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Chapter Text

The Officers of HMS Terror have learnt, by the winter of eighteen forty-seven, that one doesn't respond to Lieutenant Hodgson the first time he says, Hm.

This isn't to be unkind to the man - he'd surely not respond to his own First Hm, and has concluded to the others that it's best to wait for a later Hm, if it comes, because the Thought that accompanies the Hm will no doubt be slightly less inane for having been vocalised once more.

And so, after Lieutenant Little leaves the wardroom and Lieutenant Hodgson says 'Hm,' Lieutenant John Irving says nothing, and in fact tries his very best to pretend he's not in the room.

'Hm,' says Lieutenant Hodgson. The Second Hm has in the past been an accidental dealbreaker, but true to the advice of Terror's Officers, Hodgson included, Lieutenant Irving also, wisely, ignores it.

'Hm,' says Lieutenant Hodgson, and then, before decorum pushes Lieutenant Irving to reply, asks 'John?'

'George?'

'Does Edward seem... blue to you?'

'Blue?'

'Solemn, I mean. Sad. Borderline miserable.'

'I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a man who isn't borderline miserable here,' says John, fairly, 'but... Edward is a solemn fellow.'

'I don't doubt it!' says Hodgson, drumming his fingers against the table, 'I mean to say that he seems more solemn than usual.'

'He has enough reason to be,' says John, which is the closest any of them will get to admitting that something is very wrong with Captain Crozier.

'Well! If we don't do something for him he may be swallowed entirely by despair!'

'You've had an Idea,' says John, warily -

'You know me,' he says, with a wry smile, 'can't keep my nose out-'

'George -'

'I was thinking about this earlier,' Hodgson admits, 'I'd ducked into your berth -'

'- Excuse me?'

'- looking for that book you borrowed from me -'

'- I hadn't finished it!'

Hodgson rolls his eyes mock-obsequiously - 'I am your superior officer, Johnny -'

'Hmph.'

'Anyway, I noticed how very jolly your paintings looked up on the wall - And I have that marvellous picture you did of that gay little Australian bird -'

'You took that?!'

'John, you are getting distracted.'

'You are meandering -'

'My point is that Edward has nothing of the sort! He may as well be sleeping in a monastic cell! It's enough to drive a man to -'

Neither of them say drink, though it hangs heavy in the air between them.

'Well,' says George, 'I fancy the man needs perking up, is all.'

John squeezes his eyes shut - 'I'm not sure I follow, George.'

'What I am saying, John, is were it not for the kindly smile on the beak of that sweet green bird, I'm not sure I'd get out of bed in the morning, and Edward, being a man more prone to melancholy than I -'

'You want me to give him a painting? He's never asked me -'

'This is Edward we're talking about, John, the man's never asked for anything in his life - and it is his birthday coming up -' George gives the grimace of a man who has not yet accepted that he's passed thirty's grim threshold, for whom thirty-six looks a death sentence '- I think you ought to paint that little horse he talks about, Camelot.'

'Lancelot,' says John.

'What did I say?'

'Anyway, I prefer landscapes- I'm better at landscapes.''

'Most of a horse painting is landscape - I'm not expecting Whistlejacket.'

'Who is this for, again?'

'Shh, John. Just scribble the horse into your landscape and you're sure to make Edward's day.'

'Horses,' John says, 'are notoriously difficult to draw.'

'I have every faith in your abilities - and I will pay you a sovereign to do so.'

'What use is a sovereign to me here, George, besides freezing Queen Victoria's profile into my hand?'

'Sugar, then! I'll give you all of my sugar, for a week.'

'Truly?'

'Truly.'

'A month.'

'A month? Have some respect -'

'Two weeks, then. Two weeks of your sugar, and I will draw you a horse.'

'Draw Edward a horse, John.'

'Do you actually know anything about this horse, George?'

George pouts, looking up and into his mind's eye - 'It's sixteen hands.'

