Cornelius Hickey (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spotsalone) wrote2025-04-11 07:04 pm
spotsalone) wrote2025-04-11 07:04 pm
Entry tags:
angelo and the hickster's post-belle arctic adventures
angelo cr chart
mutineers cr chart...
timeline:
- arrival; late july, mutineers' hill
- tent chats; early august, temporary camp
- spotting the ships; late august, terror camp
- tuunbaq attack; sept 1, ice floe camp
- boarding terror; fellas it's gay; early sept, hms terror
- dog to dog communication; early sept, forecastle
- bark bark bark; early sept, on deck
- coat! and post-tozer debrief; early sept, angelo's cabin
- 🌶️; early sept, hickey's cabin
- the dogs are unionizing(?); mid sept, cargo hold
- tozer/captain stuff, look at them having an adult conversation; mid sept, greatroom
- little rescue mission; early oct, terror bay
- post-little debrief; early oct, hickey's cabin
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Tozer placates him so smoothly that Angelo is at a loss for how to respond to it. It's easier when they rile each other up, answering provocation with provocation and slight with slight. It takes the wind out of Angelo's sails to have his barb deflected with such ease.
At the same time, it's difficult to be displeased by respect - even a display of it that may just be empty flattery. They're keeping harmony suspiciously well. Briefly, Angelo glances back at Hickey, wondering if he's enjoying this little display. ]
... fair enough. You--
[ A large piece of the shale dislodges awkwardly below Angelo's left foot and he loses balance for just a split second. He catches himself without any need for intervention, but interrupts his speech to let out a quiet curse. A disgraceful display owed to the loathsome full gravity, made much worse by the fact that his ankle smarts more than it ought to for such a minor incident. There's a fragility settling into his limbs that is becoming difficult to ignore. ]
You're the talent nurturing type of squad leader, I've heard.
[ Angelo wasn't, back when he still had his own subordinates. He'd been the demanding drill sergeant instead. ]
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Another curious detail: The frown of concern as Angelo trips. "Careful," he says, and something about the tone strikes Tozer as odd. It's a much different tone than Hickey used to defend Angelo's sanity, but it strikes the same note. A personal connection. This is not surprising—Angelo is clearly Hickey's favorite, though God knows why—but there's too much sincerity to it. It doesn't feel the same as Hickey's protectiveness over Manson, or the way he says Solomon when it's just the two of them. Those displays feel hollow now, in comparison, but the thought of Hickey expending energy on an earnest friendship is... difficult to imagine.
Could this mystery really have such an easy answer? Their strange behavior with one another, the way they're loudly professional in front of the crew and yet sneak off together when they think no one is paying attention, the quiet murmur of voices through the wall after everyone has gone to bed, the shared cigarettes, the coat, you watch your tongue...
Are they just... friends? Hickey favors Angelo simply because he does. This solution should not feel so outlandish.
Angelo's prickliness certainly doesn't help. Imagining him having friends is also difficult, so when he offers yet another compliment, Tozer doubles down on his suspicion that there's some ulterior motive. Who would be chatting with Angelo about Tozer's leadership style, if not Hickey?
He pauses briefly to make sure Angelo's regained his balance, shrugging as they finally reach the hill's peak. ]
I need my men at their best. Confidence will get you further than practical sk—
[ "Solomon," Hickey interrupts, and it doesn't sound quite so hollow this time. He's stopped at the crest of the ridge, a hand on Angelo's arm to stop him too, jaw set with his attention fixed on the landscape ahead of them.
Tozer follows his eyeline—and his stomach drops before he's fully registered what he sees. At the foot of the hill, a little ways inland from the shore, sits the remains of a camp. Of the handful of tents, most have been ripped apart by the wind, with only one or two left standing in a state of partial collapse. Rotting canvas flaps in the breeze, and though they're well out of earshot, that snapping is so burnt into Tozer's mind that he hears it anyway.
Debris dots the camp, little black and brown shapes that Tozer can't quite make out against the grey. Likely discarded buckets and barrels. The remains of a campfire, maybe. Smaller objects that might be cookware... though some are a stark red. Goldner tins. There's even a whaling boat, resting on its side.
Tozer licks his lips. His mouth is dry. He feels his breathing trying to speed up, but he fights it. ]
Could any...?
