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It’s not the place of an officer’s steward to be distracted by anything, especially not the crew. They have more pressing responsibilities. If he doesn't have to change them, shave them, or serve them, then frankly, Billy Gibson doesn’t want to be bothered.
However, it soon becomes apparent to anyone paying half a moment’s notice that Mr. Hickey knows fuck-all about ships.
Or the Navy. Or caulking. Or anything tangentially related to the sea. He doesn’t even understand how the sea works. When Terror hits her first patch of rough, and the ship starts tossing like a cat on a coal stove, Hickey goes sheet white, clinging to the bulkheads for dear life.
Gibson finds him halfway up the aft hatch, rucksack slung over his shoulder. He moves like a rat on the rigging, all too-long limbs and grabby fingers, a panicked sort of grace. Yet it’s a landlubber’s grace, the kind meant for solid ground beneath his feet. Here on the waves, there’s no use for it. He’s thoroughly off-balance… proven when the ship roils and he tumbles back, losing his grip on the ladder.
Really, Gibson should’ve let him fall. Serves him right.
“You do realize,” he says, steadying the man on his feet with great care, “she was a warship first?”
Hickey stares at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Terror,” Gibson clarifies, as one would explain complex theology to a two year old. “Built as a bomb vessel during the American wars. She’s seen battle, pack ice, and bigger storms than this. Somehow, she’s still in one piece.” He arches his brows. “This storm won’t kill her, but it’d be glad to finish you if you go up there.”
The ship tosses again; Gibson moves with the swell, never losing his footing. Hickey clings to the ladder just to stay upright, feet scrabbling beneath him. The dim light bleaches him and leaves him hollow, like some lifeless husk you’d find washed up on shore after a gale. Only his eyes dispel the illusion — they are pitch-dark and blazing, a fire that storm overhead would be quick to snuff out.
“I’d rather take my chances,” Hickey grits out.
“Against the ocean?” Gibson tilts his head. “You’re awfully confident in your ability for a man who can’t even find his sea legs, Mr. Hickey.”
Something in Hickey’s face lights up; he’s got laughing eyes, and a mouth made for smiling, even if the smile is not necessarily kind. There’s no reason it should get under Gibson’s skin… except it does, in a way that leaves him burning.
“And you must be very confident in your own self,” Hickey replies, “to trust your fate to the Almighty.”
“I trust it to his Majesty’s Royal Navy,” Gibson deadpans.
Hickey chuckles, a wheezy, dead-leaf crackle. Gibson’s mind hitches on the sound. He wants to play it over and over again, like the hand organ the Lieutenants crank on incessant refrain. In the wardroom, they play chapels hymns and dance hall tunes, but never a song as sweet as Hickey’s laughter.
Gibson has just enough time to think, oh, fucking hell… before a shower of frigid water trickles down through the ceiling. It splashes Gibson’s trousers, spattering Hickey’s shoes. When Gibson looks up, disdain plain on his face, the caulker’s mate has the gall to look amused.
“Where did you learn your trade again, Mr. Hickey?”
“Many places,” Hickey replies immediately. “The wide world is a fine tutor.”
“Not in caulking, it seems.”
“No.” Hickey chuckles again, and Gibson is a dolt for relishing it. “Still learning that one. But believe you me… I’ve plenty of other talents, Mr. Gibson.”
Until that moment, Gibson hadn’t realized Hickey knew his name. He hadn’t known the other man saw him at all — and the warmth which engulfs him, at his name drawled like an oath past Hickey’s hungry lips, is inexplicable. It goes straight to his head. He could lose his wits on Hickey, like swigging coca wine until he can’t see straight… and that makes Hickey a very dangerous man. One Gibson really shouldn’t risk his neck on.
Hickey hoists himself upright against the ladder, eager to escape the new-spring leak. Before he can go, Gibson speaks up, without knowing why.
“It’s steadier aft. The forepeak hold is sound, should you wish to weather the storm there.”
Hickey pauses, and turns with a jaunty step, smile still bright on his face.
“I’ll do that, aye.” And then, in complete earnest — “The forepeak’s… that-a-ways, right?”
He points in the opposite direction.
And for some unholy reason, that’s the moment Billy Gibson falls in love.