'What colour is it?'

'Brown, I expect? Black, white -'

'A white horse is called gray,' says John, 'that's one thing I know.'

'Well, black, brown or gray, then. And sixteen hands.'

'How tall is that? How will I know I've gotten it right? You're asking a great deal, George.'

'Hm,' says George, 'pencil me into your landscape, and we'll scale Lancelot against me.'

'We?' says John, to which George doesn't reply but asks another question -

'How tall am I in hands?'

'How am I to know that? Measure your own self -'

'Do you suppose it's your specific hands? Move out of the way, there's a chap -'

'Oh really, must you do that here?'

'-eighteen, nineteen, twenty - Good grief, this horse must be very small indeed if I've barely gotten to my neck in twenty hands -'

'Are you using the right part of your hand? Perhaps you've narrow hands.'

'Perhaps Edward has broad hands.'

'I've never noticed,' says John, 'I feel I would notice if Edward had great shovels for hands -'

'Oh, this is hopeless. I rescind my offer of sugar -

'You do not, I'm looking forward to it now.'

'Well!' says George, 'Well!!'

John takes his spare pencils and papers out from the cabinet, and with almost shy strokes draws the vague outline of a man on the left of the page. From around the sternum of the vague man he draws a much more confident line, and then pauses, tapping it with the pencil tip.

'Oh dear,' he says.

'Oh dear,' George agrees, 'maybe you should... sketch a horse in the gap. See how he fits -'

'I don't think that's right at all.'

They both frown at the thumbnail - 'Perhaps he was a baby horse,' says John, 'a pony -'

'A pony is a small horse, my little niece was mad for them -'

'A calf, then. A little... horse pup.'

'A foal, Johnny.'

'What did I say?'

-

The horse really doesn't look right. Between the night's watches John and George had really tried to get it down, but it becomes more bizarre and more unsettling with every line John adds to the sketch. Sleep is unsatisfying in the constant night - unable to tell midday from midnight; it’s impossible to awake rested. 

George buttonholes John as he exits his cabin, and they both watch Edward trail sleepily into the Great Cabin.

'I think we ought to get a clearer picture of it.'

John blinks sleep from his eyes - 'Of the horse?'

George nods vigorously.

'George, we are drawing the picture -'

'A mental picture, I mean. More information about our friend Lancelot.'

'Well, of course -'

'I want you to follow my lead, Johnny.'

'Your lead?'

'Information retrieval.' George taps the side of his nose as he creeps toward the door, 'Collecting facts and figures -'

'I've never had you figured for much of a spy, George -'

'Shh! Besides, I don't think this is nearly as nefarious as spying. We'll call it scouting. It will help. Good morning, Captain, Lieutenant Little!'

Edward and the Captain are sitting at the little table already, sleepily crunching their way through a tray of little sugared biscuits. Edward inclines his head - the Captain grunts. A perfectly regular morning by this point.

'Sleep well?' George tries, 'I had the most frightful dream - have you ever had the dream where your teeth fall out?'

Captain Crozier grunts, again.

'Horrible,' says George, 'all of my teeth, but they were long and yellow like a rabbit's, and many many more of them than would rightly fit in my mouth - we were all having supper on Erebus with Sir John, and I had to keep picking them out surreptitiously -'

'Indeed.' says the Captain, with a kind of grim finality that stops George in his tracks and leaves the sound of John and Edward munching biscuits so conspicuously loud that John stops chewing and just sits with his mouth full until the rattle of the door breaks the tension.

Jopson enters with the tea service and with him Neptune, winding around his legs - Jopson sidesteps him with practiced ease while George lowers his hand to dog-nose level and wiggles his fingers -

'Good morning, Nep! He's a good boy -'

'Don't shake him so much,' says Captain Crozier, 'he's still moulting.'

'Ah, sorry, sir.'

