folly to grieve

Dr. Stanley of the Erebus wears a puce silk ruff tied around his throat with gold ribbon, and his greatcoat has gilt buttons -- his face is powdered white, and his hair is darkened with sweat. He's crying, but Hickey can't be bothered to determine why -- only to wipe the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs, leaving a grimy track of stripped-away paint, and to peer earnestly into his eyes. He's only seen this man at odd times, when the crews of both ships have gathered together to mark an especially grave occasion -- a stiff sort of fellow from a distance, not a sentimental soul. Chance has brought them both together here.

Stanley's mouth tastes of salt tears. His hands smell of spirits, but not his breath.

They're meant to be celebrating, aren't they? This is Hickey's idea of a convivial time. The fervency of Dr. Stanley's embraces knocks off Hickey's rather dashing hat, leaving it in the coffin-shavings to be trodden upon -- his arms are flung around Hickey's neck, as he rocks forward into his embrace with all his weight. The rows of buttons crush against Hickey's waistcoat.

Won't Gibson be jealous -- he's jumped the line, hopped up a half-dozen rungs on the ladder of rank. They won't be the only two celebrants tonight, observing godless rites before the sun can shine on them again -- Popish priests tangling with witches, pirates dancing with centaurs, mermaids buggering bumblebees.

Stripping past buttons, past woolen jumpers -- there's a sound of great commotion from within, another rousing speech, no doubt. Hickey couldn't care less. His principal concern is grabbing handfuls of what he's been given, pressing Stanley back into a canvas wall with a heap of Royal Marine rifles clattering around their feet. He'll turn those tears into smiles, one way or another.