The brutality of the voyage is even with its wonder; distant shapes of mountains, white silhouettes like ancient gods, become the grandest skeletons of volcanoes, at the same time as climbing them means to annihilate every man to the marrow. Creatures never before described by humans, plants that the naturalists say grew alongside the beasts whose bones bear extinction titles, preserved by the pristine, frightening ice, which in turn breathes and seizes around them like being on another world entirely.
He had wondered aloud some months ago, on deck with his steward (the steward he is still adapting to having at all, but back then, first leaving the oppressive heat of Van Diemen's Land and slipping into the cold like sinking beneath a black lake, he was adapting even harder), if the moon did not look the same— Francis has been to the Arctic time and again, but it is a different kind of haunting, this place, with no Inuit, no Greenland in the distance. He'd been a little drunk, but most of them are a little drunk, most of the time.
Following the voyage, the men, too, are at evens with bad and good. Brutality and wonder again, for every infraction, swinging wildly between parties and bitter fights with blood freezing to dull rubies before it can hit the planks of the deck. And now, on this strange evening, the split is one he is still feeling out the edges of. For there is one, even if it's twisting like firelight at the moment.
"A lie is just that."
Seated at his desk in the great cabin, the least plausible suspect stood before him.
"You can make it wear all sorts of costumes, lovely carnival ones or just.. mud. Still a lie, painted one way or another. And now I have to open the guts of it."
He looks at Thomas Jopson, and tries to work out the puzzle. Why?
A small home tucked away in the less favorable streets of London housed a boy who could have never dreamed he'd be standing in the great cabin of a ship captain, no less a captain he serves day in and day out. A boy with wide eyes and shallow dreams, spending most of his energy caring for his medicated mother when his father had to turn to his work - a boy who always had bandaged fingers and little sewing projects assigned to him by his father - a boy who did not know how to climb the ladder to anything resembling success, save for the fact that he's here now. That he's found footing on some rung or another, and has traded bandaged fingers for those spotted in ink of lists, or calluses from ropes and laundry and shoe polish.
Never much a liar, he stares across the space at his Captain, stands at his tallest, keeps his hands tucked behind his back. (He remembers his first day - a little fumbling with Crozier's dissent and aggravation, struggling to stand straight when the mighty ship took a turn with a different set of sea legs.) There's the warmth of some brandy burning in his veins, but nothing like the poor boy below, so deep in his drink he's spun himself up into a frenzy that's brought Jopson here.
"I did not make the choice to lie lightly, sir," he says carefully, chewing on his words before he spits them out. Has he ever lied to his Captain? No.
"I took a great deal into consideration: the men involved, the topics under discussion when the first fist raised, and the consequences thereafter. Young Mr. Chambers is a green hand with a great deal to learn about propriety and decorum on a ship of status. I've come to understand, too, that he has not been nearly so far or so long away from home, sir."
The pieces of the puzzle have been moved about, in preparation for completion, but not quite there yet.
A forward lean, elbows on the cable. It's a more casual posture than pressing, and he spreads his hands, palms up. A gesture of helplessness, maybe light exasperation— Crozier is surprised at how conflicted he feels in this situation. Learning things about himself, apparently. Since when is he this close to his steward?
"A calculated lie."
Not a great excuse.
But isn't everything Jopson does calculated, in a way? The most organized, punctual, detailed young man he's ever met. So much that it shines through with obvious precision even though the lion's share of the work he does is domestic, the kind of thing made to be overlooked. His entire job is to make it so Crozier can do his own without stopping to think about anything else.
"One born of empathy, it sounds like. What did you expect to happen? Mr Chambers painted a pure victim, and you, the instigator? What does he learn? Surely not how to manage homesickness."
The man is right - a calculated, carefully curated lie. One that even he feels is out of character for himself in some ways. He doesn't usually act with emotion at the tip of his tongue and maybe it's the sharp stuff they drank, but he doesn't flinch when the Captain speaks. Takes it with a dutiful grace. He goes above and beyond to make certain Crozier has no additional work added to his scales every day and yet here he is, muddying the works.
"It is my hope he's learned that even on a ship in the middle of the sea, no man is truly alone. Mr Chambers might prove me a fool, however he does work hard and he's learning, from what I've heard below."
Though he has his own meager private space thanks to his title, he hears a lot at the dinner table and in passing, when he's able to join in with the lot of them.
"It's quite early in our voyage to break his spirit - I can weather the lashes well enough. I'm not certain that he would."
It is interesting. Crozier was never going to be the one crewing the expedition — not any part of it, having no right to the privilege despite his rank, thanks to his blood. The parts he had unofficial input on, a grace given to him by Ross, did not include stewards. What do I need one for, he'd protested, putting it immediately out of his head; but of course James found him one, and of course he's done some uncanny witchcraft in fishing Jopson out of the net.
This doesn't mar the magic. No one's perfect. Francis has been at this since he was a boy, he's gotten into more trouble than all the men aboard combined, and this has already been a rowdy voyage. It isn't personal, this interrogation. This... whatever-it-is. A brand new scenario, out here among all these brand new shapes in the ice.
Something strikes him, listening.
"You're the oldest," he says, pointing at the young man. "Aren't you."
On land, it goes without saying. He's far from the oldest on the ship, and even in the bracket of men in their twenties, the reedy botanist over on Erebus still has spots on his face. At first, Jopson had struck him with willfully invisible middle child airs. But that's not it, is it. Some old stale thing turns over in his head, his eldest brother, sorting them for bruises gotten in the garden scrapping with each other, determining if anyone had done enough damage worth reporting.
No calms in the Antarctic; if they are in motion, it's dangerous, if they are still, it's haunting. Crozier is up before the first bell that first 'morning' after anyway, Terror abruptly thrashed about with no warning. The water looks so motionless and the terrain all around them so evenly pale that obstacles and sudden shifts in condition happen as shockingly as stepping into a covered spike pit. It his them, and a quarter-hour later, Erebus tilts in the same way, hammered by the same snaking pattern of brutal wind through the corridors between snow-covered rock and cathedral icebergs, all one consistent, pristine color.
It persists. Many things are suspended (shaving, grog, pissing upright) by necessity to avoid personal disasters. Shifts on deck are shortened, rotated out frequently. Frustratingly, perpetual daylight makes receiving and sending messages between ships more difficult, with no nightfall to make lanterns more visible when flags are battered and obscured.
Still. Once, in a brief moment where just the two of them were crossing each other in the otherwise empty great cabin, Crozier places a hand on Jopson's hip and squeezes affectionately. Quick and then he's gone again. Acknowledgement, he hopes. He hasn't forgotten, no matter that there hasn't been time to help with so much as a sock with how preoccupied every steward must be during times when the ship is pitching like a seizing bird.
Just the way of things. In the end it clears, and they anchor in the first sheltered lee they can find— further out than Erebus, whose sails have suffered enough to require at least two days of work before they forge ahead. Terror fixes herself fast, and off they go to the 'shore' of the ice shelf, to do that mysterious thing they have been assigned above all else: explore.
