Chapter Text
It is, all things considered, a very nice little cottage in a very nice part of a very nice island.
Edward’s father had bought it before he had left for the Arctic, and during the eighteen months of half-pay that Edward had had before taking his post on board Terror, they had spent a good while, along with one of Edward’s brothers and one brother-in-law, furnishing the place nicely.
James Cornelius Little had found himself temporarily wanting for a posting on board any ship (or at least any ship going somewhere where plants would grow) for the last six months before Erebus and Terror had departed. John Bettinson Cragg, on the other hand, had been granted family leave for the celebration of his wedding to Edward’s sister Margaret Anne, and then more leave after their daughter Maggie had been born.
Maggie — who had been Christened Margaret Elizabeth Cragg but who none of the family ever referred to as such — had been born the year before the ill-fated expedition had pushed off for the Northwestern Passages. As such, she had been the perfect age to get in the way of any and all attempts at home improvement in the cottage in Guernsey.
Simon Little had bought the place with the intention of moving there when the combined force of his children and grandchildren finally completely took over the house that he had retired to. He had been an old man even then, although he had been completely unwilling to act like one; encouraging Maggie in her attempts to get underfoot and all.
Simon had decided against moving there after all when the Franklin Expedition had been found. Or at least, when what remained of it had been found: Sir James had discovered them in time to save at least a plurality, which was quite a relief.
But he had found the camp just a few short hours too late to save one of the two members of the expedition’s crew who was the most important to Edward Little. Cornelius Hickey had still stabbed John Irving twenty-three times through the lungs. In spite of Sir James, Hickey had still disrespected John’s body in death in ways that still had Edward waking in a cold sweat now, almost two years later.
And, of course, Sir James had found out far more about the mutiny than Crozier had been able to. A fresh pair of eyes, not scurvy-ridden and half mad with lead poisoning, and a brain not sluggish with malnutrition had been quick to discover Hickey and Tozer’s deception.
They had been separated then, and the men who had been innocent if not of ignorance then of outright mutiny had gone back with Sir James to his rescue ships. But for the mutineers, it was an old British fortress that had fallen into disuse after the end of its use in war.
A few of them had been sent back to rejoin the rest of the men — judged as being too incompetent to have been truly guilty — but that clemency had not extended as far as the ringleaders.
Or at least, the clemency extended to the mutineers had not made it as far as the men who Sir James, in his infinite wisdom and apparent ‘mercy’ had judged to be the ringleaders. There were three of them; all from H.M.S. Terror: one Marine and one Petty Officer, and one…
Well.
Edward had been unsurprised to discover that Hickey and Tozer were judged to have been the two main moving parts of the whole sordid affair. After all, the plan had already been to hang the two of them for their part in the afternoon’s events. Hickey for killing John and Farr and the Native family, and Tozer for allowing himself to be so lead astray.
Hickey had murdered both John and poor Farr in absolutely cold blood and then stirred up the rest of the men into such a frenzy that they had killed a completely innocent family. Tozer, it appeared, had been his weak-willed and not particularly intelligent muscle, having been damaged beyond repair emotionally speaking by poor Private Heather.
On the one hand, Edward had been glad of the advance warning that the third ringleader had been, in Sir James’ assessment, George. On the other hand, had he had the option to do so, Edward would have walked straight out onto the shale, laid down, and waited for death to come and claim him.
As it was, he had vomited and called Crozier just about every insult that he could think of. He had been expecting that perhaps Crozier would punish him too; send him back with the Mutineers to the damn fortress rather than twisting the knife.
He wouldn’t have mutinied; he knew at the time that learning that would have killed his father. Even now, over half a century after the fact, Simon Little speaks with no little pride about his small part in the response to the Spithead and Nore mutinies. It had been one of Edward’s most-requested stories in his childhood, and now that Maggie is old enough to ask her grandfather for stories it’s one of hers.
