The dangers of war are behind him, but not the memories, the guilt-driven never ending memories. The fiery liquor offers brief respite, then . . . the real nightmare begins. September 1873 The festering strips burned, the fever sucked him dry. The voice of his father harangued his ears, accusing. "Traitorous, wretched boy! No son of mine would do such a thing!" "How could you do this? Did you think of us, you bastard? Do you know what this means?" The echo of the door slamming against his battered jaw pounded on his ears until he cried out. The Captain would hear. He would come and the beatings would begin again. "Quiet, quiet boy. You want to get caught? You want to the mate to strike with that devilish belayin' pin? You want to lay in the fo'c'sle waiting to die from another beating? You want to run up and down and up and down for days and nights without sleep or vittles? You want to live boy?"