Work Text:
The men think he’s cursed.
They don’t want him here, on Terror. He makes them uneasy. He noticed from the moment he stepped foot on Terror's deck, the way even the ship’s boys didn’t want to make eye contact with him. Their eyes linger on him just a little too long, trying to look at him without looking at all. They think they’re so clever, peering at him from the sides of their eyes as he’s escorted on board, acting like he can’t see him. There could be a blindfold over his eyes and he’d still know they're looking by the weight of their stares. Maybe it would be better if he was blindfolded, that way he could pretend he was somewhere else.
Nobody wants him on Terror, but there isn’t room for him on Erebus either. There’s room for him on Beechey, wedged inside the coffin, tucked in next to his brother. It’s Tom’s shirt that’s on his corpse now, the little ‘T.H.’ their mother so diligently embroidered on the cuffs. A shirt for a lifetime of memories doesn’t seem like a fair trade.
Tom Hartnell is bad news. That’s what they said over on Erebus. That’s what followed him to Terror. Bad news because his brother had to be cut open before he was laid to rest. Bad news because Tom saw it happen. That's not just an unfortunate accident, that's an omen. Even if it was just TB that sent John Hartnell to an early grave.
So, when he walks across the decks, nestles into his hammock and pretends to sleep, when he waits in line at mealtimes, the men do not meet his eye. His name is only spoken when necessary. The brusque dockside syllables of 'Hartnell' like an incantation on the tongue. Having him aboard is no better luck than having a woman on Terror. The lads over on Erebus are probably thankful he's gone.
Better with them than us. Better that nobody on Erebus will be forced to remember the way he wailed when he walked into the sickbay, like a babe being weaned. Tom remembers. The sight of John's sliced-up body. Lt. Gore blocking his view, a firm hand on his chest. Two marines at his side, deeply uncomfortable. Dr. Stanley standing over John's body with crimson hands and a grimace as he poked and prodded at John's insides. Mr. Goodsir briefly making eye contact with him around Gore's broad frame, mouth half-open like he wanted to say something reassuring. Isn't that a concept?
Tom Hartnell lies awake in his hammock surrounded by snores, and when he closes his eyes all he can see is John. John should be in the hammock beside him, or Tom should be in a shallow grave on Beechey.
Despite everything, he makes a friend. Harry Peglar, who has a kind face and is always scribbling down bits of phrases that are completely unintelligible to Tom, makes room for him at meals and isn't afraid to look him in the eye. Peglar does not treat him like damaged goods. Maybe he's carrying with him something just as heavy.
For a month Tom goes through life like a particularly vivid dream. He sleeps but does not rest. All the motions of living are carried out, but he does not notice the day to day changes.
John should have been buried back in Kent with the rest of their family. There's room in the family plot for him, for both of them.
It's only when he's on the deck too long and is sent to Dr. MacDonald with frostbitten ears and nose that someone finally tries to snap him out of it. It isn't serious, nothing a little hot water and friction can't cure over the course of a night. The sort of accidental stupid injury associated with the younger members of the expedition in the early days of winter. Easily treatable but easily avoidable.
"Have you considered talking to Lt. Irving about your brother?" Dr. MacDonald asks the way you would a small child. "It might help to make sense of this if you talk to...a spiritual man."
Tom nods, only half-hearing what the doctor is saying. Lt. Irving is a pious man, but he cannot work miracles. What are they expecting from him…. a turn towards God in this time of need? a confession of guilt? absolution?
Doctor MacDonald continues, "I know these are difficult times for you, lad. But there was nothing you could have done to save him. Disease is a cruel, indiscriminate killer. We did all we could to make sure he was comfortable before putting him in the earth"
Warm tears spill over Tom's wind-chapped cheeks and he does not bother to wipe them away. He wants Doctor MacDonald to see them. "If you wanted him to be comfortable then why was Dr. Stanley ordered to cut him open?"
There is no rebuttal for this, and Tom wasn't expecting one. He chose his words with purpose. John was comfortable when they lowered him down. He had a pillow propping his head up, his face was shaved, and his nails trimmed, his body bathed and prepared with all the reverence he deserved. He was made to be comfortable after they cut him up like the cadavers used in operating theatres. Tom's heard they use the bodies of criminals. Corpses that have gone unclaimed or that nobody wants to claim. Bottom of the barrel filth that surgeons have no qualms slicing and dicing to show off for students. Messes of muscle and tendons to be posed by artists then discarded.
Tom cries harder now, pressing a fist against his mouth to try and quell the tears. If John were here, he'd give him a slap on the back, or maybe a flick to the ear. John would tell him not to be such a baby, Tommy, honestly! Or he'd make a silly face until Tom stopped crying enough to giggle. Of course, if John were here, he wouldn't be crying in the first place.
⚓⚓⚓
It's Irving who finds him first when they both have a spare minute following dinner and all the post-meal festivities a wardroom officer is afforded. He catches Tom by the elbow and spins him around to face him, out of the way of the crowd of seamen putting their dirty dinner things away.
