Chapter Text
“Captain…?”
Dragging his wretched body across the rocks of King William Land is more difficult than anything Thomas has ever experienced. There’s a chill in the air, but he can feel the sun beating down, burning and peeling his skin. His muscles are screaming, his reopened wounds stretch and pull with each minuscule movement. The rock-covered ground scrapes against weeks-old bruises and festering ulcers. Blood weeps from his brow to mix with the salty tears weeping from his yellowed eyes. It takes everything in Jopson to remain conscious.
None of the pain holds a candle to the pit of dread in his stomach. To the fact that they left him. His friends, his superiors, his captain. They all left. Only a measly three tins of poisoned food per tent to tide them over until death. All of the placating words were just that: words. Little and Le Vesconte made their opinion on survival clear all those weeks ago. No matter what Crozier had assured them (assured him), a death sentence for some was the ideal. It didn’t escape Jopson that Little pointedly ignored the fact that the “ill men” included one of them in that tent. If the plan meant leaving Fitzjames behind, of course they would leave him as well. Why wouldn’t they? Despite the “promotion” he was still just a steward from Marylebone. Why would they risk their lives to save him? Thomas believed he was being uncharitable when these thoughts occurred to him at the time…but now?
Now he falls back on what he knows. If he could just get their attention, he could convince them. Convince the captain he could still be useful. He may not be able to keep a steady enough hand to shave the captain’s face and he may not be able to stand long enough to hold the tent flaps open for the officers, but he can…he can…God, he can ignore the rock that’s digging into his old leg injury. He can get past the various putrid fluids dripping from the wound and staining the pale landscape below him. And really, if he can push through this, he could do anything the captain asked of him.
He can push through this. He can.
Thomas tries to yell after the party again, but the words get trapped in his dry throat and diminish into a weak groan. The pitiful noise seems to indicate his body finally giving out. He can’t pull his bruised, swollen body any further. He holds his arm out in desperation and reaches. The movement is excruciating, setting a wildfire through his already fever-ridden body. He can feel every muscle, every tendon, every stretch of skin pulling and fighting against each other.
He reaches. He reaches further and closer as he feels himself beginning to fade. But he can’t give up. Black clouds the edges of his vision and he keeps reaching out. He stretches further and further and –
- he drops the porcelain tea pot onto the officers’ table.
Thomas heaves gasping breaths as the pot shatters and hot tea spills everywhere. The nauseatingly familiar sight of Terror’s belly sends his mind spiraling, and bile stings his throat. The taste of it shocks him into the realization that he feels fine. The metallic tang of blood no longer permeates his mouth, and with his tongue he feels that he once again has all of his teeth. Most notably, he is standing with no threat of collapse. He’s strong. He’s healthy.
Jopson takes a moment to look around, trying to grasp his bearings. A spread of food (food!) covers the officers’ dining table, each chair occupied by a man. The warmth of the room feels almost oppressive in contrast with the cold air he’d grown accustomed to over the years. Glancing to his left, Lieutenant Irving is doing his best to not openly stare at the mess of a man standing next to him. To Thomas’s right, Lieutenant Little is attempting (albeit failing) to wipe hot tea from his uniform with a worn handkerchief while Lieutenant Le Vesconte smothers a smile.
“Very reassuring to see the quality of steward you pick, Francis,” a voice mutters from across the table. Thomas’s blood runs cold with recognition, and when he convinces himself to look up, he staggers at the face of a very unimpressed and very much alive Sir John Franklin.
“Jopson?” Captain Crozier’s concern is written plainly on his face as he begins to stand and make towards his steward from across the room, and Thomas’s heart jumps to his throat, mixing unpleasantly with what’s already threatening to come up.
All around him Thomas Jopson feels the scrutiny and worry of the men around him. Men who, when it came down to it, left him to die alone.
He promptly blacks out.