But that knowledge went very little way towards changing how Edward reacted to the news. After all, he had already lost one of the two people that he loved the most; on the day that they had been saved. Crozier telling him that he was about to lose the other most important person to him had nearly done for him.
Crozier, though, had been aware of the gravity of the situation.
He had sat down beside Edward, far enough away to be out of range of a punch but still the closest, physically and emotionally, that Crozier had ever been to his First Lieutenant. And then, when Edward had finally stopped talking and broken down in inelegant, infantile sobs, Crozier had silently put his arm around his shoulders and sat with him until he had finally been reduced to sniveling and shaking.
He had been in a similar state much of the way back — flipping wildly between furious and dejected. He had hated it, almost as much as he had hated the circumstances that had lead him there: and not just John’s death, although that had been enough on its own to knock his already feeble mental fortitude off its axis.
He hadn’t been able to say anything coherent in George’s defense, even though he could have done so. In fact, he probably ought to have done so, both as the officer who was directly George’s superior and as the person to whom George was closest.
He hadn’t said anything then, of course. Had he said anything then, he doesn’t know that he would have been in the situation that he has found himself in now. But even now that they’re back in England and he’s completely abandoned any and all job prospects, he has said nothing.
Edward’s silence hasn’t just been in relation to the mutineers, although that feels like the most egregious part of it. Generally, he sees nobody outside of the very small circle of his family now that he lives in Guernsey: and that circle doesn’t even encapsulate all his siblings.
But even before, Edward had been closest to Margaret and James — and he had, he supposed, tolerated John Bettinson Cragg as Margaret’s husband. Other than his father, those three, and Margaret and John’s children, are the only people that he actively spends time with now. Other than the occasional shopkeeper, or the postman, his only other regular social contact comes from his dog.
This might really be the way that he likes it. It might also be the way that he has artificially convinced himself that he likes it. At this point, he can’t really say what the facts of the matter are; but he can say that he knows just what he believes to be the case.
After six months, though, Edward does feel that he ought to be more sociable than he is, even if it’s just with his family. Especially since, as they had returned home just at the beginning of the summer, Edward is at risk of being completely alone during the winter. Or at least, he will be completely bereft of any human company; not that the dog isn’t usually a good substitute.
That is only part of the issue.
He wants company.
In fact, that is putting it far, far too mildly.
Just saying that Edward wants company makes it sound as though there is some choice in the matter, which isn’t the case. He wants company too, of course, but more than that he needs somebody to be around, to stop him from spiraling completely out of his own control.
He still has the dog, and because he has the dog he is forced to get out of the house at least for a couple of minutes every day. But, as the days get shorter and the weather colder, he rapidly has to come to terms with the inadequacy of even the finest dog as a companion in this way.
The dog is a nice, old beast, and not a puppy that would require more training and entertainment than a man in the state that Edward had been in when he had got the dog could have given. He’s about seven years old, the gentleman giving him up had told Edward, and still dearly loved but unfortunately by a couple far too old to care for him.
But this nice older couple’s tragedy had been Edward’s joy — and it was, as tragedies went, a very benign sort. No less it is a strange, and really rather unpleasant, thought for Edward.
He has seen enough tragedy for a lifetime, and that over the past couple of years.
These days, the dog spends most nights sleeping at the bottom of Edward’s bed, rather than in the bed on the floor in the minuscule drawing room where, at first, Edward had meant for him to sleep. He had started with every intention of not allowing the animal into the bed with him but it feels like far too large a space for him to sleep in alone.
Maybe it’s just that he’s spent most of his life sleeping either in hammocks before he had moved aft, and thereafter in tiny bunks. That is certainly what he tries to tell himself, at least, when he wakes up at night to an unsettlingly silent building wishing that there was somebody else there.
“I’ve been watching the days get shorter.” (Which is Edward’s way of trying to phrase it as mildly as he can.) “I thought I would just be able to… get on with it,” he says, with some embarrassment. “Chivvy myself along. I’m sure you know.”