"Mr. Hartnell, Dr. MacDonald told me you might benefit from a listening ear with your…situation. He told me you injured yourself as a result of distraction, that you don't sleep well, seem most distressed."
Yes, I'm aware of what my symptoms are, Tom thinks, wishing to return to his hammock where at least he could duck under the blanket and wish himself back to Chatham with John and the others. I have to live with this all the time.
"Well, I figured you might do with some guidance in this difficult time and believe that studying scriptures may help to alleviate some of your sorrow."
If you asked Tom what he thought Lt. Irving's voice sounded like, he'd likely answer with 'patronizing' or 'sanctimonious'; that of a man who is confident in both his abilities and station. While this is his first major interaction with Irving, he's been aware of the man for much longer. John Irving is second only to Sir John in piety, or perhaps the two are tied for the position. He has no inkling as to which man is more reverent, more honest in his faith. In his speech, Irving wavers. There are momentary pauses in his sentences as he tries to restructure what he plans to say to make the most impact with the least damage. His voice is softer in conversation than expected. Brotherly, almost. There's a calmness to the way he propositions Tom, almost gentle. If Tom didn't know any better, he'd think that Irving is doing this out of the goodness of his own heart rather than taking the opportunity to prove what a Good Christian he is.
But Tom is not naïve. He knows too well the way men of Irving's station, his background and temperament, cannot resist helping someone further down the ladder if it raises them up a peg. Irving is a man who is proud of his faith, proud of how well he loves God. It's a pity they're not living a few hundred years earlier, a pity Irving is not a heretic. A good martyr he would probably make, the type who would revel in being killed for his faith if it brought in more followers.
What else is there to say other than acceptance. Tom cannot turn down the lieutenant's offer of Christian charity. Rather he could, but it would not be a wise choice. There's still enough rationale in his brain left to tell him that saying no would be a supremely bad idea. He doesn't want to be a blasphemer as well as cursed.
So, he agrees. He will meet Irving in his cabin following dinner tomorrow night. They will read from the Psalms and perhaps the Book of Matthew (the amount of thought Irving put into this is honestly a little bit alarming). Tom will pretend that it helps then be on his merry way.
⚓⚓⚓
Tom is fetched promptly at 3 bells the next evening. Gibson materializes following dinner and escorts him to Irving’s cabin. Irving is at his desk, a Bible already open in front of him. He rises to meet Tom with unexpected sincerity in his eyes.
“Mr. Hartnell, welcome,” he rises from his desk and gestures him to come further into the small cabin. When his offer of tea goes unaccepted by a small shake of Tom’s head, then a quiet ‘no thank you sir’, there’s a pause. This may have been a mistake but they can’t turn back now. Tom can’t say ‘well I’m terribly sorry, lieutenant, but rather than take up your offer of good Christian charity I’ve decided to continue to wallow in misery, toodaloo!’ and while Irving could dismiss him if he feels this will be a futile effort, he won't.
Tom is given the desk chair while Irving sits on a low stool seemingly pulled out of nowhere. There’s another moment of excruciating silence that fills the room as much as another person could before Irving asks if he could turn to the Psalms, please.
The paper is too thin under his hands, like some fragile thing that will break if he isn’t careful with it. Not tear, as paper should, but break. Shatter. The Bible itself is no different than the one Tom has, the same standard edition that he assumes every boy is given when he is old enough to read. Irving’s feels different though. There’s a heaviness to it that doesn’t just come from the weight. Careful pencil notations and marginalia in a small, sloped hand wrap around verses. Passages are underlined and circled. Holding this feels too personal, it feels like he’s inside Irving’s head or his heart with everything laid bare.
It’s hard not to think of his own Bible, bloated by water and neglected. He’s read, it, of course, not the whole thing because he never planned on becoming a man of the cloth, but a fair amount of it is firmly etched into his brain. And it is not as though they didn’t attend weekly mass; common folk sing their hymns and receive their sacraments the same as the wealthy do. He’s got quite a few fond memories which took place inside a church—Betsy whisper-complaining that this was boring and when were they going to get to the story about the whale (he didn’t have the heart to tell her that the story of Jonah could be found in the Book of Jonah, not Deuteronomy which is what they were supposed to be listening to), the time they got a new priest right out of seminary who floundered and stuttered his way through his first month, voice breaking every time he sang, John making him laugh while looking dead ahead so their mother didn’t catch onto any shenanigans (she always did).
But this is not a church and he is not with his family. His hands shake when he finally reaches the Psalms. His voice shakes more when Irving asks if he could read a few of them.
Psalm 18:28 for thou wilt light my candle: the LORD my God will enlighten my darkness.
Psalm 27:1 The LORD is my light and salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
Psalm 34:18 The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.
