Constable Benton Fraser (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maintiensledroit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-02-09 12:17 pm
maintiensledroit) wrote in singillatim2024-02-09 12:17 pm
[open] the lamp is burnin' low upon my table top, the snow is softly falling
Who: Benton Fraser, Diefenbaker, and you!
What: Woodworking, guitar playing, ice skating, and more
When: Through February
Where: In Milton, at the basin, in the woods, others tbd.
Content Warnings: mention of animal butchery, hunting, others tbd.
i.
[ Even in this icy weather, it's a good idea to preserve meat rather than simply stashing it, raw, in the snow, and so Fraser can be found in the first weeks of February in the woods, seeking out a likely-looking tree trunk, either fallen or still standing. Once found, he brings tools and begins hollowing the thing out, working steadily with Diefenbaker either lazing beside him in the snow or off in the woods, hunting for himself.
When the log is hollow, he hitches Dief in a jury-rigged harness attached to leather straps around the log and together they haul it back to the house where he's been staying with Heartman. Once back in town, Fraser can be found hammering nails and hooks inside the hollowed trunk, humming quietly to himself as he works. He'd be more than happy to answer any questions, should someone stop by to ask what he's up to. ]
ii.
[ Before he found the right trunk, while he was out in the woods, something else had happened in the early days of the month. Diefenbaker had gone stock-still and focused at his side, and when Fraser looked up, he'd seen the thing that had so caught the wolf's attention: a dog, enormous and mossy, watching them from among the trees.
No amount of calling and cajoling brings the best toward them, but when the dog had begun walking off Dief had followed without hesitation, leaving Fraser to come along or no as he would. They'd followed the strange animal on what began to feel almost like a path through the woods, strangely clear and easy to move along despite no signs of having been cleaned or kept up by man. It was hardly a surprise at all when the path led to a cabin he'd never seen before, sitting empty and cold but neat and sturdy for all that. He'd left Dief outside with the strange dog and gone to look for any signs of life.
There were none. The cabin was empty and mostly bare of supplies, but in the bedroom he found an impossible treasure: an old six-string acoustic guitar, tucked carefully away into its case. Even better, when he'd carefully lifted the thing out to inspect it, he'd found the case contained even more riches: extra packets of strings, a few picks, even a somewhat stiff capo.
Now, when he's finished work for the day, Fraser can be found on the porch steps of the house on Thompson's Drive with the guitar in his lap. On the first evening, he'll be there stringing it; on subsequent evenings someone might hear the rippling sounds of a fingerpicked accompaniment and a pleasant baritenor voice singing along. ]
ii.
[ But the Mountie isn't always in the woods. After an excursion to what remains of the outdoor gear store, he can also be found down on the frozen Basin, accompanied by the hissing sound of his hockey skates over the ice as he makes long loops or short sprints or simply skates backward in long, graceful swoops. Or perhaps someone nearby might hear the smack of a stick hitting a puck and the muffled thunk of said puck driving into a snowbank.
There's another stick and more pucks on the bank, just in case anyone would like to join him in his games. ]
no subject
Fraser, meanwhile, mirrors that small, rueful smile. ]
The call of knowledge and discovery is a powerful one. Even with how everything ended... I can see why you would want to go.
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[ Goodsir extends a cautious hand to let Diefenbaker have a sniff, and if he seems amenable, gives him a gentle headscritch. Then Fraser's remark catches him off-guard, and he looks up sharply. ]
You ... you know what happened to us?
no subject
The Mountie, on the other hand, is watching the other man with deep sympathy in his eyes. ]
Yes. Well, as much as anyone knows, in the time I come from, and I'm afraid that's far from everything.
But I do know of you. I know of all of you who went on that expedition, and may I say...
[ He takes a breath, simply allowing sincerity to dictate his words. ]
You've always been an inspiration to me.
[ A beat, and he winces, slightly. ]
I realize that might be an insensitive thing to say. Ah... I never thought I'd ever have the chance to speak with any of you.
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[ Harry Goodsir, for all his very real kindness and generosity of spirit, is also an ambitious man, and part of his motivation for joining the expedition was to make a name for himself. Even so, Fraser's words evoke a complicated mix of feelings that he doesn't know what to do with. Knowing what happened, what they did—what he did—and hearing the word inspiration from Fraser; these things don't seem to want to fit together in his mind. He gives Diefenbaker another headscritch, and his arm falls to his side. ]
It's strange to know that one is remembered. Even if it is not quite in the way one might wish to be remembered.
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[ He has so many questions. He wants to know everything that happened, what happened, were any of the guesses and stories right? Does Goodsir recall meeting any of the Inuit whose recollections of the Expedition survive over a hundred years later? ]
I'm afraid all I can give you is reassurance that you are remembered, and that people do care, and have, passionately, for many years.