Ross has a bruise on the side of his face that nearly looks like a black eye, and Crozier is torn between being aghast and laughing loudly when the other man explains how he got it, the assailant a rogue paperweight poorly stowed on a shelf flying like a rocket at his head. Doesn't do a thing to tarnish his title as the handsomest man in the navy, which is a little unfair, but that, too, is just the way of things.
"How's it feel to stand on something stationary again?"
To Jopson as they head back to the gigs to unload their temporary gear. It's all hands to set up their tents, captains and stewards alike.
The whole ships descends into strange, quieted disorder as it tosses and turns in the great Arctic winds, but Jopson remains steady. Makes a point to, in fact, among his added work - working alongside the shipmaster to secure their food stores, collecting men to tie down bunks and shelves and all manner of breakable things that had been left out. Some are sent to the medic first and foremost, to keep any ill or underweathered crew members still in their cots.
It's plenty work, his job, on an average day at sea, but the frigid winds have far more in mind for him. He takes to the work, though, through the winds and strife - even if his mind sometimes drifts alongside the boat as she tips and turns. Drifts to Crozier, though he sees him daily, these events require more attention on all sides, not just a Captain's. But a hand on his hip provides a warmth he holds onto, acknowledges with a small, private smile, and away they go again.
Standing on solid ice after the fuss of the winds is strange, his knees and thighs waiting to adjust for a dip or a shift, muscles loose in a way that doesn't do him well on solid ground. All the same he's started to draw out stakes and tenting, taking careful count of everything so that each tent can be organized and arranged properly. Better to find the wind direction and set up with it instead of against it, anyway.
"It was only a matter of time before the sea let us know what she thinks about her voyage, sir," he smiles a little, already packing up what they need to pitch their tent. "But it is nice to know the floor won't be waging its own wars underfoot while we explore."
A small smile and of the items in the gig he takes up one of the rifles - meant for the captain, of course, but as any good steward, he will carry all things for him.
"And you, sir? I hope you'll let me shave you come morning since we've been unable the last week. It will be colder, of course, but I assure you that you'll feel all the better for it."
A knock on the side of the hauled-out boat, for luck. The ground, such as it is, could still move. Are there earthquakes here in the polar south? Perhaps they'll find out. But he huffs a laugh about the rest of it—
"I look a sight, don't I."
His face stuck in that horrid in-between stage past stubble (which doesn't look right on fair-haired men anyway, even those that don't have patchwork colors like he does) but before anything that can be called a beard. Truly an embarrassment, unlike the attractive scruff both Ross and Jopson are sporting. The younger man is right, though, he'll feel better for it even if he can't see himself.
One bag over a shoulder, another held in hand, he leaves his rifle with Jopson and they can head out. A lieutenant sighs wistfully about the hard ground and lack of trees, ever hopeful about camping somewhere he can pitch a hammock instead of a tent. Chatter, about how plenty of able seaman would be happy for his berth, and others insisting they'd never give up the comfort of the sling. And it is a better sleep, hung up like that, in Crozier's opinion. But they're not at the dinner table and so he doesn't do much socializing outside of entertaining Mr Hooker's excited inquiries about the implications of their compass readings.
It is so unbearably cold that no men are alone in their tents, not even the officers. As usual, Crozier feels warm relief to be spending time in close quarters with Jamie. Doubly warm to observe his friend chatting with Jopson, asking him about something-or-other he can't hear. Windy, still, but in an ordinary way, not the brutal lashing of the past week. Tents, surveying, and a late dinner; massive seabirds cruise overhead, and there is evidence of penguins having nested nearby in the not too distant past.
Captain Ross authorizes a bit of hunting, casual about it instead of a party. They are well-supplied, it's more of a lark to see what the sound brings, instead of strict need. But if someone can bag a bird or a fox, it's always a positive to have something fresh, and let the stores be. He grins at Francis, meanwhile, in a way that makes him want to roll his eyes at him in response. A dozen things unsaid, but perfectly mutually understood.
Preparations to sleep out on the ice in the bitter cold take time - something Jopson happily busies himself with, guiding some of the greener men on how to pitch their tents, the angles to set the stakes, the way to seal up the tent flaps. Then he's soon starting on the captain's, working quicker than most men are out in the cold, for which Captain Ross draws his attention. It's a quick exchange, amusing, enough to make Jopson's ears turn a little pink with more than the biting cold.
You could set the entirety of the camp before some of these officers tied their first hitch.
A polite, self-deprecating comment, a laugh from Ross, and Jopson goes back to it, warmed by the compliment, but working a half-measure slower so as not to draw any ire from those around him.
"I've set your things as you like them in your tent, sir," he says to Crozier, smiling evenly. "Might have to do without the kettle until the morning, though, I'm afraid."
A crack of a rifle - some boyish whooping as a seabird flaps frenetically overhead and away. It's good, seeing the men of the ship, even if the conditions are miserable in another sense. Another crack, another bird. Terrible shots, the lot of them, and the rumble of a wager: first catch goes to the man who caught it and him alone. A right feast out here on the ice.
The tents set, a small fire going, a few men on the hunt. Jopson stands out at the fringes. Watches a fox roam in the distance, drawn by the smoke of the fire. Watches the men around him oblivious to its gleaming eyes in the distance. It's muscle memory that has him draw the rifle, not a thought in his head as he levels the shot, takes a breath, and fires.
The fox screams out into the polar quiet and falls onto the ice. The men look around, startled - then at Jopson, a little wide-eyed, a little confused, a little impressed. He looks down at his own hands, the gun, almost like someone else fired the round, not the proper, quiet steward he should be.
"Apologies, sir," he says simply, looking back to the fox one of the men head out to retrieve. "I thought it was going to get away."
Weather isn't poor, it's just the wind, which slams off of icebergs and rocky cliff faces and gains enough velocity to make moving through the narrow labyrinths of the ice a trickier thing. They stop once to collect soil and rock samples, not staying overnight to make camp, just Crozier and a few other men scrambling out to shore, uneasily rowing to Erebus for dinner and reports, uneasily rowing back to Terror.
(Francis gives Thomas a note penned by Jamie, upon his return, a friendly thing and a small, awful drawing of a fox; whatever he'd tucked in Francis' own coat before leaving, the man has to burn over a candle with an expression that's a deeper, distant kind of fond he wouldn't be able to put a name to, had he been watching himself.)
They still manage to read in the evenings, over dinner or after if any of the lieutenants sit with him during meals, which happens if they're busy with something. Crozier bids Jopson take his work in the great cabin when he's able to take advantage of the better light, instead of ruin his eyes and fingers trying to do any detail work in his berth under a candle. They can steal moments. He sees to his back, once, and it is just as bittersweet as ever to send him away after.
It is eventually determined after some back and forth — and Ross with his lieutenants and steward visiting Terror for a lively dinner — that they will aim for a place to wait out the turn of the season, hold a celebration, then determine if they are to carry on or cruise for the Falkland Islands and attend to some work there. They anticipate that the ice will make further mapping of the coast impossible, but the decision hinges on just how aggressive the freeze becomes. A careful thing to time; a ship can become stuck in a matter of hours, the surround turning from deep blue to white before a man's eyes.