[ His voice can't manage to finish the question, but Hickey shakes his head anyway. No, they will find no survivors here. ]
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But Angelo isn't an expedition member. He can't bring himself to feel the same amount of sinking dread. People die. He's stumbled upon more bodies than he cares to recall. His earliest memories are of bodies. A pile of meat that used to be his father. Rows of unidentified in the streets. Since then, bodies have littered his path wherever he went. His mother, whom the mortician had not been able to put back together well enough to hide the dent in her skull and the unnatural bend of her arm. Strangers in the streets, filth like himself, left abandoned on the roadside. Companions of his own, pale and lifeless visions into a future that would have claimed Angelo himself before long. All paper-thin skin and spiderweb veins.
The camp down the hill looks a whole lot like their own, just a month ago. There will be nothing of value to find there, Angelo wagers. If they'd found game, would they have ended up this way? Or was it the Tuunbaq that tore through their ranks? Thoughts of the bear are unwelcome. They had thought themselves past that threat but here they are again, in its land, trespassing.
Angelo glances at Tozer beside him, fighting for composure. Feeling emotions Angelo cannot and does not want to share. ]
If you'd needed confirmation, you threw in with the right crowd.
[ His hands grip the strap of his rifle a little tighter and begins walking, downwards. ]
Let's hope it wasn't the bear that did them in.
[ If the Tuunbaq survived and then had a feast of Crozier's men to strengthen itself, then hunting parties have just become a whole lot more risky. One can only hope that it perished in the sea or at the very least learned its lesson. ]
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Lack of credit where it's due is not what Tozer is upset about, but it's easier to be angry than... horrified. Angelo is damn lucky that this sight means nothing to him. He won't recognize the corpses they find. This reality, this futile march south, was never his future. It would have been for Hickey and Tozer, had they not acted when they did. Irving and Farr... Tozer never agreed with that choice, but perhaps it was necessary. A mercy, even, if this was to be their fate. Gibson's death was necessary, too. Maybe Tozer has always known that, and that's why he let Hickey return to the sick tent with a knife in his hand.
Angelo starts down the hill, and Hickey follows before Tozer can catch his eye. Unreadable, as usual. Even now.
Tozer follows too, despite the pounding in his chest that wants to turn around and pretend they never saw this. ]
It's not a bear.
[ Angelo doesn't know a damn thing about the Tuunbaq. Despite their encounter on the ice, having his soul consumed by the creature was never in his future either, not really. It wasn't an outcome he was cursed to fear. He didn't square off with the thing over and over again, come face to face with it, doubt his own faith as he watched it... eat... ]
But it didn't do this. There's no bodies. No blood.
[ That they can see anyway, but the creature would've left more carnage than this. No, this is simply... as far as they were able to make it. ]
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But Tozer's assessment is sound, and Angelo feels relieved for it. ]
Good.
[ Less good for their chances of finding game, he realizes in the back of his mind. If they starved here... Winter is going to be quite long.
Angelo keeps walking and the tents grow bigger in his vision. He wonders if there will be bodies there that Hickey had any fondness for. He can't imagine it. ]
Let's see what else we can learn, then.
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They make their way into the camp properly, Angelo still leading as Hickey and Tozer take their time in surveying the wreckage. Up close, there's more debris hidden among the rocks. It's books they find first, of all things, scattered haphazardly, pages fluttering in the breeze. Then: plates, crusted over with bits of red, and crates broken apart for their wood. Tins of food, some still sealed. An upended table missing two of its legs. A spyglass, which Hickey inspects before slipping it into his pocket.
It's strange, some of the things that made it this far. Why bother with books and tables and empty barrels? Why camp here with enough open water to sail their boat to the mainland? Were they that far gone, or...? ]
Lane said something about Crozier's group meeting them somewhere near here, didn't he?
[ Tozer turns, looking for Hickey, and spots him lifting up a bit of canvas to peer inside a collapsed tent. Reluctantly, Tozer joins him.
"Golding," he says, nudging one of the corpses with his boot. One of theirs, sent to spy on Crozier and thus abandoned when they changed course. He's huddled together under some blankets with a few other men. Tozer doesn't look at their faces long enough to name them. ]
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As Hickey and Tozer take inventory of their dead, Angelo proceeds further into the camp. Let the two of them confront their losses together. Though Angelo would love to look the famed Captain Crozier in the lifeless eyes, he wouldn't know him from any other miserable wretch if he saw him now. Corpses look like corpses, and he's had his fill long ago. All he needs to do is to keep an eye out for supplies, as Hickey ordered. Keep an eye out for supplies and put from his mind any thoughts of looting, of Federation boots heavily thumping through the remains of a home.