Psalm 37:39 but the salvation of the righteous is of the LORD: he is their strength in the time of trouble
Psalm 119:50 This is my comfort in my affliction: for thy word hath quickened me
By the end of the Psalms, a bead of sweat traces its way down his spine. He does not want to look at Irving. Not at the steady way the lieutenant’s eyes are trained on him as though looking for any cracks in his resolve, his relaxed, open posture. Take this in contrast to Tom’s constantly shifting eyes, the curled form of his shoulders with every part of him tucked in like an escape.
As the Bible is passed back to Irving, he is careful not to let their fingers touch.
Irving reads from Matthew chapter 5—the sermon on the mount, ostensibly so he can read verse 4 ‘blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted’ but he reads several more verses as though his intentions weren’t evident—in a quiet voice that somehow seems to reverberate throughout the cabin. He’s Scottish, something Tom must have been aware of but never really considered. Everyone else that high on the chain of command (aside from the Captain) is distressingly posh, real Etonian old money types. After all, what other ways do you make it that high in the Navy without some sort of head start? Maybe he’s never heard Irving’s real voice because he’s always projecting when addressing the men as some great monolith, making sure he’s understood. Maybe he polishes up the edges of it, sands the harshness down when he’s with the other officers. Maybe he only lets it slip when he’s in close quarters like this.
Or maybe he’s trying to get Tom to trust him. Try to relate to him.
Nearly an hour passes as Irving reads some more, as he speaks in a way that is less like a lecture or a homily and more like a conversation. He does not ask questions about John, but he does ask questions around John; if John’s appeared in any of his dreams, mostly. Dreams are a big thing for Irving. While it may be a silly thing to assume that every dream is a sort of prophecy, Irving seems to believe that the dreams one experiences in the wake of traumatic loss are important, that they hold some sort of secret key to helping one move on.
In any case, Tom hasn’t had any dreams of John. At least not the kind Irving was clearly hoping for—John appearing to him angelic, telling him that he’s happier in Heaven behind those pearly gates, that Tom can move on and be happy in his absence.
When it’s time for him to go, Irving asks if this has helped at all. Tom grits his teeth and says yes. He does the same when Irving asks if he’d like to meet again the next day. Tomorrow, he has watch around this time, thank God for small mercies, but the following night is free. Maybe if he pretends long enough Irving will let him go
⚓⚓⚓
He dreams of John, of course, he does. He wishes he didn’t, wishes for the dark emptiness he’d find in a tomb. During the night, John is everywhere. Even when his eyes aren’t closed and he stares endlessly past the rows of men in their hammocks he sees John lingering in the corner, wasted away and carved up like a Christmas ham. Both dead and alive at the same time. Unnatural. Maybe this John was his brother once but not anymore. Maybe the John that comes to him in dreams never was his John and is an abomination instead, like something out of the Book of Revelation. Or a spectre sent to haunt him. Remind him that he lives while John does not.
It’s impossible to travel without hearing any sort of ghost story. They’re as much a part of England’s mythology as St. George and the dragon or King Arthur and his knights. Tales of phantoms and cold spots are as much a currency on ships as traded tobacco or grog rations. Everyone has them, and everyone thinks theirs is the best. England is founded on ghosts.
True, sailors are a superstitious bunch. They have to be. There’s too much of a risk involved in their job to not be at least a little superstitious. So, this might make the swapping of ghost stories seem counterproductive, and perhaps it should be. But it’s all a variety of pub talk. Tales of back home without mentioning your loved ones. Nothing in those ghost stories can kill them, not when they’re in the middle of the ocean. The things that can kill them are much more frightening.
Tom has ghost stories of his own, ones he’s shared often enough. Tales of haunted pubs and strange figures seen at crossroads at night. He and John were well-regarded on Erebus for their tale of Lord Nelson’s ghost (a healthy young man, not the one-armed, one-eyed veteran he was at Trafalgar) roaming the dockyards at night. If ghost stories are a shipboard currency, then the Nelson story is spun gold.
The story that won him so much respect on Erebus would be another black mark on his ledger on Terror. Of course, Tom Hartnell’s seen Lord Nelson’s ghost wandering around his hometown. Figures that he’d bring that sort of thing with him aboard, and so proud of it too. Is it any surprise that’s he’s bad luck?
⚓⚓⚓
Two days pass and Tom could not tell you what he and Irving discuss in their second meeting, could not tell you the passage numbers or any notable quotes though they’re likely ones he’s already familiar with. When he steps inside Irving’s cabin he appears to also step outside of his body. The third meeting goes much the same.
Their fourth meeting is cut short when Tom snaps that nothing they’re talking about is of value. “Useless platitudes” is his exact phrase, which was how his father referred to the Psalms for as long as he can remember. So, when Irving is halfway through a sermon about how God will always be there to catch you when you fall or whatever the fuck he’s trying to sell, Tom can’t take it anymore.
