what least allures

He can’t be far past thirty – they’ve minted him a lieutenant, but in his bones he will always be a steward, and not an old grizzled stalwart like hoary-headed Mr. Bridgens of Erebus. There are other men like them here in this sterile country – a brotherhood of rump-riders and prick-eaters – and he knows Mr. Jopson is one such man by his eyes. His beard will grow in thick once he lets it; it already stands out dark under the skin, a thick blue shadow. Hickey would bet anything there’s more hair on his chest than his boyish looks would suggest, a black coarse dart tracing downward from breast to belly to groin. Hickey can undress him with a look, he can put a price to his fine tall boots and the pistol that rests against his knee – oh, he would use it on Hickey in an instant for his treachery if loyalty did not fetter him and that sends a perverse thrill slinking down Hickey’s guts. Jopson is brave for his captain’s sake, like a good servant ought to be – stashed away in here with a man-killer and stalwart as ever. They both know Captain Crozier’s great secrets – that ought to bring them together, and instead it has brought them to this pretty state of affairs.

Billy was only a subordinate officers’ steward, and what tales he had to tell, what a wealth of petty dislikes and informations he’d let loose after a night’s service. He’d passed him a half-drunk glass of sherry once when all the glasses were being cleared away, a diversion from work with Hickey waiting for a glimpse of him in the passageway – an astonishing stroke of luck that was never to happen again, a single blazing swallow. Had it been Hodgson’s glass, or Little, or Irving? All their luxuries come away marked from other men’s lips. Mr. Jopson crouches in the command tent with the rest of them now, drinking tea and eating chocolate and filling his ears with the choicest strategies. Mr. Jopson has complete, unfettered access to Captain Crozier’s papers and charts – to Crozier himself. He has the pleasure of dressing him and undressing him, like a great half-melted wax doll. Such power and this man doesn’t even recognize what it is he has – too faithful or too foolish to take advantage of what his proximity to greatness could give him. A few choice words in Crozier’s ear before supper and they wouldn’t be in this mess. If only Hickey had recognized poor Tommy’s charms sooner, what times they could have had together: just the two of them with Crozier always between, like a ghost.

Hickey lets his hand slip into his drawers – past the knife-blade bundled up there in his shirttail, to his half-frozen balls and stirring cock, giving everything a good fumble to confirm what’s still there before he begins. The late Lieutenant Irving was lugging around a twelve-incher with every step, a ripe and jolly stretcher – no doubt the genesis of his outsized sanctimoniousness, and it made an easy handle to cut and carve flesh. Jopson is more slightly-built than the man whose boots he now fills, but beneath his clothes he may yet have some sweet secrets. Hickey will cut the trousers off of him and find out. His hand finds its rhythm at the thought of that.

Jopson makes a disgusted noise with his mouth. Hickey lifts his chin and smiles a self-consciously indecent smile. His thumb traces the sticky head of his cock – a thing like a pistol in its own right. He’s a more accurate shot in a cold climate than these clumsy killing things they must plot and quibble over. Billy can testify to that.

After a few long moments it must grow intolerable, or else unignorable. Jopson clears his throat sharply, and gives him a kick.

“You’re forgetting yourself, Mr. Hickey.”

But Jopson is still looking at him. Hickey returns his gaze with a frank stare. Flat on his back, one arm crooked behind his head – pretty as a picture, who could stop himself from looking?

“If I’m to hang, then where’s the harm?”

Slow moves, a softer grip against the cold and dry air. His gaze hasn’t fallen on Mr. Jopson idly, or for lack of another more suitable object – the irony excites him more than maudlin meditations concerning the gallows. Jopson is as stricken as the rest of them. His teeth are failing him already; his knees will fail next, and his fingers. The only cure will be what Hickey alone can bring him – red meat, wet flesh. If Hickey is to hang, they will all fall to it sooner or later. The thought presses on every man’s mind, and a sweet article like Thomas Jopson may be the first flesh tasted.