But this subject is not one that lingers in the days after Captain Ross returns to his own ship. The men have faith, for their commanders have proven able to make sound judgement calls in all else. No, they dither over the matter of a ball on the ice, with some men having experienced parties on shore leave before, and some even Parry's famed ones in the Arctic. They shall have the dubious honor of throwing the first one in the Antarctic, now, and half of them have never done so much as a spin around a pub to someone's out of tune fiddle.
Crozier, Phillips, Dr Robertson, and first mate Moore are the only officers willing to put on record their ability to dance without embarrassing themselves. Clearing away dinner ultimately involves clearing the table away, too, and Robertson peevishly organizing the men present in the great cabin by height as to not make any man feel like the lady, though of course they will have to practice both sides to learn. Not even Jopson is safe, made vulnerable by his attentiveness while the other officers' steward slips out to save his own skin.
Lieutenant Kay is abysmal at it, and Crozier tells him so as he attempts to lead Jopson around the room.
Jopson takes most of his work into the great cabin when he can, save for any official meetings and such the captain might hold. It's nice working under good light, for one, but also to sit quietly with the older man in the light of day. An acceptable way for a captain and steward to spend time, for one, but Thomas enjoys the intimacy of it. Much is the same for their reading at night, for the small rituals they have created over meals or in the short time before the Captain readies for sleep.
There's very little he dislikes at sea or about sailing life, but the murmurings of a ball and party on the ice give him pause. Not much for the revelry or noise of a party before his time on a ship, Jopson would much prefer spending the time reading in his berth or cleaning up while the men are away. Putting his head down and working at his own pace in the peace and quiet would bring him more joy than the revelry the men tend to enjoy.
But like any good steward and sailor he says nothing in protest, simply assists in the gathering of officers, cleaning up of dinner, moving the table, making all the preparations the captain has requested for such a time, and -
Ah. To be left alone among the officers is a betrayal in and of itself by the other stewards. Of course they would run off and appear busy, leaving the needs of their officers and captain alike in his hands. It's the dancing he doesn't entirely expect - when he's chosen to dance with Kay (to dance at all). But he takes to the task like it's an order, with all the focus and energy it takes to learn something new.
It doesn't help that Lieutenant Kay steps on his feet and otherwise bodies him around the room. He tries to make the man look better at it than he is, but even Jopson himself isn't a dancer. These aren't things one learns in the lower streets of London.
"I believe it might be left foot, first, sir?"
When they pause because Kay forgets his steps. He doesn't look pleased they have to keep going over it, but Jopson smiles all the same.
"Then you bring your feet together, then left again until you wish to turn-"
Kay does as Jopson says, which is technically correct, but Jopson stumbles when the Lieutenant takes his instruction with no warning.
Jopson picks it up quick enough, which doesn't surprise him; Kay's ineptitude is a little exasperating, but fitting enough with his personality. It's his fellow lieutenant, McMurdo, a Scotsman who's mettle has only been proven as more and more worthy of being a proper explorer, who pipes up—
"You're never getting married, Kay," gets a bolt of laughter from most of the men, only one of which is doing worse than Kay.
"I wasn't asking him!"
"Not to anyone trampling feet like that, dafty—"
And so McMurdo, with a sarcastic bow that gets a groan out of Kay, politely cuts in so he can continue to verbally abuse his friend and spare Jopson any further suffering. The doctor instructs them, concluding Kay must take the lady's part if he's going to carry on like that, while Crozier steps in to offer his hand to his steward.
Jopson feels for Lieutenant Kay, giving him a near apologetic smile even as they take another rather indelicate turn around the room. He is improving, but at the cost of his feet - thankfully his boots needed to be scuffed and cleaned soon anyway. McMurdo cuts in long before he can try and find some comfort for the flustered man, but it isn't his place, anyway.
He shrugs a shoulder and allows the Scotsman to cut in. Thomas turns, fully expecting to return to his careful watch of the room, begin tidying a few things left behind in the move from their meal - but blinks up at the offered hand and the man attached to it.
"Oh. Of course, Captain," he nods his head and takes up the man's hand.
Strange, to touch him like this with all the others moving around them. Like they might see there's more to it all than just dance practice. A careful game, as always, but he can't deny the giddy thrill of his heart beating in his chest. Thomas likes the feeling of Crozier's hand on his, the warmth and familiarity of it, has to retrain his muscle memory here and now to keep from tugging him in closer than he should.
"You are daring, Captain. I don't think I'll be much better than Lieutenant Kay, but happy to take a crack at it, sir."
As if it will matter at any point in his life - dancing. Fancy parties and balls and courtship... he's meant for none of it. You're never getting married, Kay. Ah, if only McMurdo knew that it might be the other way round. The Scotsman lets out a rowdy laugh as the men stumble, as Kay protests, but it's all in good fun.
The days blend together when the ship comes to life and the work steady. The weather taking a turn to more bitter temperatures means the crew works harder on deck to clear ice and sea spray from the arbors and deck, chipping away slowly as the sea churns beneath them.
It means even the crew belowdecks works harder, stewards jumping in to help with meals and tending to their charges even in the bitter and icy cold on deck. Jopson spends a great deal at Crozier's side when he can, but often makes sure the meals and teas are hot and fulfilling when he does come back in. A relentless few weeks of this means he's busy keeping an eye on their stock and inventory, going through things a little faster when the men are doing more labor than usual, but also using those resources to keep them healthy. They have a while yet before they return to the Queen's land.
A couple of weeks of intermittent weather and recovery and things begin to quiet again. Enough that there's more downtime between watches on deck, the ice still present but building as expected and less an onslaught. A couple of days with Crozier in the great cabin more regularly has done something to him, though. After the man's supper they sit as they used to in the quiet, each working on their own projects. A companionable silence, but when he glances up and watches the man write, or worry the bridge of his nose in thought, or - simply anything, he's suddenly very aware of their distance. The patches on his back are healed up, but he still thinks about the bruising hand at his side, the awkward press of their bodies in a bunk together, and -
"Sir, let me refill your tea. The warmth will do you some good, and a break from your paperwork."
Repairs set aside he makes up a new kettle. He gives the tea time to steep and while he waits, he tidies up the man's desk. He can't ask for attention - can't ask to feel the desperate grab of large, warm hands on his body, or the gruff voice against his neck, his mouth. Instead -
A cup of tea delivered, and just as he sets it down? A fumble, spilling the steaming beverage over the cleared space on the desk. Deliberate? Oh, heavens no, he wouldn't. (He did).
"My apologies, sir -"
But no urgent move to clean it up, instead a careful righting of the cup, and a distinct lean over the man to push some of his paperwork aside so as not to stain it.
Jopson, as often as he hears Sir, and Captain in return. In hearing those titles, they become other endearments; it sounds quite different than how other men use them. He wonders sometimes if Jopson hears the same, from him. Something more profound. Or if Crozier simply has no knack for it. A thing he wonders about more — presently, anyway — is if his steward is quite himself today.
