This was purgatory. The stagnation of the sea and sky numbed the senses, with the only hope of change to sustain the mind and body. Although the gilded sun traversed the horizon, the weather remained unchanged for time as heat and humidity oppressed both day and night. No wind blew to comfort the flesh which warmed like carcasses in the desert heat. Hunger and thirst were constant companions, agonizing as their intensity increased like sullen, spoiled children at Church. One could lay in the boat, gazing at the clouds and stars that shifted with indecisiveness. Although there was slight movement, the universe might as well have been stationary while it drifted over lazy waves.

If the sea had consistent rhythm, one could be lulled into the desirable sleep. The eternal dream was denied with the sloshing waves, laughing at this dilemma. Perhaps these were devils in fire and brimstone beneath the water, tempting the exhausted mind and body that sought silence. Yet there would be torture and torment in hell, with fallen angels that had the character of Jack Simpson who sang sadistic songs about boys with cherub faces.

The young man in the boat sighed. His optimism in the first hours had longed ceased, leaving only the desolate cynicism created by Jack during dark hours in dark corners. Yet he had been inspired to hope, to humor when he had assisted in shaping the na�ve intelligence of Midshipman Hornblower who became his confidant, his friend Horatio; but he could not doubt that Simpson had done the unspeakable to Horatio, the one man who cast light aboard Justinian by defying unwarranted authority.

Horatio. His lips mouthed the word like the parched do for the word water, but his thirsty throat had no appetite for this. He desired the taste of companionship. Friendship. But it had been the ultimate delicacy of his life, denied by his illegitimate birth though he had been esteemed and educated at Winchcombe Manor.

If his surrogate father and brother could see him now, they too would be heartbroken enough to break into tears. Who would have contemplated that strong-willed, strong-minded Ghillie was as weak as King Lear in his insanity? Perhaps he was mad at this moment, lost in the theatrical fragments of his mind while it traveled to Drury Lane. Laughing at the sight of the Sir Toby Belch. Sniffling as Juliet stabbed herself with the dagger. Blushing while the breast of Cleopatra, played by Miss Cobham, was bared to young eyes. That was nothing but dreams, all shattered like his soul. Here he lay like the victim of the Spanish Inquisition, condemned to the purgatory of this cell upon the ocean.

If only Horatio could be his companion in this realm, but no doubt he would be in the dominion of heaven. There was nothing imperfect about him. He may be arrogant and ambitious, but that was expected of young officers with the intelligence to survive shipwrecks at sea with their crews intact. Horatio would have endured this, though he was pessimistic; but he was clever as the devil, with luck unparalleled like his navigating genius.

Perhaps he could be rescued. He could! And Horatio would save him. Yes, that would be his hero. Yes, Horatio would take him from purgatory to heaven, but for now he must sleep--lulled by the siren song of raindrops as it cleansed his reddened cheeks of tears.