“Forgive me for being blunt, lieutenant,” he manages through gritted teeth, each word an extraction, “but how do you suppose a bunch of useless platitudes will make me get over my brother’s death? You think I’ll just pray really hard and suddenly I’ll forget what the inside of his body looked like?” There’s more he wants to say, but he cuts himself off. Mercifully he remembers that he’s in the presence of a superior officer who could have him flogged for disrespect, written up at the very least.
If Irving’s face was previously open to a fault, eager to have someone under his wing, it’s gone horribly pinched now. His mouth is a sour closed-off line, the tightness extending from his jaw to his eyes to where his hands are clasped neatly in his lap. When he swallows, the sharp point of his Adam’s apple looks like it’s about to puncture the spiderweb-thin skin of his neck.
An apology should be the next logical step here. Tom should apologize. He wants to apologize. No matter how badly he’s hurting he shouldn’t take that hurt out on other people, his mama taught him that. She made sure that was the one thing he took to sea with him. There’s an apology blossoming on the tip of his tongue that immediately wilts when Irving holds up his hand.
His words are clipped like it is taking all his resolve to not snap back. There must be some illusion of formality here. “I believe we’re done for tonight, Mr. Hartnell.” His voice is back to third lieutenant posh, no trace of Edinburgh bleeding into his vowels.
Tom stands and leaves. He does not look back.
The worst part of this is that Irving didn’t deserve this. Despite Tom’s desire to make him into some fire-and-brimstone type, there doesn’t appear to be any ulterior motive behind all this. From all he can gather, Irving is genuine about this. Painfully so. And maybe if the Bible study part wasn’t going to help, the talking-to-someone part likely would.
His hammock sags underneath him as he flops facedown onto his pillow, as best as he can flop onto a volatile hammock in close quarters. A pair of boots appear in the portion of his field of vision not obscured by the flimsy pillowcase.
It’s Peglar’s steady hand that comes to rest on his shoulder and Peglar’s soft voice asking if he’s alright and Peglar’s fancy book—something highbrow, classical probably—that’s put aside in favour of his friend.
You really blew it, huh? John’s voice in his head says with uncharacteristic mournfulness.
Yeah. Yeah, he did.
⚓⚓⚓
By the end of the week, Tom’s given up seeing Irving in an unofficial capacity. Isn’t this what he wanted? For everyone to stop treating him like some glass bauble, to be left alone, for Irving to understand that no amount of Bible verses will lessen his ache. It was, and now it isn’t. It isn’t that he misses Irving so much as he feels great resentment at the circumstances of their parting. Perhaps he could write a note saying sorry. That’d be easy. You can get all the do-overs you need with paper. But it still feels cowardly, if he’s going to apologize to Irving, he’ll do it face to face. Another thing Sarah Hartnell taught her children: always apologize to someone in person, it will be more meaningful. If you want someone to believe your sincerity, convince them of it.
So, after lunch, he sets out to find Gibson. He thinks he’s got something of an advantage in tracking Gibson’s whereabouts, Peglar knows the general schedule of his duties due to some secret steward grapevine with Mr. Bridgens over on Erebus; and if Gibson isn’t currently occupied by the officers, he’s likely to be found hanging around the lean, hungry-looking caulker’s mate, Hickey. This knowledge also comes courtesy of Peglar, who does not appear to mind Hickey despite half the crew disliking him for his poor work ethic and general demeanour.
Gibson is exactly where he was expected to be, in his cabin sewing a button back into a shirt cuff. Something of that manner is what Tom was anticipating. What he was not anticipating is for the curtain to Gibson’s room to be pushed back so he can talk with Hickey who, ostensibly, is supposed to be caulking a crack in the floorboards but is whittling some trinket out of a block of wood. They’re laughing, good-natured and easy when Tom approaches. Hickey’s eyes latch onto him, unblinking and dark in the half-smothered belowdecks light. The knife in his hand does not stop moving.
“Mr. Gibson, would you give a message to lieutenant Irving for me? Could you tell him I’d like to apologize for my outburst the other night?”
He hates the way his voice pulls upwards at the end of the question, it feels like rolling over and showing his belly. He hates doing this with an audience, the way something too devious to be called mischief springs to life in Hickey’s eyes and the manic pace of his knife against the wood, the action so familiar it’s become muscle memory.
“As it happens, lieutenant Irving has a message for you. He said he would not hold your outburst against you and to come whatever night suits you best.” The words are perfectly innocent, but there’s something about Gibson’s dry delivery and Hickey’s presence that unsettle him.
The sooner he can thank Gibson and leave the better.
As he heads down the hallway, he places Gibson’s face the way he’s been struggling with since he first set foot on Terror. He looks like a medieval depiction of Jesus, immortalized in art. Angular and primed for suffering, as though his body has been preparing for the grave or the lash his entire life. Irving, he thinks, would be rather proud of this connection. Belatedly he realizes that the small piece of wood in Hickey’s quick, light hands was taking the form of a small coffin.