They lapse into silence again; Jopson pours the cups methodically, then leaves the pot of sugar out on the table before slinking out of the room. Neptune's moulted fur floats delicately through the air and into John's teacup - he picks it out with the sugar tongs before adding his second cube; George foregoes politely, sipping at his unsweetened tea with an expression a hair's breadth from a grimace.

'I always wanted a dog when I was a boy,' says George, giving John a Look, 'but my mother wouldn't allow it.'

'My father wouldn't, either,' says John, but without ending on a question to prompt Edward it falls flat, and silence descends again.

George looks sideways at John with his lips thin, and tries again - 'I did once try to catch a wren in a net -'

'A wren?' says Edward -

'A baby wren,' says George, 'a fledgling, I suppose. I fancied I'd train it -'

'Did you?' Captain Crozier asks with a scoff -

'Heavens, no. It was very angry, though, and it did remember. Used to peck my head.'

'Peck your head?'

'All summer! Do you recall the summer of '26, when it was so frightfully hot?'

'I do,' says Edward, 'because I was off of South America that summer.'

'Hmph, well, I was in London, where it was ninety-five degrees, and I was beset by a wren whenever I left the house.'

'That's not unlike a pet,' says Captain Crozier, 'we're all beset by you, Neptune, huh?'

Neptune looks up at the sound of his name, banging his tail against the table leg. George reaches down to scratch his ears - 'Well, if we're beset by Nep I shall amend my wording; I was terrorised by a wren.'

'I had Lancelot,' says Edward, 'as you know -'

'Oh!' says George, 'The little pony -'

'Not a pony, George, he was a full sixteen hands.'

'Ah.'

'After I went to sea my brothers took charge of him. He wasn't anything special, just a hackney -' his lips quirk, and he closes his eyes; John takes the opportunity to snatch another two sugar cubes into his teacup - 'Blaze bay, white stockings. Marvellous creature.'

'Is that what you did as a boy, then, ride horses?'

Edward's thrown from his reverie - 'I... yes, I suppose so. It's a healthful hobby - and more productive than wren-wrangling.'

'The wrangling was but once, Edward! The terrorism, however -'

'What did you do as a boy, George?' John cuts in, before taking a sip of his tea; it's nearly syrup -

'I played the spinet, as you well know, having made my instruments a banned topic in the wardroom.'

'We're not in the wardroom.' says Captain Crozier, which perks George up a little.

'Of course the spinet is nothing to the new clavichords coming out of France and Prussia these days - the fortepiano, the pianoforte -'

'George, it is not yet six in the morning...'

'How on earth can you tell?'

'I wear a watch - you know I think my little nieces play the spinet.'

'They do not - didn't you just hear me? No-one plays the spinet any more. Gone the way of the harpsichord, I'm afraid. And I know you were trying to make a jest at my expense -'

'Pfft -'

'Pfft yourself, sir. Didn't you play an instrument, Edward? Even as a boy? Must have been enough of you for your own little orchestra. Or a -'

'- no, don't -'

'- Little orchestra.' George chuckles at his own joke, as he often does; Edward scowls but eventually concedes -

'I did play a bit of guitar, to accompany, but as to your spinet I never had the time, nor the inclination - not sure I'd have the dexterity, either.'

John and the Captain look on in complete bafflement as George lifts Edward's hand from the table to press their palms flat against each other -

'Now look here -' he seems to be saying this as much to John as to Edward, and so John does, conceding mentally that Edward does indeed have quite broad hands, at least compared to George's, who spreads his fingers as far as they'll go, then motions Edward to do the same - 'see, I can stretch a tenth, but you could easily have an octave reach before you even started.'

'I don't want an octave reach. And why on Earth would you need to play a tenth like that when you have a perfectly good other hand?'

'If you kept up with music, Edward -'

Edward groans -

'You did rather walk into that one, Edward,' says John; Edward snatches his hand out of George's.

'It is much,' says Edward, 'much too early in the morning to even consider that Hungarian Lunatic -'

'I never even said his name, sir!'