It's not as though he's never fumbled a cup before. The ship has, on more than one occasion, heaved herself side to side as though thrown by gods with no warning in the middle of a meal service. But the water is calm, the rock of their pace is minimal, and he's reasonable certain that the young man has been getting sleep. Perhaps he might think nothing of it if it weren't so out of character, or if he were an idiot. Owing to not being an idiot, Crozier has already detected an air of something being up.
Jopson squeezing into his personal space to lean over him and shuffle papers instead of fetching a rag is a formidable clue. It has not escaped his notice that no papers are actually in danger of being soaked anyway. A strategic spilling.
Hm. Interesting. He begins to mentally review other potential data while he lets Jopson proceed, eyebrows raised.
A few more papers shuffled and he turns, taking the cup away to set it on the serving tray.
“Do you mind cleaning that up, sir? I’ve your mending to finish.”
Dismissive, as if he didn’t just spill steaming tea all over the desk where it spreads slowly, not far enough to spill into the man’s lap - he’s boiled it too hot for that. But the next one, yes. Absolutely.
“You’ve been difficult on your clothes with the bad weather, it’s made plenty of work for me.”
Not a real complaint, just a statement, and he fetches a tea towel and offers it out to him. If he witnessed any steward do such a thing to their charge he’d take them belowdecks and give them a scolding worthy of a high court. But this is a delicate, careful game fueled by a heat of many names.
“So long as it’s cleaned by supper, I suppose, Captain, all should be well.”
It is, for a moment, so surprising that Crozier frankly doesn't know what to say. The sort of behavior that would have him (whilst in a fair mood) calmly permanently dismiss a sailor, or (whilst in a poor mood) send someone to be immediately evaluated for physical punishment. And it's that thought that takes him back around — quite abruptly — to the memory of how Jopson sounded (how he looked, how he felt against him) when he confessed he'd imagined it was Crozier the whole time he was being flogged.
Cheeky.
Relentless, too. In his way. As ever. A swan so graceful on the surface, even while being a prick; Crozier wonders how fast his feet are paddling beneath the water. If he's nervous, or just excited. He thinks of their talk of trust, and how much this must be leaning on it, to believe Crozier won't simply send him away. Somehow that's as arousing as the prospect of taking him in hand for this display of disrespect.
"You are a capable steward," he says, pointedly calm. "You are well equipped to do all the work set out for you, and more. If you've come to the point of strain, then by necessity I've come to the point of suspicion."
Crozier pushes himself to his feet. He does not accept the tea towel.
"Clean it up and then show me your mending. I'm not sure I believe you're doing it correctly, in your state."
Perpetual day does not leave them, but they begin to experience spans of hours with the sun dipped low enough to one side that they're left with orange light and long shadows, as unsettling as it is beautiful. It reflects off the ice and the water, plays tricks on vision; trying to navigate through labyrinths of icebergs and judging what's a shadow and what's going to ram into the hull is a trick.
At least there's still light, a prayer that doesn't last. Night does not find them, but weather does. Fog and mist so thick it may as well be night, blanketing them in a smothering, black blanket, broken up by beams of sickly light from the sun, or bounced off great frozen formations. Erebus sways ahead of them, marked by lanterns hung in the windows of her great cabin— when they can see Erebus at all. Sometimes there's not but inky darkness ahead of them, sometimes fog like reams of cotton. Crozier leans over the bow and sees barely a seam of dark water rush by them.
Some men are on edge. Some, like Crozier and other more experienced seamen, aren't quite— but very, very alert. He's on deck more often than not, and the crew is hushed; men shout orders down the line, calls of Steady on lads, head's up, in between.
"Haunting," says Crozier, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat. "That's the word for it."
Robertson agrees. The man's been sketching, or trying to. Not the best artist on board but competent, particularly with diagrams. Currently, his sketchboard is wedged under an armpit, clutching the warm drink brought up to them. He nods his thanks for Jopson, though his expression is chagrined. Difficult not to be put ill at ease by these circumstances.
A polar expedition is a unique experience indeed; he'd been told it would be nothing like his venture to the Indies, and that was an apt warning on many accounts. To look out over the deck of the ship and see nothing in its background? Just eerie fog blacking out sky, the sea, even the men at the far end of the ship obscured in it - it's no surprise there's a strange quiet that's fallen over the men.
Jopson spends most of his time up on deck alongside Crozier, seeing him and others looked after, keeping the other stewards focused on more than their designated officers. Keeping the crew's spirits warm and comforted is as much their job as it is anyone's. Thus, he's delivered warm, simple tea to the men in the Captain's council, giving Roberston a small nod.
"It is, sir," he says, turning to Crozier and offering him the last cup of steaming tea, even if it's only for a sip or two. "I've not seen anything like this before in my short time at sea - do you require anything, sir?"
He has so many questions but knows now isn't the time for curiosities - not when tensions are high and the men so sharply focused.
"I've worked with the cook to get meals brought up for all the men on deck - even if it's something small until the fog passes us, Captain."
Terror shifts and groans, but holds together like a living thing; men crawl up and down the sails, tucking them in, letting them out; Crozier calls to the helmsman and hears a volley back. A chorus, men at work.
"I'm fine, thank you," is what he says a moment after, returning to the conversation though his gaze remains, pointlessly, ahead of them. Now and again he hears the echoing chime of a bell from Erebus, a single note to signal all is well— but if he'd have his way, at this point he'd tell them to stop. Sound reflects as madly as light in these atmospheric mazes. But he knows Ross will come to the same conclusion, soon, no doubt struggling to discern what's a bell from Terror and what's an echo of their own.
A nod for Jopson.
"Keep the hatches and hallways clear."
It's not strictly regulation (or strictly safe) to be serving half-meals on deck, but it's better than the distraction of a shift change. Rotating a few men out at a time on staggered schedules is playing hell on routines, but every officer is up maintaining order to balance it out. He's well aware of the gloomy looks through portholes and cannon slots, as mystified as they are up here, seeing nothing but depthless darkness.
He sips his tea, only has to grab a rail once. Robertson gives up before the rest of them do, and eventually Crozier sends Jopson back below as well. He follows suit not long after, but in the end, he just dozes for a while in the great cabin on the bench, Phillips in a hammock nearby, the both of them fully clothed. Three hours is all he permits himself, and is taking tea while hearing an update from McMurdo thereafter.
Mugs of hot stew passed among the men does enough to keep morale up even just a little in the misty dark. And as he'd been told, hatches and hallways remain clear, both himself and the other stewards moving about like ghosts among the quiet. Difficult, though, to be sent back down below when the men above watch with tense shoulders as the boat rocks unevenly on the waters, but he does as he's told.
Makes up hot tea for Crozier and Phillips both, brings round a few spare quilts for them. A sleepless night for all, no doubt. Jopson stays up in his berth, a book in his lap, listening to the way the ship groans and creaks, the presence of the other officers and sailors all but imperceptible in the eerie quiet.
A few hours and he's back at it, unable to rest or settle with the Captain on edge, and he fills up the man's tea cup, gives a small nod to McMurdo who declines a cup for himself.
