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Following the mishap with the captain’s pistol — which Tozer remembers with bitter shame every time he is in Crozier’s line of sight — Tozer tries to keep his head down, his Marines in line, and most of all his reputation intact.
Their voyage has barely begun, and it rankles him to have left a poor impression with Crozier. To make amends, he cannot help ingratiating himself to the senior officers. Hodgson, insufferable as he may be, proves the easiest to talk to: the man always has an anecdote to share, and a veteran such as he has a healthy amount of interest and respect for a man like Tozer. Irving is impossibly rigid, more at ease with a prayer book or sextant in hand, but Tozer recognizes the sanctimonious type and gives him a wide berth.
And then there is Little.
The one that confounds Tozer the most.
For the first several weeks on board Terror, he assumes that Little dislikes him. The lieutenant regards him with the same contemptible indifference that Crozier does, and Tozer assumes that the captain (or one the mates, goddamn them) told Little about his breaking the pistol. Tozer is not sure which is worse; having the opportunity to impress the lieutenant yanked from his grasp, or the fact that Little barely notices his existence. It is easier to navigate the captain’s irritation than a man who seems as impenetrable as a medieval fortress.
Tozer tries to pry information on the man from Hodgson (he claps his back with a easy grin and says something about a family in Jersey). Next, he tries Irving (who’s ruffled that Tozer interrupted his private hours with paper and paintbrush and grumbles about Little being the dog’s favorite). Next, Tozer accosts Mr Jopson, who has mastered the ability of glaring while smiling. His arms are full of clean bedclothes, and he taps his foot impatiently at Tozer while he stumbles through his question (to which Jopson airily replies that Little is professional and fully capable of his duties as lieutenant and really why do you think you need to know more than that?). Tozer lets him go, frowning when Jopson comes inches from stomping on his foot.
Other men on the ship (less involved with Little, but at this point Tozer is desperate) echo the same sentiments. Blanky calls Little ‘shy’ but a ‘good man.’ Lane thinks Little is ‘the straightforward sort.’ Hornby delights at the gossip and proceeds to tell Tozer that ‘seeing the last post he accepted, Lieutenant Little must be vying for a promotion.’ Peddie gestures wordlessly and says something to the effect of Little being ‘healthy’ and ‘of good breeding.’ MacDonald, likewise, assures Tozer of Little’s hardiness, ‘appropriate for an officer heading to the Arctic, don’t you think?’ Mr Genge finds Little ‘intimidating’ and ‘hard to understand’ and perhaps most strangely that his hair ‘smells like oranges.’ Helpman grins and, clearly impressed by the lieutenant, says ‘but have you seen how that man can climb the rigging?’ Tozer catches Mr Gibson on a smoke break, so the steward glowers at him and calls Little a ‘self-involved and self-deprecating prat.’ Before Tozer can denounce the insult, the caulker’s mate Hickey joins them and adds with a delighted grin — lowering his voice substantially and conspiratorially — that he thinks Little may be ‘inverted.’ Gibson snorts at this, handing Hickey the cigarette without comment, and Tozer leaves in a huff.
Nothing is helping in his pursuit to unearth more about Little, and Tozer fears that he must resign himself to the man’s stone-cold exterior for the next two years. The idea is unpleasant, but not the worst treatment he’s encountered on ship.
He shouldn’t let it distract him from his daily duties, but it’s all that he can think of during the rationing of grog. He stands by Mr Diggle as the man allots the petty officers and AB’s their morning cup of watered-down rum. The pomp of Tozer’s presence has long since lost its allure (to both the sergeant and the men), and Tozer’s mind goes elsewhere, his face blank and eyes glazed over.
So it is thus that when Mr Diggle hands him a cup of his own, with the usual wink and nudge, that Tozer nods, thanks him, and turns to start walking toward the forecastle only to collide directly with Lieutenant Little. The cup of grog upturns onto the poor man, and Tozer stands there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the lieutenant’s drenched front. He’s fresh from on deck, his greatcoat soaking up most of the liquid, and Tozer can see the wet stain, even on the navy broadcloth.
The cup dangles from Tozer’s fingers as his mind races for an excuse, for the proper thing to say. An absurd part of him remembers that he did not salute, though really, that is the least of his concerns, having dumped grog on the ship’s second-in-command.
Mr Diggle responds the quickest and hurries forward with a rag to mop up the excess. Little holds up a hand and shakes his head with a frown. Without looking or saying a thing to Tozer, which serves to only make Tozer’s face feel hotter, Little gestures to Harry Peglar, just a few feet away.
“Might I see your cup, Mr Peglar?” he calmly asks.
Peglar glances rapidly from Tozer to Little, confusion all over his face, but he does as asked, handing his cup of grog to the lieutenant.
Who, with a brief, glittering look at Tozer, proceeds to dump the second cup onto himself.
A half-gasp, half-laugh chokes out of Peglar, and Mr Diggle looks equally shocked. Little drops the tin cup onto the floor, lifting both hands with an exasperated sigh.
“Of all the luck,” he says, voice too deadpan for Tozer to recognize as a joke. Tozer starts to catch wise when Little looks him in the eye, with the beginnings of a smile tugging one corner of his lip. “Apologies, men. I must have tracked in some snow and slipped. You know how it is.”
Tozer doesn’t, but he finally closes his gaping mouth.
“Right. Yes, sir,” he says in a jumbled mess.
Little holds his gaze for a second longer before something like embarrassment furrows the man’s brow, and he looks down again.
“Mr Diggle,” he says, nodding to the cook, “if you’ll be so kind as to pour Sergeant Tozer and Mr Peglar a fresh drink for their troubles, I can provide you a bottle from my personal stores.”
Tozer starts at that. He wants to argue, but that liquid brown gaze settles on his face again, the odd half-smile in place. The floor is gone from beneath Tozer’s feet, and he freefalls, headfirst into something that he does not think he can name.
“Aye, sir, I’ll do just that,” answers Mr Diggle.
“Good. I’ll have Mr Gibson fetch it.”
Little sighs, fingers tugging on the buttons of his coat, and Tozer wonders if the grog will damage the fabric. He bends to pick up the cup Little dropped. His head comes close to Little’s hip, and he can see his fingers clench and unclench by his side. When he stands, he faces a serious-faced lieutenant again.
“As you were,” he says before turning on his heel and heading straight for his cabin.
Tozer watches him go, his stomach twisting inside him. Peglar starts laughing again, this time joined by Mr Diggle. Both seem incapable of reacting otherwise.
“And I thought Lieutenant Little was harsh,” Peglar admits to the two of them.
“I didn’t expect the man to have a lenient bone in his body,” Mr Diggle agrees.
Tozer looks at the cup in his hand, appraising the smudges on the tin, from Peglar’s hand or perhaps Little’s. He sets the cup on the table, heart beating an uneven pattern in his chest.
In a few minutes’ time, he’ll drink a glass of madeira picked by the lieutenant himself, shared on a whim or some form of kindness.
He still doesn’t know what to think of the man. (Nor does he know how the lieutenant feels about him.)
But his mind will betray him most of all: with dark brown eyes and a half-smile at the forefront of his thoughts when he drinks the lieutenant’s wine.