'You were thinking it - you get this evil little gleam in your eyes -'

'I was not! Franz Liszt was the furthest man from my mind -'

'The day I write you up for insubordination, George -'

'What I was going to say,' says George, 'is that Mons. Chopin, the Polish pianist, has devised a new system for fingering that requires a lot less movement of the wrist, so I daresay less dexterity if that is your worry.'

'It is not, George. Pray tell me no more of Hungarians, Poles, Austrians, Frenchmen -'

George ignores this request, as he often does, 'My sister took lessons with Mons. Chopin for a season in '37. Said he was the queerest fellow she ever met.'

'Your sister said that?'

'Har har,’ says George, ‘though perhaps in ‘37 I was not so queer as I am now… Besides, I am speaking of Mons. Chopin, who is a frightfully odd little man and terribly ill, so earns a living teaching as he is too weak to perform -’ 

‘My word,’ says Edward, obviously unimpressed, ‘terribly ill indeed if he’s too sick to sit at a bench for an hour.’

‘The pianoforte is a very physical instrument, Edward. It requires strength, which is why I so excel at it -’

‘I am declining to comment on that.’

‘The point is that this gentleman has half of the Countesses in Europe coming into his apartment for lessons, but finds the money altogether too vulgar -’

John glances over at Captain Crozier, who’s halfway to dozing back off until George finishes-

‘- makes all of the fashionable ladies in Paris leave their money on the dresser -!’

Edward, George and the Captain explode with sudden laughter -

‘Oh no,’ Edward gasps, ‘and no-one’s told them?’

‘I could hardly bring it up with my sister -’

‘I’m sorry,’ says John, feeling rather left out, ‘I don’t understand -’ which only pushes them further into hysterics, and Edward stands and wipes at his eyes with some urgency.

‘Oh, I must get the night’s reports before breakfast. I will not be party to you enlightening John, either.’

‘Coward!’ George calls at his retreating back, but the moment the door slides shut behind him he turns and extends his palm to John.

‘I’d say there was at least half an inch difference.’

John nods -

'Times sixteen… that's eight inches or more - good grief!'

'And you said you didn't take me for a scout,' says George, with a self-satisfied smirk.

'I said I didn't take you for a spy -'

'Semantics,' he says, with an airy wave of his hand, 'now: blaze bay,' he repeats, 'white stockings - so, white legs, like socks?'

'I think so.'

'And blaze bay,' says George, again, as though neither of those words mean a thing to him, 'what's that, red?'

'It must be brown.'

'Is that not - chestnut? or just brown? Blaze must mean red -'

'Blaze,' Captain Crozier groans, 'is a marking on its nose.'

'Oh! Thank you, sir!' George takes another sip of his tea, and pinches his face around its bitterness, 'A flame marking? Or a brand -'

'Surely not!' says John - to brand a horse on its nose seems extraordinarily out of character for Edward - the Captain groans again.

'Like the crest on Neptune,' he says, eyes closed, 'but on his nose.' He seems to anticipate their next line of questioning without even looking at them, sighing loudly, 'The white patch - but on the nose. Have you two never been outside on land? Surely there are horses even in London Town -'

John doesn't know what to say to that. Whyever can he not recall a horse, even in London Town?

-

Neptune makes a patient model as John sketches him, sat on his bunk with his watercolour board across his knees - at least until George lets himself in and breaks everyone’s concentration. John clutches at his racing heart -

‘G - my word, George. You must announce yourself! Scared the daylights out of me!’

‘And daylights are in short supply.’

‘Well! Quite!’

George steps over Neptune and positions himself next to John, peering over his arm, ‘Hate to tell you this, John, but Neptune’s a dog.’

‘I know that!’ says John, covering the sketch with a self-conscious hand - ‘I’m just looking for Animal Proportions - they have back legs that go -’ he mimes a curve with his hand ‘- you know, backwards.’