“Gibson,” says Jopson, in that eminently patient voice which makes him sound like a spit-polished arse. “He thought the Captain of the Foretop was a wardroom officer. I caught him the other day trying to skim information about the Captain from a very confused Mr. Peglar.”
“Wasn’t even subtle about it,” Armitage adds with a sniff — because he, of all people, is a master of subtlety. “A regular weasel, and he’s got the face of one. Sergeant Tozer says —“
“Yes, Tommy lad, what’s the good Sergeant’s saying of the week?” Gibson would estimate Tozer has one clever thought per month; that’s being generous. All weight and no wit, that one, and for some reason, Armitage drools over it.
The poor bugger in question glares at him. Gibson shrugs, languid and dispassionate, allowing his gaze to drift back to Mr. Hickey. He’s at the far end of the mess hall, practicing knot-tying with the ship’s boys. Practicing, and somehow managing to get his fingers tangled in a cat’s cradle which has both Evans and Young cackling.
“Really,” Jopson drawls. “That’s your man?”
Hickey is muttering curses at his own hands, looking more murderous by the minute.
“If I wanted to be judged, I’d pick up a copy of the Articles,” Gibson deadpans.
“Lend one to Hickey, he’s never read them.”
Hickey manages to free himself from the knot — just for his hand to recoil, smacking him hard in the face. He slinks off amidst the ship’s boys’ cackling, muttering “bloody sailors,” as he goes.
“At the very least,” Jopson muses, “he was dishonest about his qualifications.”
“You can’t prove that,” Gibson shoots back.
Jopson arches a single eyebrow, making his fine-featured face look perfectly punchable. Before Gibson can make the effort, he steps forward, neatly intercepting Hickey before he can vanish sulking into the shadows.
“Mr. Hickey! There's a draft in the mainstern glory hole. Captain wants it seen to immediately.”
Hickey offers a jaunty salute, and marches off with complete confidence to God-only-knows-where.
“What galls me,” says Gibson in his mildest voice, “is your audacity to think you’re any better.”
Armitage flashes a wild-eyed look, like a rabid badger who’s just had his tail pulled. “Excuse you,” he snaps. “Sergeant Tozer is a decorated Marine.”
Sergeant Tozer is several tons of muscle crammed into a uniform which leaves nothing to the imagination. He is a man who laughs too loudly, in a way that sets Gibson’s teeth on edge; his hands are large and calloused, features blunt and jaw stubble-sharp. He is a smart-looking man, yes, but he’s… too loud, in a way that overpowers the rest of the world if you forget to pay attention. Men like Tozer are dangerous. They’re careless with who they smile at. Gibson’s learned through experience: that sort of man can never be trusted.
He’s also… well.
Tozer is very lucky he’s handsome.
“When Mr. Peglar mentioned sailing to Belize, Sergeant Tozer said ‘bless you’.”
“When they were talking about Patagonia, he looked very concerned,” Jopson adds. “Said, I quote, ‘the doctor may have something for that.’ I believe he thought it was a rash.”
“He tried to pronounce Buenos Aires, and somehow lost half the vowels.”
“While discovering several sounds that don’t exist in the Spanish language.”
“When Mr. Peglar was describing Chile,” Gibson says through gritted teeth, “Sergeant Tozer said aloud, ‘why don’t they all just wear coats, ‘stead of makin’ such a big deal about it? Thought the South Americas were s’posed to be warm.’”
Armitage takes a massive breath, holds himself straighter, and demands: “And?”
For a moment, his fellow stewards just stare at him, torn between worry and disappointment. Armitage’s curls stand on end. He’s drawn himself up to his full height — which would be impressive, if he wasn’t gangly enough to make up for it, and also standing under a ceiling beam. The crack of his skull echoes through the mess hall. He at once doubles over, hissing. Gibson (taller than Armitage, but having mastered the art of slouching without looking like a layabout) snorts. Jopson reaches for the ice bucket.
“We’re sailing to the Arctic, not bloody Antigua!” hisses Armitage through the pain. “What’s he need to know Spanish for, anyway?”
“It is a Romance language,” Jopson remarks with perfect innocence, passing him a towel full of ice.
“Really?” Armitage suddenly looks alive again. “You mean — well, I suppose a man sounds awful sharp speaking a different language… impressive, isn’t it? Handsome, even… say, d’you think Mr. Peglar’s up for giving lessons?”
