Twenty agonizing minutes later, my father’s wound was completely closed. Bertha’s hands were quick and deft and my father didn’t stir once during her labor. As she finished her last stitch, Bertha breathed a sigh of relief.

“There, now. I’ve bathed the wound and closed it. He’ll be waking up soon, probably in a lot of pain. He’ll want whiskey.”

“He pitched a bottle of that stuff at my head earlier today.”

“Luckily, we’ve got more in stock.”

Barry suddenly ran into the room, his brown eyes large in his pale little face.

“What is it, child?” Bertha asked, wiping her hands on her apron and leaving a bloody stain.

Barry looked at the red stain and turned even whiter. “I f-found some of our men t-tied up b-below deck. T-two of them are d-d-dead. Many are b-b-b-badly hurt.” Barry had the unfortunate habit of stuttering whenever he was upset or nervous.

Bertha and I exchanged a look. “Looks like we’ll be needing that whiskey. You stay here, Casey, in case your father wakes up. You too, Barry. Let’s go, Joe.”