Page 11 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
Turner grunted, apparently unsurprised by this revelation. “Cook could use an extra pair of hands. The man’s got a temper worse than a storm-tossed sea, but he knows his business. Report to him after the noon meal.”
The ship’s cook, a grizzled man named Simms, proved to be exactly as Turner had described: irascible, demanding, and utterly devoted to his craft.
His domain, the small galley in the heart of the ship, was a realm of organized chaos, filled with the competing aromas of salt pork, hardtack, and the aromatic spices he hoarded like treasure.
“So, you’re the captain’s stray,” he greeted her, eyeing her critically as she presented herself for duty. “Turner says you know your way around a galley.”
“I do,” Docila confirmed, refusing to be intimidated by his gruff manner.
Simms harrumphed, clearly unconvinced. “We’ll see about that. Start by peeling those potatoes. And mind you don’t waste any — we’ve got weeks at sea ahead, and every morsel counts.”
Docila set to work without complaint, deftly handling the small knife she’d been given.
The potatoes were destined for the officers’ mess; the common sailors would make do with the more basic provisions of ship’s biscuit, salt pork, and dried beans.
It was a division she remembered well from her father’s ship, though William Archer had always ensured that even the lowest deck hand ate well by the standards of maritime fare.
As she worked, Docila found herself humming softly — an old sea chanty her father had taught her, about a merchant and his faithful ship.
The familiar melody helped soothe the lingering nausea and distracted her from the watchful eye of Simms, who moved about the galley with the territorial awareness of a captain on his own quarterdeck.
Gradually, as she demonstrated her competence with each task he assigned, the cook’s manner toward her softened slightly. By the time the potatoes were peeled, the dried fruit chopped for a simple pudding, and a batch of hardtack turned to prevent burning, Simms was almost conversational.
“Where’d you learn galley work?” he asked, stirring a pot of soup that would serve as the crew’s dinner. “Not the sort of thing they teach young ladies in finishing school, I’d wager.”
“My father was a merchant captain,” Docila replied, carefully measuring spices for the pudding. “I sailed with him from the time I was eight until I was sixteen.”
Simms nodded, as if this explained everything. “William Archer’s girl, the captain said. Knew of him by reputation — fair man, good to his crew. Don’t see that often enough in the merchant service.”
The unexpected mention of her father brought a lump to Docila’s throat. “He was,” she agreed softly. “The best of men.”
Simms seemed to sense her emotion and, in a gruff show of tact, changed the subject. “That pudding needs more cinnamon. And mind the heat on that hardtack — too hot and it’ll burn, too cool and it won’t dry properly.”
Being on the sea made her feel closer to her father, whom she had already been missing for too long.
She brushed away the wetness on her face, insisting to herself that it was merely an accumulation of the spray misting around them, not tears of sorrow over her losses.
Because the losses were piling up. She didn’t have a home any longer; she had no parents, no one cared about her, and now she was out at sea with a ship full of men who resented her presence and suspected her of villainy.
The afternoon passed in a blur of activity.
After completing her duties in the galley, Docila was sent to assist with the cleaning of the officer’s quarters — a task that, while menial, gave her the opportunity to observe the organization of the ship more closely.
The Seraphim was well-appointed for a merchant vessel, with private cabins for the captain and senior officers, and a small but functional chart room where the ship’s course was plotted.
It was in this chart room, while dusting the shelves of navigational instruments, that Docila caught her first glimpse of the maps that seemed to preoccupy Captain Peters.
They were partially obscured by a protective cloth, but she could make out what appeared to be the coastline of Florida, marked with annotations in a neat, precise hand.
Before she could examine them more closely, however, the sound of approaching footsteps sent her back to her dusting, heart pounding with an inexplicable mixture of guilt and curiosity.
By evening, when the ship’s bell signalled the change of watch, Docila was exhausted but oddly satisfied.
Her body ached from the unaccustomed labour, and the constant battle against nausea had left her drained, but she had accomplished what she set out to do: prove herself useful aboard the Seraphim.
As the crew assembled for the evening meal, Docila found herself the subject of less hostile attention than before.
Harrison, the seasick boy she had helped, gave her a shy nod of thanks as he passed, looking considerably less green than he had earlier.
Even Turner acknowledged her efforts with a gruff “Good work today” as she helped distribute the evening’s rations.
Only Jenks, the sailor who had suggested throwing her overboard on the day of her discovery, maintained his open hostility, muttering darkly about bad luck and women at sea whenever she came within earshot.
But even his animosity seemed less threatening now that she had begun to establish herself among the crew.
That was the biggest risk, she knew: if the men considered her treacherous, they would not hesitate to throw her overboard.
And despite her defiant insistence that she didn’t mind, how could anyone look forward to drowning?
While it had felt like she was drowning in her own home ever since Uncle Hugo took over, that did not compare with actual dying at sea.
Taking her meal to a quiet corner of the deck, Docila watched the sun begin its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
The sea stretched out around them, an endless expanse of deep blue that seemed to hold both promise and peril in equal measure.
Somewhere ahead lay their destination — a port where, perhaps, she could begin to build a new life for herself, away from Uncle Hugo and his schemes.
For now, though, the Seraphim was her home, and its crew her reluctant companions in this unexpected journey.
She had made progress today, small though it might seem.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to prove her worth.
And perhaps, in time, even Captain Peters would see that she was more than just an unwelcome burden.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Docila spotted the captain emerging from his cabin, his tall figure silhouetted against the dying light.
He stood at the rail, gazing out at the darkening horizon with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher from this distance.
Then, as if sensing her observation, he turned slightly, his eyes finding hers across the deck.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, neither acknowledging the other with word or gesture. Then, with a barely perceptible nod that might have been Docila’s imagination, he turned away, disappearing below decks without a backward glance.
Unbeknownst to Docila, Sidney Peters had been watching her throughout the day.
From the vantage point of the quarterdeck, he had observed her methodical work with the ropes, noted her unexpected kindness to young Harrison, and marked the gradual shift in the crew’s attitude toward her.
He had seen her emerge from the galley with flour on her cheek and determination in her stance, had watched as she tackled each task assigned to her without complaint or hesitation.
It was... unexpected. He had anticipated tears, perhaps, or at least signs of distress at the harsh realities of life at sea.
Instead, she had adapted with surprising ease, as if the deck of a merchant vessel was as familiar to her as a drawing room.
The fact that she was William Archer’s daughter explained much — the man had been known for taking his family to sea, an unusual practice that had raised eyebrows in shipping circles.
But knowledge did not equate to skill, and Sidney had to admit, if only to himself, that Miss Archer possessed both.
Her sail repair had been expert, her rope work efficient, and according to Simms — who was not a man given to unwarranted praise — she knew her way around a galley better than most ship’s boys.
It was... problematic. He had hoped, in some corner of his mind, that she would prove unsuited to shipboard life, giving him a practical reason beyond mere convention to put her ashore at the first opportunity.
Instead, she was proving herself potentially valuable, an unwelcome complication to his carefully ordered plans.
As he retreated to his cabin, Sidney found himself torn between irritation at this additional complexity and a reluctant admiration for the young woman’s resilience.
William Archer had clearly raised a daughter with spirit and capability, qualities that Sidney respected even as they inconvenienced him.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would need to speak with her directly — to establish clearer boundaries and expectations for her time aboard the Seraphim.
And perhaps, though he was loath to admit it even to himself, to better understand this unexpected passenger who was rapidly becoming more than just an unwelcome intrusion on his carefully planned voyage.