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There was so much death around now, at times Hodgson thought he might choke on it; the Arctic air, so pure and cold, had become corrupt and sickly with the stench. It clung to him, wormed its way into the boiled wool of his coat along with the carnivale fire, settled itself under his layers of cotton beside his breast. In their long shadows, it dogged their steps more than the grim Bear, an insidious, gentle threat. Many philosophers had talked of death as an inescapable goal – of should it be gaol – but Hodgson had never understood it as well as now, not in the China wars, not in his boarding assaults, when men bled out on slick decks with their intestines hanging from their skins like split sausages.
Yet, there was a horror that grew inside to monstrous proportions, bigger, worse than he had yet experienced, as he ran up the grey rise, Hickey’s words whispering in his ear.
“Sir, the Eskis, they killed Lieutenant Irving and Mr. Farr!”
No, no, no. He didn’t want to believe Hickey – the man was a snake, had proven himself that when he’d cornered Hodgson in the tent. And cornered he had been, with Tozer against the tent-flap, his unsubtle hand gripping the block of his rifle, Hickey with his knife that was waved both carelessly and infinitely threateningly. As he’s spoken, Hodgson had felt the disbelief rise up in him, and the terror. He’d known mutinies, had been aboard with the stirrings of them, had heard of those ships given over entirely. The trundling of shot upon the gun deck, the lynching of officers from the yardarms. He’d felt pinned there, between the two men who poured treason into his ears, and then presented him with their meaty offering. Neptune…he’d been a sweet dog, hadn’t treated Hodgson any differently from his fellows, sometimes to his detriment as the dog relieved himself upon his shoes. The raw, butchered meat had looked, in that moment, like Morfin’s brains, splattered upon the rocks, pink and red and black as it congealed. It had shocked him, brought to mind man’s flesh with such stomach-turning immediacy, that his comment had rolled off his tongue without thought; he’d never been good at curbing his instincts. And Hickey had laughed at that, as though Hodgson hadn’t been out there for hours, the smell of Morfin’s rotting cerebral fluids still lingering upon him even then. Hickey might have been more convincing in his words had he not presented Hodgson with his gory ‘gift’ – instead, all it bred in him was contempt for the man.
Now, he hoped his contempt still held true, and that Hickey was lying or mistaken.
It was not to be; he reached the top of the slope too soon, far too soon, and saw the reality of Hickey’s words splayed out before him. Two bodies, each stripped, each red.
Hodgson ran, knowing he was leaving Pocock and Armitage behind, but seeing nothing by Irving’s brown hair coming closer and closer and realising as it did that his head looked wrong. As he came to a stop, pebbles skittering under his feet, the full horror of the scene crashed down upon him like a wave. Irving wasn’t just stabbed – he’d been punctured like a sieve, deep, savage wounds that still trickled slowing blood like stream rills. Worse than that…Hodgson’s eyes tracked down, but couldn’t look upon the injuries that had left behind only mangled lumps of flesh covered in a sheet of darkening scarlet that splattered his thighs. If looking down was grim, looking up was the worst. His scalp…
He’d just been talking to Irving. Less than an hour ago the man had been animated, if tired as they all were, trudging along with his usual solemnity. Hodgson had always wished he would lighten up a little, always suspected that if God hadn’t had such a tight hold on him, he might have been more inclined to laughter and to jokes. They might have been better friends. There would be no more chances to find out.
***
He knew he should tend to Farr but…but he couldn’t draw his gaze away from Irving’s glazed eyes. They were locked onto his, held him as though to some promise Hodgson couldn’t figure out. He and Irving had never been on the same wavelength – it seemed he had rarely been with anyone. From behind him, there was an agitated shift on the rocks.
“Sir! Are we gonna defend ourselves or what?” That was Armitage, and from the corner of his eye Hodgson could see the point of his musket sweeping the horizon.
“What will you do?” Hickey pressed.
He couldn’t think. This was Irving – John – lying before him, mutilated, slaughtered like cattle, flayed and unmade in a way that would have his Christian soul crying out in damnation, Hodgson was sure. How could God have allowed this to happen to his most dedicated son? How had it been Irving who had been ripped open like a missed stitch when it was he who led their Graces, who followed the words of their Divine Service with his eyes screwed shut and practiced words whispering along from his lips?
“Sir!”
What will he do? He has to give an order, but he was weak – everyone knew he was weak; was that why Jopson had been promoted in his absentia? He didn’t begrudge Jopson the position; he was a dedicated young man, smart, analytical, and with only Le Vesconte under Fitzjames, another officer amongst them was always welcome. But it did agitate Hodgson, that he’d been excluded. It felt deliberate, like a public humiliation, like another moment of being deliberately ignored as he’d been the whole expedition. He had to make a decision, now, or the men would never follow anything he said again, he was sure of it.
Still, everything was a muddle in his head. The Lady Silence had never made a move against them like this, even as she’d been kidnapped and held against her will. She’d never been more aggressive than when she’d clutched at Hartnell during her time on Terror. Her father though, the injuries to his mouth-
And hadn’t Little been concerned about it too? What was it he’d said, about their fearing the Esquimauxs’ retribution? About what they might do to people who had wronged them? Little was the cautious one out of all of them, the leader, and Hodgson had always looked up to him for guidance. Crozier even had admitted that he knew nothing about their ways, since he’d never had cause to find out. What did he know, anyway? As their fortunes had declined, year after year in the ice, the man had simply dived into one bottle after another. He’d struck Fitzjames! Little had been more of a Captain than Crozier had been to them.
If the Esquimaux gathered more men, made their way to the camp- god, Hodgson had seen the worst humanity had to offer in battle, from Englishmen, even, and he could not fathom what could be wreaked upon an undefended, idle camp.