"The men seem to think we'll pass straight on through no trouble," McMurdo says, but it's obvious there's doubt in his voice. "Some of them are too green around the gills to know the dangers."
The ship lurches to one side then bobs back, Jopson stumbles for his footing. "She's unsteady tonight, sir," Jopson murmurs, looking up toward the deck from the great cabin as though he could peer through and see what comes of the noise.
He's only a little drunk. It's fine, the ship's not going anywhere; the ice gave way behind his heels walking from Erebus back to Terror but it's already solid again, so says the carpenter who slid over it fetching a bar that went flying.
Crozier is only a little drunk, but McMurdo and the good doctor are plastered beyond reasonable behavior, and the rest of the officers (and a few mates) are teetering on one line or the other. Stupid of them all, this is more the sort of thing Jamie permits, rarely Crozier, ever cautioning while the other man is leaping off the edge of something.
But they are in good spirits. (Hah.) Card games, some dancing pointers. Terror is more or less upright, and so climbing up back on deck to indulge in fresh, cold air isn't as much of an ordeal as it was a week ago. Almost dark out now— sun dogs blinking in between lines of black water and purple sky, winter threatening them. In three days they'll start breaking the ice with powder again.
"If I were anyone else you'd have started me," he says, before Jopson can say anything. Crozier hasn't seen him; just knows that it's him behind his shoulder, which he looks over to spy him. "Should put a bell on you."
"Should you, sir? Of course I'll do as you ask, but it might do more harm than good. I suppose it will be very noisy when I'm doing my mending."
Terror comes to life with a bit of drink and relief, and tonight appears to be no different. He'd tried to remain quietly on the sidelines when the officers took to drink with the Captain, carefully doling out whisky to each of the men and giving the Captain a hair more, of course. Cards and laughter and dancing - Jopson contented himself to watch over all carefully until the second round brought McMurdo upon him, insisting he relax.
And so he has, with a little bit of warmth in his belly and blood, he's climbed abovedecks to stand beside Crozier.
"I would wake McMurdo - he's at your desk snoring as we speak, sir."
He steps up to the taffrail, leans his hands upon it and peers out at the changing sky and the dark water. "I could sing the tune they've started belowdecks if you'd like - so as not to start you at the next turn, sir."
Whisky's gone and made him a little more cheeky, but relaxed - relaxed in a way he doesn't often allow himself to be in the midst of everything.
Drool and snot in the shape of a man's cheek. No doubt he'll find himself in braids and bows, something to wince over as he works off the headache tomorrow from sickbay. McMurdo has worked harder than any lieutenant he's ever known, though — harder and better than himself at that age, Crozier is sure, the young man has an edge for this line of work like few others — and so he deserves the break in composure.
Jopson, though. Just a little looser, he thinks. Crozier smiles, his expression lopsided and genuine.
"I never said my singing would be any good, sir," he snorts softly, leaning his weight into his hands at the rail, looking out over the ice and the dark and the purplish sky. He looks over his shoulder at the man, smiling.
"Trust me, I will never be the first to offer up any note - I'll leave that to the sailors and officers first and foremost, Captain. Admittedly singing on my way up to the deck might scare you as well, but in a different manner altogether."
Jopson huffs softly, bolstered by the warmth in that lopsided smile. A warm and pleasantly drifting part of his mind wants to kiss that smile - taste it on his own lips and keep memory of it close. He doesn't - remains instead at the rail, turning to lean his back to the wood instead so he's facing the older man.
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He had wondered aloud some months ago, on deck with his steward (the steward he is still adapting to having at all, but back then, first leaving the oppressive heat of Van Diemen's Land and slipping into the cold like sinking beneath a black lake, he was adapting even harder), if the moon did not look the same— Francis has been to the Arctic time and again, but it is a different kind of haunting, this place, with no Inuit, no Greenland in the distance. He'd been a little drunk, but most of them are a little drunk, most of the time.
Following the voyage, the men, too, are at evens with bad and good. Brutality and wonder again, for every infraction, swinging wildly between parties and bitter fights with blood freezing to dull rubies before it can hit the planks of the deck. And now, on this strange evening, the split is one he is still feeling out the edges of. For there is one, even if it's twisting like firelight at the moment.
"A lie is just that."
Seated at his desk in the great cabin, the least plausible suspect stood before him.
"You can make it wear all sorts of costumes, lovely carnival ones or just.. mud. Still a lie, painted one way or another. And now I have to open the guts of it."
He looks at Thomas Jopson, and tries to work out the puzzle. Why?
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Never much a liar, he stares across the space at his Captain, stands at his tallest, keeps his hands tucked behind his back. (He remembers his first day - a little fumbling with Crozier's dissent and aggravation, struggling to stand straight when the mighty ship took a turn with a different set of sea legs.) There's the warmth of some brandy burning in his veins, but nothing like the poor boy below, so deep in his drink he's spun himself up into a frenzy that's brought Jopson here.
"I did not make the choice to lie lightly, sir," he says carefully, chewing on his words before he spits them out. Has he ever lied to his Captain? No.
"I took a great deal into consideration: the men involved, the topics under discussion when the first fist raised, and the consequences thereafter. Young Mr. Chambers is a green hand with a great deal to learn about propriety and decorum on a ship of status. I've come to understand, too, that he has not been nearly so far or so long away from home, sir."
The pieces of the puzzle have been moved about, in preparation for completion, but not quite there yet.
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"A calculated lie."
Not a great excuse.
But isn't everything Jopson does calculated, in a way? The most organized, punctual, detailed young man he's ever met. So much that it shines through with obvious precision even though the lion's share of the work he does is domestic, the kind of thing made to be overlooked. His entire job is to make it so Crozier can do his own without stopping to think about anything else.
"One born of empathy, it sounds like. What did you expect to happen? Mr Chambers painted a pure victim, and you, the instigator? What does he learn? Surely not how to manage homesickness."
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"It is my hope he's learned that even on a ship in the middle of the sea, no man is truly alone. Mr Chambers might prove me a fool, however he does work hard and he's learning, from what I've heard below."
Though he has his own meager private space thanks to his title, he hears a lot at the dinner table and in passing, when he's able to join in with the lot of them.
"It's quite early in our voyage to break his spirit - I can weather the lashes well enough. I'm not certain that he would."
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This doesn't mar the magic. No one's perfect. Francis has been at this since he was a boy, he's gotten into more trouble than all the men aboard combined, and this has already been a rowdy voyage. It isn't personal, this interrogation. This... whatever-it-is. A brand new scenario, out here among all these brand new shapes in the ice.
Something strikes him, listening.
"You're the oldest," he says, pointing at the young man. "Aren't you."
On land, it goes without saying. He's far from the oldest on the ship, and even in the bracket of men in their twenties, the reedy botanist over on Erebus still has spots on his face. At first, Jopson had struck him with willfully invisible middle child airs. But that's not it, is it. Some old stale thing turns over in his head, his eldest brother, sorting them for bruises gotten in the garden scrapping with each other, determining if anyone had done enough damage worth reporting.
