[This pause is longer, to let the story sink in. The shame over his old hatred of Horatio lingers in his voice as he continues.]
I hated him, Jilly. I hated how he talked of escape and of going back to the Indy when...God, even if I'd wanted to live, I wouldn't know how to live on a ship again. Among people. Among real men. I wanted to lie in my bed until I died of it and I wanted to do so in peace, instead of with him there, charming the Don and his lady guest. Taking walks outside, on parole, which he always kept. I couldn't even walk, and I did not wish to. He spoke so often of escape, but would not do it until I was strong. He shamed me, telling everyone I was the one keeping them there, as good as his intentions were. I did not want to go back, and I was keeping him and everyone else from going already, I wanted to die, and I was too weak to accomplish it any way but one. So I-I gave my food and water to a cellmate when Horatio wasn't looking. God, Jilly, I wasn't even a person, then, and I knew it. But he did not. I almost died one afternoon. I don't remember very much about it, but I woke in the prison's sick berth, where he had carried me after begging the guards to let him. We fought--
[His voice catches, and he lets out another breath. His eyes are glassy, lost in a memory, so occupied with staying calm through the story that he's not quite sure why he's telling it any longer.]
He was only trying to get me to drink a little water. I remember telling him I did not want to hear from everyone how Horatio Hornblower had rescued his shipmate from prison. And he said a lot of rubbish, about how they all needed me to escape. But then he said...I'm not sure I could tell you all the words, Jilly, but he told me I was still part of the crew. That I could not let him down. And I remember him holding the cup to my lips and I drank.
I don't remember why, exactly. I think it might have been the first honest thing he'd said to me all night. And...seeing him see me as a man, I think part of me did not want to let him down. It didn't change much--I still wanted to die. But I don't remember anything until I woke the next morning. I'd had a little water, so I'd slept well, and I felt hungry. And strange as it sounds, it felt good. I hadn't been hungry in a long time, you see, after a day or so you stop feeling hungry and you simply feel weak.
So I ate. He fed me, actually. And I slept again, and woke feeling a little stronger. I told him something useful to him. Small things, such small things, but by the end of the day, I was alive and a little better. The next day was much the same, and the next, and once I caught myself daydreaming about going outside the next day, into the sun. I hadn't thought like that in...
[He blinks rapidly a few times, breaking out of the near-trance, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. Then he squeezes her hand briefly and releases it.]
[Action]
I hated him, Jilly. I hated how he talked of escape and of going back to the Indy when...God, even if I'd wanted to live, I wouldn't know how to live on a ship again. Among people. Among real men. I wanted to lie in my bed until I died of it and I wanted to do so in peace, instead of with him there, charming the Don and his lady guest. Taking walks outside, on parole, which he always kept. I couldn't even walk, and I did not wish to. He spoke so often of escape, but would not do it until I was strong. He shamed me, telling everyone I was the one keeping them there, as good as his intentions were. I did not want to go back, and I was keeping him and everyone else from going already, I wanted to die, and I was too weak to accomplish it any way but one. So I-I gave my food and water to a cellmate when Horatio wasn't looking. God, Jilly, I wasn't even a person, then, and I knew it. But he did not. I almost died one afternoon. I don't remember very much about it, but I woke in the prison's sick berth, where he had carried me after begging the guards to let him. We fought--
[His voice catches, and he lets out another breath. His eyes are glassy, lost in a memory, so occupied with staying calm through the story that he's not quite sure why he's telling it any longer.]
He was only trying to get me to drink a little water. I remember telling him I did not want to hear from everyone how Horatio Hornblower had rescued his shipmate from prison. And he said a lot of rubbish, about how they all needed me to escape. But then he said...I'm not sure I could tell you all the words, Jilly, but he told me I was still part of the crew. That I could not let him down. And I remember him holding the cup to my lips and I drank.
I don't remember why, exactly. I think it might have been the first honest thing he'd said to me all night. And...seeing him see me as a man, I think part of me did not want to let him down. It didn't change much--I still wanted to die. But I don't remember anything until I woke the next morning. I'd had a little water, so I'd slept well, and I felt hungry. And strange as it sounds, it felt good. I hadn't been hungry in a long time, you see, after a day or so you stop feeling hungry and you simply feel weak.
So I ate. He fed me, actually. And I slept again, and woke feeling a little stronger. I told him something useful to him. Small things, such small things, but by the end of the day, I was alive and a little better. The next day was much the same, and the next, and once I caught myself daydreaming about going outside the next day, into the sun. I hadn't thought like that in...
[He blinks rapidly a few times, breaking out of the near-trance, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. Then he squeezes her hand briefly and releases it.]