Chapter Text
It was only after the worst of Carnivale had passed that Francis noticed something very strange kept occurring.
Granted, the entire bloody expedition had been full of strange occurrences, even as far back as Beechey Island when Sir John was terrified they’d all got scurvy, yet they were practically drowning in lime water. But this was an occurrence so minor that it had taken Francis ages to see it, and weighed heavy on his mind the moment it registered.
James still referred to him by his full title, and no more.
Francis did not think the man had always been so particular about rank, but perhaps the Erebus Captain was attempting to boost the men’s morale. With their first expedition commander tragically cut down by a mythic bear-beast, and the second barely recovered from Arctic malaria, or whatever story Edward and James had passed around, perhaps it was a belabored point to the remaining crew. Here is your true leader, hale and alert, ready to guide you through the polar night and onto Fort Resolute. Closing ranks whilst there was still time to generate decent feelings. Keeping the men’s heads focused on their work, as if nothing were amiss.
This was all well done, Francis decided, as he watched the other officers exit the latest all-hands meeting, and saw James bid each a thoughtful goodnight in turn. We’ll not repeat the stupid mistakes John Ross made on the march to Fury Beach. Or be stabbed in the back with an ice-axe due to lingering resentments between the officers and the seamen.
Little was the last to exit tonight, scrawling down one last notation on a scrap of paper as he and James conversed, which he then deposited into his pocket. James favored him with a tired, if very small smile, and put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder before he departed.
“Thank you, Edward.”
Well, I suppose it is my turn.
Francis stood, and stretched, and tried to budge the stiffness from his voice as he rounded the table. “Seems you two have got on well since my recovery.”
James pushed hair away from his face as he shifted in his seat. “Well. It is really no matter, you know. Until you were ill, the majority of the Terrors and I had little chance to interact.”
“I suppose they shall be glad to get back to routes at long last.”
As will you. You must be exhausted.
“Yes,” said James, with no hint that he had gleaned Francis’s true meaning, simply flat resignation. “You are probably right.”
“Are you turning in, then?” They’d spent weeks fussing over Francis’s health – for good reason – but now it seemed as if James was the one in dire need of rest. He seemed quite altered by the strain of command, perhaps even ill. “There is much that can wait till the morning, should you require a respite from your duties.”
Hearing this, James sat up immediately, as if he had just that moment regained a second wind. And even worse, he gave Francis the sort of false, hideous smile that he wore often at the beginning of their voyage.
“No, no. I shall likely be awake for several hours yet. Do you require anything in particular, sir?”
Francis felt the cheer slide from his own face as abruptly as if a pitcher of ice melt had been poured over his head. “No. I do not.”
“Ah.” James sat back in his chair slightly, though he did not relax even a whit. “Well, please send word if that should change. I am always at the ready, should you need me.”
They blinked at each other for a long few seconds before Francis grew weary of the stilted silence.
“I will – bid you goodnight, then,” he offered.
“It is getting late, yes,” said James, and stood up to his full height, buttoning his jacket before ringing the bell for Bridgens. “Goodnight, Captain. Travel well.”
Puzzled by such brusque manners, Francis barely managed to stutter out a goodnight before Bridgens packed him off to the Great Cabin, where his vaguely-dry slops now awaited him by the brazier.
It was in this whirligig period of idle chatter – as Bridgens good-naturedly rambled on about the latest books he had read, gave his best to Jopson and the other stewards, and ensured Francis and the other Terrors were well fed and warm before they all set off – before Francis truly realized what had irked him.
James was not merely altered from exhaustion. He now acted cold toward Francis, even distant.
Worse, he seemed to be treating Francis the way Francis used to treat Sir John, with that mixture of begrudging respect and duty – yet ultimately distaste.
Why should James’ estimation of him have changed so quickly? What could possibly have happened?
##
He would've asked Tom Blanky, if the Yorkshireman was not still in Erebus's sickbay and busy with much more important things, like learning how to walk on his newly-made leg. And so Francis turned to the only other person on this voyage he trusted completely.