That night he ends up in Irving’s cabin and apologizes before he even sits down. Irving takes it all in stride; he gives a simple nod and says that he wasn’t offended, just taken aback. The Bible remains untouched for most of the night. Irving asks him if he wants to talk about John and Tom hesitantly accepts. Nothing he shares is of much substance. Stories of John when they were dumb kids, rapscallions as their mother would say. All of it, John trying to trade him for a dog (and very nearly succeeding), sitting on John’s shoulders with their father’s coat wrapped around them both, swinging from trees like they were born in them, inconsequential fluff. It’s the sort of thing his mother would recollect to her sisters when they met up for Christmas. Or what old family acquaintances would say after not seeing them for a while: ‘why Tom, you’ve grown so tall! I remember when you were just a wisp of a thing, how you and John…’ and so on and so on.
Irving listens. He does not put on airs of rapture, the way he's seen men do around Captain Fitzjames as he recounted a familiar story for the dozenth time. Tom knows all the signs of half-listening; the constant nodding along to the rhythm of the words, the comically widened eyes, the overblown emotional reactions all designed to make the storyteller think himself equal to Homer. Irving does none of these. From his low stool, he sits calmly with dignified carriage, eyes never leaving Tom. When he opens his mouth it is to ask a question — and your mother wasn’t mad? where exactly is that? Betsy’s the youngest? — and aside from that, he does not intrude.
Tom doesn’t keep track of how long he talks, his sentences begin to ramble on, and his vision goes soft around the edges. It’s far later than anticipated, Gibson will be waiting to help the lieutenant disrobe. As he gets up from the chair and returns it to the spot under the table, Irving asks if he would object to “a useless platitude for the road”.
It isn’t delivered with any malice behind it. Irving’s tone is light, as if in jest which makes Tom feel better, though he still feels rotten for using the phrase at all.
Psalm 40:2 He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.
⚓⚓⚓
Their fifth meeting Tom accepts Irving’s repeated offer of tea. In the sixth meeting, they go back to the Bible, reading from the Book of Revelation (‘I figured you would want a little time away from grief’, Irving rationalizes). By meeting seven, they’ve begun to warm up to one another. It isn’t as though they are bosom friends or anything, but formality slips away bit by bit. When Irving sheepishly admits that he and his closest friends on the HMS Edinburgh were nicknamed the Holy Ghost Boys, a fact which he finds “horrid to relate”, Tom makes a valiant effort at not laughing, fails, and snorts tea up his nose.
In meeting ten, Tom poses the first of many important questions. “Do you believe people can linger after death?” Part of his brain already knows what form the answer will take. The Bible contains any number of wonders and horrors, but spectral creatures are not among them. But he wants to hear Irving say it himself. John is quieter these days, he continues to play the lead in Tom’s dreams but as a memory rather than a corpse, Tom hears his voice in his head less frequently. It ought to be an improvement in his mental state, but it feels more like a loss.
Something shifts in Irving’s demeanour. The firm line of his shoulders rounds slightly, and Tom can see where his teeth aimlessly gnaw the inside of his bottom lip. “No, I don’t believe in ghosts if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is.”
“The matter of the detached soul and body after death is laid out quite clearly in the Bible. Any type of apparition is a malignant spirit sent to confuse and befuddle. The only actual appearance of a ghost is in 1 Samuel; Saul is visited by Samuel’s ghost with a warning from God that because he did not obey His instructions, he will lose his kingdom and his sons before the next sunset. More of a prophecy than a haunting, in any case, the dead king serves the same purpose as an angel, a messenger” with that he reaches across the small space between them and plucks the Bible from Tom’s hand. In that action there’s an infinitesimal moment of contact, a spark lit then quickly diminished.
As he flips to the right passage (Isaiah 8:19-20, about not consulting mediums or spiritualists to learn about the dead, who have ‘no light in them’), Tom realizes that there’s something magnetic about the way the lieutenant talks. He’s got a compelling way of talking, less confusing and meandering than Lt. Hodgson, more willing than Lt. Little. It’s...natural almost like he doesn’t have anyone to impress. He’s compelling, the way a good preacher ought to be. Knowledgeable but not haughty, approachable. When he speaks about God with so much conviction, Tom wants to listen. If he was sitting in a pew he’d lean forward, even in the front row.
“Do you feel that you’re being haunted...by your brother?” he asks, barely audible against the groan of the ships. The temperature in the small cabin seems to dip several degrees as if brought on by the ghost talk.
Yes, he thinks. But it’s not as though he can say that. If he admitted John was haunting him, he’d end up in the sickbay again. Dr. MacDonald would say something about it being his mind’s way of processing a profoundly traumatic experience. The officers would bemoan the fact that they have no way of sending him home now to stay in an asylum. “Not entirely,”
That must be the diplomatic answer, for Irving dips his head in something like recognition. Has he felt something similar in his own life? A family member, or a close friend perhaps? Someone who refuses to let go of him the way John clings to Tom like a second skin. Tom does not consider himself to be a particularly spiritual man. He knows his Bible but was never compelled to look deeper than that. He likes the stories but not so much the reasoning behind them.