George considers this, and gives a definitive nod before taking another look at the sketch - ‘And that’s me?’

‘You’re our yardstick, yes.’

‘Why are my legs like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘All bowed, with my knees -’

‘That’s true to life!’

‘True to life!?’ George repeats, appalled, ‘They’re wonky - and I’m much burlier than that.’

‘George, I see more of you than almost anyone on Earth, I think I know what you look like. And, though there are many adjectives I could use to describe you, “burly” would not be one!’

‘Well, the stance -’

‘You are standing like that right now!’

George sniffs, and sets his feet to a parade rest. ‘A freak occurrence,’ he says, ‘because I’m wound up.’

‘Then you must often be wound up.’

'Wouldn't you be? Presented with that? I am a Naval Officer in my prime - you have drawn a civilian child in illness.'

'Civilian?' says John, quite suddenly realising wherein the rub lies, and penciling two lozenge-shapes about Yardstick-George's shoulders - they bring the whole thing together; it is quite unmistakably George, now, despite (or perhaps because of) the bowed legs and distinct lack of burliness. George scoffs, but does not complain again.

-

Billy Gibson has had just about enough of this winter; between being trapped on this miserable ship with its ever-dwindling company and Cornelius - one of the only men here remaining - acting very bizarrely, he's nearly ready to jack it all in and ask the officers to figure out how to tie their own cravats, damn the consequences. The oppressive warmth of the lower deck on Wanderer feels like a distant paradise these days; how he'd awake in his hammock drenched in sweat before the day had even begun - what bliss. He holds that memory with him as he slides the door to Lieutenant Irving's cabin aside and strips his bed, frowning at the rusty smears on the undersheet; Irving's been chewing at his fingertips lately, and every scratch takes longer to heal.

Still, they've not soaked through to the mattress, and it's a concern he can forget for another week once he tucks the clean sheets into place.

There's a new watercolour woven between the balusters of Irving's bookshelves; a sunny day across an indeterminate English field with a squat oak in its centre. It's boring, but pretty. He can see how Irving might get comfort from it. He boots the baskets up the corridor to the next door, which creaks on its rail. It needs greasing, just another thankless job he's got to take up -

'Ahoy, Gibson,' says Lieutenant Hodgson from his desk as Billy finally gets the door open, startling him -

'Oh! Good... afternoon? Afternoon. I wasn't expecting you here.'

'Hm,' says Hodgson, distracted, but stands and pushes his chair under the desk to let Billy in - 'warmer in here than the wardroom.'

'True enough,' says Billy, 'though warmer still out with Mr Diggle and the men -'

'Can't hear myself think out there.'

'Might cheer the men to see you.' Billy suggests, and when he turns he sees Hodgson raising an eyebrow at him through the mirror over his basin, so uncharacteristically sardonic that it actually shocks him. He gets back to work; folding the old bedclothes into themselves - Hodgson sheds worse than the bloody dog, and dropping hair out of his sheets will only make sweeping up later more arduous. Cornelius would take the piss of this kind of fastidiousness, but it serves him well enough... had served the pair of them well enough, that saved time. Never mind.

The sheets are tossed out of the doorway, the fresh collected, and Hodgson presses himself into the corner of his cabin again. It's uncomfortable work to do when watched - Billy desperately wants to flick though his Punch almanack or steal a couple of mints, his treat for a job well done, but Hodgson continues to hover like a maiden aunt at a wedding. He turns his attention back to the bed.

Hodgson, too, has a watercolour - a bird, pinned to the shelf with tacks, and low enough down to be only an inch or two from his face while he sleeps.

'I didn't know you'd served in Australia, sir.'

Hodgson looks baffled - 'Australia?'

'Yes,' says Billy, 'the budgerigar -' and when Hodgson still looks lost - 'the bird, sir. It's Australian.'

'Budgerigar!? That's his name? How marvelous! No, he's not mine; well, Lieutenant Irving painted him, and he's been to Australia.'

