The day I first saw him, it was grey, and the air filled with a murky fog of another world, so that I forgot for a moment where I was, who I was, until I found him.  I thought he was half dead, his fingers gripping the wooden plank with an iron will of their own.  Perhaps his body would not let him die.  Perhaps his mind had already gone.

             I pulled him up into my little boat.  He looked like a drowned rat, brown hair clinging wet to his head, a messy tail dripping seawater.  His body was long, and lanky, and I almost fell over trying to save him from a watery grave.  Was his life worth my own?  Would we die together, in slow agony?  Or would we kill each other as men in war are wont to do?

             He was so pale, I thought that he would die that first night.  I stripped him of his uniform, the fine blue coat ripped and burned, his breeches stained, his shirt tainted with the blood of other men.  I could have left him out there to die, I do not know why I chose to save him.  I covered him with a blanket, forced some water past his lips and laid his clothing out to dry.  I watched him sleep.  And I slept.  

            The next morning brought brilliant rays of sunlight.  I awoke with my face hot, my mouth dry, my lips burning.  I drank sparingly from my canteen and cursed the giver of life in the sky, for surely it meant to kill us.  Cradling the head of my new companion in my lap, I made him drink again.  He moaned and feebly tried to fight me off.  Idiot, I whispered to myself, not knowing if I meant him or me.

            I sat back and studied him, all the little details.   If you took apart his features, each portion seemed awkward, ungainly.  I would bet that his eyes, when opened, were too huge and dark and expressive.  His cheekbones were too chiseled, his jaw too square.  His lips too swollen and pouty, like a woman's.  His skin too easily burned by the sun.  But put them all together, and perhaps he was beautiful.  

            He coughed suddenly, lean chest heaving.  He expelled most rancid water out of his lungs, and his large eyes fluttered open, blinking in the bright light.  He looked up at me, confused, as I gently held the canteen to his lips, and he drank thirstily.  When he was finished, he did not say anything.  He squinted and looked around, and I knew he was judging me, judging his situation.  He saw my uniform, the pistol in my belt, the knife at my side.  I could tell that even though he was young, he was intelligent and experienced.  He regarded me seriously, his throat working, his heart racing.  This silent confrontation could not continue.  

"What is your name?" I asked, softly, as though I did not wish to startle him.  He did not appear startled, his gaze still level

"Horatio," he said, an unasked question in his eyes.

 "I am Philippe," I replied.  We did not give our family names, our ranks.  I hid my thoughts from him even as he tried to hide his, and I was right in guessing the eyes were too expressive.

             "You are a Republican," he stated.

             "And you are an Englishman.  And we are sworn enemies."

 The dark head nodded slightly, as if agreeing, and he noted the pile of clothing over to the side.  "You dried my clothes.  Thank you."

             "You are welcome,"

 I handed the salt encrusted shirt and breeches to him.  He turned away to put them on, modestly, the blanket still draped around his shoulders.  I chuckled, and he darted me a sharp look, his body tensing.  I shrugged casually, and turned to my meager store of food and supplies.

             When I turned around again, he was dressed and had folded the blanket neatly into a little rectangle.  I showed him how to use the oars and the sail to make a small tent.  It would give us much needed protection from the sun, he was already becoming red.  I had devised the tent a few days ago, in case I wanted respite from the glaring heat.  My skin adjusts easily and already I was a golden brown.  But today the sun beat merciless down upon us, and we huddled underneath our makeshift shelter, comfortable for one man, crowded for two.

             I gave Horatio a small, hard biscuit from my stores.  He took it from me gratefully, and we ate our midday meal, each in his own sphere of solitude.  He contemplated his biscuit as he chewed, slender fingers picking up the crumbs which fell on his shirt.  Every morsel was precious, every bite a reprieve from starvation.

                When we were finished, my eager new friend wanted to take down the tent, and row.  His actions spoke plainly as he fidgeted and I quieted him.  He refused to die, he had stared into the face of death and laughed.  Now he was here with me.

         "No," I told him, wanting to explain.  "The heat of the sun will weaken you, dry you.  If we row now we will sweat too much, and lose too much             water.  We must wait until the cool of the evening and appreciate the guidance of the stars."

             What choice had he but to agree?  I was right, of course, yet he still eyed me warily and settled his long legs as comfortably as he could.  

**********************************************************************************************************************************************  

            We were rowing east, I was sure, though the sky was cloudy and the stars were obscured.  I felt it within me, this innate direction, my body's compass.  If I was wrong, I would laugh, then cry miserably, for it was me who insisted we progress this way.  My captor agreed quite amicably.  I could barely see the outline of his shirt, the ripples of fabric, as he rowed in front of me.  He was strong and powerful, and kind.

             My captor.  I cannot help but to think of him that way.  He had been nothing but cordial and gentle with me, yet he was the one with the weapons and I was unarmed.  I wondered why he did not kill me, why he fed me.  His actions made no sense.  Perhaps he was insane, I did not know how long he had been out at sea.

             I could not remember much of the last few days.  The last clear memory I had was of that stormy night, when the crew hastened to secure the ship.  All hands were safe down below, and Archie and I were engaged in a game of cards when we heard a loud boom of thunder.  Or so we thought.  Bracegirdle rushed down to the officers' mess, his great blue eyes wild, his cloak drenched.  It had not been thunder.  We were being attacked.

             Archie and I rushed above deck to find a French corvette along our starboard side, cannons foolishly firing.  She was no match for us.  Captain Pellew's shouted orders traveled through the wind, and the crew efficiently carried them out, as if the stinging rain and seawater in our eyes were only minor irritations.  In vain, the French tried to board us, and we fought hand to hand.  I remembered Archie swinging his sword like a Roman warrior as I neatly skewered the Frenchman running towards me.  I watched as he died, he could not have been older than fourteen.  Because of my shock at killing this boy, I did not react in time to deflect the blow from the next man.  Somehow, I managed to find the piece of wood.  Somehow, it managed to keep me afloat as I clung to it, hoping that when the battle ended and the storm abated someone would notice that I was missing.

             My hands burned now, the blisters oozing as I continued to row.  I would not give up hope that we would be rescued.  It did not matter to me whether it was the French or the English that found us.  It was my duty to survive.  If I was captured and imprisoned, it would be my duty to escape and return to my ship and my captain.  And if we ever landed upon English soil, it would be my duty to speak for my companion and ask for mercy, as he had saved my life.