Despite the haphazard collection of items littering the area, the campsite had been set up properly around a campfire, Angelo notes. Even in their last moments, they'd adhered to some formalities, and even set up a makeshift tripod. It seems so bizarrely out of place in the general destruction that Angelo automatically heads toward it even before he wonders what these starved men could have been cooking up to begin with. There seems to be a boot...? Just how desperate--]
--?!
[ For a moment, his mind refuses to process what it is that he is seeing. A boot, certainly, but inside... Angelo's hand shoots up to his face, intuitively covering his mouth and nose as though the foul smell of the camp hadn't already invaded every part of him.
He's looking at a human calf, half dressed like a proper navy officer and half red ribbons, torn in by blunt teeth. Angelo's stomach turns in a way he thought he was no longer capable of.
Eaten, chewed up, devoured, gnawed on, dismembered, consumed-- ]
... all that effort for the tripod-- and they didn't even take the boot off??
[ His voice comes out strained from behind his fingers, the comment nothing but an attempt to distract his body from the impulse to purge the nonexistent content of its stomach.
Only as he clamps his hand over his mouth even tighter does Angelo notice that the tripod is constructed entirely of guns. ]
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But instead, Hickey drops the canvas and steps back. "Let's keep this discovery to ourselves," he says, and turns away to join Angelo.
Tozer frowns. It's more kindly said than when Crozier made him swear an oath of silence over Lt. Fairholme's sledge party, but the order is the same. He catches Hickey by the arm before he ventures too far. ]
You would hide this from the men?
[ Hickey's eyes narrow, dropping for a moment to the hand on his sleeve. "For now, yes." ]
Sauper is right. It's proof that they threw in with the right crowd.
[ It's just an appeal, the first argument he can think of to not bury this as a horrible secret—but as he says it, Tozer realizes he does believe it. He's long debated the morals of his decision to follow Hickey. A minute ago, he was irritated by the implication that he wasn't a key player in the mutiny, but... He did not choose to kill in the name of their plot. Even if it was necessary, the spilt blood in their wake weighs on him. They're alive, yes, but is that worth it? Even if no one in England ever learns of their crimes, could he bear to call himself a marine again? Crozier said a little girl was killed because of Hickey. Was that a lie, too?
Crozier versus Hickey... They're much more alike than Tozer knew when all this started. Both liars, both callous, both selfish—but Crozier hides these qualities where Hickey embraces them as strengths.
If that's the only difference between them, then it's also the reason Tozer is not one of these pitiful, stinking corpses. ]
This could've been us, Cornelius.
[ Hickey studies him for a beat, and then sighs through a tight smile, eyebrows quirking up. Annoyance.
"It may be yet. We've a long winter ahead of us." Gently, he tugs out of Tozer's grip and nods at the rest of the tents. "See if you can find Crozier."
Tozer lets him go this time, watching as he walks over to Angelo near the campfire. "What have you found?" he asks, as if the dismembered leg in front of him isn't plain. Goodsir may have turned out to be far more trouble than he was worth, but at least he spared them from seeing Gibson in such a state.
Is it better to identify corpses or to get a closer look at the reality they may again have to face? Tozer's jaw clenches as he makes his way to the next tent, hoping he won't find the other end of that leg. ]
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To begin with, there is no reason for him to react like this, is there? He's known all along that survival cannibalism was in this expeditions' past and likely also in its future. The ugliness of the sight should not disturb him so.
(Eaten, chewed up, devoured, gnawed on, dismembered, consumed--)
He tells himself as much, but his mind refuses to take to it.
(Gobbled up, swallowed, ingested, gorged on, cut up, consumed, consumed, consumed--)
Hickey stands next to him with an unreadable expression, and not for the first time Angelo tries to picture him biting down on raw meat. He swallows dryly.]
... guns. Heaven knows why they used them this way.
[ It is not the obvious answer to the question, but what is there to say about that? It doesn't matter how many years this group has lived together, there is nothing left to even identify this leg by. There is still a pit in Angelo's stomach and he feels like he might gag around every word he squeezes out of his mouth. It's a mercy that he does not. ]
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Who the leg belongs to doesn't matter. It can't be Crozier. Even in the depths of starvation, Crozier's crew would not have butchered him so carelessly—although it would be satisfying if they had. They had an entire funeral for a leg, once. Made up a coffin for it and everything. ]
They must not have had any other use for them.
