Chapter Text
"We need to talk."
Crozier glanced up at Fitzjames's words.
James's heart beat hard in his chest from where he stood just within the flaps of Crozier's tent, his one hand over his side.
Francis was illuminated in the yellow light of his lantern, the scene melancholy, but not uninviting. He gestured for James to enter.
"What's the matter?"
James knew that he couldn't back out and say "nothing," as he had already made his choice by crossing the threshold of the tent. Still, this felt hard to do, admitting that he was badly wounded. Had it been earlier on in the voyage, he'd have been mortified to admit to Francis that he was not doing very well, but now it was different. He didn't want him to worry.
But eventually the truth would out, and if he was honest with himself, it wasn't the only reason he had come. He slowly unbuttoned his waistcoat. Pulling it slightly open, he lifted his shirt to reveal the bullet wound that was beginning to reopen.
Crozier quickly rose at that, his chair squeaking. The sheer, cold panic on his face disquieted James.
Fitzjames sighed, lowering his clothing. "They're all over my body. I don't know how much longer I have."
Crozier shook his head. "Never you mind. It isn't much farther. We'll get you help. Have you spoken to Bridgens?"
"Francis." Fitzjames said firmly. "It won't do me much good at this point."
Crozier ran the heel of his hand over his face.
James felt awkward and foolish for telling him something so catastrophic, as this clearly disturbed him.
"No." The word was so quiet, and James thought, much to his surprise, that it sounded watery, as if Crozier was holding back a sob.
James, before he could think to stop himself, seized Francis's hand, jerking it forward to place a kiss to it. Letting go, James turned on his heel, only for Francis to wordlessly seize his arm.
Faking his confidence had been so easy, over the years, but this genuinely frightened James. Keeping his back to Francis was childish, but it was the option he had, lest he…well, he wasn't sure what.
He wondered if this had destroyed the close bond they had formed together. He wondered if Francis would beat him, or even take his pistol to shoot him.
Much to his surprise, he felt Francis press his lips to the back of his neck. His arm was let go, only for Francis to wrap both about James, holding him in an embrace. James suppressed the urge to moan. Turning his head slightly to the side, James raised a hand behind himself to grasp the back of Francis's head, and pull him lower, toward the junction of his shoulder and neck.
Francis, however, grunted a refusal, and James, remembering himself, let go.
Drawing out, Crozier whispered into his ear, "Best you get some rest, then." His arms fell from his waist.
James nodded, gathering himself to walk out of the tent as if nothing was amiss.
Left within, Crozier sat down heavily, wondering what they had just done. It was completely inappropriate, especially now, given that James's condition was worse than he had thought. To start this at all was dangerous.
But there was a sense of relief. James had wanted him as well, though it could be just as possible that it was due to lack of intimacy for an extended period. Still, James had confessed his secrets to him at the cairn. Perhaps there was something deeper than just a moment's desire.
Practically speaking, it wouldn't matter, given the state of James's health. But emotionally, he just couldn't accept it. Not now, not after all that they had gone through together.
"Why didn't you stop him?!" Fitzjames exclaimed, breaking off to cough.
Little looked pointedly away from him within the tent, while Blanky stood, his arms folded tightly. Le Vesconte shook his head from where he sat at the meeting table. Jopson was too sick to attend, and any remaining officers were either dead or missing.
Fitzjames wasn't sure if he wanted to wrap his hands around Little's neck, even though it wasn't truly his fault.
Crozier was gone, abducted by those who had cast their lot with Hickey. Hartnell was dead, his burial having just preceded this meeting.
"That was a question, Lieutenant." Fitzjames pressed.
Blanky gave Fitzjames a sharp look but said nothing. Had it been Crozier who had spoken, he probably would have spoken against him to defend Little.
"Sir, Captain Crozier ordered me to return to camp. I couldn't defy him." Little said quietly.
Le Vesconte smiled at that. They were all exhausted, physically and emotionally, and Little had respected the chain of command, just as Le Vesconte would have, had he been in his place. And by obeying Crozier's order, Little had abided by the out that Crozier had afforded them: leave and live.
The only man that could override that order was Fitzjames.
Henry turned his head to look at him, and his face slowly fell at the pensive look on James's face.
Fitzjames drummed his fingers on the table in thought. "Little, could you guide me in the direction of which Captain Crozier was taken?"
Little nodded. "Yes, sir."
Blanky stiffened at that and raised his hand. "I'll also go."
"What will going along accomplish?" Le Vesconte said out of turn, "I will be the only officer left here."
"I haven't much longer that I can march." Blanky patted his wooden leg, prompting silence in the room.
"Then have Bridgens see to it." Le Vesconte annunciated slowly, as if talking to someone hard of hearing. His condescending demeanor was paper thin, prompting Blanky to snort.
