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He has no idea why his spirit stayed with the ship while his body slipped beneath the surface of the icy ocean, never to be seen again. It is just before Christmas, in the days of infinite polar summer, which seems a very hollow thought as they are surrounded by dense pack ice. Poor Third Lieutenant Cuingo, he hears some of the men say, in between good riddances. A week after he dies he hears the cheers of the crew and the making of merriment, shuddering as his captains waltz on his grave.
Although it has only been a few years since he met his doom in the icy waters of the southern continent, he can feel his connection to the corporeal world fading as he is trapped in the confines of this wooden prison. As the months roll on, first sailing home, then in dock and on the northern waters, he finds that he is forgetting names and places, the memories of flowers, what his sweetheart’s face looks like. He is keen for the vigour of new blood, and the reflected glory of the new discoveries made for Queen and country, empire and immortality.
He is anxious to see the faces, old and new, of the men who will fill his ship, and, most importantly, who will live in his berth. Third Lieutenant Irving is lean and wan, timid and obnoxiously pious, and has a needlessly pretty face. He watches Irving closely and initially finds him wanting. If he’s not filling out reports, reading, or writing in his diary, he’s praying. How many times in a day can one man pray, especially on a smooth sea in peacetime? He doesn’t recognise any of the evangelical prayers, being one of those wicked Papists, but any initial amusement very quickly turns into abject boredom. It would be fine if he could access any part of the ship - he misses the camaraderie of the wardroom, with the stewards flitting about while the officers gossip with spirits and card playing until the small hours - but he’s stuck here in his berth with this priggish bore. His berth. Not Irving’s.
He takes consolation in the fact that Irving seems to be just as isolated as he is, although he does not have the excuse of being disembodied. Any interactions with fellow crew members are professional and perfunctory, and none of the men ever come to Irving for direction or guidance, as they came to him. Just like him, Irving seems utterly alone, but unlike him, Irving faces it with calm acceptance. Irving starts filling in his off-duty hours with sketching and painting delicate little watercolours. Mostly landscapes, but it’s a skill that is both unexpected and, to his surprise, envied. Having an ephemeral existence, being unable to touch, to feel, is far more agonising than he ever imagined.
There’s a friendly blond lieutenant who tries his best to forge a bond with Irving but is rebuffed at every turn. He seems like an excellent fellow, which is what is so confusing. He wishes he had that companionship. He wishes he were as handsome as Irving. It is an affront to God and the universe that Irving does nothing with that face except sigh and remain stony, whispering chains of words over and over. There are definitely better ways to spend a night on one’s knees.
After they cross into the waters of Baffin Bay, finally leaving the greater world behind, a tension falls upon Irving. He remembers it well, crossing the point of no return from Van Diemen's Land, the point at which men start to abandon the civility of polite society and carve out a new one for themselves. He sees it in the way that Irving’s hands start to shake at night, while he is trying to draw, or write a report or a log, or even turn the pages of his prayer book. One night Irving sits hunched at his tiny desk over what seems to be a letter. He writes some words, crosses them out, writes again, crosses them out again. The quill shakes in his hand. In a sudden outburst he grabs the wet page and scrunches it up, throwing it against the wall, smearing wet ink across the white wood. He is astounded. That is the first ounce of passion he has ever seen the man display. Then, Irving starts to cry quietly, tears running prettily down his cheeks like a whalebone-clad heroine. He takes out a stack of letters not written by him and reads them slowly, his fingertips running over the old markings, his mouth moving along with his eyes, with much more reverence than he had ever afforded his prayer book or Bible. He closes his eyes, puts the stack down and turns his chair away, unbuttoning his trousers and taking himself in hand in one swift motion. The venerated name on his lips when he spills is William. Just as quickly Irving cleans himself off at the basin and straightens himself up as if nothing had happened, save his burning crimson cheeks and a hollow look in his eyes.
So, Irving has red blood after all, underneath the blue wool and gold braid. The sight of the pearly seed on Irving’s hands made him seethe. He aches for that feeling, of touch and sense and release, even the pain of pining. Being a spectre seemingly consigned to haunt this ship, this tight berth, for the rest of eternity is not an appealing prospect. He resents every breath Irving takes, every morsel that passes his lips, every movement in his legs, every twitch of his beautiful face. He begrudges every glimpse he gets of Irving’s perfect cock, red and weeping just like its master. Watching Irving tug at himself fervently, quick and fumbling like an inexperienced middie, sets his rage to simmering, as does the little sighs and gasps and the way he bites his lip just as he’s about to spend. He finds the thread of a distant memory of the way he stood in the shadows of the orlop, watching the younger lads going at each other with the frenzied grace of stallions in the field, with his prick in hand, completely unseen. Much as he is now. Completely unseen and unnoticed, relegated to a name in a logbook.
He imagines what he would do if he could make his presence felt, if he could suddenly appear to Irving as if by magic in a more corporeal form. How lovely Irving would be wrapped around him, fingers winding tight in his hair. The feel of breath on his skin and hot, biting kisses. He wonders what Irving smells like, not that he can smell at all, but still. The musk of sweat and congress is powerful, as is the taste of spend. Irving is sitting at his desk, bathed in golden lamplight. Right. There. He tries to reach out somehow, without limbs or a sense of direction. Nothing seems to happen, except a little twitch and a shrug of a shoulder, as if Irving is swatting away a fly. There are no flies in the Arctic.