[ The leg itself doesn't bother Hickey. He's seen far more horrible sights in his life, even in just the last year alone. If anything, there's a satisfaction in knowing that this group could not escape debasing themselves like this in the name of survival. At least Hickey making the choice early spared them from tearing apart flesh like street dogs. These men were too desperate to even undress the body.
The guns do bother him, though. The last time Hickey saw Crozier was at the armory in Terror Camp, as the captain fired a shot to stop him stealing their most precious resource besides food. Tozer was nearly hanged for daring to supply the men with arms. Those same guns are here now, free from the signs of wear and weather sported by the rest of the camp, and yet their only use is... what? A makeshift structure for cooking? A function that could be served by scraps of wood?
They aren't going to find any game in the area. All of them already knew this, but the reminder is unappreciated. ]
We'll take them with us regardless, but quietly. The others don't need to know what we've found here.
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But of course, he's getting ahead of himself. The moment of silence stretches a bit too long to mask how preoccupied he is, but then he looks at Hickey and nods. ]
I'll make certain they aren't found with the regular supplies.
[ Having declared himself the master of their inventory is going to pay off here. Already, Angelo thinks that he has a better overview on the present stock of the ship than anybody else does. Having been on the expedition for longer works in their disadvantage on the matter - they remember too many items that have been taken on the walk-out and never been returned.
It takes a further moment for Angelo to steel himself enough that he can lean towards the fireplace - and as he does, he looks just about ready to throw up yet again. Even so, he works on unfastening the knot that holds the guns together to form their tent-shape, and picks them up. He doesn't need to think further than that right now. Hickey's going to make the decisions. All he needs to do is follow along. ]
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Hickey watches as Angelo untangles the guns, his mind elsewhere—is Crozier here? what did he think when he realizes Hickey's group was no longer following? did he suspect they made it back to the ships? did he realize that Hickey had bested him? did he realize that the flogging was the worst mistake he'd ever made? did he consume the meat from this leg? from his men who trusted him to see them home? This could have been us, Cornelius— ]
Make sure they're not loaded.
[ Hickey shrugs the duffel off of his shoulder. The guns will fit a bit awkwardly, but it should be enough to mask them from the others if they're careful.
As he works open the bag, though, he spots the rusty stains along the bottom seam. All of their duffels are some manner of filthy by now, but the color... Was Billy's meat once in this bag? Hickey's eyes fall on the leg again.
—Never mind that. He shakes off the distraction and holds the duffel open for Angelo to deposit the guns. ]
We won't linger here long.
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Anger would keep Angelo warm, but everything here is dead. Even the corpses, who once feasted on the flesh of their own comrades, cannot elicit his ire. They need to get out of this place, where everything is withered and Angelo's flame is smothered. They need to get back so he can scream at somebody.
Angelo checks the safety on each gun dutifully, and then jams them into the bag with more force than strictly necessary. They won't linger long. They won't linger long. He won't be devoured.
He's glad when he can get up and shoulder the bag (Hickey doesn't need to carry this, it gives Angelo direction to be able to do something for him), finally ready to turn away from the grotesque fireplace for good. ]
-- just where did Tozer run off to?
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Now, he listens to stop himself lingering too long on each vacant face he tries to identify. Most of them, he doesn't recognize, despite living amongst these men for three years. Are they that far gone from themselves—or is he, his mind a tattered patchwork after months of hell? He stops wondering which answer he prefers. Instead: Hickey and Angelo are talking about the guns, he thinks. He can hear the heavy clatter of barrels knocking together.
Tozer lets another flap of canvas fall, the men inside strangers to him. There's only one tent left, and he nearly skips it altogether. The sides are blown out and he can all but see straight through it. A barrel, a blanket. Nothing they need. He turns back toward the firepit as Hickey and Angelo finish packing up the guns, and he hears Angelo: "Just where did Tozer run off to?"
Run off, like he's wandered away to faff about. Like Hickey's not ordered him to investigate the corpses of their crewmates. He trudges off to the last tent to give himself a moment. He won't start a row at a gravesite.
