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It all came down to Instincts and Training; Lieutenant Little had explained it well for him. Lieutenant Hodgson felt validated; still worthy of being a Lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, and grateful to be reassured that the order he’d given to kill the Esquimaux was the correct one, given the circumstances as he’d understood them at the time.
Yet his conversation with Captain Crozier and Captain Fitzjames – no, it was an inquisition that he endured – left him feeling the opposite; his fragile layers of self-confidence being unceremoniously chipped away. He was further humiliated when Lieutenant Irving’s stomach was opened to reveal that he had been fed by the Esquimaux. It was evidence: not only of Mr. Hickey’s lie, but of his own error in judgment.
He’s already lost face with the captains, Mr. Blanky, and Mr. Jopson – not that Mr. Blanky or Mr. Jopson should be any great concern, but they do hold alliance with Captain Crozier.
As for Dr. Goodsir? It’s a dilemma: Hodgson can’t forget the pained expression on the man’s face, nor the darkness in his voice when announcing that Lieutenant Irving had been fed seal meat. The moment lasted only a few seconds, but it’s been lodged in Hodgson’s mind for over two hours. He’s also aware that Lady Silence was forced to leave the camp; Dr. Goodsir has assuredly concluded that Hodson bears no small responsibility for that development. There’s only one way for Hodgson to eschew this burden from his mind, and that’s to apologise to Dr. Goodsir.
He trudges to the medical tent and peers inside. Fortunately, Mr. Bridgens is nowhere to be seen. Dr. Goodsir is straightening piles of books and lining up bottles of medicine, pausing periodically to lean with flattened palms on the tabletop, his head lowered, and shoulders slumped.
After seeing what he judges to be a suitable pause, Hodgson enters the tent. “Dr. Goodsir?”
Goodsir raises his head. He offers no hint of a smile, nor a verbal greeting.
“If you’re not too busy, I’d like to speak with you. Shall I return later?”
“You’re here now.”
Hodgson inches forward, eager to assuage his guilt. It should take only a minute; he’ll make a quick and sincere apology, Dr. Goodsir will accept it in the same spirit in which it was given, and Hodgson will be on his way. “Dr. Goodsir, I wish to express my regrets regarding today’s events, which I understand also made Lady Silence’s departure necessary.”
If there’s such a thing as a quiet scoff, then indeed that’s what Dr. Goodsir has just done. “Necessary? And pardon my asking, but why have you made Lady Silence your concern?” He resumes his table work.
“I’ve come here out of concern for you. It was evident – and not only to me – that you and Lady Silence shared a bond of sorts.”
“Oh, you noticed that?” Goodsir says with no lack of sarcasm.
“Yes, and I also noticed that you showed a particular tolerance for her presence as we walked, and for her staying here with us while we’ve been camped.”
Goodsir turns slowly and faces him. “You call it tolerance, while I would say appreciation and respect. I respect Lady Silence, her people, and her culture. The Netsilik people were here long before Englishmen ever thought to sail their waters or set foot on their land.”
“Yes, but you do understand that she wouldn’t have been safe in Terror Camp after what happened? Had she returned to camp, she might have been physically harmed – or worse.”
“Perhaps you mean to say killed? Like that group of Netsilik that you and your men killed earlier today?”
Goodsir has gone straight to the point, and it’s one that Hodgson would rather not pursue. “I’m sure you can agree that her departure was for the best.”
“Oh, I agree, Lieutenant,” Goodsir says, glaring at him. “I’m glad she left us.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why would Lady Silence want to remain with us? Time and again, she’s seen Englishmen as arrogant and intolerant. We are a hateful, murderous lot.” With every word Dr. Goodsir stacks on, his face reddens a notch. “As you said, her departure was for the best.”
Too many silent seconds creep by. The conventions of conversation dictate that it’s Hodgson’s turn to speak, but no suitable words come to mind. Better to say nothing at all. Maybe it would be better still to withdraw from the tent and try again later.
Goodsir takes a laboured breath. He speaks softly, but there’s a disconcerting edge to his tone. “Lieutenant Hodgson, did you kill the child?”
God help him, he did – but he must divert Goodsir away from this topic. Immediately. “As I had reported to Captain Crozier, I shot two of the Esquimaux, Mr. Armitage shot two, and Mr. Pocock, one.“
“I‘d already heard that from the captain. Oh – and also that one ‘escaped.’”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Goodsir displays a disingenuous smile. “How good of you to let one live,” he says. “Unless you’re all terrible marksmen. Or could it be that all three of you ran out of ammunition simultaneously? Because why else would you let one get away?”
“Dr. Goodsir-“
“Did you kill the child?” the doctor asks again too slowly, too calmly.
Hodgson successfully keeps his voice steady. “The three of us were firing at the same time, and- ”
“It’s a simple yes or no question, Lieutenant. Did you shoot that little girl?"
“I-I don’t recall.”
“Shall I help jog your memory?” Goodsir leans back against the table, arms folded across his chest. “When you raised your rifle, set your finger against the trigger, and took aim with intent to kill, did you fire directly at the shortest one in the group?”