“Jopson, did Captain Fitzjames visit while I was ill?”
Appearing tired, but still in decent enough spirits as he set down Francis’s dinner tray, Jopson pursed his mouth in thought for several seconds before he finally spoke. “Came over to talk to Edw – I mean, Little – with regularity. Spent some time in the officer’s mess, in the Great Cabin. Keeping up appearances and all that.”
“Course.”
“I suppose he could have visited you at some point once the worst had passed. Though I don’t remember a particular occasion. Why?”
“No reason. Just – trying to whittle out the latest,” said Francis, with as much good cheer as he could muster, though this response was not one he wanted to hear. “Or at least anything you’ve heard.”
“Oh, you know me, sir.” Jopson smiled at him again. “If I heard anything, I’d tell you first.”
Although his helpful demeanor was genuine, Francis noticed the way Thomas’s hands trembled, and how deep and dark the circles still were under his eyes, and felt nothing but sympathy for the lad. He had worked himself to the quick and got very little in return.
“Thomas. What would you say if I gave you the rest of the night off? Or – or perhaps more than that?”
Jopson squawked in an undignified way, nearly spilling water across the table. “But – sir!”
“You have done more than enough for me over the past few weeks.” Francis fixed him with a raised eyebrow that brooked no arguments. “And I'd like to reward you for it in some fashion.”
“Perhaps so, but Captain, I didn’t do it for – ”
“Easy, lad. I know you didn’t.” Even putting a hand to Jopson’s arm did not belay Francis’s worries, though it seemed to mollify the man’s anxiety. “Consider this a way for me to gift something back to you, hm? You could – sit down with Edward and John tonight. Read a bit of that novel that’s been gathering dust. Write a letter to your brother. Surely you could use an added moment on your own.”
“I – if you wish it, I suppose I could take a little time,” sighed Jopson, as if Francis were asking to yank out the remainder of his good teeth and not attempting – in his own way – to help ease the lad’s burden at long last. “At least let me take your tray first. Fetch you some tea or coffee for after dinner.”
When Francis passed by the officer’s mess, not more than three-quarters of an hour later, Jopson was fast asleep at the table with his head down on his arms. Edward and Hodgson, who were in the midst of playing cards, just gave their Captain a wry glance as he passed.
Later, as Francis undressed himself for the first time in ages, and crawled into bed, he reflected on the steward’s dispiriting words.
I suppose he could have visited. But I don’t remember it.
Dispelling the logical theory that Francis had brutally insulted or perhaps even injured James during his long illness.
Damn it.
##
“We shall have to address the matter of personal items, as well.” Francis scrubbed at aching eyes as he turned over the latest papers to his Second. “I’ve allotted each man the space of a half rack, same as they should have aboard. Weight undetermined, for now.”
James’s eyes flicked to his only briefly, and just as quickly returned to the list of provisions. His response was muted indeed. “If you think that is wise, then so it shall be.”
Francis did not appreciate such reticence – and it was unprecedented now, even from a man who had once been said to lick Sir John's boots. “Do you think such a decision is wise?”
James smiled in a very thin, half-hearted way. “It is not my place to comment. I am not the man who shall be pulling those particular sledges.”
“So you believe we should ask them to give up more?” Although he tried not to show it, Francis was ready for an argument at long last. Yes, it would be brutal to ask the men to give up so much of themselves right from the start. But was having them do this after the first few miles not better than the alternative? “Despite the difficulty?”
“As I said, I have not truly formed an opinion on the matter.” Rising, James drained the last of his coffee from his cup. “But please inform me as to your final verdict once you have it, so that both ships may be in accord.”
This was a response so curt and unlike Fitzjames that it caused Francis to put down his papers, and study the man more carefully.
“Are you quite all right this morning?”
You seem… not like yourself.
“Never better, though I thank you for inquiring,” came the immediate answer. “And I should like to be dismissed, if you please. Mister Diggle has promised me a fresh count of all the tinned provisions by three bells, which will be necessary before our work begins in earnest.”