He's a few yards away when he spots the pair of legs under the blanket. Another corpse, this one alone, in a tent a little further from the others. Perhaps Crozier is here after all. Tozer hopes it's him, just to see how Hickey will react.
But it isn't Crozier. It's Lt. Edward Little, though Tozer takes nearly a full minute to place him, given the condition of his face. Gold pocket watch chains are strung over his cheeks, links hooked in his nose and lips and ears. Some are even pierced right through the skin, their weight distorting his mottled flesh. The rest of him isn't in much better condition, sagged against a barrel at an awkward angle that covers him in shadow. His only remaining dignity is that he's buttoned up in his officer's longcoat. Tozer doubts he would recognize him otherwise.
He crouches down next to the corpse. The two of them were not friends. Up until their conversation at the munitions tent, he doesn't think they'd ever spoken outside of intermittent official business. Even so, Little deserved better. Out of sight from Hickey and Angelo, Tozer allows his expression to soften into one of miserable sympathy. ]
I told you to come with us, Edward. Didn't I?
[ Had he known this is how things would end up, Tozer would've been much more earnest in his attempt to entice the lieutenant into the mutiny. ]
Now what have you gone and done to your face?
[ He remembers something: a fragment of a conversation, Little and Crozier discussing something just before Tozer made his first case for arming the mutineers. These men deserve every gold thing there is.
What possesses him to reach out to the chains, he doesn't know, but his fingertips graze the cold metal—and Little's head lifts weakly, sunken eyes searching blankly before finally landing on the marine.
Tozer's stomach flips like a lightning strike. Christ, you're alive. He balks for half a second, his soldier's instinct urging him to take action, but it's like reaching for a gun that isn't where he left it. What can even be done? The rest of them aren't in much better shape, and he may already be beyond help. From the look in his eyes, they could feed him a whole caribou and it wouldn't be enough to revive him. Despite Tozer's best efforts, he'll die within a day or two. Like Heather. Like Tommy.
Tozer pulls the stopper from his canteen and lifts it to Little's lips, a hand cradling his head so he can drink. They have to try. ]
Cornelius!
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There's a sharp comment already halfway to his lips, but then he feels how the tension in Hickey's body language has changed next to him and he looks - again, more closely.
The gold glinting in the meager amount of light. The skin flaps, bloodless and drawn out. Angelo didn't think he had disgust left to give after the sight in the fireplace, but it does make the acid rise in his throat for a second - and that is before his unsteady gaze finally manages to see the way the lips are moving ever so slightly.
He takes a step back on pure instinct. He's seen some truly decrepit-looking people before, but they'd been in the gutter where had expected them, rather than in the middle of nowhere as revived specters of a past that has never once included him. Alive? Someone is alive? Here? Even now? How many of those body parts had he eaten to make it this far? What's with the-- Angelo swallows dryly, eerily hyperaware of how the movement of his throat is mimicked by the half-gone stranger. ]
... who is that?
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Half of the water spills from Little's cracked lips. The other half makes it down, though, and Tozer chooses to consider that a victory. There is some life left yet, and that can be nurtured. They can carry him back to Terror on a sledge, settle him in a cot in the sick bay where it's warm and quiet, gently work the metal out of his face... One more mouth to feed won't make a difference. Tozer can share his own rations if the men make a fuss. They have to try.
"Sergeant," Little says, or perhaps that's just what Tozer hears in the hoarse whisper that may just as well be a wordless groan. He nods anyway. ]
I've got you.
[ Behind him, he hears Hickey and Angelo approach. He lifts the canteen to give Little another short drink, his thumb absently stroking through the lieutenant's tangled hair, an automatic attempt at comfort.
"That," Hickey says, "is the man whose berth you're sleeping in." ]
First lieutenant Edward Little.
[ Tozer turns in time to see Hickey's jaw set at the correction. Tozer waits, expecting a further reaction to discovering a survivor, but Hickey only frowns in mild curiosity as he enters the tent, crouching down on the other side of Little to prod at the chains on his cheek.
"What's this about, do you think?" It's a casual question, as if they're pondering some benign oddity. ]
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It's harder to ignore now that the guy has turned up-- well, on close observation, 'still alive' seems a generous descriptor for this, isn't it? 'Still breathing' might be more apt. Angelo joins the other two in the tent just in time to witness the way the stranger's skin flaps shit when Hickey's finger makes contact with the chain. Disgusting. ]
Does it matter?
