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.
"Better they keep their spirits up," Crozier says to McMurdo. "Leave the worrying to us."
The lieutenant humphs at that, and Francis understands; it's in his nature to be skeptical, too. But fear can be crippling. If something happens, best to respond to it without any existing weights dragging them down. He reaches out to get Jopson by the elbow with one hand when they lurch, tea somehow surviving as he holds the cup nearly sideways for a moment. Another swallow of it before he passes it back to his steward. Thoughtful, but it seems to be tempting fate.
"Below with you."
Understanding the order (or preempting it, either way: he's right), McMurdo turns and bellows out to keep the crew slim and wide awake on deck. Crozier taps Jopson's side, a silent thanks, before Terror sways again. Everyone grabs something, freezing water splashes up on deck. Calls back and forth, no men lost, but the psychic order McMurdo understood is that it's too bloody dangerous and the risk of losing men overboard is very real, right now.
No visibility. Water cold enough to kill. They'd be gone, in an instant.
As the ship passes through the spiderweb of icebergs and plaques of ice, he wonders how these men get used to navigating and coming out in one piece. On his previous ship the worst that would get them (and it could be quite bad) was a storm or two, but tossing and turning feels less tumultuous on an open sea. This? The respect for his Captains and their crew grows insurmountably.
Righting himself after the turn of the ship, he takes Crozier's cup with a nod. Belowdecks, of course, even if everything in his gut tells him to stay at the Captain's side. He barely makes it down the ladder when someone on the other side of the deck calls out. He can't make it out entirely, but among the sudden noise and chaos on deck he's sure he hears the word Erebus.
Struck, perhaps, by ice? Flagging in the ice?
The sound of ice shifting on the water, smashing edge to edge, and Jopson steps back up just in time to hold onto the stair rail as the ship takes another lurch.
"Captain?"
Jamie Ross on the other ship - the ship whose name he hears called over the din of seamen suddenly working furiously on deck - and his stomach sinks. Unseen by his eyes, Erebus showing her sails in the fog, and making a treacherous turn.
They've been winding in sails for a while now, cautious about speed. The current, though, unpredictable in these ever-shifting channels, is pushing them along whether they like it or not. At first it's surreal to hear the name— Erebus, whose mysterious presence they only hope they're following. Crozier has thought, privately, that if this passageway is wider than they think, bits and pieces of her (and her crew) could be floating past them, unseen.
He doesn't respond to Jopson. He's already shouting an order to turn them. Doesn't need to see the turn, he can tell by how what little he can see of Erebus how she's moving and what must be forcing it. Terror lurches. Anchor drops. It is a sudden off-key orchestral swell of men shouting, wood protesting, weather doing abysmal haunting things, the rush of cold, unbearable water.
She is practically sideways, a great crunch, a sound Crozier's only heard twice before, the tip of a mast hitting ice. Terror tips, and tips further, and there are men pinned to the rail as water comes on. But then all at once she's righting herself, a riot of men and objects being thrown with the change, and they are slowing. Slowing and Erebus is out of sight around a bend, and every line and post aboard Terror rattles like a loose tooth.
Crozier has hold of a rope. Pulling, like everyone still conscious is pulling, on something. To navigate, to keep from sliding away into black water. The ship breathes but they have no time for it; they have to pull the anchor back up so they don't end up dragged, they have to make sure they do it in enough time to not lose Erebus but not run into her either.
What are the odds.
The turn looms. Sharp. A hairpin. Crozier has blood on his face from some log-sized splinter hitting him, his hat has vanished. Focused entirely on sailing now. McMurdo is hollering with his head stuck in a port to pull the second shift up as they send down injured, double time, triple time if you please.
Jopson has weathered storms aboard a ship before but this is something different - the splintering sound of wood and ice and the way the ship nearly tips to her side makes his stomach leap up into his throat. He tumbles back against the opposite end of the ladder, clinging to the railing even if it's knocked the wind right out his chest. The sounds of water, screaming men, orders in the fray, and Crozier's voice - serious but clarion in the swell of noise.
No doubt he's bruised something, and he'll have a goose egg at his temple somewhere, but it doesn't matter. There's blood on Crozier's face and when the ship rights itself a flurry of officers begin to move or shuffle men toward the very ladder he's spread out on. Standing in a mess of motion he moves to assist getting the injured and wounded belowdecks, calling sharp for Robertson as he does so.
"I'll assist them down - I'll gather you and Lyall extra towels and whisky."
Not that it's his job, necessarily, but this is where he can be of use even if he knows his heart wants to be out there alongside his Captain. It isn't where he's meant to be, though - this is better off, and where he can help so the other seamen can attend to sailoring in the way Crozier needs more than anything just now.
The groan and crack of rope, the scrape of their anchor - he hears it all belowdecks well as he helps a mate with a bloodied face into a chair, wraps up others in furs and quilts, assists men out of too-wet clothes from the bitterly cold sea. No time for his own bumps and bruises, no - he helps organize the injured from the well.
None of the men seem to be able to tell them what they struck - ice, most likely, packed in and moving with a furious arctic chill. He steps back out to deck just in time to receive another injured man, this one barely able to walk for how delirious he is. Jopson sends the deckhand back to his duties and instead takes up his place under the man's arm, hoisting him up and slowly helping him toward the stairs just as the ship approaches the turn he's not yet laid eyes on.
On a knife's edge between crisis averted and crisis incoming. He has to hope they're veering towards the latter, but can't shake a feeling; half the men are sighing with relief even in the chaos, half are on edge, braced for the next shoe to drop. Crozier threads between.
The effort to stabilize the ship is a strenuous one, but it must be done faster than is humanly possible to manage the turn— here the service shines. Men spurred on by orders alone, being moved to incredible action by force of will, a unit together. Those below get a few minutes' warning is all before the turn, as men of the third shift scramble out of badly jostled hammocks and into uniforms, and the galley douses the oven fire and hammers shut every cabinet.
Like a carriage making a turn. A ship can move this way, is built to withstand it with the right handling, but there is little right handling of such a situation. Crozier ignores his heartbeat in his ears, practically ringing with it, like a blacksmith at nails. They could be sailing into a dead end. They could be sailing into Erebus. There could be a vortex, there could be a bloody whale about to detonate. Anything.
A barked order that runs across the deck and then below it, daisychained—
Quiet.