“I – well – yes.” Francis was helpless to countermand such a needful request, even if it puzzled and annoyed him to be spoken to so formally. “Dismiss.”
##
As the days passed, and then a week, and then two, James’s icy demeanor showed no signs of thawing. Francis sought in vain to tally the number of times he had been rude to his Second within the man’s hearing. Perhaps he was nursing an old wound, then, and not one fresh within memory.
Sadly, there were far too many examples of past rudeness to name; by the time Francis had racked up enough instances of vocal disrespect to put the ships in Baffin Bay, each insult and snide remark blurred together in a whirl of jealousy and whiskey and ill-concealed rage.
Damn it again.
At this rate, he’d be better off trying to count every drop of water in the ocean.
Pacing the Great Cabin, he racked his mind for any possible reason for this sea change. Of course he had behaved abominably toward James in the beginning. He had spoken ill of him to anyone who might listen. But surely ill words alone would not prompt such a steep reversal of accord? James had to have known about much of that folly already.
Whatever the reason, it was beginning to eat at Francis’s mind, particularly when contrasted with James’s behavior toward the other officers.
Francis even came early to the next meeting in hopes of catching James alone, but instead found the Erebus Captain conversing fully with Irving, of all people – Irving, who had once waxed rhapsodic about watercolors to the full company of officers for ten excruciating minutes . And James now held court with the man as buoyantly as if he were the most interesting person ever to appear in the Arctic!
“Of course I do appreciate the nuances and additional hues brought out by the paints, but it is a bit of a sticky wicket with regards to the drying time, or so it is said.”
And here Irving sat, blithe and moon-eyed and letting James ramble on about bloody paint drying when there were more important questions to be asked. (Why should the timing be important? Which friend is it who told you these facts again? What on earth caused you to develop such fixed opinions on artists’ mediums?)
“That is very true,” enthused Irving. “It does take time.”
In this moment, Francis hated them both, but swallowed every last shred of pride in an attempt not to show it, and to seem friendly.
“Good morning.”
“Morning, sir.”
“Captain Crozier,” was all James said, glancing over as if Francis’s arrival were no more interesting than the arrival of a ship’s boy to Divine Service. “You’re rather early today.”
“Yes. I, er, rose earlier than usual. No point in delaying.”
He was trying not to appear too eager, but apparently this had been misconstrued for reticence, as Irving glanced between them, seemed not to notice the awkwardness which had now settled in the air, and happily carried on talking.
“Such a blessed time for reflection. I often use the hour to compose devotional portraits.”
Unable to growl out the sort of remark that once came easy to his lips as a foul-tempered drunkard, Francis gave James a silent, helpless look when the lad’s back was turned. Please do not make me listen to a full account of Irving’s god-damned devotional portraits.
Fitzjames did not even react to this obvious plea for help. It was as if Francis himself was not in the room. Instead, the man’s gaze slid back to Irving, and he turned his full attention on the man, steepling his hands together in front of him as if amateurish religious art had suddenly become the most interesting topic in the bloody world.
“How very inspired. Tell me, Lieutenant, what have you composed most recently?”
Damn him.
As Irving talked, Francis went to his usual place at the other end of the table, piled his gloves in front of him, and tried to pretend there was something very important amid the charts that needed studying.
He would not look over at Fitzjames right now. He would not, because their conversation did not include him, and it would not due to appear overeager. If he felt personally slighted by such treatment, so be it. Feeling slighted was for boys, not a goddamned Navy man. And there was not time to dwell on such idiocies, anyway.
If his Second no longer wished to converse with his Captain apart from professional matters, then that would be the way of it.
##
No. He wasn’t going to bloody fucking accept this lying down.
Perhaps James now hated him because he had so strained everyone’s time and resources. Had taken the man for granted. Even the most sympathetic and productive person might develop a grudge after being overworked for so many weeks. Or months. Years, really. In truth, his Second had carried the bulk of this expedition alone for too long.
Arriving on Erebus perhaps an hour after the supper bell, Francis found the Great Cabin empty, which was ideal. Next, he made his way to his true destination – the officers’ quarters – in search of a specific person.