Little glanced at Fitjzames, who gave a slight shrug. Le Vesconte was grasping at straws, and while in a more comfortable setting, it would have been pathetic, it was understandable here. He was scared, as everyone was.
"You think I haven't? Even if it wasn't the case, we can't let these two go off on their own. They'll be outnumbered, easily."
"Then take more men with you."
"Henry." Fitzjames cautioned.
Le Vesconte stopped at that.
"This is getting nowhere. We have one medical man remaining, and he was not properly trained to begin with. We have injured and sick men in our camp who require tending to, and those who can walk are needed to move camp, or to stave off the Tuunbaq, should it return. Our plan is thus: Little and Blanky, arm yourselves. We three will depart in an hour's time. Say your farewells."
Blanky grinned at that and nodded. Little was more hesitant, but nodded agreement as well.
"The remaining men will continue south."
"Sir, I must object."
Fitzjames's eyes flicked to Le Vesconte. "Why?"
"We cannot continue without a captain."
"You aren't. Unless I somehow have a bullet between my eyes without knowing, I'm still standing." Fitzjames deadpanned. "My orders will remain as follows. Once we rescue Captain Crozier and Mr. Goodsir, we will backtrack until our two groups reunite. Mark your path well. Any questions?"
Silence met him.
"Le Vesconte, with me. Blanky and Little, you are dismissed."
Henry gave a stiff nod, following Fitzjames into his tent while Blanky and Little departed separately, talking quietly amongst themselves.
Tension permeated the air of the camp, with crew members quickly busying themselves whenever Fitzjames looked their way.
Within his tent, Fitzjames pulled a chair out and pointed for Henry to sit down. When Henry hesitated, he warned, "If you have something to say, do so right now. I don't have time for this."
"You are leaving us to die!" Le Vesconte exclaimed. Fitzjames glared at him, and Henry shook his head before spitting more acid at him. "I am only here because of you, and this is how you repay me?! I thought you were my friend."
"Is this how you see me, so fair weather that I would leave you in the lurch? You know me better than that."
"Mr. Goodsir trusted you to protect him, and you left him," Le Vesconte said flatly, "But now, you worry over Captain Crozier so much that you wish to find him. Why? Are you truly that doubtful of your ability to command?"
"It isn't that, Dundy."
"Then what is it?" Henry glared at him.
Fitzjames undid the buttons on his coat and pulled up his sweater beneath. Henry's eyes widened at the festering wound. "I will not be of much use to you all for much longer. With Crozier, there is at least a chance."
Henry shook his head. "Your decisions, and Crozier's decisions, they've slowed us all down." Le Vesconte's fist clenched and shook with rage. "You can reprimand me all that you wish. I don't care anymore." His fist relaxed, and he lowered his head. "I can't do this, James. I want to go home!" His voice cracked on the word "home."
Fitzjames sighed. "Then go."
Henry looked up at him in surprise.
"You and the remaining crew have my permission. If you wish to go, then go. Continue south. Captain Crozier, Mr. Blanky, Mr. Goodsir, Lieutenant Little, and I will catch up."
Henry's shoulders slumped, and Fitzjames held up a finger. "Provided you take the sick with you."
"…What?"
"You can't leave them behind. Would you have left me?"
"Don't throw this on me!"
Reaching forward, James seized him by the collar of his shirt. Henry gulped, taken off guard. "If I have to knock some sense into you, I will. I'm leaving you as the acting officer of this mission. Behave like one."
The cold fear in Henry's eyes slowly turned to anger, and James let go of him.
"Fine." Henry said quietly.
Readjusting his clothing, James pulled the log book from his desk, and handed it over to him. Le Vesconte took it without a word. "I wouldn't have put you in command if I didn't believe in you, Dundy."
Narrowing his eyes at him, Henry turned his back on him before leaving the tent.
Everything looked the same.
Fitzjames was tired of the grays and browns that surrounded him over the months, but this was beyond his limit.
The three of them had packed lightly, taking only provisions to last about a day's worth. Anything more would be in bad taste.
There was little, in retrospect, that Fitzjames saw fit to pack. Most of his trifles, he had either left on Erebus or discarded as outright useless during the journey. Additional clothing that would be too heavy to carry, he left to distribute among the camp. His canteen, bedroll, rifle, ammunition, and hairbrush were coming along with him. The pieces of a small canvas tent would be distributed to carry among Blanky, Little, and himself. He told himself that wasn't a great matter, as he would be returning to camp for his things.
Glancing off, Fitzjames saw Little emerging from Jopson's tent, a deeply troubled expression on his face. Blanky, who was waiting nearby, took Little aside.
The news of their leaving was the second of unhappy announcements that day, with Hartnell's eulogy having already been concluded. Perhaps a third announcement would advise that the Tuunbaq would be joining the crew for supper.