             When I first opened my eyes to the blazing sun and saw him, I had thought he was Archie.  His hair was blond, and looked to be as fine and soft.  His eyes were clear, crystalline blue, unclouded by drug or drink.  But there the resemblance ended.  Where Archie was broad and muscular, he was tall and lank.  Where Archie's face was round and cherubic, his was angular and almost harsh.  Archie had an air about him that attracted men and women alike.  This man, Philippe, exuded isolation and solemnity.  I longed to ask him how he had gotten here, the circumstances that led to his incarceration on this floating brig.  I knew I must choose my words carefully, and I decided to speak with him after we had rested.

             I must have dozed for several hours for when I awoke, the sun was trying to beat down upon us through the haze, a thick lung-clogging soup in the air around us.  Philippe handed me the canteen without a word, and the warm water was like the sweetest wine to me.  I was very hungry, and the night of hard rowing had left my shoulders stiff and my back sore.  He gave me another biscuit and some salted meat; they tasted harsh, but heavenly to my rumbling stomach.

             As I ate, Philippe worked on a crude fishing rod.  He had split off a sliver of a plank, and whittled it smooth.  It was about as long as my forearm, and he was attempting to secure a fine fishing line to the end.  Again, I was surprised at how well stocked with supplies we were, or he was, I should say, as I am his guest, or prisoner.  He said nothing to me, just worked quietly, his blond head bent over his task.  I could not help but feel the small lump of fear within me, for perhaps his constructing the fishing rod meant that food supplies were low.  A horrible decision to make: to choose death by starvation or by drowning.

             "How are you feeling?" his smooth accented voice made me jump, foolishly.  

"A bit sore," I replied, self-consciously rubbing at my shoulder.  I winced as I massaged a particularly painful area on my upper back.  Philippe nodded sympathetically.  "You should try to stretch out on the floor."  He motioned to an area free of clutter.  "That way, you will feel better by tonight."  

            It was a good idea, and as I shifted over to the floor, my mind raced as I tried to think of a way to strike up the conversation I wanted.  Blessed relief in my back, I stretched out fully, groaning.  I closed my eyes and said up to the sky, "Monsieur Philippe, may I ask you something?"

             He chuckled lightly.  "Please Horatio, you will call me just Philippe.  None of that Monsieur business.  Ask your question."

             I smiled, even though he could not see me.  "Very well, Philippe."  I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous.  "I just keep wondering how you came to be here, on this boat, all alone."  There was only silence.  I rambled on.  "I mean, I do not mean to challenge you sir, I'm merely curious, you are so prepared, your supplies...."  I trailed off, like an idiot I could not finish my sentence.  He said nothing, and I thought that I had offended him.  I sat up, shielding my eyes and looked over at him.  He was still hunched over his fishing rod, but his fingers were still, his eyes just staring.  

************************************************************************************************************************************************

             I should have known that he would ask me this, this one question I tried to avoid within myself.  He was so inquisitive, his eyes did not miss anything.  He looked at me and I could feel the uncertainty radiating from his core.  He was so diligent, so dutiful, every bit the gentleman.  He cleared his throat again

             "I am sorry, I have offended you somehow..."  He looked stricken.  "Please accept my humblest apologies."

             I shook my head a little, as if I had been in a trance and was just breaking out of my reverie.  I tried to adopt a nonchalant expression.  "It is of no consequence," I said, but my voice seemed far away, and not belonging to me.  "It is a difficult topic.  Perhaps, I will discuss it with you at a later time."  My words and countenance seemed to placate him, and he laid his slender body down once more.

             Why had I said that?  Why did I tell him that I would speak about my being here?  I had promised myself I would tell no one, even if I was captured and tortured by the English or the Royalists.  Why?  So he could call me a coward?  If not in his polite gentlemanly voice, so he could think it in his mind?  I was a fool!  Frustrated with myself, I broke the fine fishing line I was trying to knot.  Throwing the rod aside, I took my uniform coat and formed it into a pillow.  Stretching out, I tried not to think about how I came to be "here", as Horatio had said.

                 "I used to go fishing at the stream by my father's house."  I heard the scrabble of feet upon wood, I had surprised Horatio  with my voice.  

"I enjoyed fishing as well, when I was young."  He said that with a steadiness that belied his pounding heart, I knew.  I could imagine the look upon his face, eyes darting back and forth as he thought furiously, choosing words so as not to upset me again.  

"You are still young, my friend," I said lightly.  "I was once young and idealistic as you...." I trailed off, cursing myself silently, for I had given away too much of myself.  

            "But sir!" he protested.  "You cannot be more than ten years older than myself.  Have your ideals changed so much then?

            I wanted to laugh, but it came out hard and mirthless.  "Your ideals will change as well.  Age and war do things to a man's outlook."  

            "Perhaps if you spoke your thoughts, you would not be so troubled by them.  I give you my word that I will not judge you."           

            I was struck by the gentleness of his tone and the wisdom behind his words.  I told him so.  "You speak wisely, beyond your years."

            "My father taught me well before I joined the navy," he replied easily.  He sat up, I saw his shadow over my chest.  "And my captain guides       and teaches his officers with insight and respect.  I can only hope that my words and actions are a credit to them."  

            I sat up to face him, as it was rude to have a conversation with one's face hidden.  I wanted to look at him, to see the emotions and thoughts flit across his face, yet I was afraid of what he would read from my own visage.  An expert at deceit, and I feared what I might reveal to this boy!  I had misled cabin boys and admirals alike, but with this young Englishman, I felt the need to speak truthfully.  Why, I did not know, but perhaps the burden upon my conscience would be lightened if I did share my thoughts with him.  

            My tongue felt thick in my mouth, and I grabbed the canteen, drinking quickly, drinking too much.  I wanted to speak, but I was at a loss for words.  Horatio waited patiently, sympathetically, and I felt my anger rise at this.  I did not want pity from this whelp, how could he understand what I was thinking, what I was feeling?  I was torn in two - impressed by his kindness yet indignant at his seemingly condescending compassion.  Why did he pretend to care?

              He seemed to read my mind.  Horatio looked away, over the never-ending expanse of sea, where the fog had lifted and formed large, grey clouds overhead, holding the promise of rain.  "May I assure you, sir, that I am sincere in my offer.  I will not judge you."  

            I finally found words for my thoughts, but I could not say them.  A loud rumble of thunder in the distance made us both look up.  The same idea passed between us.  "Horatio, the sail," I said, as I reached for the oars to rebuild our shelter.  We finished just in time.  The sky above us grew dark and wept copiously.  Horatio huddled under the tent as I covered our supplies with some canvas and retrieved the canteens and a small bowl.  I placed the bowl on the floor of the boat, just outside our tent, and we watched as it filled quickly with rainwater.  I poured it into the canteen, and waited for the sky to fill it again.  Horatio looked at me curiously, saying nothing.  He knew I would not be forced to share my secrets; I knew he would bide his time.