“Captain Crozier.” At the small round table in one corner, halfway through his portion of hot biscuits, Le Vesconte appeared stunned to see their leader in the officers’ compartments, and immediately sat up from his vaguely slumped position. “What brings you to the flagship this evening?”
“Well, I, ah, had some pressing duties aboard. Thought I ought to drop in, say hello to the wardroom.”
Le Vesconte’s voice did not betray skepticism at this excuse, but the slight downward twitch of his whiskered mouth did. “Oh, I see. Well.”
Francis could not fault him for being so surprised. They’d perhaps had one other conversation that did not involve the running of the ships, and it had involved he and Blanky – however briefly – trying to convince a clueless Fitzjames that there were penguins in the Arctic. It had not gone well. “How – how fares the work today?”
“Fine enough.” The man put down the remainder of his biscuit, swiped his hands across his trousers. “Fitzjames, Des Voeux and I completed the last of Erebus ’s inventories, and now we merely wait for confirmation from Fowler as to the profits and losses.”
“Yes,” said Francis. “Lieutenants Little and Irving await the same from Osmar. I am told he shall have ours completed within the week.”
“Good, good. Least we are all on the same page.”
“Mm.” Desperate for some small inroad, Francis wet his lips, steeled his courage. “I would also speak with you about a separate matter. Concerning – ”
“Is this about Fitzjames, sir?”
Oh.
Francis felt something like relief course through his veins, until Le Vesconte kept speaking.
“He did a fine job as commander in your stead, you know. The men have nearly as much love for him as anyone.”
Although the Lieutenant did not come straight out and speak his mind, it was easy to intuit his true meaning. The men love him more than they do you.
Which was probably an accurate assessment. Francis had never been considered likeable by any stretch of the imagination. And considering how few times he had come to Erebus unless expressly summoned, it was likely even easier for them to esteem one of their own, who lived and breathed and smiled among them.
Even if he did not smile at Francis.
“I do not doubt it.” Francis inclined his head to show that he had seen the flash of the dagger. “Captain Fitzjames has a gift for inspiring camaraderie.”
“Well, it is very decent of you to come all this way to say so,” came a familiar voice from behind him; Francis turned to see James himself entering the cabin, in nothing but his trousers and shirtsleeves. Neatly, he slipped past Francis in order to stand next to Le Vesconte’s chair. “Though I do not believe it is your primary purpose for calling. How may we be of service, Captain Crozier?”
You can stop bloody speaking to me as if I am the most hated person on this ship. You could look me in the eye when you pass by in a small room.
“As I was saying to the Lieutenant, this was merely a social call following some pressing duties. If you will excuse me, I believe I am expected back on Terror within the hour . ”
“Of course,” Fitzjames answered, after a slight pause. “Travel well, then.”
Francis had no answer to this repeated taunt, and so he merely departed without another word.
##
Once aboard Terror, Francis shucked off his slops and hung them on the nearest nail; although he was surprised not to see Genge or Jopson at the ready, it was likely for the best. He was not in the mood for company.
As he walked down the orlop and to the Great Cabin, he noticed the door to the officers’ mess was ajar, and heard two voices within. Little and Jopson.
A lit lamp was visible on the sideboard, and cast a soft glow over the room. Nearby, the two men stood less than a meter apart, staring down at the full collection of dishes and silverware, laid out neatly across the length of the table.
Francis caught the last part of Jopson’s current sentence as he peered in through the slight crack in the door.
“... strange to think we’re leaving it all behind, after three years.”
“Well.” Little scratched at his beard. “Not all of it. Still have to eat and drink, obviously.”
“No. I know what you mean.” Jopson wrapped both arms around his own middle, let out a deep breath. “Just… hard to let go of my own reservations. I keep dwelling on the very worst outcomes. Even in dreams.”
