Page 24 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
“No,” she said finally. “I believe in natural phenomena, not supernatural punishment. The wind dies. It’s an unfortunate reality of sea travel, but not a divine judgment on female passengers.”
Sidney chuckled despite himself. “A refreshingly rational perspective. Though I suspect Jenks would find your scientific outlook further evidence of suspicious tendencies.”
“No doubt,” she agreed with a smile that transformed her face, bringing a lightness to her features that had been absent in recent days. “I could always play into his fears — perhaps mutter mysterious incantations while stirring the soup pot?”
The image was so absurd that Sidney laughed outright. “Please don’t. I’d rather not have to fish him out of the sea when he jumps overboard in terror.”
Their shared laughter eased something in Sidney’s chest, a tension he hadn’t fully acknowledged until it began to dissolve. For a moment, they were not captain and stowaway, not treasure-seeker and enigmatic passenger, but simply two people finding humour in an absurd situation.
“In all seriousness,” Docila said when their amusement had subsided, “I do have some suggestions that might help maintain morale while we wait for the wind to return. If you’re willing to hear them?”
“I am,” Sidney replied, genuinely interested in what she might propose. “The busywork I’ve assigned will only distract the men for so long.”
“Stories,” she said simply. “Competitions. Games of skill and chance. Ways to pass the time that feel purposeful rather than merely filling hours.” She leaned forward slightly, warming to her subject.
“My father always said that a ship becalmed was like a mind idle — dangerous unless properly occupied.”
“Your father sounds like a wise man,” Sidney observed, pulling up a chair across from her.
“He was,” she agreed, a shadow of old grief passing briefly across her face.
“Among other things, he understood men — how to lead them, how to earn their respect without resorting to fear or brutality.” Her gaze met his directly.
“As do you, Captain. I’ve observed how your crew responds to you.
They follow not merely from duty, but from genuine regard. ”
The unexpected compliment caught Sidney off-guard. “I... thank you,” he said, uncertain how to respond to such frank appreciation. “I’ve always believed that respect must be earned, not demanded.”
“Exactly so,” she nodded. “Which is why I believe these activities could work. The men respect you enough to participate if you endorse the idea, and the shared experience might even help them see me as less of an outsider.”
Sidney considered her proposal. There was wisdom in it — keeping the men engaged would certainly help prevent the kind of festering discontent that could lead to more serious problems. And if it also served to integrate Docila more fully into the crew’s acceptance, so much the better.
“What specifically do you have in mind?” he asked.
She outlined her ideas — storytelling competitions where the best tale would win extra rations, games of skill using simple equipment already aboard the ship, challenges that would test the men’s knowledge of seamanship without requiring actual sailing.
The suggestions were practical, well-considered, and demonstrated a surprising understanding of what might appeal to a crew of sailors facing enforced idleness.
“You’ve given this considerable thought,” Sidney observed when she had finished.
“I’ve had ample time for thinking,” she replied with a slight smile. “And I’ve experienced the dead calm before, aboard my father’s ship. I remember how he handled it — the balance he struck between maintaining discipline and acknowledging the frustration all felt.”
Sidney found himself studying her with renewed interest. Each revelation about her past seemed to explain another facet of her unusual character — her comfort aboard ship, her practical approach to problems, her resilience in the face of challenges.
The more he learned, the more the mystery deepened, like a coastline gradually revealing its complexity as one sailed closer.
“Very well,” he decided. “We’ll implement your suggestions. Start with the storytelling after supper tonight — the men will be more receptive with full stomachs, especially if Simms delivers on his promised pudding.”
“Thank you, Captain,” she said, genuine pleasure in her voice. “I believe it will help.”
“I hope so,” he replied, rising from his chair. “In the meantime, we should complete this inventory and determine how best to implement the water rationing. Would you care to assist me? Four hands will make quicker work of it than two.”
“I’d be happy to,” she agreed, gathering the ledger.
As they moved through the narrow confines of the storage areas below decks, checking barrels and making notations, Sidney found himself appreciating the efficiency of their partnership.
Docila anticipated his needs, passing the measuring stick before he had to ask, recording figures accurately and quickly.