[ Hickey is allured by the mystery of it, but so long as they are standing between corpses and almost-corpses, Angelo does not feel like he has the patience for thought-play. All his hairs stand on end, like he'd been electrified through and through. ]
It's not like he'll be able to tell us within whatever hours he's got left.
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[ The sudden ferocity startles Hickey—and even Little, his eyes flicking up to stare at Angelo. Really, the lieutenant's head lolling against Tozer's palm is the only thing preventing Angelo from being shoved bodily out of the tent. Hickey would punish Tozer for it in one way or another, but it would be worth it to remind Angelo of his place. This is not his business, not his fate, not his crew, not his tragedy. ]
You don't know a damned thing about—
[ —"Solomon." Hickey so rarely raises his voice that the name is all it takes to bring Tozer to heel. He must know this, given the pause that lingers in its wake, and yet his hand grips Tozer's shoulder anyway.
"Angelo is referring to the chains, and nothing more. Of course this man matters."
Tozer's fingers tighten in Little's hair. He drops the canteen to instead clutch at Little's sleeve protectively. He may have fallen silent, but his gaze matches Hickey's for intensity.
Later, Tozer will recognize Hickey's blatant about-face for what it is: an act, meant to keep him from fussing over a problem not worth solving. But here and now, suffocated by the ghost of a future that could have been, Tozer can't bring himself to believe that Hickey is still capable of such cold pragmatism. Whether Little has days or hours or minutes left is irrelevant. He is their shipmate. Surely, Hickey must feel that pull, too. He must. ]
We'll need a sledge and some rope. Another blanket, too.
[ Tozer doesn't direct the order at anyone in particular, but it's clear that he has no intention of leaving Little's side. ]
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As much as Hickey is correct in the most literal form - Angelo had been referring to the chains when he opened his mouth - Tozer is correct in the spirit of it. There is no value in trying to save this man. They'll only waste their strength and his limbs already feel like they are splintering under any significant exertion, a sensation he refuses to examine too deeply. ]
How are we supposed to--
[ If he argues this, is he going to undo whatever work Hickey just put in for him to defuse the situation? Is 'this man matters' Hickey's order to go along and try to haul him all the way back to the ship, likely to just watch him perish midway into the absolute emptiness of the shale? What a waste, based on nothing but Tozer's desire to play hero!
Angelo may have thought better of completing his sentence, but the rest of his refutation still visibly burns on his tongue. While Tozer is busy looking at Little like he was the game they'd been so desperately seeking, Angelo feels safe to make a much more open expression in Hickey's direction. Despite no words accompanying the look, it is still quite clear what Angelo is saying:
Elias, what the fuck?! ]
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In a sense, Hickey does mean it. As practiced as he is at detaching himself from such things, this discovery is... uncomfortable to exist within. The sooner they extract themselves from it, the sooner he can turn his back to it, discard it from relevance as he's done with all the other horrors of his life. But until this pitiful camp disappears from view, there's no ignoring the desolation of it.
Lying in filth in this miserable wasteland, freezing and starving and waiting to die... And for what? To bolster the economy of an empire that never gave a shit about any of them. This could've been us, Cornelius. A silent despair hangs over the camp now, but if Hickey had been consigned to this fate, he would have died furious. The other men should have, too. They had no choice but to accompany Crozier on his pointless march southward. Even the lieutenant, here. He was nothing more than Crozier's obedient dog in the end, but the captain would've built a gallows for him too if he'd strayed from loyalty.
Edward Little may not deserve such a miserable death—but he doesn't deserve their help, either.
Hickey holds up a hand at Angelo's look. He has this under control... probably. Convincing Tozer to abandon a living man will be challenging, even with all the logic working in his favor.
He licks his lips, choosing his words carefully: ]
Do you imagine he has much time left?
[ Tozer's eyes flick up suspiciously, landing first on Hickey and then darting to Angelo. He can already sense where this is going, it seems.
"Are you suggesting we leave him here? To die?"
Hickey's eyebrows twitch. Okay, perhaps it's more than just a sense. Tozer has gotten mouthier and mouthier these past weeks. More perceptive, too—unless he's always been tuned in to Hickey's tactics and just never bothered to swim upstream. Hm. ]
We do not have enough food for ourselves as it is. It's doubtful our efforts would even make a difference.