Francis had gone so far as to lift his hand to the door before he realized it was not comradely encouragement they were after; without another word, Edward turned, stepped closer, and cupped Thomas’s face in both hands, drawing one work-worn thumb across the steward’s apple cheek and up to his temple, in a motion so easy it was clear this was not the first time they had sought comfort in each other.
“It’ll be all right, Thomas.”
Jopson closed his eyes. One hand came up to grasp at Little’s wrist. “Edward…”
“It will. You’ll see.” A huff of breath. “Captain will lead us home, won’t he? He knows the terrain better than London itself. You have said so a thousand times.”
“I know.” Jopson did not open his eyes. “I’m still frightened.”
Drawing back before he could be spotted, Francis crept the remaining distance to the Great Cabin and shut the door behind him, now acutely aware why this business with James left him so damned disheartened.
He did not merely desire his Second’s admiration or respect.
No, Francis wanted something far more personal. Understanding – friendship – genuine regard.
Together, he and James alone carried a unique burden: the loss of Sir John, the running of their ships, the livelihood of their remaining company. No man on this expedition could fathom such responsibilities, or know how impossibly isolated it left them in comparison to the other officers.
As Captains, they held over a hundred lives in their hands – men who were counting on their leaders to take them on an impossible journey. Men who would needlessly waste away from scurvy and starvation far before they saw Fort Resolute, let alone the hills and dales of merry old England.
Men who would soon suffer and die for no reason at all. Comrades. Friends. Brothers. Death was heartless and capricious, and would not distinguish between one or the other. It would likely take them all, in the end.
And for whatever reason, James would not even acknowledge the back-breaking weight of such an arduous task. He would not share his reservations nor his candid thoughts with the only other person who might understand that burden.
He offered not so much as a word of sympathy.
Once the company walked out, the two of them would be permanently yoked together amid such horrors. Each Captain would be thus condemned to make the journey without even the bolster of friendship or genuine accord.
Was Francis so vile a man that he did not deserve brotherhood or plainest compassion in their darkest hour?
His eyes stung and his head throbbed, and although there were many duties to attend to, he went into his berth and climbed into the bunk without another word to anyone.
##
“Captain Fitzjames?”
James glanced up, took in John Bridgens’ worried expression, and could hardly contort his face into a pleasant appearance in response, let alone an actual smile. “What is it?”
“Begging your pardon, but you have hardly touched your plate this evening. Are you certain you won’t see Doctor Goodsir?”
Oh. James looked to his left, saw the grey mush on his dinner tray still gleaming under the lights of the Preston Patent Illuminators.
“No. In truth, I am simply not hungry.” He hid his face from view with both hands, ostensibly rubbing detritus from his brow. “Thank you.”
“Sir, you – you must be sure to take care of yourself in these next weeks,” came the soft reply. “Captain Crozier would not want you to – ”
James let out a derisive noise as he snapped his head up to glare at the steward. “Then I suppose the Captain shall have to come and order me to eat my damned portion, won’t he?”
Bridgens did not reply. Christ almighty. James felt shame sink into every pore of his body as he took in the steward’s tense, hesitant posture. As confident as a frightened rabbit.
He groaned out a sigh, averted his gaze. “I’m sorry, Bridgens. That was – badly done.”
The steward let out a breath, relaxed very slightly. “It’s all right, sir.”
“No,” said James dully. “No, it isn’t. I – in truth, I am – very out of sorts tonight. But of course that is no excuse.”
Unlike me, you are a good man, and do not deserve anyone’s hatred. Even if I am a wastrel of a leader, there is no excuse for taking out such frustrations on others. I have only myself to blame for Francis’s disgust. I do not deserve care or attention. I remain unloved and alone no matter how much I might wish otherwise.
“Sir, I could bring you something from the infirmary to help you sleep,” Bridgens offered as he took up the tray. He left the water glass behind. “Would you prefer that to a brandy?”
What would James prefer? He could not say. He might prefer to be face-down in a fire hole with the remainder of Sir John than to face another empty, callous, friendless day in this hellish place. To see the faces of men he had once loved and respected reflecting only disappointment and distaste. To know he had hurt so many others who were not there to stare at him any longer.