             When the canteens were full and the rain continued to fall, I brought the bowl to my lips and drank greedily.  How ironic that we are surrounded by water yet we could die of thirst.  After I had drank my fill, I gave the bowl to Horatio, who took it with a silent nod of thanks.  I watched as he drank, giant swallows of water working down the smooth column of this neck.  I scratched my own neck, stubble growing out of my thick skin.  He finished and I wondered when Horatio's face would start to show the shadows of a dark beard.

             Suddenly, the wind became intense and almost knocked our shelter over.  We grasped a hold of the boat, with one hand I held onto the wooden seat, with the other, the sail.  Horatio used his slender fingers to secure the oars, the framework of our tent.  The sea tossed our little boat carelessly, and the water thrashed us mercilessly.  I could feel my strength ebbing as my fingers grew colder, and I realized we had to ride out the storm on Mother Nature's terms. 

 "We must take the tent down!" I yelled to Horatio, even though he was right beside me.  The wind carried my voice to a far away place, but Horatio had heard me and nodded.  Struggling against the gale and the waves and the pelting rain, we unfastened the sail and tied down the oars.  A strong thrust of wind and water caught me off balance, and I fell backwards, my back arching over the side of the boat.  

            In that instant, my only thought was merciful death, at least the sea was cold and my mind would freeze before my heart.  My head went under the water, an icy blast up my nostrils, into my lungs.  I felt something pulling at my shirt, and I was lifted back into the boat by strong young hands.  

"Philippe!" he gasped.  He threw the sail over us, feeble protection against the elements.  He rubbed my face and chest, holding me close, sharing his faint warmth.  "Philippe!  Can you hear me?"  

I coughed and sputtered and gasped, inhaling deeply.  I smelled the scent of sweat, of salt, of rain.  "Yes," I managed, each breath agony in my chest.  He held me, comforting, as a brother and a fellow officer, a fellow inmate of this god-forsaken prison I had chosen.  "I am...not injured."  I searched out his eyes in the darkness under the cloth.  "I am in your debt, Horatio."  

               I could feel him shake his head.  "No, I was paying off a debt of my own."    

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

            The sun was warm on my face, and I heard the birds singing as I made my way down to the fishing hole.  A basket of food in one hand, my favourite fishing rod in the other, I almost skipped along the overgrown path, where Nature refused to allow man's intrusion.  I could hear the bubbling of the stream which fed the pond, and the slight hum of honeybees on their daily scouting missions.  I smiled and felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me gently.

              The sun was real, but as I sat up and looked at the blue around me, I was disappointed with my reality.  Philippe sat by his stores, assessing the damage done by last night's storm.  I felt an overwhelming urge to explode, and quickly relieved myself over the side of the boat.  I splashed cold seawater on my face, trying to rub my eyes into wakefulness.

             When my gaze returned to Philippe, I noticed that he no longer wore the pistol and knife he had always kept by his side since he saved me.  Did he trust me now?  Did he not fear the consequences of aiding an enemy soldier?  He had let me direct us towards England, and I thought he would be equally content to drift aimlessly about.  My mind traveled back to the storm last night.  I had saved him without a care for myself.  When I saw him lurch over the edge of the boat, I did not think, I moved with an intrinsic motion.  I was struck now by the realization that I could have easily fallen overboard, and both of us would have been lost to the sea.  Why had I saved him?  Had I not, there would be food long enough for one man's hope of rescue.  I told myself that he was my enemy, that I must turn him over to the authorities, yet I wanted his trust and respect.   

            We were no longer French and English.  We were two men of flesh and blood, fighting the same war, fighting the same enemy.  We fought together for survival, we bore the battle scars.  But the bruises on my body, battered from the storm, would fade, as would Philippe's wracking cough.  I wondered if I had any scars on the inside?  I tried to gauge my morale, how did I feel, what did I think?  Was I still mentally fit?  I was happy to let my body rest, but my mind needed stimulus.  I felt something cold and wet fall on my chest, into my lap.  It was a soggy biscuit.  

"Unfortunately, some water leaked into the supplies," Philippe said, apologetically, as if it were his fault.  "We do have enough water for a few days."  He weighed a canteen in his hand, and passed it to me.  To a hungry man, rotten meat and moldy bread would make a feast.  I ate slowly, savouring each bite, and drank deeply, tasting clouds and sky in the rain water. 

"Would you mind some conversation, Horatio?"  I turned to meet those blue eyes.  "It would help....to pass the time before dusk.  Unless you prefer to rest."  

"I would enjoy a conversation very much," I replied, shifting so that we faced each other, Philippe at the bow, myself draped across a seat.  He smiled and seemed to relax.  

            "Tell me about your life in England."           

  ************************************************************************************************************************************************************

            He spoke so lovingly about his father, the country doctor, how he was admired by the people who lived around them.  They brought their sick children and wounded men and returned with gifts of fresh meats and cheeses, vegetables and breads.  Hearing about this wonderful food made my stomach clench in jealousy.  Horatio caught my eye and grinned sheepishly, apologizing for the reference to the food.  

            "Your father sounds like a noble man," I said.  "And your mother?"  

            His face clouded then, with a sadness that gave evidence to his loss.  I silently regretted my question, but I wanted him to speak, to share with me this long-forgotten grief.  

"My mother died when I was eight years old." He covered his eyes with a slender hand and inhaled deeply.  "She was beautiful.  She had long blonde hair and green eyes, she was so kind and so soft.  She smelled of roses."  He looked at me, without seeing me, for he was seeing her in his mind.  "She was never harsh with me, she always told me to be a good boy, to be honourable and courageous, to look after my father when he grew old.  She held my hand and we walked in the gardens.  She taught me how to plant vegetables.  She painted watercolours of the land around our home."  He spoke as if he were hypnotized, recalling the past so vividly that it interfered with his perception of the present.  "We used to go for picnics by the lake near our house, and we would go out on a little rowboat.  I would pretend that I was a captain of a fine ship, and she my distinguished guest.  I would catch fish but Mother would always make me throw them back, she said they were too small and not had a chance at life..."  

            Horatio looked at me, startled, as if waking from a dream.  He shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed that he had shared something so personal with a stranger.  I smiled sympathetically, to put him at ease.  "You were fortunate to have such a mother, and she to have a son as adoring as you.  Her legacy of grace and dignity lives within you, Horatio."  