Vital communications only. They must strain over the wind and rushing water.
In the distance, something like a chime. A hiss from a man that he's not sure if it's a real sound or just his head spinning. Phillips is shoving his feet into his boots, meanwhile, his own head spinning from his hammock collapsing.
Above and belowdecks burst to life, but it's a controlled and orderly sort - all the men moving like the cogs of one of their engines, fitting and slotting together into their roles, taking up slack in areas where it's needed. Thomas has always respected sailors and seamen for their diligence and skill when it matters most.
He does his part, making sure any of the injured are settled somewhere they can either hold on or won't be tossed into something dangerous. The minutes they have for this preparation feel too slow and too fast all at once. Sure that the galley has the hands they need to hammer cabinets and doors shut, he hurries to much of the same for the great cabin and the Captain's berth. A strange job, his, where he is needed everywhere and nowhere in a moment like this. He secures one of the last cupboards and takes back to the entrance to the quarterdeck.
Here he can receive any orders that trickle down from the Captain himself, but also help catch any and all who might be moving above and below. He grabs at one of the younger sailors on third shift, helping him into a sleeve of his coat as he fumbles into it on his way up, sleepy-eyed but determined to do his part. Phillips next, in fact, where Jopson helps him dress with a mechanical familiarity from dressing the Captain, but their commander deserves to have all his officers up top where he needs them most. Even the navymen have gone to their posts.
But the order comes - quiet - and just as there was orderly chaos before by way of strong men grumbling and grunting and shouting at one another, it goes deathly silent. Jopson can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, the occasional cough or groan from one of the injured, but not knowing what the men up on the rail see makes the quiet that much more terrifying.
What waits for them around the bend in the fog and mist?
There's a muttering from one of the lieutenants he can't make out, Kay maybe, as he comes up to the Captain's side in spray as they approach the bend.
"We should see her, Captain," Kay murmurs. Erebus.
not helpful, and so Crozier doesn't say it. He knows, is the thing. They should see her. Erebus was close, close enough to reach out and touch (close is horrible), and now she's gone again as they nearly spin, a fishtail move that's going to blow the rudder. It had better blow the rudder, because if it doesn't, then they're going to slam into a wall of ice and wreck. Better Terror have bits sheared off than go to pieces entirely.
The anchor is useless at this stage. Nothing to catch on, and the turn makes the ballooning weight nothing beside a strange tail limping after them. When they right the ship they don't hit anything, and Crozier wonders if he's broken his wrist from wrenching. But he can't think of it now.
It happens all of a sudden, like a collective gasp.
The chime is Erebus, a frantic bell, the sound of it being warped by the auditory reflective surfaces of ice and water. She hasn't managed the turn as well as Terror, has slowed more than them, and the outline of her is a strange, gray creature looming over them. A void, jaws open. Until it's the ship.
That Terror is managing the turn better is both the reason that they hit the other ship, and the reason they don't sink the other ship. No time for warning, Kay's shout cut off like someone's struck him in the throat. Crozier feels like he's been grazed by a cannonball the impact is so profound, and only realizes a moment after it's happened that the ship has torqued upward and he's laying flat on his back on the deck.
Only there for a second, on his feet and moving before his brain catches up to him. Not too long a gap, fortunately, but he's too busy calculating how they're going to get out of this without sinking to be alarmed by Phillips in his nightshirt and boots with half a coat on.
Phillips on his way, Jopson turns back belowdecks to begin helping Dr. Roberts secure some of his patients, but he barely makes it when the ship rocks sickening and defying everything his body knows a ship should do. There's no thought as he loses his footing, catches one of the other men on their way up to deck, nothing but a crash and inelegant tangle of limbs. The officer gets back to his feet, stunned, but Jopson waves him off, sends him back up to deck even if the air has knocked completely free from his chest.
The sound like the crack of lightning in a storm, but worse. Unnatural and wrong in all ways. The chime from earlier, the sound of splintering wood, the scream of men abovedecks. Dizzied by the impact he slowly climbs back to his feet, bracing himself on a wall and turning to look back at the other men in the sick berth and just outside it. Roberts helping, though looking dazed and concerned himself.
We've hit her, Captain!
A wail from above somewhere in the chaos of it all and ice cold fear plummets through his veins. In the middle of a frigid sea and they've struck Erebus? A handful of the deckhands swarm below checking for water, leaks, any such thing as the boat tips and rocks, the waves making a toy of Terror in the fray. Nothing yet, and that is good news.
There's no treating of any of their injured when the ship might tip again or thrash about in the ice, and though he knows his place would be among them he can't help but reach for his own overthings and move up to the deck. He'll be told off for it, but a panicked thing deep in his gut won't let him go without seeing the Captain in one piece, and to look out and see Erebus.
It's horrifying, the ship close, the bell tolling, and he has to put every thought of Jamie away in some locked place in the back of his mind for now.
"Roberts is moving the wounded to berths, and the men below haven't seen any sign she's taking on water yet, sir."
There's noise somewhere beyond their own chaos - the sound of Erebus and her crew, and the sick sound of splintering wood overhead.
Crozier is scrambling his way forward, any possible forward, to try and see — yes quite clearly we've hit her, good grief, lad — exactly the shape of the collision. He has to make a decision in an instant, so he has to understand in an instant. A lurch in his stomach that has nothing to do with the disaster at hand.
A lieutenant for that long, it can't just be because of where he was born, maybe he really isn't cut out for this. Is he going to be able to make a decision.
Sick and awful, the sound that reaches him, when a seaman crashes to the deck, slipped free from the rigging. Jopson is beside him, but Jopson wasn't in the ropes. Did not fall and shatter himself. Or any other damned thing. For a heartbeat Crozier looks dazed, but then he's grabbing his steward by the elbow and moving him towards the watchmate who's hauling himself up despite a clearly broken arm.
"We have to push forward," he says. "Get clear of it, and get the icebreakers."
An instant. Erebus had turned to miss an iceberg, he can see that much, or infer it from what he can see. A great cracking sound. They're still tipped a bad way, and Erebus is swaying more now too, both ships crunched, and becoming lodged by the masts.
He shouts orders. Cut them free as best they can, get the oars and the battering posts, shove them away from the other ship and follow the current, and ready the mortar. There's bad ice ahead, and not enough room for them to pass through.