The announcement was met with silence, the crewmen either being too tired, or simply not caring enough, to make an argument, with heads and eyes tiredly turning to look at Le Vesconte to acknowledge him as their new commander. The disappointment felt more damning than much else, and Fitzjames wondered as to whether this was sowing the seeds for another mutiny.
But with his own bodily condition being what it was, rescuing Crozier was the only viable option.
The medical tent was the last place Fitzjames visited before taking his leave.
Bridgens was tired and outright haggard, the occupied cots in the tent having gone from two to four. Fitzjames found he couldn't much blame him.
Bridgens looked down at Peglar, who slept fitfully, and sighed. "I'll remain with them for as long as I can. You have my word."
Fitzjames smiled. "I will not doubt you."
"Sir, here." Bridgens tugged a small box from what had become his desk, its arrangement still reflecting Goodsir's habits. From within, he pulled a short set of bandages, a tiny roll of catgut, and a few strands of human hair to present in a cloth. "I can spare little else, but perhaps this may assist you."
"Thank you." After packing the paltry supplies away, Fitzjames attempted to encourage him. "Don't you worry, Mr. Goodsir will be returning shortly."
Bridgens nodded politely. "Thank you, sir. If you would please excuse me…" He moved past Fitzjames to kneel beside Peglar, who had abruptly woken with a coughing fit.
Fitzjames quickly took his leave.
Fitzjames could feel the eyes of the remaining crewmen on his back as they departed. He wondered how he was seen by them, as a betrayer, abandoning them to the Arctic, as a fool, going off on a misguided mission, or perhaps something else.
He supposed, in retrospect, it honestly didn't matter, though with each step away from the camp he took, he felt as if the rapport he had with both ships' crews, which he had found genuine joy in during Carnivale, fraying away. And yet, he didn't turn back.
They didn't have a map to work with, only Little's conjecture based on the direction in which the mutineers had gone. Though, they weren't entirely adrift in speculation. The mutineers couldn't have camped far away, and pitching tents completely in an open patch would offer little resistance to the wind. That left the cliffs.
The problem was, if they were to backtrack right now, Fitzjames was concerned that it would just end up with them going in a circle. Fitzjames kept his mouth shut on the matter, but he didn't want to consider the possibility of whether Hickey had commanded his men to move camp. If that was the truth, then they were going to quickly become hopelessly lost.
"What's that?" Blanky asked, pointing at an object off to the right of their chosen path. Fitzjames had to squint to see it, and shook his head, not understanding, while Little nodded, and set off in the direction Blanky had indicated.
"Is there something there?" Fitzjames blinked a few times, and rubbed at his eyes. Everything was beginning to blur together, and he thought that it was just the distance and the plodding trek that was blinding him.
"It's all right, it's small," Blanky comforted. However, while Little's back was still to them, he paused before Fitzjames, lowering his voice. "Captain, can you do this for me?"
"What, exactly?"
Blanky held up his finger, tracing it back and forth before his face. "Follow this, sir."
"We haven't time."
"It'll only be a moment."
Fitzjames relented, following Blanky's finger back and forth a few times before he lowered it. "Satisfied?"
Blanky leaned forward. "It's your left eye, sir."
Fitzjames swallowed at that, but before he could say anything, Little called out to them.
Following his waving arm, they joined him at a patch of earth, which was discolored in splotches to a shade of rust.
Little rose from the sight and proffered an object. It was Crozier's hat, badly damaged from someone having stomped on it, and partly covered in the substance, which Fitzjames realized was blood.
He glanced back down at the patch of earth and thought of the worst for a moment. The next, however, he corrected himself. There wasn't enough blood to indicate that Crozier had been beaten to death, though if that had happened later, he couldn't be sure.
"We are on the correct path, then," he summarized. "Best we continue, and quickly."
He half wanted to yell at Little, part of him still blaming him for this. Little kept a distance ahead, guiding them along. Blanky brought up the rear, his pace dragging, while Fitzjames took the middle, and reminded himself to look about. Crozier's hunting party had been ambushed, and it was better to not have tunnel vision.
Conversation between them was practically non-existent, save for Little giving directions. The lack of surety in his voice annoyed Fitzjames to no end, and part of him wondered how someone like him could have made an officer.
A hand grasped his arm, and he swung about to look at Blanky. "What?"
"Edward's still one of mine. You mistreat him, and you answer to me."
Fitzjames was ready to retort, and then sighed with a nod.
"We'll find him, lad. You should know by now that Francis isn't one to give up so easily."
It was a platitude, but James noted that Blanky didn't say as to whether they would find Francis alive. But if Blanky was willing to see this through to the end, then at least he could rely on that.
Night fell quickly, and they pitched their tiny tent. For as tempting as it was to continue, it was too cold, and the light of the moon wasn't strong enough. Wasting precious oil on lantern light was out of the question.