He returned my smile, nodding.  "I was fortunate, to have such a loving family and community in which to grow.  I have only the happiest of memories."  

              "Tell me, why did you choose to join the navy?"  

              "Duty," he stated, without a pause.  "Duty to my country and my King."  

           "Surely the prize money and glory of war are worthy incentives, my young friend?" I chuckled inwardly when he looked annoyed at this. 

"I am certain, sir, that many men choose to go to war for this reason.  However, while the money is an added benefit to my position, I can assure you that my reasons for entering His Majesty's service are to protect England and my countrymen."  He stared at his fingers.  "I used to be distressed during the annual slaughter, hearing the mournful lowing of the cattle.  Now, I can draw a pistol and shoot a man dead without giving a single thought to the fact that I am killing another human being."  His forehead wrinkled, creased in a deep frown.  

              I reached over and patted his knee.  "War does these things to a man.  You are not alone in this."    

************************************************************************************************************************

              I wondered what he would tell me, for he had a look upon him like a storyteller preparing to impart something wild and fantastical.  Here I was, dwelling upon my own sorrows, which were without a doubt far less severe than this man's, whose country had been ravaged by war.  "Please, I would very much like to hear about your childhood in France."  

He leaned forward on angular elbows, eyes bright.  "My father was a simple farmer who loved the city theatre, and went to the opera at every opportunity he had.  My mother was an opera singer, who adored the countryside.  Let us just say, it was a match made in heaven."  His face beheld a faraway expression.  "My mother left the opera to marry my father and their dairy farm prospered.  I remember I had everything a boy could want - toys, books, clothes, companionship, love, protection.  My father became wealthy enough to hire men and women from nearby towns.  They worked happily, for my father was a kind and generous man.  My mother would help in the kitchen, and at night, she sang to me as I fell asleep."  

He looked at me then, and I was about to speak, to comment on what a wonderful environment it must have been, when suddenly his expression grew somber and almost cruel.  "There was a lord of a nearby region who became jealous at my father's good fortune.  Over the years, he watched my father's lands and holdings grow, how the people enjoyed working for him.  I was a young man then, preparing to take on more responsibility for my family's business.  That night...."  Philippe lurched forward, eyes haunted.  I almost moved away, but my back was against the side of the boat.  "The night they came, the moon was shadowed by ominous clouds, and the cattle stamped and snorted like they knew something was wrong.  They knew!  But we were too busy feasting on fresh beef and bread, and snoring away in our soft feather beds!  They came, the lord's men, they came and torched my father's farm!  They burned the barns with all the cattle we thought were secure from thieves in the night.  I remember...."  He clenched his fists, and thrust them into his eyes.  "I remember the smell of burning flesh, the sound of desperate animals crying for salvation.  We tried to put the fires out, we tried so hard!  But it was all in vain."  He slammed his fist into the wooden floor.  "We managed to save the farmhouse, and my parents were safe.  But the barns, and the cattle.  Gone....all gone.  And some of the farm hands, and milkmaids who were sleeping near the barns......"  

               I could not keep the look of horror from my face.  My arms and legs felt frozen, numb, and I could do nothing to comfort him.

             He choked out.  "One of them was Rose....my beloved."  He buried his head in his hands.

             My body finally regained consciousness and obeyed my mind's commands.  I moved over to sit beside him, and laid what I hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.  "Philippe...."  I was at a loss for words, yet had no trouble inwardly cursing my ineptitude.  

"I apologize, Horatio," he raised his tear-stained face.  "It pains me to speak about it, however, it also allows me to heal these deep wounds.  I thank you for your patience."

 "Please, do not apologize,"  I found my voice.  "You are a strong man to have withstood such tragedy.  You have only my admiration and respect, monsieur."  

"I have exacted my revenge," Philippe said, a hardness coming over his visage.  "Years later I joined the Republicans, and we ransacked the lord's manor.  The lord himself met his end with Madame la Guillotine."  He grasped my shoulder, in the way of friendship and camaraderie.  "You see, Horatio, I have become hardened and cruel over the years.  Compared to me, you are as innocent as a doe."  

              "Not true," I protested, remembering my own hardships when I first entered the navy.  "I have also endured many hardships."

              "Oh no, I do not mean to belittle your experiences!"  He seemed genuinely concerned that his words may have insulted me.  

                "No, sir, I do not take offense," I assured him, half-heartedly, for my mind was already on past evils.  

            "Horatio?  It may help you to speak about it.  I cry like a woman each time I think of my beloved Rose, yet afterwards I feel cleansed and       renewed."  He took a deep breath and straightened his back, as if to convince me of the sincerity of his words.  

            I weighed those words heavily, for I had never spoken of my despair, except with Archie, who was so close to me he was my very essence, and with Clayton, who now watched over us from heaven.  Even to Captain Pellew I had not revealed everything, and he, like the noble man he was, allowed me to save face.  For several minutes I debated with myself, and I finally reached my decision.

  *************************************************************************************************************************************************************

            The indecision was written so plainly on his expressive face, and for some moments it seemed as though we both held our breath, so tense were we.  Then he exhaled violently, and began his recollection.  

"When I first came aboard the Justinian, my first ship, I believed that all I had to overcome was my seasickness, and acquaint myself with living in close quarters with other men and eating tasteless rations.  I was naïve to think so."  Horatio caught my gaze and held it steadily.  "My first day was filled with uncertainty, but I met a man, young like myself, who fast became my companion and guide.  He is my dearest friend."  He smiled, remembering the good times he'd shared with this friend.  

"Unfortunately, the next day, another midshipman returned, demoted from acting lieutenant as he had failed his examination.  He was a cruel, sadistic man.  I would say he was more like an animal, but even predators show some mercy to their prey, and kill quickly.  This man, he delighted in tormenting us.  His name was Jack Simpson."

              Horatio's mouth twisted in a grimace, as if he had tasted something bitter and was attempting to work the taste out of his mouth.  

"There was no reason for his torture, he simply derived pleasure from our pain.  He had no friends, yet no one would stand up to him, everyone feared him.  It was like he had some secret hold over them, and being new, he swooped down upon me that first night."  

               "There are some men that cannot be explained," I said gently.  "And some who do not merit this attention."  

"It wasn't the physical beatings that bothered me," he continued, oblivious to my interjection.  "Physical pain I could bear, but he poisoned the air around him, do you understand?  He made me feel worthless, and my superior officers thought I was not able to fulfill my duties.  My shipmates cowered when he was near, there was no laughing, no sense of unity.  It was hell!  I had not imagined war to be as glorious as some men do, I was realistic in my expectations.  I knew there were dangers and risks, but from my own countrymen!  How could we be expected to fight a war when we fought amongst ourselves?  How could Captain Keane not see what was happening on his own ship?  I was powerless to stop him from hurting me, from hurting my friends."  