A hand at his elbow, the serious drop of Crozier's brow, the look in his eyes - they are all simply machines right now, working to free the dangerous clash of their ships and the ice. He's unable to tell if the bell and the sound comes from their own decks or Erebus, but it doesn't much matter. Jopson will fill any gap that Crozier has.
"Understood, sir, I'll get the men to it," he nods with little else to say and rushes to the watchmate. Pressure is nothing, his brain turning to work only and he does exactly what he says - finds lieutenants, communicate the Captain's orders. No one blinks an eye at Jopson delivering it himself, only they turn in their place and start about their tasks. Thick pieces of iron and steel, picks, posts - anything and everything to help tear the ships apart in the icy water.
Jopson sees the injured man belowdecks to Roberts and his apprentice, then hauls back up on deck. He should stay below, a steward's place is out of the way, but instead he starts in with one of the mates on cutting loose rigging at the deck to try and free the tangle of the two great ships. In the din of panic and chaos and water and deafening crunching, he's sure he hears Jamie's voice, his orders, clarion in the mis.
"Captain, we've freed the mizzen," he shouts over his shoulder to Crozier as one rope freed gives Terror leeway to move a tiny bit, righting her decks. A warning, so the man doesn't fall again. Other officers swarm the deck - some prying at their ships to create distance, and Jopson soon joins up, adding his muscle to the effort.
There's ice to chip at, the hull to inspect, the masts to free, the ships to separate and yet - Jopson feels nothing but cold air and icy seaspray as they begin to try and bolster Terror against her flagship.
Hard graft, everyone is wet and freezing and bruised (worse than bruised in too many cases), but they free Terror from Erebus. They shudder unevenly past the flagship, followed by minutes — mere minutes, that speed past while feeling to take an eternity at once — of rigging work done at breakneck speed. The whaleboats must be dropped and manned even as they load the mortar, and it's an ill feeling to know that the sailors scrambling into them with ropes and oars are potentially safer than those who remain on Terror, despite the fact that they'll shortly be ducking to avoid blowback from shelling the ice.
Crozier bellows a count to brace and cover ears. Three, two, one, it goes.
Alien and unsettling to have such a thing on a ship. Could science not be used for something less ruinous. A thought he's had before, the first time he ever saw one go; did cannons need such enhancements?
Apparently so. The iceberg would have crushed them together, and as it is now, Terror holds fast against any recoil of firing, and maintains her limping float despite the disturbance to the water. The small boats surge forward, rowing, pulling, critical to get clear of Erebus to let her maneuver. A raft is cobbled together and thrown off the back, lit by throwing a torch at it. A primitive brazier with a wobbly cauldron of oil, a lighthouse for Captain Ross.
If indeed Captain Ross has not been crushed by something, or drowned, or felled by a head injury.
(But he would feel it, wouldn't he? He would know—)
A wretched shuddering through the cruelly cold water. Rigging and sail and bits of spindle rain down, sawed free. The rudder is lost, and Crozier must split his time between hollering communications through a horn at the men in the small boats, and organizing the stabilization of the ship herself. But if they find themselves enclosed properly, they will die anyway.
A delicate matter all of this - one wrong move will see the ship crushed or trapped, will see Erebus brought to her knees in the water even more than they already are. The crunch of masts and snapping of ropes echo among the shouts of men and the Captain at the horn. There are a million worries to be had and suffer under but there's no time.
The ship has to come back to sorts, Erebus needs freedom to move, and Terror must limp her way in the water and pack ice. Jopson sends the injured below as they come to light and otherwise stays with the men bolstering the ship against the ice, helping sweep any fractured pieces of it from the deck and away from the small boats helping pull them below. They slip over one another - a tangle of bruised and sore bodies, hauling one another up as Terror slowly pulls free and makes room.
It's slow, or it certainly feels that way in the mist and the dark, but the makeshift brazier behind does something to inspire the men and everyone buckles down, works harder, faster. Another mortar shell, another splinter of ice, and one of their fractured arbors breaking loose of its trap in the ice, and miraculously coming out without shattering.
There are shouts coming from the mist - Erebus, no doubt - the whistle of a shipmaster signaling something. Movement? Freedom? Hard to say, but the sound of rushing water and the call of the men back into the dark seems to bring with it a new energy. Another whistle - shrill and high. Erebus sails, still, and is making her way into more open water in the treacherous cold.
Hours pass in these conditions. Each minute, laboring under extreme strain and even more extreme precision. At the first sign of open water, Crozier has an odd, bleak thought, old nonsense beliefs about the world being flat. Perhaps they're about to tip right over the edge, having in their hubris slipped past a natural safety barrier.
Crozier and McMurdo huddle at the bow to navigate the complete unknown, until they determine they're in a sound or something smaller; if they are unlucky, a dead end of an inlet, but if luck is on their side, then a it may be a sheltered bay of some kind. The persistent loom of the ice shelf is like a line drawn around reality, almost like an amateur cartoon. Iceblinks bouncing off of its glassy texture tempt disorientation, but he'll have none of it.
The whaleboats quest to discover how far from shore they are, if indeed there is a shore, and not just vertical sheets of ice. Terror slows, and finally anchored properly. Clear of immediate obstacle, they must hunker down, and not court further danger by trying to forge ahead without visibility or reconnaissance. They feed their bonfire tail, and continue to ring the bell like a lighthouse, until the small boats return, and Erebus, tilted a third of the way onto her side and missing her mast, manifests from the mist.
She, too, anchors, and there is word from the boats: shore.
Shore. Messages passed back and forth over misty, icy seas, small boats paddling their way ahead, forging a path for them. Shore. Forging ahead is a slow and careful thing, Terror limping alongside Erebus, guiding her to some modicum of safety. A cove they carefully navigate, where the two ships can nestle and anchor safely - no chance of washing out into the ice, no chance of dangerous winds or weather sweeping them up. They can wait out the mist here, let their hearts settle and take count of the damages.
Once the deck is secured and there's word from Erebus that their commander and captain is safe, some calm befalls them. He'd like to see Jamie with his own two eyes, and not trust that the shadow in the mist or the shout from the deck was the man who held him tenderly out on the ice at Aether. No, it's not his place to wait and listen for the small boats to drift back and forth with messages and plans. The coming of light in the morn
There's work to be done, though - and he helps with the onslaught of wounded and injured, tends to the men who just need something warm to eat to revitalize them, checks over all things in their inventory and pulls out the stronger stuff for them to drink. The men deserve it, he thinks, and he'll happily accept any reprimand later should there be need for one.