There was a natural rhythm to their movement, a harmony that required minimal communication yet achieved maximum results.
It was, he realized with some surprise, not unlike the smooth coordination he shared with Fletcher after years of sailing together — a synchronicity born of mutual understanding and shared purpose.
Yet he had known Docila for mere weeks, not years.
There was something almost unsettling about the ease with which she had aligned herself with his methods, as if she had studied him from afar before their meeting.
“A penny for your thoughts, Captain,” she said, interrupting his musings. “You’ve been staring at that water barrel for nearly a minute.”
Sidney blinked, realizing he had indeed fallen into distracted contemplation. “Just calculating,” he lied smoothly. “If we reduce daily rations by a quarter, we should have sufficient supply for three additional days.”
“Four, by my calculations,” she corrected gently. “Five if we implement the collection system my father used during similar circumstances.”
“Collection system?” Sidney prompted, intrigued despite his lingering suspicions.
“For condensation,” she explained. “Canvas sheets rigged to catch the morning dew, funnelling it into barrels. It won’t produce large quantities, but every drop helps, doesn’t it?”
It was a clever solution, one Sidney had heard of but never implemented himself. “We’ll set it up first thing tomorrow,” he decided. “Though I pray the wind returns before we need it.”
“As do I,” she agreed fervently. “But hope is no substitute for preparation.”
Another of her father’s sayings, Sidney suspected. The man must have been a veritable wellspring of nautical wisdom. “Your father taught you well,” he observed.
A shadow crossed her face. “He tried,” she said softly. “There was still so much I had to learn when he... when he was taken from me.”
The genuine grief in her voice tugged at something in Sidney’s chest. Whatever secrets Docila Archer might be keeping, her loss was undeniably real. On impulse, he reached out, his hand covering hers briefly where it rested on the ledger.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
She looked up, surprise evident in her wide eyes. For a moment, they stood frozen in the dimly lit hold, connected by that simple point of contact. Then, with a slight nod of acknowledgment, she gently withdrew her hand and returned to her notations.
The moment passed, but something had shifted between them — a small but significant adjustment, like the subtle change in a ship’s course that eventually leads to an entirely different destination.
Their inventory complete, they emerged from the hold to find the light fading as evening approached. The sea remained eerily calm, the ship motionless save for an occasional gentle rock as a swell — the ghost of some distant disturbance — passed beneath her hull.
On deck, Simms was setting up for the evening meal, the promised pudding evidently materializing as small bowls appeared alongside the usual tin plates.
The aroma of cooking food mingled with the ever-present scent of salt and tar, creating a homey atmosphere despite their circumstances.
Men gathered in small groups, talking quietly or engaged in simple pastimes — whittling, mending, the eternal sailor’s task of splicing rope.
Fletcher approached as Sidney and Docila reached the main deck, his expression more relaxed than earlier.
“All quiet for now, Captain,” he reported. “The inventory teams have finished their work. We’re well-stocked on most essentials, though Mr. Turner reports some of the canvas will need attention before our next serious blow.”
“Good,” Sidney nodded. “Have the men made their plans for the evening’s entertainment?”
“Aye, sir. Some seem quite eager, particularly old Harris. Claims he has a tale that will ‘curl our very souls,’ to use his exact words.” Fletcher’s weather-beaten face crinkled with amusement. “Though after three voyages with Harris, I suspect we’ve heard all his stories at least twice.”
“Perhaps he’ll surprise us,” Docila suggested with a smile. “Even familiar tales can take on new life in the telling.”
Fletcher regarded her with open curiosity, clearly wondering about her role in organizing the evening’s activities, but he merely nodded. “We can hope, Miss Archer. We can certainly hope.”
As the first mate moved away to oversee the final dinner preparations, Sidney found himself standing alone with Docila, watching the sunset paint the motionless sea in shades of crimson and gold. The beauty of it was undeniable, despite the circumstances that created such perfect reflections.
“It’s almost worth being becalmed,” Docila said softly, as if reading his thoughts. “To witness such a perfect mirror of the heavens.”