He swallowed.
“We need to- we need to stop them.” He said, trying to sound authoritative, but suspecting himself to fall short. Irving’s splayed form still looked at him, as though asking why it was Hodgson who got to walk away from this, and why it was him who would have to be left on the stones as they did so. A slight breeze wafted the stench of putrefying blood into his nostrils, and he fought back the vomit that crawled up the back of his throat, closing his eyes to the tableau before him. What was the last thing Irving had said to him? Truly said to him, that wasn’t an order or planning. Something annoyed, he was sure, it usually was- had been. To his shame, he couldn’t remember, and there was no way to ask. He had to take a sharp breath in as a thickness in his throat threatened to break into a sob. Hodgson scrubbed a gloved hand across his eyes, hoping in vain that the others hadn’t seen it, before grabbing his musket.
He stood and looked out across the grey landscape.
“We follow them.” He said.
The musket felt like ice under his gloves.
***
They spotted the party within ten minutes. The dark forms were silhouetted against the sky and moved slowly, almost languidly. The idleness seemed strange to Hodgson for an attacking party- from his experience, scouts moved quickly, especially if they had killed before, always anticipating an alert from the enemy. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to approach them stealthily, before realising they had no need to keep out of range of firearms. All they had were knives; knives they used to skin and mutilate his friend. His hands gripped tighter on the gun.
Their journey was unimpeded, and at one point, the Esquimaux party seemed to have stopped, having apparently spotted them. How had they seen them so far away? They weren’t fleeing, Hodgson could tell, nor were they moving towards them. They were waiting, watching. Preparing?
It didn’t take long until they were close enough to see the gradient of the fur on their hoods, and here Hodgson hesitated. True to form, he was indecisive as always, worried to put the first ink to parchment for the knowledge that it could never be retracted. Around him, the figures of Pocock, Armitage and Hickey flanked him. The silence swamped them like a sea as neither party moved, its great swells rising and lapping at their shins. He felt the same haring of his heart as he always did before battle, and sought to calm the trembling of his hands.
A sudden movement, the flash of metal from the Esquimaux, a jolt of horrified recognition from Hodgson as he saw a telescope – John’s telescope – and an almost simultaneous shot that exploded from his left. The figure – small, tiny, he realised – fell backwards, and a great cry of shock and pain rang out. Hodgson whipped around to Armitage, who stood there, wide eyed as the pan of his musket spat white smoke.
“I- I thought it was a-an attack-“ He stuttered.
I meant wound them, not kill them! Hodgson wanted to shout, but it was too late.
The grieving wail from the other party was underscored – but not drowned out, it rang in Hodgson’s ear like a bell – by one of alarm, and panic and anger. Another shot, this one from Pocock, took down another Esquimaux, and oh God, it was all going wrong, but Hodgson couldn’t afford to just stand there. One of the figures was crouched over the smaller, fallen one, hands on the chest, one was standing, protective, before them, and two were moving towards Hodgson’s group, shouting something he couldn’t understand. He acted on instinct – a bad one, a good one, he couldn’t know – he made a shot, aiming to wound, but his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t know where it hit; all he knew was that the figure hit the ground, their companion stopping, rushing to them, putting fur-clad hands inside their hood, where the face was.
Like Hodgson had done. Even here, at the ends of the world, he recognised grief.
It made him falter, stumble in his resolve, but another shot from Armitage ended that display of mourning. Now it was just the protector, and the crouched figure, who had thrown themselves across the small body, face buried in their parka. The wailing was like a bosun’s whistle, and the sound pierced Hodgson’s skull. It rattled there, paralysing him, the smell of smoke thick in his nose, stinging his eyes.
“Lieutenant Hodgson!” He felt the gun pulled from his hands and another loaded one thrust in by – was it Hickey? He turned to look to him, only for a cry from Armitage to bring him swinging around again, a shot at the movement-
He missed. The wail was cut off as the crying figure slumped over with a gurgle. Their protector, the one who had been moving, froze. Their face lifted and, for the first time, Hodgson looked upon their face. It was pallid, shocked, tortured, fearful. In the sun, Hodgson could see streaks of tears glinting on their cheeks. The hood swung from one corpse to another, one hesitant step towards the small form – a child, a child, you know it’s a child, George – before they ran.
Hodgson hadn’t moved, his musket raised still, as though he was carved from stone. He watched the figure scatter rocks in their wake, occasionally stumbling in fear, but always moving, moving towards the horizon.
The scrape of metal on metal echoed out as Pocock pulled the ramrod from the gun-barrel, and, placing the stock against his shoulder, sighted down its length, leading the target like a hunted fox. He made the shot, but missed, sending the Esquimaux veering off. The loud retort pulled Hodgson from his trance.
“S-stand down!” He yelled, even as the figure disappeared behind one of the grey ground swells.
Before them, the gory scene spread out, bodies lying akimbo, a snapshot of twigs in a still river. It was a damning council, and before them, Hodgson felt judged, and found himself wanting. Wanting for what, he didn’t know.
“Well done, sir.” Hickey said, and he placed a hand on Hodgson’s arm. It burned like poison, and Hodgson threw him off violently. The man’s words trickled back into his consciousness: ‘Something in the tins is making us weak, and weird.’ If only he could have blamed this disaster on Hickey’s imaginary meat.
“They were savages,” Armitage piped up, “if- if we hadn’t done this, they would have done us.”
Beside him, Pocock nodded.
“Like poor Lieutenant Irving.”
Hodgson couldn’t tell if they were saying that to convince him or themselves. There was an air of doom about them, now, as though they had crossed a line beyond return. Murder, a voice in him whispered, and he shuddered.
This wasn’t what Little would have done.