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Lieutenant Hodgson found his way back to the camp, a month after his disappearing. He spoke of nothing what he had done and what he had seen, and whom has he been with. But given that he was not starving, and that he had on him precisely what he had on the day of Hickey"s hanging, only more ragged, it"s been presumed that he had been with the mutineers — not alone, not with the natives.
He was asked many questions, by Captain Crozier and by Lieutenant Little. He answered none of them. But he was not dumb, he was not in shock; his countenance betrayed sanity. His own words betrayed sanity, when he asked Little how has Jopson been faring as a lieutenant.
Lieutenant Hodgson has been put to court-martial.
He had said in his defence that he was treated as a hostage among the mutineers. He said nothing when asked about Hickey"s past, present and future proceedings. He said nothing when asked what did he eat.
One man"s merciful intervention spared him from condemnation — that was Lieutenant Le Vesconte. "George is not well," he said, "it is clear that he were mistreated there — he is too terrified to speak."
Hodgson nodded.
Crozier pronounced that the prodigal lieutenant will be stripped of his rank if he does not speak within two days. In his voice lay a promise of worse punishment.
Lieutenant Le Vesconte took Hodgson to his own tent. After the death of Captain Fitzjames he"d been lonely — he"d been lonely even when the captain was alive; he"d been lonely ever since the bloody scurvy claimed all the bodies and cocks of men.
He had little hope that Lieutenant Hodgson fared better, seeing his state — he was thinking of something different entirely here, an activity more French in its nature, an activity the more English of the Englishmen would perhaps object to as unnatural and demeaning — he wanted Lieutenant Hodgson to kiss his other mouth, and with tongue.
"George," he said. "I want something in return."
"Anything, Dundy."
No one but Captain Fitzjames had called him Dundy, and Hodgson was not a close acquaintance enough for such familiarity to be warranted.
"Are you a sodomite?"
Hodgson took a moment to hesitate. "No."
Le Vesconte nodded. "You prefer the ladies, then?"
"I can sodomise the ladies."
Men could sodomise him. Perhaps they did, in Hickey"s camp, if any of their male organs there functioned.
"Can you sodomise?"
"No. Not now. Not anymore."
Le Vesconte nodded sympathetically.
"And you?"
"Close the tent now."
Hodgson did.
"Dundy?"
Le Vesconte took off his boots, undid his suspenders and removed his trousers, then his drawers.
Le Vesconte"s cock was so small that it barely deserved the name of a cock — it was not a cock. It was more of a sizable clitoris, Hodgson realised, being well versed the in the matters of anatomy and other sciences.
There were no testicles, and as he observed further — Le Vesconte sat down on a sleeping bag and spread his legs — an entire female pudendum. Hodgson stared at that as if charmed.
"Unexpected, is it?"
Its lips were dainty, beautifully formed. They used to be pink but hardly anymore — closer to brownish-purplish presently — both unwashedness and sickly discoloration made it so. Unhealing scurvy bruises marred Le Vesconte"s inner thighs.
"She must have been beautiful," said Hodgson.
"Kiss her," said Le Vesconte.
Hodgson kneeled between Le Vesconte"s thighs. Le Vesconte was wearing stockings still, and putrid blood leaked through them around the toes; particularly those on his left foot which had been amputated. The reason why Le Vesconte kept them on was that he feared what he may uncover.
The follicles of his pubic hair bled also. And similarly to how between his long sideburns grew out a shorted beard, the lower thicket also bore signs of its old grooming. Its exact fashion was impossible to recognise now — but earlier on his mons pubis there was an artful shape of a heart. A steward used to trim it for him — now that steward (whose name was Dickie Aylmore) died of scurvy just ereyesterday.
The smell was that of stale sweat and piss, blood, both scorbutic and menstrual, scorbutic-menstrual both, for the scurvy had made his menstruation worse in each of its aspects, of unwashed cunt, of unwashed arse, of unwashed penis as well though he did not possess one.