How many people have bruised their knees, rubbed their hands raw in prayer, begging for some sign from God? Perhaps churches have quite a bit in common with haunted houses. The sense of history present, the suffering built into the stones, the rituals to rededicate yourself to Christ. What he says next may offend Irving more than the 'useless platitudes' line, but there's also a chance of him being impressed. That chance isn't equal, but he feels like he might burst if he does not say this.
“Then again, isn’t religion at its heart about being haunted? Believing in something you cannot see except under special circumstances but know it is always with you. It's something you inherit, like an heirloom. And...you can never really leave it behind.”
At this Irving smiles, not a full-toothed grin but it’s quick and bright. If he didn’t know better (and by now he does), he’d think Irving considers himself bested. He’s just impressed. And Tom likes this feeling, that he impressed Irving. His heart thrums against his ribs, ballooning in his chest.
“You’ve a remarkable brain, Mr. Hartnell.”
Tom smiles properly for the first time in 1846.
This was only part of what he wanted to say. If they knew each other a little better, if Tom could make sense of the contents of his head, he would say that there's something holy about the way John's lingered after death. Holy in the way Old Testament God is holy: powerful and a bit unnerving but still good at heart; holy in the way that it's bigger than them both. Maybe love too can be a type of holiness.
⚓⚓⚓
"Do you think he remembered it, Lazarus?" Tom asks.
"Remembered what?"
"Being dead for four days. Do you think it was just like a long nap or do you think he felt his heart stop? Do you think he got the taste of death out of his mouth?"
Irving doesn't answer but, appears to be pondering the question.
"If it were me, if I'd been brought back from the dead, I'd be scared to sleep. I'd worry that I'd just close my eyes and slip away again."
⚓⚓⚓
As they grow closer, Tom spends less time sitting politely in his chair and more time running his fingers across the spines of Irving's books. They talk about different things—theology still, but avenues of debate open, Irving's time in Australia is coaxed out gradually, what they think the rest of the journey will be like, what they miss about home—and Tom answers questions without tearing his eyes from the embossed gold and leather bindings of books. There are so many of them. An admirable library. Maybe at the beginning of his time on Terror, he'd be shocked to find that they are not all dry religious tomes, but now it comes as no surprise now to see that an equal number of the spines are adventure stories or tragedies as there are religious books.
One of the biggest surprises is the signed edition of Ivanhoe with the added dedication ‘For John when he’s old enough’. The bigger surprise is that Irving's father was good friends with Sir Walter Scott. It's a revelation that somehow makes perfect sense.
"Are you aware that the men think I'm cursed?" he tries to bring it up casually, flipping through a copy of Robert Burns' collected poems (not that he can understand the dialect they're written in). And it isn't exactly something he wants to bring up, but it feels important to note. Things have gotten better. Most of the men make eye contact with him, though the ship's boys still avoid it, and he's on the receiving end of more conversations. But it isn't something you can walk away from; every man in his life will be defined by one moment whether good or bad and for Tom that was walking in on an autopsy. "The ABs mostly. They think I'm a bad omen, that I'll bring death with me wherever I go." He laughs but it is a strangled thing, turning with Burns still in hand “a real Jonah.”
Irving's eyes are on him for an excruciating amount of time. "Name one person who's died since you've come aboard. Give any sort of proof that you're cursed and maybe I'll believe it."
"You don't think walking in on my brother's autopsy is a bad omen?"
Irving stands abruptly, his arms awkwardly hang at his sides but his eyes are honest. “I think what happened was a horrible accident, and I am sorry that you had to witness it, but I don’t think you’re cursed, and I don’t think it was an omen. Has anyone been giving you trouble for this?"
“No, not really.” It isn’t a lie. They skirted around him like he was contagious just like John when he was first reassigned, but that’s dissipated in the months since. Some of the more superstitious or standoffish men still avoid him, still refuse to look him in the eyes, but nearly everyone else has moved on. And besides, it could have been so much worse. He already has empty space on his right flank where John should stand, loneliness is not such a cruel companion.
Before Irving can probe more, reprimand the ABs for not being his friends, he changes the subject. There’s one question he’s been dying to ask but hasn’t for fear of what the answer might be. The fear that Irving will agree with Dr. Stanley, the greater fear that he will take Tom’s side. “Do you think it was right to do an autopsy?”
“I will not pretend to have medical knowledge of my own,” he begins and there’s something awful gnawing in the pit of Tom’s stomach because Irving is going to say that it was the proper thing to do, that John deserved to be violated after death. He assumed that Irving of all men would understand that the body is a sacred thing. “However, if I was the one making the call, I would have said no. I would have let him rest in comfort.”