He choked back a sob.  "My God!  What he did to Archie, I cannot even describe!"  He raised his head, tears in his eyes.  "I'm sorry, I cannot tell you more, it is not my place."  

                "Think nothing of it, my friend,"  I quieted him.  "This Simpson, he has been brought to justice?"  

               "I challenged him to a duel."  My eyes widened at this.  A duel?  Surely Horatio could not have been this foolish.  

"I was desperate," he explained.  "I had decided that I could not live this way, it would be either my life or his.  Only then did I realize the bravery of my friends.  On the morning of the duel, the man who was to be my second came to me in the mess, and struck me on the head.  When I awoke, I discovered that he had gone to fight the duel in my place.  He finally found peace that day."  

               "He killed Simpson?"  I asked, hoping, but fearing the worst.  

"No, Simpson was a far better shot than Clayton.  We were not able to mourn our friend that day.  War was declared, and many of us from the Justinian were transferred to the Indefatigable."  He seemed to brighten.  "There, I found order and discipline, where on the Justinian there was nothing but chaos.  Captain Pellew inspires loyalty from his men, and demands nothing but our very best.  That we give readily and willingly to him."  

            He sighed deeply, arching one eyebrow at me, questioning.  "Pray, continue, Horatio.  You are freeing yourself of a burden carried far too long."  

"At first, Captain Pellew was....well, I think he disapproved of me.  He thought me a coward for issuing a challenge and not following through, letting other men fight my battles.  I so wanted to prove him wrong!  And I believe I did, my actions and thinking gained his approval.  Unfortunately, Simpson was not yet gone from our lives."  

               I gasped, ashamed that I had assumed his life had been so easy.  

"We saved him from a shipwreck, and Archie - my friend - and I wondered the consequences if we had let him drown.  I knew Captain Pellew did not like him, the Captain is very perceptive, but he wormed his way into a mission with us, to take the Papillon."  

              "Ah, I have heard of this infamous battle," I said, recalling the subject of much embarrassment to my superiors.  

              Horatio blushed slightly, realizing that he was speaking with a French soldier.  "Simpson, he....Archie had a ....  well ...."  He stopped stuttering and cleared his throat.  "Simpson set Archie adrift, unconscious, in the jollyboat.  He tried to kill me, but one of my men saved me.  I challenged him again to a duel."  

            I passed him a canteen.  "And this time, you won."  

            "No," he drank deeply.  "Thank you.  No, he shot at me before the count was up, so I was afforded the chance to shoot him.  But I could not.  Even though he was the cause of so much suffering, I would not lower myself to his level.  Would killing him have made me feel better?  Everyone now knew he was truly a demon.  I turned away, and he tried to strike at me.  Captain Pellew killed him with a single shot from his rifle."  He traced the side of the canteen with a long finger.  "I knew then I could trust Captain Pellew with my life.  And I would die for him."  

            He said this with such seriousness, a brown curl casting a twisting shadows over his face.  "Do you feel better now?" I asked, tentatively.  

            Horatio smiled slightly.  "Yes, I do, thank you for listening.  It is easier to speak of this since I know that he no longer has a hold upon us.  My friends and I are doing well, despite Simpson's attempts to plant seeds of doubt in our minds that we would ever succeed.  Archie especially!  He has made Acting Lieutenant, and grows more confident daily."  He was proud, and rightly so, for he had faced more adversity than I had thought.  

            I turned to dig into our dwindling supplies and handed him some salted beef and another biscuit, this one dry.  I settled down to eat, but Horatio raised his canteen slightly.  "May I propose a toast?"  

            I could not help but grin at his shy boyish charm, and nodded, lifting my own canteen.  "Of course."  

            "To comrades; though we fight on opposing sides of war, thrown together by adversity may we share in our experiences and appreciate        each other's humanity."  

            "To comrades."  To this we drank.  

  ************************************************************************************************************************************************************8

            Once again the burning sun served to be my morning reveille and I lay for a while, letting my eyes become accustomed to the light, stretching my back against the hardness of the floor.  I felt a bond with Philippe now, having shared with him some of my deepest thoughts.  The fact that he was French and a Republican did not trouble me as much as it did before.  I had not given up hope of rescue, and I had clear image in my mind of us parting and going our own ways, if not in friendship, then at least with respect.  

            My shoulders and back were sore from the previous night's rowing, and I flexed each muscle before sitting up, my eyes automatically searching for Philippe.  What I saw froze my blood.  

            I should say, what I did not see.  For Philippe was gone, all that remained was the creaking of the boat, the gentle lapping of the waves and a meager store of supplies.  I was alone, and I fought to quell the panic in my chest as I rushed to the place where Philippe had lain for the night, complaining of tiredness.  My fingers touched the wood where I saw him last, as if trying to magically conjure up his form.  My heart pounding, I looked over the side.  Perhaps he had fallen overboard?  Did he commit suicide?  We had spoken of such dreary memories yesterday, did his overwhelm him?  

            Icy fear numbed my senses.  I could not be alone!  Not out here!  Why had I not noticed that Philippe was upset?  Why did I have to speak of Simpson and his cruelty?  Speaking of his beloved renewed him, he had said, but perhaps he possessed a hidden sorrow that he refused to let me see?  How could I be so presumptuous, to think I understood his feelings?  

            "Horatio!"  

            I jumped, nearly falling into the cold water.  I whirled in the direction of the voice, and it was only then that I saw the rope, one end tied to the boat, the other end more surely tied around Philippe's waist as he swam towards me.  I helped him, dripping wet and naked, into the boat.  In one hand, he held a small, empty net.  I felt immensely foolish.  

"Horatio!" he gasped, for the swim had tired him, and we were both rather weak from lack of proper nourishment.  He sat down and gulped a few deep breaths.  "I decided that I would go fishing today."  He grabbed a canteen and quenched his thirst.  Philippe smirked and held up his empty net.  "Unfortunately, my friend, the fish refuse to cooperate."  

I took a biscuit from the sack and offered him one.  He shook his head.  "No, I have already broken my fast.  We need more meat, and I long for fresh fruit.  I believe we have about three days more of food."  

            At that, I felt guilt creep over me.  Here was this man, a stranger to me, and he had saved me from the sea and shared his food with me so that I may live.  How could I possibly repay him?  