[ Tozer hesitates, shifting his weight. His fingers flex at Little's sleeve. He's been backed into a corner, and although he may not agree with the decision, he must know that Hickey is right. Practically speaking, they cannot afford to play rescuer.
But: "Would the others feel that way?"
Hickey's eyes narrow. ]
They would understand the practicality of it. But we're not going to tell the others.
[ "So as not to upset the men?" Tozer waits for Hickey to nod, and then: "Crozier said the same about Lt. Fairholme's sledge party."
A sharp grin spreads across Hickey's face. He was expecting a threat to snitch, but this is so much more devious—and effective, as much as he hates to admit. Crozier... In truth, Hickey agreed with his decision to withhold the sledge party's fate from the crew at large, but it was a convenient tool to drive the mutiny, further evidence of Crozier's deceptions.
Still, the comparison strikes a nerve coming from Tozer, who was angry about the decision. With that context, Tozer's words could be taken as a warning. If he's stupid enough to discard logic in the name of morals, that will be a problem should Hickey push him too far. ]
Alright, sergeant.
[ Hickey stands. He ducks out of the tent and motions for Angelo to follow. ]
From the look of him, it's unlikely he'll even make it back to the ship. If you prefer a clear conscience to full rations, so be it.
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He follows Hickey out of the tent without giving Tozer so much as another glance, and as soon as they are enough steps away to be plausible out of ear-shot, he turns to Hickey and let's his anger flow. His voice is a low hiss, owed to just enough awareness to keep quiet and not start further strife with the marine in the tent. ]
He can pull that sledge himself, if he so direly wants to play the good samaritan!
[ Inside the tent he'd engaged the same restraint that he often had to apply when standing in the back of Frontal's office, forced to tolerate the most foul disrespect in the name of diplomacy. Outside of it, that past habit melts away all-too-quickly. Angelo would never have talked back to Frontal, but Hickey--- Hickey is not his leader in the same way. And anger sustains Angelo. The camp is a little less eerie if he's channeling all his frustration towards Tozer instead. ]
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Calm down.
[ His voice is stern, yet emotionless. Pragmatic. He is thinking, and he doesn't need to be distracted by Angelo's complaining. His intuition is telling him to let Tozer win this one, but why? Machinations aside, this is a battle worth fighting. They do not have the resources, plain and simple. The other men would understand that; a crew made up of starving mutineers is not going to lose sleep over a sacrifice in the name of self preservation. No one questioned Billy's death, either.
Crozier said the same. This should not bother him, either. Hickey has known that he and Crozier were cut from the same cloth since the captain poured him a drink all those months ago. I applaud you, he'd said. Perhaps Crozier was willing to drink with anyone as Billy suggested, but surely he wouldn't say such a thing freely.
I applaud you, and then a few months later, Crozier had him stripped naked and flogged in front of the crew. Hickey allowed his loyalty to be bought with those three words, and it made the resulting betrayal wholly unforgivable. Crozier sealed his own fate in that moment.
Hickey bought Tozer's loyalty with words, too. Now, he's Hickey's most important ally. Should Tozer's allegiance change...
His anger, he realizes, is not a result of conceding this particular battle. Really, he does not care whether or not they return with Little. But it's clear now that Tozer has realized, in truth, he holds all the power between them. Hickey's role as their leader exists purely because he wills it to, and if Tozer openly questions that illusion, everything will fall to pieces.
He is not letting Tozer win, here. It's an honest victory—and both of them know it.
Having sorted all that out in a matter of seconds, he turns to Angelo. ]
We'll let Tozer keep his pet and he'll be happier for it. I won't let him be a drain on the resources meant for you.
[ It's a sentiment meant with love, though his voice is too clipped and tinged with frustration to show it. ]
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Understood.
[ A short acknowledgement, coming along with a sharp exhale. The resources... Little seems seconds away from death, so Angelo is hard-pressed to be worried on the strain he'll have on their food supplies. He'll croak before he can have even a single poisoned can, surely.
No, food is not a concern. He can be rational about food, but... The knowledge that this other lieutenant used to occupy his old room is what gnaws at Angelo. That man is who Tozer wishes were still in there. That man is who Tozer feels has earned a right to be here. Angelo kicks the rocks by his feet a bit harder than needed be as he turns away from Hickey. ]
I'll grab what we need, then.
