sneaking away somewhere, perhaps to meet up with fellow malcontents and conspire out of earshot from loyal crew members.
It is true he has not been doing anything suspicious tonight – at least, Irving thinks not – but Captain Crozier doesn’t trust the caulker’s mate, either, and that is reason enough for Irving to stay in his lofty position of perpetual mistrust towards the little man.
‘We will walk back together’, Irving stiffly replies. ‘Right now.’
He slowly trots back down the hill, his lantern bobbing in front of him. The dog leaps around, sliding down rocks and lolling his tongue enthusiastically. They both keep a bit of distance from the petty officer, who is following behind with sullen disappointment etched into his every feature.
Irving supposes it is because he has cut Hickey’s impromptu ‘shore leave’ a little short. He doesn’t understand the ill mood: it isn’t as if he has bodily dragged Hickey out from a full pub on a Saturday night. There’s nowhere to go, out here: just piles and piles of moonlit rocks.
‘You can get enough fresh air by the time we are back, if that’s what you wanted’, Irving tells him with certainty. He demonstrates.
‘Just take long breaths - through your nose, like this, that is very important. You must keep your throat clear of any night air. Everyone knows that is the fastest way to catch an illness of the lungs.’
Hickey shoots him a look of pure venom, which the lieutenant elects to ignore.
‘Go on then!’ Irving encourages.
Hickey’s jawline tightens in stubborn refusal.
‘Go on! It’s for your own good, you know!’
With an expression bordering on mutiny, Hickey swallows his pride and inhales loudly.
Under the watchful eye of his superior officer, he exhales in an equally exaggerated manner. His nostrils expand and contract quickly, making the tip of his long nose wobble. He looks more like a ship’s rat than ever before.
‘Well done! You may carry on just like that’, Irving praises. It is a pleasant surprise to have his good advice applied, for once at least. It gives him some measure of hope for tomorrow’s co-operation.
Hickey does not reply at all, sounding like a faulty locomotive as he pushes his thin frame past Neptune and takes the lead downhill.
Irving has to hurry the rest of the distance to the familiarity of the camp, not wanting to be left behind in the darkness. He does not quite appreciate the way that Hickey keeps glancing back at him, either, especially when he is breathing so aggressively.
The dog, blissfully unaware of any tension, skips and hops merrily between the two men.
This is the most fun Neptune has had in weeks.
***
As he tries to sleep that night, Irving feels – out of some frightful knowledge, deeply set into his chilled bones – that tomorrow will be a day of great changes for his life.
They will either find food or they will doom everyone to a slow decay brought on by starvation.
He has been given a great responsibility by the captain. It is a sign of trust. Irving only wishes he didn’t have to take Hickey along with his group, but he understands the decision. It is far better to occupy the caulker’s mate with something useful, far away from the camp, instead of allowing his bad influence to spread like rot among crew members.
Irving twists unhappily under the covers of his sleeping bag, pondering on every uncertainty or danger that the hunt may bring, until his hand touches the small Bible which he always keeps near his sleeping spot.
On a childish whim, he buries it under his many shirts and close to his heart. The Holy Book’s thin paper leaves are damp and they cling to his skin uncomfortably.
Yet it is the one source of true comfort he has left in this cold world.
Irving prays and prays, slowly breathes in and slowly breathes out, but he does not find sleep until it is almost dawn.