All that’s left is for Hodgson to finally say the words. Admit it first, then make amends. “God, yes,” he says. “I did. I shot her. But I must say, and with all due respect, that you didn’t see what I saw, nor were you there to hear Mr. Hickey’s account of what had happened.”
“Listening to Mr. Hickey was your first mistake.”
“And one that I deeply regret, believe me.”
Goodsir nods, saying nothing.
Hodgson studies the man’s eyes, hoping to read what might be going on in his mind now that all has gone quiet. He sees disappointment mingled with contempt – but not full hatred; Dr. Goodsir’s apparently not capable of that, thank God. The doctor’s usually greenish-brown eyes had gone to an angry dark brown when questioning Hodgson about the shooting, but now the gentle green seems to be returning, along with a more relaxed facial expression. It’s a relief to finally hear him speak.
“Lieutenant, I’d like to tell you something that not many people know about me. It happened when I was a young boy. May I?”
Hodgson’s stuck; he can’t very well say no. Why Dr. Goodsir would suddenly want to bring up something from his past is a mystery – but on the other hand, it may bring a welcome change of topic. “If you’re willing to share, then yes, I’ll hear it.”
“Thank you.” Goodsir sighs and folds his hands at waist level. He gazes straight ahead, not making eye contact with Hodgson. “I once had a younger sister. Agnes. She passed when she was only one year old.”
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that.”
“It was illness. You know how illness claims many young lives. I was there in the room when she passed. I was three years old.”
“That must have been horrible for you.”
“On the contrary, it wasn’t horrible in the least. They say it’s not a common thing for one so young, but at age three I already had an awareness of what death was, and of what it meant.” A trace of a smile appears on his lips. “My parents tried valiantly to whisk me away from the room that morning, but I kept tugging at my mother’s skirts and begging her to let me stay. I sensed that Agnes was about to leave us at any moment – and I wanted to be there with her when she did. That’s exactly what I told my parents – and they agreed to it.
“What I saw was a beautiful and wondrous thing. Agnes slipped away quietly, as if she were simply falling asleep. It seemed a miracle that such a transition was possible – and I felt privileged to witness it. I wasn’t sad, and I didn’t cry. I was happy for her. Her death was peaceful, and God’s will.”
“Yes,” Hodgson says. Not a perfect response – but he needed to say something to fill the chasm of silence that Goodsir had opened up.
The doctor slips out of his reverie, his voice going hard. “But that little Netsilik girl? Her death wasn’t peaceful. And you thought to play God.”
“No, I would never presume! Dr. Goodsir, we thought we were to be under attack at any time!”
“That little girl was never a threat to you.”
“She wouldn’t have been able to survive on her own.”
“Do not try to justify what you’ve done as a mercy! She could easily have gone with the adult that got away from you!”
Hodgson speaks briskly. “As I said before, I regret the circumstances-“
“That the three of you took any life at all is abominable enough – but to murder an innocent child?” Goodsir bangs a fist on the table, setting bottles rattling.
Hodgson jumps back with a start, gripping the edge of the opposite table for support.
Goodsir’s brow tightens. He shakes his head, eyes widening. He pivots, dropping his hands flat against his worktable, his breathing coming fast and hard.
Hodgson’s first instinct is to leave the tent, but that would be the cowardly thing to do. His second instinct tells him that what he should do is offer kind words or take the risk of setting a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder – which is something he’s never done with anyone – but if he were to try, his words or gesture could be ill-received.
Lacking any training in how to handle this type of situation, Hodgson goes with his third instinct: he stands still and waits for Goodsir to regain his composure.
A full minute later, the doctor’s breathing returns to normal. He turns and assumes a strained professional demeanor. “Do you require medical attention today, Lieutenant?"
“I do not,” Hodgson says, matching Goodsir’s tone.
“Are you certain? Because I imagine you’ll have considerable trouble sleeping tonight. I can mix some drops for you.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“I’ll see you at the hanging, then.”
“Yes, I’ll be there. I’m to provide a written account of the proceedings.”
Goodsir smirks. “A factual account, written as the events occur, and based on what you’ll actually witness for yourself? Yes, much better than if you were to rely on someone else’s fabricated version of what transpired.”
Hodgson could snap back if he wanted, because Good Lord, the doctor’s sarcastic remarks and innuendos have become increasingly vindictive. But nothing good would be accomplished by exchanging verbal jabs. The civil choice would be to appeal to Dr. Goodsir’s sense of compassion by making another attempt at apology – and this time, by assuming responsibility.
He locks eyes with the doctor. “Dr. Goodsir, I am deeply sorry for my part in everything that happened today.”
“Lieutenant Hodgson, if forgiveness is what you’re after, then I‘m afraid you’ll need to seek it elsewhere. And for that, I am sorry.”
Hodgson presses his lips together as tears threaten to leave the corners of his eyes.
“Mr. Bridgens should be returning soon,” Goodsir says wearily. “I’ll also want to be in a proper frame of mind to receive patients.” His eyes take on a sudden wet shimmer. He slowly blinks it away and sighs. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I do.”
“Thank you.”
Hodgson nods.
Goodsir reciprocates, then turns away and sets to the task of straightening bottles on the table.
His head lowered, Hodgson heads for the exit – and was that a set of sniffles he just heard?
They may well be his own.
He leaves the tent.