Page 25 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)

Sidney glanced at her, struck by the simple appreciation in her voice. There was no artifice in her comment, no attempt to impress or flatter. Just a genuine response to the natural beauty surrounding them.

“Almost,” he agreed, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Though I’d trade a dozen such sunsets for a good stiff breeze right now.”

She laughed, the sound bright against the gathering dusk. “As would I, Captain. As would I.”

The ship’s bell rang, signalling the evening meal. Crew members moved toward the makeshift tables set up on deck, the prospect of Simms’s special pudding creating a more cheerful atmosphere than had existed earlier in the day.

“Shall we?” Sidney gestured toward the gathering.

“Lead on, Captain,” Docila replied with a small smile. “I’m quite looking forward to the music you promised the men.”

As they joined the crew for supper, the meal proceeded with less grumbling than Sidney had feared.

The men seemed grateful for the distraction of good food and the novelty of dining on deck under the endless sky.

When the last of Simms’s pudding had been consumed and the dishes cleared away, Sidney stood to address the gathered crew.

“Men,” he began, his voice carrying easily across the deck, “we find ourselves in circumstances beyond our control. The wind will return — it always does — but until then, we must make the best of our situation.” He paused, scanning the faces before him.

“Miss Archer has suggested that music might help pass the evening hours pleasantly, and I find myself in agreement.”

A murmur of interest rippled through the assembled sailors. Some looked sceptical, others curious, but none openly objected.

“Collins,” Sidney called to a weathered sailor near the back, “I believe you have your concertina aboard?”

“Aye, Captain,” Collins replied, already moving toward the companionway. “I’ll fetch her directly.”

As Collins disappeared below deck, other crew members began to shift their positions, forming a loose circle on the main deck. The atmosphere had changed subtly — anticipation replacing the earlier tension, curiosity overriding complaint.

“And Hawkins,” Sidney continued, “didn’t I hear you mention once that you could whistle any tune ever written?”

The young sailor flushed but nodded eagerly. “My mother always said I could whistle before I could properly talk, sir.”

Collins returned with his concertina, the instrument’s polished wood gleaming in the lantern light that had been hung around the deck as dusk deepened. He settled onto a coil of rope and began to play a familiar sea chanty, the melody floating across the still water like a bridge to distant shores.

One by one, the men began to join in — some singing, others humming, a few clapping in rhythm. The music seemed to release something that had been held too tightly during the day’s frustrations. Voices that had been raised in complaint earlier now harmonized in songs of home and adventure.

Docila watched from the edge of the circle, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the lanterns.

She had suggested this, Sidney remembered, but she was content to let the men take ownership of the evening.

When Hawkins began to whistle a haunting melody that spoke of longing and loss, her eyes grew bright with unshed tears.

“Miss Archer,” Sidney said quietly, moving to stand beside her, “would you honour us with a song? Your father was a sea captain — surely you know some of the old ballads.”

For a moment, he thought she might refuse.

Then she stepped forward into the circle, her clear voice rising in a song Sidney recognized from his own youth — a ballad about a sailor’s return to his true love after years at sea.

The melody was simple, but she sang it with such feeling that the entire crew fell silent, transfixed.

When the last note faded across the water, the silence stretched for several heartbeats before erupting into enthusiastic applause. Even Jenks, Sidney noted with surprise, was nodding approvingly.

“Beautiful, miss,” Collins said warmly. “Haven’t heard that one sung so fine in many a year.”

As the evening continued, Sidney found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t since leaving Bridgetown.

The music had worked its magic — the crew’s earlier tension had dissolved into something approaching camaraderie.

Men who had been snapping at each other during the day were now sharing stories between songs, laughing at familiar jokes, remembering better times.

It was then that Sidney made his decision.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said, rising from where he had been sitting on a barrel. “I have something below that might add to our musical evening.”