“Not so well as you do, I imagine.” James, walking by Edward’s side back towards the cottage from the dock at St. Peter Port, shrugs. The dog is between them, half-trotting, half-loping in a very lazy manner. “At any rate, I’ve certainly never…”
James doesn’t even let himself finish the sentence, which Edward can’t help but think to be a very sensible choice on his part. Instead, he crams his hands deeper into his pockets and looks away from Edward and towards the sea. It is, all things considered, a very nice island: all of the Channel Islands are, especially by comparison to the painfully busy world of the mainland.
Guernsey, though, is probably the nicest place Edward has ever lived. He doesn’t know if that’s just because of the horrible circumstances he spent the last far-too-long in before the Expedition had been rescued or because he and his father are particularly well-suited in this respect. But he’s glad of it, even though any place is utterly miserable for him in the winter.
“Was it always… like this, then?” James asks, a little awkwardly. He doesn’t even look at Edward, but Edward doesn’t mind that. (In fact, it’s more bearable than having a conversation with somebody who insists upon forcing eye contact.) “Winter?”
“What, cold?” Edward suggests, insincerely. “Yes.”
James huffs a sigh, and Edward could swear that he hears his brother stomp his feet as they walk. But, while he’s clearly frustrated by Edward’s closing-off of his emotions, James also doesn’t rise to the blatantly obvious bait that Edward had left bobbing on the surface of the water. That being that, out of the two of them, Edward is the one who would be most easily able to speak to the state of winter.
During their family’s years in Scotland the darkness and cold and horizontal rain that had beset them between September and March had felt endless, but that had been a childish complaint. Literally, since Edward and James had been children when they had lived in Scotland.
It had felt like the winter in Scotland would never end. But in the Arctic, the winter literally is endless. Four months of constant darkness which, even for a man fully prepared for them, were some of the most difficult of the year. They were followed by a merciful couple of months of days followed by nights, as they were in England but far, far, colder. But those were then replaced by an endless yet freezing summer.
“I feel that all I’ve done the past few years is think and talk about winter.” They walk in mutual, gloomy silence for a minute or so. Edward surprises even himself when he says this, and he can tell that James is puzzled too. “Even before… before all that. Even when we were sailing out, in fact. Nothing but open water, clear between the Orkney Islands and Baffin Bay—” (Or Disko Island, where they had stopped off.) “—and there we were, talking about the impending winter.”
“Sounds as though you were preparing to fight a war,” James says.
“If only it was as simple as that.”
James nods silently.
Edward can only imagine that James is glad by now that they’re nearly back home. Once they’re back, he will be able to make a show of unpacking his clothes in the guest room and therefore have an excuse to sit in silence. Edward won’t have to be too much of a host, either; it’s far easier with a sibling than with just a friend.
(Not, of course, that Edward has many friends that he wants to invite to his home, either for tea or to stay for any number of night. In fact, since he returned from the Arctic Edward wouldn’t say that he has any friends who aren’t socially required to like him.)
It isn’t that Edward and James don’t get on well — quite the opposite of that, in fact, even right back when they were children. And since then they’ve remained close; even though their careers have taken them generally to different sides of the world, they’ve always got on excellently.
Both Edward and James had followed their father into the Navy, but James hadn’t showed much aptitude for the sort of command that Edward had found himself given. James had been — is still, in fact — a Purser and Paymaster, albeit one currently on half-pay because he is on shore leave.
He had been sent back to England, initially only for a couple of weeks, when their mother had fallen sick and subsequently died. But of course at the same time as that had happened, the Admiralty had received notification of the Franklin Expedition being rediscovered. Families of the men had been informed first, of course, and James had requested an extension to his compassionate leave.
Edward wonders why it had been so easily granted, although he doesn’t begrudge James the time on shore, even for a second. He’s puzzled by it even now, almost a full half year after the crews of Erebus and Terror, or what had remained of them, had returned home to England. And undeniably it does seem strange, when in Edward experience the Navy have been nothing but tight-fisted with allowing sailors leave either to care for a sick family member or to mourn that person after their death.