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[ He's overcome for a moment and has to look away. When he speaks, there's a faint tremble in his voice. ]
May I ask you something?
Has there been any ... has anyone found ... us?
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Yes... some. In a few places, most significantly on Beechey Island.
[ He nods to the other man, respectful. ]
In fact, I read that you did some of the post-mortem work on those men.
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[ Goodsir's jaw drops a little in surprise. ]
I ... yes. I—it was John Hartnell. He ...
[ He scrubs his hand over his face, thoughts whirling. ]
Sir John ordered it. He wanted to know if it was scurvy or perhaps consumption, particularly as young Torrington had succumbed to the latter. It was neither for Hartnell, as far as I could tell. The poor lad had a weak constitution and simply could not survive the winter.
no subject
You might be interested to know that ten years ago – in my time – a research expedition was able to exhume and re-examine him. Their results suggested the cause of death was lead poisoning.
[ And then, because this man knew John Hartnell and the others buried there on that lonely spit of land – ]
He was examined and re-buried with the greatest respect, I assure you. The team disturbed him and the others as little as possible.
no subject
[ He's glad, at any rate, to hear that the young man's remains were treated well, but he's also thunderstruck by an important part of what Fraser has told him. ]
Lead. Lead. My God, I was right. Our canned food—a third of it was rancid, and in that which wasn't, we kept finding fragments of lead. Like pellets of shot.
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[ He nods to the other man. Distressing as it is to confirm such terrible findings, he's glad to at least be able to give Goodsir some relief from the questions that must have been haunting him. ]
No one in my time knows exactly how much of a role the lead might have played, but the levels in Hartnell's remains were much higher than anyone expected to find.
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My God.
[ Goodsir shakes his head. ]
I have rarely been so dismayed to be proven right.
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[ He still feels he shouldn't have told Lieutenant Little what he knows... but how could he lie?
At least they might have the comfort of the stories he'd heard from the Inuit, that perhaps a few of them had lived, after all, joining the tribes and disappearing into them. ]
But may I say what a remarkable analytical achievement it was for you to make?
cw: animal experimentation/death
[ Goodsir colours, ducks his head a little. Remembers Dr. McDonald and thinks: Fraser has much the same decency and kindness. ]
It was ... there was a line of discolouration in the gums, you see, much like contamination I'd seen with bismuth. Terror's surgeon, Dr. McDonald—he mentioned a case regarding cider presses. I tested my hypothesis on ... well, on the monkey that Sir John had brought on Erebus as a pet. I'm afraid the poor creature proved the case. But even when we abandoned the ships, I was still attempting to draft a paper that I would have submitted to the Lancet, when we returned.
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Unfortunately, it seems to have come too late. ]
I wish I could have seen that paper, I'm sure it would be a fascinating read.
Unfortunately, I don't have much more information to give you. But there were stories from the local Inuit, who spoke of meeting some white men assumed to be from the expedition.
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[ Goodsir's heart skips a beat, and he immediately thinks: Silna. Then he shakes his head. ]
Our encounters with them were less than happy, truth be told. What—
[ His throat catches; he has to swallow before he can finish the question, afraid of what the answer might be. ]
What sorts of stories do they tell?
[ Do they talk about the shaman who was shot? About the family slaughtered? ]
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[ Possibly he shouldn’t say anything. What could it help? How much might it hurt, instead? But he’s always been an honest man, and so he remains now. ]
They spoke of meeting white men along the shores of King William Island. The men asked for food and indicated their ships had been caught in the ice. Later, another group met three white men who were hungry. They traded a knife for some meat and blubber and ate. The white men indicated they were attempting to go south overland, but neither side could easily understand the other.
[ He hesitates, but continues. ]
Other stories spoke of finding dead men in camps, or the remains of the ships, from which the Inuit took items and resources that would be helpful to them.
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[ None of this quite answers Goodsir's unvoiceable questions, but it also confirms some of his worst fears. ]
I ... I see.
I beg your pardon—I don't mean to put you into an uncomfortable spot, speaking of these things. But I can assure you—
[ A faint, morbid smile. ]
—there is very little you can describe that would be any worse than what we lived.
no subject
I only don't want to make you relive what was clearly a terrible ordeal. This is a very strange situation to find myself in... there's so much I want to ask you, but I would hate for you or anyone to be harmed simply due to my own curiosity.
And, at the same time, I wish I could offer you better news. I'm afraid we still know very little about what happened. I can tell you the search for the expedition, for all you men, was extensive... it lasted years. Decades. I only wish it had managed to find you.