He disappeared into his cabin, returning a few minutes later with a violin case that most of his crew had never seen before. The sight of their stern captain carrying a musical instrument caused a stir of surprised murmurs.

“Captain?” Fletcher asked, his eyebrows raised in astonishment. “You play?”

“After a fashion,” Sidney replied, feeling slightly self-conscious as he opened the case and lifted out the violin. The instrument was well-maintained, its dark wood polished to a warm glow. “My mother insisted I learn as a boy. I’ve found it... useful during long voyages.”

He tucked the violin under his chin and drew the bow across the strings, adjusting the tuning with practiced ease. Then, without further preamble, he began to play a melody that was both melancholy and hopeful — a piece that spoke of journeys undertaken and homes remembered.

The transformation in his crew’s faces was immediate and profound.

This was a side of Sidney Peters they had never imagined existed — this man who could coax such beauty from four strings and a bow, whose rigid demeanour melted away when lost in music.

The discovery felt strangely intimate, as though they had been granted a glimpse into the private chambers of their captain’s soul.

When the tune ended, the crew’s reaction was immediate and enthusiastic — shouts of approval, requests for another piece, open astonishment from those who had never seen this aspect of their captain.

Sidney accepted their accolades with uncharacteristic modesty, a slight flush rising to his cheeks at their effusive praise.

His eyes sought Docila’s across the circle, a question in them that she couldn’t quite decipher.

She offered him a warm smile, hoping it conveyed her genuine appreciation of his unexpected talent.

Something shifted in his expression then — a softening, a brief unguarded moment of connection before he composed his features once more.

As the musical gathering continued, with Sidney occasionally adding his violin to the various melodies, the evening took on an almost magical quality.

The dead calm that had seemed such a disaster hours earlier now felt like an unexpected gift — forcing them to slow down, to see each other more clearly, to remember that they were not just captain and crew, but human beings sharing an extraordinary adventure.

When the music finally ended and the men began to disperse to their quarters, the mood aboard ship had been thoroughly transformed.

The grumbling and complaints of the afternoon seemed like distant memories.

Even Jenks appeared mellowed by the evening’s entertainment, nodding respectfully to Docila as he passed.

“Thank you,” Sidney said quietly as he carefully placed his violin back in its case. “This was exactly what the crew needed.”

“Music speaks to the soul in ways words cannot,” Docila replied softly. “Your mother was wise to insist you learn. The men will remember this evening for years to come.”

As they made their way below deck, Sidney found himself oddly reluctant for the evening to end.

Something fundamental had shifted during those hours of shared music — not just among the crew, but between himself and Docila.

She was no longer merely a stowaway to be tolerated; she had become a confidante, perhaps even the beginning of a friend.

Dawn of the second day brought the same oppressive stillness, the same glassy sea, the same lifeless sails. But now there was an edge to the silence that hadn’t existed the morning before — the brittle quality of hopes raised and not yet fulfilled.

Sidney had risen early, as was his custom, hoping against hope to find some change in their circumstances. Instead, he discovered the same mirror-flat ocean stretching endlessly in all directions, mocking his optimism with its perfect, motionless beauty.

The crew’s mood, buoyed by the previous evening’s musical entertainment, began to show signs of strain as the morning wore on.

The magic of shared songs and stories was powerful, but it couldn’t alter the fundamental reality of their situation — they remained trapped in the middle of the ocean with no wind to fill their sails.

Sidney had watched from the quarterdeck as the men went about their assigned tasks with less enthusiasm than the day before.

The rope work that had seemed purposeful yesterday now felt like busy work.

The brass polishing that had gleamed with pride was now performed with mechanical precision.

Even the cheerful banter that had characterized the previous evening was notably absent from the morning’s activities.

It was Docila who first voiced what Sidney had been thinking.

“The entertainment helped,” she said, joining him at the rail as he surveyed his increasingly restless crew, “but it was only a temporary reprieve. I fear one evening of music won’t sustain morale if we remain becalmed much longer.”