“If it shall ease your mind, I will take it.”
“Very well, then,” murmured the steward, and departed at once.
##
With less than a fortnight to go until they planned to abandon ships, Francis had decided on the perfect strategy to unravel this awful mystery.
All right, fine. He was going to walk over and scratch at Fitzjames until the man bloody well shouted at him, or until they struck each other like brawling ship’s boys, or did anything else apart from observe the niceties and button their jackets and pretend nothing had happened.
It was the empty silence he could no longer stand.
So, when he knocked on the door of Erebus’s Great Cabin late that night, having walked over on his own with barely a word to anyone on Terror, and got no answer, he was already rather insensible – enough to barge into the room without having been invited.
In one corner, John Bridgens had just stoked up the brazier; he straightened up so quickly a stray piece of coal fell from the bucket and skittered around the hardwood.
At the table, James sat alone with his head propped on one elbow, with nothing save a full dinner tray and a glass of water. Neither had been touched, although supper had started hours ago. The water was nearly frozen through.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Francis snapped first.
His Second turned, and bolted upright.
“Captain, I – I don’t know what you mean.” James cast a shocked look at him and then at Bridgens. Judging by the horrified gawp on the old steward’s face, and the way he stepped quickly backwards, Bridgens wished to dissolve into the space between the bookshelves and the brazier. “Has something happened on Terror ?”
“No, it bloody well hasn't!” Francis met Bridgens’ gaze head on. “See that we are not disturbed.”
An uneasy gleam came into James’s eyes as the door to the Great Cabin opened and closed, and they were finally alone at last.
Although Francis had rehearsed this conversation in his head many times, he was not exactly sure where to begin now that James stood directly in front of him.
“This is between us,” he said first, and removed his coat. “A personal matter – and I’ll be put off about it no longer.”
James did not bat an eyelash. “I fail to see what you are implying, sir.”
“Of course you bloody well do!” Saying the words aloud, Francis could feel the anger building in his voice, and expanding in his chest. “For god’s sake, man, I am tired of these endless games, and I refuse to spend the last remaining days on our ships locked in some – idiot feud!”
“Rest assured I am not feuding with you, Captain.” Very slowly, James put up his hands, as if surrendering. “Merely showing you the deference you are deserved, as befits your rank.”
“Well – stop it!”
“What?”
“Stop – treating me like I’m Sir John Franklin! Stop speaking to me like we are bloody strangers in the middle of the street!”
James did a double-take. “Good Christ. Are you gone mad?”
“If I am, it is because you have driven me to it!” On impulse, Francis kicked at a chair, and remained unsatisfied when all it did was scoot a few centimeters across the frozen floor. “Tell me the truth. Why do you persist in such coldness?”
James’s hands trembled, though still he straightened his spine as he folded them behind his back. “My behavior reflects no coldness, sir. As your Second, I am honor-bound to assist in all matters, and to – to ensure – ”
“Stop speaking to me as my goddamned Second! I do not need a goddamned commissioned officer to read me the fucking ship’s manifest!” Francis spat. In a fit of pique, he took one of James’s empty teacups from the nearby set and smashed it against the hardwood, causing James to startle visibly. “Look at me!”
Fitzjames did, though he swallowed hard once they locked eyes. He had the wild, anxious look of a maltreated animal. “Have you been drinking?”
Francis recoiled. “No, goddamn you! There’s no buggering whiskey left to drink – ”
“We still have gin. Brandy. Even vodka – ”
“And I’d sooner put a bullet through my fucking temple than become a stinking gin-drunk like my fucking father!”
“You – ” and Fitzjames’s eyes flashed with renewed fear. “Clearly I have overstepped. For that I am sorry.”
“I don’t want your damned apologies!” Next, Francis picked up the saucer, and tossed it into the wall, where it ricocheted in pieces around the brazier and the bookshelf. “Christ almighty – I want you to look me directly in the eyes and tell me why you have done this. I want you to list, in the starkest detail, any crimes I may have ever committed against your person so that I do not spend what’s left of my miserable brutish life atoning for such petty bloody slights!”