He finds Crozier on the deck after a few many rounds to different posts on the ship.
"Sir... if you'd prefer to stay on deck in lieu of sleep, at least allow me to bring you a hot meal?"
It makes sense that there's much to do, planning and contingencies and head counts and so much more. But he won't see this man run into the ice himself for it.
"I understand from McMurdo much is to be held until morning to give the men time to reset, sir?"
Jopson ever risking his hide over alcohol it seems. (Foreshadowing is a literary device????) But Crozier barely notices; can't afford to. The men do deserve it, anyway. Dr Robertson finds him when he goes below to survey damage, they share shots of something that burns awfully, and are helpless to do anything but laugh about it. The surgeon gave it to him, it's fine.
It's been hours since then when Jopson finds him, and Crozier nearly startles when he thinks of how long he's gone without so much as sitting down. All of a sudden everything hurts. He might be annoyed if it wasn't so considerate— and if he wasn't grateful for the opportunity to see his steward (his lover), and evaluate for himself how he seems to have fared. A boon he's been all along, and Crozier isn't taking him for granted; not his service, not his survival.
Jamie, allegedly, is fine. Thomas is too, and he can ask for nothing more.
"Aye," sounds creakier than he'd like. "Catch our breath. You can bring me coffee tea, if there's any, and something I can hold without any fuss. If you've eaten already."
Hours still and Jopson does not let himself feel any of the bumps, bruises, or scrapes he's sure he has beneath thick wool and canvas. Every man here will have some kind of ailment once things are truly, properly calm. He reaches for Crozier's elbow reflexively, almost half expecting a startle but simply squeezes it and drops his hands back to his side.
"Would you humor me and take your meal in the great cabin, sir? I think a moment out of the cold will do you some good. We've been cycling the men as well so no one is worn too thin before morning when repairs begin, sir."
Missing the point, really, but a protective, careful thing in him wants to drag the man downstairs and look him over for any signs of duress. Sure, the surgeon would have noted anything worthwhile in passing, but he can't shake it.
"I've not eaten yet myself, but I certainly will once I return belowdecks, sir."
A small smile, a nod. Someone passes by and claps Jopson on the shoulder, grunting something like gratitude before heading off to the bow. He's been present for much of their company tonight, whether bringing food or water, bringing men to the sick berth, bringing supplies or jumping in to haul wood or iron or ice. It's all been a lot, but it means he's able to stand here across from his Captain (his lover) and see him whole.
He thinks of it, suddenly: going below, sitting in the private great cabin, the place where they spend so many in-between hours in each other's comfortable company. Oft silent, working on their respective tasks, but speaking too, about books, about sailing, about nothings. And other things, held close in memory.
But it's a madhouse below, he knows that. He's given permission for it to be used as a staging area for at least two different operations that are struggling to find room without being underfoot somewhere else, and there will be no quiet break from action. Still. He offers Jopson a small, tired, but honest smile. Touched by it, given strength in this frantic time.
"It may well be cramped," he says, sounding apologetic. "Bring something up. If I sit down I risk being unable to get back on my feet anyway—" a rough sigh, shaking off any creeping exhaustion. "Can't yet."
Maybe not until he's set his own eyes on Captain Ross. Or passes out. Whichever comes first.
Jopson squashes any disappointment he might have felt under any other circumstances and gives the man an understanding nod. There are things to do, still, even when the air is quieter than it had been half an hour before in the chaos of crashing ships and ice. There are jobs to do, always, and he finds himself surprised to feel as though they should all set jobs aside for a moment of time and be men, humans. He shrugs that off faster than anything for now.
"Of course, Captain. I'll bring tea and food up immediately - should I bring anything for the others, sir?"
As if he's not already started to before this moment, but back to business all the same. Once dismissed he returns belowdecks, making up tea (a few kettles in fact for some of the officers at the operations tables, gives firm instruction to the other stewards to help in other places as well), and gathering up some bread, butter, salted meats to make a quick sandwich of sorts. Not elegant, but something.
He returns to the captain's side offering the mug of warm tea, first - nothing extra added to it, but made exactly as the man prefers it, instead.
"I've the other stewards making sure all the men are being seen to, not just their respective officers, sir. If you require anything of them, they await your orders as always, Captain."
Crozier watches him over the rim of the teacup. A small, easily overlooked upside to being somewhere too cold for true human life: one needn't wait for tea to reach palatable temperature. It cools so rapidly here on deck, he doesn't hesitate, no fear of burning his mouth.
"I know you're seeing to them."
A luxury to have Jopson. An excellent steward, and an excellent adjutant. Crozier can trust him thoroughly to be doing exactly what needs to be done, even if it's mad, even if it's beyond the scope of his regular work. Which of course is what's being asked of everyone now, and they are all performing superbly. And yet in the midst of that Jopson is unique, because he has the least expectation on him.
He wishes—
Not now.
"Eat something. Those are my orders. If you faint, what am I to do, Jopson?"
Jopson's expression warms when Crozier drinks from the tea - always a pleasure to see him caring for himself, enjoying something he's made, however small. It's nice to see him even the tiniest bit more relaxed than the past few hours, even if Thomas can see the pain and the weariness and the worry in the pale of his eyes.
"Bold of you to think I brought you and you alone something to eat, sir," a quiet jab but a friendly one, as he offers out the haphazard sandwich wrapped in paper and pulls another from the pocket of his coat for himself. Smaller, simpler - he doesn't need the kind of fuel that the Captain does for nights like this, but food all the same.
"I would hate to faint on the deck, sir, I think the men would find it too befitting of a steward and send me off to my very comfortable bed."
He can light the wick of his humor at least in the darkness of all this - and unwraps the sandwich for Crozier first and handing it off before doing the same for his own. It's not especially fancy, but it's food and the first bite reminds him how hungry he actually is. Damn the man for being right.
"I can fetch you more tea in a moment - I know it will go cold before too long, sir."
Someday, the sight of Jopson choosing to eat less will come back to haunt him in the worst of ways. As it is for now, he simply notes it as something to be repaid with pressed generosity when they're on land. He has little to offer here and now besides doing just this, nagging at him.