He pauses, clearly wanting Billy to continue a dialogue he's been left no space in, and starts back up to fill the silence -

'Not me, though I think I'd quite like it, if the birds are all like this. Do you remember the hornbills, Gibson? On Borneo?'

Billy does not, somehow, remember the hornbills on Borneo - he recalls them being pointed out to him, and his surprise, but not the birds themselves. He says, 'Hm.'

'Beautiful things,' says Hodgson, half to himself, and then, startlingly - 'Gibson, can you keep a secret?'

'A secret, sir?'

Hodgson catches his eye with a sly little smile, lifting his green leather desk protector and beckoning Billy over. Flat on the desk, under the protector, is a rather poor sketch of a man and a large four-legged beast. 

'Now, this -' he starts, but Billy is so baffled he's already started himself -

'Did you draw this, sir?'

'I - what? No? I - Gibson; Lieutenant Irving and I have been puzzling over this for days now -'

'I think it is a drawing of a man and a pony, sir.'

'Well, I know that!'

'Indeed, sir?'

'Lieutenant Irving and I have been trying to make a painting, Gibson, of a sixteen-hand horse - but the horse keeps becoming a little pony!'

'I see,' says Billy, though he doesn't, then - 'did Lieutenant Irving draw this?'

'Not one of his better works,' Hodgson agrees.

Billy examines the sketch, taking in the bow-legged man, his horse, and the line he assumes marks the height of the horse, and frowns.

'Who's this?' he asks, 'How tall is he?'

'Oh,' says Hodgson, and he offers the bow-legged man a grimace, 'about my height, I suppose.'

'Oh! That line is sixteen hands?'

'Exactly, Gibson! But again and again I hear, "sixteen hands is a tall enough horse" -'

'Sir, a horse is measured to his withers.'

'Whiskers?' says Hodgson, clearly perturbed, reflexively touching his own whiskers.

'His withers, sir. His shoulders, I suppose you could say -'

'- so his head would be above the line?'

'Most of the time, I suppose,' Billy agrees, and he takes a pencil to outline where the new head would go; Hodgson flexes his hand but doesn't stop him, allowing Billy to deface the drawing with a horse head that is shaped more like a goose's.

'Withers,' he says again, and smiles, 'mystery solved! Mister Gibson, you are a marvel!'

'No worry, sir,'

'Saved the day again!' Hodgson continues, though Billy can't remember saving the day previously, 'Deserves a reward -' he pulls open one of the drawers under his cot, where Billy knows the coveted tin of mints is stored, but he frowns at the weight of it in his hand. Perhaps Billy has been too liberal in his stealing of them - when Hodgson opens the tin the few remaining mints look lonely indeed.

'I would have sworn… I didn't even know it was open -'

'No matter, sir, it's -'

Hodgson clips the tin closed like a man burned, shoving it into Billy's hand -

'You take them,' he says, sounding vaguely horrified, 'I must have been eating them in my sleep - no wonder I was dreaming about my teeth!'

Billy's not going to dissuade him.

-

Before the ships had set sail John had, with his own money, purchased a book of mathematical problems.

It had been a treat, in its way - two shillings-worth of exercises he could pass along to the men during lessons rather than using the same old textbooks that had been mouldering in the library since the ship had first sailed, and as a treat it had worked until approximately three weeks ago, when he had quite unceremoniously run out of questions.

It is a nightmare - cobbling whole lists of problems together from the first parts of harder questions from his own navigational handbook - old questions with the numbers changed, and thinly-veiled references to his own life:

Mr H, who receives eight cubes of sugar costing ha’penny apiece per day, trades that sugar for two weeks for a drawing - how much is the drawing worth? (four shillings and eightpence)

Fifteen months ago HMS Terror was at sea level - she is now thirty-six feet above sea-level. How fast is she moving in inches per week? (7.2)

John valiantly holds himself back from chewing his pen, and chews his fingernail instead - lifting his blotter to study, again, Mr H’s damnable four shilling and eightpence horse, corrected to the withers. Funny, he thinks, that these things can be so variable, and then - inspiration strikes.

