Chapter Text
Having the Erebus command crew join him for supper on Terror is never Francis’s idea of a pleasant evening. Oh, he has little enough issue with Erebus ’s lieutenants, but Sir John never fails to be stubborn and patronizing, and Fitzjames is as needlessly dramatic this evening as he ever is. He’s mid Chinese sniper story at the moment, eating up the attention despite the fact that everyone at the table has already heard this.
“We came upon a pack of Chinese behind a street barricade. And I’d just loaded a rocket and aimed…” Fitzjames stops. Francis thinks it’s a dramatic pause, because that’s just the sort of thing Fitzjames does, but it goes on a little too long. Fitzjames is abruptly very pale, hands gone still in the air, but no else one seems to notice, looking similarly affected. Francis just has time to wonder why when it hits him too.
It isn’t sequential. It’s more like… recall. Like each memory that comes to the surface reminds him of another, until he has all the pieces but in the wrong order. Deja-vu, at first, another dinner just like this overlaid over the one he’s experiencing in the here and now, with memories falling into place one after the other until he’s able to put together an entire, very grim picture.
There’s no moment of wondering if this is real, no moment of wondering if he is alone in this knowledge, because all at once Lieutenant Hodgson bends double and Francis can hear a sob ripping through his chest, and Lieutenant Le Vesconte presses a hand over his mouth and shakes his head desperately, and Lieutenant Little’s expression becomes one of utter helpless fury, and Sir John stands.
“Men,” he declares, with the familiar sort of zeal that means he’s about to bluster religiously through any protests. “In another lifetime we were frozen into the pack, but today The Lord has seen fit to bless us. He has granted me the certainty that one week hence, we will find the Northwest Passage, and we will sail through it and return to England victorious!”
Sir John clearly expects some sort of rousing agreement, and he looks to James to provide. James hesitates a moment, then offers up a “hear hear!” that rings false enough that Sir John is the only one who accepts it. He continues on with his inspirational sermon, and Francis waves over Jopson as discreetly as he can.
“Jopson,” he says, his voice low to go unnoticed, “go up and order the ships stopped. We’ll not move another inch until this is resolved.”
Jopson nods sharply and slips from the room with an ease that only a man seen to be in service to his betters is capable of. Francis listens less than halfheartedly to Sir John’s fool talk, more focused on the lieutenants, who seem to be breaking down under their newfound knowledge. Francis himself has every urge to lock himself in his cabin and drink until this is all a very bad dream, but he’s the leader here, Sir John or no, and his men are counting on him to lead.
“Captain!” comes a shout from somewhere below, very suddenly. It’s Jopson’s voice, steady but undeniably urgent, and Francis and James are both on their feet at once, rushing out of the wardroom and down. They brace themselves, half on the walls and half on each other, when the whole ship judders as it’s brought to a halt, then keep moving down into the mess. Sir John follows after a second later, gaze locked incredulously upon James.
Jopson is near the center of the room, keeping order of a milling, anxious crowd with the help of Sergeant Tozer and his marines. And in the center with Jopson, kneeling in a growing pool of blood, is Cornelius Hickey, wide eyed and gasping delightedly as he chokes on his own tongue.