"You're the least likely person to faint," he concedes. He suspects the men know that too, by now. Between the mettle Jopson's displayed over the course of this voyage and the reveal of the scars on his back, he has sailed far from the reputation of a 'mere' steward. As if anyone in this line of work is not made from tougher stuff in the first place, no matter their station. But there are degrees, and Jopson has far exceeded the ones anticipated of him.
Terror sways, gently sometimes, but damage makes her uneven. A dip now and then, and everyone has to shift his weight, grab hold of something. At least it's slow, and they've allgot their sea legs.
"This'll do."
Not in a hurry to court having to piss.
"When we're stable enough I'm to take a gig to Erebus." Finally, this bit of news. "A report on the incident must get underway. You'll need to round up the carpenters, see who can be spared. She's in a worse way than us with more injuries besides. I'm sending Roberston to set up a triage as soon as camp's been made viable enough."
News, yes. The idea of Crozier leaving Terror and being out from under his care after the harrowing events of the evening pulls at something in him. Worry, most likely, that the Captain needs seeing to, but Jamie may need seeing to as well. Perhaps they can find comfort in one another amidst their planning.
"I'll ready your things so there's little to do but grab them and go when the gig is set to row off, sir. Once we've finished these sandwiches I'll get a list of the carpenters to take and find a handful of those able to assist Roberston when the time comes, Captain."
A bite of his sandwich, thoughtfully quiet. Both ships uneven and damaged in the icy night, and even now, more work to be done still.
"Will you be returning to Terror to rest, or will you remain aboard Erebus, sir? Just so I can make the proper arrangements, of course."
There's a letter he wants to send off to Jamie for one, but he doesn't want to waste his time setting up the Captain's quarters for a short but comfortable sleep if he will stay on the flagship, among other things.
Crozier does not want to be away from the ship — Terror seems to have knitted herself somewhere deep in his heart by now, and it feels wrong, on top of a general disinclination to leave Jopson fretting — but he doesn't have the luxury of bucking orders. It's not his expedition, it's Ross', and he has a very serious report to make about this dire incident.
"I'll be back here."
Which is another double-edged thing. Getting to return, but having to leave Jamie. Nevertheless, he'll carry on. They all will. Nearly finished with his sandwich when Phillips (fully dressed) appears, and Crozier goes into his plans in more detail; the lieutenant will be staying aboard, in charge, with the rest of the officers sent ashore in staggered shifts, barring McMurdo who will be attending the meeting with Ross.
The actual report writing is a haphazard thing, written as a series of lists (bullet points to describe the series of events, bullet points to describe the damage, bullet points to detail injuries) in a spare ledger, which Crozier has to drag around with him and write in while trying not to get ink everywhere. Burning through blotting paper as quick as spare rope.
"Behave," is the final instruction, which gets a chuckle out of a few. Crozier does run a tighter ship than Ross.
This bit, he thinks, will make for fine letters written back home; getting into a whaleboat from a ship threatening to sink in poor visibility (at least the wind has settled down) is the sort of event to send non-sailors into a tailspin of anxiety. But Crozier has enough life left in his knees to make it easily.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
The lieutenant humphs at that, and Francis understands; it's in his nature to be skeptical, too. But fear can be crippling. If something happens, best to respond to it without any existing weights dragging them down. He reaches out to get Jopson by the elbow with one hand when they lurch, tea somehow surviving as he holds the cup nearly sideways for a moment. Another swallow of it before he passes it back to his steward. Thoughtful, but it seems to be tempting fate.
"Below with you."
Understanding the order (or preempting it, either way: he's right), McMurdo turns and bellows out to keep the crew slim and wide awake on deck. Crozier taps Jopson's side, a silent thanks, before Terror sways again. Everyone grabs something, freezing water splashes up on deck. Calls back and forth, no men lost, but the psychic order McMurdo understood is that it's too bloody dangerous and the risk of losing men overboard is very real, right now.
No visibility. Water cold enough to kill. They'd be gone, in an instant.
no subject
Righting himself after the turn of the ship, he takes Crozier's cup with a nod. Belowdecks, of course, even if everything in his gut tells him to stay at the Captain's side. He barely makes it down the ladder when someone on the other side of the deck calls out. He can't make it out entirely, but among the sudden noise and chaos on deck he's sure he hears the word Erebus.
Struck, perhaps, by ice? Flagging in the ice?
The sound of ice shifting on the water, smashing edge to edge, and Jopson steps back up just in time to hold onto the stair rail as the ship takes another lurch.
"Captain?"
Jamie Ross on the other ship - the ship whose name he hears called over the din of seamen suddenly working furiously on deck - and his stomach sinks. Unseen by his eyes, Erebus showing her sails in the fog, and making a treacherous turn.
no subject
He doesn't respond to Jopson. He's already shouting an order to turn them. Doesn't need to see the turn, he can tell by how what little he can see of Erebus how she's moving and what must be forcing it. Terror lurches. Anchor drops. It is a sudden off-key orchestral swell of men shouting, wood protesting, weather doing abysmal haunting things, the rush of cold, unbearable water.
She is practically sideways, a great crunch, a sound Crozier's only heard twice before, the tip of a mast hitting ice. Terror tips, and tips further, and there are men pinned to the rail as water comes on. But then all at once she's righting herself, a riot of men and objects being thrown with the change, and they are slowing. Slowing and Erebus is out of sight around a bend, and every line and post aboard Terror rattles like a loose tooth.
Crozier has hold of a rope. Pulling, like everyone still conscious is pulling, on something. To navigate, to keep from sliding away into black water. The ship breathes but they have no time for it; they have to pull the anchor back up so they don't end up dragged, they have to make sure they do it in enough time to not lose Erebus but not run into her either.
What are the odds.
The turn looms. Sharp. A hairpin. Crozier has blood on his face from some log-sized splinter hitting him, his hat has vanished. Focused entirely on sailing now. McMurdo is hollering with his head stuck in a port to pull the second shift up as they send down injured, double time, triple time if you please.
no subject
No doubt he's bruised something, and he'll have a goose egg at his temple somewhere, but it doesn't matter. There's blood on Crozier's face and when the ship rights itself a flurry of officers begin to move or shuffle men toward the very ladder he's spread out on. Standing in a mess of motion he moves to assist getting the injured and wounded belowdecks, calling sharp for Robertson as he does so.