"Are you all right, Horatio?  You look a bit skittish," he remarked, pulling on his breeches.  I knew I was blushing and I said honestly, "I must admit I was...surprised when I awoke to find you missing.  I feared the worst."  

            Philippe grinned, his angular, sun-browned face becoming almost jovial.  "You are a true brother, Horatio!  I am honoured that you are             concerned for my well-being!"  

I ducked my head to avoid his gaze.  "To be most forthright with you, Philippe, while I was concerned for you, I was also selfishly concerned for myself.  I was...afraid, afraid to be alone out here.  I was seized with unreasonable terror that I would die... alone."   

"Take heart, Horatio.  We will not die here.  We all have moments where we cannot think or move because of our fear.  As long as we are stranded here together, I will not leave you willingly."  

               "Nor I you, sir."  

            He looked at me with such clear blue eyes that my heart wrenched, for again I was reminded of Archie.  Archie, whom I prayed would find me, whom I knew would refuse to abandon me.  

            Philippe spoke with difficulty.  "You asked me before how I came to be here, alone on this boat.  You said you would not judge me when I told      you.  I hold you to that now."  

            "I am a man of my word," I replied softly.  

            "Very well then.  I will tell you my story now."  We both settled ourselves comfortably, facing each other in the small boat.  I braced myself mentally, though I do not think I would be shocked at the things I heard anymore.  

"I am....I was a lieutenant aboard the French ship Isabelle.  We patrol the channel regularly, and often times we chase ships down as far as Africa.  One stormy evening, my captain, the mad oaf that he was, decided that he would attack the English ship that we had spotted earlier and ran from like cowering mutts.  I advised him against it, for the English ship was a mighty frigate, and we were a small corvette.  It was too risky, the weather was too rough, but he refused to listen.  All the other men were hungry for fighting and thirsty for blood.  So we bore down on the unsuspecting frigate, and I knew we were no match for her."  

            I gave voice to my cold realization.  "The Indy.  You attacked the Indy."  

            He nodded sadly.  "While the other men were preparing to kill, I was preparing to flee.  Food, water, tools, anything I could get my hands on, I packed and readied.  When the rest of my crew were engaged, I would lower the boat and flee.  And I did.  I watched as my ship sank, I heard the cries of my friends as they were shot and stabbed, as the ocean pulled their lifeblood away with every wave.  I could not save them!"  

Philippe locked his eyes with mine, and I found myself unable to turn away.  "Do you not see, Horatio?  I could not save them!  What would they think of me if I did?  A boat full of supplies, ready to run away?  They would call me a coward and a traitor!"  

            "No, sir!  They would praise your foresight and your leadership!"  

            "No!!  They were men of insane courage and bravery!  They would rather die than be saved by a coward as myself."  He swallowed, in vain attempt to remove the lump from his throat.  "I was afraid.  I was afraid to die...I am so far away from home."  He entwined his trembling fingers in his hair, and massaged his head.  I moved to his side, again tried to comfort him with physical touch, a gentle but steady hand upon his shoulder.      

**********************************************************************************************************************

            I felt completely drained, yet full of disbelief.  I had confided my deepest thoughts and secrets to this stranger, this boy I pulled out of the sea.  What had possessed me to do that?  I did not know the answer to this question.  All I knew was that in my heart, there was no regret, only relief.

            We sat dozing, resting for several hours, waiting for the sun to go down.  Neither of us had much energy left for rowing, my stomach gnawed at my innards with constant longing.  Horatio lounged silently, his body relaxed, but his large eyes were wide open and observant, his slender fingers drumming idly on the floor.  He was deep in thought, and I could see evidence of some inner turmoil, battles being won and lost in his mind.  

              "I believe you are a good man, Philippe," he said suddenly, not looking at me.  

I smiled.  "Why do you say this, my friend?  Have I not killed your countrymen?  Would I not attempt to kill you under different circumstances?"  

His jaw was set stubbornly.  "I mean that you are a good man because you have a soul.  You saved me, when you could have left me to die in the cold sea."  

                "You have met many men without souls."  I said this half amused, half afraid.  

"I have had the misfortune to meet two such men."  He fixed his eyes upon me, limpid pools of dark coffee.  "Simpson was one.  This other man, he was....he was an ally.  We were to fight with him, for him.  But he was brutal, and heartless."  

               "Who was this man?"  My curiosity was piqued, and I waited for his answer with uneasy anticipation.  

"He was the Marquis de Moncoutant.  We were to aid him and General Charette, to return the Royalist forces to France, to restore the King.  We were allies," he said again, as if trying to convince himself of it.  "It was a disaster," he whispered.  

            I laid a gentle, reassuring hand upon his knee.  "Tell me," I breathed softly.  

"It was a disaster to begin with.  My men, a regiment of our army and the Marquis embarked on a mission to hold the bridge at Muzillac and prevent the Republican troops from crossing so that General Charette could raise up a Royalist army and march on Paris.  We had to retake the village."  He focused on his fingers, weaving them together, fidgeting.  "There was not much resistance."     

"The Marquis was furious.  His manor home had been destroyed, his belongings burned as fuel for the fires.  He....he shot the mayor.  And he set up his murderous machine in the village square."  

            "Ah, Madame La Guillotine," I understood, nodding.  "An old acquaintance.  A favourite of Royalists and Republicans alike."  

"I hate that machine!" he said vehemently.  "From the first day, it dripped with the blood of the villagers.  I could not shut out the cries of the women as their husbands were taken, the questions of the children who did not understand, the sickening sliding of the cold blade in its grooves!  He even threatened to kill an innocent child!  It was  mindless slaughter!  He had reclaimed his precious village, yet he set about destroying it!"  

            "Those people were Republicans."  I could not help playing the devil's advocate.  "Your enemies.  They had to be eliminated."  

            "They were peaceful, simple people!  Innocent!  They did not deserve the cruelty he handed out to them!"  

            His face was flushed with anger, his nostrils flaring with every heated breath.  His slender chest rose and fell as he struggled to control himself.  "It was not necessary."  He lowered his voice.  "The village was his.  He did not need to kill so many."  

            "Horatio, I am certain you did what had to be done."  Even I could not find reassurance in my words.  I watched a curtain of composure fall     across his face, and he said in a voice not altogether his own, for it was sterner and more commanding.  

            "This is war, and in war we do not question orders."  

            "You did your duty."  

"I did my duty, yet I found myself doubting every action, every command.  I knew what I had to do, what should be done.  Logic and strategy, all I had studied, all of my instruction, that I had firmly in hand.  But it just felt wrong."  He held me in his gaze, unwavering in its intensity.  "I looked into the eyes of my enemy, and I could not justify myself."  