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It persists. Many things are suspended (shaving, grog, pissing upright) by necessity to avoid personal disasters. Shifts on deck are shortened, rotated out frequently. Frustratingly, perpetual daylight makes receiving and sending messages between ships more difficult, with no nightfall to make lanterns more visible when flags are battered and obscured.
Still. Once, in a brief moment where just the two of them were crossing each other in the otherwise empty great cabin, Crozier places a hand on Jopson's hip and squeezes affectionately. Quick and then he's gone again. Acknowledgement, he hopes. He hasn't forgotten, no matter that there hasn't been time to help with so much as a sock with how preoccupied every steward must be during times when the ship is pitching like a seizing bird.
Just the way of things. In the end it clears, and they anchor in the first sheltered lee they can find— further out than Erebus, whose sails have suffered enough to require at least two days of work before they forge ahead. Terror fixes herself fast, and off they go to the 'shore' of the ice shelf, to do that mysterious thing they have been assigned above all else: explore.
Ross has a bruise on the side of his face that nearly looks like a black eye, and Crozier is torn between being aghast and laughing loudly when the other man explains how he got it, the assailant a rogue paperweight poorly stowed on a shelf flying like a rocket at his head. Doesn't do a thing to tarnish his title as the handsomest man in the navy, which is a little unfair, but that, too, is just the way of things.
"How's it feel to stand on something stationary again?"
To Jopson as they head back to the gigs to unload their temporary gear. It's all hands to set up their tents, captains and stewards alike.
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It's plenty work, his job, on an average day at sea, but the frigid winds have far more in mind for him. He takes to the work, though, through the winds and strife - even if his mind sometimes drifts alongside the boat as she tips and turns. Drifts to Crozier, though he sees him daily, these events require more attention on all sides, not just a Captain's. But a hand on his hip provides a warmth he holds onto, acknowledges with a small, private smile, and away they go again.
Standing on solid ice after the fuss of the winds is strange, his knees and thighs waiting to adjust for a dip or a shift, muscles loose in a way that doesn't do him well on solid ground. All the same he's started to draw out stakes and tenting, taking careful count of everything so that each tent can be organized and arranged properly. Better to find the wind direction and set up with it instead of against it, anyway.
"It was only a matter of time before the sea let us know what she thinks about her voyage, sir," he smiles a little, already packing up what they need to pitch their tent. "But it is nice to know the floor won't be waging its own wars underfoot while we explore."
A small smile and of the items in the gig he takes up one of the rifles - meant for the captain, of course, but as any good steward, he will carry all things for him.
"And you, sir? I hope you'll let me shave you come morning since we've been unable the last week. It will be colder, of course, but I assure you that you'll feel all the better for it."
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"I look a sight, don't I."
His face stuck in that horrid in-between stage past stubble (which doesn't look right on fair-haired men anyway, even those that don't have patchwork colors like he does) but before anything that can be called a beard. Truly an embarrassment, unlike the attractive scruff both Ross and Jopson are sporting. The younger man is right, though, he'll feel better for it even if he can't see himself.
One bag over a shoulder, another held in hand, he leaves his rifle with Jopson and they can head out. A lieutenant sighs wistfully about the hard ground and lack of trees, ever hopeful about camping somewhere he can pitch a hammock instead of a tent. Chatter, about how plenty of able seaman would be happy for his berth, and others insisting they'd never give up the comfort of the sling. And it is a better sleep, hung up like that, in Crozier's opinion. But they're not at the dinner table and so he doesn't do much socializing outside of entertaining Mr Hooker's excited inquiries about the implications of their compass readings.
It is so unbearably cold that no men are alone in their tents, not even the officers. As usual, Crozier feels warm relief to be spending time in close quarters with Jamie. Doubly warm to observe his friend chatting with Jopson, asking him about something-or-other he can't hear. Windy, still, but in an ordinary way, not the brutal lashing of the past week. Tents, surveying, and a late dinner; massive seabirds cruise overhead, and there is evidence of penguins having nested nearby in the not too distant past.
Captain Ross authorizes a bit of hunting, casual about it instead of a party. They are well-supplied, it's more of a lark to see what the sound brings, instead of strict need. But if someone can bag a bird or a fox, it's always a positive to have something fresh, and let the stores be. He grins at Francis, meanwhile, in a way that makes him want to roll his eyes at him in response. A dozen things unsaid, but perfectly mutually understood.
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You could set the entirety of the camp before some of these officers tied their first hitch.
A polite, self-deprecating comment, a laugh from Ross, and Jopson goes back to it, warmed by the compliment, but working a half-measure slower so as not to draw any ire from those around him.
"I've set your things as you like them in your tent, sir," he says to Crozier, smiling evenly. "Might have to do without the kettle until the morning, though, I'm afraid."
A crack of a rifle - some boyish whooping as a seabird flaps frenetically overhead and away. It's good, seeing the men of the ship, even if the conditions are miserable in another sense. Another crack, another bird. Terrible shots, the lot of them, and the rumble of a wager: first catch goes to the man who caught it and him alone. A right feast out here on the ice.
The tents set, a small fire going, a few men on the hunt. Jopson stands out at the fringes. Watches a fox roam in the distance, drawn by the smoke of the fire. Watches the men around him oblivious to its gleaming eyes in the distance. It's muscle memory that has him draw the rifle, not a thought in his head as he levels the shot, takes a breath, and fires.
The fox screams out into the polar quiet and falls onto the ice. The men look around, startled - then at Jopson, a little wide-eyed, a little confused, a little impressed. He looks down at his own hands, the gun, almost like someone else fired the round, not the proper, quiet steward he should be.
"Apologies, sir," he says simply, looking back to the fox one of the men head out to retrieve. "I thought it was going to get away."
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leaning hard into the mongoose fursona
aye aye captain
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(Francis gives Thomas a note penned by Jamie, upon his return, a friendly thing and a small, awful drawing of a fox; whatever he'd tucked in Francis' own coat before leaving, the man has to burn over a candle with an expression that's a deeper, distant kind of fond he wouldn't be able to put a name to, had he been watching himself.)
They still manage to read in the evenings, over dinner or after if any of the lieutenants sit with him during meals, which happens if they're busy with something. Crozier bids Jopson take his work in the great cabin when he's able to take advantage of the better light, instead of ruin his eyes and fingers trying to do any detail work in his berth under a candle. They can steal moments. He sees to his back, once, and it is just as bittersweet as ever to send him away after.
It is eventually determined after some back and forth — and Ross with his lieutenants and steward visiting Terror for a lively dinner — that they will aim for a place to wait out the turn of the season, hold a celebration, then determine if they are to carry on or cruise for the Falkland Islands and attend to some work there. They anticipate that the ice will make further mapping of the coast impossible, but the decision hinges on just how aggressive the freeze becomes. A careful thing to time; a ship can become stuck in a matter of hours, the surround turning from deep blue to white before a man's eyes.
But this subject is not one that lingers in the days after Captain Ross returns to his own ship. The men have faith, for their commanders have proven able to make sound judgement calls in all else. No, they dither over the matter of a ball on the ice, with some men having experienced parties on shore leave before, and some even Parry's famed ones in the Arctic. They shall have the dubious honor of throwing the first one in the Antarctic, now, and half of them have never done so much as a spin around a pub to someone's out of tune fiddle.