If there’s something to be said for most of the ship’s company retreating to Erebus it’s this: John likes working on lessons with small groups. They’re easier to control, they’re more polite, and it makes John pleased to see their mathematical skills coming along so individually.

Golding and Hartnell thrum along at their usual pace while Manson still grapples with an earlier puzzle, and to chivvy them along John decides to release his new question, coughing to gain their attention.

‘The Problem -’ and he pauses for effect - ‘Of A Horse.’

‘Mr Jones’ hands are three and one-quarter inches wide, and his horse is seventeen hands tall. Mr Smith’s hands are three and three-quarters inches wide, and his horse is fifteen hands tall. Whose horse is taller?’

The problem of a horse does not receive the reaction that John had hoped for - an ‘aha!’ or a light chuckle, though he supposes that as he’s not often the inducer of a light chuckle he may well have baffled them.

Golding looks at Hartnell, who Manson is also looking at - they share a brief conversation of blinks and frowns and eyebrow raises until Hartnell says -

‘Yeah. Go on, Magnus.’

Manson swallows and mutters -

‘Speak up, Manson,’ says John.

‘It’s a - it’s a trick question, sir.’

‘A trick question?’

‘Yessir, ‘cause… seventeen hands is bigger than fifteen.’

‘But -?’ prompts John -

‘Seventeen… is bigger, sir. So Jones’ horse is the bigger.’

Hartnell is nodding encouragement across the table - ‘Good one, Magnus!’

John blinks.

‘Gentlemen!’ he says, ‘Mr Jones has the smaller hands, however.’

‘That’s the trick, sir,’ from Bobby Golding, ‘seventeen hands is seventeen hands -’

‘No,’ says John, baffled, ‘seventeen times three and one-quarter -’

‘A hand’s a hand, sir.’

‘Beg pardon?’ says John.

‘Well,’ says Hartnell, ‘if I said, “Lt. Irving’s six foot tall”, you’d not ask me whose foot - it’s just a measure.’

John huffs, attempting to regain his composure - ‘Of course, but supposing this is how Jones and Smith measured their horses -’

‘I would call on the magistrate.’ Hartnell says.

‘It’s fraud, sir,’ says Manson.

‘I know that!’ says John, who hadn’t, ‘Then, Manson, how many inches to a hand?’

‘Four, sir.’ says Manson, in the rote diction of a boy who’s had the answer beaten into him.

‘Well -’ John feels his face getting hot, ‘How much shorter are Jones and Smith’s horses than they ought to be?’

The three boggle at him - ‘Get on with it! Have any of you seen Lieutenant Hodgson this watch?’

There’s the answering bang of the cannon on the upper deck to that - Hartnell takes a moment to sharpen his pencil - ‘He’s up above, sir.’

Golding squints at his paper - ‘Was it him made up that question, sir?’

There’s only one way for John to retain even the tatters of his dignity around him - he commits the mortal sin of lying. 

-

'Four inches!' says George, for at least the sixth time since John relayed the information - now he has a wooden rule laid across his fingers, sliding it up and down his palm, 'They must be brutes!'

'I think it's including the thumb,' John says, for at least the third time, snatching the ruler, 'look -'

True to form his own palm plus thumb comes out near enough four inches - he slaps the rule back into George's hand, who frowns.

'They don't stack nearly as well with thumbs.'

'Take it up with the Crown, then, if you've a problem with standardization.'

'Oh, don't be absurd! Doesn't it frustrate you?'

‘Not especially,’ says John, clutching his putty rubber for dear life as he erases the horse yet again, careful not to rip the paper, before dotting another guideline out around Yardstick-George’s shoulder and sighing, ‘It really is quite a tall horse.’

