Page 10 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
“K
eep an eye on her, keep an eye on her.”
She kept repeating the words over and over in her head, trying not to become overwhelmed with fury. He had told all the men to keep an eye on her, as though she were going to steal the silver or some such.
Yes, she had snuck onto the boat without permission, and so it could be argued she was stealing passage — she could see that.
And she knew that on the small confines of a ship, every square millimetre mattered.
But she didn’t take up that much space, and she would be useful.
She was determined to assist as much as possible; she knew what she was doing.
The morning after her discovery, Captain Peters had assembled the crew on deck.
His announcement that they would have a woman aboard for the duration of the voyage had been met with a mixture of reactions: surprise, superstition, and in some cases, leering interest that made Docila’s skin crawl. But it was his final instruction that had stung the most.
“Keep an eye on her at all times,” he had said, his sea-green eyes never once meeting hers as he spoke. “She’s not to be left alone on deck or near the cargo. Report any... unusual behaviour directly to me or Mr. Fletcher.”
Unusual behaviour. As if she were some unpredictable animal that might suddenly turn wild. As if she hadn’t spent half her childhood on ships just like the Seraphim, learning every rope and sail alongside her father.
The memory of that morning instruction still rankled as Docila worked methodically on the main deck, her hands moving with practiced efficiency despite her internal turmoil.
The sailors passing by gave her a wide berth, some making the sign against evil when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Only Fletcher, the first mate, treated her with any semblance of respect, nodding politely when their paths crossed.
She had certainly been on ships before, not that she really wanted to tell them how much she knew about shipping. Docila somehow felt as though keeping that a secret would benefit her in some way down the line.
But couldn’t they see that they were helping her, and she was helping them? This was a mutually beneficial arrangement. She didn’t need to be watched like a recalcitrant toddler or convicted felon.
The ship creaked and swayed beneath her feet, a rhythm that should have been as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.
The Seraphim was a fine vessel, well-crafted and maintained with obvious care.
In many ways, it reminded her of her father’s ship, the Minerva, with its sleek lines and responsive handling.
She had loved that ship almost as much as she had loved her father, and its loss — sold by Uncle Hugo mere weeks after her father’s death — had been yet another wound to her heart.
Pushing the painful memory aside, Docila focused on her task. Captain Peters had assigned her to the care of Mr. Turner, the quartermaster, with instructions to give her “simple duties that won’t interfere with the running of the ship.”
Turner, a stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands, had seemed uncertain at first, eyeing her as though she might faint at any moment. But Docila had met his gaze steadily, and after a brief hesitation, he had begun assigning her tasks.
First had been an inventory of the ship’s stores, a tedious but necessary job that had kept her below decks for the better part of a day.
She had completed it with meticulous care, even identifying several discrepancies in the previous count.
Turner had raised his bushy eyebrows when she presented her findings, but had said nothing beyond a gruff, “That’ll do. ”
They would see. She had already quickly taken over certain minor duties, like keeping the dining area clean and mending the sails.
Of course, since they were only a few days out to sea, there weren’t many repairs needed at this point, but she had already done one and was more than ready and willing to do all that would come her way. The only trouble was the nausea.
She had never faced seasickness before and couldn’t fathom why the dreadful affliction was affecting her now.
But the constant motion did unimaginable things to her midsection.
Docila wondered if it was because she had allowed herself to go hungry for too long, or if it was all the turmoil caused by Uncle Hugo, or if it was just because she had been off ships for a few years.
The sail mending had been her own suggestion.
She had noticed a small tear in the foresail during her second day above and had approached Fletcher about repairing it.
His surprise at her offer had been evident, but he had procured needle and thread for her, watching with undisguised curiosity as she set to work.
Her stitches were small and even, the result of years of practice. Her father had insisted she learn to mend sails properly, saying, “A torn sail can mean the difference between reaching port and being lost at sea, Doci. Never skimp on the stitching.”
She had taken the lesson to heart, and now, as she completed the repair, she felt a small surge of satisfaction at the neat result.
“Not bad,” Fletcher had commented, inspecting her work. “Where’d you learn to stitch like that?”
“My father taught me,” she had replied simply, not elaborating further.
Now, as the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky, Docila found herself assigned to rope management — coiling, untangling, and ensuring that every line was in its proper place.
It was mindless work in many ways, but she welcomed the physical activity and the chance to be on deck, away from the stuffy confines of her small cabin.
In any case, it didn’t really matter why, but she was struggling.
And if she could manage not to cast up her accounts before the men, she would count that as a win.
They would never respect her if they knew she was having the seasickness they all dreaded.
There were others suffering as well; she knew that, she could hear them.
But she refused to look at them, and she tried not to pay attention as the men mocked and abused those poor sufferers.
Docila refused to allow them to do the same to her.
She turned her face into the salty sea spray and carried on with her task.
The seasickness was a new and unwelcome companion.
It came in waves, just like the ocean itself, receding enough to let her function before surging back with renewed force.
She had discovered that keeping busy helped, as did staying on deck where the fresh air could clear her head.
But there were moments, especially when the ship crested a particularly large wave, when she feared she might embarrass herself in front of the entire crew.
A young sailor — Harrison, she had learned was his name — was currently suffering the indignity she so feared. Leaning over the rail, his face a sickly shade of green, he retched miserably into the sea below. Several older sailors laughed at his distress, calling out crude jokes at his expense.
“First voyage, lad?” one called. “The fish appreciate the feeding!”
“Give it a week,” another added with a guffaw. “Either you’ll find your sea legs or you’ll be nothing but bones!”
Docila felt a surge of sympathy for the young man, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
Setting aside her coil of rope, she reached into the pocket of her borrowed jacket — a cast-off from Fletcher that hung comically large on her frame — and extracted a small piece of ginger root.
It was part of her personal supplies, something she had brought from home knowing its medicinal properties.
Approaching Harrison cautiously, mindful of the watching crew, she held out the ginger. “Chew on this,” she said quietly. “It helps with the sickness.”
Harrison looked at her with bloodshot eyes, suspicion warring with desperation on his young face. After a moment’s hesitation, he took the offered remedy with a trembling hand.
“Small bites,” Docila advised. “And keep looking at the horizon, not the water. It steadies the mind.”
The boy nodded weakly, following her instructions. Docila returned to her task, aware of the curious glances from the surrounding sailors. Let them stare, she thought defiantly. She would not stand by and watch someone suffer when she had the means to help, no matter what they thought of her.
She was coiling the ropes to keep them tidy and out of the way.
It was a task she could do with her eyes closed and even in her sleep, but she found keeping her eyes open helped with the waves of seasickness.
If she kept her eyes on the horizon, it somehow seemed to recalibrate her in some way.
If her father was there, he would be exceedingly disappointed in his no-longer-seafaring daughter.
Docila shook her head, straightening her shoulders, and pictured her father in her mind’s eye. Even if he was disappointed in her, he would love her, and he would be impressed with her continued skills on the ship.
As the morning wore on, Docila found herself falling into the familiar rhythm of shipboard life.
The constant motion, the calls of the sailors to one another, the snap of canvas as the wind filled the sails — all of it spoke to a part of her that had been dormant during the long months under Uncle Hugo’s oppressive rule.
For all the discomfort of her current situation, there was a freedom to being at sea that she had sorely missed.
By midday, she had completed her assigned tasks and sought out Turner for new instructions. The quartermaster, who had been watching her work from a distance, seemed less reluctant than before to assign her duties.
“You handle yourself well enough on deck,” he admitted grudgingly. “Ever worked in a ship’s galley?”
Docila nodded, careful not to appear too eager. “I’ve helped prepare meals at sea before.”