Crozier, Phillips, Dr Robertson, and first mate Moore are the only officers willing to put on record their ability to dance without embarrassing themselves. Clearing away dinner ultimately involves clearing the table away, too, and Robertson peevishly organizing the men present in the great cabin by height as to not make any man feel like the lady, though of course they will have to practice both sides to learn. Not even Jopson is safe, made vulnerable by his attentiveness while the other officers' steward slips out to save his own skin.
Lieutenant Kay is abysmal at it, and Crozier tells him so as he attempts to lead Jopson around the room.
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There's very little he dislikes at sea or about sailing life, but the murmurings of a ball and party on the ice give him pause. Not much for the revelry or noise of a party before his time on a ship, Jopson would much prefer spending the time reading in his berth or cleaning up while the men are away. Putting his head down and working at his own pace in the peace and quiet would bring him more joy than the revelry the men tend to enjoy.
But like any good steward and sailor he says nothing in protest, simply assists in the gathering of officers, cleaning up of dinner, moving the table, making all the preparations the captain has requested for such a time, and -
Ah. To be left alone among the officers is a betrayal in and of itself by the other stewards. Of course they would run off and appear busy, leaving the needs of their officers and captain alike in his hands. It's the dancing he doesn't entirely expect - when he's chosen to dance with Kay (to dance at all). But he takes to the task like it's an order, with all the focus and energy it takes to learn something new.
It doesn't help that Lieutenant Kay steps on his feet and otherwise bodies him around the room. He tries to make the man look better at it than he is, but even Jopson himself isn't a dancer. These aren't things one learns in the lower streets of London.
"I believe it might be left foot, first, sir?"
When they pause because Kay forgets his steps. He doesn't look pleased they have to keep going over it, but Jopson smiles all the same.
"Then you bring your feet together, then left again until you wish to turn-"
Kay does as Jopson says, which is technically correct, but Jopson stumbles when the Lieutenant takes his instruction with no warning.
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"You're never getting married, Kay," gets a bolt of laughter from most of the men, only one of which is doing worse than Kay.
"I wasn't asking him!"
"Not to anyone trampling feet like that, dafty—"
And so McMurdo, with a sarcastic bow that gets a groan out of Kay, politely cuts in so he can continue to verbally abuse his friend and spare Jopson any further suffering. The doctor instructs them, concluding Kay must take the lady's part if he's going to carry on like that, while Crozier steps in to offer his hand to his steward.
"Reckon we can sort it out, Mr Jopson?"
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He shrugs a shoulder and allows the Scotsman to cut in. Thomas turns, fully expecting to return to his careful watch of the room, begin tidying a few things left behind in the move from their meal - but blinks up at the offered hand and the man attached to it.
"Oh. Of course, Captain," he nods his head and takes up the man's hand.
Strange, to touch him like this with all the others moving around them. Like they might see there's more to it all than just dance practice. A careful game, as always, but he can't deny the giddy thrill of his heart beating in his chest. Thomas likes the feeling of Crozier's hand on his, the warmth and familiarity of it, has to retrain his muscle memory here and now to keep from tugging him in closer than he should.
"You are daring, Captain. I don't think I'll be much better than Lieutenant Kay, but happy to take a crack at it, sir."
As if it will matter at any point in his life - dancing. Fancy parties and balls and courtship... he's meant for none of it. You're never getting married, Kay. Ah, if only McMurdo knew that it might be the other way round. The Scotsman lets out a rowdy laugh as the men stumble, as Kay protests, but it's all in good fun.
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It means even the crew belowdecks works harder, stewards jumping in to help with meals and tending to their charges even in the bitter and icy cold on deck. Jopson spends a great deal at Crozier's side when he can, but often makes sure the meals and teas are hot and fulfilling when he does come back in. A relentless few weeks of this means he's busy keeping an eye on their stock and inventory, going through things a little faster when the men are doing more labor than usual, but also using those resources to keep them healthy. They have a while yet before they return to the Queen's land.
A couple of weeks of intermittent weather and recovery and things begin to quiet again. Enough that there's more downtime between watches on deck, the ice still present but building as expected and less an onslaught. A couple of days with Crozier in the great cabin more regularly has done something to him, though. After the man's supper they sit as they used to in the quiet, each working on their own projects. A companionable silence, but when he glances up and watches the man write, or worry the bridge of his nose in thought, or - simply anything, he's suddenly very aware of their distance. The patches on his back are healed up, but he still thinks about the bruising hand at his side, the awkward press of their bodies in a bunk together, and -
"Sir, let me refill your tea. The warmth will do you some good, and a break from your paperwork."
Repairs set aside he makes up a new kettle. He gives the tea time to steep and while he waits, he tidies up the man's desk. He can't ask for attention - can't ask to feel the desperate grab of large, warm hands on his body, or the gruff voice against his neck, his mouth. Instead -
A cup of tea delivered, and just as he sets it down? A fumble, spilling the steaming beverage over the cleared space on the desk. Deliberate? Oh, heavens no, he wouldn't. (He did).
"My apologies, sir -"
But no urgent move to clean it up, instead a careful righting of the cup, and a distinct lean over the man to push some of his paperwork aside so as not to stain it.
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Jopson, as often as he hears Sir, and Captain in return. In hearing those titles, they become other endearments; it sounds quite different than how other men use them. He wonders sometimes if Jopson hears the same, from him. Something more profound. Or if Crozier simply has no knack for it. A thing he wonders about more — presently, anyway — is if his steward is quite himself today.
It's not as though he's never fumbled a cup before. The ship has, on more than one occasion, heaved herself side to side as though thrown by gods with no warning in the middle of a meal service. But the water is calm, the rock of their pace is minimal, and he's reasonable certain that the young man has been getting sleep. Perhaps he might think nothing of it if it weren't so out of character, or if he were an idiot. Owing to not being an idiot, Crozier has already detected an air of something being up.
Jopson squeezing into his personal space to lean over him and shuffle papers instead of fetching a rag is a formidable clue. It has not escaped his notice that no papers are actually in danger of being soaked anyway. A strategic spilling.
Hm. Interesting. He begins to mentally review other potential data while he lets Jopson proceed, eyebrows raised.
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A few more papers shuffled and he turns, taking the cup away to set it on the serving tray.
“Do you mind cleaning that up, sir? I’ve your mending to finish.”
Dismissive, as if he didn’t just spill steaming tea all over the desk where it spreads slowly, not far enough to spill into the man’s lap - he’s boiled it too hot for that. But the next one, yes. Absolutely.
“You’ve been difficult on your clothes with the bad weather, it’s made plenty of work for me.”
Not a real complaint, just a statement, and he fetches a tea towel and offers it out to him. If he witnessed any steward do such a thing to their charge he’d take them belowdecks and give them a scolding worthy of a high court. But this is a delicate, careful game fueled by a heat of many names.
“So long as it’s cleaned by supper, I suppose, Captain, all
should be well.”
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Cheeky.
