“Captain calls everyone on the ship by a nickname. I’m not sure why.” Beans made several more stitches, carefully tied a knot, clipped the ends with scissors, and leaned back to admire his work. “Looks good. May not leave much of a scar.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

The cook nodded.

Ollie offered Ben his watch in exchange for his medical services. But Ben refused, appearing grateful to be doing something other than stirring a pot of oatmeal or perhaps after hearing someone call him by his first name in over ten years.

Ollie spent most of the two-day voyage scrubbing decks, cleaning the heads, greasing salt-corroded hinges, and—the crème de la crème—catching rats. It was apparently a big deal to control the rodent population on a cargo ship, especially one filled with delectable grains. The rat roundups, as the captain called them, had been one of the primary duties of the former deckhand, Willie. And Ollie understood why Willie had quit when he found himself setting traps the size of shoe boxes, baited with green molded cheese—more mold than cheese—and smelling of soured milk.

Ollie collected the traps twice each day, tossing the guillotined bodies into the sea. It was disturbing to see the rats’ gaping mouths, their sharp yellow incisors, bellies swollen with corn, and snakelike tails. They were certainly much bigger than the field mice back on the farm. But despite their grotesque appearance, he hoped the rats hadn’t suffered. And after accidentally snapping his fingers while placing a trap, he was assured their end was quick and painless. The worst part was that the captain was too cheap to buy new traps, so Ollie had to scrub the bloodied boards in a bucket of saltwater and reuse them. The captain referred to this ritual as “doing da dishes.” It was by far the least desirable part of the job. But it kept him from thinking of his family and that he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

When the ship reached Nova Scotia, Ollie found Ben in the galley scrubbing a stack of dirty pots. “Thanks for the stitches,” Ollie said, pointing to his forehead. “You could be a surgeon.”

“Better get going before the captain changes his mind,” Ben said.

Ollie thought of the captain. It had turned out that the captain’s surname was McCracken, and despite being a gruff seaman who despised stowaways, he disliked US neutrality even more. So the captain had kept his promise to allow Ollie to disembark in Nova Scotia. Otherwise, Ollie may have found himself on another rat roundup.

Ben dropped a pot into the sink. “If I were thirty years younger, I’d quit and go with you.”

The remark reminded Ollie of his father’s frequent threats to walk to Montreal to join the war effort. He buried the thought and shook the cook’s soapy hand.

“Take care of yourself, Ben.”