From the private diary of Dr. Harry D. S. Goodsir:

Near Beechey Island, Wednesday, 11 November, 1846

The Steward Mr. Gibson came to me, early afternoon, with a set of wounds on his palm something like Bite marks, round and sharp little things. He sat on the spare cot I used for a Clinic bed, for the patients the true Doctors haven’t time to see – though Gibson had been a rare one to request me directly – and for some reason he removed all the layers from his torso, shirt and all, and was bare and cold waist up. It must have been uncomfortable, perched bare like that in the draughty little space we use for a Sickbay; I know many of the men feel such discomfiture around men like myself of the Medical profession, and I bitterly wished he’d remained dressed, as I had no need to examine him, apart from his wounds. Indeed I wished he’d remained dressed for my sake as well: as his small brown nipples seemed frankly to be examining me, following me with their sparsely haired irises as I moved about the sickbay, collecting my glasses and gauze and a pair of scissors with which to cut strips for bandaging.

‘It’s the rats, sir. In the hold?’ he said to me. I took his outstretched hand and turned it over to view the wounds on the palm. They – the cuts, that is – looked rather larger than that would be imparted by an ordinary Rat (Rattus rattus). But then I’m still fresh-faced here – no real Sailor yet, and I’ve heard seamen’s tales of such monstrous rodents taking up in Navy storerooms. That was what the Ship’s cat was for – or I supposed it to be, weren’t it quite so Laggard. Perhaps this – such biting, I mean – was a standard occurrence, only unfamiliar to me.

‘Aggressive, aren’t they?’ I asked Mr. Gibson, meaning it rhetorical, but he shifted oddly and he looked rather Pensive. I smiled at him to calm him, but his face remained pinched. I petted his hand a little, not knowing what else might soothe him. His knuckles were quite bony, and I feared for his nutrition, that it already seemed lacking so early on our Expedition. I made a mental note to check him for signs of Scurvy at a later date. I could see no bruising on his exposed torso, though indeed I must admit his Breasts, if I may call them that on a man, were quite Distracting – as fine a pair as any I’d seen, though in truth the majority of those have been on cadavers.

(In light of this Confession regarding the cadavers I must assure you, hypothetical reader, that I am no Virgin! How humiliating that would be, to admit to being so inexperienced as I am certain the men gossip of me. I have discussed this, even, with Lt. Irving, who is also supposed to be of a Maryanneish sort, and we have assured one another that neither of us is truly worthy of the reputation the men assume.)

‘Are they quite forward, then, these Rats?’ I asked him. I was merely Curious, mainly, but also wondered rather how he’d stumbled upon them. The few times I had had occasion to go down the Hold the vermin had quite scattered upon my tromping and lantern swinging. I preferred to avoid the place altogether, however, Dank and Chill as it was, and assumed most men felt the same, unless forced to go down, as Gibson presumably was, on some duty-required task. Indeed it seemed this was ordered of Gibson rather often, for I chanced to see him every third day at least at the top of the ladder there. The little rat-faced Caulker’s Mate, who is rather contentious among the men, both well liked and well hated, was often nearby as well; I suppose it does us well to check the Caulking down there often, preemptively, lest we spring a Leak.

But, to the point: at my question, Gibson’s mouth made a queer huffling sort of sound, and a little whine back in his throat that I must admit confused me and seemed almost to shock himself, and then he told me he must simply have surprised them (the rats). ‘Surprised them?’ I asked, surprised myself at the notion. ‘You must be quite light on your Feet,’ I said to him. And he must have! The man is truly such a Willow it must be difficult for him to make much more sound than huffling and whispering in any case.

‘I try to be, sir,’ he said to me, using that Honorific though I’d asked him not to the moment he came in. I’m no Doctor and certainly no Officer, certainly no ‘Sir’ (apart from a Good one, by Birth – ha ha). Truly all I could do for him was to salt the cuts and wrap them, and I told him so, and he seemed Grateful for the dressing, if perhaps dismayed, in my estimation, that the Wounds would yet be made so visible by the gauze. I don’t know why he wished to hide them – the Rats seem quite inescapable, and his surprising them certainly could have been no Fault of his own!

In all a quiet day in the Sickbay. Later I shall go up to the Deck, the Upper one, as is my wont in the evenings, and keep sight for a White Bear. A live one, that is. The hunting Parties have brought back a couple of shot ones, a mother and her cub, which I helped to butcher as an excuse for a limited sort of autopsy, under the guise of saving the best of the meat from spoilage, by improper handling. Perhaps this evening Lt. Irving will allow me to borrow his Spyglass – quite a heavy thing and gives one the air of a Pirate to use it. But it’s so dark and vast one mayn’t spot hardly a thing without it.