"I'll assist them down - I'll gather you and Lyall extra towels and whisky."
Not that it's his job, necessarily, but this is where he can be of use even if he knows his heart wants to be out there alongside his Captain. It isn't where he's meant to be, though - this is better off, and where he can help so the other seamen can attend to sailoring in the way Crozier needs more than anything just now.
The groan and crack of rope, the scrape of their anchor - he hears it all belowdecks well as he helps a mate with a bloodied face into a chair, wraps up others in furs and quilts, assists men out of too-wet clothes from the bitterly cold sea. No time for his own bumps and bruises, no - he helps organize the injured from the well.
None of the men seem to be able to tell them what they struck - ice, most likely, packed in and moving with a furious arctic chill. He steps back out to deck just in time to receive another injured man, this one barely able to walk for how delirious he is. Jopson sends the deckhand back to his duties and instead takes up his place under the man's arm, hoisting him up and slowly helping him toward the stairs just as the ship approaches the turn he's not yet laid eyes on.
no subject
The effort to stabilize the ship is a strenuous one, but it must be done faster than is humanly possible to manage the turn— here the service shines. Men spurred on by orders alone, being moved to incredible action by force of will, a unit together. Those below get a few minutes' warning is all before the turn, as men of the third shift scramble out of badly jostled hammocks and into uniforms, and the galley douses the oven fire and hammers shut every cabinet.
Like a carriage making a turn. A ship can move this way, is built to withstand it with the right handling, but there is little right handling of such a situation. Crozier ignores his heartbeat in his ears, practically ringing with it, like a blacksmith at nails. They could be sailing into a dead end. They could be sailing into Erebus. There could be a vortex, there could be a bloody whale about to detonate. Anything.
A barked order that runs across the deck and then below it, daisychained—
Quiet.
Vital communications only. They must strain over the wind and rushing water.
In the distance, something like a chime. A hiss from a man that he's not sure if it's a real sound or just his head spinning. Phillips is shoving his feet into his boots, meanwhile, his own head spinning from his hammock collapsing.
no subject
He does his part, making sure any of the injured are settled somewhere they can either hold on or won't be tossed into something dangerous. The minutes they have for this preparation feel too slow and too fast all at once. Sure that the galley has the hands they need to hammer cabinets and doors shut, he hurries to much of the same for the great cabin and the Captain's berth. A strange job, his, where he is needed everywhere and nowhere in a moment like this. He secures one of the last cupboards and takes back to the entrance to the quarterdeck.
Here he can receive any orders that trickle down from the Captain himself, but also help catch any and all who might be moving above and below. He grabs at one of the younger sailors on third shift, helping him into a sleeve of his coat as he fumbles into it on his way up, sleepy-eyed but determined to do his part. Phillips next, in fact, where Jopson helps him dress with a mechanical familiarity from dressing the Captain, but their commander deserves to have all his officers up top where he needs them most. Even the navymen have gone to their posts.
But the order comes - quiet - and just as there was orderly chaos before by way of strong men grumbling and grunting and shouting at one another, it goes deathly silent. Jopson can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, the occasional cough or groan from one of the injured, but not knowing what the men up on the rail see makes the quiet that much more terrifying.
What waits for them around the bend in the fog and mist?
There's a muttering from one of the lieutenants he can't make out, Kay maybe, as he comes up to the Captain's side in spray as they approach the bend.
"We should see her, Captain," Kay murmurs. Erebus.
no subject
not helpful, and so Crozier doesn't say it. He knows, is the thing. They should see her. Erebus was close, close enough to reach out and touch (close is horrible), and now she's gone again as they nearly spin, a fishtail move that's going to blow the rudder. It had better blow the rudder, because if it doesn't, then they're going to slam into a wall of ice and wreck. Better Terror have bits sheared off than go to pieces entirely.
The anchor is useless at this stage. Nothing to catch on, and the turn makes the ballooning weight nothing beside a strange tail limping after them. When they right the ship they don't hit anything, and Crozier wonders if he's broken his wrist from wrenching. But he can't think of it now.
It happens all of a sudden, like a collective gasp.
The chime is Erebus, a frantic bell, the sound of it being warped by the auditory reflective surfaces of ice and water. She hasn't managed the turn as well as Terror, has slowed more than them, and the outline of her is a strange, gray creature looming over them. A void, jaws open. Until it's the ship.
That Terror is managing the turn better is both the reason that they hit the other ship, and the reason they don't sink the other ship. No time for warning, Kay's shout cut off like someone's struck him in the throat. Crozier feels like he's been grazed by a cannonball the impact is so profound, and only realizes a moment after it's happened that the ship has torqued upward and he's laying flat on his back on the deck.
Only there for a second, on his feet and moving before his brain catches up to him. Not too long a gap, fortunately, but he's too busy calculating how they're going to get out of this without sinking to be alarmed by Phillips in his nightshirt and boots with half a coat on.
no subject
The sound like the crack of lightning in a storm, but worse. Unnatural and wrong in all ways. The chime from earlier, the sound of splintering wood, the scream of men abovedecks. Dizzied by the impact he slowly climbs back to his feet, bracing himself on a wall and turning to look back at the other men in the sick berth and just outside it. Roberts helping, though looking dazed and concerned himself.
We've hit her, Captain!
A wail from above somewhere in the chaos of it all and ice cold fear plummets through his veins. In the middle of a frigid sea and they've struck Erebus? A handful of the deckhands swarm below checking for water, leaks, any such thing as the boat tips and rocks, the waves making a toy of Terror in the fray. Nothing yet, and that is good news.
There's no treating of any of their injured when the ship might tip again or thrash about in the ice, and though he knows his place would be among them he can't help but reach for his own overthings and move up to the deck. He'll be told off for it, but a panicked thing deep in his gut won't let him go without seeing the Captain in one piece, and to look out and see Erebus.
It's horrifying, the ship close, the bell tolling, and he has to put every thought of Jamie away in some locked place in the back of his mind for now.
"Roberts is moving the wounded to berths, and the men below haven't seen any sign she's taking on water yet, sir."
There's noise somewhere beyond their own chaos - the sound of Erebus and her crew, and the sick sound of splintering wood overhead.
no subject
A lieutenant for that long, it can't just be because of where he was born, maybe he really isn't cut out for this. Is he going to be able to make a decision.
