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."
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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."