While Blanky slept beside him, Fitzjames cleaned his rifle, mainly for want of anything else to do. He tried to ignore the dull aches and pains from the sores that had reopened on his body, but the searing pain in his side was making it difficult to put from his mind.
They were outnumbered, and probably outgunned, the element of surprise only able to afford them so much of an advantage. The only solace he could take was that Hickey had no formal leadership skills to speak of, which left either Tozer or Hodgson as the strategist. And unfortunately, while Fitzjames had become more familiar with both, particularly Hodgson, throughout the expedition, Crozier knew their habits best.
The wind howled outside, and he glanced up at that. The Tuunbaq's most decent devastating attack on his camp had put him on considerable edge.
Giving up on his task, Fitzjames rose to head for the tent flap, where Little stood watch.
Little's free hand was twisting about in his pocket, as if looking for an object that wasn't there. He withdrew it to pat it against his side.
"Mr. Little."
He turned at his voice.
"Go get some sleep. I can take over."
"Sir, I—"
"That's an order."
Little nodded stiffly, and Fitzjames realized that his voice was harsher than he had intended it to be.
He felt ashamed of his previous nasty thoughts in regard to Edward. He had willingly come along to find his captain. While a tad spineless, perhaps he was better fit for the job of a bureaucrat, not that there was anything wrong with that.
Still, now was not the time for a heart to heart, as Fitzjames doubted that either of them had enough emotional bank for it. Gentling his voice, he said, "You've led us this far during the day. No sense in taxing yourself at night, as well."
"Thank you, sir." Little moved to lie down, curling up in his sleep sack.
Turning back to the tent flaps, James wondered if this would be the last night he would see. With a touch of melancholy, he realized he was having such thoughts more and more often, as of late.
The sight of the ramshackle tents was bittersweet. While their quarry had been located, the chase could end just as quickly as it had begun.
Edward tensed near him, and James gestured for three to split up and spread out.
James quietly moved among the tents, the wind whispering, and rustling the canvas. Body odors and the ashes of a campfire permeated the air, indicating that someone had been there recently. Nosing open the flap of with his rifle, he found it to be empty, save for two cots. Lying across one was Crozier's coat.
Grasping it, James whispered, "Francis."
As he emerged from the tent, he heard footsteps behind him, and spun about, only to see Little sheepishly raising a hand, a nervous smile on his face. Nodding at him, Fitzjames moved on, while Little entered a nearby tent.
Entering another tent, which was in shadow, James investigated slowly, glancing about, and lifting items with the barrel of his gun.
A bag spilled open when his gun barrel brushed against a knife cut into the side of it, indicating someone had previously forced it open. A book fell out and hit the floor, causing James to clench his jaw. Any element of surprise would surely have been lost by the thud.
The handwriting was Goodsir's, easy to identify from it matching the writing on reports he'd read from him previously. Its subject matter regarded the Netsilik language. A couple of cloth bags had been turned inside out, as if hastily looted through, the objects within gone, save one that caught his eye.
It was a lock of hair, its tint reddish blonde, and braided around a small piece of rope. James gave a passing thought to how it resembled the shade of Dr. McDonald's hair but brushed off the notion due to absurdity. Goodsir's belongings had been taken from him by force, and he could only hope that the surgeon was all right.
A harsh odor began to permeate the area, the deeper he moved into it, causing Fitzjames to bring his gloved hand up to his nose.
A large, darkly stained, sack was in the back, and he slowly turned it over with his foot.
The bag unfurled, and he gasped as William Gibson's head and torso fell out to crash before him. Slowly backing away, Fitzjames moved out of the tent, leaning against the support post to compose himself.
Lifting his head, he saw Little standing just beyond a makeshift table, upon which lay dirty plates with scraps of unidentifiable meat. Little was staring at something just out of view, confirming to Fitzjames that the camp had to have been empty, otherwise the lieutenant would have been shot dead.
He headed toward him. "Look sharp, Edward. What is it?"
Edward lifted a pale face to him. "Mr. Goodsir."
James looked down and froze. Harry's body was splayed out like a goose, with multiple carvings having been made into him. Le Vesconte's accusation replayed in his mind, and he felt immensely guilty to have failed the kindly surgeon.
Fitzjames shook his head. "We must cover him. We can't leave him like this."
"…Right." Little headed into one of the tents.
"I see you've found Mr. Goodsir."
Fitzjames turned at Blanky's grave tone.
"Had Francis or I known this would happen…"
Blanky met his eyes at that, and Fitzjames felt as if he had seen right through him. "You knew what Hickey could do, but we were too tired to go."
Fitzjames sighed heavily. "We'll return to the others."
Blanky shook his head. "I heard Little say goodbye to Jopson. This is a one-way trip, and the three of us know it."
Fitzjames looked over his shoulder. "Why him, though? He isn't as wounded."