It used to be beautiful once, kempt and rosy and perfumed; labia so delicate they were near translucent; wet, soft, ticklish. Captain Fitzjames"s favourite plaything.
Hodgson cringed at its reek, and equally did he pity it and the man whose it was a part of. But he had eaten worse.
He kissed the cunt"s lips. Le Vesconte shivered. His clitoris twitched, tumesced the littlest amount. Hodgson"s tongue parted the fleshly petals which were gummed together with blood, urine and vaginal secretions. Le Vesconte was not menstruating now, or the period was presently finishing; but he had no occasion to wash himself after the bleeding ceased.
Hodgson"s had worse in his mouth in the mutineers" camp.
He kissed the lips as if it were a girl"s mouth, softly and then with growing passion. His tongue made a tentative sally into the vagina, then he sucked on the clitoris. The vagina tasted of gleet and spoiled blood, and the clitoris tasted like an unwashed penis, with a savour of smegma under its skin.
Lieutenant Hodgson was undaunted by either, too desperate to be protected and to remain alive to be repulsed. And he had been fed worse in the mutineers" camp.
Le Vesconte put his hand in Hodgson"s wispy hair but did not direct him; Hodgson himself chose to concentrate his efforts on his peer"s vagina. He fucked Le Vesconte with his tongue. The vagina was tight, though not elastic; after an initial breach it remained widened. Hodgson proceeded slowly, somewhat jerkily; the foulness did impede his willingness and thus his tempo. In and out, he lapped with his tongue, in and out, like a dog drinking milk.
Le Vesconte bent in two, whimpered — in pain — and clutched the blanket he was sitting on.
That was not the pain and pleasure mode of pain. It was as if his pènillierè (cock-holder) was not and had never been an organ of pleasure — as if it were an open wound.
It was not as the pain of rape — Le Vesconte knew the pain for rape for the reason that he had been raped before; and once by his beloved James Fitzjames, which occurred somewhat by accident: Le Vesconte was drunk then and he laughed as he protested, and Fitzjames could not recognise that for genuine resistance; and that was as regular intercourse, but unwanted, then setting like a dark sticky fog over his mind and impossible to ventilate. Fitzjames apologised the next day, and gave him flowers, and indulged him. The fog did not lift; it would not lift for years.
What he made Hodgson do to him presently was not that. The pain was entirely physical, not psychological.
He moaned, cursed, shuddered, whispered: "Oh please stop" (gasping) "it hurts." Whether Hodgson recognised Le Vesconte"s agony or took its expressions for those of normal carnal transport, was ambiguous to him then. He still had his hand on Hodgson"s head. Hodgson"s whole tongue made its way into him soon; "Oh my fucking God," he cried out, only then releasing Hodgson"s hair.
Hodgson paused for a second, looked up at Le Vesconte. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, first frolicsomely, then, seeing the other"s dolorous countenance, repeated seriously.
"Don"t pause that, Lieutenant Hodgson."
He still hoped that the man will wring a drop of pleasure out of him. Five more minutes of that. The pangs tantalised him; sometimes he felt that a pleasure awaited just behind a somewhat faster licking or a touch harder sucking; and he could near feel it under the pain; but only when the pain became too great to handle. He could not take more. He faked an orgasmic spasm, orgasmic moan, orgasmic squirt of piss.
Hodgson pulled away to avoid the stream — though he had worse in the mutineers" camp.
His pretty thing was now cleaner than it had been in months. Soon, after that vigorous exercise, it would cover with scorbutic bruises. He touched it, rubbed it. It ached worse upon contact.
Hodgson looked at Le Vesconte ambiguously.
"Do you want your cock sucked now, in turn?" Le Vesconte said, dourly.
"Thank you — I appreciate that, Dundy — but my thing doesn"t feel anything anymore. It hurts when touched. I envy you, that you still feel, and can come."
"What did you eat in Hickey"s camp?"
"Worse, Dundy, much worse."
"People?"
Hodgson nodded, shrugged. People was not the worst.