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One.
The first thing Francis noticed about Edward Little was his eyelashes. Thick and dark, no doubt the envy of every lady in the room. They each brushed the lieutenant’s cheeks, flushed pink. The night was warm, made worse by the press of bodies in the ballroom all in full uniform. Francis himself required a constant stream of champagne to cool down. Still, a part of him tried to savour the feeling of suppressing warmth, knowing what expedition was laid ahead of them.
The eyelashes each framed an iris as dark as fresh-brewed coffee, untarnished by milk or cream. In the candlelight, they shone like polished stones. Francis missed the words of introduction between himself and his now first lieutenant. He nodded, shook the man’s hand (firm beneath the soft white uniform gloves). His mouth moved, berry red lips curled around vowels that Francis was deaf to hear.
Instead, he was flung back into a memory from his youth. Back to his school days, frowning over the pages of Homeric text certain a mistranslation had occurred but could find none. He had then asked his teacher what the passage of the Iliad had meant in calling Hera, the goddess wife to Zeus, ox eyed. He struggled to imagine any woman would find compliment in being compared to a cow, a fact Francis could attest to. He had spent many hours watching the sluggish beasts in his neighbour’s paddock, had gazed into their glassy eyes and failed to find any beauty or wisdom there.
Now however, confronted by the young man who was to be his second aboard Terror, the metaphor finally clicked into place. Dark eyes, with lashes as long and thick as a cows, gazed expectantly at Francis and he finally understood their strange, earthly beauty.
Many hours later, when the party was long over, Francis would notice no wife had accompanied Little that evening.
Two.
Work and responsibilities had quickly inoculated Francis against the unwitting distraction of his second’s eyes. Sweet, but less distracting, was the lieutenant’s voice now that Francis was finally paying attention to it. At dinner he was not overly chatty but tried at conversation when pressed. Francis wondered if Little had been shy as a boy, although the man was unforthcoming with personal anecdotes. Typically, Francis wouldn’t be overly bothered with learning a man’s entire life story, but in the complete absence of details he couldn’t help but wonder. He suspected Little came from a home where he was used to older siblings speaking over him first. Not unlike myself, Francis conceded.
His quietness had not made him timid; Francis was relieved to know. He didn’t hesitate to give orders to the men and could run a command meeting well enough should the Captain be absent.
He was taken aback, however, when Captain Fitzjames drew the lieutenant into easy dinner conversation in a way Francis had never been able to. Little smiled, even nodded along eagerly at Fitzjames’ stories, which stoked a single, guttering flame of jealousy within Francis.
He had tried to get to know Little. Multiple times now, he had invited the man to share a glass of whiskey after supper. The private meetings had not gone poorly, but Little had barely touched his drink before he was called away on deck. Afterwards Francis had stared at the half-empty glass on his desk for a long time, bitter at the thought of a good drink going to waste but wouldn’t dare finish the other man’s drink lest his mouth linger so close to the rim where Little’s lips had touched. The cold glass had stuck to the chapped curve of his bottom lip for a moment, he remembered. If they were outside in the arctic air, the glass would have frozen to the point where Little would have had to tear himself free and leave his mouth red and bleeding. Eventually, he had let Jopson in to clear away the table and any evidence of Little’s presence disappeared.
Now, Fitzjames had made Little laugh. A small, polite thing, paired with a flash of charming, crooked teeth. The sight of fine lines wrinkling the corners of his eyes had Francis reaching for his wine glass and downed the contents in a hurried gulp. As Jopson came around to refill his glass, Little’s eyes had flickered over to watch his Captain, and his smile tightened to a thin, line.
Three.
When the news of the latest sledge party’s return reached Francis, he found his first lieutenant already being seen to in the medical bay. He was sitting still in his slops as Doctor McDonald peered into his red, swollen eyes. Francis resisted scolding his second in front of the doctors, not with countless others waiting outside in earshot.
“No leads.” Little hissed when Francis made his presence known, sitting beside him in an empty chair placed between Little and the door. Francis was not surprised by the news.
“How bad is it?” He asked McDonald. Little’s snow-blinded eyes sought out the location of his voice but flinched in pain from the movement.
“Not the worst I’ve seen,” the doctor said optimistically before he spoke to Little. “We’ll bind your eyes and give you something for the pain. Rest will take care of it.”
“How long?” He asked. “I can still attend meetings, even if I cannot see.”
The Captain and the doctor immediately stopped him.
“You will rest, Edward. That is an order.” Francis firmly told him. The man’s Christian name felt strange in his mouth. Too intimate.
There’s no point in it, but Francis stayed to watch as McDonald took a length of white gauze to shield Little’s eyes. He was distracted by a loose eyelash that had fallen on the lieutenant’s cheek, and the dozens of tiny freckles that now resided there, another gift from the harsh Summer sun. Several layers of gauze obfuscated Edward’s eyes entirely from view. Francis left the room before he could stand to watch as Edward was led stumbling, snow blind to his cabin; hands reaching out in front of him lest he fall into something that shouldn’t be there.