During this tirade, Fitzjames had gone deathly pale; his breath now echoed through the room in shallow little gasps. He spake not a word to refute the charges leveled at him.
“And whilst I’ve still got breath in my lungs, I demand you tell me why – why – in our absolute lowest hour, with more of our men dying around us every day – you continue to persist in this abominable cruelty! For god’s sake, you do not even call me by my name. You hardly even look at me, let alone talk with me, and when you do it is as if I am made of stone. I am not made of stone, goddamn it!”
Although he still stood tall, Fitzjames’s body now shook visibly. “I know that. I do.”
“Then speak to me, man!” Francis pushed gloved hands through his hair in an attempt to keep from clenching them into fists. “If you require it, I will beseech you. I will implore you. If you have ever respected me in e’en the slightest, tell me what offense I have committed to merit this – unceasing loathing.”
His Second’s reply was so swift the words ran together in places, as if James could hardly gut them all out at once.
“You said I was too familiar.”
“What?”
“It was an order – that I was not to use your name un – unless – ”
“When did I ever fucking order that? ” Francis did not realise he was on the verge of tears till the first one had sluiced a heated path down his cheek. His voice dwindled to a whisper. “Jesus Christ, do you not – I have been so unbearably lonely, James.” He had to avert his gaze for a moment to gain a thread of control. “Tell me you have seen that much, because if you have not, I shall truly go mad.”
“Lonely?” James repeated in a floored whisper, as if this was beyond comprehension.
More tears pricked in Francis’s eyes. Oh, god – to be utterly unknown stung him to the quick. It was so much worse than merely being ignored.
“Am I even a man to you?” He took a shuddering breath; his voice hitched over the words. “Because – ” he felt like a child, a stupid idiot child mewling about some schoolyard tussle “ – tiresome I may be, and withdrawn, and not – not particularly interesting, now that I abstain from drink, but I do – have feelings.” He clenched his jaw to stay composed, and hated himself. “And you do not care. You have wounded me to the core, and you do not care. ”
Fitzjames flinched as hard as if he had been physically struck, and sank back into his seat, now gripping the back of the chair like a lifeline.
“Well?” demanded Francis. “Why should you hate me? What have I done?”
Caught up in his own overwhelming fury, Francis expected James to come back with some instant, biting retort – the same way their fights always played out. Usually, Francis said something ill-considered in the heat of anger, then James made him regret it, and they moved on from such follies.
But instead – instead! – when he glanced up at Francis, the Erebus Captain’s expression crumpled like a ball of wet parchment. Pressing his face into his forearms and rocking forward in his seat, he let out a deep, wordless cry; the sound was so sharp and strangled it made all the hairs on the back of Francis’s neck stand on end. This raw, awful yawp, like the last howl of a dying dog, increased in pitch the longer it went on, till Francis was afraid the man had actually injured himself in the space of the last several seconds.
“James?”
Still hunched over, James’s open-mouthed wail finally broke upon the rocks: he began to sob so deeply Francis worried he might stop breathing entirely – first attempting to muffle the harsh cries in his sleeves, then giving up all sense of propriety and slumping to one side against the table, arms and legs akimbo, pressing his forehead against the table’s edge.
This violent torrent of tears ran so fierce Francis could see little drops of saltwater speckling James’s boots and the floor beneath his chair, could see wet strings of snot and saliva hanging past James’s nose and chin and cheeks as he was wracked by great gasping sobs.
“Oh, no.” Horrified, Francis moved forward, sat down in the chair next to him, placing first one arm around the man’s shaking shoulders, then two, desperate to calm him. “No, no, no. Please don’t – I did not want you to – ”
His Second clung to him like a man half-drowned, wordlessly weeping in his embrace for several minutes before pulling back with another wretched cry.
“I’m a – a f - fucking fool.”
This was all he said before collapsing back into Francis’s arms, crying all the harder. Sitting with him, stroking his hair and his shoulders and vainly trying to ease the man’s agony, Francis felt the rage and embarrassment of the last few weeks slowly wither on the vine, as a wellspring of silent tears coursed freely down his own cheeks.