Four hours of pestering Peglar later, Armitage passes Tozer in the mess hall, and throws out a very casual, and horrendously pronounced, “Te ves muy guapo en rojo, Sargento.”
Tozer squints at him, in a way that makes his entire handsome face scrunch up, and says, “You’re talkin’ gibberish, Tommy lad. You bump your head?”
Without waiting to be invited, Tozer buries his beefy hands in Armitage’s curls, and starts pawing around for a goose egg. Armitage gives a horrendous wheeze, eyes bugging out like a squished kitten. From their table in the corner his fellow stewards watch on, mourning whatever dignity he had left to lose.
The trouble with Jopson is… well, that’s the problem in itself. He’s never any trouble. Never causes it, never steps in it… the trouble with Jopson is, he’s fucking insufferable.
Jopson is that particular breed of steward who seems made for the position — more marionette than man, like he never imagined himself doing anything besides pouring rich men’s tea. And oh, Jopson makes himself the perfect servant. Heaven forbid a hair fell out of place on his perfectly coiffed head. He glides through the shadows on silent feet, with the Captain’s hand up his arse… but anyone paying attention knows Jopson’s pulling the strings.
And Jopson holds himself above the rest of the crew without ever saying as much, as though being Crozier’s right hand man makes him a different species from the rest. He doesn’t mess with the men; he never sits down for a game of cards, and rarely joins in on conversation. He associates with his fellow stewards, and of course, his beloved Captain… but as far as anyone knows, that’s the extent of his social circle.
In short, Jopson’s so high up on his horse, he’d shatter like porcelain if someone knocked him over. Some days, Gibson fantasizes about it — to see even a crack in his flawless composure.
So, when the opportunity comes, he really has to seize it.
“Come again?”
His razor nearly slips. Lieutenant Little stares intently up at him, no idea how close he’d come to catching flies in his windpipe. The blazing coal of his eyes burn a brand in Gibson’s skin. The same gaze Jopson sometimes lingers a beat too long on while serving dinner; it’s the only time Gibson has ever seen him distracted. On rare occasions, he even spares the Lieutenant a smile.
He may as well have been charmed by a sack of sawdust. Little’s personality certainly isn’t winning him any praise… and somehow, his head manages to be even emptier.
“Apologies, sir,” Gibson hastens to say, wiping the razor off on a towel. “Only — I must have misheard you. You say you don’t believe in —“
“It is not about what I believe, Mr. Gibson. It is about discerning truth from lies. On my honor as a gentleman, I can no longer let this… foolery stand.”
“Of course, sir.” Sometimes, with the officers, it’s best to just nod along with enthusiasm. “But… how do you propose to… put a stop to it?”
“Simple,” Little declares, dour with conviction. “I shall ban any mention of fictitious creatures from the wardroom. This includes unicorns, hobgoblins, faerie queenes… and the charlatan bird.”
“Indeed, sir.” Billy’s neck is beginning to ache from nodding, but oh, this will be worth the pain. “Such distractions mustn’t be allowed to spread freely. The men pick up superstitions… next thing you know, they’ll be claiming they spotted the bird on every iceberg we pass.”
Little clicks his tongue in disdain.
“With that said, sir… there is one man aboard who claims to have personal experience with the beast. That is, he’s seen it in person. So he says.”
As much as is possible for a man with the emotional range of a wet dishrag, Little looks intrigued.
“Mr. Jopson is the man to bring the issue to,” Gibson says, and knows the second Little’s eyes light up, he’s hooked.
Thus, after breakfast has concluded that morning, Jopson finds himself cornered by Terror’s first Lieutenant, wearing an expression of particularly brooding conviction. Gibson lingers while clearing up the plates, and makes a great show of not eavesdropping, while soaking in every detail like a scandalous melodrama.
“Mr. Jopson! I’ve been told you’re the man to come to on a certain issue of great consequence.”
The mere prospect of helping the Lieutenant has Jopson’s eyes lighting up like he’s been handed Queen Victoria’s dowry.
“Of course, sir. However can I be of service?”
Little grimaces, which might pass for a smile on his face, and leans in confidentially, close enough that Jopson looks dazed. “It is about,” he says, with severe gravitas, “the bird.”
Jopson blinks at Little, as baffled as his consummate professionalism will allow him to be. “The… bird, Lieutenant?”
