I gingerly picked up my father and carried him into the nearest cabin. Inside the cabin, I found dad’s first mate, Joseph, tied up and gagged. After laying my dad down on the bed, I quickly released Joseph.

“Och awie, neversayyourpabitthebullet?” Joseph was a Scotsman whose thick accent sometimes made his words hard to discern. I asked him to repeat himself, and after three attempts that grew progressively louder and more spirited in nature, I was finally able to understand him.

“No, he’s not dead, but he’s lost a lot of blood. There’s a large gash in his stomach.”

“Poor wee bairn. I’ll take care of him, never ye fear.” I almost laughed at the way Joseph, a slight, elderly man who was at least 70, called my father, a muscular and solid man still at 45, a “poor wee bairn.” But I had more serious matters to take care of. Leaving Joseph to tend to my father, I went towards the kitchen, hoping Bertha would be there.

I dreaded having to tell her that her daughter had been kidnapped. I hoped she wouldn’t faint.