"He's not ready to command. Besides," Blanky reached to his side, fumbling about with his leather satchel, "worried about Jopson as he is, he probably thinks Crozier will take better care of him."
Fitzjames froze at that. "He can't be—"
"You didn't hear anything from me." Blanky cut him off and proffered a book. "Here. Found this."
Fitzjames tentatively took it from him. The pages were worn and yellowed, the book's black color having faded to gray from age and water damage.
"It's Hickey's. Figured it might be interesting." Blanky shrugged. "Saw Irving's spyglass with it. Smashed to all hell."
Fitzjames lowered the book to his side. "I don't understand. Why did he hate him so?"
"Captain!"
Fitzjames turned to see Little bearing a dark blue blanket.
It wasn't much of a shroud, but it would have to do. As James lowered it over the face, he thought of Goodsir in the early days of the voyage, quiet, polite, and meek. He hoped that the poor man hadn't suffered much in his time of dying.
"They couldn't have gone far," Fitzjames commented to keep the matter from derailing their mission. "Have you found anything? Their boat is gone."
Little gestured to a track of disturbed sand in the ground, along with footprints. They were quite faint but led toward a slope.
"Onward, then." Fitzjames said, and set off, Little moving a short distance away.
They still had the element of surprise, but little cover. James noted that there were braided designs in the ground, indicating either ropes or chains being used. Their imprints, along with Crozier's discarded coat, began to call images in his mind that he just as quickly pushed away, possible tortures that he could have endured at Hickey's hands.
Voices sounded in the distance, the shouts too unintelligible by distance to decipher.
A figure appeared over the bluff, a dot moving quickly toward them.
Little darted forward, Fitzjames calling out to him.
A shot cracked through the air.
Little gasped, and fell face forward, blood trailing out of his upper right side.
Fitzjames reacted instinctively, cocking his rifle.
That was when the runner threw himself at his feet, the bedraggled figure raising widened eyes to stare beseechingly up at him. It took him a moment to register that the man was Edmund Hoar.
"Please, sir, I didn't mean to, I—"
"Get off me!" James snapped, kicking hard at Hoar's hand.
Hoar fell back on his rear end, scuttling backward on the palms of his hands before stumbling to his feet, and dashing away.
James glared after him.
"Let 'im run, Captain. It isn't worth it."
He turned to look at Blanky, who was already heading toward Little. Turning him over, he sighed. "Dead when he hit the ground." Reaching out, Blanky closed the corpse's eyes.
Fitzjames knelt, and felt guilt drag on him. Little was dead without a proper confrontation. He could very well turn back now, but he had seen too much into that hellish camp and had come too far. Blanky wouldn't forgive him anyway.
He didn't want to consider the possibility of finding Crozier's dead body at the top of the mount, as fulfilling his objective was all that mattered now.
Silna felt the Tuunbaq's pain with each step. Her father had told her about this. The Tuunbaq was not a creature to be tamed, but it was one to live with.
Turning away from it had felt like a failure in more ways than one. She hadn't feared the Tuunbaq, as there was no need – the creature would not harm her. At least, that was what she had thought. Her sense of awe was tempered by her sense of fear.
She was tired of the explorers and felt little pity for them. Her father, Tonraq, was dead because of them, and had been disposed of as nothing more than trash. There was some amount of justice served to be felt in the Tuunbaq dumping their careless captain into the freezing waters, as well.
But it didn't bring her father back.
She knew that her community was disappointed in her, as she was in herself. On the other hand, though, going back wasn't a good idea, given how that treacherous man, Hickey, and those who sided with him were calling for her blood.
And yet, the disappointment from her elder, Panuk, stung more than anything else. Her people were starving because of these outsiders. If her mother and father could see her now, they would probably be disappointed in her, as well.
"Silna," her mother, Kajuk, comforted her when she had accidentally hurt her knee from falling during one of her earliest hunts, "You are not perfect. It is all right." She had felt ashamed at the time, given how her mother was quite sick, with illness prematurely graying her hair, and yet she was offering her comfort.
Silna had wanted to be like her, to be able to offer comfort even in times of suffering. But as the years passed, and especially now, she became frustrated with her mother's example. For how long should kindness be offered, when it was met with cruelty?
There were men like Goodsir, and Crozier, who could also be kind, she supposed. But even they couldn't be here, not in her home. They didn't understand it, for as nice as they were, and sought to use it for their own ends. She didn't dislike them to the point where their lives would be forfeit, but they had to leave.
It was all too easy to turn her back on it and leave them to their fate. Gathering wood with her childhood friend, Ahnah, brought some amount of peace.
Not being able to talk was difficult, at first, though she appreciated the fact that her community made space for her, given how her father before her had also cut off his tongue. Her voice was not one that was shut out, with her neighbors demonstrating a few gestures that her father had made in communication and learning a few from her that were different than his.