Relentless, too. In his way. As ever. A swan so graceful on the surface, even while being a prick; Crozier wonders how fast his feet are paddling beneath the water. If he's nervous, or just excited. He thinks of their talk of trust, and how much this must be leaning on it, to believe Crozier won't simply send him away. Somehow that's as arousing as the prospect of taking him in hand for this display of disrespect.
"You are a capable steward," he says, pointedly calm. "You are well equipped to do all the work set out for you, and more. If you've come to the point of strain, then by necessity I've come to the point of suspicion."
Crozier pushes himself to his feet. He does not accept the tea towel.
"Clean it up and then show me your mending. I'm not sure I believe you're doing it correctly, in your state."
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At least there's still light, a prayer that doesn't last. Night does not find them, but weather does. Fog and mist so thick it may as well be night, blanketing them in a smothering, black blanket, broken up by beams of sickly light from the sun, or bounced off great frozen formations. Erebus sways ahead of them, marked by lanterns hung in the windows of her great cabin— when they can see Erebus at all. Sometimes there's not but inky darkness ahead of them, sometimes fog like reams of cotton. Crozier leans over the bow and sees barely a seam of dark water rush by them.
Some men are on edge. Some, like Crozier and other more experienced seamen, aren't quite— but very, very alert. He's on deck more often than not, and the crew is hushed; men shout orders down the line, calls of Steady on lads, head's up, in between.
"Haunting," says Crozier, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat. "That's the word for it."
Robertson agrees. The man's been sketching, or trying to. Not the best artist on board but competent, particularly with diagrams. Currently, his sketchboard is wedged under an armpit, clutching the warm drink brought up to them. He nods his thanks for Jopson, though his expression is chagrined. Difficult not to be put ill at ease by these circumstances.
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Jopson spends most of his time up on deck alongside Crozier, seeing him and others looked after, keeping the other stewards focused on more than their designated officers. Keeping the crew's spirits warm and comforted is as much their job as it is anyone's. Thus, he's delivered warm, simple tea to the men in the Captain's council, giving Roberston a small nod.
"It is, sir," he says, turning to Crozier and offering him the last cup of steaming tea, even if it's only for a sip or two. "I've not seen anything like this before in my short time at sea - do you require anything, sir?"
He has so many questions but knows now isn't the time for curiosities - not when tensions are high and the men so sharply focused.
"I've worked with the cook to get meals brought up for all the men on deck - even if it's something small until the fog passes us, Captain."
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"I'm fine, thank you," is what he says a moment after, returning to the conversation though his gaze remains, pointlessly, ahead of them. Now and again he hears the echoing chime of a bell from Erebus, a single note to signal all is well— but if he'd have his way, at this point he'd tell them to stop. Sound reflects as madly as light in these atmospheric mazes. But he knows Ross will come to the same conclusion, soon, no doubt struggling to discern what's a bell from Terror and what's an echo of their own.
A nod for Jopson.
"Keep the hatches and hallways clear."
It's not strictly regulation (or strictly safe) to be serving half-meals on deck, but it's better than the distraction of a shift change. Rotating a few men out at a time on staggered schedules is playing hell on routines, but every officer is up maintaining order to balance it out. He's well aware of the gloomy looks through portholes and cannon slots, as mystified as they are up here, seeing nothing but depthless darkness.
He sips his tea, only has to grab a rail once. Robertson gives up before the rest of them do, and eventually Crozier sends Jopson back below as well. He follows suit not long after, but in the end, he just dozes for a while in the great cabin on the bench, Phillips in a hammock nearby, the both of them fully clothed. Three hours is all he permits himself, and is taking tea while hearing an update from McMurdo thereafter.
Eerie, all of it.
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Makes up hot tea for Crozier and Phillips both, brings round a few spare quilts for them. A sleepless night for all, no doubt. Jopson stays up in his berth, a book in his lap, listening to the way the ship groans and creaks, the presence of the other officers and sailors all but imperceptible in the eerie quiet.
A few hours and he's back at it, unable to rest or settle with the Captain on edge, and he fills up the man's tea cup, gives a small nod to McMurdo who declines a cup for himself.
"The men seem to think we'll pass straight on through no trouble," McMurdo says, but it's obvious there's doubt in his voice. "Some of them are too green around the gills to know the dangers."
The ship lurches to one side then bobs back, Jopson stumbles for his footing. "She's unsteady tonight, sir," Jopson murmurs, looking up toward the deck from the great cabin as though he could peer through and see what comes of the noise.
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Crozier is only a little drunk, but McMurdo and the good doctor are plastered beyond reasonable behavior, and the rest of the officers (and a few mates) are teetering on one line or the other. Stupid of them all, this is more the sort of thing Jamie permits, rarely Crozier, ever cautioning while the other man is leaping off the edge of something.
But they are in good spirits. (Hah.) Card games, some dancing pointers. Terror is more or less upright, and so climbing up back on deck to indulge in fresh, cold air isn't as much of an ordeal as it was a week ago. Almost dark out now— sun dogs blinking in between lines of black water and purple sky, winter threatening them. In three days they'll start breaking the ice with powder again.
"If I were anyone else you'd have started me," he says, before Jopson can say anything. Crozier hasn't seen him; just knows that it's him behind his shoulder, which he looks over to spy him. "Should put a bell on you."
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Terror comes to life with a bit of drink and relief, and tonight appears to be no different. He'd tried to remain quietly on the sidelines when the officers took to drink with the Captain, carefully doling out whisky to each of the men and giving the Captain a hair more, of course. Cards and laughter and dancing - Jopson contented himself to watch over all carefully until the second round brought McMurdo upon him, insisting he relax.
And so he has, with a little bit of warmth in his belly and blood, he's climbed abovedecks to stand beside Crozier.
"I would wake McMurdo - he's at your desk snoring as we speak, sir."
He steps up to the taffrail, leans his hands upon it and peers out at the changing sky and the dark water. "I could sing the tune they've started belowdecks if you'd like - so as not to start you at the next turn, sir."
Whisky's gone and made him a little more cheeky, but relaxed - relaxed in a way he doesn't often allow himself to be in the midst of everything.
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Drool and snot in the shape of a man's cheek. No doubt he'll find himself in braids and bows, something to wince over as he works off the headache tomorrow from sickbay. McMurdo has worked harder than any lieutenant he's ever known, though — harder and better than himself at that age, Crozier is sure, the young man has an edge for this line of work like few others — and so he deserves the break in composure.
Jopson, though. Just a little looser, he thinks. Crozier smiles, his expression lopsided and genuine.
"A singing voice, on top of the rest?"
His steward can do it all.
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"Trust me, I will never be the first to offer up any note - I'll leave that to the sailors and officers first and foremost, Captain. Admittedly singing on my way up to the deck might scare you as well, but in a different manner altogether."
Jopson huffs softly, bolstered by the warmth in that lopsided smile. A warm and pleasantly drifting part of his mind wants to kiss that smile - taste it on his own lips and keep memory of it close. He doesn't - remains instead at the rail, turning to lean his back to the wood instead so he's facing the older man.
"So a bell may be the only option after all."
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