Sick and awful, the sound that reaches him, when a seaman crashes to the deck, slipped free from the rigging. Jopson is beside him, but Jopson wasn't in the ropes. Did not fall and shatter himself. Or any other damned thing. For a heartbeat Crozier looks dazed, but then he's grabbing his steward by the elbow and moving him towards the watchmate who's hauling himself up despite a clearly broken arm.
"We have to push forward," he says. "Get clear of it, and get the icebreakers."
An instant. Erebus had turned to miss an iceberg, he can see that much, or infer it from what he can see. A great cracking sound. They're still tipped a bad way, and Erebus is swaying more now too, both ships crunched, and becoming lodged by the masts.
He shouts orders. Cut them free as best they can, get the oars and the battering posts, shove them away from the other ship and follow the current, and ready the mortar. There's bad ice ahead, and not enough room for them to pass through.
Everyone moves.
no subject
"Understood, sir, I'll get the men to it," he nods with little else to say and rushes to the watchmate. Pressure is nothing, his brain turning to work only and he does exactly what he says - finds lieutenants, communicate the Captain's orders. No one blinks an eye at Jopson delivering it himself, only they turn in their place and start about their tasks. Thick pieces of iron and steel, picks, posts - anything and everything to help tear the ships apart in the icy water.
Jopson sees the injured man belowdecks to Roberts and his apprentice, then hauls back up on deck. He should stay below, a steward's place is out of the way, but instead he starts in with one of the mates on cutting loose rigging at the deck to try and free the tangle of the two great ships. In the din of panic and chaos and water and deafening crunching, he's sure he hears Jamie's voice, his orders, clarion in the mis.
"Captain, we've freed the mizzen," he shouts over his shoulder to Crozier as one rope freed gives Terror leeway to move a tiny bit, righting her decks. A warning, so the man doesn't fall again. Other officers swarm the deck - some prying at their ships to create distance, and Jopson soon joins up, adding his muscle to the effort.
There's ice to chip at, the hull to inspect, the masts to free, the ships to separate and yet - Jopson feels nothing but cold air and icy seaspray as they begin to try and bolster Terror against her flagship.
no subject
Crozier bellows a count to brace and cover ears. Three, two, one, it goes.
Alien and unsettling to have such a thing on a ship. Could science not be used for something less ruinous. A thought he's had before, the first time he ever saw one go; did cannons need such enhancements?
Apparently so. The iceberg would have crushed them together, and as it is now, Terror holds fast against any recoil of firing, and maintains her limping float despite the disturbance to the water. The small boats surge forward, rowing, pulling, critical to get clear of Erebus to let her maneuver. A raft is cobbled together and thrown off the back, lit by throwing a torch at it. A primitive brazier with a wobbly cauldron of oil, a lighthouse for Captain Ross.
If indeed Captain Ross has not been crushed by something, or drowned, or felled by a head injury.
(But he would feel it, wouldn't he? He would know—)
A wretched shuddering through the cruelly cold water. Rigging and sail and bits of spindle rain down, sawed free. The rudder is lost, and Crozier must split his time between hollering communications through a horn at the men in the small boats, and organizing the stabilization of the ship herself. But if they find themselves enclosed properly, they will die anyway.
no subject
The ship has to come back to sorts, Erebus needs freedom to move, and Terror must limp her way in the water and pack ice. Jopson sends the injured below as they come to light and otherwise stays with the men bolstering the ship against the ice, helping sweep any fractured pieces of it from the deck and away from the small boats helping pull them below. They slip over one another - a tangle of bruised and sore bodies, hauling one another up as Terror slowly pulls free and makes room.
It's slow, or it certainly feels that way in the mist and the dark, but the makeshift brazier behind does something to inspire the men and everyone buckles down, works harder, faster. Another mortar shell, another splinter of ice, and one of their fractured arbors breaking loose of its trap in the ice, and miraculously coming out without shattering.
There are shouts coming from the mist - Erebus, no doubt - the whistle of a shipmaster signaling something. Movement? Freedom? Hard to say, but the sound of rushing water and the call of the men back into the dark seems to bring with it a new energy. Another whistle - shrill and high. Erebus sails, still, and is making her way into more open water in the treacherous cold.
no subject
Crozier and McMurdo huddle at the bow to navigate the complete unknown, until they determine they're in a sound or something smaller; if they are unlucky, a dead end of an inlet, but if luck is on their side, then a it may be a sheltered bay of some kind. The persistent loom of the ice shelf is like a line drawn around reality, almost like an amateur cartoon. Iceblinks bouncing off of its glassy texture tempt disorientation, but he'll have none of it.
The whaleboats quest to discover how far from shore they are, if indeed there is a shore, and not just vertical sheets of ice. Terror slows, and finally anchored properly. Clear of immediate obstacle, they must hunker down, and not court further danger by trying to forge ahead without visibility or reconnaissance. They feed their bonfire tail, and continue to ring the bell like a lighthouse, until the small boats return, and Erebus, tilted a third of the way onto her side and missing her mast, manifests from the mist.
She, too, anchors, and there is word from the boats: shore.
no subject
Once the deck is secured and there's word from Erebus that their commander and captain is safe, some calm befalls them. He'd like to see Jamie with his own two eyes, and not trust that the shadow in the mist or the shout from the deck was the man who held him tenderly out on the ice at Aether. No, it's not his place to wait and listen for the small boats to drift back and forth with messages and plans. The coming of light in the morn
There's work to be done, though - and he helps with the onslaught of wounded and injured, tends to the men who just need something warm to eat to revitalize them, checks over all things in their inventory and pulls out the stronger stuff for them to drink. The men deserve it, he thinks, and he'll happily accept any reprimand later should there be need for one.
He finds Crozier on the deck after a few many rounds to different posts on the ship.
"Sir... if you'd prefer to stay on deck in lieu of sleep, at least allow me to bring you a hot meal?"
It makes sense that there's much to do, planning and contingencies and head counts and so much more. But he won't see this man run into the ice himself for it.
"I understand from McMurdo much is to be held until morning to give the men time to reset, sir?"
no subject
It's been hours since then when Jopson finds him, and Crozier nearly startles when he thinks of how long he's gone without so much as sitting down. All of a sudden everything hurts. He might be annoyed if it wasn't so considerate— and if he wasn't grateful for the opportunity to see his steward (his lover), and evaluate for himself how he seems to have fared. A boon he's been all along, and Crozier isn't taking him for granted; not his service, not his survival.