[ There is nothing gained by having this conversation now, when neither Tozer nor Hickey will change their minds. Angelo doesn't want to linger in this graveyard a moment longer than he needs to. ]
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Hickey has Angelo handle the sack of tins while he carries the duffel of guns, undoubtedly the heavier load of the two. Tozer is left to haul Little up and over the miserable ridge by himself, and he is not surprised by this. No one says a word as they make their way back to the ship. No one looks back to the camp once they're clear of it.
It's a brutal climb, with the sledge catching awkwardly every few steps and the shifting rocks as uncooperative as ever. This would be hell even if he were well fed and rested. Now, he's not even a third of the way up before his lungs are heaving painfully and heart is thumping at a frightening pace. Little hardly weighs anything anymore, but Tozer may as well be hauling a boat by himself. The sledge clatters along over the uneven stones, and every so often, Tozer hears a weak groan from behind him. He doesn't have the breath to apologize.
Hickey and Angelo only pause to wait for him at the crest of the ridge, and once he catches up, they start off on their own again. His legs urge him to stop and rest a moment, but he knows he'll never get up again if he sits. Instead, he tells himself the path downhill will be easier. It isn't.
They return to the boat, and then they return to the ship, and even rowing slowly isn't enough to let Tozer catch his breath. His arms are shaking as they haul Little onto the deck, much to the surprise of the men standing watch. Hickey, of course, explains nothing, only issuing a curt order for Hodgson to watch for Pilkington and Des Voeux to return to the shoreline. Someone will need to row out and collect them. Hodgson balks, trying instead to follow them below deck, fumbling through half-formed questions.
"Lieutenant," Hickey snaps. "You are not needed here."
Hickey does shoulder the brunt of the effort in lowering Little through the hatchway and into the sick bay. Tozer knows he's only doing this to put on a show for the men, but he doesn't argue. He barely made it down the ladder himself.
They manage to lay Little in one of the berths after Tozer refuses to let Hickey leave him on the center table. Not even Angelo follows them into the sick bay. Stunned murmurs drift in from the forecastle, and Tozer can hear enough to know that most of the commentary is about the chains in the skeletal lieutenant's face. He yanks the curtain closed without a word.
Hickey stands over Little, studying him curiously as if trying to puzzle out how he hasn't yet expired. At first, Tozer finds it disgusting, the way Hickey regards him as a specimen instead of a man—but then, he remembers the thought he'd had back at the camp. Hickey's flaws are his strengths, somehow. This detached, cold curiosity is to their benefit, and it must be their circumstances that have rendered him so emotionless in the face of these horrors.
Perhaps Tozer's insistence on rescuing Little was foolish in the same way that Hickey's insistence on breaking form to retrieve Lady Silence was foolish. Perhaps they both let their need to take action override their better judgment. Perhaps, too, the Hickey that is sharp enough and brave enough to fight off the Tuunbaq with a makeshift bomb can only exist inside of that detachment. Tozer doesn't allow himself to feel fear in the face of danger, either. Not when there's a job to be done. ]
Thank you.
[ Hickey straightens and looks up at him, expression as unreadable as ever—but he doesn't smile, and that says enough. Tozer turns away to look for a washrag, and by the time he turns back, Hickey is gone.
That night, Tozer suffers through another nightmare. Canvas snapping in the wind, rocks clattering, the horizon blurring against the endless expanse of gray. The landscape tries to claim him. Shales slip away like sand under his boots, sharp and frigid and churning, dragging him under as the frantic bodies dragged Heather under. Gibson's butchered carcass rotting in its pathetic grave. The wreckage of Morfin's skull staining the rocks. David Young's face, crushed under the massive weight of the earth. Tommy, mangled and frozen, floating alone somewhere in this uncaring labyrinth. His own hands bound, led to the gallows, led south, the sickening taste in his mouth, a wind so cold that it feels like knives on his face, a streak of blood on the ice, a head ripped apart at the jaw, skin flayed from his palm, the crack of a whip striking flesh, Hickey's hands cradling his head, a chain around his wrist—
Mr. Collins stands over him as he is consumed by the shales. The fate that should have been.
Tozer wakes with a tight pain in his throat and pricks of tears in his eyes. The cabin is dark still, the ship silent save for the light lap of the waves, the pans of ice bumping against the hull. He scrubs his hands over his face, breathing in time to the sway of the sea beneath him. Then, he goes back to sleep. ]