Ahnah was especially amiable in that case, greeting her upon her return by performing a gesture of kunik. "I missed you. I was so worried."
Silna smiled sheepishly, pointing at her closed mouth.
Ahnah gave a solemn nod. "Are you hurting? Do you need help?"
Silna shook her head.
Ahnah gestured toward her dwelling. "Please, stay a while. It will not be the same as when we were young, but perhaps you can find comfort."
Ahnah wasn't a fool, for she knew that Silna was straying from her task of needing to assist the Tuunbaq. Yet there was an understanding that they had with each other since a young age – when one girl was upset or tired, the other would come to care for her.
Once when Ahnah and Silna were small, Ahnah had nearly become lost from her family, turned around in an unknown area due to their community recently moving during the changing of the seasons. Silna sat with Ahnah and allowed her to cry and let out her fear, before gently leading her to backtrack home.
But Ahnah was now a mother, with children of her own. Silna often played with her babies, waving at them, and singing them to sleep when she still had her tongue. Ahnah's daughters were now playing with dolls like Silna and Ahnah once did.
Silna thought of her friend's daughters, and the other children in their community, much like the little girl the crewmen had murdered. She had had a name too, Suluk.
This was not the white men's home, it was hers. She didn't want to hurt anyone, but she knew in her heart that there wasn't a choice any longer. Whether or not all of the men were inherently evil was irrelevant. She couldn't let them stay. Even if it meant she had to harm them, she had to make them go.
Silna heavily doubted that the two ship's loads of men would be the only ones to arrive, if Goodsir's excitement regarding the discoveries men like him would make and claim as their own, was any indication. She couldn't do it alone, and neither could anyone else.
There was still time. The Tuunbaq lived still.
Silna dropped the wood on the ground, and Ahnah paused. "Silna!"
"I'll be back! I promise!" Silna gestured quickly.
Ahnah hesitated, seeming as if she wanted to follow her, but then nodded. "We'll wait for you!"
Silna dashed off. If she was too late, she decided, it would be her own fault.
As he came closer, Fitzjames heard Hickey calling out something in the distance. Fitzjames broke into a sprint and darted up the slope toward the silhouette of a boat, and several figures standing about. A figure stood in the boat, gesturing grandly with his arms held out.
"I've had about enough of you." James growled, lifting his rifle.
Hickey gasped, stumbling forward at the gunshot that ripped through his chest. He flailed for a moment, and then dropped, banging his head against the side of the boat.
The gathering froze, a few heads swiveling to look at the newcomers.
"James? Thomas?" Francis tilted his head, completely confused at who or what he was looking at. He was without a coat, and weather-beaten, his hands manacled to a chain attached to the boat, but thankfully alive.
James swung the rifle about, aiming at each man, Blanky moving to flank him.
"Oh, to hell with this!"
Des Voeux's shout was followed by the crack of a gun, the shot exploding in the sand near Fitjzames's feet as he darted out of the way.
Crozier gasped, and strained as his chains were yanked taught. Bracing himself, he grunted and pulled backward against Manson, who was yanking the chain toward himself.
"Kill 'im! He's bloody useless now!"
James's blood ran cold at Des Voeux's order, and Blanky yelled, "Go! I'll hold 'em!"
Breaking into a sprint, James sped over to the boat, only to be met with the end of Pilkington's rifle.
"Out of my way!" Fitzjames exclaimed, his own rifle raised against him in a standoff.
His eyes flicked toward Crozier, who kicked off Manson's leg, the larger man seizing his ankle.
"You don't give the orders 'round here!" Pilkington hissed.
Pilkington's breath caught, and he stumbled forward in pain, barely keeping his grip on his rifle.
Tozer, visible over Pilkington's back, yanked him backward by the collar. "He doesn't, but I do!"
His eyes met Fitzjames's, and he gave a nod toward Crozier.
Not questioning his luck, Fitzjames darted over to Crozier, and cracked off a warning shot beside Manson.
In surprise, Manson dropped Crozier, who stumbled backwards to hit Fitzjames.
Darting around him, Fitzjames shoved Crozier behind him and away from the group, backing toward the cliff's edge with his rifle drawn.
Manson, his hands now free, held his rifle, and moved toward them slowly. Tozer and Pilkington fought over the latter's rifle, alternating between harsh blows. Armitage's body lay lifeless on the ground, blood trailing from his skull, while Des Voeux grappled viciously with Blanky. Golding, shaking in fear at being shackled, slowly moved behind Manson toward Fitzjames and Crozier. The remaining mutineers lay on the ground in exhaustion, while Hickey's corpse reigned over it all.
"Can't get a clean shot." Fitzjames muttered, his rifle swaying reluctantly away from Des Voeux, and toward Manson.
