Page 21 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
W ith the sails fully engaged, Docila kept her face turned into the wind, trying to blow the worries and cobwebs out of her mind.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” the first mate called to her. “We’re much too busy managing this pace to deal with keeping an eye on you. Go bother the captain for a while.”
Docila wanted to refuse but didn’t want to make the others uncomfortable, so, keeping her grumble under her breath, she made her way below deck. Knocking lightly on the captain’s door, she heard his heavy sigh even through the thick wood.
“Enter,” he called, “and latch the door as you come in,” he added.
Docila shook her head. What a strange man. Her nerves were jumping, and she just wished none of this had happened. If only she were on a different ship, with her father in this position, life could carry on as she had always known it. But wishes never came true, and she needed to face the reality.
“Your men asked me to get off the deck. They were too busy to worry about me,” she said, sitting down abruptly in the only available chair and sighing heavily. “Maybe you should have given me away after all,” she finally admitted.
“Well, it’s a little late for that,” Captain Peters said, exasperated.
Docila nodded, pulled back her shoulders, firmly straightened her back, and looked him in the eye.
“Very well, Captain. I’m a part of this journey now, and I ought to know the truth.
Why are you being chased? It can’t possibly be me — not yet.
Uncle Hugo can’t possibly know where I am.
Even if he has figured out that I got on board a ship, he can’t know for certain which one, and even if he did, they couldn’t have caught up with us at this point.
So, it must be you who’s being pursued, not me.
And you need to tell me what’s going on.
You’re the one who’s always on about my safety and the risks I bring to this ship, but it seems to me you’re bringing risk to me as well. ”
She was mostly bluffing, but to her surprise, the captain slouched back into his chair and nodded.
“You’re right,” he said reluctantly. “I ought to tell you. The others know, so it’s only fair,” he added. “We’re chasing a treasure.”
“A treasure?” Docila repeated, feeling breathless. “How exciting!”
She had to laugh at the incredulous expression on the captain’s face.
“What?” she asked. “Did you think I was going to faint away out of... what, fear?”
The captain laughed and shook his head. “I guess I should have realized that was not likely to be the case with one like you.”
“One like me?” Docila repeated, feeling dismay welling up in her chest. She refused to quail under his disapproving stare. She still hadn’t told him all her own secrets, but he obviously had many of his that he was keeping from her.
“Tell me about this treasure,” she prompted.
The captain quickly gathered a few maps and other papers and held them out to her.
“My friends and I have been following some clues for a couple of years now, and just recently we became quite certain that we have all the clues arranged correctly. If we’re right, there is a great bounty at the end of this trip.”
Docila stared at him in amazement.
“How can I help?” she asked, immediately feeling appreciation for the captain welling up further in her chest. The fact that he had finally confided in her was highly appealing, and the possibility of a treasure hunt was more than fascinating.
When the captain hesitated over her question about helping, Docila quickly assured him, “My inheritance is sufficient for me. I do not need your treasure, but I can help. The idea of a treasure hunt fascinates me.”
Captain Peters ran an impatient hand through his hair, dishevelling it attractively. Docila averted her gaze so as not to stare at the handsome man. He quickly diverted her attention by starting to explain the story of the treasure hunt.
He outlined the clues and then concluded, “We are reasonably certain we are not the only ones pursuing this treasure. I’m not sure how the others have acquired the clues; it’s entirely possible they have different ones.
But the fact that we were followed at the market tells me they’re not far behind. ”
“Do you think they’re dangerous?” Docila asked.
“We do think so. One of our friends was threatened, and his research compromised.”
“What does the treasure hunt have to do with his research?” Docila asked. “You would think... nothing.”
Captain Peters let out a light laugh. “But somehow the clues were connected, and Lincoln and his fiancée were threatened.”
Docila nodded and then lifted a shoulder, dismissing the concerns. “I’m on this journey with you, as we said, so the danger hasn’t really changed for me. I will help you as much as I can.”
The captain’s quarters were dimly lit by a single lantern swinging gently with the motion of the ship.