“You’ve no thoughts of returning to the mainland, then?” James asks, as they finally make their way into the cottage.
“Why would I want to?” Edward holds the door open for James, and then for the dog, who trots his way in and immediately goes to lie down in front of the fireplace. “This place is far more comfortable than London.” Which is not the only place he could live on the Mainland, of course, but it’s the first to come to mind. “And much quieter.”
James hums, but doesn’t say anything in response; either because he’s thinking through what the best thing to say is or because he knows that there isn’t a best thing to say. His back is to Edward as he takes off his overcoat and hat to hang up next to Edward’s. As James turns to face him, now slightly soggy and looking completely exhausted, Edward has no idea what his expression means.
James and Edward are similar, that much is very true. In a family with twelve total siblings, all of whom had survived into adulthood, it had been quite difficult to be and to remain a particularly quiet person. But both Edward and James had been particularly taciturn children, and they had then grown into particularly taciturn, studious adults.
There’s a clear difference though, now.
James is quiet, yes, but he’s just quiet; even with that, he has a clear if understated and very peaceable authority. Even though a Purser doesn’t have the interpersonal responsibilities that a Lieutenant has, Edward has no doubt that James would have done well for himself as a Lieutenant if he had decided that he wanted to.
Edward, on the other hand, had used to think that he had some semblance of authority: he wouldn’t have been able to become a Lieutenant had he not, after all. But now he feels an uncomfortable sense of kinship with not other officers like his brother but an abused stray dog lying on the street.
He has been able to fall back on his family, yes; and he will always be grateful for that. But he is and probably always will be painfully aware that had he not then God only knows where he would be now. Probably dead, or in a workhouse, or broken back down to a Midshipman at best.
He’s certainly wrecked his career, but he doesn’t think he either wants or deserves to have any sort of responsibility or authority back. In fact, thinking about some of the stupid things he had done, especially after they had marched out, he thinks that he would deserve to be stripped of any and all responsibility and rank.
“Ah.” James looks around the entryway to the house for a second. “You’ve a letter,” he says. “And… and the papers.”
“Hm?” Edward is just glad to be able to discuss something ordinary, rather than think about his failings. “Oh. So I have.”
He picks up both the letter and the newspaper, gets the letter opener that lies in a small dish near to the door, and gives the newspaper to James to peruse. It feels almost like giving a child a toy to play with, he thinks for a baffling second about his older brother.
“From whom? Do you reckon you know ‘em?” James goes to unfold the paper and look at the advertisements for something that they can talk about. “Not the British Press and Jersey Times?” he asks, as he looks at the back page. “Unless they’ve suddenly begun advertising… ‘little back second-floor rooms’ for rent in Margate while I haven’t been paying attention?”
“Indeed not,” Edward mutters. He glances up at James for a second as he examines the writing on the front of the envelope to try to figure out who it could be from. “Do tell?”
Edward gestures for James to read the advertisement in question, but as he does so he forgets that he’s still holding the letter opener, not having even turned the letter over yet. He and James both look down at the rather pitiful weapon, and neither of them can stifle a laugh — doubly so when James teasingly ‘parries’ his challenge with the newspaper.
“Ah. Lost it now.” James looks down again at the newspaper. “Never mind.”
He very rarely gets post, other than from his family, who generally don’t use his rank in the address of the letter. But this letter is addressed to ‘Cmdr. Edward Little, R.N.’, a level of formality that even his excessively formal brother-in-law wouldn’t bother with.
Cragg certainly wouldn’t bother with addressing a letter to him like that, in fact, having been the person to support Edward with his throwing over his commission. Clearly he hadn’t thought that it was exactly the right decision — but since Cragg is a Captain it had made Edward look more legitimate to have him on his side. (And, critically, it had made Edward look less like a petulant child throwing his toys out of his pram.)