The tear is halfway down his cheek before he’s aware of it and swipes it away with the back of his hand before Irving can notice. Hopefully, no others fall. That’s just what he needs, he’s already been rude, distant, and awkward around the lieutenant, all he needs now is to collapse in a fit of hysteria.
Tentative footsteps close the space between them as Irving comes up to rest his hand not on Tom’s shoulder, but on the Burns book he’s still holding; their fingers doing an elaborate tango of avoidance along the soft calfskin of the cover. “At the very least, John was buried in comfort, and based on what you’ve told me he would face no adversity getting through the gates of heaven.”
Another tear falls and this time Tom doesn’t stop it. Maybe this was what he’s needed since boarding Terror, for someone to reassure him that he isn’t dirty or wrong, for someone else to take his side. Around his heart, the hull of his ribs accumulates tiny fissures, it won’t take much more for them to split open completely.
Irving’s eyes do not leave his when he speaks next, and his voice is barely above a whisper, a hiss of sound or a release, “even from his funeral I could tell that John was profoundly loved, you deserve the same.”
This is so much worse than Irving thinking the autopsy was justified. It takes everything in him for him not to fling his arms around Irving’s neck like a maiden—and then what? What is there that he can do that won’t end with lashing?
Soon, Gibson will come to prepare Irving for bed and Tom will head back to the orlop where he will play a losing hand of cards against Peglar. And Tom will spend the entire night unable to sleep, warmth radiating throughout him like a pulse. In a moment of bravery, he inches his pinky towards Irving’s ring finger over the embossed cover. The contact is minimal, but he still shivers. At least he can pretend it’s the ice.
Then Irving’s pressing the book against his chest and telling him he can borrow it if he wants, or any book on his shelves. And Tom’s accepting, only a nod, he does not trust himself to speak, holding fast to the book as if it may transform in his arms.
Shit, he thinks as the door closes behind him.
Shit, John echoes in his head.
⚓⚓⚓
Whatever they’re talking about in the moments before Tom breaks is inconsequential. It could have been a passage from the Book of Ruth or an observation on whales and he would not be able to tell the difference. The low stool that’s kept them company all these meetings has mysteriously gone missing, so Tom is leaning against the very edge of Irving’s bed, trying not to touch the linens, trying not to think about the body that occupies them at night. But it isn’t the thought of being on Irving’s bed that makes his head go fuzzy, nor the thought of being in it, a warm body tangled with his own that does him in. He isn’t sure what sets him off, maybe it was nothing but the fact remains that one moment he’s fine and the next he feels like he’s about to die.
Something in his chest is too tight. His ribs long to bow under the pressure against them. To simply give and collapse. Wouldn't that be a relief? Slotting a finger under the collar of his shirt he forces the fabric open. A button flies off the shirt and bounces somewhere under Irving's chair. It's suddenly so warm in the cabin, it's so difficult to breathe. Tom inhales as deeply as his body will allow and feels like his lungs are going to burst. Around him the world begins to spin, tiny spots appearing in the corners of his vision. What was it his mother told him after Betsy got too close to the docks and tipped in and Tom dove in after her without a second thought? When he fished his baby sister out of the water and waited while she coughed up water and he sat, dripping wet and crying so hard his throat burned.
Put your head between your knees and focus on breathing. That is exactly what Tom does. He leans as forward as he can manage and squeezes his eyes shut. Deep breath in through his nose. Wipe his face. Hear the roar of blood in his ears. Exhale through his nose. Stop shaking. Stop shakingstopshakingstopshaking. This isn't going to bring John back. Nothing will bring John back.
Nothing-
Bile rises at the back of his throat, but he knows that if he were to retch nothing would come up and he'd just be left with the ache. A sheen of sweat covers his brow and for a moment he's left with delirious relief. Thank God he isn't crying in front of Irving again.
Breathe in. Don't cry now. John's voice in his head teases honestly Tommy, this trip's gonna be a helluva lot longer if you weep like a widow whenever you miss me. John would rib him for this, and for the fact that the Terrors still haven't completely warmed up to him. They don't think you're cursed, boyo, that's just the stench of your socks keeping 'em away! He'd laugh if he weren't still struggling to breathe.
Beside him, the mattress sags as Irving lowers himself beside him. A featherlight hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. Irving rubs his thumb over the layers of wool and linen like a man who's spent years yearning for comfort but has little experience with it. It's clumsy, trying too hard not to violate the fragile hierarchy of rank. Endearing too, Irving does not offer of trite words of comfort when they'd be woefully out of place. He does not get overly familiar with Tom but isn't afraid to touch him.