Maps and charts littered every available surface, held down by various nautical instruments.
The brass chronometer on the desk ticked steadily marking the seconds, while beyond the cabin walls came the familiar sounds of the crew working the ship back to full sailing speed.
The space felt close, intimate almost, the low ceiling and narrow walls creating a world separate from the vast ocean beyond.
Docila leaned forward, captivated by the intricately drawn map now spread before her. Her fingers hovered over the weathered parchment, tracing the coastline without touching it.
“This is remarkable work,” she said softly. “The detail... it’s extraordinary.”
Sidney’s expression softened slightly at her appreciation. “It should be. It represents years of compilation — pieces gathered from old Spanish charts, sailors’ logs, even a fragment recovered from a shipwreck.”
He pointed to a small bay marked with a series of crosses. “This area here has been particularly difficult to map accurately. The shoals shift with the seasons, and the Spanish have been deliberately vague in their official charts.”
“To protect their shipping routes,” Docila nodded. “My father encountered similar deceptions in his trading voyages.”
Sidney looked at her with renewed interest. “You truly do know something of nautical matters, don’t you?”
“I told you, I sailed with my father,” she reminded him, unable to keep a note of pride from her voice. “He believed a woman should understand the world she lives in, not merely the small corner allotted to her by society.”
“A progressive view,” Sidney commented, his tone neutral.
“A practical one,” she countered. “Knowledge is never wasted, regardless of who possesses it.” She tapped the map lightly. “Now, tell me more about this treasure. What exactly are we seeking?”
Sidney hesitated, his innate caution at war with the growing certainty that Docila Archer was more ally than liability.
Finally, he reached beneath his desk and withdrew a small iron strongbox.
The key hung around his neck, partially concealed by his shirt.
He unlocked the box with deliberate movements, as though giving himself one last chance to reconsider.
From within, he withdrew a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age and worn at the creases from frequent handling.
He spread it carefully beside the map, revealing an intricate drawing of what appeared to be a Spanish galleon, its decks laden with chests.
Annotations in faded ink surrounded the image, some in Spanish, others in what looked like Portuguese.
“El Dorado,” he said simply. “Not the mythical city of gold, but a ship — a Spanish treasure galleon that sailed from Havana in 1673, carrying the accumulated wealth of three years’ mining in the New World. Gold, silver, emeralds from Colombia...”
“I thought El Dorado was lost in a hurricane,” Docila said, surprising him again with her knowledge.
“That’s the official account,” Sidney agreed.
“But my friends and I have uncovered evidence that suggests otherwise. We believe the ship was deliberately run aground by its captain — a man named Diego Alvarado — in a hidden cove somewhere along the Florida coast.” He tapped a section of the map where the coastline grew complex with inlets and barrier islands.
“Here, in what is now English territory.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” Docila asked, genuinely curious.
Sidney’s eyes gleamed with the excitement of a scholar sharing his life’s research.
“According to documents we’ve uncovered, Alvarado was no loyal Spanish captain.
He was secretly working for the English — a Catholic who had fled Spain during the Inquisition and harboured a deep resentment against his former homeland.
He planned to deliver the treasure to English agents, but something went wrong. ”
“What happened?”
“We’re not entirely certain. The records are fragmentary, contradictory at times.
It appears there was a mutiny aboard El Dorado when the crew realized Alvarado’s intentions.
In the ensuing battle, the ship was damaged and driven ashore in a storm.
Alvarado and a handful of loyal men reportedly buried the treasure before being discovered and killed by the remaining crew. ”
Docila frowned, trying to fill in the missing pieces of the story. “So, the crew killed Alvarado, but they never found the treasure he’d hidden?”
“Precisely. They searched, of course, but according to the sole survivor’s account — a cabin boy who was later captured by the English — Alvarado had created an elaborate series of clues, a sort of puzzle that could only be solved by someone with the proper knowledge.”
“And you believe you’ve solved this puzzle?” Docila couldn’t keep the scepticism from her voice.