"Don't!"
Fitzjames thought he'd heard Crozier wrong. "He was going to kill you!"
"He was ordered to." Rocks fell loose as James and Francis backed up further. "James, trust me!"
Two shots rang out, along with strangled exclamations of pain.
Crozier gasped, and Fitjzames spared a glance toward Des Voeux, and saw, almost as if it were in a dream, him falling backward, chunks of his head already splayed on the ground behind him. Blanky, staggering, grinned at Fitzjames and Crozier, blood seeping through his gritted teeth before he also fell.
A grunt sounded, and Pilkington hit the ground, with Tozer, the rifle now in hand, pointing it down at him.
A mighty roar sounded, prompting those still living to freeze.
"Oh God, no." Fitzjames whispered, turning slowly to look in the direction of a massive shape darting toward them in the distance.
Golding dove for the boat, only for Manson to stop him short by grabbing his arm.
Francis held out a hand, the chain straining as he pushed James behind him.
James exclaimed in surprise at that, only to realize why. He'd injured the Tunnbaq with a rocket. Francis had done no such thing.
"Behind the boat, hurry!" Crozier shouted.
Fitzjames seized his shoulder. "You come with me!"
Crozier gave a nod, allowing Fitzjames to draw him back. "And don't you dare move." Fitzjames ordered. He kept a firm grip on Crozier's sleeve, determined not to lose him.
Manson took a shot, which glanced off the ground. The creature, letting out a harsh roar, dashed right for him.
A bullet cracked into the Tuunbaq's side, and the creature shook its head before glaring at Hodgson, who had picked up Armitage's rifle.
Hodgson, shaking in fear, took another shot, only for the creature to pound toward him.
Pilkington grunted as Tozer kicked him in the stomach. "And stay down!" Tozer ordered. He quickly began to uncuff his hand, the key rattling in the lock at his wrist.
The Tuunbaq pounded closer, bearing down on Hodgson.
"Tozer, hurry up!" Fitzjames ordered, firing a shot and grazing the beast's shoulder.
The Tuunbaq, however, barely flinched, as close as it was to Hodgson.
Crozier cried out, nearly banging his head off the boat as Hodgson was scooped up by the creature. Fitzjames caught Crozier around the waist, using his rifle butt as a counterweight to keep him from being dragged forward. Tozer yelped as he was pulled to the ground by his one wrist. Biting his lower lip, he worked the key quickly in the lock.
The Tuunbaq flung Hodgson's corpse away, Tozer barely freeing his wrist in time to keep from being dragged with it. He tossed the key toward Fitzjames, who was in a tug of war, firmly planting himself and Crozier from being dragged away.
The Tuunbaq bore down on Manson, pausing to growl in his face before biting his head off.
Golding dashed off in fear, sliding behind the boat to land near Crozier. Reaching around, Fitzjames grabbed the keys.
"No, don't move!" Crozier exclaimed in disdain as Diggle began to run away, as well, the Tuunbaq darting after him.
Tozer cracked off a shot and swore when he missed.
Seizing Crozier's shoulder, Fitzjames shook him to get his attention. He handed the keys over to him, and Crozier immediately began to work at his right wrist, breaking it loose.
Diggle screamed as the Tuunbaq tore at his body.
"When I free you, you run." James whispered as Francis worked at the lock on his left wrist, "and don't you turn back."
"Absolutely not!" Crozier exclaimed, offended by the notion.
"Don't argue with me!" James struck his shoulder. "We came all this way for you! Don't you throw this back in our faces now!"
"Which I didn't ask for!" Crozier snapped, grasping Fitzjames's arm to keep him from hitting him again.
Fitzjames, for as furious as he was with him, knew that he couldn't continue arguing, as it was pointless. Blanky and Little were dead. He and Crozier would either be leaving together, or this was to be their final stand.
With a nod, he squeezed Francis's hand.
Crozier let go, and Fitzjames slowly rose from behind the boat, only to see the creature, stumbling in exhaustion, slowly begin to turn its head, as if drawn by something in the distance. It nearly fell as it headed down the slope, the surviving men watching after it suspiciously.
A figure appeared, slowly walking toward the creature. The steps were tentative, an arm upraised. A turn of the head revealed her to be Lady Silence.
"Oh finally, we'll be rid of that bitch!" Pilkington jeered
Lady Silence stepped before the Tuunbaq, her expression neutral. Lifting her arms slightly, she held them out.
"Hold your fire!" Crozier called. "It isn't attacking!"
"You shut up!" Pilkington snapped, only to double over, coughing and spitting bile. He held onto the boat with one arm before sliding down.
Golding remained curled on his side behind the boat, his shackled hands keeping him from fleeing.
Tozer didn't budge, his rifle still held aloft. Fitzjames had half a mind to knock it from his hands, but feared that would cause it to discharge by mistake.