            "We fight two wars, Horatio.  The war between our countries, and the war within ourselves."  

            "Then I fear that I am losing the war within, for I do not know to which side my loyalties belong."  

            I found myself giving unlikely counsel to this young man, so confused by the life he had chosen, so tangled in the web of duties and morals and values.  "You must find something to hold on to, as solid as a rock.  Something that you can trust and depend on, something that will never fail you.  Keep your mind's eye upon this intangible object, never let it from your sight.  Allow it to guide you through the storm, shelter you from the elements, envelope you with light when the world is fraught with darkness.  This one constant will keep you sane, it will keep you alive so you may enjoy your life."  

            He had tears in his eyes, and they fell slowly, tracing rivulets down his tanned cheeks.  He clasped my hand warmly in both of his, and we sat together, communing in silent misery and quiet hope.  

            "Thank you.  I promised my mother that I would follow my heart, and I promised my father that I would stand for my true beliefs."  

            "You are a brave man, Horatio.  You have a noble heart and a kind spirit."  

            So engrossed in our emotional exchange were we, that we failed to notice our surroundings.  We almost failed to see the majestic frigate bearing down on us from starboard.  

            "Look, Philippe!"  Horatio's voice held a child-like wonderment and joy.  "It's the Indy!  She's found us!  The Indy!"  He jumped up and waved his arms frantically.  Faint sounds traveled on the wind to my ears.  "Ahoy!  Ahoy, Horatio!!"  

            He grasped me by the shoulders, full of relief.  "We're saved, Philippe!  We're saved!"  

            "Indeed," I said, without enthusiasm.  

            He suddenly understood, and swept his lean body beside mine.  "Philippe, I will speak for you.  I will tell Captain Pellew how you saved me, how you fed me.  I will plead for leniency.  I give you my word, I will not desert you.  Everything will be all right."  

            I leaned close to him for these final words, for the Indefatigable was drawing near.  "Horatio, you do not know what the future holds for me."

 ************************************************************************************************************************************************************8 

            I clambered up the side of the Indy, my legs weak from days of unuse.  I climbed for an eternity and finally reached the deck, and was pulled up by strong arms, Styles and Oldroyd.  

            "S'good to 'ave you back, Mr. Hornblower," Styles said, grinning and saluting.  

"Thank you, Mr.Styles," I felt dizzy from my climb, and swayed unsteadily.  A pair of strong arms grabbed me, and I looked into eyes from heaven.  "Archie...."  

            "Horatio!  I'm so glad you're.....We feared the worst...." His voice trailed off, unspoken nightmares in both our minds.  I longed for his embrace, as I knew he longed for mine, but there would be time for that later.  Philippe had reached the deck, and he was helped up by my crewmen.  They exchanged uneasy glances, and looked to me for a sign.  

            "Mr. Hornblower!"  The crisp voice of Captain Pellew cut through the air like a sharpened blade, the men stood aside as he came down the stairs.  My heart filled with pride, and I quickly formulated in my mind a proper introduction to my confidante of the past few days.  "I am pleased that you have returned to us.  You will report to the doctor immediately.  You and your....companion."  

"Captain Pellew, may I present to you, Philippe......"  I trailed off, realizing with embarrassment that I did not know his family name, or his rank.

            With keen eyes, Captain Pellew noted the Republican uniform, the angular face and piercing blue eyes.  Philippe stepped forward, his movements fluid and graceful.  He bowed slightly.  "Philippe Marchand, noble captain.  Lieutenant Jean Philippe Marchand."  

            I could see Mr.Bracegirdle standing slightly behind the captain, his eyes narrowing as he studied Philippe.  I stepped forward, my carefully phrased introduction completely forgotten.  "Captain, sir, Philippe...that is, Monsieur Marchand saved me.  He shared his food and water with me.  I owe him my life."  

            Captain Pellew nodded, his face did not betray a hint of his thoughts.  "Very well, it seems we are indebted to you, Monsieur Marchand.  Please, will you have the doctor examine you?"  

            "Thank you for your kindness, Captain," Philippe said smoothly.  I led the way down to Dr.Hepplewhite, Archie following close behind me.  My fellow officers greeted me with handshakes and patted my back.  Never had I been so happy to return to the smells and sounds of cramped quarters and unwashed bodies.  I grinned at Archie, who growled back playfully, and we laughed like boys.  

              A knock on my cabin door woke me from my fretful sleep.  Dr.Hepplewhite had given both Philippe and I clean bills of health, and after our first real meal in several days, we had retired to our beds for some rest.  Mr. Bracegirdle opened the door slightly, his face concerned, and when he saw me lying in the bed, he made a motion to close the door.  

            "Mr. Bracegirdle," I called out, sitting up.  "Mr. Bracegirdle, I am awake.  You are not disturbing me."  

"Mr. Hornblower," he stepped back into the room, bringing in the scent of the sea and the wind.  "Horatio, we are all so glad that we found you.  The captain was wondering if you were well enough to give him a brief report."  

            "I am, Mr.Bracegirdle.  Please tell him I will be there shortly."  I got up, splashed some water on my face and straightened my uniform as best as I could.  I made my way up, nodding briefly at Hether and Cleveland in the officers' mess, and Matthews, who beamed and saluted me.  Captain Pellew was waiting for me, looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back in a stance that I had so often imitated.  His spine was straight, his head held high, his weathered face an inscrutable mask, never showing fear or doubt.  Only when he turned to face me did I see the care and warmth in his eyes, and I hoped I was deserving of his regard and respect.  

            "Lieutenant Hornblower, sir, reporting as ordered."  

            "Please, Mr.Hornblower, sit down.  It was a request, not an order.  Have you recovered so soon from your ordeal?"  He sat across the desk from me, resting his elbows on the fine mahogany.  

"I was fortunate that Philippe, Lieutenant Marchand, had enough supplies for both of us.  We were weak, but we had sufficient nourishment."  

            "I see," he clasped his hands together in thought.  "Tell me, Mr.Hornblower, how much do you know about Lieutenant Marchand?"  

            For a moment, I was at a loss for words.  Though I had only recently learned his full name and rank, I felt so connected with him.  We had shared a great deal, all of it too private to reveal to the captain.  I would be breaking my word, though we had not promised to keep our secrets between us.  

            "Not very much, I'm afraid, sir.  We spoke of our respective childhoods and friends and families."  I could not lie to the captain, so I told a half-truth.  "Is he all right?"  