The officers’ steward, a tall and drawn man with a look of being permanently haunted, brings Irving a meal and then lingers. Evidently he has been caught with another lad in the orlop and was now desperately trying to avoid a lashing. He weaves a tale of coercion and despair, taken advantage of by a wicked mere mate. He is surprised by the compassion that Irving shows to the young man, who looks ready to keel over. He thought that Irving, Evangelist that he was, would unleash hell and brimstone upon this delicate creature, but no. Irving listens calmly and assuringly, and vows to have a word with this ‘devious seducer’. If he could still laugh, he would have. He’d never heard a more apt description of himself before. If only he could meet this troublemaker. He could definitely teach him a thing or two before he lashed both of them.
Time flows ceaselessly on, not that he has any way or inclination to mark it. The ship stops moving. Something has gone terribly wrong, although he can’t find many details in the chaos, not that he cares. From the furtive whispers in the doorway he has surmised that the Captain is retreating deeper into his cups and they are trapped. Screaming matches come from the Great Cabin. There is talk of a woman, a Native witch. Maybe she could magic him away from the ship. Irving seems to be gripped by despair. Good. Irving is as trapped in the ice as he is trapped in this berth. Now they are on equal footing.
The more panicked and dishevelled Irving becomes, the more he wants him. Although Irving is a tall man, he wishes he could reach up into his close cropped hair and twist, pushing him down to his knees. How beautiful Irving’s full lips, wasted on prayers, would have looked stretched around his cock. He would tease Irving until he begged, and then he would break him. Irving looks so lovely when he cries.
Irving only comes to his berth to sleep now, and some nights he doesn’t even make it back. His eyes are becoming dark and sunken, his skin pale. There are lots of hushed, frantic conversations between him and his fellow lieutenants, chief of which is a dark and handsome man who permanently looks like a kicked dog. It appears there is one crisis after another. There is something about a creature, a monster, and the captain seems to be incapacitated. He also sees the captain’s steward, whose face he remembers from Antarctica but not his name. He could never forget those uncanny eyes, which always seemed not quite of this world. He wonders if the steward can see him, such is the pierce of his gaze. The only time Irving seems remotely at peace is in sleep, where his breathing is even and his eyelids flutter. At rest he is truly angelic. He tries to touch his face, occasionally receiving a shiver and a pained expression.
It’s all becoming a blur to him as his hold to the world is starting to slip even more. Irving is now becoming obsessed with lists and numbers, things that never really held his attention. Every so often he hears shouts and screams, and gunfire. One night when Irving pulls himself off, the name on his lips changes to Solomon. Irving now never touches his stack of letters, yellowing and formerly precious, nor his Bible. His prayer book is starting to gather dust.
He hates with every part of his being the fact that Irving is still alive, and he is not. He can’t stand the fact that Irving is wasting his life in the same way he did and with not an ounce of pleasure to show for it. Irving lives in a cycle of self-abuse and self-flagellation, his youth and beauty utterly useless to him in the name of piety and duty. He watches Irving sleeping again, consumed with the compulsion to strike him. He tries. Irving wakes, giving a loud cry. His door is quickly opened by the blond lieutenant, who asks if he’s all right. Irving responds that it was just a dream. Something about an inferno. A dream? Oh, lad, you’ll wish that’s all I were.
One night Irving is wracked by sobs and the blond lieutenant comes in and wordlessly sits with him. He feels oddly moved by the sight of the friendship between them. It’s quite sweet. He must be getting soft. The other man murmurs platitudes of comfort, and strokes Irving’s hair. No. Don’t you dare. He’s mine. He tries to lash out at him for touching his boy. The blond man shudders heavily, chalking it up to a large chill when questioned. Then he leaves. Good. Leave him alone. You can’t touch him. He’s mine.
The ship lists hopelessly in the ice. It’s quite amusing to watch men sliding across the hallway, trying to cope with the steep angle. Something’s happening. There’s a lot of boxes and crates moving about, from his limited view. He keeps hearing the words walk out, and abandon. A horror fills him. No, no. You can’t. You can’t. Irving, dressed in his outdoor slops, comes in, looks around, and sighs. He pulls out his sea chest and packs up his very few worldly possessions. No. No. This can’t be. You can’t leave. You can’t leave the ship. You can’t leave me.
I won’t let you.
He reaches out, passing through Irving, flailing wildly. Then, he grasps something. There’s something small and round, made of silver, in Irving’s breast pocket. He latches onto it and shakes, testing his grip. He feels Irving tense, struggling to breathe as he moves around inside him. He uses the silver to pull himself out of the wood and into Irving’s body.
He stretches out, feeling his way along inside long, hot limbs. He’s wearing Irving like a suit. Irving’s body fights him, trying to push him out. Irving’s hyperventilating, collapsing to the floor, but he holds on and asserts himself. This is what it’s like to be warm again. Finally, the integration is complete. After watching him for so long, filled with envy and want, they were now one. Irving and Cuingo, intertwined and inseparable, two souls sharing the same body. He can't be got rid of now. He can't be left behind with the ship, consigned to memory and nothing more. He survives, like he always has done. He feels the fear and confusion inside Irving’s thoughts, feels his heartbeat quicken, feels the raggedy edges of his breathing. He'd better do the gentlemanly thing and introduce himself.
Hello, John.