Jamie, allegedly, is fine. Thomas is too, and he can ask for nothing more.
"Aye," sounds creakier than he'd like. "Catch our breath. You can bring me
coffeetea, if there's any, and something I can hold without any fuss. If you've eaten already."no subject
"Would you humor me and take your meal in the great cabin, sir? I think a moment out of the cold will do you some good. We've been cycling the men as well so no one is worn too thin before morning when repairs begin, sir."
Missing the point, really, but a protective, careful thing in him wants to drag the man downstairs and look him over for any signs of duress. Sure, the surgeon would have noted anything worthwhile in passing, but he can't shake it.
"I've not eaten yet myself, but I certainly will once I return belowdecks, sir."
A small smile, a nod. Someone passes by and claps Jopson on the shoulder, grunting something like gratitude before heading off to the bow. He's been present for much of their company tonight, whether bringing food or water, bringing men to the sick berth, bringing supplies or jumping in to haul wood or iron or ice. It's all been a lot, but it means he's able to stand here across from his Captain (his lover) and see him whole.
no subject
But it's a madhouse below, he knows that. He's given permission for it to be used as a staging area for at least two different operations that are struggling to find room without being underfoot somewhere else, and there will be no quiet break from action. Still. He offers Jopson a small, tired, but honest smile. Touched by it, given strength in this frantic time.
"It may well be cramped," he says, sounding apologetic. "Bring something up. If I sit down I risk being unable to get back on my feet anyway—" a rough sigh, shaking off any creeping exhaustion. "Can't yet."
Maybe not until he's set his own eyes on Captain Ross. Or passes out. Whichever comes first.
no subject
"Of course, Captain. I'll bring tea and food up immediately - should I bring anything for the others, sir?"
As if he's not already started to before this moment, but back to business all the same. Once dismissed he returns belowdecks, making up tea (a few kettles in fact for some of the officers at the operations tables, gives firm instruction to the other stewards to help in other places as well), and gathering up some bread, butter, salted meats to make a quick sandwich of sorts. Not elegant, but something.
He returns to the captain's side offering the mug of warm tea, first - nothing extra added to it, but made exactly as the man prefers it, instead.
"I've the other stewards making sure all the men are being seen to, not just their respective officers, sir. If you require anything of them, they await your orders as always, Captain."
no subject
"I know you're seeing to them."
A luxury to have Jopson. An excellent steward, and an excellent adjutant. Crozier can trust him thoroughly to be doing exactly what needs to be done, even if it's mad, even if it's beyond the scope of his regular work. Which of course is what's being asked of everyone now, and they are all performing superbly. And yet in the midst of that Jopson is unique, because he has the least expectation on him.
He wishes—
Not now.
"Eat something. Those are my orders. If you faint, what am I to do, Jopson?"
no subject
"Bold of you to think I brought you and you alone something to eat, sir," a quiet jab but a friendly one, as he offers out the haphazard sandwich wrapped in paper and pulls another from the pocket of his coat for himself. Smaller, simpler - he doesn't need the kind of fuel that the Captain does for nights like this, but food all the same.
"I would hate to faint on the deck, sir, I think the men would find it too befitting of a steward and send me off to my very comfortable bed."
He can light the wick of his humor at least in the darkness of all this - and unwraps the sandwich for Crozier first and handing it off before doing the same for his own. It's not especially fancy, but it's food and the first bite reminds him how hungry he actually is. Damn the man for being right.
"I can fetch you more tea in a moment - I know it will go cold before too long, sir."
no subject
"You're the least likely person to faint," he concedes. He suspects the men know that too, by now. Between the mettle Jopson's displayed over the course of this voyage and the reveal of the scars on his back, he has sailed far from the reputation of a 'mere' steward. As if anyone in this line of work is not made from tougher stuff in the first place, no matter their station. But there are degrees, and Jopson has far exceeded the ones anticipated of him.
Terror sways, gently sometimes, but damage makes her uneven. A dip now and then, and everyone has to shift his weight, grab hold of something. At least it's slow, and they've allgot their sea legs.
"This'll do."
Not in a hurry to court having to piss.
"When we're stable enough I'm to take a gig to Erebus." Finally, this bit of news. "A report on the incident must get underway. You'll need to round up the carpenters, see who can be spared. She's in a worse way than us with more injuries besides. I'm sending Roberston to set up a triage as soon as camp's been made viable enough."
no subject
"I'll ready your things so there's little to do but grab them and go when the gig is set to row off, sir. Once we've finished these sandwiches I'll get a list of the carpenters to take and find a handful of those able to assist Roberston when the time comes, Captain."
A bite of his sandwich, thoughtfully quiet. Both ships uneven and damaged in the icy night, and even now, more work to be done still.
"Will you be returning to Terror to rest, or will you remain aboard Erebus, sir? Just so I can make the proper arrangements, of course."
There's a letter he wants to send off to Jamie for one, but he doesn't want to waste his time setting up the Captain's quarters for a short but comfortable sleep if he will stay on the flagship, among other things.
no subject
"I'll be back here."
Which is another double-edged thing. Getting to return, but having to leave Jamie. Nevertheless, he'll carry on. They all will. Nearly finished with his sandwich when Phillips (fully dressed) appears, and Crozier goes into his plans in more detail; the lieutenant will be staying aboard, in charge, with the rest of the officers sent ashore in staggered shifts, barring McMurdo who will be attending the meeting with Ross.
The actual report writing is a haphazard thing, written as a series of lists (bullet points to describe the series of events, bullet points to describe the damage, bullet points to detail injuries) in a spare ledger, which Crozier has to drag around with him and write in while trying not to get ink everywhere. Burning through blotting paper as quick as spare rope.
"Behave," is the final instruction, which gets a chuckle out of a few. Crozier does run a tighter ship than Ross.
This bit, he thinks, will make for fine letters written back home; getting into a whaleboat from a ship threatening to sink in poor visibility (at least the wind has settled down) is the sort of event to send non-sailors into a tailspin of anxiety. But Crozier has enough life left in his knees to make it easily.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
rip this boomerang
bonerang
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)