            "Mr. Marchand is resting now, in a cabin, under heavy guard."  

            "Heavy guard, sir?  Why-"  

"Mr.Hornblower," he leaned towards me, and my shoulders tensed, awaiting his reprimand.  "Mr. Hornblower, what I am about to tell you is of paramount secrecy.  You may not discuss this with anyone, save for the senior officers."  

            I nodded.  "Of course, sir, you can trust me."  

"Several months ago, I received, as all other commanding officers did, a dispatch detailing the search for a Republican spy and assassin.  He is a master of ruses, and frequently travels to England to carry out his heinous missions.  I regret to inform you that your new associate is the man we've been searching for."  

            "That's impossible, sir!"  I spoke without thinking, not realizing my voice would be so loud.  

"Impossible, sir?!"  Captain Pellew looked at me, incredulous, surprised as I was by my sudden outburst.  "You said yourself that you did not know this man!  Do you think he would tell you his true purpose?  We are at war, sir!  He is the enemy!"  

"Captain, I apologize,"  I wanted the cabin floor to open and swallow me.  "I am shocked, I don't know what to think, I, I....."  I shut my mouth to stop my stammering.  A cold sphere of betrayal grew within me, my legs felt weak, my head spun.  I groaned, holding my head in my hands.  

            "Mr.Hornblower?"  Within an instant he was at my side.  "Mr. Hornblower, are you unwell?"  

            "No, sir."  My voice quivered, failing me.  "I am fine.  I just....I just cannot believe....Philippe..."  

"Jean Philippe Marchand has single-handedly killed enough Englishmen to man a ship.  Do not fret over him, he is a cold-blooded killer.  Whatever he has told you, you cannot accept as truth."  

            "Captain, are you certain?"  I still did not want to believe.  I was numb, my legs refused to obey me, refused to stand.  

"I have a description, and a drawing depicting his likeness.  And he has one distinguishing mark - a small tattoo of a rose upon his left breast.  Dr. Hepplewhite found it during his examination."  

            I gasped, overwhelmed with indescribable feelings.  "What...what will happen to him?"  

"We will take him back to England, where he will be executed, most likely.  Though he saved you, he has taken so many more lives."  He knelt, so that his eyes were level with mine.  "Horatio, do not be harsh on yourself for trusting him."  

            Here, I had come to this meeting, ready to plead his case.  Now I was sick, and tasted the stinging acid rising from my stomach.  I swallowed, trying to eradicate the flavour.  "May I see him?"  

            Captain Pellew nodded, his eyes understanding, missing nothing.  I panicked for an instant, ridiculously worried that he could read my mind, aghast that he could hear my thoughts.  I stood shakily and managed a salute, and stumbled out the door.    

  ************************************************************************************************************************************************************

            I heard footsteps and the quiet rumble of low voices outside my door, and I waited expectantly for who I knew would come.  The door opened, and Horatio came in, a young blond officer close by his side.  

            "Are you sure, Horatio?"  I heard him say, and I knew this must be Archie.  

            "I'll be fine, Archie, just give me a few minutes."  The golden haired one nodded and stepped out, closing the door.  Horatio looked at me, and his face held an expression I had seen in so many other men.  It was a face fighting for composure, trying not to collapse despite all the confusion and frustration and pain.  I did not get up from the bed, I motioned to the chair nearby.  

            "Please, Horatio, sit down."  

            He remained standing, and his already rigid back straightened even more.  "It is Lieutenant Hornblower, Mr. Marchand."  His voice was controlled, his words terse.  

            "Are we so formal now?  Was it not just yesterday that we were crying in each other's arms like brothers?"  

            His jaw clenched, I could see the corded muscle running down his neck.  "Mr. Marchand, I know who you are, what you are."  

            "Do you really?"  

            "Why-" he spat, but I interrupted him.  

"Why did I not tell you?  Why did I not reveal to you my true identity?  Would that have made you feel better?  Would you not be on your guard every single minute of our lonely voyage?  Would you like to have met death with me on your mind?"  

            A momentarily flash of guilt crossed his face.  I continued on.  "You are angry, because you allowed yourself to like me, you enjoyed my company.  We shared a great deal, and you trusted me, you believed me."  

            "I did," he admitted, though not reluctantly.  "I suppose I would have done the same, had I been in your place.  But it does not lighten the burden here."  He placed a hand on his chest.  "Answer me this,  why did you allow me to attempt to reach England?"  

            I sighed, wishing I could expel the heaviness in my heart with a deep breath.  "Because I am tired of this life."  

            There was nothing more to say.  He turned to leave, sadness in his movements.  "Horatio!"  I called out.  He whirled around, one hand on the door knob.  "Know this:  I have never lied to you, never tried to deceive you.  Every word I said to you on that boat was the truth."  

  ***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

            I stood on the deck, watching the sunset, the sky a bright orange, tinting everything with a golden glow.  I saw Archie, who was on duty and he sauntered easily over to me.  Darting a quick look about, he drew me into a tight embrace and we stood there, observing the violet clouds that streaked across the horizon.   

            Archie released me.  "Horatio?"  

            I felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I shook my head to banish them, but instead they fell.  A gentle finger caught my teardrop, and caressed my cheek.  

            "Horatio?  What happened?"  

            "Archie....it does not make any sense!  Why do I feel so betrayed?  How could I let myself be so trusting? So naïve?  I am so foolish!"  I was angry at myself, angry at Philippe, angry at my inner turmoil.  

            "It's not your fault, Horatio.  Anyone else would have felt the same."  

            I knew Archie was trying to help, but my anger did not subside.  "But it didn't happen to anyone else!  It happened to me!"  I could not reconcile my emotions, and I hated the fact that they were tearing me apart inside.  Someone called Archie's name, and with a final squeeze and a look that promised more affection later, he moved away.  

            I knew that I would remain a dutiful officer, a caring friend, a loving son.  But something within me had been so irrevocably altered, I saw the world reflected in a mirror of bitterness and disappointment.  I questioned my purpose, my being, more so than after Muzillac, or during Simpson's reign of terror.  The enemy had not been brutal, but came to me with gifts of friendship and sympathy.  Had I been born on the other side of the Channel, would he and I have been friends?  As close as Archie and I?  

            There was empty space where I had placed my optimism.  It would be easier if I could hate him, but I could not.  If every man could experience what I had in the past days, would there be a war?  I would confide in Archie later, but he would not understand.  No one could.  

            With a final blazing salute, the sun dropped out of sight, and I returned to my cabin.

 

THE END

           

            back to index