George smiles wryly over his cup of tea, ‘He did tell us.’

‘He must have been only a little boy back then, before he went to sea - how on Earth did he manage it?’

‘He must have been the same height back then.’

‘I mean it!’ says John, ‘He’s not so tall as you, and I don’t think you could climb onto my shoulder - and don’t try!’

‘Bet I could… besides, horses have those little - you know, the pedals off of the seat.’

‘Suppose so.’ He’s feeling daring, now, so allows the horse to take its front foot off of the ground - George nods appreciatively at the outline.

‘I like that. Dynamic.’

‘I thought so.’ A long swooping line connects the horse’s neck and hindquarters - John considers it a moment before erasing the middle and starting again, a proper back.

‘Still, quite impressive, isn’t it? Mastery over a horse. You couldn’t even handle a wren.’

‘Must you?!’

‘Just an example -’

‘A wren is a wild animal. I learned my lesson.’

John huffs a laugh, sketching down Lancelot’s neck - ‘You’re becoming a dab hand at that,’ says George, ‘you’ll give Stubbs a run for his money by next year.’

‘Be quiet,’ says John, without heat, ‘do you think his tail should be -’ he flicks his hand in a vague arc over the page; George shrugs -

‘You’re the artiste.’

‘Hm,’ says John, studying the delicate outline, ‘I think that’s about right. For the background I was thinking… a heath, something like that. Gorse and silver birch, little… heathers on the ground.’

‘That sounds nice,’ George agrees, and flicks John’s putty rubber across the table at him - he catches it deftly, just before it hits his face, and begins to erase the drawn-over outline of George, where Lancelot’s chin clips the top of his head.

The three-dimensional George exhales heavily.

‘What?’

‘Nothing!’

John rolls his eyes and rubs out Yardstick-George’s much-contested legs; the real George makes a sound like a chair dragged across parquet, and when John looks at him he finds he has his teeth clamped hard around his first knuckle.

‘What? What’s funny?’

‘Nothing!’ he squeaks.

John points the rubber at him - ‘You’re peturbing me.’

‘I expect I am,’ says George, around his knuckle.

John looks back at the sketch.

‘Oh my word,’ he says, and puts his head in his hands.

‘I know,’ says George, reaching to pat helplessly at John’s wrist, ‘I’m sorry -’

‘When did you realise - why didn’t you -’

‘While you were erasing the last horse -’ he blinks anxiously at John’s glare, ‘I thought it would be rude…’

‘Rude!’ John gives a drawn-out groan over the clink of the teapot as George plays mother.

‘I do think it’s the best horse yet,’ George soothes - John laughs: 

‘This will be a recollection I excuse from my memoirs - my father -’

‘Ah, but would I excuse it from mine? My father is of course quite dead -’

‘Watching you from Heaven, then, George. He already knows.’

‘Good Lord, I hope not! My sisters have, no doubt, much more interesting things to look in on - for his sake more than mine -’ he nudges a teacup to John, and chuckles - ‘How many hundreds of pounds of education between us, Johnny?’

John picks up the sugar tongs and points them at George - ‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’ he watches three sugar cubes sink into John’s teacup with ill-concealed envy, surprisingly grey in the face for his week-long sugar fast - ‘You can turn me into a birch, then, or a gorse. With little yellow flowers.’

‘I will turn you into a gorse, if you’re not careful. Is it spring that the gorse comes out?’

‘Damned if I know.’

George downs the last of his tea - not only bitter but now also cold, and pours one last gritty and over-steeped half-cup from the pot. John, with the fourth cube still perched mid-air in the tongs, is suddenly overcome - he tips the last cube into George’s cup.

'Oh, Johnny,' says George, the rattle of his teaspoon in the cup like a trembling animal, and when he sips it is as though he is tasting manna from Heaven.

'I will bring that sugar debt forward,' says John, making a note of it, 'one cube owed.'