His eyes are closed so tight he sees an explosion of shapes and colours behind the lids. For the first time he can remember, he closes his eyes and does not see John's body. Around him, the room stops spinning. His breathing is steadier now, not quite normal but when was the last time he could breathe without the catch in his chest? He leans back into Irving's touch, tucking himself into his side so Irving must shift his hand to be around his shoulder. Later, he will rationalize this behaviour by saying that it was a subconscious choice. It isn't. He wants Irving to touch him. Despite that it's inappropriate for their respective ranks. Despite that Irving himself would likely quote Leviticus at him and remind him that wanting another man's touch in that way is deviant thought. He should feel wrong about this, abusing a man's hospitality to beg touch off of him. He should, probably, but he doesn't.
Funny, for all his talk of moral codes and God's Divine Plan, for how much he likes rules and order, Irving hasn't once mentioned the big S in violating the articles. In their informal Bible study, they've discussed other chapters of Leviticus as it's one of the ones Tom's more familiar with as opposed to, say, Thessalonians. But they've never broached the topic of men laying with one another. There's no reason for Irving to feel anything other than contempt for Nances like Peglar, like Tom. But maybe…Tom likes lieutenant Irving more than he should in a variety of ways, he's been around him enough to pick up some sort of bone-deep loneliness. The kind that takes time to heal. Sometimes, Tom will say something, and Irving will pause for a minute, reconfiguring his atoms. There are so many letters on his desk — hastily scrawled with every scrap of paper filled. Their progress hasn't been overly exciting as of late. Irving isn't writing to detail his nautical adventures. He's writing because he needs someone to talk to. He has so much to say and nowhere to put it.
Irving's arm is now fully draped around Tom, though it's moved from his shoulder to just under his armpit narrowly avoiding his tucked-up knees. "One of my brothers, my oldest brother actually" he begins, dreamlike, "he was quite ill. Brain fever in '41. Um, he was sick for several days before passing, just…wasting away and we were unable to do anything to help him. I find myself forgetting small things about him, still feel ashamed of myself for it. But for months afterwards I was always angry, or I was inconsolably sad."
"And then you found renewal and spiritual healing through the Lord?" Tom guesses.
"No, actually. I wasn't really on speaking terms with Him at that moment, it wasn't fair that he got to take George when there were so many people out there who longed for death. No, I…I was upset for a long time before I decided I didn't want to carry that hurt on my shoulders for the rest of my life. I had so much pain and nowhere to put it other than down. Tom, you can put your hurt down too. I promise that it doesn't mean you're abandoning your brother. You'll always have him but that doesn't mean you need to wear your grief. I have trouble recalling his face sometimes, George's, and my mother's. They appear as blurry outlines in my head but that isn't a sign that I've forgotten them. You mustn't feel the need to grieve rather than allow yourself to live."
Tom nods, unfolding his body with a series of loud pops up the rungs of his spine. His thanks are raspy, and he feels like he ought to apologize for this, for all of this; for the crying, for the outbursts, for everything. He's about to but the words die on his tongue.
Irving still has a warm arm around him. Irving looks very entranced by the exposed patch of skin where the button flew off his collar. If he were to stay very still, he thinks Irving might reach out and press the pad of his index finger right above the dip of his collarbone.
Tom would let him do that. Tom would let him do a lot more than that, he wants a lot more than a simple touch. His body hums so badly with the desire to be touched like he isn't a relic that it practically sings. He can’t. If he cares about Irving, he won’t put him in danger like that. There’s a lot more to lose as an officer.
Instead of leaning into his touch a little longer, Tom untangles himself and stands too quickly, too far away. It must be immediately suspicious. The excuse he uses is that the fit tired him out, he can feel a headache from the crying, the gallop of his breath (not a lie).
As he shuts the door behind him, Irving looks disappointed.
⚓⚓⚓
Six days is as long as his resolve holds out for. On the evening of the sixth day, when he’s supposed to be getting ready for bed, he makes his way to Irving's cabin. A sharp, quick knock is all it takes before the door is swung open and Irving stands in his shirtsleeves with rumpled cuffs and the buttons on his waistcoat askew. He blinks, once, twice, three times before stepping aside.
“I was a coward,” Tom breathes, his back against the door. This is too dangerous, someone could hear them, someone could walk in and Tom would have nowhere to hide, no way of explaining what he’s doing here so late at night. He wishes he could say this without saying anything at all. “I shouldn’t have run the other night. I just thought—”
“You thought?”
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to let anybody in after John, I thought it was cheating and I thought it was wrong.”
“And now?”
Tom reaches out and threads Irving's fingers with his own and Irving lets him. When he steps forward so that there are only a few inches between their chests, Irving lets him. Their clasped hands are drawn up to Irving’s cheek, Tom’s knuckles drawing over his beard. He untangles their hands and lays his cool palm against Irving’s face, his whole body stuttering when a kiss is pressed to the centre. They learn one another by the inches: Tom’s other hand coming up to cup his face and the kiss adorned on that palm as well like the wounds of Christ, Irving pulling him in by the waist until they’re flush against one another, the flutter of eyelashes, the rub of wool on wool. Irving touches his neck where the button came off his shirt — still somewhere by their feet — and it feels like consecration.