Lady Silence slowly raised a hand, the Tuunbaq exhaustedly lowering its head.
"Damn fool, it'll bite her hand off!" Tozer growled.
The Tuunbaq, however, groaned, allowing her to rub at the side of its head.
Tozer threw Crozier and Fitzjames a glare. "So, she was connected, after all! What else did you want to keep from us?!"
"Does it matter?!" Fitzjames yelled. "What have you left, Sergeant, after all of this?"
Tozer shook his head and appeared to be holding back tears. "Heather's dead because of this-this thing, and you're gonna let it walk away?! You don't—" He cast one more glance at Pilkington, who was on his hands and knees in agony, and sighed, slowly lowering the rifle to rest on the ground. "You don't know anything."
Fitzjames stared at the creature from beyond the sight of his rifle.
"Let it go."
"Francis, I shot a rocket at it." James said quietly as the Tuunbaq's oddly human face glared at him, its expression strained with pain. He glanced at Crozier sidelong and was relieved to find that he had freed his wrists. The relief dissipated, however, as he saw a deep gash in his left wrist.
"It won't attack you."
"How do you know?"
Lady Silence slowly walked to the side of the creature, who hesitated, not turning.
"Your rifle is keeping it from leaving, James. It's frightened."
Despite everything, James wanted to fire on it. So many people were dead because of this thing. He wanted to peel that arrogant sense of being right that Francis had away from him.
But then, he felt the pain flare in his side. A bullet from the Chinese sniper, probably his age. James had wondered, from time to time, if the man had a family, but had let go of it to revel in glory that he had thought would give him a safety blanket.
And yet, the wound would ache, and even more so now.
The Tuunbaq was neither man nor beast, but it was so very afraid of a loaded gun.
I can't do this anymore.
Fitzjames lowered his rifle.
Lady Silence raised her hood, and walked away, her back to them.
The survivors slumped on the ground in silence as the Tuunbaq disappeared into the distance along with her.
Once it had gone, Fitzjames drove the butt of his rifle into the ground. "Any man who goes after it is on his own."
Golding said nothing, as he was currently busy with undoing the shackles on his wrists. Pilkington leaned tiredly against the boat. Tozer spared the Tuunbaq one final look, and then went over to Golding, coaxing the key from his hands.
Golding reluctantly handed it over, and Tozer carefully undid his shackles.
"Captain Crozier and I will be returning to camp," Fitzjames said, "You three may join us if you wish."
"For what?" Tozer asked, helping Golding, who held a free hand over his stomach, to stand, "You'll hang us."
Crozier sighed tiredly. "Do we look like we can accomplish that sort of thing?"
Golding groaned. "I-I wanna lie down." He retched and caught his mouth in his hand.
"It's all right, mate. Come on." Tozer gentled his voice, leading him back toward the camp.
Pilkington spared Fitzjames and Crozier a look but said nothing as he rose to inspect the corpses.
"Here." Leaning the rifle against the boat, Fitzjames cut a strip from the few bandages Bridgens had given him to wrap about Crozier's left wrist. They would have to leave stitching the wound for later, and aside from the water in his canteen, there was nothing to clean the wound with. He hoped some of Goodsir's supplies were still in the camp.
"No one else is coming, are they?" Crozier asked.
Fitzjames shook his head. "Little was with us, too, but he was shot by Hoar. The others were headed south."
"Why aren't you with them?"
Fitzjames was caught off guard by the question. Crozier sounded disappointed in him, but there was underlying concern. "We couldn't leave without you. You forget that when you speak of all of us being rescued, that includes you."
"My handing myself over was to protect the men." Crozier asserted, rising as Pilkington passed by them, meaningfully shouldering by Crozier without saying a word.
Moving around the boat, Crozier knelt before Blanky, who remained untouched and splayed out. While Crozier closed his friend's eyes, and adjusted the corpse in a more peaceful manner, Fitzjames also knelt to his eye level. "Martyring yourself when you were needed? Was that truly for the men only?"
Crozier hesitated, and then glanced at Fitzjames's side. "How is the gunshot wound?"
James felt annoyed at that but understood that Francis had given him an answer. The underlying reason he had turned himself over was to, more specifically, protect him.
Dodging his question, Fitzjames instead asked, "What is making them so ill?"
"Poison," Crozier answered, rising, "From Mr. Goodsir's body. It can't be helped."
"Disgusting."
"You hadn't seen them starving as they were."
"You didn't see their camp until you were imprisoned here." Fitzjames didn't bother questioning him further, as he knew it wouldn't get anywhere. The botched hanging was the last time either of them would be able to enact anything judicial on this crew, everyone being too tired and suffering too greatly for much else. Instead, he moved toward the camp. "Let's get your coat."
"James?"
James turned his head.
Francis placed a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for saving my life."