My father lay in the bed, still just as pale as before, but now the beloved black eyes were open and full of life. He fingered the bandage wrapped around his midsection.

“This hurts something awful. What did you do to me?”

“Oh, don’t blame me for saving your life. That’s Bertha’s fault. She sewed up your wound. You would’ve died otherwise.”

He let his hands fall back to his sides. “God bless Bertha D’Angelo. What happened to Violet? And did that bastard get away?”

I filled my father in on the events of the past few hours, and when Barry was enthusiastically telling him about the bloody men he’d found below deck, Bertha came back into the room.

“So you finally decided to wake up, master. How are you feeling?” She checked the bandage, pulled the blanket up to his chin and fussed over him until he swatted her away with his hands.

“I’ll be feeling better after I’ve had some whiskey poured down me gullet.”

Bertha and I enjoyed a good laugh at that.

“Oh aye, master, but not before you’ve had your supper.”