“‘’M – s – sorry,” James finally gasped, and lifted his head. “Only I – ” a wet, agonized noise, “ – thought you h - hated me.”
Francis’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“‘Cos ‘m a disgrace. Slaughtered g - good men, f - failed in my duties – of c - course I n - never de – deserved frien’ship – ” James pitched forward into Francis’s shoulder with another muffled howl. “Should jus’ die like th’mongrel I am.”
“Don’t you – dare – say that. It is not true!”
“‘M not fit t’be here,” James wept, pressing his hands to his face with another sob. “God damn it, ‘m – ” he choked on the words, “ – a fucking fraud. ”
“Bleeding Christ. Hang on. You – you have been distancing yourself all this time? Because you think me angry? Because you believe yourself hated? Jesus fucking Mary and bloody fucking Joseph.” He let out a growl, unable to summon up any more furor, only the deepest pity. “We’re both fools, then.”
Although he was still crying, James’s head snapped up in shock. “What?”
On an impulse, Francis seized him by both shoulders, so that the Erebus Captain would have to meet his gaze. This done, he stared straight into James’s bloodshot eyes, registering all in starkest detail: his puffy face, the blotches of red which marred his cheeks and nose and chin, the sheen of water and snot left behind by the tears, as well as his still-quivering lip.
“James, I – in past, I have been jealous, and scorned you from our earliest acquaintance, but I do not hate you.” Francis took a deep breath. “Though your ebullience and your luck has always astounded me, in truth you are a fine and brilliant man. And a fine Second. I challenge the whole of the Admiralty to find even one better.”
“Francis,” James said thickly, as if preparing to interrupt.
Hearing his Christian name on his Second’s lips sent a rush of warm feeling into Francis’s stomach, and he squeezed the man’s shoulders all the tighter.
“Please wait. Even if you believe you have needlessly cost men their lives – I tell you that you have proven your worth in this place a thousand times over. While I abandoned my duties, you rose to the occasion. You were the leader our men needed in a desperate hour. You strove to make sure they were safe, and well-fed, and happy. And you alone are not responsible for our losses. Not David Young, not Graham, not Sir John, nor anyone else. Do you understand me?”
James was still weeping, but not as fiercely as before. “But I – ”
“And I’ll not have you demean yourself any longer. Because you, James Fitzjames – ”
“‘S not even my real name,” whispered his Second in an agonized rasp, drawing one hand back up to his face.
Francis stopped talking, limbs stiffening in shock.
“‘M a bastard, Francis.” A sniff; he choked back a great gob of snot. “No more English than you are. Just the – unwanted product of a tawdry affair.”
He squeezed his eyes closed, but went on in a tremulous voice.
“My father – was a ridiculous man. Consul general in Brasil. Ruined himself with debts – with wealthy Portuguese women – of which my mother must have been one. His cousins found people to raise me. I was never told more.
Nothing awaits me on our return. Coningham, my actual father for all intents and purposes, is dead. William and Elizabeth have their own family by now. I mean, I have no one else in the world, Francis. Why else do you think I was so desperate to come here? To prove myself worthy?”
“I’ve – no idea,” whispered Francis. “James, I didn’t know any of that.”
“Yes, well.” A tremulous sniff. “You can’t possibly want to hear any more.”
“Tell me anything. Much as you want.”
James flashed him a skeptical frown.
“Please,” entreated Francis, and squeezed James’s shoulders again. “Please speak to me, brother. Do not force me to witness such deep grief from a distance. I could not bear it.”
Slowly, after several seconds, James nodded his assent, and leaned into Francis’s shoulder before wrapping his arms tight around his upper back.
Francis returned this embrace; they sat unmoving for minutes more, until Francis realized that the shoulder of his jacket was fully soaked through with tears. Ice would form there if they were not careful.
And then, blindly, he fumbled for James’s hand, pulled him to his feet. “Come here.”