“Indeed. This fictional bird, which so many men have expressed excitement about seeing once we reach the Arctic, but whom I have been informed by a number of trustworthy sources, does not exist there.” Little sniffs, like he’s caught the scent of rancid duck boiling for dinner. “From what I hear, you claim… familiarity. I must say, Mr. Jopson. I never took you for one to spread tales.”
“Indeed, sir. I am not.” Jopson doesn’t blink, but he does draw himself a bit taller, raise his chin a bit higher. Pride’s a good look on him. It makes him look even more like a marble statue, every feature chiseled and polished to a shine. Insufferable bastard.
“Then you do not claim intimacy with the beast?”
“I have never been intimate with any beast, thank you.”
“The bird! The bird!” Little flaps his arms for emphasis; Jopson’s eyes nearly fall out of his head. “The cursed… bird, with the eggs, and the tiny wings, and the emperors — honestly, we’re expected to believe these birds answer to a higher power? That these waterfowl have a concept of social hierarchy?”
Jopson looks as though he’s desperately trying to decide whether this is a conversation he’s meant to be a part of — perhaps Little has made some awful mistake, and mixed him up with some other bird-loving steward — but then, something clicks, and his expression goes slate blank.
“Do you mean,” he asks, very calmly, “penguins, sir?”
Little’s eyes are alight with feverish mania.
“Antarctic penguins? That is, the species of bird which exist —”
“Are alleged to exist!”
“In Antarctica?”
Little nods with vigor, as though his point’s been proven already. “A fowl sort of mischief. Half the crew expects to see these creatures the moment we reach land… though I am assured, through both my education and my own common sense, that there can be no such thing.”
Jopson looks like he’s just been struck by lightning. “Sir.”
“The very idea of a flightless bird — one which swims rather than soars, indeed! It’s preposterous! Something out of a children’s story.”
“Lieutenant Little.” Jopson sounds pained. “I don’t know how to tell you this —“
“I wouldn’t ordinarily believe such a hoax could be perpetuated en masse , but perhaps the rumour was spread at home first… in the newspapers. Accounts of Antarctic expeditions needed to be embellished in retrospect, to keep the armchair audience entertained… and of course, most of these readers have never been to the Arctic themselves! Why, if you told them purple bears the size of elephants were holding congress at the poles, they’d believe you! So, so, you see—” He gestures feverishly, nearly smacking Jopson in the chest. “If they made up such a creature for the public’s delight, they can hardly be blamed.”
“I have been to the Antarctic, though?” Somehow, Jopson sounds like he’s not certain.
“I know you have! And you are a decent, forthright man — not at all the kind for practical jokes. Which is why I must ask you, Mr. Jopson.“ Here, Little claps Jopson on the shoulder, and Jopson’s face goes so blank, the soul may well have left his body. “Are penguins a hoax?”
For a long moment, Jopson says nothing at all.
“They must be. They cannot be real. I will not believe it.” Little gives Jopson an insistent shake. “Tell it to me plain, man.”
“Oh, sir,” Jopson rasps; he looks like a paper doll dropped in a puddle, about to fall to pieces.
Little seems to take Jopson’s silence as implicit confirmation. He claps Jopson once more on the shoulder, practically glowing with vindication. This, as it happens, is a particularly striking look on the Lieutenant. Jopson cannot tear his gaze from him, even as Little turns away.
“Yes, that settles it. I was sure… yes, I knew it! Unprofessional nonsense, all of it.” He clenches his fists in victory. “All mention of these fallacious birds are henceforth banned from Terror. Oh, Hodgson thought he was so clever, going on about aptenodytes forsteri — he’ll see where he can put his Latin. I will be played for a fool no longer. Not by birds, of all things!”
In Little’s wake, Jopson is left standing, mouth agape, in a petrified sort of awe.
Gibson steps up beside him, bumping their arms in a way that very nearly bowls Jopson over.
“A very impressive man, the Lieutenant.”
The look Jopson shoots him could poison a cobra. Gibson just smiles, innocent as a babe, and leaves the point where it is.
Once he’s finished with his chores, he resolves, he will slip away to find Mr. Hickey. Perhaps they have time for a tour; at the very least, Gibson can show him the difference between aft and stern. Let Jopson deal with the penguin crisis in his own time.