Four.
Edward always reported directly to him once he was aboard and out of his slops, which meant he stood before Francis each time with apple-red cheeks and fresh snow in his hair. The ice adorned his lashes and brows like glittering stardust; his eyes transformed into celestial bodies in the low cabin light. The sight had Francis reach out to pour himself a drink, then another for the Lieutenant. The frequent trips between icelocked ships had made him more amenable to a small sip of whiskey to heat his core. No more than a sip, Francis couldn’t spare more at the rate he was burning through his personal stores. That would become his lieutenant's problem too, soon enough.
He barely listened to Edward’s report, if there had been something urgent, he would have made it known. Francis could tell from Edward’s dark gaze, how it wandered across every corner of the room but never landed on his Captain, that he knows Francis wasn’t really listening. Why he bothered speaking at all Francis wasn’t sure. Francis clenched his jaw.
Look at me. He wanted to shout. He wanted to demand Edward’s full attention. He wanted those brown eyes, now dripping melt water like tears, to see their Captain and feel their contempt.
Instead, he dismissed Little quickly, who seemed equally relieved to leave Francis alone. He dismissed Jopson too, who appeared a moment later set on tidying the great cabin.
“I’m turning in for the night.” He lied, but Jopson only smiled and wished him a good night. They both knew the current state of his insomnia.
He lay awake for hours, mind adrift. It used to be that he would conjure up thoughts of Sophia, but now he was settling back on the memory of his first meeting with Edward Little.
Ox eyed Hera. He had called the man. The Goddess of Marriage and Fidelity. Did that make himself Zeus? Was the lieutenant not a Captain’s consort? It did not quite ring true to Francis. There were countless stories of Hera’s wrath, her divine punishment of those Zeus took as lovers other than herself. It was the same story retold over again, how Zeus would deceive her but was never the one punished. Yet despite his queenly wife’s rage, she remained loyal. What would it take, Francis wondered, for the likes of Edward Little to betray his loyalty? He did not want to know.
When Francis finally slept, he dreamt of Edward Little with strips of gauze falling from his eyes like a bride’s veil. In his dream, finally, his ox eyes were looking at their Captain through a thin film, but now Francis couldn’t bare the weight of them. He would turn Edward around, bend him over so his face was hidden in the sheets of their marital bed as Francis took him from behind. His bride moaned and sighed so sweetly, eyes closed as the side of his face rested on a pillow, eyelashes fanned out and still glittering with snowflakes that refused to melt.
Five.
“Gun down, Edward.” Francis stepped into the path between Edward’s gun and Des Voeux.
He knew that look on his lieutenant’s face, he’d seen it in the dead of winter when he’d drained the last of his whiskey and handed his gun to Edward, all but begging the other man to take it. Francis had known Edward was frightened at the responsibility that now lay on his shoulders. He had hoped to never burden him again with it, but now, as he eased the gun from Edward’s shaking hands, Francis knew there was no other way.
“Come back for Hartnell’s body. Bury him.” He said softly. “Keep moving South as planned.”
Little shook his head. His hair curled from under his officer’s cap, flying about his shoulders in the slight breeze. His mouth moved, no doubt to voice his refusal at Francis’ words but no sound came out.
“Do not wait for me. If I can, I will catch up.” Francis spoke as measured as he could, hearing how the small band of mutineers shuffled impatiently on the loose shale behind them.
“Sir-”
“You are to lead the men, Edward. You and the others will live.”
He licked his scabbed lips and nodded. “I understand, Sir.”
Francis knew they only had seconds left until they must part. He had been calm as he could manage, but time was running out. There were a thousand things he should have said to Little. I’m sorry. I know it is a burden. Don’t follow me. I forgive you. Please don’t leave me behind. You could end this mutiny, we have the numbers, we have the arms.
All Francis could think to say was: “Let me hear it.”
“We will live.” Edward assured him.
He looked back once, as Des Voeux and Manson nudged Francis forward with the butts of their guns. Edward stood before the crest of a hill, hovered before the brink that would remove him entirely from view. He was nearly a hundred feet away and Francis could only just make out his face. He caught the glint of light in Edward’s eye one last time before he turned back and felt a last shard of hope ache in his chest.
He had wondered, if it would be the last time he saw his lieutenant’s eyes. It was not, but later Francis would wish it had been.
One.
Sometimes, the Netsilik will ask about his life before he joined them. Aglooka tries to tell enough to satisfy their curiosity without giving rise to further questions. Only once do they ask him if he had a wife. He thinks of things he will never see again: fresh coffee, sweet chocolate, young oak trees, and brown oxen eyes.
“No.” He tells them, “but there was one time I was close.”